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summary: your ex boyfriend dumped you and left your aching heart to bleed. when you run into his dad at the bar a couple nights later, you end up word vomiting the whole situation to him. turns out, while your ex was a douche, his dad is actually quite good company. it’s no wonder you end up in the backseat of his truck that night.
content: nsfw, slight angst?, slight mention of insecurities maybe, alcohol to cope, unprotected p-in-v, drunk sex, both are equally inebriated!!
wc: 2,771 words
an: first of all thank you for all the love on sugar talking! secondly, ahh installment #2 of my mini series, let me know if you all have any request for which song i should do next!!
Baby<3: this isn’t rlly working out
Baby<3: i think we should break up
Baby<3: srry
That was the last text Bryce Miller sent you before blocking you on iMessages, unadding you on Instagram, and even unfriending you on Facebook. Who the hell even cared about Facebook? A seven month relationship, over just like that.
You cycled through the five stages of grief for the next three days. The denial came first, the convincing yourself that a) it was a mistake, or b) he was just being an idiot. He’d text you any second now, begging for you to forget he’d said anything and apologizing for what an idiot he’d been.
When that didn’t happen, you shifted to anger.
You’d vacated your bed and cleared your house of what little stuff he’d left there over the months—a hoodie or two, his stupid, dented Hydro Flask, that dumb Cowboys hat that he wore with every outfit without fail—and thrown it all into a trash bag to leave on the porch.
You made it halfway down the hall to your front door before breaking down and calling your best friend.
So far, the past few days have consisted of much of the same. You’d wake up, scroll through your phone for a few hours, drag yourself out of bed and complete menial tasks for the day, then rot on the couch until the sun went down. You were in the last stage of this little ritual when the unthinkable happened.
You were stalking Bryce’s Instagram account—obviously—when you saw it. A picture of him with his arm around some girl, pressing his lips to the top of her head.
Just like he used to do to you.
The caption on the post read “happy two months, baby”You wanted to scream, or puke, or maybe go punch somebody. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, really, but still. You’d hoped that Bryce was better than a cheater, hoped that he’d left you for personal reasons and not under the guise of wanting to go public with his other girlfriend.
The worse part? She was drop dead gorgeous. A grin so big with teeth so white they were nearly blinding. Her skin was perfectly clear and her hair didn’t have a single strand out of place in her artfully done slick back. Her clothes looked like they were tailored to fit her, but you knew the more likely truth was that things probably just fit her perfectly no matter what. She looked like the kind of girl who just waltzed through life with bliss.
The tears came fast and hard, blinding your vision. You felt so many emotions at once that you just had to stand and move, to pace around your living room like a madwoman. After a couple minutes of hyperventilating, you finally calmed down. Somewhat. You were still pissed and hurt and feeling every other ounce of emotion burning within you, but it was hollower now. You didn’t want to waste any more tears on him, not when he couldn’t care less about you.
You wanted to forget everything. Even for one night.
So, you got dressed in something presentable and washed the tears from your face. You did your makeup and hair and gave one final glance in the mirror before grabbing your purse and leaving. You weren’t dressed to kill or anything, but you looked better than you had in days.
The bar you went to was relatively small, hovering on the dingy side. It wasn’t one of the bigger club type places where people your age went to party and hookup with people they just met. It was the place where lonely people went to soothe aches in their souls. Perfect for you.
You sat at the bar and ordered something cheap and shitty. Whatever got you drunk faster.
You’d actually always preferred this bar to the busy clubs, opting for the quieter ambiance to the packed places where everybody bumped into you and spilled their drinks on the already sticky floor. The music played quietly, and the decor wasn’t too busy. The lighting was soft—though you figured that was more because the place was too cheap to replace broken bulbs than any aesthetic purposes—and the atmosphere was calm. After a few sips of your drink, you finally felt your shoulders loosen a smidge.
Then you heard a deep drawl behind you.
“Hey, ‘s you. Thought I recognized ya’. How’ve you been?” The man who sat down at the stool next to you was older, with a salt and pepper beard and head of shaggy hair. He was handsome, in a rugged way, and judging by his outfit you’d say he was a construction worker who just got off shift. You recognized him—and clearly he recognized you too—you just couldn’t pinpoint how.
Then your eyes focused on the print on the breast of his dusty black t-shirt. Miller & Miller Construction.
Bryce’s dad. Joel Miller.
You practically choked on your drink, clearing your throat as it went down wrong. Once you could breathe right again, you spoke. “Mr. Miller! Hi. It’s, uh, been a while.”
He chuckled, nodding. “Don’t worry about formalities, darlin’. Joel’s just fine.”
Damn. You’d never really noticed how handsome he was, considering you were tucked into Bryce’s side before. But now that the two of you were done, you were seeing Joel in a much different light. You hoped he hadn’t noticed your ogling as you laughed nervously. “Okay. Joel, right. I’ve been… fine. What about you? How’s work?”
He shrugged, tapping his knuckles on the bar top. “Work’s fine. This heat waves been a bitch, but nothin’ I’m not used to.”
You saw his eyes drag over you, the movement making your stomach flutter. You didn’t dwell on it, as he was speaking again. “Didn’t think a girl like you would come to a place like this. ‘Specially not alone. Where’s my son at?”
Just the mention of Bryce had your cheeks heating, the emotions from before simmering just under your skin. You shrugged, avoiding Joel’s eyes. “I’m not sure. We—uhm… we broke up. Couple days ago.”
“What?” He asked, his tone shifting higher in shock. Clearly, Bryce hadn’t told him.
You swallowed down a gulp of your drink, nodding almost solemnly. “As of three days ago.”
He looked at you—really looked at you—for a moment before shaking his head. “Stupid decision. Mind if I ask what happened?”
“Might be better to ask the girl he was seeing behind my back.” You spit out without thinking, the words leaving you without a moment of hesitation. It hit you then, that you were actively shit talking Joel’s son to Joel. “I—shit. Sorry. I shouldn’t have…”
“You’re telling me that my son cheated on you?”
The anger in his voice shocked you, the fact that he wasn’t immediately trying to defend his “angel of a son”. When you nodded, he scoffed with disbelief. “Goddamn idiot kid. Didn’t think he’d ever do something that low. I’m sorry, darlin’, you don’t deserve somethin’ like that.”
You felt your throat tighten just barely. The way he validated your emotions so wholeheartedly, didn’t once make excuses for his shithead son, and told you that you deserved more, had you melting. You nodded at his words, and he placed a warm hand on your shoulder.
As the silence stretched between the two of you, not quite comfortable, but not exactly awkward, you let your mind wander. Thought of what it’d be like to have this Miller, instead of his son. It was foolish and stupid, but the alcohol was making your brain hazy and your inhibitions low.
Joel cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Let me buy you a drink. At least try to make up for some of what my son did.”
You laughed for the first time in a few days, soft and genuine. “Joel, you don’t have to do that.”
“Please, I want to.” He replied, eyes crinkling with his smile.
You decided not to fight him on it, instead nodding and watching him gesture to the bartender.
. . .
The two of you spent a couple hours sitting at the bar, chatting like old friends instead of two people who had no obligation to be together. But despite the odd pairing, things were nice. Joel was funny and kind, actually listened to what you had to say—unlike Bryce. He had good stories, and told them in an entertaining way. When you talked about your job he didn’t seem bored or uninterested, and he actually asked questions too.
So it was no surprise that your vulnerable, aching heart latched onto him. When he paid the tab and helped you down from your stool you watched him with starry eyes. As he led you out of the bar into the cool night air, you felt floaty trailing behind him. He looked so handsome in the moonlight, moving a bit lighter under the influence of the alcohol in his system. He muttered something to himself about ordering an Uber for the two of you, but you weren’t paying attention to his words. Just the way his plush lips moved.
It was practically an out of body experience, the way you moved forward and pounced on him. Your movements were sloppy, uncoordinated when you pushed him up against the wall of the bar and pressed your lips to his. But you didn’t care, you just needed him.
He pushed you back for a moment, staring into your eyes with a look that bordered on guilt and hunger. You saw it shift, saw the way his eyes darkened when they flickered between your lips and your eyes before he dove back in for the kiss.
One hand tangled in your hair, holding you to him while the other wrapped around to the small of your back, occasionally grazing the top of your ass. You weren’t sure how long the kiss lasted, but when the two of you pulled back your lips were slick with saliva and practically thrumming. He kissed down your jaw and your neck, nuzzling into your pulse point.
“Got a truck,” He mumbled against your skin, low and needy. “Parked just over there.”
You nodded, speaking in a breathy exhale. “Lead the way.”
Joel owned one of those nice trucks with the leather seats that smelled of lumber and smoke, but you weren’t paying much attention to the interior when he was guiding you into the back seat and pressing you against that smooth leather.
He went right back to kissing you like it was a job while his hand slid up your shirt to rest on your ribcage. Slowly, he moved higher and higher until he was cupping your breast through your bra. His hand was big enough that it spanned the whole thing, making you writhe under him.
His leg found its way between yours, thigh pressing up against your core with a purposeful pressure. You couldn’t help but give a little grind against it, to which he smirked against your lips.
“C’mon, darlin’.” He cooed against your skin as he kissed your cheek. “Use me. Take what you need.”
Your head felt so blissfully fuzzy that you didn’t think twice to start rolling your hips, meeting the press of his muscle right where you needed him most. It was good, but it wasn’t enough.
“Joel, it’s not enough.” You whined, blinking heavy eyes up at him. “Please. Need more.”
He nodded, already breathing heavy as he stared down at you. “Uh-huh. Needy girl. I got ya’.”
His fingers fumbled for the button, uncoordinated at first. With a grumble, he finally steadied his hand enough and popped open the button on your jeans. After dragging down the zipper, he wasted no time grabbing the waist of your jeans and tugging them down until just your panties remained. He looked almost feral as he licked his lips, staring at your clothed center.
You pawed at his chest, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt to pull it up and over his head. He helped you out, tossing the shirt aside with your discarded jeans. He gave your shirt the same treatment, then his own belt and jeans.
“Wait.” You breathed out with a grin, sitting up. He looked curious, if not a little impatient, but you pushed him back against the seat. After your guidance, he sat with his back against the seats. You straddled his hips, slow and sensual as he dropped down on him.
“Jesus,” He groaned, gripping your hips as his head fell back. “You’re goddamn sinful. Don’t know what my son was thinkin’…”
You leaned forward to plant kisses up his chest, moving towards his neck and the underside of his jaw. He let out small sighs and groans, his head tipped back as one hand tangled in your hair. Once you reached his ear, you let your voice tickle his skin. “Want you to fuck me, Joel. Please.”
He nodded, his hips jerking up to meet yours in a way that had his hard length pressing against you. “I got ya’, darlin’. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”
He worked himself out of his boxers, revealing his thick cock to you. Flushed and already leaking at the tip, you couldn’t resist reaching out and wrapping your hand around it. He bit back another groan, his hand flexing around your hip.
You sat up enough to slide your panties off, dropping them on the leather seat before positioning yourself above him. He helped guide your hips down while you angled his tip at your entrance, the two of you working together.
It was a stretch at first, but damn did it feel amazing. You two both moaned in sync, your forehead falling to land on his shoulder as you continued sinking down. Finally, your hips were flush again. His hand smoothed down your back before squeezing one of your asscheeks, his breath coming out in short puffs. Then he began to hump his hips upwards, punching into you with steady thrusts.
Moans filtered out of you steadily, growing louder and louder as he began to pick up the pace of his hips. His hands were rough as they held you, bouncing you up and down on his cock as he grunted in your ear.
“Fuck, so damn good. Don’t know what my son was thinking.” He groaned, kissing up your neck.
You clung to him, trying desperately to meet his thrusts, but he was doing all of the work. “Joel!”
“Yeah, baby, I got you…” He moaned, voice getting breathier. His hand left your ass to tangle in your hair, guiding your head to capture your lips in another sloppy kiss.
You lost yourself in him. His taste, his smell, the feel of him underneath you. All of it was so good, overwhelming in the best way possible, and you already balanced on the edge of an orgasm. Somehow he knew, breaking the kiss to lick the pad of his thumb and guide it between your bodies to rub at your clit.
The feeling was electric, and immediately you clenched around him in a way that had him practically whining. “Oh, shit. Yeah. So fuckin’ tight, that’s it. Give it to me, darlin’.”
You nodded desperately, whining as he continued pummeling up into you while his thumb toyed with your clit. You were so close to exploding now, just need one more push.
Then his free hand reached out and grasped your chin, not hard, but firm enough to have your eyes snapping open and landing on his. He held you there, commanding your attention while his thrusts never let up. “C’mon. Cum for me.”
That was all you needed for your orgasm to hit, your eyes rolling back as you gushed around him, moans and mewls falling from your lips. He grit his teeth, staying buried inside you for as long as possible before pulling out and giving his dick a few jerks. He came in spurts on your belly, thick ropes painting your skin.
The two of you were left panting and flushed, sweat cooling on your skin, cum drying. In the cramped space of his backseat, things felt more intimate. Like your own little world. He pressed a kiss to your collarbone, the gesture much gentler than the situation.
The two of you didn’t need to say anything, not yet anyways. For now, you’d bask in the haze of alcohol and post-orgasmic glow. The decision to sleep with your ex-boyfriend’s father would be a problem for future you.
content warning: i’m feeling kinkyyyy, semi rough mdom, established relationship, restraint play, tit slapping, oral m receiving, pet names; mama, baby and daddy, reader is a tease and a bitch, squirting, and unprotected sex.
author’s notes: what can i say? i’ve been smoking the cade cart too much and now i’m addicted. in this fic he’s top qb and you make it your mission to keep him on edge with your mouth wink wink.
“turn around. hands behind your back.” cameron mutters softly as he slides his dark brown leather belt off his dress pants. deep voice smooth like warm honey. you follow his orders, spinning on your heel and turning your back to him, fingers interlocking each other as you feel him loop the belt around your wrists.
“too tight?” he tilts his head down to your ear, nose brushing against the lobe. “not tight enough.” you turn to look him in the eye. you feel the leather tighten enough to keep you from breaking free. “perfect.” you exhale, heart beating out of your chest knowing you’re about to lose your ability to think clearly for a minute.
the night went well. it was the celebration of cameron’s third ring, everything seemed to fall into place despite his rule of two weeks of no sex before games so he could “focus.”
you kept your poise, smiling as fans and supporters of him praise his performance, he’d keep an arm around your waist keeping you close. you let him focus on his lifestyle out of your household, but once he won his little game and those two weeks were up, all you could think about was how he tastes, the way his mouth falls open when he cums, how big his hands are compared to yours. that was the only thing you could do sitting in a vip lounge bored out of your mind. he’d ask if you were okay after watching you zone out five times in an hour, thighs pressed together, chewing on your bottom lip, fingers fidgeting at the bottom of your short vintage versace dress.
“no. i’m horny.” you pout, lifting your head to his, bumping your nose against his cheek. “it’s been fourteen days, eighteen hours, nine minutes, sixty three seconds and…i’m aching for you.” exhaling with a sigh you trail your hand up his thigh and over his growing bulge.
cameron gives you a stern look, eyebrows twisted together, looking down at your hand and back at you giving you a warning to relax. you giggle and remove your hand. “you’ve been counting the days since we fucked?” he deadpans.
“you haven’t?” you bite. “you don’t want to fuck me anymore? just say it.”
“watch your mouth.” he holds you tighter than before. clenching his jaw. you look away from his gaze, his eyes burning a hole in the side of your face. “don’t be a fucking brat, especially in public.”
clearly being a brat worked cause minutes later you were dragged out of the section, thrown into the back of a car and now you’re half naked, tied up, and ready to get fucked.
“don’t let me catch you slipping out of this.” he pulls at the belt to make sure you won’t slip out of them any time soon.
“look at you, just heels and panties. you think you deserve to get fucked after coming at me tonight?” he mewls as he grabs your waist and turns you to look at him, a hand under your chin to tilt your head up.
“it was just one time-“ you try to explain, but you’re interrupted by him grabbing your face and pushing your cheeks into your mouth.
“it should’ve been zero.” he releases you from his grasp and walks to the fresh loveseat in the corner of your living room. “you wanna apologize? do it properly.” he unbuttons his pants and pulls them down just until his dick slips out.
“daddy.” you coo, mouth instantly watering at the sight of his perfect dick.
“c’mere show me how sorry you are.” he sinks into the seat, shifting to the edge to give you all access in between his legs.
you slowly walk over to him, hips seductively switching from side to side, heels clicking onto the freshly polished hardwood floor. you give him a small spin and a big smile, pushing that button a little further.
“you’re just so cute ain’t you.” he strokes himself as he watches you. “only for you.” you finally make your way to him and sink to the floor onto your knees, tongue sticking out of your mouth and right under his tip, barely touching it.
he grabs the base and tilts his dick from side to side, watching you follow its direction with an open mouth. he finally slaps it onto your tongue and leaves it there to run his hands along on the armrests. you suck him into your mouth, paying attention to the tip, flicking your tongue on the underside.
“don’t be shy. you said you were horny so work for it.”
enough teasing him, you wanted to get fucked. sucking him sloppily, shaking your head to get him down your throat a bit more inch by inch. you hold your head there for a second before lifting off, a string of spit connection from the tip and your lips. “i’m sorry, i should’ve been nice to you.” you pant, breathless as tears fall down your cheeks.
cam smacks his lips and cracks a smile. “i don’t believe you. you can suck dick better than this, i’m disappointed.”
“no cam i swear.” you spit on the base and push your lips against it moving up and down. “i’m sorry. i really am.” you leave kisses from his flushed tip down to his balls “push my head down. fuck my face. take control of me please.” you beg with wet lips and big desperate eyes, slipping them into your mouth one by one. you muffle a soft moan as you taste him
a groan leaves his mouth, he couldn’t be mad at you for too long. he grabs you by your hair to tilt your head back; sliding his dick into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. he pulls you back and forth on his dick until spit starts to bubble in the corners of your mouth.
“look so pretty drooling on that dick.” he grunts at the sight of your lips stretched around him, eyes rolled to the back of your head, mascara smudged. you attempt to lift your hands to his thighs to push off of him, totally forgetting they’re tied behind your back. he holds your face down til he practically fills your throat, your nose buried in dark brown hair.
he finally lets you go and you push off his dick, falling off your knees and onto to the floor as you catch your breath.
he gets up from the chair and walks away, leaving you as you pant. “when you’re done acting like you’re finished, bring that sexy ass over here and bend over this couch.” you hear him say as he removes his clothes.
you move like a freshly born deer while struggling to stand up and attempt to take off your heels. “keep em on.” he demands before you could kick one off. “don’t make me repeat myself.”
you nod and walk over to him, leaning over the arm of the couch, dipping one of your knees into the cushion. you look back at him and shake your ass a little, still giving him a bit of tease.
he gives you a harsh smack on your ass “you think this is funny?” you squeak, hips pushing back towards him.
“yeah..” you giggle “your face turns red when you’re irritated. i think it’s cute.”
he rips your panties off your legs and slides in slowly with no struggle. “better not tap out in 2 minutes.” one hand grabbing at the belt, the other pushing your face into the couch pillow to stop you from talking back. he pulls out halfway, then pulls you back to meet him to the hilt.
you moan into the pillow, hands curling into fists as he fucks you rough, deep, and slow.
“you’re so bad and i’m so good to you.” he thrusts harder making you muffle a scream. “i get torn apart by the media, work like a dog, just to come home and hear you talk back to me.” he grabs at your hair and pulls you to his chest, wrapping an arm around your body and grabs a tit, giving your nipple a tight squeeze.
“fuck! i’m sorry, i’m so so sorry.” you cry, desperate moans falling from your lips.
“no you’re not.” he gives both of your tits a stern smack before lifting your leg, hooking his forearm under it fucking you at a completely different angle than ever before.
“cam! wait- wait!” you plea as your tied hands grab at his abs.
“wait wait?” he mocks you, thrusting up into
you faster.
your head falls back into his shoulder, he lifts you off of the ground as he fucks you into an oblivion. toes curling into your designer heels, falling off of your feet with a thud.
“nugh- mmm gonna cum.” you gasp before closing your eyes to concentrate.
“nah.” he pulls out and pushes you over the couch again. your legs shake as he holds you up with one arm under your stomach. “throw that pussy on me.” he orders while running his tip through your folds and pushes in again. you shake your ass to get him fully inside, knees dipping into the couch before lifting your hips and pushing back onto him.
you start slow until you meet a certain pace, feeling him push your cervix with every other thrust. “that’s it baby, work for it. work for that nut.” he pants, deep groans leaving his pretty pink lips, a hand softly trails down your spine making you audibly shudder in between moans. “fuck you’re making a mess on this dick.” he watches as you get creamier around him with each thrust.
“i’ll be good.” you slur, placing your head on the arm of the couch to look at him again. “i won’t talk- ah talk back! i promise just let me cum.” sniffling as tears fall down your cheeks once more.
“you asking or telling me?” cameron snaps with a harsh smack to your ass, hips touching your ass with a few thrusts. “asking! please can i cum daddy?” the words fall from your mouth in one breath. legs shaking as you sloppily fuck yourself onto him.
“mhm cum on this dick baby.”
you fall apart almost instantly, sobs and moans, eyes shut as you see stars, nails digging into your palms as you tighten around him.
cameron leans into your limp body, his hot sweaty chest pressed onto your back once more. “that’s it mama. shhh i got you.”
you feel him untie your hands as you tremble and clench around his dick. he pulls out and flips you onto your back, large hands grabbing your sore wrists and giving both light kisses. “gonna keep your promise?” his once dark eyes look into yours with hunger and desire, just waiting for your response.
you nod and caress his cheeks, pulling him down for a kiss. “i’ll be nice.”
“good girl.” he gives two sloppy kisses. “now spread your legs i’m not done with you.”
you spread your legs instantly and bite your lip. “cameron?” your fingers going up to graze his broad shoulders.
“yeah?” he responds while looking down as he pushes back in.
“i love you.”
he smiles and thrusts into you knocking the wind out of your lungs. “i love you too.” he pulls out. “even when you’re mean to me.” he slides in and fucks you slowly, head dipping down to suck on that sensitive part on your neck.
“oh my god cam.” your hands find their way to his waist, digging your nails into his hipbones. “i know baby. i know.” he switches down to suck your nipples. you hold on to any part of his body you can grab, his arms, waist, back, rib cage, the back of his head to scratch at his scalp a little.
he fucks you deeper into the couch, nearly creating a you shaped dip into it. you grab the sides of his face and look into his eyes as he pounds into you. “so good- feels so good.” his hands slide under your thighs and pushes your knees to your chest, looking down he watches as your pussy hugs his dick with a sheer white coat. “shit you sucking me in so deep mama.” he looks back up at you and brings a thumb up to your clit, rubbing small circles on it.
your mouth falls open as your eyes flutter closed, completely forgetting your surroundings, cameron could’ve been fucking you on the edge of a cliff and you wouldn’t care. you didn’t even realize you had been holding your breath until you feel him tap on your cheek. “i know it feels good baby don’t forget to breathe.”
you inhale a deep breath before opening your eyes, exhaling as your hands mindlessly push at his abdomen attempting to make him stop. “cam wait- i’m gonna squirt.” you squeal as he thrusts into you harder until you forcefully push him out, looking down as you squirt on his abs. “mmm don’t hold back make a mess for daddy.” he coos as his thumb rubs you through another orgasm. you grab at his base and guides him back inside earning a loud groan, his pants slowly turn breathless as his thrusts begin to stutter inside you. one last rough push and he pulls out, hand jerking his length and cumming on your clit and pussy lips, holding his face in the crevice of your shoulder he collapses on top of you, still folded in half.
he slowly releases you from his grip, placing your legs on the edge of the couch to keep you from leaking onto it. “you did so good.” he brings his thumb to his lips and sucks the taste of you off of it. sitting next to you on the couch you both take in the heavy silence with deep breaths and slight glances to each other.
“i don’t… i don’t ever want to hear you say that i don’t wanna fuck you anymore again.” he pants as he grabs your hand and gives each finger a kiss. “i said that?” you respond, completely dumbfounded like the exact words didn’t leave your mouth.
“yeah because i do, if i could just drop everything and do it all day everyday i would.”
“yeah me too.” you cuddle up next to him, swinging a leg over his, looking over the messy living room with your clothes, shoes, and squirt scattered all over the floor. “me fucking too.”
a.n: heyyy stinks!! here’s part two! thank you so much for the love on all of my Tyriq posts and being super welcoming. I love all of y’all fr, even the folks that just read it but gimme a like— thank u 🥹 I hope y’all enjoy this one! I might see what’s up with Teddy Spencer after this one…. heed those warnings! enjoy 🎀
part one
on the jukebox: ‘a new life’ by zeke bleu + ‘love is only a feeling’ by joey bada$$ + ‘have your babies’ by pip millett ft mariah the scientist + ‘can I?’ by kehlani 👄
.
“I just feel like you have me really fucked up, right now!”
You repeated yourself after his second ‘huh?’. The booming, base filled music of drummed the speakers and traveled throughout the spacious, body filled building.
Strobe lights circulated; blue, red, green, purple. The occasional call out of a hyped crowd from the performing DJ cut through but in this moment?
You couldn’t give a fuck about that.
You stood in pumps that matched your simple white shirt and complimented your light washed denim skirt. Your previously chocolate cherry colored hair was now colored a honey ash blonde, silkily curled down your back.
A gold MK watch glimmered in the lights of the club as you pressed a pointer finger against the temple of Cameron Cade who rolled his eyes and looked away from you.
This attitude and setting came hours prior, two months even. Cameron Cade was back in town, the problem? He didn’t say shit.
Why didn’t he say shit? You were there to figure out.
..
before — two months ago
“How do you feel being there so far knowing it’s almost over? Is Isaiah sad to see you go?”
You lied stomach first on your bed, your phone beside you and on speaker phone. The soothing voice of your… ex? new friend? flowed through the phone. His contact name simply saying ‘Cam’ with the call time of 1:20:05.
Cameron sighed. “Man.. it’s weird because I could do another year here doing this shit.. but at the same time, I’m ready to come home. I’ve gotten used to the way they do shit around here but I’d be lying if I said I’d prefer it. I need to get back to doing shit on my time”
You playfully squinted, “speaking of that, they took your real phone, right? How the fuck haven’t they found this burner? Or at least caught you on it”
Cameron only chuckled, “I’m real slick wit’ it, beloved. Take some notes from ‘ya boy, I’ll show you the ropes”
You rolled your eyes, “ha! Yeah okay..” your cheeks burned with a blush that you hated. It felt nice to laugh with Cameron like this after a year and a half.
You Pinterest surfed on your iPad as he spoke.
“.. and Zay? He’s cool as fuck. He said he’ll miss me but I’m leaving with his contact info so it’s cool. He been teaching me the ins and outs because you know he won hella championships back in the day—“
“Oh yeah, I watched that one highlight you sent me of his touchdown that got his team that last win before he retired. He’s really good” You chimed in. You could see Cam nodding.
“More than good, girl— the fucking goat. I’m tryna get like that.. I feel like being here will put me right up there where he used to be. The championships, the gold, the exposure… just like my daddy told me about..”
His words took you from the images of Pinterest and peering at your phone. Cam— 1:40:00. You nodded like he could see you. Cam only spoke about his father with you in the moments that called for it.
“Well, Cameron Cade, I think you’re doing your father right by being there. He’s with you every step of the way and I know he’s proud of you” You kindly responded back.
Regardless of where you stood with Cam in your relationship, that was a compliment you’d always extend. It was true.
“Thank you, (Y/N).. that means a lot..” he cleared his throat, “um, yeah, I’m outta here real soon and when I am, I’ll let you know!”
..
now — present day.
“What the fuck happened to that? You told me you’d let me know. Yo, I waited for you, I thought we were cool, Cam”
You continued staring at him, waiting for him to speak. Instead his head continued resting on the wall of the section, he barely paid you any mind.
But you knew this reaction. Cameron Cade liked to shut down when being rightfully confronted or if he felt defensive. He liked to go nonverbal, almost like talking to a wall.
You waved your hand across his face. “Hello? Are you seriously pretending like you didn’t say that? Or that you don’t care?”
“I know what I said” Cameron simply responded.
Your eyes went wide, “and you don’t care? Is that what I’m hearing right now?”
Cameron shrugged, “I didn’t say that”
“It doesn’t matter that you didn’t say it, it’s the way you’re acting now! It’s the way you’ve been acting since you came home. You didn’t see me calling and asking for you one whole month after you said you’d be back? I had to find out from Instagram that you were back?”
His silence only pissed you off some more. It might not have looked explosive on your face but you were heated on the inside.
“That’s lame as hell, Cameron, and you know it”
The man sighed and stood up straighter, his eyes boring into yours, “(Y/N), what do you want from me? I didn’t tell you I made it home? Okay, I’m sorry, I apologize. That camp kicked my ass through and fucking through, sorry that I didn’t check in with you as soon as my feet hit the fucking ground—“
You held your hand up, stopping him. “Don’t curse at me, you know how I feel about that”
“Okay but what about the role you’re playing here? You’re cussing me out in this club, embarrassing me on a night planned for me, and for what? I can’t go back in time, (Y/N), I’m here already. I did it, it happened. So where do we go from here?”
You stared blankly at the man, his stupid, pretty face turned up just a little from his own ranting. You only shook your head.
“That’s some bullshit and you know it. You’re missing the principle of why I’m mad and that’s so fucking typical of you. Just forget it”
You grabbed your purse and tossed it over your shoulder, about to turn on your heels. Cameron’s hot hand grabbed your wrist.
“Nah, stop, stay right here with me so we can talk this out. You never let me walk away so I’m not letting you walk away. I don’t give a fuck about this club”
“Fuck that and fuck you, don’t touch me.” You chuckled sarcastically and snatched your wrist from his grip, already walking out of the section and through the crowds of dancing people.
You didn’t need to look behind you to see that Cameron was trailing you trying to keep up. You were breezing past the bouncers and to your parked car on the curb, walking around to the drivers side.
Cameron Cade was just two feet behind you, practically chasing you down. But by the time he got up to you, you were already hopping inside of your car and closing the door, keys itching the ignition.
“(Y/N), wait, don’t leave yet. Let me explain!” He stood at the window of your passenger side door.
You rolled the window town, meeting his eyes. “Cameron Cade, I will run you over. Get away from my car”
Cameron pleaded, “(Y/N), please. I got way out of my body back there, I’m sorry. You’re right, me acting like this is after all you did for me is some bullshit and I didn’t mean any of it. Please let me talk to you”
If looks could kill, Cameron would be dead. You growled and hit the unlock button. “Get in this car and shut up until we get to my house”
That’s how you found yourself on the far end of your couch, eyeing Cameron like prey as he sat on the other side.
“Cameron Cade, you better come correct before I lose my mind”
He sighed and laid back onto the cushions, his head tilted back and staring up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes.
“Fuck.. I know I keep saying it but I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, (Y/N). I just.. I don’t be fuckin’ thinkin’ sometimes and pissing everybody off.. even myself. Sometimes I get so mad, I can’t be rational..”
“And that shit is so unfair, especially to me, Cam” you began, “I told you it wasn’t a good idea for us to get back talking while you were gone and what happened? I got rid of that boundary for you”
Cam opened his eyes and looked over at you. He didn’t speak for a moment until now. “Why?”
Fuck. Did you say too much?
It was your turn to not meet his eye. This was it, you couldn’t take it back.
“Maybe I missed you, Cam” you admitted. “Maybe I thought that if I enforced that boundary that I’d lose you forever knowing I didn’t fully have closure yet. Us talking again gave me hope that us being done didn’t have to be forever”
Tears blurred your vision, enough for you to not realize Cameron sliding himself close to you.
Close enough for his forefinger cup underneath your eye and catch the tear that made its way out. Close enough for his other hand to cup the other side of your face and thumb away the tears that fell.
Soft pink, teary eyes staring deep into gentle hazels.
“Don’t cry, mama. It’ll all be okay” Cameron murmured.
“You don’t know that, Cameron. You just don’t. You can’t say that if you don’t know”
He shook his head, determination newfound swirling in his irises.
“I can say that because I’m gonna make sure it’ll be okay. You and me, me and you. No matter the circumstances, it was always going to be you, (Y/N). I’ll do whatever you tell me to if it means getting us back to where we need to be”
You stayed silent, observing him. You didn’t care to object when he got closer in your space, you didn’t care to object when his hands were releasing your face and grabbing at your waist to pull you into his lap.
“You don’t gotta do anything but be here, let me take care of the rest because it’s my fault anyway. I broke us up, I left you alone, I disappointed you— all of the shit I promised I would never do and ended up doing it”
Cameron pleaded his case. One hand stayed on your hip, the other cupping your face. The softness of his lips pressed against your cheek twice before trailing down to your jaw and finally finding home in your neck.
“Let me take care of you, let me show you.. let daddy prove it to you”
Still, you didn’t respond.. you also didn’t stop him. You should’ve.. you fucking should’ve.
Cameron Cade made it a point to take his time like you were slated to disappear. Thighs in arms, hands full of flesh, face buried in your pussy.
Cameron Cade relished in the fact that he’d gotten you off three times already. His mouth alone was twice, the dangerous combination of his mouth and his fingers was the next eye rolling, chest heaving, toe curling release.
“Cam, please” you whimpered pathetically, manicured nails caressing his buzzed head, earning you a groan. “Please, I-I can’t do it again, it’s too much”
Cameron didn’t say anything, he just stood from your legs and hovered over you, slanting his lips over yours.
Your mouths moved perfectly in sync, no misstep being that you hadn’t kissed him like this in a year and a half. Neither of you missed a beat. Sensually mingling your tongues against one another before pulling back and gently nipping at your bottom lip.
“You know I love you, right?” Cameron asked you as his hands slickly began unbuttoning your denim skirt. “Lift up— you know I love you, right, girl?” You obeyed and lifted your hips, allowing the article and your panties to slip down your legs.
“Yes” you muttered.
“Yeah? I don’t believe you, you’re just sayin’ shit to get what you want. Imma ask you again—“
Cameron kneeled on the bed, his dominant hand fell back in between your legs, just ghosting over your center. Your lower half jolted, still sensitive. He heard you whine.
“Do you know that I love you?”
You sat up on your forearms, staring up at your ex. Eyes boring into his, trying to memorize him. You let out a breath and nodded surely. “Yes, Cam, I know that you love me”
That earned you a smirk like smile and Cameron stripping himself of his shirt. “Good girl because it’s true.. you’ve ruined me for other people, I can’t love anyone else the way I love you, (Y/N)”
Your heart thumped loudly in your ears, it was hard to focus the more you watched Cameron get you both on the same level— completely naked. His hands palmed at the warmth of your breasts, your hands lightly scraped down his back.
Cameron had you under the covers of your duvet, head surrounded and supported by pillows. The honey ash blonde strands cascading around the fabrics.. you looked so fucking gorgeous.
Arms around his neck, legs around his waist, chest to chest, lips on yours devouring you. His girth slowly inching inside of you little by little.. stretching you out wonderfully. It was a feeling you hadn’t had in almost two years, it felt so fucking good.
Once Cameron was fully seated inside of you, he pulled back from your lips and glanced down at you.
“Tell me you missed me” he pecked your cheek, “c’mon, pretty girl, lemme hear you.. y’know I love it when you’re talkin’ to me knowing I’m deep in this pussy..”
You gasped out a whine, nails caressing his back softly. You felt like your heart was going to burst out of your chest. You met his intense eye.
“I missed you, Cam.. really fucking missed you. I don’t ever wanna be without you again” you leaned forward and pecked his lips.
Cameron groaned, his hips pulling back and pushing forward. His pace was perfect, the rhythm of this thrusts set that feeling in your mind and body that he had a purpose.
This wasn’t going to be the kind of makeup sex where you both talked shit to each other but rather the kind of love making that transcended time.
He captured your lips and picked up his thrusting pace just a little, forcing the noises out of you that he loved.
“You’n ever gotta worry about that, baby, I swear to God.. swear ‘m not ever leavin’ you. I’m in this shit with you until death, you hear me?”
He supported himself on his dominant arm and let the other hand cup your throat. Nothing fiercely dominant or aggressive, but with a gentle firm squeeze, your eyes rolled back to your head, back arching.
You nodded, crying out. “Fuck, Cameron, please!”
He fucked you faster, grunting. “What did I say, huh? You gon’ be with me forever or no?”
You nodded eagerly, one hand coming up to rest over the hand on your neck. You clung to Cameron desperately, a soft blur of tears clouding your vision.
“Yes, yes, I wanna be with you! You and nobody else, I fucking promise.. fuck, Cam, ‘m right there, ‘m so close..”
Cameron moaned deeply, his eyes closing for a brief moment. “Mhm good, ‘gon ‘head and gimme all of that, it’s been too fuckin’ long”
You let go as soon as his words ceased, the coil in your stomach finally snapping and flowing. You squeezed your eyes shut, so much that the tears slipped down your cheeks. A shriek coming from the depths of your throat.
Cameron groaned heartily at the feeling of your walls borderline suffocating his cock. Throbbing, spasmic clenching. That put the man in the danger zone of his own orgasm.
“‘M gon’ marry you, whatchu think about that? ‘Gon let me wife you up? Make you mine forever?”
You nodded again, staring your watery eyes passionately into Cameron’s hazel blueish greens.
“Have your babies?” You murmured from below him, tightening your legs around his powering lower half. Hand coming up to cup the side of his face.
Cameron purred, leaning in and nuzzling his face into your hand before pressing a kiss there. “Fuck yeah, girl, you already know it.. you’re not goin’ anywhere”
“You’re not either”
The small hint of possessiveness from you showed its face and turned Cameron Cade all the way up. He chuckled and leaned down to kiss you.
“Yeah? I’m yours? This your dick?” He smugly asked, purposefully now hitting that warm, gummy, spongy spot inside of you that set your body on fire.
Still, you kept some kind of composure and nodded at his question. “That’s all mine and you better fucking know it”
You kissed him again. “Just like I’m yours.. just like this pussy is yours. We been waitin’ on you to come home, baby..”
The seductive tone of your already filthy words was enough to push Cameron over the edge and deep into the abyss. He didn’t bother to pull out, instead shoving himself deep inside of you as possible.
“Shit.. fuck, girl, goddamn” Cameron groaned. His release was overwhelming and filled you up beyond belief.
You’d never tell him that you missed feeling him like that.
After a minute of pure comfortable silence and trying to come down, your eyes met. It could’ve been the post orgasmic haze that swirled in both of your eyes but nothing else danced there.
Just pure love and admiration. You were the first to initiate the hundredth kiss that night, you arms circling Cameron’s neck and pulling him even closer.
The man wrapped an arm around your body and easily flipped you on your side, the sensual kiss still holding on. His hand crawled into your hair to cup the back of your head.
“I fucking love you, girl. I really mean it” Cameron said after pulling back and staring into your eyes.
“I love you too. Please don’t ever put me through this again, I’m literally begging”
Cameron nodded his head vigorously and cupped the side of your face. The familiar look of seriousness settled into your chest.
“Let me keep proving it to you. My words don’t mean shit if I keep fucking up and I’m done with that. I love you— I need you. I just want another chance, actions only”
You didn’t have to respond for Cameron to get the message. For Cameron to get your acceptance. For Cameron to hold onto your heart again.
And this time? There wouldn’t be another last time.
summary | it’s just another chaotic night in the barnes household—one movie, four kids, and zero peace
tags | FLUFF, dad!bucky barnes, domestic bucky, established relationship, crack fic, bucky is so tired, but he’s so soft, pregnant!reader, no smut this time, just a man drowning in children, mentions of past trauma (very light, blink-and-you-miss-it), bucky barnes didn’t survive hydra for this but actually he did, fluff cleanse
a/n | i was watching 101 dalmatians and got soft thinking about bucky with a litter of puppies and a bowl of popcorn he’s not allowed to eat in peace. that’s it. that’s the fic. hope it makes your heart hurt a little in the good way.
likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @uzmacchiato
“Jamie, move outta the way, pal. Can’t see a damn thing.”
The kid didn’t even look back, just waved a hand like he was shooing a fly. “I can see just fine, Dad.”
“That’s not the problem,” Bucky muttered, leaning forward slightly on the couch, voice calm but that edge of tired dad already creeping in.
Jamie, of course, didn’t move an inch. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, directly in front of the TV, the bright light flashing over his face. The movie on-screen exploded into gunfire and shouting—the kind of film Bucky probably shouldn’t have let them watch, but it had been a long day and, well… it kept them quiet. Sort of.
Grace, sitting tucked into Bucky’s side, didn’t let it slide. “Daddy said move, Jamie,” she snapped, voice sharp for someone half his size. “You’re in the way.”
Jamie shot her a look over his shoulder. “Then move your eyes,” he said, deadpan, before turning back to the screen.
“Jamie,” she warned.
“Gracie,” he mimicked.
Bucky bit down a snort and shook his head. He probably should’ve been more firm about it, but after the week they’d had—homework meltdowns, Becca’s fever, the twins nearly setting the kitchen towels on fire—he was too tired to pick another battle.
Meanwhile, Stevie was half on Bucky, half on the couch, a small body molded to his side like a koala. His chubby fingers were glistening with butter as he alternated between feeding Bucky a piece of popcorn and shoving one into his own mouth.
“Stevie,” Bucky said between bites, “you know you don’t have to feed me every time, right?”
Stevie nodded solemnly. “I know. But I like sharin’.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You like popcorn too much. You’ll be sad if I eat it all.”
That got him. Bucky leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of the boy’s head, whispering something you couldn’t catch over the sound of the movie. It didn’t matter. Stevie giggled and went right back to it, determined to keep his dad’s snack ratio even.
On the far end of the couch, Becca was curled against you, droopy-eyed and pacifier in mouth, fighting sleep she’d clearly already lost. You smoothed a hand over her curls, listening to the rise and fall of noise around you.
It was loud, a little chaotic, the movie roaring through the speakers, the kids all talking over it, but somehow it was the most peaceful kind of noise.
Bucky sighed through his nose, leaning back into the couch cushions. “Alright, Jamie. Last warning. Move it, or I’m turning the TV off.”
That got Jamie’s attention—barely. He scooted an inch to the left, just enough to technically comply. Bucky shot him a look that said you think you’re funny, and Jamie grinned without looking away from the screen.
Grace huffed and leaned harder against her dad’s side, muttering something under her breath that made Bucky fight a smile.
And then somewhere between Grace’s scolding and Jamie’s latest “you can’t make me,” Bucky found himself zoning out. He wasn’t really watching the movie anymore. His eyes were on the screen, sure, but his mind was somewhere else—stuck on the same question that hit him every once in a while.
How the hell did he end up here?
It wasn’t a bad thought, just a confused one. A how-did-this-happen kind of thing. It still felt impossible most days—the idea that this was his life now.
There were years where he couldn’t trust his own reflection, couldn’t sit still without thinking someone would come for him. Before Hydra. Hydra. After Hydra. Whole decades where he’d been somebody’s weapon, and the rest just… trying to learn how to be a person again.
And now here he was—in sweatpants, on a couch, with four kids.
Jamie still blocking the TV. Grace playing self-appointed hall monitor. Stevie butter-fingered and happy. Becca half-asleep on your lap. The kind of domestic chaos that would’ve sounded like a fantasy if anyone told him this would be his future.
He did work occasionally—missions for the New Avengers every few weeks, nothing too heavy. Enough to keep his edge sharp. But most days were like this: home, noisy, lived-in. Normal. And that normal still caught him off guard sometimes.
Bucky let out a quiet breath and looked over. You were leaned back into the couch, eyes half-lidded from the movie, Becca’s small body sprawled across you. His gaze lingered just below—where her tiny body rested against the faint swell of your stomach.
His lips twitching upward. Five, he thought. You’ve gotta be kidding me.
And yet, somehow, it made sense. The man who once thought he’d never deserve a life like this—now sitting in the middle of one he built.
He glanced back up and couldn't help but huff. Becca was trying her best to fight sleep.
She was curled against your chest, soft and warm, her little legs twitching every now and then like she was dreaming mid-blink. Her pacifier bobbed lazily in her mouth, each suck slowing with every passing minute. You ran your hand gently over her back, murmuring half-coherent things—not really words, just soft sounds and shushing tones—the same way you’d done since she was a newborn.
Her head kept drooping further down your chest, mouth slipping open as she got comfortable in the curve of your boobs like they were custom-made pillows.
“She’s losing the fight,” Bucky said quietly, voice just barely over the sound of the movie.
You gave a sleepy little smile and nodded, not taking your eyes off Becca. “She’s got about two minutes left in her.”
But before the moment could stay soft, Jamie’s voice cut across the room—loud, excited, fully invested.
“Whoa! Did you see that? He just punched that guy through a wall!”
You glanced up. Jamie was practically vibrating, still planted in front of the TV like a human traffic cone. He bounced on his knees and jabbed a finger toward the screen.
“If I was that guy? I’d rip the villain’s head off. Then I’d cut out his tongue. Then I’d kick him in the—”
“James Samuel.”
Your voice snapped out sharper than you meant, but not wrong. Jamie froze mid-sentence and turned halfway toward you, sheepish and blink-blinking.
“Where’d you learn to talk like that?” you asked, squinting at him.
He blinked once more, twice, then slowly turned his head toward his father for backup.
Your gaze followed.
Bucky was very suddenly interested in the popcorn bowl, scooping up a handful with all the intensity of a man performing a delicate operation. He didn’t look up, didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
You stared at him. “Seriously?”
“I didn’t teach him that,” he muttered, picking out a kernel and pretending like he didn’t hear anything else. “He’s got an imagination.”
You kept staring. He still didn’t look up. Grace looked at the two of you from beneath his arm and mumbled something about how she never says stuff like that. Stevie, still focused on popcorn, shoved another piece toward Bucky’s mouth.
The movie kept going, gunshots and dramatic music swelling through the room like surround sound, but none of the kids flinched. Not even Becca, who’d gone still against your chest now, her pacifier barely hanging on. You brushed a curl from her forehead and rocked her gently side to side, more out of instinct than need.
And then, of course—
Jamie again.
“He should cut his eyeballs out next,” he muttered, half under his breath but clearly hoping someone would hear. “Then burn his fingers so he can’t hold a gun—”
Jamie paused mid-rant and looked over his shoulder
You didn’t even say anything this time. Just slowly turned your head, eyebrows raised, eyes trained on him.
He cleared his throat. “…Or like, maybe just arrest him or whatever.”
“Mmhm.”
Jamie turned back around, posture a little smaller
On Bucky's left, Grace tugged gently on the sleeve of his shirt. “Daddy?”
“Yeah, honey?”
She pointed at the screen, frowning thoughtfully as one character betrayed another. “Is he the bad guy now? Or just doing a bad thing?”
Bucky blinked. “Uh.”
“I mean… he’s helping the bad guy but he used to be friends with the good guy. So does that make him bad? Or just confused?”
Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it.
“I think maybe he thinks he’s doing the right thing,” Grace added, looking up at him, eyes round and patient, like she expected an actual answer. “But he’s still hurting people. So…” she trailed off. “I dunno.”
Stevie shoved another fistful of popcorn toward Bucky’s mouth. Bucky leaned back to dodge it, swiped a few kernels before they fell on his lap, and chewed slowly while his brain scrambled for a response.
“I think…” he started, swallowing, “…sometimes people do the wrong thing because they think it’s the only option they’ve got. Doesn’t mean they’re evil. Just… lost.”
Grace nodded. “Like when you used to work for the mean people?”
His jaw ticked for half a second, but he kept his face neutral. “Sorta like that,” he said softly.
Stevie pressed popcorn to his mouth again. “Eat,” he demanded, like Bucky was one of his toys.
Bucky huffed and took the offering, chewing like it gave him something to do with his hands. Grace leaned into his arm again, thoughtful, quiet. The kind of quiet that meant she was still turning it over in her head.
The room stayed still for a grand total of ninety seconds. Maybe less.
Then—
“Whoa, did you see that?” Jamie sat up straighter, practically vibrating. “That guy is so cool. He just broke through, like, three walls. With his shoulder.”
Grace didn’t even look up. “Dad could do that.”
Jamie made a noise—half-laugh, half-snort. “No he couldn’t.”
“Yeah, he could,” she shot back, immediate, like it wasn’t even up for debate.
“No way. That guy’s huge.” Jamie pointed to the screen with both hands now, trying to gesture the scale of muscle and destruction. “He’s probably, like, twenty feet tall. And he’s got laser arms or something.”
“Dad has a metal arm.”
“So? This guy has two laser arms. And he probably lifts cars. I bet he’s stronger than Dad.”
That was enough to pull Grace’s eyes up. She turned to look directly at her twin like he’d just cursed at the dinner table. “Nobody is stronger than Dad,” she said flatly. “Not even Uncle Sam.”
“Cap’s his friend, Gracie. He wouldn’t fight him.”
“Well, if he did, Dad would win.”
Jamie scoffed. “No he wouldn’t. This guy—” he gestured to the TV again, “—this guy would totally win. He’s got the muscles. And the sunglasses.”
Grace folded her arms like she was presenting evidence in court. “Daddy used to fight bad guys before he was even a dad. He was in, like, a hundred wars or something. He told me.”
Bucky was silent through the whole thing, not out of modesty—no, he was enjoying it a little too much. There was that smug, quiet grin creeping onto his face. The kind he got when he won a bet or found something you thought you'd lost.
You looked over from your spot with Becca still dozing on your chest, raised a brow. “You proud of yourself?”
He shrugged, totally unbothered. “Didn’t say anything.”
Grace narrowed her eyes. “Dad used to be in the Avengers. He fought aliens. He has a robot arm. And he used to work for the bad guys but now he doesn’t—which makes him stronger and smarter because he had to learn not to be bad anymore.”
Jamie blinked. “That’s not the same.”
“Yes it is,” Grace snapped. “And he’s bigger.”
Jamie shrugged like that didn’t count. “Still think the guy on TV could beat him.”
Bucky sat there, arms draped across the back of the couch like a king on his throne, watching his own children argue about his strength like it was a matter of national security.
You didn’t even have to look at him to know he was enjoying every second of it. His smug silence was answer enough, “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Too late. He was already sinking deeper into the cushions.
“I mean,” he said eventually, casual as anything, “that guy does fly. Might give me a run for my money.”
“Nope,” Grace said without looking at him, eyes back on the screen. “You’d win. He fights like he’s pretending.”
Bucky smirked, leaned over to kiss the top of her head. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
Stevie, still preoccupied with the popcorn bowl, chimed in around a mouthful, “Daddy wins. He lets me eat two popsicles if I say he’s the best.”
“Hey, don’t sell me out,” Bucky muttered, chuckling as Stevie tried to stuff another handful into his mouth… and failed.
One second, Stevie was happily alternating handfuls of popcorn between his own mouth and Bucky’s. The next, he looked down at the popcorn bowl in his lap like it had personally offended him.
His small brows furrowed, his chubby fingers sifting through the last few unpopped kernels like maybe—just maybe—one more buttery piece had magically appeared while he wasn’t looking.
It hadn’t.
He looked up at you, round eyes wide, cheeks still sticky with salt. “Mommy,” he said seriously. “The popcorn’s all done.”
You glanced over from your spot, Becca still snoozing with her head warm and heavy on your chest. “Yeah, baby,” you said, “because you ate it all.”
“I did?” he blinked again, puzzled.
Then he turned his face to you, all hopeful eyes and buttery cheeks.
“Can we have some more?” he asked, sweet as anything. No mischief, no angle—just a sincere, hopeful question like he really thought bedtime rules were negotiable.
You shook your head gently. “That was your bedtime snack, remember?”
He didn’t pout—not in a dramatic, stompy way. Just let out this small, deeply disappointed sigh, like the world had gently let him down. Then he turned to his backup option.
“Daddy?”
Bucky already knew what was coming. He was looking at the TV, pretending to still care about the movie. But he glanced down when Stevie tugged at the sleeve of his shirt, eyes wide and hopeful.
“Can we have more popcorn, please?”
Bucky sighed. He was weak for those eyes—always had been. Big and doe eyed, blinking up at him like Stevie didn’t even know he was asking for something. Just stating a fact. The popcorn’s gone. Fix it.
Stevie was just built like that. Soft face. Soft belly. Always one snack away from asking for another.
But Bucky cleared his throat and shook his head. “No, bud. That’s it for tonight.”
Stevie didn’t whine. Didn’t argue. He just blinked, real slow, like maybe he hadn’t heard right. Like surely that wasn’t a final answer.
“But…” he started, voice small, “…I’m hungry.”
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. “Yeah? You were hungry when the movie started. You crushed half the bowl by yourself.”
Bucky cracked a smile but held firm. “Your tummy says that after every dinner, and three snacks.”
Stevie nodded, entirely unbothered. “It talks a lot.”
“Bet it does,” Bucky muttered.
He shifted on the couch, resting his head back for a second like he was gathering strength. “No more popcorn,” he said again—firm this time, dad voice activated.
Stevie just looked at him. Big eyes. Hands clasped in his lap. Like a starving cartoon orphan.
“Okay,” he said quietly. But the sigh he let out afterward felt like he’d been personally wronged by the entire house.
Bucky reached over and ruffled his hair, already half-laughing. “I’ll make you pancakes in the morning.”
“With the whipped cream?” Stevie perked up instantly.
“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky said. “With the whipped cream.”
“Can I have some now?”
“No.”
Another sigh.
Becca shifted against you with a soft grunt, her little legs twitching as she adjusted. You glanced down, gently brushing a thumb over her warm cheek. Her pacifier fell out and landed in your lap with a wet little thup.
You pressed a kiss to the top of her hair and looked up. “Alright,” you murmured, voice low but firm. “That’s enough excitement for one night. Time for bed.”
Jamie groaned like you’d just announced the end of summer. “But it’s not even done—”
“It’s the credits, bud,” Bucky pointed out, already reaching for the remote.
“They just started,” Jamie argued weakly.
You stood up slowly, careful not to jostle Becca too much, and she gave a soft hum of protest but didn’t wake. “I’m putting her down before she wakes herself up crying,” you said over your shoulder. “You handle the rest.”
Bucky looked at the remaining three with a kind of mild dread. “Alright, let’s go, up we—”
“I can’t walk,” Jamie cut in, flopping sideways onto the carpet like a body hitting the floor in a war film.
“Me either,” Grace added, climbing into a dramatic slump against Bucky’s leg. “My feet are too tired.”
Stevie was already halfway in Bucky’s lap, arms stretched up in a silent, obvious request.
Bucky blinked. “Are you all kidding me right now?”
Jamie flopped harder onto the rug.
“My body just isn't listening to my brain,” Grace added helpfully.
“I’m still hungry,” Stevie said again, as if it was a medical emergency.
Bucky stared at the three of them—all suddenly limp, lazy, arms up like tiny royalty waiting for their chauffeur.
You didn’t even flinch. “Good luck,” you said, heading slowly toward the hallway with Becca, who was now fully snoring against your chest. “You created them.”
Bucky scratched the back of his neck, looking down at the pile of children he somehow had to transport.
“Okay,” he said, thinking it out loud. “Let’s think this through.”
He turned to Stevie first. “You go on the shoulders.”
Stevie’s arms shot up immediately, all giddy. “Yay.”
He crouched down so Stevie could climb up, the little boy giggling the whole way like this was the best part of his night.
“No you’re not,” Jamie argued, already stepping closer. “You’re taller than me by a quarter inch.”
“She’s going in the arm,” Bucky said, already swinging Grace up and onto his hip like he’d done it a hundred times—because he had. She immediately curled into his side like a barnacle.
Jamie looked offended. “So what about me?”
“You’re walkin’.”
“My legs are broken, remember?”
Bucky exhaled like this was war strategy. “You go in the other arm,” he finally decided, crouching down just enough for Jamie to scramble up. “But only because this is faster than arguing.”
He straightened up with a groan, now carrying three whole kids—Stevie wobbling on his shoulders, Grace hanging off his left arm, Jamie slung on the right like a sack of potatoes.
“I’m gonna need a chiropractor,” Bucky muttered as he staggered toward the hallway.
“You’re strong, you can do it!” Jamie encouraged, hanging off his vibranium arm
“You said that guy on TV was stronger than me.”
“I’m allowed to change my mind.”
The kids’ bedroom looked like something out of three different catalogs at once.
On one end, Grace’s side was carefully curated—pink canopy, fluffy throw pillows lined up like guards, a rotating selection of stuffed animals chosen daily based on mood. Everything matched. She insisted on that. Her bookshelf was alphabetized. Her slippers had their own spot.
Jamie and Stevie’s bunk bed took up the other half—Jamie claimed the top bunk, naturally, and had slowly filled it with drawings, action figures, and enough tape to hang a hundred paper airplanes. He slept like he thought he was Spider-Man: upside down, sideways, occasionally half-falling off the edge. Stevie’s lower bunk was a different story—a small padded kingdom of teddy bears, soft blankets, and one suspiciously ragged elephant with a missing eye.
He'd initially been sharing with Becca, but she was a fussy sleeper—always tossing, always whining at 2am until she ended up in your bed anyway. Eventually, she got the room all to herself, and Stevie migrated to the bunk with his brother.
Bucky moved slowly through the room, voice low and hands busy—pulling back sheets, fluffing pillows, handing out water cups. It was a routine. The kind that changed every couple of months, depending on who was scared of what that week.
Grace was already tucked in, but not done.
“Can you fix the corner?” she asked, pointing to her blanket. “It’s crooked. I don’t like when it bunches.”
Bucky leaned down and smoothed it out like she asked. “Better?”
She nodded, then pointed to her nightstand. “Can you turn the star light on? Not the moon one. That one flickers.”
He flicked the correct switch. The star light glowed softly.
Grace settled deeper into her pillows, satisfied. “Okay.”
Bucky leaned over, kissed her forehead. “Sleep tight, Gracie.”
“’Night, Daddy.”
Bucky smiled and stepped back.
On the other side of the room, the bunk bed was a whole different story.
Jamie had already scrambled to the top bunk and was now dangling halfway off it, one hand on the guardrail, the other pretending to shoot webs.
“I’m Spider-Man,” he announced, “but like, cooler.”
“You’re gonna break your arm,” Bucky said automatically, not even looking up as he helped Stevie into the lower bunk.
“No I won’t. I have Spidey senses.”
“Yeah, well. Spidey better stay in bed.”
“I’m not tired,” he announced, staring upside down at Bucky.
“You said your legs didn’t work five minutes ago,” Bucky replied, crossing his arms.
“They got better.”
“Eyes still work?”
“Yep.”
“Shame,” Bucky muttered, pushing Jamie to lay flat on his back. “Let’s try and rest ’em anyway.”
Jamie groaned, and pulled the blanket over his face. “You don’t understand me, father.”
“Correct.”
Bucky turned back to Stevie, still sitting up on his bunk. The bears were arranged like a crowd around him, each one in its usual spot—Stevie never said it out loud, but Bucky had figured it out by now. You didn’t mess with the bear formation.
“You good, buddy?”
Stevie nodded, rubbing at his eyes. “M’fine.”
“You want the elephant or the dog tonight?”
Stevie held up the elephant. “Dumbo.”
Bucky crouched down to tuck the blanket around his sides, not too tight, just how he liked it. He fixed the collar on his pajama shirt, kissed his forehead, and made sure the cup of water on his nightstand had the straw turned the right way.
“Sleep tight,” Bucky whispered.
Stevie reached up and grabbed the edge of Bucky’s sleeve with chubby fingers. “You’ll check on us, yeah?”
Bucky glanced down at him. Nodded once. “Every night.”
Stevie let go. Laid back. Clutched Dumbo close.
He smiled quietly to himself, shut off the big light, and pulled the door halfway closed—not all the way. They still got nervous with it fully shut.
“G’night,” he whispered, mostly to himself now.
A pause.
“…I’m still hungry, daddy,” came Stevie’s voice from the dark.
Bucky sighed as he made his way to the kitchen.
a/n | lowkey which family dynamic do you guys prefer. this one? or Barnes Family Circus
inspired by this scene:
pairing: teenage dirtbag!bucky barnes x popular girl!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, banter, enemies w/ benefits, bucky bashes on trap music (sorry if you like it), pining but semi unrequited, john walker (kind of slandering him. also sorry), angst if you squint, miscommunication, fluff, semi-public sex, alcohol, jealousy, m!masturbation, soft dom!bucky, dacryphilia, degradation, dirty talking, pet names: "pretty princess" "angel"
word count: 11.7k
masterlist
a/n: getting a lot of rodrick x regina edits on the tiktok tl... so i had to whip out a fanfic inspired by that. i called bucky a teenage dirtbag but they're in college. dedicated to the biggest teenage dirtbag rodrick rules herself @54nboo. erin rules.
synopsis:
You're the picture-perfect popular pretty girl—all style, smiles, and social status. Bucky is the typical campus dirtbag—loud music, attitude, and bad decisions. You can't stand him, and he fucking hates your guts.
That is, until one house party changes everything. When Bucky catches you headbanging to classic rock instead of pop, instead of hating your guts, he ended up being inside your guts.
You’re desperate to keep your arrangement quiet for the sake of your reputation, but Bucky is growing tired of being your dirty little secret.
Metallica. AC/DC. Led Zeppelin. Guns N’ Roses. Iron Maiden.
Bands that unite everyone with sick riffs and pure rock energy that still blasts through people’s headphones and car stereos to this day. Timeless. Monumental. Sensational.
You could be complete opposites with someone—hell, even sworn enemies—but there’s one thing people will always agree on, and that’s good fucking music.
And that’s exactly why Bucky can’t stand what he’s seeing right now.
Because there you are—sitting in the student union—withJohn fucking Walker beside you, talking your ear off about “seventeen thirty-eight,” “strip clubs,” and “trap beats.”
All telltale signs of shitty music. Music Bucky hates—and music he definitely knows you hate too.
Yet there you sat, in your cute little pink outfit, twirling a strand of hair around your finger and nodding along to every word America’s Asshole had to say.
“Buck,” Steve called, his eyes glued to his laptop screen. “Did you already submit your article for—” he glanced up mid-sentence and paused when he noticed Bucky’s glare fixated somewhere past him.
Steve’s eyes followed, glancing over his shoulder, and he let out an agitated sigh at the sight.
“So fucking stupid,” Bucky muttered under his breath, clicking angrily at his pen.
“Buck,” Steve tried again.
Bucky sat up straight, tearing his eyes away from you. “What?”
“Stop looking at her,” Steve lectured, tapping away on his laptop. “You’ve got no chance.”
Bucky let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. He’d heard that claim a hundred times from his friends, but only he knew the truth.
He did have a chance with you.
He had a chance with you that night weeks ago, when he locked eyes with you across the crowd at a house party. He remembered the night clearly. Some underground garage band was thrashing in the backyard, and he was squeezing through the crowd to find the bathroom—that’s when he saw you. All the breath was knocked out of his lungs. He thought you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
He never expected to find someone like you—someone who’s popular and thrives on the attention of football players—at a party like that, much less listening to music like this.
The whole concept of popularity in college was stupid. He thought that shit ended in high school, but you proved him wrong, and he hated you for it. Every man turned their head when you walked by, girls started dressing like you, and everyone scrambled for an invitation to the parties you hosted.
God, he fucking despised girls like you.
But there you were that night, stripped away from all the popularity, the tight clothes and short skirts, and the preppy makeup. You were just… a dirtbag.
Just like him.
Bucky didn’t know what came over him, but he started moving before he could think, his feet carrying him through the crowd toward you. He tapped you on the shoulder and you turned, eyes bright and wild. He said your name, and you… just stared at him.
He remembered that face clearly, a blank look that told him he was no one to you.
Of course you didn’t know his name. You were complete opposites after all.
He immediately regretted walking over to you. At that point, he wished the ground would’ve just swallowed him whole.
Just as he turned to leave, you snagged his wrist and smiled.
Then you said, “Bucky Barnes, right?”
And then that night, he took you to the bathroom, where he fucked you hard against the sink, the door, and the toilet seat—kept you full of his cock until you were a crying, moaning mess. It was the best night of his life. The sloppy sex, your voice crying his name through the music, your manicured fingernails digging into his back and gripping his hair. He could never forget it, because that night replayed in his mind every time he jerked off to the thought of you.
You exchanged numbers, and the next morning, he woke up to a text message from you that ended your guys’ story before it could even start.
👑: hey
👑: can we keep what happened last night between the two of us?
No explanation. Bucky didn’t need one.
And like the stupid idiot he was, he let you get away.
bucky: yeah
bucky: looks bad
From there on, you were his dirty little secret.
And he was yours.
“I don’t know why that girl’s got you wrapped around her perfectly polished finger,” Steve continued, snapping Bucky back to reality. “You’ve got girls throwing themselves at you after every show, yet you can’t stop staring at her. I thought we hated girls like her?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes drifting back to you and John. “I do hate her.”
“Hate her or want to fuck her?”
Bucky shot him a sharp glare. “Steve.”
Steve chuckled and raised his hands up in surrender, shrugging. “I’m just sayin’. It’s hard to tell nowadays with you.” He shut his laptop and got up, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. “And don’t forget about the gig this—”
Steve grinned, ruffling Bucky’s shaggy hair before Bucky swatted his hand away. “Good boy.”
“Get out of my face, Steve.”
Once Steve was out of the way, Bucky’s eyes naturally flickered back to you. By the time he was looking, you were already staring at him—not at John Walker, but at him. You should’ve looked away, but right now, the only interesting thing in this room was Bucky. Not the blonde droning on about “sicko mode” or “mo bamba,” whatever the hell those words even meant.
And how could you possibly look away when Bucky was holding your gaze just as intensely?
But then, with an agitated sigh that you could practically hear across the union, he swiped his belongings off the table and left the room, breaking the silent staring contest.
“So anyway,” John spoke up. “Are you coming this Friday?”
You turned to him, reluctantly. “What’s happening on Friday?”
John laughed, almost disbelieving. It was very obvious from the start that you weren’t listening to him—nor did you have the intention to—yet he still stayed. John was persistent: he’d get into the skirts of any attractive, popular girl on campus, and for a football player like him, having a hot girl on his arm was simply an ego boost.
“The big game is on Friday,” he said flatly, as if you were the stupid one. “And then the frat party right after.”
“Oh,” you blinked, trying to play dumb. “Right.”
A small, almost doubtful smile tugged at his lips. “So you’re coming, right?”
You forced a smile so wide it hurt. “Of course I am.”
John let out a low whistle, clapping his hands together loud enough to make a few heads turn. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from cringing.
“That’s my girl!”
My girl?
You couldn’t hold the cringe back anymore, your face scrunching up into a sour expression before you could stop it. John was too far ahead of himself to even notice. You got up suddenly, snapping John out of his little victory dance.
“I’m going back to the chapter house to study—”
“Oh!” John immediately jumped up with you. “Let me walk you back, then.”
“I can walk myself,” you said, flashing a polite smile as you pushed your chair in and made your escape before he could argue.
Behind you, you heard John gathering his things frantically, the chair squeaking as he scurried after you. “Wait!” he called out, but you continued walking, pretending not to hear him.
You pushed the door open, and just as it was about to swing shut, John slammed his hand against the frame, barely catching it as he held the door open for himself.
“Wait—hold on—”
You rolled your eyes and continued walking, but you stopped short at the sight of Bucky standing in front of the message center. He was messily pinning up posters, scattering them across the board and blatantly covering the existing ones before his. Once John caught up, he opened his mouth to speak but noticed your attention was caught elsewhere. His eyes followed yours—and then he saw Bucky.
Bucky was covering up the frat party posters John had hung up earlier today, not even trying to be sneaky or ashamed about it.
“That fucking asshole,” John muttered under his breath, already stomping angrily toward Bucky.
“John,” you reached out, trying to stop him, but it was too late. “Wait!”
“Dirtbag Barnes!” John called out, finally catching up to him. His face was twisted in an angry, unpleasant look. He scrunched up his nose, looking down at Bucky like he was trash—even though there was only about an inch difference in height.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Bucky gave him an impassive look. “I’m putting up posters for my gig this Friday. What else?”
John scoffed. “You’re covering up my flyers for my party.”
“No one wants to go to that shit anyway.”
John let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. His jaw clenched, and he fisted his hands at his sides. Just as he was about to raise one for a punch—leaving Bucky completely unflinching—you stepped in the middle.
“Jesus Christ, John!” you glared at him, putting your hand out defensively—a small, absurd barrier against a football player. You knew John was an asshole, but you also knew he wouldn’t risk his reputation and his spot on the team by laying a hand on a woman.
John sneered, dropping his hand reluctantly.
Bucky, meanwhile, offered him a smug, taunting grin. “Would you look at that,” he drawled. His eyes tracked you up and down slowly, before flicking back to John. “Your guardian angel, dressed in pink, here to rescue you.”
John let out a cruel, barking laugh at the comment. The taunt should have offended you, but you found yourself physically tilting your head down, trying to hide the pink flush on your cheeks as you bit back a smile, because... well…
Bucky had called you an angel!
“I don’t need ‘rescuing,’” John crossed his arms, completely oblivious to your reaction. “If anything, she was the one who saved you. If it weren’t for her, you already would’ve been doubled over on the floor with a bloodied fucking nose.”
“Great,” Bucky’s smile only grew wider. “Having a bruised nose would look sick when I perform on Friday.”
John made a face of disgust. “You’re fucking disgusting.”
“And you’re a fucking asshole. What else is new?”
“Bucky,” you warned.
His shoulders deflated just slightly. John mumbled something under his breath, already half-turned away and seemingly forgetting his mission to "walk you back to the house."
“Don’t linger around that dirtbag for too long,” John scoffed. “Unless you want to start smelling like trash.”
He gave Bucky one last dirty look, then turned back to the poster board, violently ripping one of Bucky’s posters down. He crumpled it in his hands, tossed the ruined paper haphazardly at Bucky, and finally walked away.
Once John was out of sight, Bucky turned his full attention to you. You didn’t even need to look at him to know the expression on his face; you could feel his judgmental glare burning into the back of your head. You turned to meet his eyes.
“Hey, loser.” You teased, trying to play dumb.
“John fucking Walker,” he said with an incredulous laugh. “Him, out of all people? Seriously?” He looked down at the crumpled paper in his hands, slowly unfolding it. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” he mumbled the last part—but you heard it perfectly clear.
“John and I aren’t dating—”
“Yeah?” Bucky cut you off. “Then why is he following you around like some lost fucking puppy?”
“I don’t know! He won’t leave me alone. He only keeps an arm around my shoulder because it makes him look good. It’s nothing serious,” you said defensively.
You honestly didn’t know why you’d let John hover around you like this for the past few days, or why you had done nothing to stop it. You were used to guys—especially the popular ones—flocking to you; being near you gave them an incredible ego boost. You were just an accessory, and before, you hadn’t cared. You thought the same thing of men like John. You weren’t any better.
But after meeting Bucky, after letting him touch and defile you the way he did at the house party, a deeper part of you couldn’t help but keep John slung over your shoulder just to see Bucky riled up and jealous.
“Nothing serious,” he nodded, the understanding look completely fake. “Just like the guy before? And the one before that?”
You crossed your arms. “What are you insinuating? That I’m some kind of slut?”
Bucky just grinned, playing with your reaction.
“No. Not at all, angel.” He took a step closer, his fingertips catching the ends of your hair, twirling it tauntingly in his fingers. “Because those guys haven’t had you the way I had you, is that right?”
You sucked in a sharp breath and glanced around warily. You hated how easily your body still reacted to him. You circled his wrist, prying his hand away with a shaky grip.
“Bucky,” you sighed, managing a firmer voice. “What we had weeks ago—it was a one-time thing. Someone like me would never—”
“...fuck around with a sleaze like me?” he tilted his head down at you, the look almost condescending despite the self-insult. “Is that what you were going to say?”
Truthfully, you were drawn to Bucky as powerfully as he was drawn to you. But you couldn’t date someone like him. College was about networking, surrounding yourself with upstanding people who would connect you to future success. Being around Bucky—all dark, baggy clothes, shaggy hair, stubble, and loud music—felt like a direct detour from that steady path.
Yet, you relished the way he fawned over you.
But then a colder feeling snapped you back to reality—maybe Bucky was no different from John. Maybe, by having a woman like you on his arm, he was just building his own brand of reputation, too.
That reminder alone was enough to bring you crashing back hard down to earth.
“Bucky, let’s be real,” you insisted, jutting a hip and crossing your arms to maintain confidence. “Aside from our music taste, we have nothing in common. We have no chemistry.”
You expected Bucky to be upset by that—to finally give up and retreat. But Bucky, unpredictable as always, only smiled wider. He leaned in, his warm, low breath feathering against your ear.
“Oh, princess,” he cooed, his voice low and raspy. “You didn’t even know what chemistry was until you met me.”
Your face immediately warmed with sudden heat. You couldn’t understand how Bucky—a guy who managed to set most people off with an unintentional string of words and only hung out with the same three people—could make you melt with such a simple phrase.
“Th-that’s…” you cleared your throat, already turning halfway, “…so unbelievably corny.”
Bucky chuckled behind you, but before you could take three full steps, he called your name.
Like an idiot, you stopped and turned back around.
“Can you make it this Friday?” he asked, and suddenly he didn’t sound so confident. His brow furrowed just slightly, and his shoulders slumped a little with genuine appeal.
“To your gig?” you frowned.
He nodded, handing you the crumpled, unfolded paper of his flyer. You glanced down at it; in big, bold black letters, “CIVIL WAR” was written in the center in a messy grunge, edgy style.
Bucky pressed his lips together, already knowing what you were thinking. John had his football game and the frat party on the same night. And one thing Bucky knew about you was that you never skipped out on a party.
He glanced at John’s remaining poster on the message board, then back at you.
“Come on. Just skip a party for one night and come watch me play instead,” he pleaded. “Listen to actual good music. Not that… trap shit Walker was going on about.” He motioned lazily with his hand toward John’s poster.
“I won’t go,” you said flatly. But despite your words, you folded the crumpled paper neatly and tucked it into your shoulder bag.
He smiled as he watched you. “That’s a shame. I want to see my pretty girl in pink cheering my name in the crowd.”
You felt like the breath got knocked out of your lungs. When John Walker called you his girl just a few minutes ago, you wanted to double over and hurl vomit all over his pristine Nikes. But hearing Bucky call you his girl—his pretty girl—made you want to drop everything and run into his arms.
But instead, you inhaled a steady breath and turned on your heel. “I’m not going to that dump just to watch mediocre playing,” you shouted over your shoulder.
Bucky just barked a laugh behind you—a sound that couldn’t help but make a smile tug reluctantly at your lips.
“Alright. I’ll see you there, princess.”
It was Wednesday night, and Bucky was practicing drums in his garage with the rest of Civil War: Steve on lead guitar and vocals, Sam on backup guitar and vocals, and Natasha on bass.
Mid-song, Nat stilled her fingers on the strings and shook her head, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Steve, are you getting sick? You sound off.”
Steve turned from the microphone and gave Nat a look. “I’ve been singing for two hours straight. Of course, I sound off.”
“Amateur,” Bucky coughed behind his fist.
Sam and Nat chuckled until Steve turned and gave them all a dirty look that silenced them. “Shut the hell up, Buck. You’re drumming off-beat too, and it’s throwing the rest of us off.”
Bucky huffed a laugh. “That’s impossible. I’m the drummer, so technically, you all have to follow me.”
Sam scrunched his face. “That’s not how it works.”
“Whatever,” Nat cut in, already lifting the strap of her bass over her head. “Let’s all take five,” she said, pointing a finger at Steve. “Go drink some water.”
As everyone scattered, their idle chatter filling the garage, Bucky’s thoughts raced back to you. He’d sounded so confident when he said, “I’ll see you there,” but in reality, he wasn’t confident at all. He knew girls like you were avid partygoers, and he hadn’t cared until he met you—until he had a taste, until he had marked your body and claimed it as his.
Now, the idea of you going to that party, vulnerable among assholes like John Walker, sent his blood boiling.
He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his worn jeans and opened social media. Of course, he immediately saw a bunch of stories from tonight’s party. Seriously, what was the appeal of all these parties anyway? On a Wednesday night, too. It was unbelievable, he thought, even though he was staying up way past midnight rehearsing for his own gig.
His thumb idly scrolled through stories until a particular one stopped him cold. It was a brief video of you, dancing exuberantly—and clearly drunk—to loud music. You were in your typical cute little outfit; short skirt, heels, and plenty of pink. Bucky’s jaw tightened as he replayed the clip, devouring every detail. Your skirt was riding high, giving the camera—and everyone nearby—an ample view of your legs. The way you moved, the way your body was bouncing as you danced…
It sent a thunderbolt of desire straight through his body and right to his dick.
“Alright, break time’s over,” Steve announced, tapping the microphone so the sound echoed through the garage. He looked over his shoulder at Bucky, who was still absorbed by his phone.
“Buck. Did you hear me? I said break time’s—”
“I gotta use the bathroom,” Bucky snapped, shoving himself out of his drum seat. The cymbals clanged loudly as he bumped into them in haste.
“What? Where the hell are you going—!” Sam barked, but Bucky was already past the door.
Bucky scrambled quickly to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. His phone shaky in his hands, he kept replaying the video of you over and over again. How badly he wanted to send you a text, to drive over there and pick you up just so he could keep you for himself. He wanted to be the only one to see you like this—not John Walker, not your stupid sorority posse of mean girls.
Just him.
His erection was pressing insistently against his boxers and jeans, and he knew he couldn’t go back out there in… such a state.
He set his phone down on the bathroom sink, unbuckling his belt quickly, pushing his jeans down along with his boxers. His cock sprang out, heavy, slapping against his lower belly—aching to be touched. He replayed the story a few more times, then shut his eyes as his eager hands went down to his dick with a low groan.
“Fuck,” he groaned to himself, tossing his head back as his mind started to fill with flashbacks of the night he had you.
He remembered you on your knees on the bathroom tile, taking him in your perfectly puckered lips that shined with a shimmery lip gloss.
“Fuck, angel…” he moaned as he balanced one hand against the wall, his forehead pressing against it as the other hand fisted his cock eagerly. His hand wasn’t nearly as soft, as warm, and as wet as your lips. But this would have to do for now.
He started rocking his hips into his hand as he remembered the way you batted your cute, long eyelashes at him. He groaned, his thumb swiping over his slit, spreading pre-cum over his cockhead.
“God, baby…” he sighed. “This isn’t fucking fair—you shouldn’t be flaunting yourself at these… stu—stupid parties,” his fist moved faster, and his legs started to shake as he remembered your soft legs wrapped around his waist as he held you up and fucked you against the door.
“You should be here… w-with me, fuck, baby.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hissing out as his hand quickened its pace around his shaft. The more he surrendered to the filthy thoughts of you, the more his cock throbbed and jerked in his grasp.
He replaced the feel of his fist with the tight, wet warmth of your mouth. He visualized the way your tongue trailed along the heavy underside of his cock, lapping at every sensitive ridge. Bucky’s eyes snapped open, his vision blurred as he focused on the floor, imagining you kneeling directly in front of him.
“Fuck… just like that, baby,” he moaned to himself, his hips moving in rhythm with his fist, as if you were taking him in your mouth.
“Gonna… fuck, gonna paint your fucking pretty face with my seed, princess.”
The imagined sounds of your moans and gasps drowned out the guitars and Steve’s singing from the next room. Your sweet voice, the way you cried his name and begged him to cum inside you—it was enough to shatter his control.
His rhythm broke, and his grip turned sloppy over his cock as he pulsed and shuddered. “Fuck… baby, I’m gonna cum—” he groaned, driving a hard and final thrust into his palm, spilling himself all over his fingers.
Catching his breath, he watched his seed drip down his hand and onto the cold tiles. With a soft sigh, he reached for the toilet paper, meticulously wiping himself and the floor clean.
Bucky knew this was wrong, finding arousal in the sight of you drunk at a party and fixating on the memory of the night you shared, but he was powerless to stop.
He claimed he hated you, but the hatred wasn’t for you.
It was for the fact that he couldn’t have you. It was for the fact that you wouldn’t choose him.
Sam’s fist hammered on the bathroom door. “Bucky—what the hell are you doing in there?”
“I’m—uh,” Bucky stammered. “Taking a shit.”
“Well, hurry the hell up. Steve’s getting upset and we need to nail this song down by Friday, man.”
Bucky hauled his jeans up, his belt clanking as he swiftly buckled it into place. “Tell that punk to inhale and exhale for five and I’ll be right out.”
He couldn’t see it, but he could practically feel Sam’s eye roll from just outside the door. Sam mumbled a quiet “whatever,” and the sound of his footsteps shuffled away from the door and down the hall.
Just as Bucky reached for the lock, his phone dinged with a notification. He looked down at the screen, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.
👑: bucky. can you pick me up? please?
And that was all it took.
He pocketed his phone and pushed the bathroom door open. He strode back to the garage to retrieve his jacket—instantly earning a round of “where the hell do you think you’re going?” from Sam, Steve, and Nat.
“I’ve got an emergency, just…” he motioned dismissively, “practice without me.”
They continued to argue right up until Bucky snatched his keys and stomped out the front door and into his car, but he didn’t heed their complaints—you needed him. You needed his help.
And that was the final truth Bucky hated.
He hated how effortlessly he could drop everything—no matter how important—just to answer your call.
Bucky broke every speed limit to get to you, to reach the stupid party you’d gotten caught up in. The entire drive, his mind raced with several thoughts: that you were okay, that you weren’t hurt, that one of those filthy frat boys hadn’t put their hands on you. When he pulled up to the house, you stumbled out by yourself to meet him at his car, but Bucky got out and steadied you, helping you slide into the passenger seat.
You reeked of alcohol, could barely stand, and your hair was disheveled—your makeup was a smeared mess.
“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mumbled as he buckled your seatbelt. “You look like a fucking mess.”
“Wow,” you sighed, your elbow propped on the center console as you struggled to keep yourself upright. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?”
He only rolled his eyes as he made his way back to the driver’s seat, quickly getting in so no one at the party would spot him. “You also smell like shit.”
“Oh, come on,” you pouted. “Don’t be mean to me!” you whined as you gave his shoulder a playful nudge.
Bucky glanced at you, a warmth spreading across his face as he laughed at your words. This wasn’t the first time since you two met that you had called him in the middle of the night, needing his help. And every single time, he was there for you. Without fail.
“Me? Mean to you? Never,” he teased as he put the car in drive and gently pressed his foot on the gas.
You let out a soft giggle, your face flushed pink, the sound making Bucky’s heart flutter in his chest. He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes steady on the road. The speed he drove now was a complete contrast to his reckless drive to get to you. He was slower now—and despite the risk of you throwing up in his car—he took his sweet time driving you back to your house, all just so he could savor these few minutes with you.
“So…” he drawled, “… did something—”
“No. Nothing happened,” you answered immediately, already expecting the question. Every time Bucky picked you up, he always asked and made sure you were okay. “No one touched me. Well, they tried, but I didn’t let them. You know how these frat boys are.”
You looked out the window, your eyes glossy as the world outside blurred, but you caught Bucky’s reflection, and you spotted the way his jaw clenched.
“I just wanted to get out of there.”
“And the first person you thought to text was me,” he huffed a non-humorous laugh. “It’s starting to become a pattern, isn’t it?”
You, being in a drunken haze and completely oblivious to the strain in his voice, only tossed your head back and laughed.
“But you like it, don’t you? It gives you the excuse to see me,” you leaned over, poking your manicured finger at his cheek. “And I know how bad you want to see me.”
He parted his lips to say something—perhaps try to taunt you back—but the words caught in his throat. Because, despite your drunken state, the truth of your words was undeniable, and you knew it. You knew exactly how badly he wanted you, and here you were, drunk and vulnerable in his passenger seat, dangling that power right in front of him.
You noticed the grumpy look on his face and turned toward him, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, don’t be mad, Buck,” you cooed, drawing out his name, which only made his grip on the wheel tighten. “You always look so serious when you’re mad. It’s kinda hot, actually.”
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?” you giggled, leaning closer. “You don’t like it when I say stuff like that?”
If you were sober, he would’ve slammed the car into park, dragged you to the back seat, and claimed you for himself. But he couldn’t. Instead, his temper flared with how intensely you were taunting him, knowing damn well how much he wanted you.
“I don’t like it when you drink like this,” he shot back. “Or when you go to parties where you know those idiots can’t keep their hands to themselves. It’s self-sabotage.”
You pouted, the sound of it almost childlike. “You worry too much.”
“Someone has to,” he said with a scoff. “The Barbie and Ken dolls that you love to surround yourself with don’t seem to. That’s why you keep calling me instead—because no one else will.”
Your smile faltered.
His words struck you hard. Painful as they were, they rang true—a truth you never wanted to admit. You surrounded yourself with people like John Walker, who only cared about social status and appearances, always looking out for themselves and themselves only.
Bucky was genuinely the only person who looked out for you.
You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms defensively over your chest, and turned your gaze back to the window. “Can you hurry up and take me home?” you said, your voice so painfully soft it was barely audible. “I feel sick.”
Bucky sighed, immediately regretting the words as they left his mouth. “Look, I just…” he pressed his lips together, struggling to find words that wouldn’t upset you further. “I worry, okay? You call me because you know I’ll show up. And I do, every time—”
“Yeah. You show up. Then you remind me why you shouldn’t have.”
Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration building in his chest. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is what you said.”
A tense silence settled in the car again. He wanted to apologize, to tell you exactly how he felt every time he came to pick you up in the middle of the night. It was always about you—about the way his stomach twisted when you called his name through slurred words, needing him, wanting him, but just never in the way he needed you to.
But he couldn’t say that. Not when you were sitting there looking so small, so hurt.
So instead, he muttered, “Did you have anything to eat?”
You blinked, your eyes hazy as you looked back at him. “What?”
“You need to eat. You can’t drink on an empty stomach.”
“I haven’t,” you said, frowning. “I’m not hungry.”
Bucky flicked his turn signal on. Instead of turning right toward your sorority, he turned left, heading elsewhere. “We’ll stop by a gas station and pick you up something to eat.”
You scrunched your face, your nose wrinkling. “A gas station? That’s all greasy, processed food. I’m not messing up my diet.”
He huffed a laugh, trying to keep things light. “You just shot back a couple of tequilas and now you’re worried about your diet? A chili hotdog for one night isn’t going to ruin you.”
Each protest and whine went in Bucky’s ear and out the other. Once he pulled into the gas station’s parking lot, you sat reluctantly, arms crossed. Bucky laughed at your resistance, unbuckled your seatbelt, and hauled you up in one swift, steady motion. You collided into his chest as he wrapped a strong arm around you, holding you steady against him.
At this point, you weren’t drunk enough to be stumbling over yourself anymore, but you weren’t about to push yourself away from Bucky’s arms. He led you toward the hot food section, and your nose was immediately hit with the smell of the rotating hotdogs.
You made a sour face. “Please tell me you’re not actually going to feed me that.”
He grinned, already grabbing a bun and splitting it open. He grabbed a hotdog—still slick with juices—and slapped it onto the bun. He started loading it with chili from the dispenser, the machine sputtering and making strange noises as it poured itsgoopy contents, nearly overflowing.
“That looks disgusting.”
He only laughed as he started piling on shredded cheese that had been sitting on the counter for God knows how long, followed by diced onions and a drizzle of mustard.
He turned to you and held it up. “There. Five-star dining.”
You blinked down at the hotdog, not even hiding the disapproving look on your face.
When you didn’t move, he let out a low sigh and gently took your hand, guiding the hotdog towards you. “C’mon. Just one bite.”
The warmth of his hand pressed against yours, and for a second, you felt your breath catch in your throat at the contact. You stared at him—the faint smirk on the corners of his lips, the messy hair falling into his eyes—and was that eyeliner?
With a hesitant sigh, you took a bite. Immediately, your face twisted, but you didn’t stop chewing. “Oh my god, that’s so bad.”
He laughed—a real one this time, soft and deep. “You’re a goddamn liar. You love it.”
He turned to make his own hotdog, and you couldn’t help the smile twisting at your lips as you watched him. At the party, there was no one else like him. There was no one with baggy and ripped jeans, scuffed Converse, or shaggy hair who wore eyeliner. You watched his hands as they got to work on the hotdog. His hands were calloused—not because he worked out frequently or obsessed over sports. His hands were rough because of his constant drumming.
And for some reason, that fact made your body warm.
After he paid for the hotdogs, he led you back outside where you two sat in his car, Iron Maiden playing on his speakers at a low volume—music they would never play at the parties you go to, and music you secretly enjoyed.
He had his seat reclined back, arms draped behind him as he ate his hotdog. The both of you sat in comfortable silence—aside from the music playing—as you looked out at the ongoing traffic, the lights and cars zooming past each other.
“I fuckin’ love this song,” Bucky said, turning The Trooper up. “The band and I have been trying to learn it—but Steve can’t even get the beginning riff right.” He shook his head, taking another bite.
“I’m sure Steve’s trying his best,” you casually took a bite. “He’s probably just rushing the gallops.”
Bucky paused mid-bite, turning to you with a surprised look on his face. “Look at that,” he grinned, leaning over and ruffling your hair. “You know what gallops are—how cute.” He finished his hotdog, crumpling up the wrapping paper.
“Sooner or later you’re going to be wearin’ black eyeliner and replace Steve as the lead guitarist in my band.”
“God—no,” you scoffed lightly. “I would rather be caught dead than be seen wearing sloppy dark make up around my eyes.”
He gave you a look. “You’re sayin’ my eye make up is sloppy?”
A small, smug smile tugged at your lips. “I’m saying you could do a better job,” you motioned to beneath your eyes, “at blending it in.”
“Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”
You crumpled up the wrapper of your hotdog and tossed it somewhere in the backseat. Leaning down, you rummaged through your pink handbag and pulled out a black eyeliner pencil.
“Wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it, yet you have an eyeliner pencil in your purse?”
“Shut up,” you mumbled.
You crawled over the center console, squeezing and wiggling your way into the tight space between the driver’s seat and the steering wheel, nestling yourself onto his lap. Bucky’s body suddenly felt so warm, his heart thumping so loudly in his chest that he prayed you couldn’t hear it.
He also prayed that you couldn’t feel his hardening erection.
“Okay,” he tried to say casually, but he couldn’t help but feel giddy.
He went still as your hand came up, your thumb resting just beneath his eye. The car suddenly felt so small—so suffocating. You leaned in, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of your expensive perfume—the exact one he smelt that night he had you.
You were close, so fucking close.
All he had to do was lean in and kiss you.
He let out a shaky exhale, and you furrowed your brow slightly.
“Your hair’s in the way,” you said, your soft hand running through his long hair, pushing it back from his face.
He was so starved for your attention and touch, that the gentle graze alone, the suffocating proximity, your smell, your voice—it was all enough to make his cock unbearably hard. And he knew you could feel it now too; every exhale you let out was shaky, and your hands were trembling just slightly. He was confident you felt the same tension he did when your eyes flickered down to his lips just briefly before looking back up.
Bucky cleared his throat, his hands subconsciously finding your hips and holding you in place. “How are you feeling?”
You paused. “Better now,” you slowly retreated your hand. “Head hurts a little. But I mostly just feel exhausted.”
He nodded. “We should take you home—”
“Wait,” you pulled out your phone, opening the camera app and flicking it to the front camera. “Look. It looks way better, doesn’t it?”
He paused, taking your phone and looking at himself carefully. He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I guess it does. You know—” he handed your phone back to you, “you should be my makeup artist for my gigs. You’re coming to my show on Friday, right? You can do my makeup then.”
You rolled your eyes. “You want me to be both your makeup artist and your cheerleader? For free?”
His hand couldn’t help but wander to your backside, more instinct than intentional, really. But you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned closer to him.
“Come on, just show up for me. I show up for you all the time, don’t I?” his eyes flickered down to your top. “I could even make you a band shirt, and I’ll have it designed all pink and pretty instead of black—just for you. What do you say?”
You couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not showing up to your gig, Buck.”
He smiled back, a little crooked. “Whatever you say, princess.”
You two stared at each other for a moment, neither pulling away. The Iron Maiden track and the sounds of the street began to die down; it was well past two a.m. in an empty parking lot, quiet and dark, leaving the two of you alone in that confined, tense space.
Bucky felt his heart hammering against his ribs. If he could freeze time, he would stop it right here. It was just the two of you—you sitting pretty in the passenger seat of his beat-up car, his favorite band faintly playing. It was perfect. All that was left to do was kiss you.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he mumbled so quietly it was more for himself than for you.
His face immediately burned when he saw the mischievous glint in your eye and the curl of your lips.
You leaned in closer, your lips barely brushing against his, teasing—taunting. “Am I?”
He shuddered. “The prettiest girl I have ever seen.”
You swiped your tongue across your bottom lip, making Bucky’s breath catch in his throat. Before he could react, you closed the remaining space between you and pressed your lips against his.
His body melted instantly at your touch, as if he’d been anticipating this very moment, and he let out a low groan as his fingers slid into the strands of your hair, his grip tightening just enough to hold you still against him as his lips explored yours hungrily.
You felt him push his tongue past your lips, exploring frantically, tasting you as much as he could—his body moving in a way that was filled with desperation, yet still savoring the moment. He kept kissing you until you were both out of breath. He pulled away, his hand still tangled in your hair, not wanting to let go. He sighed softly and pressed your forehead against his.
“Fuck, princess… I…” he breathed, pressing another messy kiss to your lips. “I’ve been waiting to kiss you all night.”
You huffed a breathless laugh. “I know you were. I could see it in your eyes the minute you picked me up.”
He gave your hips a gentle, yet possessive squeeze as his hands moved up your thighs and around your waist. “There are so many things I want to do to you,” he managed, swallowing hard. “And it fucking kills me knowing I can’t.”
“Do things like what?” you teased, your fingers tracing the pattern of his T-shirt across his chest.
His jaw went slightly slack. He watched your fingers graze his clothed chest, breathing hard. “Like… lift up this tiny skirt,” he muttered, his hand playing with the hem of your miniskirt, “push your panties to the side, and fuck you right here on my lap.”
A small, complacent smile tugged at your lips as you gave your hips a subtle roll, feeling the thick bulge of him against his jeans.
“Yeah?” you leaned closer, your lips brushing against his. “You want me to ride you? Right here, in your car?”
A deep groan rumbled from his chest as his hands shoved the hem of your skirt higher, his erection straining against his denim as he caught sight of your bare and supple thighs.
“Don’t push me, princess,” he muttered, his fingers slinking underneath your panties, gently grazing your mound. His thumb found your clit and rubbed, his fingers dipping a little deeper, and his eyes darkened once he felt how warm and wet you were.
You whimpered, your hips immediately bucking into his touch. Your heart hammered in your chest and your legs felt like jelly just from being so close. The way Bucky called you "princess" made you feel something no other man ever had. You had been called plenty of pet names before, but none of them ever came from the campus dirtbag, Bucky Barnes.
“Call me princess again,” you pleaded.
“Oh, baby,” he rasped, one hand sliding behind you, squeezing your ass through your panties and pulling you impossibly closer. “You’re a princess, my fucking princess. Fuck. I worship the ground you walk on, and I want to keep you all to myself. And you know that—you know you’re my pretty little princess, don’t you?”
You nodded, biting your lip.
Bucky smiled softly at you, but every word that left his mouth was filthy. “You’re such a dirty little girl, yet you still want to be called a princess?” His hands found yours and guided your fingers down to his belt. “If you’re such a princess, why don’t you go ahead and help me out, baby? Go on. Help me out of these pants.”
Your manicured nails clinked against the buckle of his belt as you worked to remove it and unbutton his pants. He lifted his hips slightly, strong enough to hold you up, and helped you pull his cock free from the confines of his denim. He was already hard, already slick and pulsing—begging for your attention.
You gasped softly at the sight. You cupped him in your hands and began to pump him slowly. His hips immediately jerked, his mouth hanging open as he savored the feel of your smooth hand against his warm cock.
It had only been a few weeks since you had last seen him bare and aching for you, but it felt excruciatingly long. You watched him, mesmerized by the way his brows furrowed and his eyes kept fluttering shut under your movements. You knew he missed you just as much as you missed him.
“Does that feel good, Bucky?” you leaned in, pressing your forehead against his.
He sighed. “So good, angel… don’t fucking stop.”
While your palm worked his dick, you slowly rocked your hips back and forth against him, rubbing your clothed pussy against his thigh and making the car shake. Bucky watched the provocative sight; the roll of your hips, the way your miniskirt rode up to your waist—now a sad excuse for a belt.
The sight alone was enough to make his cock throb in your hands.
You looked down at him, letting out soft sighs and moans to help him along. Your hand began pumping him faster and harder, the speed quickly overwhelming him. And as much as he loved the feeling of your soft hands and the sight of your pretty nail polish around his cock, he couldn’t fight his greed.
He couldn’t control the burning desire to be buried deep inside you.
“Fuck—baby,” he grunted, his hands clamping down hard on your hips suddenly. “Hold on.”
“Hold on?” you raised a mocking brow. “But you just told me not to—”
He mumbled something grumpily under his breath that you couldn’t catch, his hands coming roughly to the waistband of your panties and trying to push them down. But his movements were clumsy, urgent, and desperate—nearly tearing your expensive, lacy underwear in his grasp.
“Bucky, baby—wait! You’re going to rip them. They’re my favorite pair—”
He groaned as he tore angrily at your panties, ripping a hole right in the center to expose your wet slit. You let out a sharp gasp at the sudden roughness, but his frenzied need for you sent butterflies to your stomach and made your core clench with anticipation.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathed, though he didn’t sound sincere at all. His hand found the base of his shaft, already positioning the tip toward your wet entrance. “I’m sorry. You know I can’t help myself around you, pretty princess. Especially not when you’re right here…” his tip caught your entrance, slowly pushing in—testing you, “…sitting so pretty in my lap, just asking to be ruined.”
Your hands steadied on his shoulders, your hips instinctively pulling away, intimidated by the size you haven’t had in weeks. “Bucky…”
“Don’t shy away now, baby,” he grunted, guiding your hips down. He slowly sank you deeper onto him.
You tossed your head back, gripping his shoulders tighter as he guided you down onto his lap. Your walls were warm as they fluttered around him, clenching down as you took him in slowly but eagerly.
“Fuck, princess…” he moaned, eyes locking onto yours. “You remember how to take me?”
“Of course I do,” you said, trying to maintain confidence. You nuzzled into his neck, pressing a soft kiss. “How can I not after the way you fucked me in the bathroom—oh!”
Your words were cut off by a sharp moan as Bucky rutted his hips up, his cock completely sheathing inside you in one hard motion. You shook in his lap at the rough thrust, and Bucky’s arms immediately hooked behind you, wrapping you tight against his chest as your face remained snuggled in the crook of his neck.
“Fuuck,” he moaned into your hair. “That’s it, baby. You’re taking me so good, aren’t you?” another hard thrust up, but his arms held you steady against him so you wouldn’t jolt again. “I bet your pretty little pussy missed me so much, is that right?”
“Yes!” you moaned into his neck. “I missed you so much, Bucky—”
“Yeah? You missed me?” he groaned, one of his hands tangling into your hair.
You yelped as he gave your hair a harsh tug, pulling your face away from his neck so you were forced to look at him. He held you absolutely still as he continued rutting up into you, his cock fucking you hard and deep. His tight grip on your body immobilized you, forcing you to take every inch of his relentless thrusts.
“Tell me, baby. Tell me how much you missed me.”
“I missed you s-so… so much. God, I missed you so much, Bucky!” you moaned, your neck slightly arched as you looked down at him.
A low, seductive sound rumbled from his throat, and he smiled—a nearly sneering grin. “Goddamn, you’re so cute when you tell me that,” he growled as his hips continued to pound into you, setting the driver’s seat creaking and the whole car shaking.
“I missed you too, princess. I missed you so much—your body... the way it’s pressed against mine... fuck, I missed holding you close—” he rushed out, staring at you with lustful, hazy eyes. “Now, tell me how good I’m fucking you. Tell me how good I’m making you feel—how no one else can fuck you as good as I can.”
Despite being trapped in his arms, you rocked your hips in time with his thrust, desperate for more friction.
“You’re fucking m-me… so good, Bucky. Oh my god, don’t stop—!”
“Now, will you tell me how no one else can fuck you as good as I can?” His voice turned soft and pleading, yet every word felt rough and demanding. “Tell me that I’m the only one for you—that I belong to you and you belong to me. God, please. Will you make me the happiest boy and tell me that, princess? Please?”
Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as he pounded upward into you. You clung to his shoulders even tighter, your walls fluttering and clenching down on him as he only fucked you deeper; your chest pressed tightly against his with the force of his hold.
“I-I belong to you, Bucky. I only belong… to you!” you moaned, your voice pitching into a whine. “I’m yours, all yours—”
“Goddamn, you moan so pretty, baby,” he said softly.
A soft laugh left his lips as his thumb came up to wipe your tears, smearing your mascara and eyeliner. You felt his cock throb inside you at the sight—teary-eyed, mascara running, and eye makeup everywhere.
“Look at you, princess,” he breathed. His eyes were soft and admiring, but his thrusts were anything but. “You’re a crying little mess on my cock. And your makeup…” His fingers grazed beneath your eye, then gently pushed messy strands of hair away from your face. “You look so fucking beautiful like this. I want to keep you like this, a crying mess on my lap forever.”
Every sense was overwhelmed—the sharp scent of his cologne, his lustful, hungry gaze, the contrast of his gentle hands against his brutal thrusts, the soft sweetness of his voice delivering filthy words. You tightened around him, nearly coming undone.
Bucky groaned, driving another hard thrust as he felt you clench around him. “Fuck, baby, are you gonna cum?” his hands wandered back down, gripping your ass tight as he rutted into you. “Shit, princess. I’m gonna cum too—”
You couldn’t contain yourself. Tucking your head into the crook of his neck, you whined and moaned like a desperate slut as he drove you to release.
“Bucky!” you cried out his name, shaking and trembling in his lap as your climax hit you hard and fast. “I’m cumming—fuck—h-hold me—”
He cooed softly into your ear, his arms never losing their grip. “I’ve got you, baby. That’s it. Cum all over me, baby. Fuck—I’m gonna cum too—”
His words died in his throat as he tucked his face into your neck. Melting into one, you were impossibly close as he gave one final, hard rock of his hips upward, burying himself completely deep inside you. His cum filled you—warm and thick.
“My god, princess—you’re fucking... takin’ everything inside—shit...” he babbled, his hands wandering greedily and desperately all over you. Your waist, your thighs, your back, your hair. Everywhere.
Both of you were left panting in the driver’s seat, his body warm as he held you close. You kept your face buried in the comfort of his neck while he pressed soft kisses to your head. His arms now loosened their hold, his fingers grazing lazily—and lovingly—up and down your spine.
A soft smile curled at your lips. You loved this. You loved being nestled in his lap, held close after the nasty, filthy love he’d made to you. You loved the safety you felt in his arms—a feeling no one else could ever give you.
And in this moment, tangled up in each other’s grasp, you never wanted to leave.
“That was…” you panted, “really, really good—”
“Come to my show on Friday.”
“Bucky,” you pulled away slightly to meet his eyes, keeping your voice light with a soft, tired laugh. “I told you. I can’t—”
“Please,” he pleaded, his voice breathless. “There’s nothing that I want more than seeing my pretty girl in the crowd, cheering me on.”
You bit your lip, hesitant. When he looked at you like that, it made saying no feel impossible.
“Would your band even want someone like me in the crowd?” you asked quietly. “Your friends make fun of girls like me.”
He sat up straighter, as if sensing your slow agreement, and you nearly tumbled out of his lap before he held you still.
“Come on, think about it,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips. “How good I’d look with my arm around you. Everyone would be talking about us. The band would start getting recognized, and you—” he paused, his thumb brushing your waist—“you could finally stop pretending. Listen to whatever music you want. Do whatever the hell you want…”
Bucky kept talking, but the only words that stuck were “how cool I’d look with my arm around your shoulder,” “everyone talking about us,” “my band will start getting recognized.”
It hit you like a punch to the gut—the very fear you’d been trying to bury clawing its way back to the surface. He didn’t want you. He wanted what came with you. The attention. The status. The boost.
He wasn’t any different from John Walker—except this time, you had actually slept with him.
He kept rambling, excitement spilling from his mouth, but the words blurred together, meaningless. Without saying a thing, you slid off his lap, tugged your skirt back into place, and crawled over to the passenger seat.
Bucky blinked, his confusion clearly visible at your sudden withdrawal.
“Take me home,” you mumbled, trying to straighten your clothes back into place.
He frowned, reaching a hand toward you. “Hey—”
“I said take me home,” you bit back, your glare suddenly harsh. “I want to fucking go home.”
His brows rose at your sudden change in tone. “Did I say something—”
“I told you to take me home, Bucky!” you yelled—practically screamed—loud enough that it made him recoil in the driver’s seat. “I shouldn’t have asked you to pick me up, and we shouldn’t have done this.” You motioned a finger between the two of you. “I’m not going to your gig. A girl like me should never be caught with a loser like you, anyway.”
You had to turn back to face the window, because the hurt on Bucky’s face would have otherwise crumbled you to pieces. But you needed to put yourself first. You were tired of being an accessory for men.
“Jesus,” he mumbled, adjusting his seat and quickly putting the car into drive. “Fine. I’ll take you home.”
The drive home was silent. Bucky kept stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye, but you refused to look back—staring hard out the window, putting miles of distance between you even as you sat side by side.
It was obvious he had more to say, but the words never came.
It was Thursday afternoon.
Bucky hadn’t seen you since the moment he dropped you off. He kept replaying every second of that night in his head—the look on your face when you begged him to take you home, the crack in your voice when you called him a loser. He tried to go back to his usual routine, attempting to drown out every thought of you with band practices, loud drums, and hanging out with his bandmates.
But it was no use.
Tomorrow night, he had his gig. And you had your party.
Maybe that’s how things were supposed to be in the end. He was the dirtbag loser in his corner of loud music, instruments, and dark clothes. And you were the pretty princess on your throne, surrounded by mean girls and boys who only cared about their own backs.
Maybe this was exactly where the two of you belonged.
But as he walked into the student union to hang up a few last-minute posters for his gig, he saw you.
Same corner table. Same group of people. You were laughing as if nothing between you and Bucky had ever happened. John Walker was sitting right beside you, leaning close, whispering something in your ear that made you smile wider.
Bucky stopped in his tracks, the posters clutched in his hand. For a moment, he thought about walking over there—just to say something, anything. Even if it meant a public humiliation ritual in front of your posse. But the look on your face told him he didn’t belong to you anymore.
He crumbled the papers in his hands and turned the other way.
It was Thursday night, the night before his gig. He lay in bed, the screen lighting up his tired eyes. He typed and deleted the same messages over and over.
bucky: can we talk?
bucky: i’m sorry
bucky: i miss you
Then, he sucked in a breath and finally found the courage to send one.
bucky: you looked happy today.
He watched the screen, his heart beating loud in his chest. A few seconds later, the message was marked Read.
And then nothing.
No reply.
Just that tiny, mocking word at the bottom of the screen—reminding him that you’d seen it. That you were choosing silence.
Bucky leaned back against the wall, the screen of his phone fading to black. He’d written a dozen crappy songs about heartbreak before, but none of them had ever felt quite like this.
Like losing someone who was still right there, just out of reach.
It was Friday morning.
Bucky’s gig was later that night, and the campus was already bustling with energy for the football game. Across the square, he spotted you—surrounded by your friends, all dressed in pink and laughing. It was ridiculous how much they all took after you, trying to be you.
In his hand, he clutched a small pink gift bag. He had spent half the week working up the nerve to bring it to you, the other half designing what was inside—his band’s shirt, but re-imagined just for you. Soft pink cotton, delicate script instead of bold print, a design that looked more like something you’d actually wear.
You hadn’t spoken since that night. But he couldn’t let today go by without trying.
He crossed the quad, his worn Converse crunching over the gravel. Your friends noticed him first—a few stifled laughs, some whispered comments he tried hard to ignore. One of them even elbowed you just before he reached your group.
He stopped in front of you, the gift bag dangling awkwardly from his hand. “Hey,” he said quietly, his voice rough.
You blinked. “Hey,” you drawled awkwardly, acting as if he wasn’t speaking directly to you.
“I, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, then held the bag out toward you. “This is for you.”
Your friends exchanged looks, trying and failing to hide their amusement. One of them muttered something under her breath that made the others snicker, but Bucky didn’t care. His eyes stayed on you, earnest and pleading.
“I made it,” he said. “Thought you might like it.”
You stared at the pink tissue paper peeking out from the top of the bag, then back at him. He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, his hair a mess, his denim jacket slightly frayed at the cuffs. But he looked sincere.
With a nervous hand, you reached into the bag and pulled out the shirt. The hoops of the bag dangled on your arms as you spread the fabric wide.
Your eyes widened.
He had made you a shirt, just like he said he would.
“Bucky, I—”
Before you could finish, one of the girls spoke up behind you, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Aww, that’s so cute. He made you a band shirt?”
Laughter rippled through the group, but you weren’t laughing. Your eyes stayed on him.
“Civil War?” one of them scoffed. “Never heard of ’em.”
“They’re probably not that good.”
All their words sounded like a blur to you. You tuned them out completely, focusing only on Bucky, who was the only thing in front of you.
Every word those girls spoke hit him hard, but he tried to hide it. As if sensing your guilt, his jaw tightened. But he didn’t move.
“It’s fine,” he said under his breath, offering you a small, crooked smile that was supposed to be reassuring—it wasn’t. “I just... wanted to see you and tell you that I’m sorry.”
But before you could say anything else, Bucky gave you a small, dismissive nod and turned away. You watched him go, the gift bag still dangling uselessly from your wrist. His broad shoulders—slumped in defeat—disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the noise of the square.
And behind you, the girls were still laughing obnoxiously.
“Oh my god,” one of them giggled. “Did you see his jacket? Does he smoke or something? I swear, I smelled cigarettes.”
“And that shirt,” another snorted, gesturing at the one still clutched in your hands. “Did he print that in his mom’s basement or something?”
“Please,” someone added, “I can only imagine the kind of songs he wrote for you. That’s so creepy—”
You turned sharply, the sound of your heels cutting through their laughter.
“You done?” you asked, your voice calm in that terrifying, icy way that threw every single one of them off guard.
They exchanged awkward glances. “We were just—”
“No, really,” you interrupted, smiling sweetly. “Please, finish. I want to make sure I hear every single shallow, brainless thing that comes out of your bitchy mouths.”
One girl stammered. “E-excuse me—”
You took a step closer, the pink shirt still balled in your fist. “You sit here pretending you’re better than everyone because you wear pink and flirt with mediocre football players who can barely spell your names,” you sneered, almost laughing in their faces. “But in reality—all of you whores are a herd of sheep who just can’t seem to stop copying me and wanting to be me—”
One girl tried to laugh it off. “God, what’s your problem—”
“My problem?” you cut in, flashing a perfect, pristine smile. “My problem is that I’ve spent way too long pretending you’re all my friends when really, you’re just discount versions of me with worse hair and cheaper shoes.”
The group went silent.
You didn’t bother wasting another breath on them.
Instead, you turned on your heel and walked away, the sharp click of your heels echoing against the pavement as you disappeared into the crowd.
It was Friday night.
The air of Thunderbolt’s Bar, the kind of off-campus dive that always felt held together by duct tape and noise, was thick with the smell of sweat, stale beer, and cheap stage smoke. The crowd was better than usual—shoulder-to-shoulder, the low sounds of conversation punctuated by the clink of bottles and the occasional cheer from someone already half-drunk.
Backstage, Bucky sat on an old amp case, his knee bobbing—a nervous habit—as he twirled a drumstick in his hands.
Steve was pacing, hyped as always before a set. “Place is packed, man. It’s gonna be a good night.”
“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, glancing toward the heavy curtain that separated them from the crowd.
He stood, shoving his drumsticks into his back pockets. He wiped his palms on his jeans and peeked through a slit in the curtain for what had to be the tenth time. The front row was full—faces he recognized from campus, people holding drinks, heads bobbing to the warm-up playlist blasting from the speakers.
But not your face.
“Hey,” Sam called, tuning his guitar. “You good, Buck?”
Bucky forced a smile. “Peachy.”
But his stomach twisted as he looked out one last time. He’d imagined you there all week—standing in the crowd in that pink shirt he made for you, smiling at him like you used to. He had hoped, maybe, you’d show up after all.
Yet, after that night in his car, and after the poor choice of words he had strung together, why would you come to a dump like this for him?
You called him a loser. You told him that a girl like you should never be seen with a guy like him. You had stood there while your friends laughed at him.
And yet, deep down, Bucky knew you didn’t mean it. You couldn’t have.
What you two had—it was different. It wasn’t just some party fling or a drunken mistake. It was late-night drives at two in the morning, listening to Iron Maiden in his car and making love. It was greasy chili dogs. It was smudged eyeliner and band shirts.
He wouldn’t call it love. He wasn’t stupid. Love was too heavy, too final a word for what you two shared. But he cared for you—God, he cared for you so bad it hurt. It sat heavy in his ribs, an ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how big the status quo was or how hard he played he played his drums.
And he knew you cared for him too, even if you tried to hide it behind the perfect hair, the designer purses, and the flawless smile you put on for everyone else. He’d seen you without all of that—barefaced, soft, and real. The kind of real that made him forget to breathe.
He cared for you so much that maybe it was love.
He just didn’t know what to do with it anymore.
“Barnes,” Nat called, slipping her bass strap over her shoulder. “We’re on. You ready?”
Bucky forced a nod, his chest tight. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The stage lights dimmed, and the peaceful hum of the crowd turned into eager whispers. He followed Nat and Steve through the side curtain, the heat of the stage lights hitting him hard. The noise was instant—cheers, laughter, clinking bottles, the pulse of bass-heavy music vibrating through the bar’s floorboards.
Steve was the first to step up to the mic, flashing his trademark grin. “Alright, you beautiful people,” he called out, his voice amplified through the speakers. “We’re Civil War, and we’re about to make your Friday night a hell of a lot louder!”
The crowd erupted. Steve was a great lead; he always knew how to hype them up.
Bucky settled onto his seat behind the drums, his heart thudding in his chest. His fingers tightened around his sticks, the familiar feel of the wood trying to calm him. He looked up, scanning the sea of faces under the flashing pink and blue lights—people pressed against the stage, heads bobbing, phones raised.
He wasn’t looking for fans. He was looking for you.
He knew you wouldn’t come. You said you wouldn’t. He told himself he didn’t care. But the ache in his chest betrayed him, growing sharper with every passing second he couldn’t find you.
As Steve started strumming the opening riff, the sound Bucky had complained about all week, his gaze swept over the crowd. A sea of faces blurred together; sweatshirts, hats, flashing phones—none of them were you.
Until he saw pink.
There, near the middle of the crowd.
You stood out like you always did—soft, glowing, completely out of place and yet exactly where you should have been. You were wearing his shirt, the one he’d made just for you, the one your friends had laughed at. The pink fabric stood out sharply against the black sea of band tees and denim jackets, and somehow, you made it look like the most beautiful thing in the room.
And for the first time in days, everything felt right again.
Your eyes met his across the stage. A slow, knowing smile spread across your face. And from there on, Bucky knew what this was.
This was love.
You mouthed two words that hit him harder than he had hit any drum.
“Hey, loser.”
THANK YOU FOR READING!! i didn't anticipate this fic to be any more than 7k+ words but unfortunately i can't stop yapping.
but anyway. i hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!!!! <333 it means a lot to me.
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Idk if I can, but I saw u were working on a fic and I was wondering if I can request headcanons for tyriq? Like fluffy ones for tyriq or any character
Tyriq as a girl!dad | fluffy hcs ୨ৎ
Girl!dad tyriq who swore he wouldn’t cry in the delivery room, but the second your guys's daughter wrapped her little fingers around his, he was gone.
Girl!dad tyriq who brings her to red carpets sometimes, holding her tiny hand like she’s the star of the show. He loves showing her off to everyone "that’s my babygirl. my favorite little human"
Girl!dad tyriq who even when he has early shoots, he still tries to make breakfast with her sitting on the counter — both of them in matching aprons that say "chef ty & mini me"
Girl!dad tyriq who if she so much as hums a song or colors inside the lines, he’s cheering like she just won an award.
Girl!dad tyriq who helps your guys's daughter make countdown calendars and video messages for him when he's gone. He always facetimes before bed, no matter the timezone, and does the same silly handshake they made up before he leaves.
Girl!dad tyriq who every once in a while, sneaks her laugh or voice into his projects. A tiny background giggle in a scene or her drawing framed in a set.
Girl!dad tyriq who makes sure no bedtime story is ever boring. He changes voices, accents, and even stands up to act out scenes.
Girl!dad tyriq who is constantly snapping polaroids and little videos of her.
Girl!dad tyriq who keeps drawings she makes for him taped inside his trailer, says they’re his "lucky charms"
Girl!dad tyriq who is the kind of dad who lets your guys's daughter paint his nails and style his outfit before events and proudly keeps it that way all day.
26 Things: 4-part series about Spencer Reid helping Fem!Reader check off everything on her bucket list - even the explicit things
Smut & Fluff Oneshots
Uncovered: You have to go undercover as a stripper. Spencer is a little too impressed by your pole dance skills.
Escort: Spencer was supposed to meet an escort in a bar. When you start flirting with him, he’s completely unaware that you're not the woman he hired.
A Lesson in Faking it: An evening of fake dating leads to a night of revealing true feelings
Send Nudes: Chaos ensues after you accidentally send Spencer a nude pic of yourself
Drunk on You: Spencer is completely and utterly infatuated with you
Over the Edge: Spencer is desperate for you to take care of him
Swept off your Feet: Spencer gives Fem!Reader a foot massage and discovers something very interesting about himself
Afternoon Delight: Fem!Reader didn't have sleep in mind when she asked Spencer to take a nap with her
Elixir: Studies suggest that orgasms help relieve pain. Fem!Reader tests that theory when Spencer has a headache
Snow Angel: Fem!Reader really knows how to get Spencer in a festive mood
Prom Night: After everyone shared their sad (or non-existent) prom stories, Penelope decided to host a BAU Prom Night, giving Spencer the perfect excuse to finally ask Fem!Reader out.
Stress Relief: When Fem!Reader complains about back pain, Spencer offers a massage. Things escalate.
Nude Beach: Fem!Reader finally convinces Spencer to go to the beach with her. Turns out it's a nude beach.
Slippery Slope: Spencer slips in the shower, his roommate comes to the rescue
Only Yours: After getting jealous at work Spencer Reid reminds Fem!Reader who she belong to
Lavender & Lace: Spencer didn't know how much fun going shopping with his girlfriend would be
Temptation: Your new skirt is too tempting for Spencer to resist
Novelty: Spencer guides Fem!Reader through a night full of firsts
Play Time: Spencer is curious about a very interesting toy Fem!Reader ordered
Stripped Bare: After a mishap at work Spencer and Fem!Reader end up in the shower together - things get heated
Careful Whisper: It's very hard to keep quiet when Spencer visits you in your hotel room at night
Lipstick Stains: The shade of your new lipstick is too much for Spencer to handle
Call Me: Spencer discovers new ways to feel close to his girlfriend while working on a case
Sunday Morning: Spencer really enjoys Sunday mornings with his girlfriend
Christmas Spirit: Spencer and his girlfriend are in a festive mood
Honeymoon: Spencer and his wife are excited about their future (and their honeymoon)
Keeping You Warm: Spencer and his girlfriend find the best way to warm up after enjoying the first snow in the backyard of their new house
Lucky Number: When Spencer and his girlfriend run into Elle years after she left the FBI, they quickly realize that there's an undeniable tension between them that begs to be released
Moving Day: Moving is stressful but Spencer finds the best way to unwind together with Fem!Reader
Daring & Decent: After getting teased about his girlfriend’s profession, Spencer feels insecure and needs her to show him that he is everything she needs
Movie Night: Spencer didn’t know that having a movie night was a synonym for having a make-out session with Fem!Reader but he sure didn’t mind
Beach Day: Spencer hates going to the beach but can't get enough of seeing Fem!Reader in a swimsuit
A Remedy for Rivalry: Spencer decides to put his rival in her place after she got cocky about her academic achievements
Summer in the City: Having a roommate who decided it was too hot to wear clothes suddenly made the heatwave much more tolerable for Spencer
Ever Expanding: Spencer and his wife decide it's time to expand their family
Behind Closed Doors: It feels like time stands still when Fem!Reader is inside Spencer’s arms, until someone comes to remind them about the world outside of his apartment
Bound Together: Spencer Reid has a very pleasant surprise for Fem!Reader
Teaching & Teasing: While being stuck in a room with Fem!Reader, Spencer Reid is eager to learn everything she is willing to teach him
(Don't) Wake Me: When Spencer Reid learns that he shares a kink with Fem!Reader, he finds a special way to wake her
Preciously Pure: Things seem to change between Spencer Reid and Fem!Reader once she mentions her innocence
Closer: When Spencer Reid comes home after being gone for too long he and Fem!Reader can’t wait to feel each other as close as possible
Second Time’s a Charm: Back in college Spencer Reid and Fem!Reader left many things unsaid. Years later they give it another try.
In Full Bloom: A random interaction between Spencer Reid and Fem!Reader leads to weeks of longing and yearning until they decide they have spent enough time being strangers
Nice & Naughty: Fem!Reader has been a very good girl this year which is why Spencer Reid spoils her in every way he knows on Christmas Eve
Heart On My Sleeve: Spencer Reid is entranced by the look of Fem!Reader wearing the sweater he knit as a Christmas present
Washed Away: Spencer Reid knows exactly how to help Fem!Reader unwind after a stressful day
Smut & Angst Oneshots:
Warm Embrace: Spencer and his wife find ways to be intimate with each other after a traumatic event
Damaged Goods: The belief that they were both undeserving of love led Spencer and Fem!Reader into each other's arms. If they can’t find love, they can at least soothe their need for physical affection, right?
Duet: Letting the love of his life get away was Spencer’s biggest regret, so he decides to go after her
Purple Dress: Spencer Reid and Fem!Reader have a friends-with-benefits agreement. When he tries to end it, she puts on an alluring purple dress to seduce him.
𝜗𝜚 ━ summary: during your christmas trip to NYC, you have a surprise waiting for paige back at the hotel.
𝜗𝜚 ━ word count: 4.9K
𝜗𝜚 ━ warnings: sexual content (munch p, scissoring)
𝜗𝜚 ━ links: my masterlist
𝜗𝜚 ━ author’s note: my christmas eve gift to y’all …. it was almost taken away tho because of that usc game ask the gc man i was crashing out
THE CITY is buzzing even at this hour, cold wind cutting through the streets as Paige makes her way back to the hotel. She tugs her coat tighter around herself, her hands jammed into her pockets to ward off the sting of the December chill. New York City is magical this time of year, but it’s also freezing, and she can’t wait to get back to the suite, where it’s warm—and more importantly, where you are.
This trip has been a mix of business and pleasure. She had a couple of sponsorship obligations to knock out and a media appearance scheduled for tomorrow, but mostly, it’s just an excuse to spend a few uninterrupted days with you. Both of your schedules have been so hectic lately—hers with the grind of off-season and the stress of Unrivaled about to start, and yours with work—and carving out this time feels like a luxury. It’s the last weekend before Christmas, and since you’re both gonna be spending the holiday with your families together, this is your time to celebrate just the two of you.
Paige hurries into the hotel, rubbing her hands together as she steps into the elevator. She flexes her fingers, still stiff from gripping a basketball for hours during her workout with Stewie and Sabrina. She promised you that she wouldn’t let it run late, and, as she glances at her phone to see the time, she’s satisfied that she fulfilled it.
Her sneakers hit the polished floor with soft thuds as she unlocks the door to the suite. The space is lavish, the kind of indulgence she spent because one, it’s the holidays, and two, she wanted this weekend to be perfect for the two of you. The warmth of the suite embraces her immediately, the city’s chill feeling miles away here. She shrugs off her coat, tossing it over the couch, and kicks off her sneakers.
“Baby, I’m back!” she calls, her voice echoing faintly in the spacious suite. When she came in, she assumed that you’d be in the living room, curled up on the couch with a blanket and whatever Netflix show you’ve been binge-watching. But the living room is empty, the TV off.
Her brows furrow as she looks around, scanning for signs of you. “You in the bedroom?” she calls out, though there’s still no answer. Her pulse picks up, not in worry, but in curiosity. She hums, wondering where you’re hiding.
The hallway feels quiet as she moves down it, pushing open the door to the bedroom. The sight that greets her makes her stop dead in her tracks, feet planted in the doorway.
The lights are dim, the warm glow casting a soft, golden hue across the room. A bottle of wine sits on the nightstand, one glass already poured and in your hand. But it’s you that holds her attention, that makes her brain short-circuit entirely.
You’re sprawled out on the bed, leaning back against the pillows with a smirk that could stop traffic. And you’re wearing—Paige feels her throat go dry—this tiny, ridiculously sexy Christmas lingerie set. The red satin clings to you in all the right places, barely covering what it’s meant to, and the white fur trim is so playful, so sinful, she doesn’t know whether to laugh or groan. The ribbon on the front of your bra is tied in a neat little bow, teasingly undone just enough to look like you’d barely bothered. The matching panties sit high on your hips, connected to sheer thigh-high stockings by the tiniest garters she’s ever seen.
She doesn’t even realize she’s standing completely still until you grin at her, your voice playful and sweet as you say, “Hi, baby.”
Paige blinks, her brain struggling to catch up as she stares at you. Her heart is pounding, adrenaline giving way to something much more visceral. The way you’re looking at her, the way the light catches the curve of your body—it’s like she’s seeing you for the first time all over again. She lets out a low, shaky breath, her hand running through her hair as her eyes continue to rove over your figure. Her stomach constricts, her whole body coiled so tight she’s not sure if she wants to drop to her knees or throw herself at you. Maybe both.
“Fuck, ma,” she finally manages, her voice low and husky as she steps forward. Her hands flex instinctively, wanting to touch you, needing to touch you. “You tryna kill me?”
You giggle, the sound light and sweet, but the glint in your eyes is anything but innocent. “No,” you say, tilting your head slightly as you take a slow sip from your wine glass. Your smirk widens, and Paige swears her knees almost buckle.
She exhales sharply, inching closer to the bed. “You look…” Her voice trails off, her gaze roaming over you like she’s trying to memorize every inch of your body. “Jesus, baby, you look insane.”
You’re still grinning as she reaches the edge of the bed, her hands resting on the mattress as she leans down slightly, bringing her face level with yours. Her pulse races, her body buzzing with anticipation as her eyes lock with yours. “You did this for me?” she asks softly, though she already knows the answer.
“Who else?” you ask, grinning, your voice a teasing lilt that makes Paige’s chest tighten. You set your wine glass down on the nightstand, your eyes never leaving hers.
Paige is already leaning forward, her hands sliding to your thighs, the warmth of your skin and the delicate fabric of your lingerie making her head spin. “You’re gon’ be the death of me,” she murmurs, shaking her head a little as her lips brush against yours lightly, hands tightening on your legs. And God, if this is how she goes, she’ll thank you for it.
Her lips finally lock onto yours, slow at first, like she’s savoring the moment. The kiss is soft, tender, but there’s an edge to it—like she’s holding herself back, barely. Her hands tighten on your thighs, sliding higher, the heat of your skin burning through the thin satin, and she swears she feels you shiver beneath her touch.
You kiss her back, your arms looping around her neck to pull her closer, and that’s all the invitation Paige needs. She shifts, climbing onto the bed, her knees sinking into the mattress as she presses herself against you. The warmth of your body sends a rush of heat through her, and she deepens the kiss, her tongue brushing against yours as she loses herself in the taste of you.
“You’re fuckin’ unreal,” she murmurs against your mouth, her voice barely above a whisper but heavy with meaning. Her lips leave yours only to trail down your jaw, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.
Her hands roam as her mouth works. One slides up to cup the back of your neck, her thumb brushing over your jaw to tilt your head just the way she likes. The other settles firmly on your hip, her grip strong enough to keep you exactly where she wants you, though her fingers twitch like she’s desperate to touch you everywhere at once.
The scent of you—the faint lotion you always wear, mixed with the wine you’ve been drinking—fills her senses, and Paige feels drunk on it, drunk on you. Her lips find the sensitive spot just below your ear, and when she hears the soft, breathy sound you make in response, it sends a jolt of electricity straight through her.
“Damn,” she mutters, her teeth grazing your skin lightly before she soothes the spot with her tongue.
Your hands tug at the hem of her long-sleeve shirt, and she sits back just enough to let you pull it over her head. You toss it somewhere behind her, leaving her in her sports bra. Her abs flex slightly in the cool air, but the way your eyes roam over her makes her feel anything but cold. She watches you, her chest heaving, her pupils blown wide as you reach out to touch her, your hands sliding over her shoulders and down her torso, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
And then she’s diving back in, her kisses lower now, lips finding the delicate line of your collarbone, pressing open-mouthed kisses there like she’s starving for you—which, she is. Her tongue darts out to taste your skin, her teeth scraping against you enough to leave you shivering. She feels your fingers tangle in her hair, undoing her ponytail as you pull her closer. Her breath quickens slightly, chest heaving with just how much she wants you.
Her fingers find the ribbon on your bra, tugging at it gently as her lips brush over the swell of your cleavage. “This,” she mutters, her voice muffled against your skin, “is fucking killin’ me.” She pulls back just enough to look at you, her thumb brushing over the satin. “You tied it so pretty for me, huh? Knowing I’d lose my damn mind?”
You laugh softly, breathily, fingers tangling further in her hair. “Maybe.”
“Slut,” Paige mutters, grinning as she tugs the bow loose with one sharp pull, letting the fabric fall open, your perky tits popping out of it. Her breath catches as she sees you fully now, blue eyes darkening with something heavy, something primal.
“Goddamn, mama,” she breathes, her hands sliding along your sides, thumbs brushing over your ribs. She leans down again, her lips brushing against the curve of your breast. “You’re so beautiful, so sexy, so perfect, baby. It ain’t even fair.”
And then her mouth closes around your nipple, her tongue swirling over the sensitive skin as she sucks gently, and the sound you make in response sends a jolt straight through her. She groans softly, her free hand sliding up to cup your other breast. She alternates between kisses and soft bites, her lips tugging gently at your nipple before soothing the spot with her tongue. Her breath is hot against your skin, and she presses closer, hips grinding against yours just a little as her mouth moves.
“Such perfect tits,” she murmurs against your cleavage, her teeth grazing you again as she switches to your other breast.
She licks a slow, careful path across your skin, savoring every inch of you as she begins to lower once more. Her mouth leaves a wet trail down your stomach, her tongue occasionally flicking out to taste the faint salt on your skin. Her hands slide down from your chest, settling on your waist. She grips the skin hard, pinching slightly. Her lips brush over the curve of your belly, then down to the soft plane just above your hips, like she’s mapping every part of you with her tongue.
She pauses for a moment, just long enough to lift her head and admire the way the red lace hugs your skin. The fabric is delicate, so inviting, it’s like it was made to drive her insane. The sheer material leaves almost nothing to her imagination, and the sight of it—of you and your perfect pussy—sends a rush of wetness to her own core.
She just shakes her head a little, as if in disbelief, before lowering again, her lips grazing the edge of the lace as her fingers grip your hips tighter. She can feel the heat radiating from you, the way your body tenses slightly beneath her, the way you say her name, and it makes her head spin.
Her tongue flicks out, tracing the edge of the fabric, teasing. She presses a kiss just below your navel, then another, breath warm. “You got any idea what you’re doin’ to me, baby?” she asks slowly.
You don’t even get the opportunity to answer before her teeth catch the edge of your panties lightly, tugging just enough to make you gasp. And then she lets it snap back into place with a soft, playful grin. She glances up at you, eyes dark and blazing, blonde hair falling into her face as she leans closer again. The way you look back at her—pupils wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed—spurs her on.
Her lips hover just above the lace, and she kisses you there, slow and careful, her mouth pressing over the thin barrier like she can’t stand not to be closer. “So pretty,” she murmurs against you, her fingers brushing over the lace now, testing the material as her tongue flicks out once more, tasting you even through the fabric.
Her big hands slide from your waist to your thighs, spreading them just enough to give her room to work. Her teeth catch the edge of the waistband, tugging gently, and she groans low in her throat as the fabric gives way slightly under her pull.
“Fuck,” Paige mutters, and it’s muffled as she grips the lace between her teeth. She pauses just long enough for you to whimper, “Paige,” before she tugs again, this time pulling the panties down your hips with deliberate slowness.
She moves inch by inch, her teeth grading the lace lower, and she’s completely transfixed. The garters make her work for it, the straps pulling taut against the tension, but she doesn’t mind—if anything, it drives her wilder. Her lips slide along your skin as she works, kissing the sensitive spots where the panties leave a faint imprint.
As she reaches your thighs, Paige shifts, letting the fabric slide past her lips and catching it with her fingers instead. She tugs it the rest of the way down with her teeth again, dragging it along the curve of your legs, her mouth brushing your inner thighs as she goes.
When the panties finally slip off completely, Paige lets them drop from her teeth to the floor, her breath shallow as she grips your thighs, holding them apart. Her eyes rake over every inch of you—the way your face has gone bright pink in a flush, the way your tits peek from the opened lingerie top, the way your cunt is absolutely glistening for her.
She licks her lips slowly, the corner of her mouth curving into a smirk as her gaze flicks back up to your face. “Shit, mama,” she says lowly. “Look at you. Fuckin’ dripping for me.”
Paige doesn’t waste any more time. She slides down on her elbows, lowering herself between your legs, her mouth attaching to your clit with an intensity that makes you cry out. She sucks and licks with fervor, her tongue working you over with a skill that leaves both of your lungs aching, Paige’s face buried so deep in your folds she has to fight for air. The sensation is overwhelming, a delicious mix of pleasure and desperation that has you writhing beneath her, hips bucking.
“Babe… mmm, shit,” you whimper, voice trembling as you reach down to grasp at the sheets, knuckles white with the effort to hold on. You can barely keep your eyes open, pleasure so intense it’s nearly blinding. “Please, fuck, don’t stop.”
Paige has no intentions of stopping. She moans softly against your pussy, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you in place firmly as she devours you like a woman starved. Her tongue moves expertly, flicking and swirling across your clit before laying it flat, shaking her head from side to side messily, driving you closer and closer to the edge.
“Fuck, ma, you taste so good,” Paige groans, pulling away just long enough to let a glob of her spit land on your cunt. She leans back in, lapping it up, eyes rolling into the back of her head. “Could eat you out all night, baby…”
Your back arches off the bed at Paige’s words, causing the lingerie top to slide down your shoulders a little more. Your hips buck involuntarily as you chase the pleasure Paige gives you, one of your hands coming up to knead your own tit, mouth dropping open at the way Paige’s tongue slides along your wetness effortlessly. You’re desperate, every nerve ending in your body tingling with need. “Paige, baby, ‘M so close,” you choke out.
Paige only intensifies her efforts, her tongue flicking against your clit faster, her mouth working you over with an urgency that has you teetering on the edge. She’s relentless, giving you exactly what you need, pushing you closer and closer until you’re trembling, your thighs quivering around her head.
Just when you think you can’t take anymore, Paige pulls back slightly, her mouth leaving your clit. You let out a desperate whine at the loss, body screaming for more, but Paige is already moving. She slides two fingers inside you without warning, thrusting them in deep, hard, and fast. The sudden intrusion makes you gasp, hands flying to Paige’s shoulders as you cling to her, body trembling with the force of Paige’s thrusts.
“Mmm, mama,” the blonde breathes out lowly as she pumps her fingers into your cunt with a brutal pace, the slick sound of her digits moving in and out echoing in the otherwise quiet hotel room. “So fucking tight, so wet for me. Shit, baby.”
She glances up, gaze on you as your head falls back against the pillows, your eyes squeezing shut as you let out a strangled moan, hips moving to meet Paige’s thrusts. She feels a rush of wetness flood her own boxers and picks up the pace even more, the pleasure becoming overwhelming for you, a white-hot fire that consumes you from the inside you. “Paige, oh my God… holy shit…”
Paige leans in close, biting lightly at your inner thigh as she whispers, “Think you can take three, baby?”
She watches as your eyes fly open at the question, brows furrowing as you nod frantically. “Yes. Yeah, do it,” you force out breathlessly. “Please, P.”
Paige smirks at your reaction, but doesn’t need to be told twice. She pulls her fingers out briefly, adding a third finger before thrusting back inside, her movements deliberate and rough, stretching you out. Your hips buck up to meet Paige hand, chasing the pleasure. Paige scissors her fingers inside you, making you choke a little on your own whimper, nails digging into her skin, gripping the strap of her sports bra.
“Such a—God, you’re such a fuckin’ slut,” Paige groans, eyes locked onto your face, watching every single expression of pleasure that crosses your features. “Wearing that lingerie, knowing I’d lose my goddamn mind. Shit.”
Your entire body is one fire, senses overwhelmed by the combination of the relentless pace of Paige’s thrusts and the dirtiness that coats her words. You can feel every inch of Paige’s fingers inside you, can feel the way they stretch you, the way they hit that perfect spongy spot deep inside that makes you see stars. “Baby, you’re gonna make me cum. God, I’m—” You cut yourself off with a loud moan.
Paige leans forward, her mouth finding your clit again, tongue swirling slick circles over the sensitive nub as she continues to thrust her long fingers in and out, faster and harder, pushing you to the brink. “Shit, ma, do it,” she urges roughly, humming against you as she laps at your pussy. “Cum for me. Cum all fucking over me, mama.”
That’s all you need to hear. With a strangled cry, your entire body tenses, back arching off the bed as you come hard, walls clenching around Paige’s fingers, gushing against her face. The pleasure is blinding, overwhelming, and you can’t do anything but ride it out, body trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over you.
Paige keeps thrusting her fingers, lapping at your wetness lazily, riding out your orgasm with you. She prolongs the pleasure until you’re nothing but a quivering, panting mess beneath her. When your body finally goes limp, Paige slowly withdraws her fingers, leaning down to press a kiss to your trembling thighs.
And then she starts crawling back up your body, her lips trailing over the lingering marks she’d left along her descent. Your eyes meet, a shared intensity overtaking the laziness you were just feeling, Paige’s lips finding you’re once more in a searing, desperate kiss. It’s messy and heated, tongues tangling, hands grasping and pulling at each other. You can taste yourself on Paige’s lips and it only makes you kiss her harder.
You let Paige flip your positions with her strength, your thighs now straddling Paige’s waist. She groans a little against your mouth as her hands find your bare ass, fingers digging into the skin and kneading it, your bodies pressing together.
“Ma,” Paige breathes out when you pull away slightly, sliding her sports bra up and over her head. Her hands reach down for her sweatpants and you help her yank them—and her boxers beneath—down in one swift motion. Paige’s hips lift off the bed, and the two of you finally rid of the barrier. You toss the clothing aside without a second thought.
Paige’s lips curl into a smirk as her eyes lock with yours again, pulling you closer with her hands on your ass, bodies flush against each other. “C’mon,” she murmurs thickly.
Your breath hitches at the feel of Paige’s hands on your hips, guiding you to align your cunts together. The sensation is sinful, and you can’t suppress the moan that escapes your lips as you feel the heat and slickness of Paige’s wetness against your own.
“That’s it, mama,” the blonde encourages, sending a shiver down your spine. “Ride me, grind on me. Lemme feel you.”
You don’t need to be told twice. You start moving your hips in slow, careful circles, your slick pussy sliding against Paige’s with every movement. The sensation is overwhelming, and your head falls back as you let yourself get lost in the pleasure, hands gripping Paige’s shoulders for support.
Paige’s eyes are glued to you, tracking every move, every expression. She’s mesmerized by the way your face contorts with pleasure, your mouth falling open slightly as your hips move with increasing urgency. Paige’s hands tighten on your hips, helping to guide your movements, pushing you down harder against her own aching cunt.
“Shit,” Paige groans, blue eyes flitting between your flushed face, the way your tits bounce slightly with every thrust of your hips, and where your pussy grinds against hers. “You look so fuckin’ hot riding me like this.”
You whimper at Paige’s words, pace quickening as the heat between you builds to an almost unbearable level. The friction of your clits rubbing together is enough to make you lose control, unable to hold back the desperate sounds that escape your lips.
“You like that, baby?” Paige rasps, voice dripping with lust as she watches you lose yourself in the pleasure. “You like grinding that pretty pussy against me, yeah?”
Your only response is a choked moan, body trembling as you lean forward, hands sliding up to grip the headboard for support. The new angle allows you to press down even harder against Paige, and it sends shockwaves through both of your bodies.
Paige’s eyes roll back in her head at the increased pressure, her own hips bucking up to meet the roll of yours. She’s completely entranced by the sight of you riding her, chest heaving as she helps you, gripping your ass and pulling you quicker against her.
“Feels so fucking good,” she groans roughly.
You whimper at her words, body moving faster, more desperate, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter. You’re both so close, bodies trembling with the effort to keep going, to chase the high that you both desperately need.
“Paige,” you gasp, breathless and needy. “I’m almost there.”
Paige’s grip on your ass tightens, fingers digging into your flesh as she urges you on. “That’s it,” she encourages, your folds so slick against hers. “Cum for me again. Need it right fuckin’ now.”
You cry out, your entire body tensing as you reach your peak, hips grinding down hard against Paige as you finish with a shuddering moan. The pleasure washes over you in waves, leaving you trembling and breathless as you ride out your orgasm.
Paige isn’t far behind, the sight of you coming undone above her enough to push her over the edge. Her own orgasm hits her hard, her hips jerking up as she lets out a low, guttural moan, her fingers digging into your ass and hips as she rides it out.
You collapse onto her, your body melting into hers, every muscle in you soft and spent. Her skin is warm beneath yours, slick with the same thin sheen of sweat that glistens on your back. Paige’s chest rises and falls erratically under your cheek, her breath heavy and labored, matching your own. The steady rhythm of her heartbeat pounds faintly against your ear, grounding you.
Her arms come around you almost instinctively, wrapping you in a hold that’s firm yet gentle, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other lazily circling between your shoulder blades. Her fingers drag lightly over your skin, soothing and possessive at once, as though she’s trying to memorize every inch of you. She shifts slightly beneath you, her body fitting against yours with an intimacy that feels effortless, as though this is where you’re meant to be.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside and the soft, uneven breaths you’re both still trying to catch. Paige’s head tilts back against the pillows, her eyes fluttering shut as she lets the tension drain from her body, your weight on top of her a comfort she never realized she needed so much.
And then, with a low, raspy chuckle that vibrates through her chest, Paige breaks the silence. “Damn.”
The single word, said with so much raw awe and disbelief, makes you laugh. The sound is quiet, breathy, but it shakes through you, your shoulders trembling lightly against her. Paige feels the warmth of your laugh against her neck, and a lazy smile spreads across her face, her lips curving up in a way that makes her look soft, completely undone.
Her hand moves from your back, trailing slowly upward, the tips of her fingers grazing your spine before they find your jaw. She cradles it gently, guiding your face upward so your eyes meet hers. There’s something so special in the way she looks at you—like you’re the only thing that exists in her world right now. Her thumb brushes over your cheek, and then she’s leaning in, her lips finding yours in a kiss that’s slow and lingering, deep and unhurried.
She hums softly into it, the sound vibrating against your mouth, and when she pulls back just enough to speak, her voice is low and rough. “Did so perfect for me,” she murmurs, her eyes scanning your face as if committing it to memory.
Your lips curve into a small, sleepy smile, and you let your head rest against her shoulder once more. “I love you,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure.
Paige’s arms tighten around you in response, her fingers brushing lightly over the curve of your shoulder. She doesn’t say it back immediately, but the way she holds you—the way her lips press a gentle kiss to your temple—says it louder than words ever could.
The two of you stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the weight of the moment settling around you like a warm, comforting blanket. Paige’s breathing steadies, her chest rising and falling beneath you in a rhythm that feels calming, almost hypnotic. When she finally moves, it’s only to reach for the nightstand, her fingers curling around the bottle of wine that’s been sitting there, untouched until now.
She pours herself a glass first, then grabs yours, her hand steady as she offers it. “Here,” she says softly, her voice still husky.
You take the glass from her with a small smile, your fingers brushing hers, and Paige feels that familiar spark, that electric current that always seems to buzz between you. She watches you as you take a sip, the way your lips curl around the rim of the glass, the way your eyes meet hers over the edge of it.
After a few minutes, Paige sets her empty glass aside and leans over the edge of the bed, her hand brushing against the discarded lingerie top. She picks it up, holding it up in the dim light, letting it dangle from her fingers as she turns back to you with a lazy grin. “This,” she says, her tone playful but still thick with awe, “was crazy.”
You smile at her, wide and teasing, your head tilting slightly as you reply, “You loved it.”
Paige laughs softly, shaking her head as she leans down to kiss you again, her lips lingering against yours as she murmurs, “Course I did.” Her voice is warm, sincere, and when she pulls back, the grin on her face is so full of love it makes your chest tighten.
The two of you settle back into the bed, the wine forgotten on the nightstand as Paige tucks you against her side, her arm draped over your waist. The city hums softly in the background, but all Paige can hear is the quiet sound of your breathing, the steady rhythm of your heart against hers. And in this moment, with you curled against her, Paige thinks there’s nowhere else in the world she’d rather be.
hiiii i recently watched kanthony (the so called bridgerton show or whatever) and was wondering if u have any fic recs... 👉👈🤭
okay i litchrally have never compiled a list bc i have read too many to keep them organized. but ill do it. Finally. for YOU.
first. my fav period setting fics <33:
tete a tete by caciopepebowl (14k~) this is REQUIRED reading to ME. its a quick read that explores kate and anthonys roles in their family. with an emphasis on KATE specifically bc of the additional hurdles of being a woman with limited funds. and anthony losing his mind on her behalf while shes breaking his heart by being like "the way i was treated was normal?? you dont know anything" and hes like "what? kate you deserved everything. you deserve ALL the love in the world!!" and shes all ">:( well if i do. you do too." . and hes like "oh. well...no. you see.. bc i suck" and shes like -_-. its really sweeeeeet and lovely <3) and really finally gave me the exploring of kates family issues that THE SHOW DID NOT!!!
the longest betrothal by caciopepebowl. (90k~) my FAVVVVV regency setting fic. its sooo good. its basically a continuation that fills in the gap AFTER they get engaged but BEFORE theyre married. and them trying SO hard to be normal about how in love they are lol. SO funny and sweet. and with IMMACULATE characterization
in vino veritas by wagamiller. (~10k) a one shot about kate going to a ladies society event and coming home drunk to anthony and him being soooo smitten with her. sauuuur cute. ive read this like 4 times <3 its soooo good
for reasons wretched and divine by penny_loaf. (~18k. locked fic. need an account.) basically kate and anthony get stuck in a time loop on that first day edwina is receiving suiters. they both think theyre alone in the loop and its depressing until they realize the other is stuck with them too. they try to break the loop and fail repeatedly. after a while they just give up and start fucking bc theres no consequences so who cares LOL. surprisingly tender and sweet
the harsh light of day by burnerraccount. (~22k. locked) explicit one shot. kate has the idea that they should fuck before they get married so theres less pressure on the wedding night. she decides all this without mentioning it to anthony (LOL). so she shows up at his house the night before their wedding. and his footman is like "theres a woman outside to see you" and he in all his goofy almost-married bliss is like "i dont want to see Any woman but my gorgeous, beautiful, amazing WIFE" and his footman is like "well. you see.. it is your wife. uh fiance" and anthonys like "[voice crack] huh ?". very FUNNY
green in its many hues by burnerraccount. kate and anthony decide they are going to be chaste and proper leading up to their wedding. they suck at it SO bad lol
next. modern AUS my best friends <33:
la semi dolce vita by caciopepebowl (~170k) my FAVVVV modern au of ALL time. kate is a private chef. anthonys family hires her when they go on vacation. hes being so normal about it. i promise. this is one of the best characterizations of kate AND anthony in a modern setting. with an extra emphasis on focusing on kate issues. and not JUST anthonys. which is what makes the dynamic sooo good. 10/10. hot. and i love LOVE <3
close encounters of the acutest kind by caciopepebowl (WIP ~74k. only incomplete fic ill put on this list i PROMMY. bc its by the prev author. and i Looove their writing and its sooo good so far <3) kate and anthony meet for the first time the DAY her dad died which is also the SAME DAY hyacinth is born. theyre both having a panic attack and end up running into the same empty hospital room to have it. are then intrinsically linked forever. as one is. run into each other multiple times over the years. with different feelings each time. and they are so normal (lying) <3. i love them
chosen & cherished by trash4ficsaboutlurv. (~42k) this is so underrated. kate runs a charity organization. anthony is CEO of whatever the fuck. she goes to his company when theyre holding some audition for what charity theyre going to invest in and kate is the last speaker and when its finally her turn he barely even pays attention. and shes exhausted and overworked and just oveeeer it All. so she ends the meeting and tells him to go fuck himself. LOL. genuinely really good. and hot <3
sidelines by ramarro. (~60k) this was THE quintessential kanthony modern AU in 2022. kates an artist who sees a picture of anthony on tinder and thinks he looks obnoxious (lol) but screenshots the photo so she can use his arms/hands for sketching practice. and then she see him and his grown ass on a date with her BABY sister. and shes like well i was right about him. and lets him know to his face how she feels (LOL). its wild. it slays. read it. theres an explicit follow up to it which also slays
three cities and we never lived here by ramarro. (~25k, ~40k) very different modern au where kate and anthony meet on vacation and are very casual with them both not looking for anything (genuinely for once lol) and then seeing each other multiple times over 2-3 years in different cities and still keeping it casual. but slowly slowly slowlyyyy it doesnt feel as casual as it used to. theres 2 fics in this. the first is kates pov. the second is anthony. both very good.
just go with it by suitsusboth. (~18k) kate when booking a flight sees the potential titles like ms, mrs, dr, and "viscountess" listed as a legit option and has a laugh like whos picking this goofy shit and accidentally clicks it. and then on her flight gets upgraded to first class next to anthony bc they assumed she was his wife. and he tries to be mad about it. but well. hes stupid for her in every universe so lol. funny and sweet
the air i breathe and the bane of my existance by the_loosest_moose. (image fic) these are textfics told through instagram, twitter, article and text message screenshots. with some regular text. would just check them out to gauge how you feel about the storytelling method. very fun reads once you get the hang of it
heirlooms by waterlilyrose. (~12k) modern au where kate gets anthonys ring stuck on her finger for days and has to wait to get it off. he is of course very normal about it
a devils love by irony_rocks. (~57k) this may not be for everyone but kanthony season came out around the same time as The Batman (2022) and as someone who was crazy insane about both. this was the MOMENT for me in spring 2022. its a crime mafia type au where kates character is inspired by selina kyle and the pebble lounge she worked at in the batman movie. and well. if youre about that specific combo check it out. its not a batman au
break point (series) by penny_loaf. (multiple. ~25k) this a tennis au which you wouldnt think would be that deep but it is and its sooooo good. it really delves into the pressure of the world its set in on top of the issues kate and anthony ALREADY have. and as an ANGST and crazy, complicated characters STAN...very GORGEOUS to ME <3 and hot
take me home by kendal_lynne. (~12k) romcom type explicit one shot where kate makes the mistake of telling anthony her ex couldnt make her come. and hes all like i can do it volunteer as tribute PLEASE PKLEASE PLEASE PICK ME CHOOSE ME PLWASEE etc
we never made a sound by writergirl8. (~4k) spy au that was soooooo good and sexy. i wish it was longer
with elaichi by serendipityinwords (~6k) the two biggest bitches at a dinner party find out they're soulmates. LOL. hilarious dialogue
theres probably more i loved that im not remembering rn and maybe ill update this but for now have fun! yippee <3
Description: From missed alarms to broken elevators, your Tuesday couldn't get worse, well, until it gets better. When a late-running grad student's desperate dash to save her thesis turns into an unexpected elevator encounter with UConn basketball sensation Paige Bueckers, she learns that sometimes the best assists come from broken machinery.
Armed with nothing but coffee-fueled anxiety and an encyclopedic knowledge of basketball analytics, you find yourself trading quips with college basketball's golden girl in a stalled elevator. What starts as a disaster turns into something else entirely when basketball theory meets practice, terrible jokes meet dangerous grins, and hot chocolate meets, well, everywhere except the mug.
They say love is a game of chances. But when you're trapped between floors with a girl who can bend physics on the court and make your heart run suicides off it, maybe it's worth taking the shot.
Sometimes cupid doesn't use arrows. Sometimes he just breaks the elevator.
Featuring: One (1) very broken elevator
Several questionably colored cocktails
A security guard who's seen it all
Basketball plays drawn in spilled Shirley Temples
Analytics-based flirting
And a whipped cream fight that definitely isn't regulation play
Coming soon to wherever meet-cutes happen in college sports.
(Rated R for excessive basketball puns and gay panic)
WC: 8.1k (roughly)
Genre/Notes: uh, i tried to be funny, floofy, rom-com-ish? (i tried), smut at the end, someone gets their kitty ATE, proof read like 50%
Your sneakers pound against the cracked, patchy sidewalk of North Campus, dodging the construction zone that's been "two weeks from completion" since freshman year. The November air bites at your cheeks, sharp as broken glass, and your laptop bag repeatedly slams into your hip with each stride, probably turning your thesis notes into digital confetti. A gust of wind lashes at you, tugging at your jacket, your hair, your sanity, and sending a rogue candy wrapper tumbling like a lonely tumbleweed across the quad like some 50’s Old West showdown.
You'd woken up to three missed calls from your advisor and an email that made your soul leave your body.
Meeting moved to 9:15 AM. Please bring updated analytics models.
It's 9:12.
The universe is really testing you today. First, your roommate's cat knocked your phone off the nightstand, somehow managing to turn off all five of your alarms. Then, the dining hall’s card reader had the audacity to look at your student ID like it was written in crayon, leaving you to scavenge through your bag for exact change like a Victorian orphan. And now this.
You weave through the crowd of freshmen congregating outside the Student Union like they've never seen stairs before, your thermos of room-temperature coffee sloshing dangerously close to the lid. The wind whips a forgotten syllabus past your feet as you cut across the grass (sorry, campus maintenance), taking the "shortcut" that everyone pretends they don't use. You can practically hear the landscaping team groaning somewhere, shaking their heads at the worn-down dirt trail you and a thousand other students have carved into their perfect lawn.
Gampel Pavilion looms ahead, all glass and steel and architectural hubris. The morning sun hits it at an angle that makes it look like it's on fire, which feels appropriate given your current state of mild panic. You've spent so many hours in this building that the security guard, Mike, doesn't even look up from his crossword puzzle anymore when you scan your ID.
"Running late?" he calls out as you blast past his desk.
"What gave it away?" you shout back, already halfway to the elevators. Your sneakers squeak against the polished floors, leaving behind a faint trail of panic and shame— but most importantly, dirt.
The ancient LED display above the elevator shows it's on the third floor. You slam the up button approximately forty-seven times, as if that's ever made an elevator move faster in the history of vertical transportation.
"Come on, come on," you mutter, shifting your weight between feet like you're doing some demented speed-skating warm-up. Your laptop bag keeps sliding off your shoulder, and you're pretty sure your hair looks like you styled it in a wind tunnel. A strand falls into your eyes, and you blow it away with a frustrated huff. Everything about you screams disaster, and yet the elevator couldn’t care less.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open with all the urgency of a DMV employee on a Friday afternoon.
And there she is.
Paige Bueckers is leaning against the back wall of the elevator, one foot propped up behind her, looking like she just stepped out of a Nike ad. Her practice uniform is pristine, her blonde hair pulled back in a perfect ponytail that somehow hasn't gotten the memo about today's wind situation. She's got AirPods in, absently spinning a basketball between her hands like it's an extension of her body.
Your brain short-circuits.
Time seems to slow down as you stand there, probably looking like a deer caught in very attractive headlights. The elevator dings again, threatening to close its doors on your moment of crisis.
Fuck it.
You lunge forward just as the doors start to close, practically diving into the elevator like you're trying to save a ball going out of bounds. Your coffee sloshes, your bag swings, and you nearly face-plant into the corner.
Paige pulls out one AirPod, her eyebrows raised so high they might achieve orbit. "Nice entrance."
You straighten up, trying to salvage whatever dignity might be hiding in the corners of this elevator. "Thanks, I've been practicing."
The elevator starts its ascent with a concerning rattle that definitely wasn't part of the original design. You adjust your bag for the hundredth time, very aware that you probably look like you just lost a fight with a leaf blower. Meanwhile, Paige keeps spinning that damn basketball, the soft thump-thump of it between her hands matching rhythm with your still-racing heart.
Nine floors to go. Eight if your advisor hasn't moved offices again after the Great Coffee Incident of last semester.
You can handle this. You're an adult. A slightly disheveled, possibly caffeine-deprived adult, but still. Just because you're sharing an elevator with the university's basketball goddess doesn't mean you need to—
The lights flicker once. Twice.
The elevator shudders like it's having an existential crisis.
Then everything stops.
The emergency lights kick in, bathing everything in a red glow that makes Paige look like she's starring in a very stylish apocalypse movie. The basketball stops spinning.
"Well," she says, tucking the ball under her arm and giving you a smile that definitely doesn't make your stomach flip. "Looks like the universe has other plans for us this morning."
You look at your phone: 9:14 AM.
Your advisor is going to kill you.
"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck," you mutter, jabbing at the emergency call button like it personally offended you. "This isn't happening. This can't be happening."
The little red light blinks back at you, mocking your entire existence, as if to say, yeah, good luck with that, idiot. You hit the button again, harder this time, because maybe the elevator just needs some aggressive encouragement.
"I don't think that's helping," Paige says, watching you with a mix of amusement and concern. She's still spinning that goddamn basketball, the rhythmic thump-thump now feeling less like a heartbeat and more like a countdown to your academic doom.
"Yeah? Well, neither are you," you snap, immediately regretting it. Great. Now you're trapped in an elevator AND you've just been rude to Paige fucking Bueckers. "Shit, sorry, I just—" You run both hands through your already catastrophic hair. "My advisor is going to crucify me. Like, actually crucify me. She's probably got a cross picked out and everything."
Paige catches the ball mid-spin. "Dr. Martinez?"
"How did you—"
"The only professor I know who actually might own a cross for student crucifixions." She tucks the ball under her arm. "She made one of our freshmen cry last week just by looking at her."
"That tracks." You slide down the wall opposite her, your legs finally giving up on the whole standing thing. "God, I can't believe this. I've got my entire thesis presentation on this laptop, three months of analytics data that I haven't backed up because I'm an idiot, and now I'm going to die in an elevator with—" You wave vaguely in her direction.
"With?" She raises an eyebrow, and you swear there's a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.
"With UConn's basketball savior who's probably missing practice right now because the universe decided today was a great day for some cosmic practical joke." You let your head thunk back against the wall. "Coach Auriemma's probably already got a hit out on me."
Paige laughs, and the sound does something weird to your chest. "Nah, Coach is more of a 'make you run suicides until you puke' kind of guy. Much less paperwork than murder."
"Fantastic. So I'll die from academic execution AND athletic retribution. Perfect way to start a Tuesday."
"You always this dramatic before 9:30?" She's definitely smirking now.
"Only when I'm trapped in elevators with pretty girls who should be at practice."
The words are out before your brain can catch up with your mouth. Your eyes go wide, and you seriously consider trying to pry open the doors and jump down the shaft.
But Paige just grins, wide and dangerous. "Oh, so you think I'm pretty?"
"I think you're deflecting from the fact that we're stuck in a metal box that's older than both of us combined," you say, proud of how steady your voice comes out despite the internal screaming.
"And I think you're deflecting from the fact that you just called me pretty."
You pull out your phone again, desperate for a distraction. "No signal. Perfect. This is fine. Everything is fine."
"Could be worse," Paige says, stretching her legs out in front of her. Her feet almost reach where you're sitting, and you absolutely do not notice how long her legs are. "Could be stuck in here with Dr. Martinez."
That startles a laugh out of you. "Jesus, don't even joke about that. She'd probably make me defend my thesis right here."
"Yeah? What's it about?"
You look up from your phone to find her watching you with what appears to be genuine interest. "You really want to know?"
"Well," she gestures around the elevator, "it's not like I've got anywhere else to be."
You narrow your eyes. "If this is some kind of pity conversation—"
"It's not." She cuts you off, her voice surprisingly firm. "I'm actually curious. Plus, you look like you might spontaneously combust if you don't talk about something other than being stuck in here."
She's not wrong. Your leg has been bouncing non-stop since you sat down, and you're pretty sure you're about to wear a hole in your bottom lip from biting it.
"Fine," you say, setting your phone aside. "But remember, you asked for this. And if you fall asleep, I'm using that basketball as a pillow."
Paige's eyes light up with something that makes your stomach flip. "Deal."
"Okay, so you know how current basketball analytics are basically just glorified box scores?" You shift to face her properly, your earlier panic morphing into the kind of enthusiasm that usually makes people's eyes glaze over. "Like, sure, we can track points and assists and whatever, but that's just the obvious stuff."
"And there's more than the obvious stuff?" Paige asks, settling in like she's actually planning to follow your inevitably chaotic explanation.
"So much more." You pull your laptop out, balancing it on your crossed legs. "Like, imagine being able to track not just who made the shot, but all the little things that made that shot possible. The way players move without the ball, how defensive shifts create spaces that don't show up in any stat sheet.”
Your hands start moving as you talk, painting invisible patterns in the air. Paige has stopped spinning her basketball, her eyes following your gestures with an intensity that makes you warm all over.
"It's like..." You pause, trying to find the right words. "You know how in chess, sometimes the most important move isn't the one that takes the piece, but the three moves before that made it possible?"
She nods, leaning forward slightly. "Like a setup play."
"Exactly!" You're fully animated now, previous elevator crisis temporarily forgotten. "But current systems don't track that. They don't see how Player A moving left makes Player B's defender shift just enough that Player C can—"
The emergency speaker crackles to life, making you both jump.
"Hello? Anyone in there?" The voice sounds bored, like stuck elevators are just another Tuesday morning inconvenience.
Paige reaches over and hits the call button. "Yeah, we're here. Two people."
"Alright, we've got maintenance heading up. Should have you out in about fifteen minutes. Sit tight."
The speaker clicks off, leaving you both in that red-tinted silence again.
"Fifteen minutes," you groan, letting your head fall back against the wall. "Dr. Martinez is definitely going to have that cross ready."
"Hey," Paige says, and something in her voice makes you look at her. "Tell me more about your system. How do you track all those micro-movements?"
You blink at her. "You actually want to hear more?"
"Would I ask if I didn't?" She's got this soft half-smile that does dangerous things to your ability to think straight. "Plus, you get all..." she waves her hand vaguely, "sparkly when you talk about it."
"Sparkly?"
"Yeah, like you're lit up from the inside." She says it so casually, like she hasn't just made your heart do a full court press against your ribs.
You clear your throat, trying to remember how words work. "Right. Well, um, I've been working with the computer vision lab to develop these tracking algorithms..."
The next fifteen minutes dissolve into a blur of technical explanations and basketball theory. Paige asks surprisingly specific questions, and you try not to look too pleased every time she leans in closer to see something on your laptop screen.
When maintenance finally gets the elevator moving again, it feels too soon.
The doors open on the fourth floor – your floor – and you scramble to pack up your laptop, suddenly aware that you've spent the last twenty minutes word-vomiting about analytics to one of the best basketball players in the country.
"Thanks for, uh, keeping me from completely losing it," you say, standing awkwardly in the doorway. "And sorry about the whole..." you gesture vaguely at yourself, "chaos."
Paige stands too, and even in the normal lighting, she's unfairly pretty. "Chaos looks good on you."
Your brain short-circuits. "Can I get your number?"
The words tumble out before you can stop them, and you immediately want to crawl into the nearest trash can. But Paige just grins, that dangerous one that makes her look like she knows exactly what she's doing to you.
"Tell you what," she says, spinning the basketball on one finger because apparently she's physically incapable of not showing off. "Come to Friday's game. If you can spot one of those micro-interactions you were talking about..." She lets the ball roll down her arm and catches it smoothly. "Maybe you'll find out if I give my number to random girls I meet in elevators."
She backs into the elevator, maintaining eye contact until the doors close between you.
You stand there for a solid thirty seconds, staring at the brushed metal doors like they might reveal the secrets of the universe. Or at least explain how you went from having a mental breakdown about your advisor to what definitely felt like flirting with Paige Bueckers.
Your phone buzzes: another email from Dr. Martinez.
Meeting rescheduled to 2PM. Bring coffee. The good kind.
You look back at the elevator doors, then at your phone, then at the ceiling.
Looks like you're going to a basketball game on Friday.
The security guard at Gampel's student entrance looks at your ticket, then at you, then back at the ticket with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for people trying to use expired coupons at Target.
"This is— courtside," he says slowly, like maybe you don't understand what those words mean.
"Yeah, I, uh,” You shift your weight between feet, very aware of the growing line behind you. "I got it in an email?"
It comes out like a question because honestly, you're still not entirely sure this isn't some elaborate fever dream. The past three days have felt surreal, starting with Dr. Martinez actually smiling during your rescheduled meeting (turns out that fancy coffee shop downtown does make a difference) and ending with an email from [email protected] that made you choke on your morning cereal.
The security guard squints at his scanner like it's personally offending him. "These are usually reserved for—"
"Is there a problem?" A familiar voice cuts through the growing awkwardness, and you turn to find Mike, your elevator-lobby guardian angel, approaching with his signature "I've seen too much student nonsense" expression.
"Got a courtside ticket here, but—"
"Oh, yeah," Mike says, shooting you a look that's somewhere between amused and knowing. "This one's good. Let 'em through."
You mouth a 'thank you' as you pass, and he just shakes his head, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "kids these days" under his breath.
The student section is already packed, a sea of navy and white that ripples with pre-game energy. But your ticket directs you past all that, down, down, down the steps until you're so close to the court you can smell the fresh polish on the hardwood.
"This isn't happening," you mutter to yourself, dropping into your assigned seat—which is literally close enough to high-five players coming off the court. "This is fine. Everything is fine. You're just casually sitting courtside at a sold-out game because you got trapped in an elevator and word-vomited about basketball analytics for twenty minutes. Totally normal Friday night."
The woman next to you, wearing what looks like several hundred dollars worth of UConn gear, gives you a concerned side-eye.
"Sorry," you say, slinking lower in your seat. "I talk to myself when I'm having an existential crisis."
She just nods and shifts slightly away, which, fair.
The arena fills up quickly, the ambient noise growing from a buzz to a roar. You try to look casual, like you totally belong here and didn't spend forty-five minutes earlier having a breakdown about what to wear to a basketball game when you're sitting close enough to be on TV. (You'd finally settled on jeans and a UConn hoodie, figuring if you're going to have a gay panic on national television, you might as well be comfortable.)
The teams come out for warm-ups, and your heart definitely doesn't skip when you spot number 5 leading the layup line. Paige moves like she's got some sort of cheat code for gravity, each motion fluid and precise. She's got her game face on, all focused intensity and practiced routine, but then—
She catches your eye as she circles back to the line, and her serious expression cracks just enough to let through a hint of that dangerous grin from the elevator.
"Oh, I am so screwed," you breathe, and the woman next to you shifts another inch away.
The game itself is a blur of motion and noise. You try to focus on analyzing plays like you promised, looking for those micro-interactions you'd rambled about, but it's hard to think strategically when Paige keeps making passes that shouldn't be physically possible. Your laptop's probably having a stroke trying to track all these movements.
By halftime, UConn's up by twelve, and you've filled three pages of your Notes app with what started as technical observations but has devolved into increasingly incoherent capslock about various impressive plays. The latest note just says "HOW DID SHE EVEN SEE THAT CUTTING GUARD??? PHYSICS???? HELP????"
"Nice analysis."
You nearly drop your phone. Paige is right there, pretending to adjust her shoes by the bench but clearly smirking in your direction.
"I'm being professionally thorough," you whisper-hiss back, trying to ignore how your pulse is doing full-court sprints.
"Uh huh." She stands up, heading back to the huddle, but not before adding, "You look good in UConn blue, by the way."
You spend the entire third quarter trying to remember how to breathe normally.
The fourth quarter is when you see it—one of those perfect setup plays you'd theorized about. Paige moves left, drawing her defender, while simultaneously nodding almost imperceptibly to her teammate. The slight movement causes a chain reaction: the defense shifts, creating a gap that shouldn't exist, and suddenly there's a perfect passing lane that materializes out of seemingly nowhere. The ball flows through it like water finding the path of least resistance, resulting in an easy layup that looks simple but was actually three moves in the making.
You're on your feet before you realize it, pointing and probably looking deranged. "That! That's exactly what I was talking about! The head fake was the trigger but it wasn't even about the—" You cut yourself off, becoming aware that several people are staring at you, including the woman next to you who's now practically in the next seat over.
As the final buzzer sounds (UConn by 18), your phone buzzes with a new email.
PS - Your "professional analysis" face is reaaaaallly cute. Even from ten feet away.
You stare at your phone long enough that the arena starts to empty around you, afraid that if you look away the numbers might disappear like some basketball Cinderella story. The woman next to you finally gets up, edging past with the kind of caution usually reserved for wild animals.
"Sorry about all the,” you gesture vaguely at yourself.
She just pats your shoulder with grandmotherly sympathy. "Honey, I've been watching basketball for forty years, and I've never seen someone have a gay awakening quite that enthusiastically. Good luck with number five."
You're still sputtering when she disappears up the stairs, leaving you alone with a phone number and the distinct feeling that the universe is either laughing at you or playing matchmaker.
Possibly both.
Nah— Definitely both.
After what feels like an eternity of staring at your phone like it holds the secrets of the universe, your bladder kindly reminds you that you stress-drank an entire large iced coffee before the game. Fucking wonderful. You glance at the concourse—and immediately regret every life choice that led to this moment.
The bathroom line snakes around the corner like some kind of hydra-headed monster, full of people who clearly had the same brilliant beverage ideas you did. You briefly consider just holding it and dealing with the consequences later, but your body has other plans.
"This is karma," you mutter, taking your place at the end of the line. "This is definitely karma for all those times I made fun of people waiting in long bathroom lines."
The girl in front of you snorts. "If it helps, I'm pretty sure we're all suffering from the same coffee-based poor judgment."
Twenty minutes. Twenty. Entire. Minutes.
You've gone through every social media app twice, responded to three emails you've been avoiding, and played enough Candy Crush to rot your remaining brain cells by the time you finally emerge from the bathroom. The arena is practically empty now, just cleaning crew and a few lingering fans.
Your phone feels heavy in your pocket, that number burning a hole in your mind. You pull it out, staring at the digits like they might rearrange themselves into instructions on how to text your elevator-meet-cute crush without sounding like a complete disaster.
To: 617-555-0147
Hey, this is your favorite elevator analytics nerd. Great game tonight. That fourth-quarter setup play was chef's kiss
You hit send before you can overthink it, then immediately regret every word choice. Chef's kiss? Really? Maybe if you run fast enough, you can catch up to your dignity before it leaves the building entirely.
Your phone buzzes before you can fully commit to your shame spiral.
From: Paige 🏀
some of us are heading to murphy's for dirty shirleys if you want to continue your "professional analysis" in person? promise there won't be any elevators involved
You nearly trip over your own feet.
Will there be a formal presentation required? Should I prepare slides?
just your sparkling personality and maybe an explanation of how you knew that play was coming before I did 😉
Bold of you to assume I wasn't just gesturing wildly at a mosquito
we both know you're too much of a basketball nerd for that. meet you there in 20?
You pause at the arena exit, looking down at your very casual, very not-prepared-to-go-out outfit. But then again, when has anything about this situation been normal?
Your eyes shoot back to your phone and your frantic typing begins once again.
Only if you promise to explain how that behind-the-back pass in the third quarter didn't break several laws of physics
deal. and hey?
Yeah?
the hoodie really does look good on you
Your stomach shoots to your ass and you stand there grinning at your phone like an idiot until Mike, doing his final security rounds, walks by and shakes his head.
"Don't stay out too late, kid," he calls over his shoulder. "These love stories always get complicated when they start in elevators."
"That was literally ONE MOVIE," you shout after him, but he just waves without turning around.
You look down at your phone one more time, then up at the now-empty arena, and can't help but laugh. Somehow, a broken elevator, an understanding security guard, and a basketball player with a dangerous grin have turned your disaster of a week into whatever this is.
Time to find out if Dirty Shirleys taste better when you're sharing them with a girl who can bend physics on a basketball court.
Murphy's is exactly what would happen if a sports bar had a baby with a college town dive and raised it on a strict diet of neon signs and questionable decor choices. The walls are plastered with enough UConn memorabilia to fill a museum, if museums were into collecting signed napkins and mysteriously stained jerseys.
Your stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics as you push open the door, immediately hit by the smell of mozzarella sticks and what you really hope is just decades of spilled beer. The place is packed with post-game energy, and you're pretty sure your heart stops completely when you spot Paige at a corner booth, still in her game-day warmups because apparently she just casually walks around looking like a Nike ad.
"Analytics nerd!" she calls out, waving you over with that stupid grin that makes your brain cells commit mass suicide. "We saved you a seat!"
The 'we' turns out to be a collection of players who could probably stack on top of each other and touch the moon. You slide into the only open spot—right next to Paige, because the universe is clearly not done testing your ability to form coherent sentences today.
"Everyone, this is the elevator girl who knows more about our plays than we do," Paige announces, and your face goes hot enough to fry an egg. "Elevator girl, this is everyone."
"I have a name, you know," you manage, trying to ignore how her shoulder is pressed against yours in the crowded booth.
"Yeah, but 'elevator girl' has a better ring to it," she says, sliding a violently pink drink your way. "Plus, it's technically accurate."
"So is 'basketball menace' but you don't see me—" Your mouth snaps shut as her teammates start cackling.
"Oh, I like this one," says a girl you recognize as KK Arnold, grinning like she just got early Christmas. "She's got bite."
"She's got analytics," Paige corrects, but she's looking at you with something that makes your stomach relocate to somewhere in the general vicinity of Jupiter. "Speaking of which, you never did tell me how you caught that play coming."
You take a long sip of your Dirty Shirley to buy time, immediately regretting it when the sugar content threatens to give you instant cavities. "Holy shit, what's in this? Pure pixie stick powder?"
"Don't deflect," Paige says, poking your side. "We've got a whole team of analysts and none of them caught it. So spill."
"Fine, but only because you bought me diabetes in a glass." You shift to face her, accidentally-on-purpose letting your knee rest against hers under the table. "It was your head."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "My head?"
"You've got this tell," you say, getting into it now because apparently basketball analysis is your ideal flirting language. "This tiny little head tilt you do when you're setting up something sneaky. Like a cat about to knock something off a table, but make it basketball."
The entire table goes quiet, then erupts in laughter.
"She's got you there, P," Ice wheezes. "You do look like a menacing cat sometimes!"
Paige is staring at you with a mix of indignation and something else that makes your chest feel too small for your heart. "I do not have a cat tell."
"You absolutely do," you say, emboldened by sugar and the way her eyes keep dropping to your lips. "It's actually kind of cu—"
"SHOTS!" someone yells, and suddenly there's a tray of something alarmingly blue being passed around.
"Oh god," you mutter, watching the liquid slosh ominously. "Is this what happens when a Smurf dies?"
Paige nearly chokes on her drink. "That's terrible!"
"Just like these shots are about to be?"
She leans in close—too close, definitely too close for your remaining brain cells to function—and whispers, "Good thing I like terrible jokes."
Your stomach shoots to your ass (and possibly into another dimension) as she pulls back with a wink that should be illegal in at least forty-eight states.
"I hate you," you inform her, grabbing one of the Smurf funeral shots because if you're going to have a gay crisis in a college bar, you might as well commit fully.
"No you don't," she says with absolute certainty, and the worst part is she's right.
You really, really don't.
The night dissolves into a blur of increasingly ridiculous drinks (who knew they made something called a "Husky Howl"?), basketball stories that get more elaborate with each round, and Paige's thigh pressed warm against yours under the table. You learn that she stress-bakes before big games, that she once tried to teach her dog to play basketball, and that when she really laughs—like, really laughs—she snorts a little and it's possibly the cutest thing you've ever seen.
At some point, Azzi starts drawing up plays on napkins with increasingly chaotic drink-fueled creativity. Aaliyah Edwards keeps stealing her pen to "fix" the defensive rotations, while Nika Mühl throws wadded-up straw wrappers at both of them, critiquing their "absolutely trash spacing."
"No, no, look," KK follows imaginary lines with her finger across the napkin, accidentally dragging it through a puddle of spilled Shirley Temple. "If we run this here, and then—" she grabs your arm— "you're the defense, okay? Stand up."
"I absolutely am not," you protest, but Paige is already pulling you up with that stupid grin that makes your knees forget how joints work.
"Come on, elevator girl," she teases, positioning you near the booth. "Show us those analytics skills in action."
"I hate all of you," you mutter, but you're laughing as KK tries to demonstrate some elaborate defensive scheme that mostly involves her spinning in circles while Aaliyah provides unhelpful commentary.
"Your footwork is trash, bestie," Aaliyah calls out, now using maraschino cherries to build what appears to be a scale model of the paint.
"YOUR footwork is trash," KK shoots back, then promptly trips over nothing.
"Ladies, ladies," Paige steps in, all faux seriousness undermined by the way she can't stop grinning. "Let a professional show you how it's done."
She moves behind you, hands settling lightly on your hips, and your brain immediately flatlines. "See, proper defensive stance is all about—"
"Get a fuckin' room!" Nika yells, launching another straw wrapper that hits Paige square in the forehead.
"Actually," Paige says close to your ear, and your stomach does approximately seventeen backflips, "I've got that new analytics setup at my apartment if you want to see it. You know, for research purposes."
You turn to face her, very aware that her hands haven't moved from your hips. "Research purposes?"
"Mhmm." That dangerous grin is back. "Purely academic, of course."
"Of course," you manage, trying to ignore the way your pulse is doing a full drumline routine.
"Oh my god," KK groans from the booth. "This is worse than when Aaliyah tried to flirt with that barista using coffee puns."
"Hey!" Aaliyah protests. "That was smooth!"
"You asked if she wanted to 'espresso' her feelings!"
"And now we're dating, so who's the real winner here?"
Paige rolls her eyes at their antics, but her thumbs are drawing small circles on your hips that are making it very hard to focus on anything else. "So? Want to help me with some late-night analysis?"
Your stomach shoots to your ass as you meet her eyes, finding them sparkling with something that definitely isn't just about basketball statistics. "I mean, it would be unprofessional to turn down a research opportunity..."
"GET OUT OF HERE," Azzi throws a cherry that sails completely wide of both of you. "Your gay panic is ruining my plays."
"Your plays were already ruined," Nika points out, helpfully redrawing the vodka-smudged X's and O's with what appears to be lip gloss.
Paige grabs her jacket with one hand and your hand with the other, tugging you toward the door. "Don't wait up, nerds!"
"USE PROTECTION!" Aubrey shouts after you, causing several nearby tables to choke on their drinks.
"I mean, analytics can be very dangerous," you say with mock seriousness as you step into the cool night air, very aware that Paige hasn't let go of your hand. "All those numbers flying around."
"Absolutely hazardous," she agrees, pulling you closer as you walk. "Better stick together. For safety."
"For safety," you repeat, hoping she can't feel your pulse racing where your fingers are intertwined. "And research."
"And research," she echoes, giving you that sidelong grin that makes your heart forget how to beat properly. "Though I should warn you..."
"Yeah?"
She stops under a streetlight, turning to face you with eyes that sparkle with mischief. "My elevator works perfectly fine."
Your laugh echoes off the empty street. "Damn. There goes my backup plan."
"I'm sure we can find other ways to get stuck together," she says, and your stomach relocates somewhere in the general vicinity of Mars.
As you follow her down the quiet streets of Storrs, your joined hands swinging between you, you make a mental note to buy Mike the biggest coffee gift card you can afford.
Broken elevators might just be your new favorite thing.
Paige's apartment is exactly what you'd expect from someone who's somehow both a basketball prodigy and a complete dork—there's a literal trophy shelf right next to a collection of Star Wars Funko Pops, and her UConn jersey hangs framed above what appears to be a very elaborate gaming setup.
"Nice lightsaber," you say, nodding to the collector's edition propped in the corner.
"Nice deflection from how your hands are shaking," she shoots back, shrugging off her jacket.
"It's cold outside!"
"Uh huh." She disappears into the kitchen, and you hear cabinets opening. "Want some hot chocolate? I promise it's better than those nuclear waste shots Aubrey kept ordering."
Your stomach does a weird flip at how domestic this feels. "Only if you have—"
"Mini marshmallows and whipped cream? What kind of monster do you think I am?"
You follow her voice to find her already pulling out mugs, one of which has "Ball is Life" written in what appears to be glitter pen. "The kind that owns a bedazzled basketball mug?"
"First of all, Nika made this for my birthday and it's a masterpiece," she says, grabbing milk from the fridge. "Second of all, you're just jealous of my sophisticated taste."
"Oh, absolutely. Nothing says sophistication like..." you pick up a container from the counter, "unicorn hot chocolate mix?"
She snatches it back, fighting a grin. "It's limited edition!"
"Of course, my mistake. Clearly I'm in the presence of a fine dining connoisseur."
The kitchen fills with the smell of chocolate as she heats the milk, and you try not to stare at how she's rolled up her sleeves, forearms on full display as she stirs. You fail miserably.
"See something you like?" she asks without turning around, because apparently she has eyes in the back of her head.
"Just admiring your hot chocolate technique."
"My technique is excellent, thank you very much." She turns, holding up a can of whipped cream with a dangerous glint in her eye. "Want to see?"
Your throat goes dry. "I feel like this is a trap."
"Maybe." She takes a step closer, and your back hits the counter. "But you've been analyzing my moves all night. Shouldn't I get a turn?"
You're about to say something witty—really, you are—but then she's shaking the whipped cream can and all your brain cells collectively abandon ship.
"Don't you dare—"
The words are barely out before she's spraying whipped cream directly at your face. You squeal (not your proudest moment) and grab for the can, resulting in a brief wrestling match that ends with cream basically everywhere except in the actual mugs.
"You're such a menace!" you gasp, trying to wipe cream off your nose while she cackles.
"Says the girl who called me out on my head tilt in front of my whole team!"
"That's different! That was professional analysis!"
"Oh yeah?" She steps closer, effectively pinning you against the counter. "Analyze this."
Your heart stops as she reaches up, thumb gently wiping whipped cream from the corner of your mouth. Time seems to freeze, your entire world narrowing to that point of contact and the way her eyes drop to your lips.
"Your technique could use some work," you manage to whisper, and she laughs—that real laugh, with the little snort that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.
"Maybe you should show me how it's done then."
Your stomach shoots through the floor as you reach up, threading your fingers through her hair (definitely getting whipped cream in it but whatever), and pull her down to meet you.
She tastes like chocolate and whipped cream and something uniquely her, and you can feel her smile against your lips as she wraps her arms around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.
"How's that for technique?" you murmur when you finally break apart, both breathing a bit harder.
"Hmm." She pretends to consider it, but her eyes are sparkling and her hands are still firmly on your waist. "Might need more data to make a proper analysis."
"Oh my god, you're actually worse than me with the nerd references."
"You like it," she says with absolute certainty, leaning in again.
"Maybe," you concede against her lips. "But only because you're cute when you're being smug."
She pulls back just enough to give you that dangerous grin that started this whole thing. "Just cute?"
"And modest, clearly."
"I'll show you modest," she growls, and then she's kissing you again, deeper this time, backing you further against the counter until you're pretty sure your soul leaves your body entirely.
The hot chocolate goes cold on the counter,
The hot chocolate goes cold on the counter, forgotten in the haze of warm laughter and sticky fingers. At some point, her lips found their way back to yours, sweet and a little messy, and now you’re on her couch, knees bumping against hers as you both settle into an almost tentative rhythm. She pulls back just slightly, her forehead resting against yours, and her breath fans across your lips in short, uneven bursts.
“You’re trouble,” she whispers, her voice low and a little breathless, her hands sliding up your arms to rest on your shoulders, thumbs brushing the curve of your collarbone.
“You like trouble,” you fire back, and there’s just enough of a spark in your tone to make her grin.
“I really do,” she admits, and before you can respond, her lips are on yours again, slower this time, deliberate. It’s not the playful teasing from before—it’s something heavier, something that makes your heart stutter in your chest and your hands curl into the soft fabric of her sweatshirt.
Her fingers tangle in your hair as she shifts, nudging you gently until your back hits the cushions. She hovers above you, her knees bracketing your thighs, her ponytail spilling over one shoulder as she leans down to kiss you again. This time, it’s a little rougher, her teeth catching on your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp, and the sound seems to light something in her eyes.
“You’re killing me,” you murmur against her mouth, and she pulls back just enough to look at you, her grin sharper now.
“Good,” she says simply, and her hands are on the hem of your hoodie, tugging it up. “This okay?”
You nod, swallowing hard, and she doesn’t wait for a second invitation. The hoodie’s off in a flash, tossed somewhere behind the couch, and her eyes sweep over you like she’s committing every inch to memory. Her hands are warm as they skim over your sides, fingertips brushing against bare skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.
“You’re gorgeous,” she says softly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and the way she says it makes you believe her, even with your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” you manage, trying to sound casual even as she leans back down, her lips finding the curve of your jaw and then lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to your neck. Your hands find her waist, and you can feel the strength of her beneath the soft cotton of her sweatshirt, her muscles flexing slightly as she shifts against you.
“Should we,” she starts, her voice trailing off as she pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. There’s a question there, unspoken but clear, and you answer it by pulling her back down, your lips crashing into hers with more urgency than before.
“Definitely,” you say between kisses, and that’s all the encouragement she needs.
Her sweatshirt joins your hoodie somewhere on the floor, and her hands are everywhere—your waist, your thighs, the curve of your hip. It’s all a blur of heat and soft laughter and the kind of clumsy, sweet desperation that only comes with two people trying to figure out how they fit together.
The couch is too small, the angles all wrong, and at some point, she pulls back just enough to breathe, “Bed?”
You nod, and then she’s pulling you to your feet, her hand sliding down to lace her fingers with yours as she leads you toward her room. There’s something about the way she looks back at you, her grin soft and a little nervous, that makes your heart ache in the best way.
The moment you’re through the door, she’s on you again, her hands sliding up your back as she kisses you like she’s trying to memorize every curve, every shiver. The bed is soft beneath you, and her weight is solid and warm as she follows you down, her knee nudging between yours as she leans over you.
“You’re really good at this whole ‘research’ thing,” you tease, and she laughs against your collarbone, the sound low and husky and so incredibly her.
“Don’t distract me,” she murmurs, and her hands are on you again, her touch firm and sure and just a little shaky in a way that makes your chest swell with affection.
And when she kisses you again, slow and deep, you think, for the first time all week, that maybe the universe actually got something right.
The mattress dips under her weight as Paige pulls back just enough to take you in, her hair falling loose from her ponytail, framing her face in a way that feels criminally unfair. There’s a glint in her eye now, something teasing but focused, like she’s about to run the most calculated play of her life.
“You look nervous,” she says, her lips curling into that sharp grin that’s been undoing you all night.
“I’m not nervous,” you lie, though your voice cracks on the last syllable like your body’s calling you out.
She chuckles, low and throaty, and leans down, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Good. Because I’m about to ruin you, and I don’t need you overthinking it.”
Before you can process what she said, she’s sliding down your body with deliberate slowness, her hands dragging over your sides, down your hips, and hooking around the waistband of your leggings. She raises an eyebrow, silently asking permission, and the second you nod, she pulls them down in one fluid motion, leaving you feeling bare and achingly vulnerable.
“Holy shit,” Paige mutters under her breath, her eyes locked on you like she’s just stumbled on a masterpiece at an art museum. Her hands settle on your thighs, thumbs tracing small circles that send shivers racing up your spine. “You’re so—” She stops, shakes her head, and looks up at you with that cocky grin. “Nah, I’m gonna show you instead of telling you.”
Her lips press to the inside of your knee, soft at first, but as she moves higher, her kisses grow hungrier, her teeth grazing your skin just enough to leave you squirming.
“Paige,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whisper, but she just hums against your thigh like she’s savoring her favorite meal.
“Patience,” she murmurs, her breath hot against your skin as she shifts lower. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”
Your response gets caught in your throat as her mouth finally finds you, and every coherent thought you’ve ever had promptly evaporates. Her tongue moves with the same precision she has on the court, all calculated angles and devastating accuracy, and it’s like she’s figured out exactly how to dismantle you.
“Fuck—Paige—” Your hips jerk involuntarily, but her hands hold you steady, her grip firm enough to keep you grounded while her mouth does the opposite.
She pulls back just enough to look up at you, her lips glistening, and there’s a wicked glint in her eye that makes your stomach drop in the best way. “Hang tight,” she says, reaching toward the nightstand.
“What are you—oh my God,” you gasp as she pulls out a vibrator, the sleek little device gleaming like it was made for moments like this.
Paige winks, all confidence and mischief, as she turns it on, the low hum filling the room. “You trust me, right?”
You nod, because at this point, you’d probably trust her to lead you into a cult if it meant feeling like this.
“Good.” She leans back down, her mouth finding you again just as the vibrator presses against you, and the combination is so overwhelming it almost knocks the breath out of you.
Your hands fly to her hair, tugging as the vibrations send shocks of pleasure racing through your body, and her tongue works in tandem, teasing and relentless. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and you can feel yourself unraveling, piece by piece, with every calculated movement.
“Paige, I—” Your words dissolve into a moan that would make your ancestors weep, your thighs trembling as she doubles down, her grip on you tightening.
“That’s it,” she murmurs against you, her voice low and full of something that sounds dangerously like pride. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”
And just like that, you do. The orgasm rips through you like a tidal wave, leaving you gasping and clutching at the sheets as your vision whites out. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you swear you hear yourself speaking in tongues.
Paige doesn’t stop until your legs are twitching, and even then, she presses one last kiss to your inner thigh before sitting back with the most self-satisfied grin you’ve ever seen.
“Did I just—” You pause, catching your breath, your voice hoarse. “Did I just have an exorcism?”
Paige laughs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “If you did, I think I’m gonna need to start charging for holy services.”
“Fuck you,” you say weakly, though the way you’re still grinning probably ruins the effect.
She crawls back up to you, her body warm and solid as she settles next to you, her arm slinging over your waist. “Oh, you’re definitely going to want to do that next,” she teases, pressing a kiss to your temple.
And just like that, you’re laughing, still breathless and a little wrecked, but somehow more at ease than you’ve felt in ages. Paige grins down at you, smug but soft, and you think, maybe, that this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.
Sometimes the best love stories start with a malfunction.
summary: you’re going through a tough time and have pushed paige away but she finally realises something is wrong
content warnings: talks of depression and ed behaviours/language
requested by: @melpthatsme 💗
Your girlfriend was getting suspicious and rightly so. You had just given her another lame excuse as to why you couldn’t have dinner with her tonight. That was the third time this week.
At first it was ‘too much homework’, then a ‘headache’ and now it was your ‘period’. All lies.
As you lay curled up in your bed, all lights turned off, you sobbed silent tears until your pillow was saturated. You felt guilty lying to Paige but you couldn’t go out, especially not to eat.
You wasn’t entirely sure why Paige even wanted to be seen in public with you anyway, why she was with you at all actually. Paige was beautiful. Like the most beautifully perfect woman there ever was. Her eyes shone bright at all times and whether her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail or left natural and loose, framing her face, it looked immaculate. She was intelligent and athletic, maintaining an almost perfect GPA while simultaneously leading her team in back to back wins. Paige was everything and you, you were nothing.
You hated everything about yourself and you were usually good at hiding it. Painting on a fake smile and laughing when others laughed, mirroring your friends actions to make it seem like everything was just fine but it was getting harder to hide. You were drinking and smoking just to get respite from your thoughts. You were dragging yourself to gatherings just to count down the minutes until you could leave and be alone in your room where you could finally let your guard down.
You were proud at how long you had gone keeping this to yourself but it was almost impossible now. You didn’t want to talk. You didn’t want to leave the apartment. You didn’t want to eat. You didn’t want to see anyone. In fact, you didn’t want to see yourself. You had even gone as far to cover every mirror in your room just to avoid the reflection that made you sick to your stomach.
You felt like you had cried a river this past week but the tears wouldn’t stop, you thought there would be nothing left to give but you were a never ending pit of sadness.
You hear shuffling and muffled voices coming from your living room, your roommates must be home. You thanked yourself for keeping your lights off and closed your eyes so if they came into your room, they’d think you were sleeping.
A few seconds past before you heard a light knock at your door. You ignored it. Pressing yourself further into your mattress, wishing it would swallow you whole. Then came the click of the handle being turned and the door squeaking open.
You kept your body as still as possible, holding your breath in hopes that whoever was disturbing you would think twice but that doesn’t happen. Instead your bedroom light is flicked on and your door is closed with force, practically slammed.
“Why did you lie to me?” You recognise Paiges voice immediately and it’s a mixture of pissed off but also upset and you know it’s your fault.
“What?” You say, even though you heard her loud and clear.
“I know you’re not on your period. Our cycles are synced. They have been for months. Why did you lie?” Paige asks again and you feel so stupid for making such a rookie error.
Paige was right. Your cycles were synced, it happened often with women and girls that spent a lot of time together, so when you were on your period, she was too. She had caught you out in your lie.
“I don’t know.” You mummble into your duvet, still curled up tightly.
“You’ve blown me off three times this week. You barely answer my calls and texts, it’s like I have to force you to see me and now you’re lying to me and you can’t even be bothered to tell me why?” Paige rants and even though you still haven’t looked at her you can tell she’s pacing your room.
“I don’t understand what’s going on. I thought we were good but maybe not.” She says and you physically feel your heart brake at her words but you can’t bring yourself to say anything other than, “Maybe.”
“What?” She asks confused even though she was the one who said it first, “Y/N, can you at least fucking look at me?” She snapped and you know thats the least you owe her so you slowly roll yourself around so you’re no longer facing the wall and push yourself up into a sitting position but you can’t bring yourself to lift your eyes from your lap.
“I wanted to take you for dinner, spend some time with you. Just be with you and I thought you would have wanted the same but instead you’re in bed!” Paige continued and you just took her onslaught of words, you didn’t have the energy to argue or even defend yourself.
“I’m sorry.” You muttered, picking at the already raw skin around your nails.
“Will you just look at me? Do you want to break-” You finally look at Paige and she stops mid-sentence, “Have you been crying?”
You ignore her question because your heart is racing and more tears are threatening to fall at what she was about to ask, “Finish what you were about to say.” You whisper but she doesn’t need to, you knew what she was going to say. She was going to ask if you wanted to break up.
“What’s the matter? What happened? Why were you crying?” Paige asks all at once, any annoyance in her tone has been replaced with concern and her facial expression shifted from dark and frowning to soft and doe eyed.
“I wasn’t.” You lie, “Finish what you were about to say.”
“Yes you were. Your eyes are red and puffy, your skin is blotchy,” She walks towards you, “and your pillows wet. Why were you crying?”
“You want to break up.” You answer your own question.
“No. No, I don’t. But I don’t understand what’s going on with you, I thought maybe you did.” She says honestly sitting on the edge of your bed.
“I don’t.”
“Why were you crying baby? Tell me what’s on your mind.” She says placing a hand on your leg.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too much Paige. My mind is too much, it’s too dark. You don’t deserve that.” You begin to cry again and it quickly turns into sobs.
“Hey, baby, come here.” She whispered, pulling you into her chest and onto her lap, she wrapped her arms around your body and held you close, “You’re scaring me.” She admits, “Tell me what’s going on my love. I want to help you.”
“You deserve more than this Paige.” You choke out in between sobs, you’re hyperventilating now, your body shaking in your girlfriends arms but she continues to hold you tight and close.
“But I want you. I love you.” She pulls away from you slightly so she can look you in your eyes and she holds your face tenderly, a hand on each cheek, “You’re all I want, my beautiful girl.”
“Don’t say that.” You weep, jumping out of her lap.
“Don’t say what?”
“Don’t say I’m beautiful. Don’t say any of it. It’s not true.” You cross your arms over yourself wishing you could shrink down into the smallest dimensions and eventually disappear.
“Baby, what are you saying? What’s going on?” She reaches out for you but you pull away not wanting to be touched.
Paige properly looks around your room for the first time and you watch as she notices everything and you see the cogs turning in her head as her eyes fall to your mirror, covered by a sweater. She sees the paper taped to your wall with your weight written on it followed by the harshest of words that you thought about yourself. She sees the empty alcohol bottles on your dresser and the half smoked blunt on your bedside table. And when she finally looks at you, in your oversized clothes, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, her eyes were glossy and her forehead creased as she fought back tears of her own.
“I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but I do know that I do love you and you are beautiful and I’ll tell you that everyday until you believe it.” She says as a tear slips down her cheek.
Paige walks over to you, taking you by your hands first and kissing both of them. She pulls on the sleeves of your sweater and you reluctantly let her pull it over your head so your just standing there in your bra. You close your eyes not wanting to see her reaction to your body, the thought of it made you sick. You felt her lips press to your stomach and she peppered kisses up your torso, “My beautiful baby.” She mumbled against your skin as she continued to kiss over your chest and onto your neck.
She took you to your bed, laying you down and she hooked her fingers into the waistband of your joggers, pulling them off, exposing your legs. You wanted to grab the sheet and cover yourself up but her mouth met your thigh and she pecked it gently, moving over the the other, “So perfect.” She breathed, the tips of her fingers trailing down your legs.
You lay on your bed, eyes closed, tears streaming out and you feel Paige hover above you, “Look at me baby.” She says softly, wiping the tears that soaked your cheeks. You flutter your eyes open and look up at Paige who’s looking down at you, eyes filled with nothing but love and care. “Please don’t shut me out. I’m here for you. Anything you need me to do, I’ll do it. I just want you to be OK. I need you to be OK. You’re everything to me.” She says, blue eyes locked on yours.
“Can you just hold me tonight?” You sniffle. “Of course.”
Paige lays on your bed, pulling you into her arms, she presses her lips to your head before her fingers find your hair and she runs through it gently, “You’re gonna be OK.” She whispers comfortingly. “You promise?”
“I promise.”
˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊✧˚ · .
a/n: i wrote this so tired so forgive any mistakes 😭 already want to write a part 2 🥺🥺
ONE • [1.3k] the nerd at the aquarium — fluff, strangers to lovers, first kiss, hand holding
you take your nephew to your city’s aquarium where you met her crouched next to your nephew after having run off in excitement
TWO • [2.7k] depth of desire — hurt/comfort, smut, fluff, established relationship
sneaking into the aquarium after hours to meet her for her personal tour, you catch her laughing with a coworker, igniting a heated argument. you confront her about whether there's something more between them, but she insists it was harmless. tensions flare, and the air thickens, leading to a fiery encounter
THREE?
headcannons/other ༊*·˚
what music would be playing at the aquarium (as described in the story)
