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Hey, I’m not sure if you’re taking requests (if you’re not you can just ignore this) but if you are would you be able to do a Braxton x reader where he tells her he likes getting into fights and asked her “You think it’s weird I like to fight?” And she replies with “Only if you think it’s weird I like to watch you fight” or something along those lines. Sorry if it’s weird or if you’re not taking requests 🫣 (love you’re writing btw, not enough people write for Brax)

I don't usually take requests exactly for this reason, cause it takes me forever to fill them out, and then I'm always unsure if people like what I come up with or not. I did it anyway, lol. Even if it took me three months to write a 600 word drabble. Hope you like it!

lucky

braxton x reader | drabble

As all your outings with Braxton, this one was one to remember. Or to forget. You’re not sure which one. 

You were leaning on the pool table, chalking your cue, with a neat stack of bills resting by your drink—your winnings from the last game. The guy across from you, all beer breath and overconfidence, had just lost the last round, and he wasn’t taking it well.

“You hustle me, sweetheart?” he slurred, stepping closer than anyone needed to for a conversation. His hand brushed the edge of your hip, and you straightened slowly, meeting his gaze with a practiced calm that was more of a warning. 

“Hands off, sweetheart.” You echoed back.

He stepped back half a pace, palms raised in mock surrender, a dirty grin stretching across his face. But his mind was already moving in the wrong direction. As you reached for your money, he grabbed your wrist and tried to lock his other arm around you.

Before he could, Braxton was there. He’d been leaning against the wall near the bar, nursing a beer, quietly rooting for you from a distance. The second that hand touched you again, he snapped. The bottle clinked to the floor, and in two strides he was on the guy. A hard shove rattled the pool table. From there, no words. Just fists and grunts, the kind of language Braxton spoke fluently when he was angry.

People scattered, stools toppled, drinks hit the floor.

Before anyone could intervene, Brax had the guy out the window. The bartender didn��t even get the chance to swing the bat in his hands before Brax grabbed yours and hauled you out of the chaos.

You jumped into the car and didn’t stop driving until the bar was nothing but a memory in the rearview. That’s how you ended up here—pulled over on the side of the road, headlights cutting through the dark, first aid kit from the trunk spread open between you.

The antiseptic stings more than it should when you dab it along his cheekbone. But Braxton doesn’t flinch. He never does. He just stands there, leaning on the side of the car, blood drying along his lip, shades of purple taking over his jaw, and a knuckle-raw dominant hand propped on the hood. It's just another night's end with you fixing him up. You should know better by now than to take him out for drinks. It's not that he can't handle his alcohol. The thing he can't handle is the assholes that frequent the bars in your neighborhood. 

As you dip the cotton ball in more peroxide, you say casually, “you know, it kinda looks like you enjoy this too much.”

He scoffs, the corner of his mouth pulling up, tightening the open cut. 

“Do I?”

You gesture vaguely at his bruised jaw. “Well, you're not exactly running from it.”

Braxton shifts, lifting a brow. “Does it look like I enjoy this?” 

You nod without hesitation. “Yeah. It does.”

“Even if I did…” he pauses for a beat when you tilt his head to the side. “Would you think it’s weird I like getting into fights?”

You shrug. “Only if you think it’s weird I like to watch. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I don't like seeing you get punched in the face all the time. But watching you getting your hands dirty to defend my honor… I don't know…” you pause to get another piece of gauze. “It's kind of hot.”

He laughs under his breath, winces as it pulls at his lip. “You’re messed up.”

“Says the guy who starts fights on a Wednesday night like it’s a form of therapy.”

“Touché.”

You lean in, applying the last of the ointment, and whisper, “you’re lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“Uh-hm. Lucky to have me.”

His mouth draws another smile. “Yeah, I guess I’m lucky.”

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