#shower screen replacement

[ohcaptains]

𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟.

college! peter parker x fem reader.

18+ only !!! f! receiving oral sex. peter parker has an oral fixation i said what i said. in my spider-man era again.

peter was a weekly visitor at this point. sometimes, it was twice, but never more than three. three was pushing it.

Three said that Peter meant something to you, and you couldn’t have that. No, whatever this was between the pair of you was strictly transactional. It was Peter texting you late at night, the classic, you up? Gracing your screen, and every time, you would pretend to be annoyed.

As if Peter coming around to give you the greatest head of your life was an inconvenience. Tempted, the devil on your shoulder smirking, to type back, Jesus, again? but never doing it. Instead, you wrote: sure.

Still, it plagued your mind. He never asked for anything else.

It was as if he did this purely for himself.

“Oh fuck,” you mewled, clenching down tight. The hand that was wrapped around Peter’s brown curls clutched and tugged, and the unconscious movement earned you a chastised groan. It rumbled through your cunt, and the echo shot to your clit, making you close your eyes and lean back, wet mouth spilling his name into your dorm.

Peter liked hearing you.

Liked seeing you lose your mind with his head between your thighs, your pussy wet and throbbing from his mouth and fingers. It’s why he came around often. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even text, would just knock on your door -- looking sheepish from under his dark curls -- and just. Not. Say. Anything.

His silence was answer enough. You knew what he wanted. Or, needed, as you later figured out, as you saw how red he’d gotten when you told him he couldn’t come around for a bit. When you said something about focusing on exams, he’d come over anyway, whined, shuffled his feet and said, You can do your work, I just gotta…I’ll be quick.

The lack of explanation made your mind swirl. But regardless, you’d let him in and did your work with his head between your thighs. He’d tutored you, too, told you how to solve for x with his fingers inside of you. He’d said, if you let me make you come again, I’ll do your Maths work for the next week. After he’d left, you stared at the scene of the crime in pure silence.

Just…reflecting.

Peter fluttered his tongue over your swollen clit. Focused on swirling it around his tongue in sloppy, wet circles, and the thick desire that swelled between your thighs began to pool at your lower back, forcing you to arch up into it.

“Please,” you wept, even though he was giving you what you wanted. Flat on your back with his deft grip keeping your bare thighs open. It was 8 pm. He’d caught you just after your shower, so the smell of your shampoo and body wash wafted through the air – Lavender and pear.

Peter had spread you open and said you smelled like spring. You’d been far too turned on to comment on it. He grumbled into your cunt, and you managed to work out the word, more? You hummed, too drunk on him and wound tight to verbalise that yes, you wanted more. Wanted him to make you come, and come again, till all you could do was mumble his name and focus on your breathing.

He'd learnt how you liked it. Paid attention, and he was getting full scores as he pushed his tongue flat against your swollen clit and sucked. Your vision went white.

“Oh fuck – ohfuck, Peter—” you squirmed, but Peter was strong, and he held you to the bed with his vice-like grip, wordlessly saying take it take it take it.

He lapped at you, salvia drooling over your cunt and down his chin, soaking the sheets. He was always so careless. In moments like this, that nervous edge that always fluttered around him was gone, replaced by a visceral drive to either please you, or get what he wanted.

The two bled into each other.

His tempo was leisurely, but that didn’t stop the heat from washing over you all at once.

You clamped your thighs around his ears and moaned -- loud, so loud that you were sure the other students on your floor heard.

Still, the ache was erratic, “So good,” you sobbed, and you heard yourself, heard the near primal need in your voice, and the desperation made you embarrassed, made you cover your mouth with your palm and grip the sheets, willing yourself to cool it. 

“Move your hand, or I’ll stop,” he uttered against you, and your clit was so sore that the echo of his words made your eyes roll back. Peter must have seen, as he hummed a laugh, and kissed your inner thigh, “lemme hear you.”

Managing to gain some sense of sanity, you blearily blinked down at him, but all sense of stability you thought you had was wiped away when you saw Peter had his hand stuffed down his pants.

You dropped back onto the bed and sobbed.

You knew he got off on this, but Jesus Christ, you’d never seen that before.

“Gotta be kidding me,” you breathed, and Peter must have understood what you were referencing, as he buried his reddening face into your inner thigh. He let out a breathy chuckle, “’ M’sorry,” he mumbled, “usually I wait till I get home, but you’re just so hot.”

You had to stay completely still, or you’d burst. Usually, I wait till I get home?

Peter moved his face and began nuzzling the wet folds of your pussy. He bumped his nose against your clit, and you quietly choked.

Peter hummed, “couldn’t help myself.”

You figured he did something like that, but the admission made your thighs tense. You pictured him stumbling home – cheeks still wet with you – and tugging his pants down, quickly shoving his hands into his boxers and taking hold of his aching cock. Did he whimper when he came? Or was he silent, all tremors and low grunts? No. He definitely whimpered.

He was far too pretty to stay quiet.

The sudden desire to kiss him swept over you.

Reaching down, you tugged at his curls, wordlessly motioning him to move. When he did, you briefly saw the red of his cheeks and wet of his nose before you kissed him, all tongue, and tasted yourself on his pink lips.

Peter melted into you. Huffed your name like a sigh, and the sheer tenderness of it had you wrapping your legs around his back and pressing your bare cunt against his jeans.

He was rock-hard. Tentatively, you ran your nails over his chest, and dipped low, pressing between his thighs, cupping his bulge, and gently squeezing. Peter wept.

“Oh fuck,” he sobbed, as desperate as you imagined. With one hand in his hair and the other on his cock, you continued to kiss him, until the ache between your thighs became too much to bear.

“Make me come,” you whispered, “and I’ll put you in my mouth.”

Peter had never moved so fast in his life.

[tojisun]

no matter how hard you try, you just can’t make yourself cum tonight.

the position is wrong, your toy is still dead as hell so you had to resort to using your fingers, but those aren’t hitting somewhere deep and scratching that itch you have of wanting to be filled, and it has you crying in frustration.

god, you just wanted to fuck yourself into a good orgasm once. but your fingers are starting to feel numb, and your arm is cramping up, and you feel annoyingly sore already. you know you should call it quits; that you should just douse the flames of your desire with a cold shower and just retire for the night, but you are so, so stubborn and angry and—

you snarl, ripping your fingers out of your cunt before twisting to snatch your phone from where you’d flung it close to the wall. you use your clean hand, wiping the other one on your bedsheets—you might have to wash them tonight, anyway—and sends a message to johnny.

cant cum <

fuck me pls <

you drop your phone to your stomach, hearing yourself heave as your body catches up to the exhaustion. you stare up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the blazing heat and the soreness and the emptiness, and focusing instead on the little spark of need that you refuse to extinguish because you know johnny. you know he’d reply soon.

(he’s always fucked you good; filled you up with slurring words crooned to your ears, his big hands stretching across your stomach because he swears underneath all this skin and fat, he feels his cock fucking in, in, in.

he loves taunting you when your quiet tears turn into soft sobs—ye gonna cum soon, bon? show me yer cummin’ face, huh? c’mon bon.

he is so, so mean, and you need nothing less right now.)

true to your thoughts, your phone buzzes two minutes later. you pick it back up, grunting in confusion when instead of johnny’s name, you see john’s.

is he alright? did he need something from you? god, you think he’d let you do it tomorrow or at least in a couple of hours?

you tap at the notification, only to feel the curiosity bleed out of you to be replaced with startling horror. it’s like ice water was dumped on you, extinguishing every embers of your libido because there, on your screen, was john. replying to your message.

you had—

> quite forward of you. well, since you asked so nicely, we’re on our way.

you had sent the message to—

three knocks—taptap-tap—suddenly thud on your door. you gasp, looking up from your phone to stare at your locked door, dreadful.

you sent it to the damn group chat.

-

part 02

[witherby]

*raises hand* more littlest Wayne please 🥺

You got it!

The Littlest Wayne: Jason's Experience

You're a weird baby.

At least, that's what Jason thinks. You don't really cry about anything, you don't whine much except when you're maneuvered uncomfortably or rudely woken up from a nap before you're ready. But even then, it's almost a complaint for the sake of complaining, and not really a full-blown fit.

( It's great for allowing your new, vigilante family to sleep through the night. Horrible for their collective paranoia, which makes them get up to check and make sure you're still breathing through the night anyway. )

You're not deaf — Bruce had you taken in for a full examination and health screening while the ink on your adoption papers were still drying — so that's not why you're quiet, either. Aside from being a touch underweight, likely from whoever cared for you before, it seems like you just don't have much to be upset about.

Jason thinks that weird as fuck. Nobody is neglecting you or anything, but there are times where the lack of hunger cues make one of your brothers realize you haven't eaten since breakfast, or that nobody has checked your diaper in four hours and you've just been chilling in a wet nappy. This makes his monitoring of your general well-being increase ten-fold, to the point that he's the one that spends the most time with you aside from Bruce.

Dr. Leslie insists that some babies are just Like That. Alfred does, too. Their lack of concern helps him be less concerned. But it's still there. Surely there's something a baby would cry about; you're a fuckin baby, and that's, like, your primary job besides eating and sleeping.

He finds out that there is, in fact, something to cry about when he comes back from a week-long job as the Red Hood, having needed to leave the Manor to track down a criminal organization quickly gaining traction that he didn't like the looks of. When he wraps up the last of those loose ends, he steps into his apartment in Crime Alley and digs out his personal phone, switching it on to find dozens of messages from Bruce and his brothers.

Replacement: Dude, u need to get back here ASAP when ur done. The babe is straight tweakin

Eldest Daughter Syndrome: Heyyy lil wing 👋 no rush no rush, but swing by when you've got a sec! Our newest member misses you 🍼

Ninja Wannabe: Todd, your presence is required. Father's newest ward is screaming incessantly without you to entertain their mindless brain. I've retreated to Bludhaven to spare my ears until your return.

B: Stay safe, Jaylad. Adjusting to you being gone is a little tough for the baby, as I'm sure your brothers already told you. I just want you to know that there's no obligation to hurry back. They're okay, and the screaming isn't as bad as everyone is making it out to be.

Alfred: Good day, Master Jason. There is an entire batch of double-fudge brownies with your name on it upon your safe return. Best wishes.

You must be screaming the manor down if Alfred is bribing Jason with junk food, let alone a whole tray of it. He hurries out of his armor with half-concern, half-amusement, showers, then speeds off. In less than an hour, he's pulling into the driveway and parking his bike, and Tim was not fucking lying when he texted him.

Turns out it was good that you weren't a huge crier, because you had pipes that put opera singers to shame. When Jason steps inside, the faint, high pitched whines he heard through the door turn into full-fledged wailing. It's just a matter of following it down a couple corridors before he reaches the day room, which was recently repurposed into one of your play areas. He locks onto the image of one very distressed Dick, face flushed and cotton stuffed in his ears as he desperately jangles a set of plastic keys over your body.

"C'mon, baby bat," he croons, sounding near tears himself, "I dunno what you need. Calm down, honey, please."

You lie on a playmat in front of Dick, paying the toy no mind. Your eyes are squeezed shut, tears are running down your cheeks, your face is ruby red, and your tiny fists are clenched as tight as possible as you kick your legs and wail, and wail, and wail some more. It would be impressive if it weren't concerning.

"Whoa," Jason blurts, stepping fully into the room. Dick spots him and slumps with visible relief, like a puppet with cut strings. "They've been like this the whole time?"

"They were completely fine the first day! But next morning, we saw them looking around for you, and...well." Dick gestures helplessly to your thrashing form. Jason tuts and scoops you into his arms, wincing a bit at your shriek, and starts to gently bounce you.

"Hey, there," he mutters, "what's all this now, weirdo? You didn't have me around to spoon feed you gross baby mush or wipe your butt, and now you're making it everybody else's problem? Huh? That's rude as hell."

Your cries continue a little while longer. Jason continues to talk to you, to call your antics silly, to soothe you, until you finally crack an eye open and register just who it is that's got you in their arms. You stare at Jason kinda like he's an alien, brows furrowed and nose scrunched, but then your wails dissolve into sobs, then little hiccups, then just the occasional sniffle. One of your hands unclenches to latch onto his shirt instead, and you mush your face into his chest.

And you just. Completely stop it. Bruce, Dick, Tim, Alfred, and Damian had fallen all over themselves for days trying to soothe you, and a couple minutes of staring at Jason had completely eliminated the problem.

"You gotta move back to the Manor," Dick blurts from where he remained on the floor, wide-eyed and hands clasped together. "Please come back. Please. I am begging. On my hands and knees if you need it. I will do all your chores for the next year. Do not leave again."

"Not my fault I'm the favorite," Jason huffs, but the protective way he holds you, the concerned way he's checking over your face and throat to see if you hurt yourself crying for so long, the continued bouncing he does for you, all points to him moving back home. He makes the arrangements the next day.

And if Jason makes sure future missions he has to go on don't last more than two days, well, that's no one's business but his own.

You're still a weird baby, though. Even if Jason being your favorite is pretty cool.

[kirlicues]

Maxis Lost & Found and Default Replacement List | Resources: Sims 2 | Improving the Look of the Game

Here is a resource list of the Default Replacements I use to improve the look of my game, as well as "Maxis Lost & Found items" to add a little more variety.

I play a mostly CC-free game but I've also included a list of the tiny amount of "Maxis match" CC that I use, so if you download my lots and you have these things installed the houses should look like they do in the previews.

Can you believe the Sims 2 is over 20 years old!? It will look like it's hardly aged a day after you put these defaults in. 🤭 I also recommend Reshade for a truly up-to-date experience.

** This post might get updated from time to time. 💗 **

Build Mode Defaults:

Bay Tree texture default by @tvickiesims

Greener Gardens bush defaults by @peppermint-ginger

Greener Gardens Part 2 by @peppermint-ginger

Phlox by @tvickiesims

Plant Texture Defaults from this pack by @pforestsims

Default Garden Plot by @fwaysims

Less Square Waterlilies by @lvstndhrt

Brighter leaves, less square scattered leaves by @shastakiss and TheNinthWave Sims

White Roof Trim Defaults by Phaenoh at ModtheSims

Wall top texture defaults by Maranatah at ModtheSims

Window Fixes by Honeywell at ModtheSims

Mesh replacements for "Border of Helier" fences and the "Near the Floor" half wall by @crispsandkerosene

Buy Mode Defaults:

Custom Computer Screens Default Replacement by @eddysims

Custom Computer Screen - Term paper default add-on

Smaller Cash Register by @pforestsims

Better BBQ by @pforestsims

Useable TSS Coat Hangers (Outerwear, requires Seasons) by Richi3frog at ModtheSims

Keister Kompanion by @pforestsims

White Euro Stairs and Rail OFB (no more aqua line!), open underneath by Rosie. See a picture of it in use here.

Holy Smoke stairs clear glass (as opposed to blue) by @tvickiesims

Upwardly Mobile, Sweeping Success, Stair to Remember Fixes by @simblrnova

Black and White Bare Bath by @tvickiesims

Loft Shower clear glass (as opposed to blue) by @honeywellsdownloads

Clear glass on most objects by Corax at ModtheSims

Clear glass for windows and doors by Slig

Clothing Racks by @withlovefromsimtown

Mission Redux by Leefish

Teak Double Bed by HugeLunatic

Neighborhood Defaults:

Terrain Defaults - @curiousb

No more Blurriness - Beach, Cliff, and Snow defaults - Voeille

Criquettes Linden Trees as Default Replacements

Neighborhood Tree Default Replacements (specifically Ginko,

Redbud, and Walnut) by Honeywell at ModtheSims

Beautified Birch Trees by SixFootSims

CS Seasonal Pines as BG Pine Default by @lowedeus

Snow enabled Seasonal Pines by @lowedeus

Maxis BG Clouds made Global by @lazyduchess and @lowedeus

Effects Defaults:

Prettier Plumbobs by Ambular

Better Thought/Conversation Bubbles by @eddysims

Prettier Bubble Bath by @pforestsims

Sink and Basin Water Revised by @pforestsims

Fountain Water (clear and foamy) by @pforestsims

Clean Skill Meters Default by @pforestsims

Clean OFB Buy Bar Default by @pforestsims

Eye-friendly Countertops by @pforestsims

No Sheen On Ivy by @tvickiesims

Maxis Match Custom Content I use:

Maxis Match Wall Cabinets by CTNutmegger at ModtheSims

Creeping Ivy 3t2 Conversion by MustLuvCatz at ModtheSims

3t2 Functional Washer/dryer by MustLuvCatz at ModtheSims

LG Dryer & Washer Machine by Fresh-Prince at ModtheSims

Maxis Match Chimney Recolors by Kimsie at ModtheSims

I also use some skyboxes and skylines to add interest to preview pictures but those are not included in any of the lot files I offer.

"Maxis Lost & Found" objects converted into usable items by various modders:

Floral Modern Sofa recolor

The Stainless Barbecue - Grey Recolor

Five Studio Lamps

Numica 2x2 card table

Dielectric Electrobreeze Windmill

Broken Snow Globe

18th Century Portrait

Will Wright painting and grouped photos from CAS

"Vacation" recolor for Maxis painting

Ball Obelisk and Monolith Decorative Topiaries

Seven new trees

Modern Print

Souvenir Cabinet

International Sectional Booth

Cricket Bat

Floral Centerpiece

Race Car Bedroom

Lit Clothing Shop Sign

Ikea Pictures

Stockholm Bowl

BASKIS Ceiling Light

Ikea Lights ORGEL, ORGEL VRETEN, DUNO, LYRA

SKIMRA Lamp

Billy Wall Shelf

BENNO Coffee Table (Ikea Stuff)

Washboard (BV)

Plumbob Arch

Loft CAS Window, 2-story Timber column

Loft CAS Window - Fixed

Pinegultcher and Longhorn Balustrade Fences

Nouvelle Fences - "Brass" and "White" recolors

Art Nouveau gate - "White" recolor

Zecutine's "Step Away With Me" Stairs - "Olive" recolor

ValueWood Lumber's "Justa Door" - "Grey" recolor

Yellow Community Phone Recolor

Brick Wall (plus non-Maxis add-on textures)

Nightlife Tile Wall covering

Worn "Bamboo Fever" Wallpaper

Eat At Tiles - Red and White Tile walls

Misc floors

Jungle Rocks Neighborhood Décor (BV)

Bohemian Moldings Diagonal Mesh + Default

How to find more lost and found walls and floors and fences (There are quite a few duplicates that are already in your game if you unlock all of these, so just beware.)

Maxis Pre-Order Bonuses and Old TS2 Site Downloads

Additional useful links:

Must-have mods list for TS2. Compiled especially for Sims 2 Legacy Edition players, but useful for anyone no matter what version of TS2 you play.

Sims 2 Object Default Database Spreadsheet - this includes a whole bunch of defaults that I do not use.

A huge thank you to all the talented creators and modders who keep this game looking fresh after 20 years!

[diekleinesuesse]

Them being Jealous

Hongjoong – The Subtle but Intense Jealousy

Hongjoong isn’t the type to be openly possessive, but when he feels like he’s not getting the attention he deserves, he starts acting out in subtle ways. Maybe you’ve been on your phone for too long, replying to messages and laughing at your screen, completely ignoring him while he’s sitting right next to you. At first, he just watches, silently tapping his fingers against his knee, waiting for you to realize he’s there. But when minutes pass, and you’re still absorbed in whatever is on your screen, he clears his throat dramatically.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he mutters, rolling his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m just your boyfriend, but who cares about me, right?”

You finally glance up at him, and his pout is unmistakable. His usual confident, charismatic demeanor is replaced with this sulky, needy energy that is both endearing and amusing. If you tease him about it, he’ll scoff and pretend it doesn’t bother him only to pull you into his arms and steal your phone away, forcing you to focus on him instead.

“I guess I’ll just have to steal your attention back,” he says, smirking as he leans in close.

Seonghwa – The Passive-Aggressive Sulking

Seonghwa is usually very mature and patient, but when he gets jealous, it’s a different story. He’s the type to go completely silent, his usual warmth replaced with a cold, distant demeanor. Maybe you’ve been caught up in a conversation with someone else for too long, laughing and engaging with them while Seonghwa watches from the side, arms crossed. He won’t say anything at first, but the moment you turn to him, his expression is unreadable.

“Are you done?” he asks, voice calm but laced with clear irritation.

If you ask what’s wrong, he’ll shake his head and say, “Nothing.” But the way he stiffly stands beside you, barely making eye contact, tells you everything you need to know. He’ll only break when you finally grab his hand and give him your undivided attention, at which point he lets out a small huff.

“I was starting to think you forgot about me,” he mumbles, looking away with a pout.

Once you shower him with affection, he’ll act like he wasn’t sulking at all but you know better.

Yunho – The Overdramatic Baby

Yunho is normally the easygoing, playful one in the relationship, but when he feels neglected, he turns into the biggest, most dramatic baby imaginable. Maybe you’ve been on a call with a friend for too long, or you’ve been too distracted by a show to pay attention to him. He tries to be patient, but eventually, he sighs loudly, flopping down next to you with the weight of someone carrying the world’s burdens.

“Wow, I can’t believe I’m suffering like this,” he says dramatically. “My own partner, ignoring me like I’m invisible… is this what heartbreak feels like?”

If you ignore him further, he ups the theatrics placing a hand on his forehead like he’s about to faint or even lying down across your lap with a pitiful sigh.

“Guess I’ll just die of loneliness,” he mumbles.

The only way to get him to stop is to finally give him attention, at which point he immediately perks up with a grin, acting like he wasn’t just being the most dramatic person alive.

Yeosang – The Silent but Deadly Type

Yeosang doesn’t show his jealousy in loud or obvious ways, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it. If you’re too distracted with something else and not paying him attention, he won’t say anything but he will start giving you short, clipped responses and sending you piercing, unreadable glances.

If you’re talking to someone else and ignoring him, he’ll suddenly get very interested in his phone, scrolling mindlessly but not really reading anything. The air around him will be heavy with unspoken irritation, and if you don’t notice soon enough, he might just get up and leave without a word.

The moment you finally approach him, he’ll pretend like nothing is wrong, though his cold attitude remains.

“Oh, now you notice me?” he’ll say with a raised eyebrow.

It takes a lot of coaxing (and maybe some extra kisses) to get him to let go of his sulky mood, but once he does, he’s back to his usual quiet but affectionate self.

San – The Clingy, Affection-Starved Puppy

San is naturally affectionate, so when he’s feeling jealous or ignored, he doesn’t hold back on making it very obvious. If you’re too distracted, he’ll start by sitting closer, then even closer, until he’s practically glued to your side. If you still don’t give him attention, he’ll wrap his arms around you, resting his head on your shoulder and sighing dramatically.

“Are you ever going to notice me?” he whines.

If you keep ignoring him, he escalates nudging his nose against your cheek, playing with your fingers, maybe even tickling you just to get a reaction. If you’re talking to someone else for too long, he straight-up inserts himself into the conversation, draping an arm around you and giving the other person a charming but territorial smile.

Once he has your attention back, he immediately goes back to being his usual playful and affectionate self, acting like he wasn’t just desperate for your love a moment ago.

Mingi – The Grumpy but Lovable Jealousy

Mingi’s jealousy is a mix of frustration and sulky adorableness. He tries to play it cool, but he’s terrible at hiding his emotions. If you’re too focused on something else and not paying attention to him, he’ll start shifting around, sighing loudly, and muttering under his breath.

At some point, he just straight-up whines.

“Babe, why aren’t you paying attention to me?”

If you keep ignoring him, he’ll cross his arms and pout, refusing to look at you until you finally give in.

The funniest part is, if you tease him about it, he immediately denies it.

“I’m not jealous,” he grumbles, only to immediately demand a hug a second later.

Wooyoung – The Shamelessly Possessive One

Wooyoung doesn’t do subtle jealousy. The moment he feels ignored, he makes it his mission to steal your attention back, no matter what. If you’re on your phone, he straight-up snatches it out of your hands. If you’re talking to someone else, he inserts himself into the conversation like he’s been there the whole time.

“Wow, that’s so interesting,” he says sarcastically, pulling you closer to him. “But you know what’s even more interesting? Me.”

He’s all over youwrapping his arms around you, nuzzling into your neck, being a complete menace until you finally give in.

Jongho – The Stubborn “I’m Not Jealous” Act

Jongho’s jealousy is quiet but intense. He won’t say anything outright, but his whole energy shifts. If you’re not paying attention to him, he just sits there with his arms crossed, expression blank but clearly annoyed. If you ask him what’s wrong, he’ll just shake his head.

“You’re busy. It’s fine,” he says, but the tightness in his voice says otherwise.

It takes a lot of reassurance and coaxing before he finally admits, “Okay, maybe I was a little jealous.”

Once he gets your attention, he acts like he wasn’t sulking at all but he secretly loves when you pamper him.

[whateveriwant]

Annoying Things the 141 Do

Price

Never cleans the sink well after he shaves. Every time you go in the bathroom after he’s trimmed his beard, it’s like walking into a crime scene of a hamster massacre

Always manages to load the dishwasher wrong (because, yes, there is a right way and a wrong way to do it, John)

Asks you to wait for him to get home so you can watch your shows together, but then as soon as you start the first episode, he falls asleep beside you

Smokes his cigars inside sometimes. I don’t care that you sprayed air freshener afterwards, sir. Now the whole house smells like spring meadow and shit!

Is incapable of closing the door behind himself?? At least, that appears to be the case since he’s always leaving your door wide open even though you ask him to shut it when he goes

Doesn’t like throwing things out because he’ll “find a use for it one day”. Even if that day ever does come, I think he has a better chance of finding Atlantis than finding that scrap piece of wood he saved four years ago

Ghost

Turns the TV on and then just… walks away??? And if you try to change it to something else, he grumbles “I was watchin’ tha’” when he comes back

Drinks milk/juice/etc. straight out of the carton. Mr Simon “Patient Zero” Riley might not see the problem with this, but I think the rest of us would agree that is diabolical behavior

Leaves his wet towel on the floor after he showers even though the towel rack is right? there?

Hates asking for help even when he has no clue what he’s doing. Like, sure, I get wanting to fix things yourself. However, I’d rather spend $100 on a simple repair than $1000 on a full replacement after he breaks the thing even more

Puts his phone calls on speaker whenever possible. While this can have its merits sometimes (you get firsthand news of Gaz’s engagement!), most of the time it feels like a nuisance (do you really need to hear Soap talk about his hemorrhoids?)

MANSPREADERRRR! This man cannot sit like a civilized being to save his life. He claims he sits like that because his balls need to breathe, and to that I say good luck trying to breathe after I karate chop you in the throat :))))

Soap

Cuts his toenails in bed, which wouldn’t necessarily be an issue if he didn’t accidentally leave one or two rogue clippings that stab you in the side later when you’re trying to get comfortable

Forgets to put the toilet seat down when he gets up in the middle of the night to pee – that or he pisses all over the seat in the dark. Either way, prepare to have wet cheeks the next time you sit on the toilet

Whenever he doesn’t feel like doing the laundry, he just buys a new set of whatever’s dirty (that’s how he ended up with 100 pairs of socks and 200 pairs of underwear)

Talks nonstop through every show/movie you try to watch. Good luck getting more than five minutes of uninterrupted runtime next to this yapper

Apparently, doesn’t understand what “one bite” means? Whenever he asks you for a bite of your food, he always ends up taking five or six

Also, apparently doesn’t know how to chew with his mouth closed? Like, I’m glad you’re enjoying your meal, Johnny, but can you enjoy it without speckling it all over the table and my face?

Gaz

Two words: bathroom hog. I hope you don’t like taking hot showers or having more than a 6x6 inch square of counter space for your stuff, because after Kyle’s done with his 30-step beauty routine, there’s little of either left

Never knows what he wants to eat for dinner, and no matter what you suggest, he never thinks it sounds good

Has the gall to chastise you for your screen time even though he’s just as bad as you, if not worse (because you being on your phone before bed is so much worse than him playing video games for nine hours straight, right?)

Rests his feet on the couch/bed/coffee table while wearing shoes. It doesn’t matter if they’re brand new or beaten up; take your damn shoes off the furniture, sir!

Never writes down the shopping list because he’ll “remember everything”. (Newsflash: he does not remember everything, which means cue taking a second trip to the store)

Watches one documentary and thinks he’s an expert on the subject. You can have studied a thing for years, can present him with a bunch of rock solid facts and reputable sources, and he’ll hit you with a “Well, actually ☝️🤓” and then proceed to give the most nonsensical take ever

[mediumgayitalian]

Hazel thinks she hates New York.

It’s not Camp Half-Blood. She likes Camp Half-Blood, actually, likes the sweet-smelling strawberry fields, the rolling waves in the distance, the way every colour, every conversation or moment, just seems more. Louder, livelier. It’s only been a couple days but she’s fond of the place, even though the people are odd and the customs odder (seriously — who came up with the curfew harpies? Hazel is no stranger to demigod structural violence, but a group of demonic bird ladies let loose at a random time of “after the sun sets, usually” to kill and devour children and teens is a new level of weird even for her. Percy assures her that the harpy murder is alleged, as he has spent several summers in camp and has not seen it happen, but he is also an amnesiac and an enabler so what does he know).

It’s the stars, she thinks.

New York doesn’t seem to have any.

It was a shock when she was first brought back. How dim the night sky had become, how devoid, bereft. Uranus’ dome now pales in comparison to the dazzling Alaskan skies decades ago, even in New Rome, huddled away from California’s worst light pollution. Even in the middle of the Pacific, in quiet midnights aboard the Argo II, the sky seemed lonelier. She’s gotten used to it, for the most part, the tar-coloured skies, but New York is like the inkwells on the desk she shared with Sammy. They spilled them, constantly, clumsy hands taking the slap of the ruler in exchange for tapping fingers and quiet giggles, and the dark-stained woodgrain is a perfect amalgamation of the skies she watches now; stifling over the screened tent roof, silent as a packed grave. Unsettling.

She should be sleeping. Gwen’s snores beside her are familiar, and the ground is solid. A welcome reprieve from the months she’s spent at sea. But despite the exhaustion twisting in her limbs and bagging under her eyes, she cannot convince herself to drift. Her eyes remain stubbornly open, locked in with the stillborn sky, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Even the moon is dull.

Finally she can take it no longer. Careful not to wake her friend, she creeps out of her sleeping bag, wiggling out over the course of several minutes to avoid the loud rip of the zipper, The tent’s door she can’t muffle, so she opens it as quickly as possible, somersaulting out and zipping it shut behind her in under ten seconds. She holds her breath, hands braced on the taut plastic, straining to hear a shift, a sniffle, a snort of disruption, but there’s nothing. Gwen remains blissfully unconscious, snores steady and even. Good.

Sword firmly in her hands, watching warily for demonic chicken ladies (who are nowhere as sweet or cool as Ella, awful cousins are universal among species it seems) or whatever other horrible ‘features’ Camp Half-Blood forgot to mention to them, she picks her way out of the Roman encampment, through the strawberry fields, and towards the main.

It’s around three in the morning, she’s pretty sure. She can’t be certain, because she cannot see the sky, but she’s always had a knack for navigating the dark. Nico can, too. Perks of being an Underworld child, she supposes.

Hopefully Nico is asleep. (She replaced his cabin door with a solid brick of obsidian to force him to sleep, yesterday, so he better be, but he’s a slippery little brat and she does not doubt his ability to squeeze through the air vents she left for him, or something. His hair was probably greasy enough to slide him right through. He better have showered, or she is going to smack him. Hard.) If he isn’t, though, she wouldn’t mind his company. She is in the mood to complain about the modern world. And if he is, maybe she’ll go wake up Percy. Or wander around until the sun rises. Who knows.

She notices, as she wanders along the edge of the wonky cabin-omega, movement coming from the Big House. Most of the windows are dark, but the bottom floor on the left — the infirmary, she thinks — is dimly lit, conscientious of the late hour, and there is definitely someone moving around. She pauses, watching for a moment, and — yep. A blond boy, every couple of minutes, rushes past a window, stethoscope bouncing off his chest, new thing in his hands with every trip.

He seems harried.

Without much thought, Hazel pushes through the rickety screen door.

At first, he doesn’t seem to notice. Hazel is camouflaged, slightly, but the shadows, her black bonnet and dark sleep clothes blending in with the many shadows cast by shelves of equipment and gently swaying privacy curtains. The boy is busy, flitting from cot to cot, scribbling on charts and tripping over chords. He moves so quickly he is blurry, hard to focus on. It takes him almost a minute to stop, freezing in the dead centre of the overcrowded infirmary, and turn to face Hazel. He is tired, she notices. His eyes are darker than the bruises under them; glassy like black labradorite, and widen as they notice her.

“Oh my gods, you’re — you’re Hazel Levesque! Holy moly.”

“Hi,” she says, smiling slightly. “You look busy for this time of night.”

The boy waves a hand, returning to his fluttering — a little slower, this time, though. Less frantic.

“Oh, yes, well. Lots of things to do. Julia’s collarbone was totally shattered, have to keep monitoring that, and there’s a group who got drop kicked into a broken onager, their recovery concerns me, and we’re rationing nectar again, and I swear I’m always running out of bandages, and I keep getting that niggling feeling, you know, when — you’re forgetting something? Important? But of course you have no idea what, and — I’m sorry.” The boy twitches, freezing midway through changing an empty saline bag, glancing back over at her. “Oh my gods, are you injured? Fuck, of course you are, it’s the middle of the night and you’re here, obviously —”

“Wait, I'm completely —”

“Oh, no, you’re fine.” He sighs, a full bodied thing, and turns his attention back to the chart in his hands. “You’ve got an old riding injury ‘round your left patella, though. You should get that checked out.”

Hazel blinks.

She…does have an old knee injury.

It was a riding accident, when she was nine. She doesn’t remember much, only flying, warm wind kissing along her face, bubbling out of her lungs as she laughed and whooped and forgot who she was, what she was, forgot the stones popping up behind her. They couldn’t catch her anyways. And she remembers falling, wind at her back, instead, and she remembers Sammy’s face, and the panic that clouded it, and her mother’s shouting. She remembers cold marble and an oil-slick voice and cool hands on her forehead. 

She blinks, shaking her head slightly. The blond boy has moved past her, now, pacing up and down the rickety cots, trailing his long fingers over bandaged foreheads and crooked elbows. His mouth moves softly and silently, hands glowing along, shoulder sagging, slightly, with every person he visits.

“You’re exhausted,” she observes. 

The boy smiles slightly, finishing a whispered hymn before turning her way. “Who isn’t?” His fingers twitch, in absence of a task, and start picking at the bandage around his wrist, wrapping, unwrapping, wrapping, unwrapping. “Is your knee bothering you? Unhealed injuries last longer for demigods. Especially after battle. Something about unsettled scores, I don’t know. The concept pisses me off so I refuse to entertain it on principle, but I can ease the pain if you like.”

Her knee does twinge, actually. It’s a damp kind of ache, like a headache in a rainstorm, but it's old and familiar, and hardly even registers. It smarts far less than her heart, anyway. 

Gaea’s gone. 

So is Leo.

Leo is gone.

She swallows. “I’m okay. I’m used to it.”

“Three years ago, a man named Michael Moylon went to the ER for a ‘headache’ he’d been ignoring. Turns out he was shot in the head but was used to the pain, so he didn’t bother.” The boy stands starighter, scolding hands on his hips. Hazel stares at him. “So.” He pats a padded bench with a papery cover over the seat. “Let me take a look.”

…Camp Half-Blood will always be, Hazel thinks, a strange, strange place, with strange, strange people. It’s hard to believe she once thought the Apollo-descendants of Camp Jupiter oddities; it’s hard to believe she once found anyone odd. Even outside of Camp Half-Blood. 

Gods, child-eating harpies. She really can’t get over it.

The medic wastes no time. The second she forces her feet to move, settling in on the cot, he is in action, tapping her pant leg gently so she rolls it up – which she does, flushing red and pretending not to see his bit-back smile – and prodding gently at the area, humming to himself. 

“Jeez,” he murmurs, pushing the tip of her kneecap with his thumb until she winces. “You shattered the whole bone!”

“There is no way you could possibly know that,” she argues. “I broke it – gods, I broke it ninety years ago, almost. And it healed.”

“It healed ish,” the medic corrects. “By ish I mean maybe someone tied a bandage on it and you were on crutches for a week.”

Hazel has seen a grand many things, even for a demigod. She has faced Titans. She has faced Giants. She has won, in all of these fights, she has held fallen comrades, she has wept for them, she has wept for decades, cursing and loving her mother in equal measure. She has stood her ground in front of six of the most powerful demigods to ever walk the Earth and defended her brother. She has faced off her own Father, even, and the broken power behind his eyes. She has bent the Mist to her will. She has bent the Earth to her will. It is not cocky to say she is strong, it is not arrogant to claim she has seen all there is to have seen. 

Still, the small pop of her gaping mouth echoes in the quiet, midnight infirmary, and the boy smiles, sideways and crooked, and shoots her a wink. 

“I could tell you how often someone two hundred thousand years ago ate shellfish by looking at a fossilized tooth. Believe me, I know what a shattered patella looks like.”

Modern medicine is a wild thing. Hazel has found that a lot of her friends in modern times have no idea how good they have it, and how wildly medicinal science has progressed in the last century. Aside from machinery and accurate devices, the pure knowledge that is widely available is mind-blowing. Hazel still remembers the looks she got when recommending calomel to a stressed out mother of a colicky baby in a cafe – it’s not like she knew mercury was poisonous. She remembers dosing out her mother’s calomel solutions for her deepest depressions. 

Still. There is a difference between modern medicine and near-divining her past with the barest touch of a bone through layers of skin and fat and muscle. 

The boy hovers wide, scarred hands over her knees, waiting for her nod. As he rests his palm on her skin she sighs, quick and startled like the quick collapse of a carnival tent; the bright, clear heat of his hands sinks into the pores of her skin and settles deep inside her brittle bones, warming a cold she hadn’t realised she’d been harboring. He begins to sing, under his breath, first, but slowly swelling with the night breeze through the open windows, swirling around the climbing plants hanging from the ceiling and weaving through the stone fountain in the room’s corner, pulling her lingering pain away with it. Hazel watches, wide-eyed, as the shadows take shape, chasing the song, of a horse, red-eyed and panicked, and a small little wisp of a thing, weak and limp. With every lilting note, the shadows get softer, and softer, and softer, until they wash away in the fountain’s stream. 

In the silence there is the warmth of the medic’s hand still on her knee. In the silence there is that same warmth, liquid, slowly pushing its way through her veins and blood, settling curled and tired in the marrow of her bones. In the silence there is, for the first time in nearly a century, a stillness, a total lack of the low, pulsating, ice-cold pain that has been quietly pushing from her knee for longer than it hasn’t. 

“Can everybody do that here?” she asks, finally, breathlessly. “Or just you?” 

Hazel makes no habit of the infirmary in Camp Jupiter, but biannual check-ups are mandatory and she is not immune to injury. Still. This is a relief unlike she has ever felt. 

The waves his hand, pulling back, and grins. “I take it you feel better?”

She answers honestly. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt better in my life.”

There is an ache, still, home in the dead centre of her chest, a lump still growing in the back of her through, and should she think too long, her eyes sting. But Leo is not…Leo is missing. And he is troublesome, like his great-grandfather, and slippery, and she has more faith in her friend than in Death. The ache is not overwhelming. The ache is tinged with something spiked and fiery, fueled by the genuine strength she feels in her body for perhaps the first time in my life. 

“Good.”

The medic twitches, slightly, as if he were about to reach out but thought better of it. He nods, instead, smiling, and walks back off to the end of the cots, where a monitor is beeping softly. This time, Hazel follows him, sliding off the bench and peeling the crinkling paper off her backside, stepping nimbly over taped-down cords and kicked-off blankets. She stands behind him, on her tiptoes, straining over his (too tall. People should stop growing after five-ten, she believes, except Frank who is an exception because he is cute) shoulders to watch what he is doing. He explains, around another muffled smile, each number and symbol, pointing to the freshly bandaged chest of the patient and muttering about reckless, thought-averse fools and internal bleeding isn’t real, nyeh nyeh nyeh and when I finally go insane and quit, they will have to beg for six business years to get me back I mean it. 

“Are the other medics this…” Hm. Unprofessional is probably not the word to use, here. “...Spirited?”

The boy raises a perfectly-shaped eyebrow. Hazel flushes. 

“The other medics are eleven and thirteen,” he says dryly. “And Kayla is currently over there –” he points to a snoring girl with dyed-green hair, who is bandaged in six different places and is sleeping upside down – “because she makes bad choices and has been demoted to assistant until I’m less mad at her, so.” He shrugs. “Spirited is what y’all get.”

“I didn’t mean to offend,” she tries. The boy just snorts. 

“Y’r’gonna havta try a whole heap harder to offend me, that’s for damn certain,” he assures. “If I was really gonna quit, I woulda done it two years ago when they slapped the head honcho badge on my shoulder and told me to get crackin’.”

Hazel stills. Demigod life is a – wild thing, she knows, and most have not lived as long as she has, ageing like amber in the depths of the Underworld while the world stretches on ahead. Percy’s face when he realized demigods could live longer than eighteen still haunts her nightmares. Camp Half-Blood is a loud, lively place, that burns brightly over its layers of ashes and yells over the sound of weeping ghosts left behind. That much she can gather. It should not be strange to her for an eleven-year-old medic, or an army of teenagers. Her own camp is guarded by an eight-year-old. 

But this boy still has stubborn baby fat clinging to his cheeks, for all his height. He cannot be more than fourteen. Fifteen, if she stretches. 

The youngest head medics at Camp Jupiter are twenty-two. Regardless of demigod life, skills take time to learn, and stomachs and hearts take years to turn to stone. 

“I’m – sorry,” the boy says, voice crackling like burning pyres. “I’m –” he forces a smile, a quick, strained thing – “I am, uh, spirited. Unprofessional. I haven’t slept in several days and I’m – uh, I don’t like working Austin too hard. He’s still learning, and he doesn’t like healing much, anyway.” He busies himself quickly with the patient he pointed out earlier – Kayla, the thirteen-year-old medic. It is quickly apparent that there is nothing to be done for her, and he stands there, back turned to Hazel, scarred hands twitching above her forehead until they settle, finally, featherlight, like he’s scared a touch will wake her. Like he’s scared a touch will hurt her. 

His shoulders shake, slightly. It’s too dark for anyone else to see the twin droplets, splattering on the corner of her cot. 

Hazel’s chest smarts something awful. 

“Where are the other medics?” 

She knows there are none before he answers. He must know that she knows, judging the careful steadiness of her voice, the fleeting touch of her finger on his clenched fist. She pulls back when his hands begin to shake, worse than before, and his finger worms under the bandages on his wrist, pulling and twisting, twisting, twisting. He stands close to Kayla, still. Hovering, careful. His lips part, and Hazel holds her breath. 

“There were more of us,” he begins, hushed. His dark eyes track Kayla’s snoring. “I was the thirteenth. They were –” He looks up, suddenly, looks over, and the look in his eyes is like cracking ice, like a glacier that has stood for thousands of years breaking finally into the arctic sea and falling under its own weight to the sandy floor. Like the fractured flash of sky between lightning, like the azure glass shards of a Christmas ornament refracting back the twinkling candlelight. “It was so loud in here, once.”

Hazel tries to reconcile that, in her head. This boy standing at the edge of his younger sister’s hospital bed, his younger brother tucked safely away, awake for maybe the fourth or fifth day in a row. I was the thirteenth. 

Hazel knows a little something about unlucky number thirteen. 

“War?” she asks, quietly, remembering something Jason had told her, on guard on the Argo, about a Titan’s battle on two sides of the country. About an army of snake-monsters for them, and something on the other end. Something worse. 

“Slaughtered,” the medic says hoarsely. Another tear traces the path of the first, low light flashing off the sheen of it. “First the – first my sisters, the oldest, then my brother, then – all of them, at once, at the same –” He chokes, on something, on the truth of it or the pain of it or both. Something bubbles in Hazel’s chest, thick and oily, something like horror and pain and hatred; a pit of the same tar that killed her the first time bubbling through her veins and burning the back of her throat. Twelve children. Her throat dries.

“All of them?”

“Every last fucking one,” says the boy, and the pain swells from him so thickly and ardently Hazel is half-sure each ghost is standing behind her, boring into his gaze. “Every last one. I watched them.”

Hazel watched. She held her eyes open for as long as she could when the tar swallowed them, when Gaea dragged them down. Her mother’s kiss burned hotter on her forehead than the boil of the earth exploding around them, and the shine of Marie Levesque’s guilty tears glittered brighter than the diamonds popping like falling stars everywhere Hazel touched. She held her eyes open until the heat dried them blind. She watched, as long as she could, her prodigal mother sink, her beautiful, broken mother die. She had thought she would feel something worse, something like satisfaction. Vindication. Nico told her they hold grudges. She had known it about herself before then. But the pain of her body ripping from her soul was secondary to the pain of realizing, to the pain of finally understanding that her mother suffered, too. Pluto’s wanting had cost them both, and Marie had only barely been able to apologize. She had never been able to make amends. And now she walked, like all souls do, along the beaten paths of Asphodel, reduced to her guilt, to her anger, to her wanting. 

Hazel sits heavily on the one remaining cot. After a moment, the boy joins her. 

“I don’t think it’s worth it,” he admits, quietly. He meets her eyes when she faces him, blue-black in the candlelight. “All – this.”

She follows his gesturing hands. To the bandaged girl, Kayla, to the bloodied, to the sheets pulled over small faces. To the brothers and sisters slumped exhausted by bedsights, tear tracks dried on young faces. To the faded pictures rubbed worn with mourning, gentle fingers. 

They have never been thanked by the gods. 

She’s not sure it would be worth it, either.

“There’s nothing that will bring them back.”

It’s not consolation. It doesn’t sound like it, either; to her own ears it sounds defeated. Agreeing. 

“Do you think they’d even want to be back?”

“Probably not.” She swallows, thinking of Leo. Is he relieved? He’d insisted on being the sacrifice. She hadn’t fought him. She couldn’t blame him for wanting. “I wouldn’t.”

They sit in the non-silence. The medic pulls the bandages on his wrists until they are bruising; Hazel’s fingernails, unbidden, reach up to her lips, pick, pick, picking until salted iron dribbles down her chin, onto her pajama shirt. In the heavy stillness of the twilight there are people coughing, and snoring, and worse, moaning, groaning. Crying. Calling out for their mothers, for their sisters. Birds wail outside the open windows. Cicadas weep. Dryads murmur amongst themselves, sap dripping out of them in swathes.

“I know you’re a big-shot Prophecy of the Seven kid,” says the medic, smiling wryly at her. He sniffles, swiping a hand over his face; as the first rays of sunlight begin to stream in Hazel realizes he is spattered with a night sky’s worth of freckles. “But, uh. If you’re not busy, I could use a hand today. Every day, really. Whenever you’re free.” He exhales. "Sometimes it makes it a little bit worth it."

There is a veritable library’s worth of to-do lists for Hazel to work through tomorrow. Today. She’s a high enough rank that her presence and her direction will be missed. 

Regardless, she smiles back. 

“Yeah.” She reaches for his hand, and he releases his bandages, holding their palms together. “Yeah, I’ll hang out in here today.”

[hollyseb]

A COLLISION OF FATE - CEO!BUCKY X ASSISTANT READER (one-shot)

warnings; swearing, minors dni

2.4k words

summary; As an assistant to the powerful CEO Bucky Barnes, you’ve always kept things strictly professional—maybe even a little distant. But when a chaotic morning commute turns your world upside down, you find yourself relying on your boss in unexpected ways.

authors note; this is my first fic in a while so please let me know what you think!

Fuck.

You couldn’t help but pull the bed sheets over your head as your alarm sounded. You’d slept terribly, anticipation stewing in your chest all night long. A huge day at work loomed ahead. Your boss trusted you with organising a client meeting for a massive company project, and despite your meticulous preparations, anxiety gnawed at you relentlessly.

This marks your fourth month as an assistant to Mr Barnes, CEO of Barnes Industries. Your boss embodies power and leadership, standing well over six feet. He has a presence that’s impossible to ignore, although you often find yourself trying to; avoiding his piercing gaze, shrinking away from his broad figure. He intimidated you.

You’d learned to anticipate his needs, not just to impress him but perhaps as an attempt to keep your conversations to a minimum. Although you had managed to settle into your role, growing accustomed to your boss’ high standards, you often felt a sense of apprehension. You were overwhelmed by how important he was. Mr Barnes wasn’t just your boss - he was a force of nature.

The two of you maintained a strictly professional relationship, even lingering towards slightly cold sometimes. You liked to do what he needed you to do, and then get out of his way. However, every now and then, you’d catch him watching you with a look that lingered a moment too long. You’d always assume there was something on your face, or a smudge on your shirt, anything that might explain why he was staring. But when you checked, there was never anything there.

For Bucky, it started with the little things. He noticed how you always made sure his coffee was exactly how he liked it, down to the last detail, even on the most hectic mornings. You remembered the smallest preferences he had, the things he rarely even thought about himself—like the way you would quietly replace the pens in his office with the specific brand he preferred, or how you always ensured there was a bottle of his favorite water in the conference room before every meeting. These weren’t just the actions of a diligent assistant; they were gestures that spoke of someone who genuinely cared, someone who paid attention to him in a way that no one else ever had.

Your snoozed alarm began to sound again, piercing your thoughts like a violent shriek. Just get through the meeting, you told yourself, before ultimately deciding to drag yourself out of bed. The thought repeated like a mantra. Is it normal to feel this worried about disappointing your boss? You thought, before swatting away the idea. You didn’t need to focus on that for now.

A hot shower did little to wash away the anxiety that clinged to you. Your movements were robotic as you went through your morning routine, driven by the pressure of the meeting.

With a sigh, you reached for your phone, the screen lighting up with a soft glow. 7:45 AM. It felt as though the numbers were taunting you. You ran a hand down your face, bracing yourself for the day.

Time to go.

After locking the door to your small, cozy apartment, you made your way down the narrow, communal staircase. The morning air hitting you with a welcomed bite as you stepped outside into the car park.

You slid into the drivers seat of your aging Mini, the familiar creak of the door and worn leather seat beneath you provided a familiar comfort. It wasn't much, but it was yours, the car you'd had since you were 17. You shifted into gear and gripped the steering wheel, the hum of the engine almost grounding you.

Just get through the meeting, you repeated, merging into the flow of morning traffic. You let your mind drift to the day's plans, mentally rehearsing the things you had to organise when you arrived at the office… calling the clients to confirm their attendance, setting up the meeting room, dropping the itinerary off at Mr Barnes’ desk.

As you approached a red light just a few blocks from the office, you felt a fleeting sense of calm. Your heartbeat, which had been a relentless drumbeat of anxiety, finally began to settle into a more regular rhythm. The office was so close, the meeting so imminent. All you had to do now was make it through the last stretch of traffic and face the day.

Without warning, a loud, violent crashing noise shattered the calm. The force of the impact threw you forward, your seatbelt straining against your body painfully. The contents of your bag spilling into the passenger seat footwell alongside the sound of crunching metal. Your mind was blank, struggling to catch up with what had just happened.

What the -?

Your heart raced, your breaths leaving in shallow and quick successions. The realisation hit you like a second wave of impact - you’d been rear-ended.

You gripped the steering wheel like a vice, catching sight of your pale face as movement caught your attention in the rear view mirror. the driver of the car behind you was already out of his vehicle, storming towards you.

Rather than waiting for you to get out the car, he began shouting at you through the closed window. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He shouted, his voice echoing violently.

He looked to be in his mid thirties, dressed in a wrinkled suit, face red with anger and eyes practically bulging out his head.

You took a deep breath, adrenaline surging through your veins. Stay calm, don’t escalate. You unbuckle your seatbelt, ignoring the dull pain of where it had dug into you, stepping out your beloved car.

“Do you even know how to fucking drive?” He yelled, arms flailing. “I’m going to be late for work because of you, stupid bitch”

You were taken aback by his blatant profanity. Humiliation rising in your body as bystanders gawked at the interaction.

You blinked, your nerves fraying under his aggression. “I was stopped at the light. You hit me,” you said, voice trembling.

”Bullshit!” He spat, inching towards your face. “You stopped like a fucking moron and now look at my fucking car!”, he pointed in the direction of his vehicle, a sleek black BMW, barely scratched.

The sight of your car, however, made your stomach turn. The bumper was shrewd across the concrete, the metal contorted dramatically. You’d come off much worse than him. You could feel tears burning at the corners of your eyes.

“This is all your fault!”, he spat, voice dripping with venom. “You’re going to pay every cent for the damage you’ve caused.”

Before you could respond, he lunged closer, jabbing a finger in your face. “Do you even realise how fucking pathetic you look right now? Crying because you’ve ruined my car-“

The man was interrupted. A firm, authoritative voice cutting through his ramblings like steel.

“Is there a problem here?”

You looked up, your heart pounding, and there he was - Bucky Barnes. The sight of him hit you like a tidal wave. For a split second, you were frozen, breath catching in your throat.

Bucky’s sharp blue eyes were fixed on the angry driver, his expression a mask of controlled authority. Your eyes shifted between the two, noticing how Bucky towered over the man.

The man’s voice was quieter than before, his composure tense. “Who the hell are you?”

Bucky stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. “I’m her boss,” he said, his tone calm but edged with a warning. “And I suggest you step back before you make this any worse.”

The anger in the man’s stance faltered, replaced by a grudging recognition that he was outmatched. With a final glare towards you, he stormed back to his car.

You exhaled, realising you’d been holding your breath. “Thank you,” you murmured, voice shaky from adrenaline.

Bucky’s gaze shifted to you, his eyes softening a fraction. “Are you okay?” He asked, his voice low and filled with a warmth which contrasted the icy authority he had shown moments before.

You watched the way his eyes trailed down your shaking body for any obvious signs of injury.

You nodded in response. “Y-yes, I’m okay. Just a bit shaken”, a forced smile pursing against your lips.

He leaned down slightly, lowering himself to your height, his face inches from yours. Placing a hand on each of your shoulders. “You don’t have to put a brave face on with me. Are you really okay?”

The depth of his concern was more than you expected, combined with the gentleness of his touch, you felt like your head was spinning.

”Thank you, Mr Barnes”, your voice barely more than a whisper, “I’m okay, I promise”.

Bucky’s expression softened even more. “Let me take you to the office. I’ll sort you out and make sure everything’s taken care of.” Bucky said, his voice low and earnest.

His words soothed you. He placed a firm but gentle hand on your mid-back, guiding you towards his car. The warmth of his touch was a comforting contrast to the cold air. You found solace in the protective way he guided you.

When you reached his car, Bucky opened the passenger door for you with a quiet, practiced grace. His movements were deliberate and careful, as if he wanted to ensure you felt as secure as possible.

Bucky closed the door gently and walked around to the driver’s side. As he settled into the driver’s seat, he adjusted the rear view mirror, his gaze flicking over to you. “You don’t have to call me Mr. Barnes, when it’s just us two. James will do.”

You met his gaze in the mirror, feeling a sudden rush of warmth. You faltered for a split second under the heat of his stare. “Okay, James”, you said quietly.

He gave a small, approving smile, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. “That’s better,” he said, his voice low. “Let’s get you to the office.”

Your boss wouldn’t let you know, but the way you trembled when that man was yelling at you, the way his words reduced you to feeling small and insignificant, made Bucky’s blood boil. His usual calm and composed demeanor was barely holding back the fury simmering beneath the surface. The sight of you being treated so harshly, so unfairly, sparked something primal in him—something protective and fierce.

Arriving at the office, Bucky parked with a practised ease and opened your door, offering a supportive hand as you stepped out. Eyes glazing over you again to see if you were moving with any discomfort.

As you walked into the building, you were met with a flurry of activity. Bucky led you to your room, settling you into your office chair with a soft, reassuring hand on your back.

“Take a moment to breathe,” he instructed, his voice a mix of warmth and authority. “I’ll handle the meeting for now, okay? You’ve had a rough morning.”

You nodded gratefully, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. Bucky made a few quick phone calls and sent some emails, managing the meeting logistics with the efficiency and competence that defined him.

Throughout the morning, Bucky periodically checked in on you. Each time, his concern was evident, his questions simple but genuine. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything?” he would ask, always with that soft, protective tone.

By lunchtime, Bucky made sure you had something to eat. He watched with a mixture of satisfaction and relief as you ate, noting the gradual return of color to your cheeks.

As the workday wound down, you wrapped up your tasks and prepared to head home. Bucky had been a steadfast support throughout the day, ensuring that you felt taken care of and that everything went smoothly despite the morning’s chaos.

As you gathered your things, Bucky approached with a rare, genuine smile. “How are you holding up?”

“Much better, thanks to you,” you said, returning his smile. “I really appreciate everything today.”

”Well I would love to drive you home, but I still have a few more things to wrap up. One of my drivers will take you, okay?”, your boss said, leaning against the door frame of your office.

You opened your mouth to politely decline, feeling that he had already done enough for you today. However, you faltered when he raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in his expression, you knew there was no point in arguing.

“Alright,” you agreed, feeling a warmth spread through you at his insistence. “Thank you.”

“Good,” he said, satisfied, a part of him wanted to grin at your obedience as he circled back to his office.

The ride home was quiet, the events of the day replaying in your mind. You were exhausted, but there was also a strange sense of anticipation that you couldn’t quite explain.

When the car pulled up outside your apartment, you thanked the driver and stepped out. The cool evening air was refreshing after the long day, and you were eager to wash the day away with a hot shower and a bottle of wine.

But as you approached your apartment building, something caught your eye. Parked in your usual spot was a familiar-looking Mini, only this one was brand new. The gleaming paint, the spotless interior—it was unmistakably the same make and model as your beloved old car, but this one was perfect in every way.

There’s no way, you thought.

Your heart pounded as you took a hesitant step closer, your mind racing to process what you were seeing. There was no mistaking it—this was a gift, one that had been carefully chosen to replace what you had lost earlier today.

A note was tucked under the windshield wiper. With trembling hands, you pulled it free and unfolded the paper. The handwriting was unmistakable.

You’ve had a rough day. I hope this makes it a little easier. – James

A rush of emotions overwhelmed you, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You never expected something like this. Bucky hadn’t just replaced your car—he’d chosen something that he knew would mean something to you, something that was a perfect reflection of who you were.

As you stood there, staring at the car that now felt like a symbol of so much more, you couldn’t help but feel that the boundaries between you and Bucky had shifted in a way that couldn’t be undone.

A collision of fate.

————————————————————-

TAGLIST!

@sashaisready @matchat3a @writingpastmybedtime @melsunshine @lex-the-flex @himawariizephyr @jbbarnesgirl @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @sagebarness @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @selella @armystay89 @globetrotter28 @iwritewithpenandpaper @casa-boiardi @winterslove1917 @buckydarling09 @kandis-mom @scott-loki-barnes @mrsevans90

[honeylations]

KIM MINJEONG x FEM!READER

Prompt: you kept your pornstar job a secret from your curious roommate, but when an abrupt incident comes up a few minutes before filming, there was only one way to solve it

Warnings/Notes: pornstar reader, g!p Minjeong, unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, dirty talking

“Jeongie~ I’m off to work now. There’s chicken in the fridge if you’re hungry”

Your roommate pauses the penguin documentary she’s watching on the big screen to sit up on the couch and pout. “You’re working again? It’s like you don’t want to spend time with me”

“Of course I want to spend time with you, Jeongie! But it’s important for me to work otherwise we wouldn’t be living in this amazing apartment!” You reasoned with jazz hands as a bonus.

“Oh speaking of apartment. I have my share for this week’s rent. Did you want me to send it through your bank details or cash?” Your adorable roommate asked with her phone ready in her hand but you waved it off.

“I’ll cover your rent this week. Don’t pay me back I swear to God”

“Again?! Y/n this is the 3rd week you’ve covered for me and I don’t feel nice about it”

You shrugged. “I just got a good pay”

“Right. A good pay. What job is this Y/n”

Checking the time on your watch, you pouted cutely at your roommate. “I’m gonna be late. See you later, love you!”

Minjeong sighed and sat back into the couch, very much lost in thought. What kind of high paying job were you exactly working at to be covering rent so easily?

“The hell do you mean Yunjin cancelled?!” You yelled at the director who was panicking just as much as you.

“Look, all she told me was that it was a personal emergency. We’ve tried calling Kazuha and Minji but both girls are busy with other schedules so unless you know someone that can fill in last minute, we’re postponing this until next week”

Just as the director started to walk away, a bulb flashed over your head. “W-Wait director-nim, I know someone…Give me a couple seconds to call her okay?”

“Make it quick Y/n. I’m booked today”

Fishing out your phone, you pressed on Minjeong’s contact and she answered quicker than expected. “J-Jeongie?”

“Hey Y/n, you never usually call during your shifts. Is everything okay?”

“Jeongie I really~ need your help with something but I can’t tell you what it is until you come here”

There was a short silence from the other line. “Uh…Okay? What’s your address?”

“I’ll message it after the call. Look your best”

Minjeong stared at her phone with confusion when you hung up. Look her best? Minjeong has little to no sense of fashion other than the millions of oversized flannels and cargo pants sitting in her closet.

Thankfully already showered, she simply put on a black and grey flannel with baggy jeans before checking the address you sent and driving her way over.

Moments later she was walking into the huge building, finding you on a set that looked like a bedroom, surrounded by unfamiliar faces.

“Y/n?” She questioned almost breathlessly once she realised you were only wearing a bathrobe.

“Jeongie! Thank you for coming. Now listen, I’ll cut this as short as I can because we don’t have much time, but I’m a pornstar, okay?”

“What?!”

“That’s why I’m loaded with money. The person that I was supposed to be filming with today cancelled on me and I couldn’t think of anyone else to replace her other than you”

Minjeong took a step back with wide eyes. “Nah uh, no way Y/n! What makes you think I’m good enough to film porn?!”

You quickly took her hands out of comfort. “I’m sorry for putting you on the spot last second, but this is highly important to me Jeongie..” you pleaded and Minjeong couldn’t resist.

The taller girl stared into your eyes then the pout of your lips.

She let out a heavy sigh and squeezed your hands. “Fine. I’ll do it”

You squealed and jumped into a hug, peppering her face with kisses. “Thank you thank you thank you! You’re the best!”

“You owe me big time” Your roommate pointed a finger, making you giggle.

“Of course! Now head into that room with our staff. They’ll help you prepare”

In a blink of an eye, Minjeong was in her ‘costume’ (which was nothing but a black shirt and grey sweatpants) while sitting on the edge of the bed.

You wore a white camisole with no bra underneath and baby pink panties, standing in front of Minjeong with a big smile. “Hey you”

“I feel weird Y/n. I-I don’t know if I can do this anymore” She cutely mumbled, eyes darting across the room in fear.

Minjeong felt your small hands cup her face, forcing her to look at you. “Relax, baby. I’ll take good care of you I promise”

“W-What’s the storyline anyways”

“None actually. Just a wholesome home sex video”

“Whenever you’re ready Y/n” the director called out, making you nod.

Your hands rubbed gently at Minjeong’s nape and slowly going down to her shoulders for a reassuring squeeze.

“You can do whatever you want to me” you whispered against your friend’s lips and then closing the gap to get a proper taste.

You were surprised to feel Minjeong kiss back eagerly like an expert, even sliding her tongue in as she grabbed your hips and pulled you to sit on her lap.

For a couple minutes you two were sucking each others faces.

And the next minute you were sucking her surprisingly huge cock. She had your hair fisted in a make shift ponytail, throwing her head back when her tip rubbed at the back of your throat. “Fuck Y/n, I should’ve known you were a whore”

Oh? That was new.

Your so called innocent Minjeongie dirty talking? Your cunt clenched around nothing.

Minjeong forced you off her dick to pin you down on the bed, lightly pecking the hickies she had left around your neck and collarbones. “You got me so down bad, Y/n-ie. I don’t think I’ll ever want to stop having you like this”

Whimpering beneath her, you held onto her shoulders tightly. “Have me anytime you want Minjeongie”

“Ain’t that sweet of ya” She smirked as her eyes were fixed onto your glossy ones, confusing you slightly.

Then you felt the pleasurable stretch in your pussy when Minjeong’s cock welcomed itself inside, arching your back in the process. “What the fuck, Jeongie, you’re so big a-ahh!”

“The biggest you’ve ever had, darl?” Your roommate tilted her head, trying not to let your tightness get the best of her.

“Mhm the biggest!”

“Good. Then I’ll make sure your pussy is only made to take me”

You littered Minjeong’s back with scratches that started to bleed out, clearly seen from the camera crew which they zoomed in on. The pain didn’t bother Minjeong, not when she had started pounding into you mercilessly.

She licked her lips at your boobs bouncing with each thrust. She just couldn’t resist sucking on them like a baby, addicted to how sexy they looked when wet with her spit.

“Your pussy is sucking me in so fucking good, baby” Minjeong panted in your ear.

Then she felt a sudden warmth spray all over her lower body.

You were squirting while moaning Minjeong’s name, even reaching down to ferociously rub at your clit to ride out your mind blowing orgasm.

“F-Fuck that’s so hot, Y/n” Minjeong hissed, not planning to stop her hips even after you came.

“W-Wait Jeongie—AH!” You tried to stop her but she couldn’t care less about how sensitive you were.

She laid you on your stomach, bringing your ass up and going back to destroying your pussy, feeling herself go deeper with the new position.

“Fuck! Fuck Minjeong-ah! You’re gonna break me!” You sobbed into the pillow that you were drowning with drool.

Minjeong laid over your back and drilled impossibly deeper. “Fucking take it whore. I own this pussy now”

Then you felt a sudden sting on your shoulder blade, realising Minjeong was biting down into your skin. Not hard enough to bleed, but hard enough to leave a long lasting bruise.

“Y/n…hah Y/n, I’m gonna fucking cum…”

Your insides became hot from the cum she blew into your cunt and thankfully your roommate’s hips were coming to a stop.

“Shit…Fuck that was so good, Y/n. Thank you” Minjeong whispered in your ear, kissing it afterwards.

“CUT! This was probably the best one you’ve filmed Y/n! Great job!…Y/n?” The director called but was left with no answer.

Minjeong frowned and leaned further down to look at your face. “Y/n? He’s talking to you”

You were knocked out cold. Little snores and whimpers escaping your lips with Minjeong’s cock still inside your abused cunt. “Has this happened before?” Minjeong asked the staff, and they all shook their heads.

“No, never. You must’ve really fucked her good”

“O-Oh no, I’m sorry! W-What should I do?” Minjeong panicked and made sure she didn’t move so much as you slept below her.

“Wow, you’re very different to how you were on camera. I like it. Ever considered taking this as a full time job?”

Minjeong put a hand up, completely declining the offer. “Appreciate it, but I was only willing to do this for Y/n”

Director nodded and placed a finger on his chin. “Interesting. Hope Y/n brings you over more in the future. You two can rest there for a bit longer while we pack up”

The short hair girl nodded and pulled her cock out as slow and gently as she could to not wake you up. Then she laid you on her chest with the covers covering both bodies. “Can’t wait to do this with you again, Y/n” Minjeong smiled and kissed your head, letting the sleepiness take over her too.

[laswells-ashtray]

Can we talk about Mommy/Daddy issues and how they manifest? I've been throat-punched by both (Hooray) but I'm curious on your thoughts about who in the CODverse might have them and how they manifest.

Coincidentally, you caught me on the day I'd been throat punched by both, and thus, I am at my best to write this. Genuinely, of all days to receive this ask, it was the day I found myself pondering how my father takes up 1/4 of a page in my family photo album, and then I sat down in the shower for a while.

John can't listen to any recordings of his voice; it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He sounds like his father. When he barks orders at people, he sounds like his father. Only his voice is followed by the whir of a bullet, not the cracking of a belt. He refuses to shave his face unless necessary because only after he grew a beard did he stop seeing Sr. in the mirror.

Ghost looks more like his mother than his father. On the best of days, it's his saving grace. On the worst of days, he avoids mirrors and winces when he catches his reflection on a screen. He sees women of a similar height and hair colour to his mother and hesitates for just a moment, the word mum stuck in his throat. Grown men can scream in his face, and it means nothing to him. The disappointed tone of a woman older than him makes his hands shake.

Nikolai is at the age where most people just assume his parents are dead. He doesn't know, he'll never know, he'll never want to know. He's detached from the idea of having parents. It's a foreign concept in his mind. He isn't sure if he looks like either of them because he can't remember their faces as well as he used to. It's meaningless to him. He isn't the son they expected him to be, therefore, he won't claim the name of the son they wanted. He tells people his parents are dead, a cancer of some kind. He doesn't care for their sympathies.

Kate's parents are dead; they have been for a while. She doesn't think of them often and when she does, it's typically with love, but she doesn't forget the fact that they missed the best parts of her life. However, their death pushed her to get where she is today, so without the loss, she wouldn't have that life. It leaves her conflicted, and she won't talk about it, but she grieves the moments they missed. She'll drink to their memory, or her sorrow. She decides which depending on how little is in the bottle.

Not a moment goes by where Farah doesn't miss her parents. She doesn't seek replacements in those around her; she never could. But she braids her hair, and she grieves the beauty her mother held. She offers someone kind words of reassurance and feels her father's arms around her, promising her safety so long as he lives. She makes decisions to protect her people and ponders what her parents would say of her fate and that she subjected her brother to. Her passion for her people is sacred because her tone echoes that of her parents.

Rudy has never known how to act around male authority figures. He was orphaned so young that he has no memories of his parents. He grew up in an orphanage with women who did their best with what little resources they had to save their children from the drug-riddled fates they had seen many follow. He trusts women; if a woman gives him advice, then he's likely to follow it. He grew up with women. When grown men tell him things and expect things of him, he stares back at them blankly. They place a hand on his shoulder, and he gently nudges it away. They have nothing to offer him. Men trying to take authority over him, especially in a parental type of context, antagonises him. He grew up without a man in charge, and he's survived until now; he doesn't need anyone to try and start at this point in his life.

[alohajix]

𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭

Description: when Emma meets Harry—a charming, British bartender—on a night out in New York City, their instant connection lingers long after the music fades. A few days later, one simple text turns into a date neither of them can forget. What starts with soft conversation and lingering looks quickly builds into something deeper, more electric… and maybe even real.

Warnings: this one-shot includes mature themes and sexual content. Readers +18.

Words: 4K.

*****

My phone buzzed from somewhere under the blanket draped across my legs. I was half-asleep on the couch, still in scrubs, feet sore from a twelve-hour shift and brain running on fumes. I almost didn’t check it. But then I saw his name.

Harry: Hey, you. Still thinking about that smile. Want to get a drink sometime?

I blinked at the screen. Once. Twice. Then I sat up.

My heart did this weird flutter thing I hadn’t felt in a while. Three, maybe four days since I met him at the club, and he’d been in the back of my mind ever since—British accent, wide grin, messy curls, and that way he looked at me like I was the only person in the room. And now here he was. Texting me.

I reread the message. Then I read it again. My thumb hovered over the screen, heart still racing like it hadn’t gotten the memo that this was just a text and not a marriage proposal.

Still, I hesitated. Not because I didn’t want to say yes. I did. God, I did. But it had been a while since someone made me feel that kind of nervous. The good kind. The kind that caught me off guard, like a breath you didn’t know you were holding until it rushed back in.

Finally, I typed: Hey you. I was kind of hoping you’d say that.

I hit send before I could overthink it. Then set the phone down on the coffee table like it might combust in my hand if I stared at it too long.

I leaned back into the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around me, suddenly very aware of the silence in the room. The hum of the fridge. The faint sound of a car horn outside. The quick, anxious rhythm of my pulse in my ears. What if he changed his mind? What if I read too much into that night? What if—

My phone lit up again.

Harry: Tomorrow night? I get off at 8. There’s a little place I love—quiet, cozy. Thought of you when I passed it today.

And just like that, the nerves were gone. Replaced with something warmer, steadier. Excitement. That quiet kind that builds in your chest like a secret you’re not ready to say out loud yet.

I stared at his message, the edges of a smile tugging at my lips. He thought of me. Today. In the middle of his life, his day—he saw a place and pictured me there. With him. I let myself sit in that for a second. Let it settle. Let it feel real.

Then I typed: That sounds perfect. Send me the details?

I didn’t even try to hide the smile this time.

The next evening crept up faster than I expected. By six, I was out of the shower, towel wrapped around my head, standing in front of my closet like I’d never dressed myself before. It wasn’t just about picking an outfit—it was about feeling like myself. Comfortable, confident, like the version of me he met that night at the club… but maybe a little softer, a little more deliberate. I tried on two dresses. Then jeans and a blouse. Then the first dress again.

My bathroom counter was a mess—lip glosses, hairbrush, mascara wand balanced between product bottles. I kept checking my phone for no reason, like I was expecting him to cancel. He didn’t. Instead, at 6:42, his name lit up the screen.

Harry: I’ll meet you outside. Can’t wait to see you.

I stared at the message, heart giving that little skip again, and finally settled on a simple black dress and boots. Casual, but just enough effort. By the time I slipped my jacket on, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—and paused. Not bad. Not overdone. Just me. And for the first time all day, I let myself feel it: I was excited.

Really, genuinely excited.

The air outside was crisp, just cool enough to flush my cheeks as I stepped onto the sidewalk. Streetlights flickered to life as the sun dipped behind the buildings, the city shifting into its evening rhythm. Then I saw his car—a black, older model with character. Parked just a few feet down the block. And there he was, leaning casually against the driver’s side door, hands in his jacket pockets, curls just messy enough to be charming.

His head lifted as I approached, and that slow, familiar smile tugged at his lips.

“Hey, you,” he said, voice low and warm, that accent hitting me harder than I expected.

“Hey,” I breathed back, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“You look…” He paused, eyes moving over me in a way that made my skin warm. “Incredible.”

I laughed, soft and breathy. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He pulled the door open for me with a slight bow. “After you, m’lady.”

I rolled my eyes but climbed in, heart racing just a little. The inside of the car smelled like clean leather and something vaguely like cedarwood. Safe. Comfortable. As he slid into the driver’s seat beside me, I caught him stealing a glance.

“What?” I asked, grinning.

“Nothing,” he said, putting the car into drive. “Just… glad you said yes.”

The ride was easy—quiet music playing low, city lights flickering past the windows like little glimmers of magic. Neither of us said much, but it wasn’t awkward. Just that kind of comfortable silence that felt earned, like we didn’t need to fill it to make it meaningful. Ten minutes later, he pulled into a small side street I’d never noticed before. Brick buildings lined the block, cozy and close, with warm lighting spilling from the windows of a little place nestled on the corner. No flashy sign, just a simple wooden door and a soft glow behind frosted glass.

Harry parked and looked over at me, like he was checking to see if I approved.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I love it already.”

He smiled, clearly pleased, and got out to open my door before I could even reach for the handle.

Inside, the restaurant felt like a hidden pocket of calm—dim lights, flickering candles on the tables, the low hum of conversation and clinking silverware. There was music playing somewhere in the background—something jazzy and slow, almost like it was dancing just at the edge of hearing.

The hostess greeted us with a knowing smile and led us to a small booth near the back. Harry let me slide in first, then settled across from me, his knee brushing mine under the table as he got comfortable.

“This place is one of my favorites,” he said, resting his arms on the table. “Feels like the kind of spot you can actually talk in, you know?”

I nodded, glancing around. “It’s perfect.” And just like that, the night officially began.

The server came and went—water glasses filled, orders taken, menus gone—and then it was just us again. Soft music played in the background, the candle on our table flickering gently between us.

Harry leaned forward a little, resting his arms on the table. “So… neonatal nurse. That’s impressive. I don’t think I could hold a baby without panicking.”

I smiled. “Most people can’t at first. It’s all about being calm and steady.”

He looked at me for a second, then said, “You seem like someone who’s good at that.”

“I try,” I said, still smiling. “What about you? Do you bartend full-time?”

He shook his head. “Nah. I’m finishing a business degree. Been taking my time with it, but I like it. I’ve always wanted to start something of my own, you know? Build something real.”

I nodded, surprised but impressed. “That actually fits you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“You think before you speak,” I said. “You don’t talk just to talk.”

That made him laugh quietly. “Is that a compliment?”

“It is.”

There was a pause—just long enough for something to shift between us. Softer. More aware.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said, voice lower now.

“Oh?” I asked, leaning slightly closer. “And what did you expect?”

He gave me a look. “Someone quieter. Maybe shy. But you’ve got this calm strength about you. Like you slow things down just by being in the room.”

My chest tightened in the best way. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t. I just looked at him, and he looked back.

“You’re good at this,” I said after a second.

“At what?”

“Making someone feel like they’re the only one here.”

He smiled. “Maybe you are.”

Dinner went by in a blur of warm food, quiet laughter, and the kind of conversation that made time feel like it was moving just a little too fast. I didn’t want the night to end, but eventually, the plates were cleared and the server brought the check. Before I could even reach for my bag, Harry had already slipped his card into the folder.

“Wait—what are you doing?” I asked, sitting up straighter.

“Paying,” he said simply, sliding it back toward the edge of the table with that annoying little smirk.

“I can split it with you.”

“You could,” he said, eyes meeting mine, “but I won’t let you.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, even though my cheeks were already warm. “That’s not fair.”

He leaned in a little. “It’s a date, Emma. Let me take you out.”

The way he said it—soft but sure—left no room for argument. So I sat back and let him win, even if I rolled my eyes doing it.

Outside, the night had settled into something quiet and cool. The street was mostly empty, and the city had that rare hum where everything felt a little slower, a little softer.

“Want to walk for a bit?” he asked, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding.

We walked side by side, close but not touching, the rhythm of our steps falling into sync without trying. He told me a story about a nightmare shift at the bar, I told him about a baby that surprised us all and pulled through. We laughed. We paused. We kept walking. At one point, our hands brushed—and for a second, neither of us moved. But then he gently took mine, like it had been there waiting for his.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t loud. Just… easy.

By the time we made it back to his car, my heart was lighter, but the tension between us had thickened—comfortable, electric, and very much alive. The drive back was quieter than the ride there, but not in a bad way. The kind of quiet where everything meant more—every glance, every small shift in the air between us.

I watched the city blur past my window, lights streaking against the glass, but I could feel him glance over at me every so often. Like he was checking to make sure I was still smiling. Or maybe just stealing a look because he couldn’t help it.

“You’re quiet,” he said softly, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gearshift.

I turned my head toward him. “So are you.”

His mouth curved. “Yeah, but you’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

He flicked his eyes toward me, then back to the road. “Like you’re thinking something dangerous.”

I laughed under my breath. “You first.”

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m trying to behave.”

I shifted slightly in my seat, the space between us feeling tighter somehow, even though neither of us moved any closer.

“Are you always this good at… not behaving?” I asked, voice a little quieter now.

His grip on the wheel tightened, just barely. “Depends on the person.”

There was heat in his tone now. Subtle, but unmistakable. It filled the small space between us like static. My skin buzzed with it.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” I said after a beat. “That night at the club. You caught me off guard.”

“Good,” he said, glancing over again—longer this time. “You caught me too.”

The light turned red, and we came to a slow stop. He looked at me, really looked, his eyes falling to my lips before finding my gaze again. Everything felt still. Held in place by a thread so thin it could snap with the slightest touch. When I bit down on my bottom lip, something changed. I didn’t mean to do it for him, but the way his jaw tightened and his eyes darkened told me exactly what it did. He reached over without a word, his hand settling on my thigh—confident, slow, like he was testing how far I’d let him go. His fingers stayed still at first, then brushed lightly against the inside of my leg, just enough to make me breathe a little deeper.

I looked at him, and he was already watching me. My chest rose and fell in quiet rhythm, heart pounding. Neither of us spoke. We didn’t have to.

The city kept moving around us, but we stayed like that—his hand on me, my pulse racing, everything stretched tight between us—until we pulled up in front of my place. He let the engine idle for a second longer before turning the key, and the silence in the car changed again. Still charged. Still full of what now.

He turned toward me, his hand slipping away from my leg so slowly it almost hurt.

“Thanks for tonight,” I said quietly, not sure what else to say.

His eyes flicked down to my mouth again before coming back to mine. “You’re welcome.”

The question hovered between us like fog—thick, unspoken, undeniable.

“Do you want to…” I started, then stopped, heat rising in my chest. He didn’t make me finish.

“Come up?” he said. I nodded. Just once. And we both got out of the car.

The click of my keys in the lock felt too loud in the quiet hallway. My fingers trembled just slightly as I turned the handle and pushed the door open, stepping inside with Harry close behind me. The soft glow from the streetlights outside spilled into the apartment, painting faint gold shapes across the floor. I dropped my keys into the bowl by the door, my back still turned to him, trying to calm the flutter in my chest.

I barely had a chance to turn around before I felt him step in close—his presence warm, steady, intentional. And then his hand was on my waist, and his mouth was on mine.

It took my breath for half a second—not because I didn’t want it, but because I hadn’t expected it to happen so suddenly. The kiss was firm but unhurried, like he’d been waiting all night and couldn’t hold back another second. His lips moved slowly over mine, not rushing, not demanding—just asking. His other hand came up, cupping the side of my face gently, his thumb brushing just below my cheekbone as he pulled back, just barely.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, barely more than a breath between us.

I nodded, already leaning back in. “Yeah.”

His mouth curved into a soft smile against mine before he kissed me again—this time deeper, more sure, his hands sliding along my waist as I melted into him, every thought slipping out of reach except him. Everything about it felt right—slow, warm, and only just beginning.

My back pressed gently against the closed door as his hands settled on my waist, thumbs brushing the fabric of my dress with a quiet kind of urgency. There was nothing rushed in the way he touched me—just intent. Like he wanted to feel everything. Like he needed to.

I curled my fingers into the front of his jacket, tugging him just a little closer until our bodies aligned perfectly, chest to chest, his warmth sinking into me in a way that made my knees feel unsteady. When we finally broke apart for air, he rested his forehead against mine, breathing a little heavier now.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the second I saw you,” he whispered.

I didn’t answer—not with words. I slid my hands beneath the lapels of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders slowly, letting it fall to the floor with a soft rustle. He let me, his eyes locked on mine the whole time, like he was watching to see if I meant it. And I did.

He kissed me again, deeper now, his hands moving from my waist to the small of my back, then lower. I gasped softly into his mouth when his fingers gripped just a little tighter, pulling me flush against him.

“Emma,” he murmured, my name catching in his throat like a secret. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I don’t,” I whispered. “I want you.” That was all he needed.

My back met the couch cushions, and his body followed, settling against me, his hand sliding up the side of my thigh, beneath my dress. Every touch sent heat straight through me, and when he kissed down my neck, I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.

His fingers found the zipper at my side, tugging slowly, giving me time to stop him—but I didn’t. I only arched into him, wanting more. His lips brushed the top of my chest, and I felt the clasp of my bra shift under his hand. But before he undid it, he paused—just enough to meet my eyes.

I pulled him in for another kiss, but between kisses, I whispered, “Bedroom.”

He stilled, just for a beat, then nodded and stood, holding his hand out to me. I took it without hesitation. He followed me down the short hallway, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back, steady and warm. The anticipation between us built with every step, the silence heavy with everything we were about to give in to.

Inside my bedroom, the light was soft—just the amber glow of the bedside lamp—and the room felt suddenly smaller, more intimate, now that we were both here.

He kissed me again as I turned to face him, hands returning to my back, and this time he unhooked my bra with ease. The straps slipped from my shoulders, and the look in his eyes changed—darker, deeper, filled with heat and reverence.

“You’re stunning,” he said, barely above a whisper. His fingers trailed up my thigh, warm and sure, until he reached the heat between my legs.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured against my skin, voice thick. “I barely touched you.”

“I’ve wanted this since the second you texted me,” I whispered, my voice shaky as his fingers slid over me again.

“Yeah?” He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. “You think about me?”

“All the time,” I breathed, hips arching into his touch.

He groaned, kissing me again, slower this time, more deliberate. “You have no idea what that does to me.” He paused and looked at me like I’d just knocked the air out of him. “Jesus, Emma,” he whispered. “You’re perfect.”

“Come here,” I said, pulling him back to me.

He kissed down my chest, his mouth hot and open as he wrapped his lips around my nipple, sucking gently until I moaned, squirming beneath him.

“I want to hear more of that,” he said into my skin, voice low and hungry. “I want to hear everything.”

When his mouth moved between my thighs, I gasped his name, hand threading into his hair. His tongue moved with skill—slow circles, teasing flicks—and when he slipped two fingers inside me, I cried out, hips rocking uncontrollably.

“God—Harry—don’t stop,” I moaned. He didn’t.

He watched me fall apart beneath him, eyes dark with focus. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you. You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

When the orgasm hit, it took everything from me—my breath, my words, my grip on anything but him. He kept moving until I trembled, then kissed his way back up to my mouth, swallowing my shaky breaths.

“You still okay?” he asked, brushing hair from my face.

“More than okay,” I said, tugging at his jeans. “I want you. Now.”

He smiled, breathless and sweet, and leaned over to grab a condom. “Say it again.”

“I want you,” I whispered, watching him roll it on. “I need you.”

He groaned as he positioned himself between my thighs. “Fuck, I’ve needed you since the second you walked into that club.”

And then he pushed into me—slow and deep. We gasped together, his name slipping from my lips as he filled me completely.

“You feel—shit—Emma, you feel so good,” he murmured, his hand gripping my thigh as he found a steady rhythm. “I’m not gonna last long if you keep looking at me like that.”

“Then don’t,” I whispered, wrapping my legs around his waist. “Just give me everything.”

He kissed me hard, hips thrusting deeper now, and when I moaned into his mouth, he pulled back just enough to speak.

“Tell me what you want.”

“You,” I breathed. “Harder.”

His eyes flashed, and he flipped me gently, pulling me on top of him, guiding my hips down until I was fully seated again.

“Ride me, baby,” he said, gripping my waist. “I want to watch you come.”

I moved slowly at first, grinding against him, teasing us both. His eyes never left mine. Every sound I made, every shift of my body, seemed to push him closer to the edge.

“You feel so good,” I gasped, nails dragging down his chest. “So deep.”

His hands slid up my thighs, over my hips. “Faster, Emma. Just like that.”

The pressure built again, faster this time. My body trembled above him as he thrust up into me, chasing it.

“Harry—fuck—I’m so close.”

“Come for me,” he groaned. “Let go. I’ve got you.” And I did.

My orgasm ripped through me, loud and consuming. My walls clenched tight around him and seconds later, he followed, hips stuttering beneath me, breath caught in his throat as he moaned my name like a promise. I collapsed onto his chest, both of us slick with sweat, hearts racing and skin humming with aftershocks.

His arms wrapped around me without hesitation, lips brushing my temple as we lay there tangled and quiet.

“Still thinking about that smile,” he whispered, his voice warm and spent.

I laughed against his skin. “Still thinking about you.”

[calif0rnia-lovers]

safe place.

an: ngl, I wanted to hug jude & bukayo through the screen when England lost😔

requested: I remember seeing that Jude said his mom helps him when he gets "too low with the lows or too high with the highs." Can you do a fic where his gf is that way?

pairing: jude bellingham x black!reader

series: lyrically inspired tales.

if my heart aches, you breathe with me at my pace.

song: safe place by ruthanne

warnings: this is most definitely not edited lol.

The stadium lights had dimmed, and the roar of the crowd had faded into a distant memory, replaced by a haunting silence. Jude Bellingham sat in the quiet of his hotel room, the weight of the Euro final's loss pressing heavily on his shoulders. Exhaustion seeped into his bones—physically, mentally, and emotionally he was tapped. The missed shot that could have changed everything replayed in his mind, a tormenting loop of what-ifs and if-onlys.

He felt utterly drained, each breath a reminder of the effort he had poured into the match. The worst part about losing was feeling like he was at his lowest, despite all the hard work and dedication he had poured in for his country. The memory of the silver medal being draped over his shoulder, the relentless flashes of cameras, and the disappointed faces of fans loomed over him like a dark cloud. He had tried to keep his head up, stopping to hug each of his teammates, whispering words of encouragement, but it still hurt like hell. He had forced a brave face, stifling the sting in his eyes, reassuring his family and friends that he was alright. Keeping up the front until he reached his room had been a monumental task, and now, alone in the dim light, the facade crumbled.

He stared blankly at the wall, the ache of disappointment settling deep within his chest. Hours seemed to drag by, each minute stretching into an eternity. His phone was on Do Not Disturb. Although he knew the messages were meant with the best intentions, Jude wasn’t ready to read the encouraging texts sent to him. He hadn't spoken to anyone since the bus doors closed, needing space to process the defeat alone. The team’s efforts, the dreams of a nation, all seemed to hang on that one moment when his shot had veered just slightly off course.

A knock at the door broke through his reverie. Jude ignored it at first, unwilling to face anyone. If he didn’t call out, whoever it was would go away. But then it came again. 

A single knock, followed by three softer knocks, a distinct rhythm that was all too familiar. It was a special knock. Your special knock, a signal that meant more than words ever could. It prompted him to rise from the bed and cross the room.

Your interaction at the stadium was still a blur. A rushed kiss against his lips, nose, and forehead, a whispered “I love you so much,” was all he could receive before he was moving through the line of friends and family. In the few short hours that had passed, you had showered and changed.

When he opened the door, Jude found you standing there with your travel backpack pressed against your chest.

Jude paused to take you in, grounding himself by focusing on your familiar features. It was a routine he had built over the last six months of your relationship, a way to find solace in the midst of chaos. His eyes passed over your smooth, deep brown skin, which seemed to glow softly in the dim light. He traced the contours of your face, from your cheekbones to your lips that carried a gentle, reassuring smile. The sight of it relaxed the furrow of his brow.

Your eyes, warm and filled with understanding, were his favorite feature. They held a depth of emotion and wisdom that made him feel seen and understood. Your lashes framed them perfectly, long and curled, adding to the natural beauty that always took his breath away. His gaze traveled up to the soft curls, pineappled at the top of your head, his hand instinctively reaching forward.

As he studied you, taking in every detail—his touch tracing the curve of your jaw before settling against your cheek—he felt a sense of peace wash over him.

"Hi," you greeted softly, your voice a balm to his battered spirit.

Jude managed a weak smile, the corners of his lips lifting. "Hey," he replied, his voice rough.

You stepped inside, Jude’s hand instinctively settling on your hips as the door closed.

The scent of lavender and chamomile wafted from the bag you carried, filling the room with a calming aroma. It was a scent that lingered on the sheets of each hotel room Jude stayed in, his bedroom at home, and even in his shirts and jerseys. He associated it with you, and only you—a fragrance that instantly brought relaxation and comfort. Whenever you couldn't make it to his games, Jude would find the aromatherapy tucked away in his bag, a thoughtful gesture that made him feel close to you even when apart.

“My flight leaves at 9:30 tomorrow,” you began as you unzipped the bag. Gathering what you needed, you started towards the bathroom. “So, I’ll probably leave here at 7. I’m sure traffic is going to be insane.”

Jude listened to your voice, the calm cadence soothing his frayed nerves. You didn’t expect a response; you knew him well enough to understand that after a loss, he needed time to recover. So, you verbally went through your travel plans. The turnaround was quick, but you needed to report to work. While slightly annoying, the plan was simple: report home, get back to work, and into your routine. Jude would soon follow.

As you focused on starting the bath, Jude began to look through the items you bought. His hand paused on something small and familiar, tucked beneath his favorite snacks—a stuffed lion. He picked it up, a wave of bittersweet memories washing over him. The lion had a soft, golden mane and big, friendly eyes. Stitched into the pad of its right paw was a heart. Jude remembered the day he won it for you at the Ice Palace, the way your face had lit up with joy, your smile so wide and genuine it had made his heart swell.

"My lion," you’d giggled, hugging the plush toy tightly before wrapping your arms around his neck, your laughter ringing in his ears. “I can keep him with me when you’re away.”

You paused in the bathroom doorway, watching him hold the stuffed lion. "That always makes me feel better when we're apart," you said softly, a smile finding your lips as the shared memory hung between the two of you.

You began to take out and explain the things you had brought to cheer him up—a selection of his favorite snacks, your iPad full of movies, and some comforting toiletries. "I brought these because I thought they might help you relax. And I know how much you love Shawshank Redemption. So...being the gracious, loving girlfriend I am, I will sit through it for the hundredth time. But, only if you promise to share your sour st-"

You were mid-sentence when he moved towards you, wrapping his arms around your middle from behind. For a moment, you stayed that way, the warmth of his embrace speaking louder than words. Jude buried his face in your shoulder, his breath hitching as he tried to hold back the tears that threatened to escape.

You could feel the tremors in his body, his grip tightening as if you were his anchor in the storm of his emotions.

"It's okay," you whispered, turning to face him, the warmth of your palms against his cheeks lifting his eyes to yours. "You gave it everything you had, and that's all anyone can ask for. I'm so proud of you, Jude. You’ve come so far, and this is just a moment in your journey. It's okay to feel hurt and disappointed, but remember that you are stronger than this. Everything happens exactly when it's meant to."

Finally, the dam broke, and Jude rested against you, the tears he’d managed to keep at bay all night came pouring out. He remained pressed against you until the stress of the past few months drained his eyes dry. He allowed you to lead him to the bathroom, welcoming the warm, fragrant steam filled the room, creating a cocoon of comfort. 

He allowed you to help him undress, your movements tender and deliberate, as if you were peeling away not just his clothes but also the layers of his hurt.

"Let's get you in," you murmured softly, as his lips brushed against yours, guiding him into the tub. Jude eased himself into the warm water, letting out a deep sigh as the heat began to soothe his aching muscles and weary mind.

You stepped back to gather the other things you had brought, but Jude's hand gently traced soothing circles into your thigh as you stood by the tub. The simple touch spoke volumes, a silent plea for your presence, for you to stay close.

Jude leaned his head back, closing his eyes as he let the warmth of the bath wash over him. The exhaustion and frustration that had gripped him began to loosen, replaced by a growing sense of peace. He listened as you moved around the room, lighting a few candles and setting out the items you had brought—a fluffy towel, his favorite shampoo, and a soft robe for when he got out. 

You joined Jude in the tub, settling behind him. He welcomed the loofah against his skin, the gentle, rhythmic motion of your hands soothing his frayed nerves. You massaged his shoulders, careful with the one that had been previously injured, as he rested back against you. His hand found its place on his leg, grounding him as he watched the movie playing on the tablet propped nearby.

Your touch worked magic, and you could feel his body gradually relaxing. The tension that had coiled within him slowly unwound, and he seemed to be coming back to himself. The voice in his head, the one that echoed with doubt and personal criticism, grew quieter with each passing moment. Each gentle kiss you pressed against his skin, each laugh you shared from the film, chipped away at the walls of his frustration.

By the time most of the bubbles had dissipated, Jude was completely relaxed. His gratefulness showed in the way he gently squeezed your thigh and the soft kisses he brushed against your knuckles. The warmth of the water, combined with your presence, created a cocoon of comfort and safety. 

He tilted his head back slightly, letting it rest against your shoulder, eyes half-closed in contentment. "I don't know what I'd do without you," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, fingers tracing small circles on his chest. "You don’t have to," you replied softly. "I’m here, always."

Jude sighed, a deep, contented breath that seemed to release the last of his lingering tension. He turned his head slightly to kiss your forehead, a silent thank you for being his anchor in the storm. The doubts that had plagued him earlier were now a distant memory.

The kiss he left against your lips was soft, almost sloppy. The physical and mental strain he's been under from Real Madrid and the Euros suddenly registering. His body begging for sleep.

"Let's get you outta here," you giggled. "I don't think I can carry you to bed if you fall asleep."

You press against the corner of his mouth, the action stopping the closing of his heavy eyelids. "Come on, Jude."

"Mmm...hold up..." Jude mumbled, eyes drifting shut as your lips brushed against his. Brow arching, his smirk prompting your eyes to roll. "...I'm not even tired."

"Uh-huh," stifling your giggle, you watch as Jude nods. His heavy eyes blinking before dropping down to your smile.

"'m not," he mumbled, his kiss missing your lips and settling on your chin.

A series of soft and light kiss lingered against your jaw, drifting to your shoulder. As much as he tried to fight off the comfortable sleeping tugging at him, Jude couldn't resist. By the time he reached your lips, a tired and goofy smile stretched across Jude's lips.

"Alright," he relented. "Let's go, but we gonna finish this in the morning."

"I'm sure we will," you smiled.

You place a final kiss against his lips. The brushing of your nose against his pulling out the smile that left you the victim of constant butterflies and euphoria. Before Jude knew it, the words slipped out.

"I love you," he murmured, the words hanging in the air between you like a delicate promise. "Thanks for this."

The words halted your movement of slipping from beneath him, your eyes widening slightly in surprise. It was the first time he had said it aloud. You had never pressured him for those words, knowing that he showed his love in countless other ways. Just as you did for him.

"I love you too, Jude," you replied as his lips found your forehead.

Letting his lips pass over your nose, Jude pushed himself.

[leighsartworks216]

Business Trip

Zayne x gn!Reader

This has absolutely no relation to Zayne's card of the same name, I just had no idea what else to call this and I'm too tired to think of anything different lol

Warnings: fluff, domestic fluff, established relationship, phone call, sleepiness

Word Count: 569

Main Masterlist

First - Second - Third LADS Masterlists

AO3

Tag List Form

Zayne knows right away it's you calling from the ringtone alone. Yet he still checks the screen before he answers. His eyes are bleary, head heavy with information, body ready to collapse. The phone beeps as he accepts the call.

"It's two in the morning, you should be asleep."

You giggle sleepily on the other end. "Hello to you, too."

A small smile finds his lips. Even so far away from him, you so effortlessly break the aloof outer shell he lives with; slipping past Dr. Zayne and finding him, just Zayne. His voice is softer when next he speaks. "Hello, my love. Why are you up so late?"

"Wanted to hear your voice," you tell him. He can just picture your face as you yawn. Nose scrunching up, mouth gaping wide. Unflattering, perhaps, but he loves it so. "You said the conference would be over around one. So I stayed up to say goodnight."

He shakes his head, though you can't see it. "I just got back to the hotel. You could have called closer to one."

"Well, I was gonna, but..." Another yawn. "But I might've dozed just a bit..."

"You shouldn't fight to stay awake. Go back to sleep. You can call me again tomorrow when you wake up."

"How d'you know if you'll be free then?"

"I know because my train leaves in the afternoon. I don't have to be at the station until 3."

He can hear shuffling on the other end of the phone. The speaker scrapes against something, muffling the call for a moment before it clears again just as you go to speak. You must have snuggled further into your blankets. How he wishes he could hold you now. "Nnn, when'll it get here?"

"Around 8, and I'll be home by no later than 8:30. Does that suffice?"

You hum, slurring your words. "Yeah, 's good..."

He speaks quieter. "I'll stop by the dessert shop and pick up some of your favorites."

"Mhm..." You're no longer processing anything he's saying. He can tell. Your breathes are evening out, barely audible through the phone.

"I love you," he whispers.

His response comes in quiet snores. He leans against the wall. Closes his eyes. Just listens. Follows the steady sound of your breathing. Lets it sink into his aching, tired body. It lifts away the weight in his head, replaces the exhaustion in his eyes with something softer. He smiles.

He would stay there for a whole hour if he could, but he also needs his rest. He still has to shower and go through his nightly routine before he can go to sleep. He's only been away for a day, but he misses the familiarity of flitting past each other as you go through your respective routines. Him, standing behind you in the mirror, brushing his teeth and smiling around the brush while you wash your face and tell him the gossip from work. Drying your hair for you while he tells you about his own day. Laying side by side in bed, facing each other, caressing cheeks and combing through hair, sharing soft kisses. Perhaps he clings to that for the next few minutes he listens to you sleep, reminding himself of how much longer he needs to wait to have that again.

Eventually, he whispers as softly as possible into the phone, "Goodnight, my love. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @deepzombieyouth @armycaratlover @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @hawtlineblingz @that-lost-one @always-just-red @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @burningtrashgentleman @nothankyew @nezuswritingdesk @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @m0onfl0x @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @nerrivm @ichosesparklingtorment @schnittled @leiakitty @loliesaregreat @flamedancer13

[abusivegymrat]

Price x secretary reader - secretary mini series

warning: overworking, rushed shit writing

wc: 765

Price knows, oh he knows. Because, how are you done with 45 reports, 2 briefings, 3 admissions and 5 meetings in 8 hours, love? It makes no sense. He sees how his men’s eyes widen when you casually brag about how efficient you are, how you’re done with whatever that was thrown at you in no time. Before you came, he couldn’t finish half of what you did in two days. So, even though he’d never admit it, he’s sort of jealous. 

He makes it a personal mission to see you squirming under the weight of work, the price of taking up this job with arms wide open. He wants you to feel what he feels for reasons he’s not sure of. Maybe he wants you to toughen up, to prepare you for the burden, for harder times. You work under him after all, and whether you're a soldier or not, you need conditioning to be working under his name. To be the best of the best. 

He takes up more work than he ever has, attends more briefings in a week than he ever has in his life, and suddenly, everyone in the country wants to be a soldier. You start off mildly at first: just a couple hours more of work every week, a cup of coffee more, before it gets intense. 

You receive five more emails when you’re not even done with one, the 1-10 report ratio is insane too. Hell, for the first time since you started, you’re running around on base and actually started using the coffee machine in your office instead of the public one because god damn. Your handwriting gets messier during meetings, and you’re the first to leave every room. 

Whenever you sit in front of your computer, your fingers practically teleport over the keyboard. But whatever you do, every step further shoves you back 10 steps farther. And you’re pissed. 

You have no idea he’s the one doing this to you, because you haven’t had time to check who forwarded you that email or bother asking the soldier who jammed all those papers into his hand and sent him to you. You never show it though, keep up the act of the perfect secretary, act like you got sleep the past 3 days, like you’re not living off of redbulls, coffee and oats like a fucking horse. 

After a few weeks of this frenzy, it comes to a halt. Or so you think. 

The meeting. 

It totally slipped your mind. 

You were taking a shower for the first time in god knows when. You were disgusting. It was quick, you swear, it took like twenty minutes. Then you went to take a five minute piss, and a 2 minute coffee break. 

Or so you thought. 

Your hand shoots up to you hair as you run it through, your eyelids twitch and your nostrils flare as you stare at your phone screen. 

21:49. 

The meeting was on 19:00. 

And you’ve already missed two weeks of it past two Saturdays. 

You are utterly, completely, fucked. 

A part of you wants to go back to all those fucking emails and stick to all those fucking recruits’ throats and find out who’s making you suffer like this. But the rational part of you is already crawling back to work, soon your body follows. 

The perfect. Little. Secretary. 

A fire of ambition flares through you, your eyes narrow. They think this is funny? Oh you’re about to be hilarious. 

From then on, everything was a blur as you somehow found yourself in a flow state that lasted forever, no breaks, no distractions. Just going back in time as you find yourself in the body of your university-student self. You’ve been through worse. 

Time passes, as you grind yourself far beyond the state of exhaustion, your stubbornness getting the better of you. Merging with your body and soul, soon to be replaced by pride. 

And to top it off? You conceal your dark under eyes, do the most sleek hairstyle, wear your cutest kitten heels and step into the prettiest pencil skirt you own; show up in the common room like it was nothing, smiling left and right, offering coffee to everyone. 

Soap approaches you with a bright smile, rambling about how he hasn’t seen you around and missed seeing your pretty face and nice legs around base. He asks if you’re on a break. 

You look straight into his eyes:

“I’m done, sergeant.”

You see Price flinch and his eyes widen.

You found the culprit. 

But you also passed the test.