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goldfades · 5 months ago

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in her younger days, they called her delta dawn; prettiest woman you ever laid eyes on

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 8.7k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | (requested: Paige Bueckers x Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader reader since she might be going to the Wings) when paige is drafted to the dallas wings, she knows her life is about to change, but she doesn’t expect you. as a dallas cowboys cheerleader with your own set of rules and boundaries, the last thing you need is a distraction—especially not in the form of the star wnba player who seems to turn every gaze in the room. but as the season progresses and paths cross under the texan sun, paige's world of fast breaks and buzzer-beaters collides with yours, leaving neither of you the same.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | fluff! paige teasing the hell out of reader, description of homophobia, the dcc being sweet(? whoa), one mention of man flirting w reader (EUGHHH), nothing else!

⟢ ┈ 𝐞𝐯'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | here's 8k of a tease!paige fic for yall... i hope yall forgive me for the last 3 soulcrushing fics 🫶🏼😘

You’ve always said you’d never date an athlete.

It’s a rule born of practicality, not bitterness. Athletes move fast—on the court, on the field, and in life. Your job as a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader already demands a fine balance of composure and charm. The last thing you need is the whirlwind of someone else’s high-stakes career bleeding into your own meticulously crafted routine.

But tonight, standing under the hazy glow of the American Airlines Center lights, that rule wavers.

You’re here for one of those PR crossover events—a meet-and-greet between the Dallas Wings and the Cowboys organization, complete with forced smiles and photo ops. It’s the kind of gig you’ve done a hundred times, one where you’re used to being admired at arm’s length by players who rarely look past the sparkle of your uniform. You’re used to their lingering glances, their empty flirtations, and their assumption that you’ll fall in line with the rest of their carefully constructed narrative.

Paige Bueckers doesn’t look at you like that.

You notice her the moment she walks in, an air of effortless confidence preceding her like a tidal wave. She’s all sharp cheekbones and easy laughter, blending seamlessly into the room while somehow standing apart. Her presence feels unintentional, like she didn’t mean to be so magnetic but couldn’t help it anyway.

You try not to stare, but when her eyes catch yours—crystal-clear and curious—you know you’ve already lost.

"You're with the cheerleaders, right?" she asks, her voice low enough to feel like a secret, despite the bustling crowd around you. There’s no pretense in her tone, no undercurrent of ego or assumption. It’s disarming, the way she asks like she’s genuinely interested, not just making small talk.

"That’s right," you reply, lifting your chin with practiced ease. "And you’re with the Wings."

Her smile tilts, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like you’re the only two people in the room. "Guess that makes us teammates now. Sort of."

You tell yourself it’s just a conversation. Just an introduction. But deep down, you already know—it’s the kind of beginning that doesn’t let you walk away unchanged.

The noise of the event fades into the background, dulled to a steady hum that makes it easier to focus on Paige’s voice—and the way she leans just slightly toward you, as if shielding the moment from the room around you.

“Teammates, huh?” you reply, arching a brow and forcing a practiced indifference into your voice. “I don’t know if standing in the same room counts as teamwork.”

She chuckles, low and warm. “Guess we’ll have to work on our chemistry, then.”

It’s a simple remark, delivered with the kind of ease that shouldn’t make your cheeks feel warm. But it does, and the sensation creeps up faster than you can stop it. You glance to the side, pretending to check on one of your teammates who’s caught in a conversation with a reporter, but the smirk on Paige’s face tells you she’s already noticed.

“You’re blushing,” she says, not bothering to hide her amusement.

“No, I’m not.” You shoot back quickly, the denial sharper than you intend. You straighten your posture, willing the heat in your face to cool. “It’s warm in here. Lights and all.”

“Sure,” Paige says, drawing the word out like she doesn’t believe you for a second. Her grin widens, and she takes a slow sip of her water, somehow managing to make even that look like a calculated move.

You cross your arms, trying to steady yourself. “Do you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Flirt with strangers at PR events.”

Paige lets out a soft laugh, her head tilting slightly as she considers your words. “Only the ones who pretend not to notice.”

The nerve of her. You fight the urge to look directly at her, keeping your gaze focused on the crowd instead. “I’m not pretending anything.”

“Right. And you’re also not blushing.” She leans in just enough for her voice to lower, her next words meant only for you. “But you are.”

Your resolve cracks slightly, enough for a small, involuntary laugh to escape. You quickly recover, shaking your head as you fix her with a look that you hope reads unimpressed—but the way Paige’s smirk deepens makes you think you’re failing miserably.

“You seem awfully confident for someone who just got here,” you say, trying to steer the conversation back into safer waters.

Paige shrugs, her shoulders moving in an easy rhythm that matches the cadence of her voice. “I’m just observant. And, you know, good at reading plays.”

“Plays?”

“Yeah,” she says, her grin turning almost playful now. “Like how you keep crossing your arms when you talk to me. Defense mechanism.”

You uncross your arms immediately, regretting the move the second her smirk shifts into something closer to triumph.

“See?” she teases. “I was right.”

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, though the words come out more like a laugh.

“And yet,” Paige says, leaning back just enough to give you a moment’s reprieve, “you’re still talking to me.”

She’s not wrong, but you don’t let yourself linger on that thought. Instead, you square your shoulders, offering her a saccharine smile that feels like a small victory. “Maybe I’m just being polite.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, though her tone suggests she doesn’t believe that either.

Before you can respond, one of your teammates waves you over, motioning for you to join the rest of the group as the event shifts into its next stage. You give Paige a tight nod, as if to signal that the conversation is over, and turn to walk away.

“Hey,” she calls after you, her voice cutting through the din like it’s meant just for you.

You glance back, already halfway across the room.

“See you around, teammate.”

It’s casual, almost lazy, the way she says it. But the spark in her eyes as she meets your gaze makes it feel anything but.

You don’t reply. Instead, you turn back toward your teammates, heart pounding against your ribs in a way that you’re certain Paige Bueckers has no right to cause.

The next day dawns like any other—a pale sliver of sunlight spilling through the blinds, the soft hum of your alarm shaking you from sleep. Your phone buzzes with a notification as you swipe to silence the alarm: a practice reminder from the squad captain, a half-hour earlier than usual.

You groan quietly, already feeling the weight of the day settle onto your shoulders. Between your nine-to-five at the PR firm and cheer practice, your days rarely allow room for indulgence, let alone distractions.

Except today, there’s a distraction.

She flits through your mind the way sunbeams catch on the windshield during your drive to work—brief but impossible to ignore. Paige’s teasing smile, the easy way she leaned toward you as if she had all the time in the world to figure you out. You shake your head as you merge onto the freeway, cranking up the music to drown out the thought.

You’re good at focus. You have to be.

By the time you clock in, you’ve managed to push Paige into the back of your mind, hidden behind the mountain of emails that demand your attention. Meetings stretch into the afternoon, punctuated by a working lunch where you barely taste your food. Coworkers buzz about the latest office gossip, but you’re laser-focused on the client presentation you’ve been perfecting for weeks.

The hours blur together, and when you glance at the clock, it’s already 4:45. Just enough time to dart home, change into your uniform, and make it to practice.

The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader practice facility is a world unto itself—bright, sterile, and unforgiving. The walls echo with sharp counts, the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, and the biting critique of your coaches.

“Sharper arms, everyone! This isn’t a yoga class!”

You’ve been here long enough to tune out the tone and focus on the instruction, but it doesn’t mean the sting doesn’t hit when it’s directed at you. “You’re late on the second count, [Y/N]! Fix it, or you’re doing it alone!”

“Yes, ma’am,” you reply automatically, forcing the strain out of your voice. You adjust your footing, throw yourself into the next routine, and pretend you don’t feel your muscles screaming in protest.

Cheerleading at this level is a game of precision and endurance. Perfection isn’t just the expectation—it’s the bare minimum. Your coach’s voice drills into your head like a metronome, keeping you in line as sweat drips down your back.

And yet, even as you push through the routine for the third, fourth, and fifth time, Paige creeps back into your thoughts.

Her smirk, her voice, the way her laugh felt like a secret just for you. You bite your lip, snapping yourself back to the present. Distractions like this could cost you—your spot, your reputation, everything you’ve worked for.

“Alright, that’s enough for today,” the coach finally calls, her sharp tone softening just enough to feel like a reprieve. “Clean up the routine and be ready to run it full-out tomorrow. Dismissed.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and head toward the lockers, shoulders heavy with exhaustion.

“You’re quiet today,” your teammate Dana says as she falls into step beside you.

“I’m always quiet,” you reply, but she shakes her head.

“Not like this. What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” She smirks knowingly, bumping your shoulder with hers. “I saw you talking to Paige Bueckers last night.”

Your heart skips, but you keep your expression neutral. “It was nothing. Just small talk.”

“Oh, really?” Dana drawls, clearly not buying it. “She looked pretty interested for it to be just ‘small talk.’”

“She’s friendly. That’s all.” You tug open your locker, keeping your voice steady, but the blush creeping up your neck betrays you.

Dana’s grin widens. “Uh-huh. Friendly. Right.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. “What do you want me to say? She was just being nice.”

“Sure. And you weren’t blushing at all.”

“I wasn’t,” you mutter, brushing past her, but Dana catches your arm, spinning you around just enough to read your face.

“You totally were,” she says, laughing. “I knew it. You’ve got a thing for her.”

“I don’t,” you insist, though the words feel flimsy even to you.

Dana studies you for a moment, her grin softening into something more thoughtful. “Hey, for what it’s worth, I think you should go for it.”

“Go for what?”

“Her. Paige. She seems cool, and you...” She pauses, shrugging. “You deserve to let someone in for once.”

You open your mouth to argue, to insist that you’re too busy, that it’s not practical, that Paige is just a passing thought. But the words don’t come. Instead, you nod absently, murmuring a quick, “See you tomorrow,” before heading out into the cool evening air.

As you drive home, Paige’s voice lingers in your mind, weaving through the cracks of your carefully constructed resolve. You don’t want to admit it—not to Dana, not to yourself—but something about her feels different.

And no matter how hard you try to focus on the road, the echo of her teasing smile keeps pulling you back.

Paige’s day started like most others: early alarms, cold showers, and an endless loop of drills designed to sharpen her skills to a razor’s edge. Practice with the team wasn’t just a routine—it was a second language, something she could move through on instinct alone.

But today, instinct wasn’t enough to keep her mind from wandering.

She tried to focus on the sound of sneakers squeaking on the court, the coach’s whistle cutting through the air, and the weight of the ball in her hands. Still, her thoughts kept drifting—back to the sharpness in your voice, the way your eyes flitted everywhere but her when she leaned in, and that faint blush you tried so hard to hide.

“Paige!”

The sharp call of her name jolted her out of her thoughts, and she turned just in time to see Aariyah toss her the ball. She caught it, but not without a stumble.

“Yo, where’s your head at today?” Aariyah asked, crossing her arms as Paige dribbled toward her.

“Nowhere,” Paige lied, attempting a casual shrug. She passed the ball back, forcing herself to stay in the present.

Her teammates weren’t convinced. Throughout the rest of practice, they kept stealing glances her way, whispering to each other when they thought she wasn’t looking. Paige pretended not to notice, but she could feel the weight of their curiosity as the session dragged on.

By the time practice ended, her nerves were frayed. She slung her bag over her shoulder and followed her team into the locker room, the sound of banter and laughter filling the space.

“So,” Aariyah started, leaning against a row of lockers. “What’s up? You’ve been weird all day.”

“Nothing,” Paige said, but Aariyah raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it.

“It’s not nothing,” Nyla chimed in, pulling her hoodie over her head. “You’ve been distracted since last night. What happened at that PR thing?”

Paige hesitated, debating whether to say anything at all. But the memory of your blush, your quick-witted deflections, and the way you seemed both intrigued and guarded all at once—it was enough to push her over the edge.

“Alright,” she admitted, leaning against the lockers. “There was this cheerleader there.”

“Ohhh, a cheerleader,” Nyla said, grinning. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“She’s… interesting,” Paige said, her voice casual but her mind racing. “What’s her deal?”

“She who?” Aariyah asked, curiosity piqued.

“I don’t know her name,” Paige admitted, running a hand through her hair. “She was there last night. Tall, sharp eyes, kind of guarded. You know her?”

Nyla’s expression shifted slightly, like she was putting pieces together. “You mean [Y/N]?”

“Yeah. That’s her.”

Aariyah let out a low whistle. “You’ve got your sights set on [Y/N]? Good luck with that.”

Paige frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She’s… complicated,” Nyla said, choosing her words carefully. “She’s been with the team for a while, but she’s always kind of kept to herself. No one’s ever seen her with anyone. Ever.”

“Like, dating?” Paige asked, intrigued.

“Yeah,” Aariyah said. “As far as we know, she’s single. Always has been. And, uh… probably straight.”

Paige tilted her head, unconvinced. “You don’t know that.”

“Come on, Bueckers,” Nyla said, rolling her eyes. “Just because you’re into her doesn’t mean she’s into you. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Paige shrugged, though the flicker of doubt in her chest was quickly overruled by something stronger. “Maybe you’re wrong. My gay-dar’s never failed me.”

Aariyah snorted. “Your gay-dar is not a superpower, Paige.”

“Feels like it sometimes,” Paige said with a grin, though her mind was already wandering back to you—your sharp tongue, your quick wit, and the way you seemed to light up just a little when you thought no one was looking.

She couldn’t explain it, but something about you felt… different.

“Alright,” Aariyah said, shaking her head. “You do you. But don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

Paige just smiled, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she headed for the door. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys.”

As she stepped out into the cool afternoon air, she felt a spark of determination settle in her chest. You might’ve been guarded, but Paige wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.

And something told her that getting to know you would be worth the effort.

The energy inside AT&T Stadium was electric, a sea of navy and silver filling the stands as the Dallas Cowboys prepared to kick off their first game of the season. The buzz of excitement was contagious, spreading through the crowd and spilling onto the field where you stood, stretching and loosening up with your team in preparation for the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders' first performance of the year.

Your routine was set to "Thunderstruck"—an intense, crowd-pumping track that had been drilled into your muscles and memory over countless rehearsals. The choreography was sharp, demanding, and thrilling, and as the minutes ticked down to showtime, you could feel the adrenaline beginning to build.

Stretching your hamstrings, you focused on controlling your breath, locking in. This was your ritual—shut out the noise, shut out the crowd, shut out everything except the beat and the moves.

But then you saw her.

Paige Bueckers, dressed casually yet effortlessly stylish, strolling into the VIP section with a small entourage. Her golden hair caught the stadium lights just so, and her signature self-assured smirk tugged at the corners of her lips as she scanned the crowd.

Your focus cracked, just a little, as her gaze passed over the field. You could’ve sworn she lingered on you for half a second longer than necessary, though it was probably your imagination.

“Oh, look who it is,” one of your teammates teased, nudging you playfully. “Miss Basketball’s here to watch you.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, trying to refocus.

“Someone’s blushing,” another teammate chimed in with a grin.

“I’m not blushing,” you shot back, but the warmth spreading across your face betrayed you.

“Alright, ladies,” your coach barked, clapping her hands. “Let’s lock in. Showtime in five!”

You nodded, shaking off the distraction as you straightened up. This wasn’t your first time performing on such a massive stage, but tonight felt bigger somehow. Maybe it was the buzz of the first game or the fact that Paige Bueckers was now seated comfortably in the VIP section, her eyes occasionally flicking toward the field.

You couldn’t afford to think about that. Not now.

When it was time to step onto the field, the roar of the crowd hit you like a wave. The drumline started, the booming bass syncing with your heartbeat as you marched into position with your squad. Your eyes locked forward, face set with a determined smile.

As the opening riff of "Thunderstruck" blared through the speakers, the adrenaline hit you full force. Every move was sharp, every beat perfectly timed. The routine was fast and furious, filled with high kicks, sharp turns, and intricate formations designed to wow the crowd.

You didn’t just dance; you performed. You poured everything into every move, channeling weeks of hard work, sweat, and discipline into the routine.

For a moment, you forgot about Paige entirely. You forgot about the teasing, the crowd, and even the VIP section. It was just you and the music, your body moving instinctively with every beat, every accent.

And when the final pose hit—arms stretched high as the crowd erupted into cheers—you felt a rush of pride. You’d nailed it.

As you walked off the field, your teammates high-fived and cheered, hyping each other up. “You killed it out there,” one of them said, slinging an arm around your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you replied with a small smile, glancing toward the VIP section despite yourself.

Paige was still there, leaning back in her seat, clapping along with the rest of the crowd. But unlike the rest, her gaze wasn’t on the team—it was on you.

The Cowboys had won, and with victory came celebration—a tradition as ingrained in the culture as the game itself. Even if it was meant to be a “lowkey” night, the so-called party still overflowed with boisterous laughter, the bass of music vibrating through the room, and the steady clink of glasses.

You stood in the corner of the dimly lit lounge, nursing a sparkling water. The oversized, lavish venue was packed with players, cheerleaders, and a smattering of VIPs. It was a mandatory-unspoken-rule sort of thing; showing face after a win was just part of the job. That didn’t mean you enjoyed it.

The football players were the worst of it. Sure, most of them were decent enough, but there were always a handful of rookies and cocky veterans who treated the cheerleaders like part of their post-game spoils. Your smile was polished and your patience saintly, but the constant attention grated on your nerves.

Tonight was no different. A rookie wide receiver with a too-white smile and a swagger far outpacing his résumé sidled up to you as if you’d been waiting your entire life for this moment.

“Hey,” he drawled, leaning in too close. The smell of his cologne—something aggressively woody—made your nose twitch. “You look incredible tonight.”

“Thank you,” you replied politely, sipping your drink and taking a half-step back.

He didn’t notice, or he chose not to. “So, what’s a girl like you doing standing all alone at a party like this?”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “Just enjoying the night.”

He took that as an invitation to lean closer, his grin widening. “Well, maybe you need someone to enjoy it with. How about I—”

The hand on your arm made your skin crawl.

You turned, polite facade dropping as you said firmly, “Back off.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, his grin faltering but still holding onto a thread of misplaced confidence. “Don’t be like that. I’m just being friendly.”

“I said, back off,” you repeated, stepping out of his reach.

“Hey, no need to get all uptight—”

“Is there a problem here?”

The voice sliced through the noise, cool and edged with steel. You turned your head, and there she was. Paige Bueckers, hands tucked casually into the pockets of her jeans, exuding an aura of calm dominance that was impossible to ignore.

“Who the hell are you?” the rookie asked, puffing up slightly, his bravado clashing with her unbothered demeanor.

“Doesn’t matter,” Paige said, her eyes narrowing. “What matters is she told you to back off. Twice.”

The rookie opened his mouth to retort, but Paige cut him off, her voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I suggest you listen, or I’ll be happy to explain it louder.”

The rookie hesitated, looking between you and Paige before finally muttering something under his breath and slinking away into the crowd.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Paige smirked, her hands still in her pockets as she leaned casually against the bar beside you. “Yeah, I did. Looked like you were about to throw a drink in his face.”

You snorted, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Would’ve been satisfying.”

“Bet it would’ve,” Paige replied, her grin widening. “But then you’d have to deal with the PR fallout. Figured I’d save you the trouble.”

“Chivalrous,” you teased, trying to hide the fact that your cheeks were burning.

Paige tilted her head, her grin softening into something quieter, more genuine. “You alright?”

The question caught you off guard. You nodded, still holding her gaze. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

“Anytime.” She glanced at the drink in your hand, then back at you. “So, are you always the life of the party, or is tonight a special occasion?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “Definitely a special occasion.”

Paige’s smile deepened, her gaze lingering just long enough to make your heart race. “Well, in that case, consider me honored to witness it.”

Paige stayed by your side after the rookie incident, the two of you easing into a conversation that felt refreshingly unforced. For the first time that evening, you didn’t feel the need to wear the polished, ever-smiling Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader mask. You didn’t have to calculate every word, every laugh, every polite sidestep.

It surprised you how quickly you relaxed around Paige. Her humor was sharp but warm, and the way she listened made you feel... seen. The kind of seen that wasn’t about the uniform or the role you played. She wasn’t looking at the cheerleader. She was looking at you.

“You seem different,” Paige said at one point, leaning on the bar beside you, her fingers tracing the edge of a napkin.

You quirked an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Different? Is that your way of saying I’m weird?”

She laughed, her head tipping back slightly. “Not what I meant. You’re... real. It’s nice.”

That comment stuck with you, warming you from the inside. You weren’t used to people looking past the glossy, larger-than-life image you were expected to maintain.

As the conversation flowed, you found yourself craving something sweet and light to cut through the night. You turned to the bartender. “Can I get a Shirley Temple, please?”

Paige’s eyes lit up. “No way. That’s my favorite.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Really?”

“Swear on it.” She held up two fingers in a mock scout’s honor pose. “No judgment, but it’s kind of perfect. Sweet, nostalgic, doesn’t try too hard. Exactly my vibe.”

You smirked, shaking your head as the bartender slid the drink over. “Didn’t peg you for the Shirley Temple type.”

“What can I say? I’m full of surprises,” she said, flashing a grin that made your stomach flip.

By the time the party began winding down, the room thinning out, you realized just how much you’d enjoyed yourself. You weren’t even sure when the usual edge of tension had melted away, replaced by a lightness that felt foreign yet welcome.

Paige cleared her throat, her hands slipping into her jean pockets. “Hey, um... before you go.”

You looked up at her, noticing a slight shift in her demeanor. She wasn’t the effortlessly confident star athlete now. There was something endearingly hesitant about the way she scratched the back of her neck.

“Can I, uh, get your number?” she asked, her voice dropping just a fraction, as if saying it too loud might scare you off.

You tilted your head, lips curving into a teasing smile. “You? Nervous?”

She chuckled, the faintest hint of pink coloring her cheeks. “Is it working?”

With a laugh, you pulled your phone out and handed it over. Paige entered her number quickly, double-checking it before passing it back. “Don’t leave me hanging, alright? Text me sometime.”

You nodded, feeling a strange flutter in your chest as her fingers brushed yours during the exchange.

As you turned to leave, you glanced back and caught Paige walking toward her teammates. She glanced over her shoulder at you, a cocky smirk spreading across her face as she mouthed, “Told you so.”

One of her teammates groaned and swatted at her shoulder, while another rolled their eyes, clearly unimpressed with Paige’s triumphant swagger.

You shook your head, grinning despite yourself. Somehow, you had a feeling this was going to get interesting.

A few weeks had passed since that night at the party, and in the time since, Paige had somehow woven her way into the fabric of your life in ways you hadn’t expected. It wasn’t anything dramatic, nothing earth-shattering. But you couldn’t deny it: she had become part of your routine.

Despite the whirlwind of your schedule—DCC practices, games, and the usual duties that came with being in the spotlight—the texts from Paige came often, little moments of respite during your otherwise hectic days. Sometimes it was a simple check-in: “How’s practice?” or “How’s the Shirley Temple holding up today?” Sometimes it was just something random, like a meme or a quote that had made her think of you. Every time you saw her name pop up, your heart did that little flip again, that same flutter that had been there since the first night you met.

The dates were simple and casual, which was just how you liked it. A quiet dinner, a walk in the park, the occasional movie, and for the first time in a long time, you could just be yourself. You weren’t the cheerleader. You were just you. No performance. No expectations.

You thought you had the balance down, figuring out how to make it work despite the craziness of both of your lives. Paige was patient, always understanding when you had to cancel last minute or cut the night short. She didn’t pressure you. And, for once, you didn’t feel like you had to live up to an image for anyone, especially her.

It surprised you how easy it was to be with her. You hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected her—but Paige was like a steady rhythm in the cacophony of your life. You found yourself looking forward to her texts, the way she’d always send a good luck message before your performances or a stupid meme to make you laugh on a rough day.

You didn’t mean to, but Paige was quickly becoming part of your routine.

But then came the photograph.

You hadn’t noticed the photographer—probably a fan at the café where you and Paige had been sitting, sipping iced coffee and laughing about some story she was telling. You only found out when the photo popped up on social media, your notifications blowing up with tags and mentions.

The picture was innocent enough: Paige leaning back in her chair, mid-laugh, while you rested your chin in your hand, looking at her like she was the funniest person alive. It was candid and warm, the kind of photo that screamed chemistry.

The next thing you knew, the photo of the two of you smiling, laughing, and holding hands was all over social media. The caption? "Paige Bueckers and the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader: New Couple Alert!"

You didn’t think it was that big of a deal at first. After all, both of you were public figures in your own rights, and being seen together wasn’t exactly a crime. But as the hours passed, the post went viral. Comments flooded in. Some were supportive, some not so much. And as the days went on, you started seeing more articles and posts about the two of you, your names being linked in headlines everywhere.

It felt like a dream at first—something light, playful. But then reality sank in.

The next morning, as you walked into the DCC practice facility, you could feel the weight of it. You hadn’t even spoken to your coach yet, but you could tell. She was watching you as you walked in, her gaze sharp, calculating.

Coach Anderson didn’t waste any time. After practice, she called you into her office, her expression hardening as soon as the door clicked shut behind you.

“Close the door, please.”

You did as instructed, your heart beginning to race as you tried to brace for whatever was coming.

“Listen,” she started, her tone measured but firm, “you’re one of our best, and I don’t want this to come off as harsh. But... the photo. It’s everywhere. And it’s not great for the team’s image.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Not great?”

She leaned forward, her elbows on the desk. “You know how this works. The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders represent a certain... ideal. We have an image to maintain, and this? People are already making assumptions. It’s distracting.”

The knot in your stomach tightened, anger starting to bubble beneath the surface. “What assumptions?” you asked, your voice steady but edged.

She hesitated. “You know what I mean. People are speculating. And it’s not... on-brand.”

You stared at her, disbelief mingling with frustration. This was exactly what you’d feared—the constant balancing act of being what everyone expected you to be. But as much as you hated confrontation, something inside you refused to back down this time.

“I’m not straight,” you said, the words clear and unwavering.

Your coach froze, clearly not expecting you to address it so directly.

“And I’m not going to pretend to be,” you added, leaning forward slightly. “I’ve given everything to this team. I’ve worked my ass off to be here, to be the best. My personal life doesn’t change that.”

She blinked, visibly stunned. You’d always been a “yes, ma’am” kind of girl—polite, compliant, eager to please. But now, your voice was steady and your gaze unyielding.

“This.” She sighed, gesturing vaguely, her lips curling into a tight line. “The public—our fans—they have an image of you. And this”—she motioned to the photos on her phone—“does not fit that image. You’re part of the Dallas Cowboys brand now, and I need you to understand that.”

You felt your stomach drop. You knew where this was going. This wasn’t just about the photos. It was about the implications.

“You’re a cheerleader, and you’re expected to maintain a certain image. You can’t just… throw that away because of a relationship,” Coach Anderson continued, her voice harder now, almost condescending. “This is about professionalism. Your image. Do you understand?”

You stared at her for a moment, feeling the familiar, suffocating weight of expectations pressing in on you. For a second, you almost nodded, almost let yourself fall back into that mold of obedience, that role you were supposed to play.

But then, you remembered something. You remembered what Paige had told you about being real, about not pretending. You remembered the feeling of being yourself in her presence.

And suddenly, you couldn’t stay silent any longer.

“No,” you said, the word sharper than you intended. Your heart was pounding now, but there was no going back. “I don’t think I do understand.”

Coach Anderson blinked, clearly taken aback by your tone. You took a step forward, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m not going to pretend. Not for the team, not for anyone. If you think I’m going to sit here and fake being something I’m not for the sake of image, you’re wrong.”

Her eyes widened slightly, clearly shocked by your response. You were the quiet, obedient one. The one who never rocked the boat. The one who followed orders. To see you—to hear you—talk back like this was completely foreign to her.

“You’re talking about who I am,” you continued, your voice gaining strength. “And I’m not going to apologize for it. I’m not straight, Coach. I don’t owe you, or anyone else, an explanation for who I’m dating. If this”—you pointed at the photos again—“is a problem, then I guess I’ll have to deal with that.”

Coach Anderson stared at you, open-mouthed, for a moment, as if processing what you had just said. She blinked a few times, her face hardening into a tight, inscrutable mask. You could feel the weight of her gaze on you, assessing, perhaps judging, but you didn’t flinch.

For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. You felt like you.

Finally, she spoke, her voice cold. “I never thought I’d hear those words from you. You’ve always been… so compliant.”

“Well, not anymore,” you said firmly, not backing down. “I’m not going to play by your rules if they’re going to make me pretend to be something I’m not. I’m sorry if that’s a problem, but that’s who I am.”

The silence that followed was heavy, your coach’s face unreadable as she regarded you. For a moment, you wondered if you’d gone too far, if you’d just tanked your entire career with a few sentences.

But then she sighed, rubbing her temples. “Just... keep it low-key, alright? We can’t afford unnecessary drama.”

You nodded once, standing. “I always do.”

And when you left her office, you felt lighter than you had in ages, like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders. The familiar tension that had always been there when you wore that uniform was gone.

You weren’t just a cheerleader anymore. You were you.

The soft glow of the TV illuminated the room as you curled into the plush couch, a blanket thrown lazily over both your legs. Paige sat at the other end, her legs stretched out, socked feet occasionally brushing against yours. Some random movie was playing, one neither of you had really been paying attention to. The kind that served as background noise more than entertainment. It had been a long day, and this—just sitting together, the world quiet—was exactly what you needed.

You hadn't mentioned the conversation with your coach earlier. It wasn’t worth souring the moment, and besides, the heaviness from earlier had already lifted, replaced by the comfort of Paige’s presence. She had a way of making everything else feel smaller, less significant, like her calm confidence could shield you from anything outside these four walls.

She reached for the bowl of popcorn sitting between you, tossing a piece in the air and catching it expertly in her mouth. She smirked, satisfied, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at her playful display.

“Show-off,” you teased, nudging her foot with yours.

“What can I say?” she replied, her grin wide and unabashed. “Natural talent.”

The movie’s dialogue droned on in the background, but Paige muted it with a flick of the remote, letting the quiet settle over you. She shifted slightly, resting her head against the arm of the couch, and looked over at you with a soft expression that made your chest feel warm.

“You know,” she began, her voice casual but carrying that undertone of something deeper, “when I was a kid, I used to think being good at basketball was enough. Like, if I could just be the best, everything else would fall into place.” She laughed softly, a self-deprecating sound. “Turns out, it’s a little more complicated than that.”

You tilted your head, intrigued. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “I guess… I started realizing that it’s not just about being good. It’s about how people see the game. Women’s basketball doesn’t get the respect it deserves, you know? I want to change that. I want little girls to grow up seeing us on TV, in the spotlight, and thinking, I want to do that too. Not as some second-tier option, but as the dream.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment, and you felt your heart do that stupid fluttering thing again. There was something so earnest, so fiercely passionate in the way she spoke, like the sheer force of her determination could bend the world to her will. You could see it—the little girl Paige, dribbling a ball on some driveway somewhere, dreaming of being a trailblazer, not just a player.

“That’s…” you started, struggling to find the right words. “That’s incredible. You’re incredible.”

Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she smiled, brushing it off with a wave of her hand. “It’s just a dream.”

“Yeah, but you’re living it,” you insisted. “You’re out there, doing exactly what you said. You’re making it happen.”

She looked at you for a moment, her smile softening into something more vulnerable. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice quieter now. “That means a lot.”

The conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence, and after a moment, Paige nudged you with her foot. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Your dream,” she clarified. “What was it? Little you, running around in pigtails or whatever, what did she want to do?”

You laughed, leaning back into the couch cushions as you thought about it. “I always loved dancing. I think I was four when I begged my mom to put me in ballet classes. I was obsessed. And when I got older, it wasn’t just about the dancing anymore—it was about the performing, you know? The way it felt to be on stage, like for those few minutes, nothing else mattered.”

Paige listened intently, her gaze fixed on you in that way that made you feel like the most important person in the world.

“The DCC gave me a place to do that,” you continued, your voice softening. “I know it’s not perfect—God knows they’re not exactly progressive—but it’s still a dream. Getting to do what I love, to perform for a crowd… it’s everything I wanted.”

Paige smiled, a small, thoughtful curve of her lips. “You’re good at it,” she said simply.

You raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t even seen me dance.”

“I’ve seen enough,” she countered, her tone teasing but warm. “And besides, you wouldn’t be where you are if you weren’t incredible.”

You felt your cheeks heat, and you ducked your head, pretending to adjust the blanket so she wouldn’t see. “You’re just saying that.”

“Maybe,” she said with a grin, leaning back against the couch. “But I mean it.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything, the quiet between you filled with an unspoken understanding. It was rare, you realized, to have a moment like this—where everything felt easy, natural. Where you could just be.

As the credits rolled on the muted movie, Paige stretched, her arm brushing against yours, and you felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the blanket draped over you.

“You know,” she said, her voice light but with a playful edge, “I think little-you and little-me would’ve been friends. Or at least rivals.”

You laughed, the sound bubbling up before you could stop it. “Oh, definitely rivals. I would’ve wiped the floor with you in a dance-off.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, her smirk returning. “Bold claim, cheerleader.”

“True claim,” you shot back, grinning.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, and as the night stretched on, you found yourself leaning into the comfort of her presence, the weight of the world falling away, if only for a little while.

Paige grinned, leaning back against the couch cushions with a kind of effortless charm that made your stomach do somersaults. “What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents.” She winked, and it was ridiculous how easily she could fluster you with the smallest gestures.

You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping before you could help it. “That’s what you’re going to lead with? Popcorn tricks?”

“Hey, don’t knock it,” she shot back, her grin widening. “This could’ve been my party trick if basketball didn’t work out.”

You raised an eyebrow, playing along. “Oh yeah? And where does ‘world-class popcorn catcher’ rank next to WNBA superstar?”

She pretended to think, tapping her chin dramatically. “Probably right under future Hall of Famer and your biggest fan.”

That last bit caught you off guard. Paige said it so casually, like it wasn’t the kind of thing that could make your heart skip a beat. She didn’t even look at you after, just grabbed another handful of popcorn like she hadn’t just said something that would live rent-free in your mind for days.

You tried to play it cool, focusing on the screen and not the way your cheeks felt like they were on fire. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you like it,” she teased, nudging your leg lightly with her foot.

And damn it, she wasn’t wrong.

The sound of her phone vibrating against the coffee table pulled both of you out of the easy rhythm of banter. Paige reached for it, glancing at the screen. The shift in her expression was subtle, but you caught it—the way her brows furrowed just slightly, the ghost of a smirk softening into something more reserved.

“Press conference clips,” she muttered, tossing the phone back onto the table without opening the notification. “Guess they’re making a thing out of it.”

It didn’t take a genius to know what “it” was. The photo, the headlines, the endless speculation. You felt the weight of it again, creeping in at the edges of this quiet moment. But before you could say anything, Paige turned her attention back to you, her expression steady.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, her voice firm but warm. “People are going to talk. Let them. It’s not going to change anything.”

You studied her, the way she always seemed so sure of herself, so unshaken by the noise. It was one of the things you admired most about her—the way she carried herself with this quiet confidence, like she knew exactly who she was and didn’t owe anyone an explanation.

“Doesn’t bother you?” you asked softly, the words coming out before you could second-guess them.

She shrugged, her lips curving into that easy, self-assured smile that felt like a safety net. “Why would it? I get to date you. Let ‘em be jealous.”

And just like that, the tension dissolved, replaced by the warmth of her words and the steady, unflinching way she looked at you. Paige Bueckers, always cool under pressure, had a way of making everything else fade into the background.

The next couple of weeks pass surprisingly smoothly, at least on the surface. Coach Anderson hasn’t said a word about the photos since your last meeting, and it’s not hard to figure out why. You’re the top cheerleader, the face of the squad, and the one she relies on to land those impossible stunts and lead the team’s routines. Letting you go now would only create a whirlwind of drama she clearly wants to avoid.

But that doesn’t mean everything is perfect.

Your teammates—most of them, anyway—don’t go out of their way to make life easy for you. There’s no outright hostility; it’s all subtle, quiet, passive-aggressive. Like when you’re practicing the pyramid, and someone “accidentally” tightens their grip too much on your ankle, or when you call for a run-through and the response is a too-sweet “Of course, captain,” followed by exaggerated sighs and barely concealed eye-rolls.

It doesn’t happen all the time, but often enough that you can feel the weight of it. Even when no one’s saying anything, the whispers just outside of earshot, the exchanged glances, and the forced smiles remind you that the photos are still fresh in their minds.

You grit your teeth and keep going. Every time you land a clean tumble or nail the timing on a routine, you know you’re proving them wrong. Performance after performance, you remind everyone why you’re the one leading this team.

Then, one Friday night after a big game, the dam breaks—but not where you expect it.

The team’s win had been huge, a tight match that came down to the final seconds. The cheer squad had been flawless, their chants and stunts keeping the crowd alive and electric. As you gather with your squad on the sidelines, still buzzing from the game’s energy, the reporters swarm in.

The questions start innocent enough. Someone asks about the routine, another about the game’s atmosphere. You answer them like you always do—polished and professional.

But then a reporter steps forward. A man with a smirk that makes your skin crawl, and a voice dripping with fake politeness. "Great work tonight," he starts, holding his mic out to you. "But I have to ask—given all the controversy around those photos recently, do you really think you’re the right person to represent this team?"

The question catches you off guard, even though maybe it shouldn’t. You feel the weight of it settle like a rock in your chest, heavy and sharp. Around you, the other girls stiffen, and the camera lenses zoom in, waiting for your reaction.

You take a breath, keeping your expression calm even as irritation simmers just beneath the surface. "Well," you say, your voice steady, "those photos have nothing to do with my role here. What matters is the work we put into this team—on and off the field. And if you watched tonight’s game, I think the results speak for themselves."

Your response is measured, professional. But it’s not enough for him. "Still," he presses, his smirk widening, "don’t you think it sets a... questionable example for young girls watching?"

It’s such a loaded, condescending question that the irritation flares into anger. Before you can reply, though, one of your teammates steps forward. "Excuse me," she says sharply, her voice cutting through the tension. "What kind of example are you setting by asking that question? Maybe focus on our performance instead of gossip."

The reporter’s smirk falters, and another cheerleader speaks up, her arms crossed. "Yeah, seriously. We just worked our butts off out there, and this is what you want to talk about? Seems like a ‘you’ problem."

A few of the others chime in, their voices firm and united. For the first time in weeks, you don’t feel like you’re standing on shaky ground. The reporter stumbles over his words, trying to regain control, but someone from the PR team steps in and quickly ends the interview.

When the chaos dies down, and you’re gathering your things, one of your teammates catches your eye. "We’ve got your back," she says simply, offering you a small smile.

The others nod in agreement, and it’s all you can do to keep your voice steady when you reply. "Thanks. That means a lot."

It’s not a perfect resolution, but as you leave the field that night, you feel lighter. For the first time, it feels like you’re not fighting this battle alone.

The atmosphere shifts after the interview ends. The biting coldness that had lingered for weeks, the pointed whispers and passive-aggressive smiles, seems to melt away. For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel like an outsider among your own team.

One by one, the girls gather around you. At first, it’s tentative—an awkward shuffle of sneakers on the turf as if they’re testing the waters. Then someone breaks the tension by stepping closer and wrapping their arms around you.

It’s unexpected, but the gesture cracks something open inside you. Before you can process it, another cheerleader joins in, and then another, until you’re at the center of a warm, chaotic huddle.

The hug isn’t perfect. Arms bump into shoulders, someone’s pom-poms tickle your cheek, and there’s a faint whiff of sweat and body spray mingling in the air. But none of that matters. What matters is the sincerity in the way they hold you, the murmured “We’ve got you” and “Don’t let them get to you” that make your throat tighten with unexpected emotion.

“Look,” one of them says with a grin as the group hug breaks apart, “we may not always be the easiest people to deal with, but you’re our captain. No reporter or stupid photos are gonna change that.”

Another girl chimes in, smirking. “And if they ask anything dumb again, we’ll handle it. You just focus on flipping in midair like it’s nothing.”

The laughter that ripples through the group is light, genuine, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like part of the team again. The weight of their support, of their acceptance, feels like armor you didn’t know you needed.

When the moment starts to fade and the team begins gathering their things, you feel a familiar hand slip into yours. Paige is there, her grip warm and steady, her smile soft in a way that’s meant just for you.

“Ready to go?” she asks, her voice low enough that only you can hear.

You nod, glancing around at the others. The team is still buzzing, joking and chatting as they trail toward the locker rooms, but a few of them shoot you quick, encouraging smiles.

As you and Paige step out of the arena, hand-in-hand, the crisp night air greets you. The world outside is buzzing, reporters still milling about, cameras flashing as fans cheer and chatter. You know they’re looking. You can feel the weight of their stares, the subtle tilt of a camera lens in your direction, the whispers that follow wherever you go.

But tonight, for once, you don’t care.

You hold Paige’s hand tighter, her fingers lacing through yours in a way that feels unshakable, grounding. You catch her eye, and there’s something fierce in her smile, a kind of defiance that mirrors your own.

“Let them look,” she says, her voice firm but laced with humor. “What are they gonna do? Take more photos?”

The words make you laugh, a sound that feels freer than it has in weeks. Together, you walk through the crowd, the world around you blurring into the background as you focus on each step forward.

People snap pictures, murmur among themselves, and even call out questions, but none of it matters. Not the flashes of cameras, not the speculative headlines that will follow. What matters is the solid warmth of Paige’s hand in yours and the knowledge that, for the first time in a long time, you’re not walking alone.

As the two of you disappear into the night, you feel lighter. Stronger. You’re still the same person who weathered the worst of the storm, but now, you have people at your side who will weather it with you. And that makes all the difference.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

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reidrum · 10 months ago

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i cannot stop thinking about reader giving jesus hair spencer a blowjob, and him using the hair tie he keeps on his wrist to put her hair up

hair tie | s.r

a/n: hey so this made me insane. also i wrote this really fast if it seems rushed that’s why. may we all be manhandled by jesus reid in the near future amen

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, blowjob, softdom!spence lowkey, reader has hair long enough to be tied up, can be read as gn!reader but lmk if i missed something!

wc: 888

——————————————————————————

spencer’s long hair was definitely a choice. he grew it out to his shoulders purely because he couldn’t make it to a barber, and simply because he didn’t really care. it did become a hassle when he’d be hunched over his desk finishing reports and strands of hair would fall forward and obstruct his eyesight.

he found that he would waste so much time when he paused to push his hair behind his ears (two minutes and thirty seconds slower, he counted). he’d come home to you and complain wondering how all women dealt with the long hair if it just always flew in front of them. how did you get anything done?

then one day when spencer came home from work, you had a small surprise for him. a pack of 100 black hairties.

“so you can just put your hair up in a little pony or man bun and keep working!” you’d exclaimed.

he was so endeared by the gesture, he rarely ever tied his hair up but he never left the house without a hair tie on his wrist. he liked having the option if he needed it, plus it always reminded him of you when he saw it.

the few times he’s used it are during intense heat waves in dc, when he’s dealing with toxic chemicals and such, and when he’s with you.

when he goes down on you, his hair would never stay in place. and it irked him to have to remove his fingers from you in order to fix it. you found it so hot though. he was deathly hot, but he really didn’t understand what it did to you when he was on his knees tying his hair up for you.

until it happened to him, of course.

he had come home from work, tired from the day at the office. you led him to the couch and told him to sit and relax while you took care of him. he spreads his legs open and leans back onto the couch, his arms fanning outwards to rest on the ledge, “you’re too good to me, baby.”

you were down on him, moving your head and back and forth on his length. you traced the underside vein with your tongue, getting as much as you could down your throat. the sight of you dribbling spit all over his cock sent him into another orbit. it was messy, lewd, and outright fucking hot.

but that hair of yours kept falling down your cheeks and blocked the beautiful view of him fucking your mouth. he rakes his hands through your hair, but as much as he could hold it on his own, your ministrations were too good for him to keep a good grip on it.

in a haste move, he removes his hands and you look up at him in confusion at the loss of contact. you watch intently as he rolls the hair tie off his sleeve, the one that you got him, and watch him tie your hair up in a haphazard ponytail.

jesus fucking christ.

you whimper at the gesture, overwhelmed by the feeling of him tying your hair up. he feels you falter for a second, before you raise both hands to the remaining of his cock that didn’t fit in your mouth and hollow your cheeks out.

“fuck, angel, that’s so good—oh my god,” he mewls, “you like it when i tie your hair up? like when i—shit— use my own hair tie on you?”

you moan around his cock, sending vibrations throughout his body which he responded with a long groan, “bet you didn’t think this is what i’d use the hair ties for huh?”

he stares down at your face, tears streaming down both sides as you keep him in your mouth, as he twirls the ponytail in his big hand and tugs.

“baby, oh my god, fuck i’m gonna come.” he lets out, and soon he releases himself into your mouth as you swallow every last drop. you pull your mouth off his cock, leaning your cheek on his inner thigh as you stare up at him trying to catch your breath.

“holy shit.” you breathe out.

he laughs, “holy shit is right,” he strokes your hair gently, “was it actually hot when i tied your hair up?”

you look at him incredulously, “are you joking? the fact that i bought it for you to use, that you keep it on your wrist all the time, and that you used it on me when i was sucking you off, i could outcompete the sun right now.”

he pulls you off your knees to sit on his lap on the couch, “i’ll make note of that, my love,” he softly kisses you. cuddling further into his chest, you both end up falling asleep on the couch tangled all up in each other.

later down the line, spencer realizes that those cheap black hair ties aren’t all that great. they break easily and he finds it pulled out his hair, and probably your hair, a lot.

to solve this, spencer buys a pack of baby pink scrunchies that he keeps on his wrist at all times. he read somewhere they’re easier on the scalp. morgan makes fun of him for it, and while spencer rarely uses the scrunchies for himself, looking at the pink on his wrist always made his cock twitch a little no matter where he was.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid imagine #doctor spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x fem!reader smut #spencer reid x fanfiction

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devotedlyandrogynousyouth · 1 month ago

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Hii I love your writing, especially your jason todd fics! I was wondering if I could get a jason todd x reader, where she has had a lot of stress on her and it’s basically just fluff with a slight bit of angst. You can do it as headcanons or a one shot, it’s up to you! Thank you and have a good rest of your day <3333

Aww ty!! Im so sorry this took so long, life has been a little hectic recently, so this is a good time for me to get back into things

Just a Crappy Night

Jason Todd x Stressed! Reader

Guys I promise I'll start posting more regularly soon😰

First, your alarm didn't go off.

It wasn't a huge deal, at first. You woke up at 6:27 AM, so you still had a bit of time to do your makeup and hair before work. But waking up almost half an hour late puts every one into a crappy mood.

Then, your car keys died on you.

Honestly, you don't think they ever have before. You didn't even have the right batteries to replace them! And, of course, it was the cold-as-balls spring Gotham weather that greeted you as soon as you walked out of your apartment building. To make things worse, all of your good sweaters were still in the back seat or trunk, so you had to walk to the nearest convenience store in a T-shirt. It was fucking cold.

You could feel it in your bones—like the kind of cold that gnaws, not just chills. The wind cut across your skin every time it blew, and by the time you made it to the convenience store, your fingers were stiff and your nose wouldn't stop running. They didn’t even have the batteries you needed. You settled for an overpriced cup of coffee that tasted like burnt disappointment and barely stayed warm in your hands.

Then the train was late. Of course it was. And when it did come, it was packed. Shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers who didn’t understand the concept of personal space, you were pretty sure someone coughed directly onto your neck. Your earbuds died halfway through your playlist, leaving you alone with the sounds of screeching rails and someone’s toddler screaming about juice for seven stops.

At work, your boss sent an “urgent” email asking for a report you’d already submitted yesterday—twice. You pointed it out. They replied with a thumbs-up emoji. No apology. No acknowledgment. Just that damn emoji.

Lunch was worse. You were looking forward to the leftovers you’d brought from last night—Jason had cooked, and it was one of those rare nights he didn’t almost burn the kitchen down. But someone stole your container out of the break room fridge. Who does that?

You ended up eating sad vending machine pretzels and a can of flat soda while trying not to cry in front of your monitor.

The rest of the afternoon dragged. Your inbox wouldn’t stop pinging. You dropped your pen three times. A coworker made a passive-aggressive comment about your “resting stress face.” By the time you finally made it home, your feet hurt, your head ached, and you were one minor inconvenience away from losing it.

Then Jason showed up.

He let himself in, all leather jacket and soft eyes, carrying takeout and smiling like the world hadn't tried to ruin you all day. You didn’t even let him speak.

You didn’t even look at him when he walked in. You heard the door open, heard the soft thud of his boots on the floor and the rustle of the takeout bag, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Not because you didn’t want him there, but because you didn’t know what would come out of your mouth if you opened it.

Jason’s voice was soft. “Hey. Brought that dumpling place you like.”

You scoffed under your breath. That was what did it, somehow—not the keys, not the cold, not the train or your asshole boss or the lunch thief. The dumplings.

You stood up too fast. “Are you serious right now?”

Jason blinked, confused. “Uh. Yeah? I thought—”

“No, that’s the problem, Jason. You didn’t think.” You didn’t mean to yell. But your voice cracked and your throat burned and everything that had been building all day spilled out in a hot, ugly mess. “You don’t get to waltz in here and play hero with takeout like that fixes anything.”

He set the bag down slowly. His face stayed neutral, calm—but you knew him well enough to see the flicker in his eyes. The one that said he didn’t expect this.

“I wasn’t trying to fix anything,” he said carefully. “I just thought you might want something warm. Something easy.”

“Nothing’s easy.” You spat the words like poison. “Not today. Not this week. Not—God, Jason. I’m so tired.”

His silence pressed in around you. You hated it. Hated how patient he was. How gentle. How it made you feel like the worst person alive for yelling at someone who just wanted to feed you.

But the anger didn’t go away. It stayed under your skin like a fever. It wasn’t about him, but he was here. And you couldn’t keep holding it in.

“I had to walk in the fucking freezing cold, in a goddamn T-shirt, because I couldn’t get into my own car. I got coughed on. I had to eat fucking vending machine food while that bitch from accounting laughed like a hyena at something I wrote. And now you come in like some... fix-it boyfriend with dumplings and dimples and I—” Your voice broke. “I can’t do this right now. I just can’t.”

Jason stepped back, hands half-raised like he was surrendering. “Okay. That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

You stared at him. His face was unreadable now, jaw tight but eyes still soft. That just made it worse.

“I just need space,” you muttered, voice shaking. “I need, like... an hour. I just need not to be looked at like I’m broken, or sad, or something you have to fix."

Jason nodded once. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

You didn’t answer. You just slipped into your room, shut the door, and collapsed onto your bed. You didn’t cry at first. You just lay there, clutching a pillow like it might hold you together.

Eventually the tears came. Silent, exhausted, hollowing. Not loud or dramatic—just the kind that made your chest hurt.

An hour later, the door creaked open. All you heard were soft footsteps. No words. Jason climbed into the bed behind you, wrapped an arm around your waist, and pulled you close before covering you with the plush comforter. You didn’t resist. He didn’t say anything. Just held you. He kept one hand on your hip, the other brushing slow lines across your arm.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” you mumbled after a long while, the sound muffled slightly by his chest.

“I know,” he whispered into your hair, pressing a barely-there kiss to the crown of your head. "You're okay, sweetheart. It's all over now."

Eventually, the silence softened.

Your tears had dried into that hollow, shaky calm that comes after a storm—eyes puffy, throat sore, body heavy. Jason didn’t move. He just stayed wrapped around you, warm and steady, letting you breathe. Letting you be.

“Are the dumplings still warm?” you mumbled into his shirt.

He let out a small breath of a laugh. “Probably not. But I can heat them up.”

You shook your head against him. “Don’t wanna move."

There was a pause. Then: “Be right back.”

He slipped out of bed and padded quietly into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he returned with the takeout bag, two sets of chopsticks, and the smell of something vaguely spicy and fried.

He sat on the edge of the bed, opened the box, and offered you the first bite like he always did.

You sat up, messy and quiet, and took it. The dumpling was warm-ish. A little soggy. But it tasted good—maybe even better than usual, because your stomach had been a clenched fist all day and now it was finally unclenching.

Jason climbed in next to you, cross-legged, holding the box between you both like it was sacred. You ate in silence, trading bites, not needing to say much. You didn’t even realize how hungry you were until the box was almost empty.

You licked chili oil off your thumb and looked at him. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For still being here.”

Jason looked at you like he always did when he wasn’t sure whether to kiss you or just hold you tighter. “You had a shitty day. That doesn’t scare me off.”

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I was kind of an asshole.”

He shrugged gently. “You didn’t mean it. And honestly? I’ve been worse.”

You laughed quietly, and he kissed the top of your head. “You want me to clean up?”

You shook your head. “Tomorrow.”

When the last dumpling was gone and you’d both fallen into that quiet post-meal haze, Jason reached over you carefully and grabbed the empty takeout box. You watched through half-lidded eyes as he leaned past the bed and set it gently on the nightstand, chopsticks sticking out like little flags of peace.

Then he turned back to you, tugged the blanket up over your shoulder, and smoothed it down like he was sealing you in.

“You good?” he asked softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You nodded, too tired to speak, eyes already closing.

Jason kissed your forehead, then settled in beside you again, arm snug around your waist.

Masterlist

#batfam #batfamily #batman #redhood #dc #jason todd x reader #jason todd angst #jason todd fluff #jason todd x reader angst #jason todd x reader fluff #jasontodd #jason todd

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arc-misadventures · 28 days ago

Text

It's My Turn

Jaune: Okay... we've got another demon to defeat... Based on the reports I got from the guild, they're a mid level demon, specializes in wind magic.

Ren: A wind demon? Those are rare. Most demons tend to specialize in dark, and shadow magic, but rarely do they specialize in one type of the four primordial elemental magics.

Jaune: Which is why were adventures were called in.

Ren: The Demon Hunters couldn't beat this demon?

Jaune: No, the Demon Hunters specialize in anti-demon magic. Mainly light magic, and fire magic.

Ren: Cleansing, and purging?

Jaune: Pretty much. They couldn't deal with a demon that flies, can avoid their attacks with wind magic, and even deflect them back at them. Well, mostly the other two part, most demons can fly after all. Most, Demon Hunters, don't have similar training that we paladins have. We are trained to have a much more diverse list of skills, and magic in at our disposal.

Ren: Do those skills involve bard levels of seduction?

Jaune: Not everyone demon we fight we sleep with, Ren. We have standards.

Ren: Sure, whatever. Let's go kill this demon.

~~~

Ren: The winds picking up.

Jaune: We must be getting close.

Ren: Alright, how are we going to do this?

Jaune: Lighting magic. It's too fast of an attack for most people to doge, even a demon in flight that specializes in air magic would have a tough time dealing with it.

Ren: Bow, and Shield? Only this time I'm the shield?

Jaune: Think you can do it?

Ren: I can try.

Jaune: Alright then... Let's do this!

Jaune: Prepare to die foul demon!

: Oh~? The Demon Hunters failed so now they send in a pair of adventurers? How cute~!

Jaune: You should be careful! A paladin is leagues above some puny little Demon Hunter!

: Oh~? I've never fought a paladin before~! Alright then... Come one puny paladin! I Reese Chloris will kill you!

Jaune: Bring it bitch! Let's go, Ren?

Ren: ...

Jaune: Ren, let's do this.

Ren: ...

Jaune: Ren?

Ren: ...

Jaune: D-Did you...?

Reese: I didn't do anything...

Jaune: Okay? Hey, Ren! (Snap! Snap!) Oi! Snap out of it!

Ren: Hu, wait what?

Jaune: What happened, you just spaced out on me?

Ren: Ahh... uhh... Time out! I need to have a word with my friend!

Jaune: Time out?! Do seriously think demons will allow a time out?!

Ren: Shut up, and come with me!

Jaune: Whoa hey?!

Reese: Okay...?

~~~

Jaune: Okay, start talking, why did you call a timeout in a literal battle with a demon?!

Ren: How do you do it?!

Jaune: Do what?

Ren: How do you seduce a demon!

Jaune: Excuse me... the fuck did you just say?

Ren: You've seduced several demons before, how do you do it?!

Jaune: Okay, hold up... You... want to smash that demon?

Ren: Is that hard to believe?

Jaune: You wanting to smash a human is hard enough as it is, but a demon?!

Ren: What, I'm an elf we don't have sex drives like you humans do!

Jaune: Elves don't have a sex drive until they enter in what human years would be in there thirties. And, from my experience, elf woman have a hell of a sex drive!

Ren: That's not true!

Jaune: Not true?! Ren, in the eleven kingdom, The Everwood Dynasty, one third of the population are half elves!

Ren: Well, I want to smash the demon girl! Are you going to help me, or what?!

Jaune: ...

Jaune: Haa... Okay... here's what you do... This is the secret elven male seduction technique, so pay attention!

Ren: How do you know a secret elven male seduction technique?

Jaune: Elven courtesans. Now pay attention!

Ren: Yes!

Jaune: Okay... Take off your hood, and show off your face. Give the demon a side eye glance, and throw her a wink.

Ren: And, then what?

Jaune: Smash.

Ren: Hold up... The secret elven male seduction technique: Is to show my face, give her a side eye, and wink at her? That's it?!

Jaune: Elven males have an unfair advantage... Now, shut up, and smash the demon!

Ren: Okay, okay...

~~~

Ren: Hey, Demon! Uhh... Reese?!

Reese: Oh, your back... Where's your friend?

Ren: He left me behind to deal with you!

Reese: Oh? Tell me then you rouge, how do you plan to defeat me~?

Ren: Okay... take off my hood, and show my face...

Reese: Oh, you're an elf?

Ren: Side eye glance...

Reese: Oh~? Such vibrant pink eyes~!

Ren: And, the wink!

Reese: EEP~?!

Ren: ...

Ren: Did that work...?

~~~

Glynda: You told him the secret elven male seduction technique?

Jaune: The guy has never shown romantic interest before, he need advice, so I gave him some.

Glynda: Do you think it will work?

Jaune: It doesn't seem to effect elven woman such as yourself, Glynda. As for it's effects on other species of woman it seems to work. As It seems to have worked for, Ren...

Glynda: Oh my?!

Ren: Hey, Jaune...

Jaune: Ren. You look like shit, did you two smash, or did you have to kill her?

Ren: We... smashed!

Jaune: Oh, good for you, aaaand your falling...

(Thud!)

Jaune: ...

Jaune: You okay bud?

Ren: W-Worth it!

Glynda: I'll call for a priest.

Jaune: Good call...

///

Another art piece inspired from, @lar-mx

Link to ART

#rwby #jaune arc #lie ren #glynda goodwitch #reese chloris

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imjustreadinglmao · 11 months ago

Text

BLUE

Paring: Azriel x Reader, Lucien x platonic!Reader

Summary: After Azriel and Elain‘s courtship is revealed, their mates, Lucien and Y/N, are left to deal with the consequences. While fighting against Koschei and for Prythian‘s freedom, Y/N has to navigate her emotions and learn how to live with the heartbreak of a one sided mating bond. But what happens when long kept secrets are revealed and everything turns out differently than they thought?

PART I

word count: 3k

A/N: this is part 1 of BLUE. I changed the beginning a bit to fit the storyline. Please be nice this is my first fic :)

Warnings: light angst, unrequited love, mention of childhood trauma/ mention of ãbuse (not described)

part 2

I stir my black tea as Rhysand files through the report I handed him just seconds ago.

The steam from the tea rises, curling in delicate tendrils, carrying with it a sense of fleeting warmth that I desperately cling to.

Rhysand’s office is both grand and simple.

Bookshelves line the walls, filled with volumes on history, strategy, and magic. A fireplace to the right. Above it, a large portrait of Velaris shows the city bathed in a soft, ethereal glow. Feyre gifted it to him last starfall.

Heavy velvet drapes in shades of midnight blue frame the windows, ready to be drawn shut for privacy.

In the distance I can make out the mountains with their snow-capped peaks and the Sidra winding through the valley below.

“I have to say, I’m impressed you were able to convince Devlon so fast.”

I look up at Rhys and chuckle, the sound hollow to my own ears. “It does help if you threaten to cut his balls off and stake them to the wall for everyone to see.”

Rhys lifts a brow and barks out a laugh. “I see.”

I rarely go on missions anymore, choosing to work as an advisor for Rhysand.

Missions used to be exciting, but nowadays I prefer the comfort my room provides. The sense of security it brings is a balm to my soul, now more than ever.

I take this as a sign to stand up and lift my bag from the floor. I sling it over my shoulder and make my way to the door.

“Don’t forget tonight’s family dinner,” Rhysand calls after me. I don’t look back, just give him a thumbs-up and close his office door behind me.

As I make my way downstairs and through the foyer, I spot Lucien strapping on his sword. Presumably getting ready for training, he has always been an early riser.

“How did the mission go?” Lucien doesn’t need to look up to see that it’s me approaching.

I let out a sigh and rub my temples. “Good.” I stop beside him and flop onto the recamier right next to the front door. “Well, as good as paying the camps a visit can get.”

Lucien cracks a smile at that, his amber eyes twinkle with amusement. He knows exactly how difficult it is to convince Devlon of something he isn’t particularly fond of.

“Are you coming to the family dinner tonight?” I ask, my voice betraying a hint of reluctance.

Lucien sheaths his blade and nods. “Feyre will have my head if I don’t show up. I already missed the last one.”

I cringe at the mention of the last family dinner. The memory alone sends a sharp pang through my chest.

———————

I walk into the dining room, ready to face yet another family dinner. I spot Mor right away, radiant in her blood-red gown. The sight of her is always one of familiarity and comfort.

“Hey, got another one of those?” I point to the wine glass in her hand. She arches a brow and hands me one filled to the brim.

“Are we so exhausting that you need liquid encouragement to get through the night?” she muses. I just roll my eyes, trying to hide my amusement.

Right as she opens her mouth to say something, the back of my head begins to tickle. He is here.

I turn around to see Azriel walk through the door, and he is not alone. Elain is beside him, their hands intertwined.

Even though I was expecting it to happen soon, the sight still hits me like a physical blow. It was always just a matter of time till Azriel and Elain decided to go against Rhys‘s order and make their love official.

I‘m glad, Lucien isn’t here to witness this. I can’t imagine how it would be for him.

Since only my side of the bond snapped into place, seeing how in love they are, is somehow… manageable. For Lucien it would be almost deadly.

I look back at Mor, her expression as shocked as mine. “I didn’t know,” she whispers, her face now bearing a look of worry and pity.

To say the dinner is awkward would be an understatement. Nobody really knows what to say after Elain and Azriel walked in holding hands.

I just shove the potatoes on my plate around, too nauseous to eat anything. The lump in my throat makes swallowing impossible.

Cassian clears his throat and points to Azriel and Elain. “So how long has this been going on?” Nesta jabs her elbow into his ribs, which earns her an “oww”, and throws me an apologetic look.

Besides Mor, only Lucien and Nesta know about the bond between me and Azriel. Their concern a constant reminder of the bond I try so hard to ignore.

“Well…” Azriel coughs, noticeably uncomfortable with being put on the spot. “It all happened very quickly. We spent a lot of our nights up and talking and realized we didn’t want to hold back anymore.”

He gazes down at her, smiling. I recognize that look. The realization twists the knife in my heart.

That’s how I look at him.

—————————

“Are you even listening?” Lucien waves a hand in front of my face to snap me out of my haze. His voice pulls me back to the present, but the ache remains.

I rub my eyes. “Uh… sorry. What exactly were you saying?”

He crosses his arms and looks down at me. “I was asking if you wanted to go training with me. But it seems what you really need is some sleep.”

I roll my eyes and stand up. “You know me so well, Lu.” I pat his shoulder and walk out the door. “See you at dinner tonight.”

Velaris is most beautiful at night, but nothing can beat the quiet and peace of the early mornings.

I walk down the high street, greeting some of my favorite vendors with a smile, until I reach the familiar townhouse.

After I officially became part of Rhysand’s inner circle, he offered me to stay at his townhouse.

It had many perks: no rent, right in the heart of Velaris, and an endless wine supply thanks to Rhysand’s "secret" wine cellar.

There is really only one downside.

“I didn’t think you would be back so soon.” Azriel sits at the dinner table eating breakfast. He has his fighting leathers on, probably on his way to the House of Wind for Valkyrie training.

Cassian and Azriel still train the Valkyries every morning. Sometimes I join, but only when Nesta drags me up there.

“Well, sorry to disappoint.” I laugh awkwardly. “I’m going to head upstairs to rest. Say hello to Nesta for me.” The words taste bitter, a poor attempt to mask the hurt.

I turn around before he has the chance to say something else, the lump in my throat threatening to choke me.

Yes, that is the downside. The constant reminder of what I had lost and could never have.

Him.

——————

The dining room buzzes with conversation as everyone settles in for dinner.

Azriel and Elain sit together, a vision of contentment that sends a pang through my heart.

Across the table, Lucien’s jaw is tight, his gaze fixed on his plate.

“Thank you all for coming,” Rhysand begins, standing at the head of the table. “I have an important announcement to make.”

He glances at Lucien and me, a hint of apology in his eyes. “We’ve decided to support Eris in overthrowing Beron.

Lucien and you,” he points at me, “will lead the mission to the Autumn Court.”

A murmur runs through the room. Lucien looks up, his eyes meet mine.

There is a mixture of determination and vulnerability in his gaze that makes my heart ache.

The Autumn Court doesn’t hold great memories for either of us.

But before I can fully process Rhysand’s words, Azriel stands abruptly, his expression dark and tense.

“Why them?” Azriel’s voice is sharp, a stark contrast to his usual calm demeanor. “Why not send someone else?”

Rhysand frowns slightly, clearly not expecting this reaction.

“Both of them have a unique advantage given their history with Eris and the Autumn Court. It’s a strategic decision.”

Azriel’s eyes flicker to me, a storm of emotions swirling within them. “I don’t like it. It’s too dangerous.”

I feel a surge of frustration. Azriel’s protectiveness, though touching, is misplaced and completely out of character.

“What’s your problem, Azriel?” I snap, unable to hold back.

“I’m more than capable of leading this mission. Or do you think I’m not good enough to do my job?”

His eyes narrow, the tension between us thickening. “That’s not what I meant,” he retorts, his voice lower but no less intense.

“I just don’t think it’s wise to send specifically you two into such a volatile situation. You can’t just throw yourself into danger like that.”

My heart pounds in my chest. “That’s rich coming from you. You’re always in danger, always risking everything. How is that different from this mission?”

“It’s different because—” Azriel stops himself, glancing at Elain, who is watching us with wide eyes. He seems to struggle for a moment before finishing, “It doesn’t matter, just let someone else do the mission. You’re an important asset to this court.”

Before I could respond with something I’d surely regret, Elain’s voice cuts through the tension.

“Azriel, stop.” Her voice is calm but firm, a hint of desperation in her eyes. “This isn’t helping.”

Azriel turned to Elain, his expression softens slightly, but the tension remains. He takes a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. “I’m sorry. I just… I worry.”

Lucien’s gaze hardens, “We’ve faced worse,” he says, a challenge in his tone. “We are capable enough to lead this mission, we don’t need your approval, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “It’s not about capability. It’s about safety. I don’t want to see anyone get hurt.”

“Anyone?” I echo, my voice rises. “Or just Elain’s mate?”

The words hang in the air, charged with emotion. Azriel flinches slightly.

“This has nothing to do with Lucien being Elain‘s mate,” he says, though the slight tremor in his voice betrays him.

“But it does, doesn’t it?” My words laced with venom. “If Lucien were to get hurt, it would cause Elain distress, that’s how a mating bond works. And we can’t have that, can we?”

Elain looks down, her face unreadable, while Lucien’s gaze flickers between Azriel and me.

“We all know the risks,” Lucien says more calmly this time, “And we’re prepared to face them.”

Rhysand interjects, his voice low but authoritative. “Enough. We’re all on the same side here. This is a mission we need to undertake for the greater good. Personal feelings need to be set aside.”

I take a deep breath and try to steady the storm of emotions within me. Rhysand is right, the last thing we need is Azriel and me fighting.

Rhysand sits down, his tone final. “This mission is vital. We need to trust each other and stay focused. We’ll discuss this further tomorrow. For now, let’s try to enjoy the evening.”

The atmosphere is strained as we resume our meal. I can feel Azriel’s gaze on me.

Lucien reaches over, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. It was a small gesture, but it meant everything in that moment.

I don’t say a word throughout the whole dinner. Choosing to stay quiet instead of lashing out.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that this mission would change everything.

---

The garden of the River House is a haven of tranquility. Blooming flowers and lush greenery everywhere Elain truly is a talented gardener.

I find Lucien leaning against a stone pillar, his gaze lost in the Sidra's gentle flow.

I approach him quietly, the cool evening air brushing against my skin. “Mind if I join you?” I ask softly.

Lucien looks up, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Of course not. I was just enjoying the peace before the storm.”

I halt beside him, the tension from the dinner still coils tightly in my chest. “Quite the announcement, wasn’t it?”

He nods, his expression thoughtful. “I knew something like this was coming, but hearing it confirmed… it’s different.

Eris must be desperate if he reached out to Rhysand.”

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Yes, it’s a lot. I wish Rhys would have told us separately. This topic is already very emotional I really didn’t need Azriel’s… concern too.”

Lucien’s eyes darken at the mention of Azriel. “He’s protective, that’s clear. But he doesn’t have the right to undermine your abilities.”

“It’s not just that,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “His words, his actions… they confuse me. One moment he’s distant, the next he’s overly concerned. I don’t understand him.”

Lucien’s gaze softens, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “He cares about you. He might not be aware of it but you’re his mate, bond snapping into place or not, it’s his priority to keep you safe. That can’t be changed, even if he’s in love with someone else.”

I look away, the garden blurring before my eyes. “It hurts, Lucien. Seeing him with Elain, pretending to be something they’re not. I don’t know how to deal with it.”

Lucien reaches out, his hand covering mine. “You’re not alone in this. We’ve all got our battles to fight, and sometimes the hardest ones are with our own hearts.”

A moment of silence stretches between us, the night air filled with the scent of blooming flowers.

“And what about you?” I ask, turning to look at him. “How are you handling all of this? Eris, the Autumn Court… it can’t be easy for you.”

Lucien’s expression grows somber. “It’s not. But I’ve come to terms with my past and everything my father did to me. I knew this was going to happen. Eris has the chance to change things, to make the Autumn Court a better place. I can’t turn my back on that.”

He smiles at that. “And maybe, when all of this is over, we’ll find some semblance of peace.”

As we stand there, the garden enveloping us in its quiet embrace, I feel a sense of calm settle over me. Whatever challenges lay ahead, I know we have each other’s backs.

—————————

The war room in the House of Wind is filled with dread as we gather around the large oak table.

Rhysand stands at the head, his usual easy demeanor replaced by a grave seriousness.

To his right, Amren sits with her usual enigmatic expression, while Cassian leans against the wall, arms crossed and a stern look on his face.

Azriel is on my left, his gaze unreadable, and Lucien sits across from me, his eyes focused and determined.

Rhysand unfurls a detailed map of the Autumn Court, its forests and strongholds marked with meticulous detail.

“Eris has provided us with information about Beron’s movements and the layout of his court. Our objective is to infiltrate the main stronghold, gather intelligence, and support Eris in his efforts to dethrone Beron.”

Lucien nods, his jaw set. Rhys continues. “We’ll enter through the southern border. Eris has arranged for a distraction that will draw most of Beron’s guards away from the main stronghold. This will give us the opportunity to slip in and meet with Eris.”

Amren leans forward, her sharp eyes assessing the map. “And what about Koschei? He’s been a wild card in all of this. His alliance with Beron could complicate things.”

Rhysand nods in agreement. “Koschei is a concern. According to Eris, Koschei has been providing Beron with dark magic. We need to be prepared for any magical traps or barriers.”

Azriel’s voice cuts through the discussion. “I’ll handle the reconnaissance. I’ll fly ahead and ensure the path is clear before they move in.”

I glance at him, he hasn’t looked at me or said a single thing to me since yesterday. If I didn’t know better I would say he was sulking.

Rhysand continues, “Once inside, our main goal is to secure the throne room and neutralize Beron’s guards. Eris will confront Beron directly. You,” he gestures to Lucien and me, “need to be ready to support him.”

Lucien nods again, his eyes meeting mine across the table. “We’ll be ready.”

Rhysand’s gaze softens slightly as he looked at us. “This mission is dangerous, but it’s necessary. Any questions?”

I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the responsibility settle on my shoulders. “What if things go wrong? Do we have an extraction plan?”

Amren smirks. “We have a plan. Azriel and I will be your backup. If things go south, we’ll get you out, girl.”

Azriel nods, his eyes meeting mine. “You won’t be alone out there. We’ll be watching.”

There is a moment of silence as everyone absorbs the gravity of this mission.

Finally, Rhysand speaks again, his voice resolute. “We leave at dawn. Get some rest and prepare yourselves.”

As we all stand to leave, Azriel catches my arm. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” he asks, his voice low.

I nod, following him to a quieter corner of the room. “What is it, Azriel?”

He hesitates, searching for the right words. “I know you’re capable. But this mission… it’s dangerous, and I can’t shake the feeling that something might go wrong. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

His concern should touch me, but I can’t help and feel angry. “I know the risks, Azriel. And I’ll be careful. But you need to trust me to do my part.”

He sighs, running a scarred hand through his hair. “It’s not that I don’t trust you or your abilities. I just… I can’t lose you.”

Before I can respond, Lucien approaches.“Ready?” Lucien asks, his eyes flicker between Azriel and me. I nod, giving Azriel one last look.

“Ready.”

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dollzites · 3 months ago

Text

⏦ﾟ♡︎ “I’M GLAD THEY CAUGHT US..”

୨ৎ pairing: boyfriend!gdragon x fem reader

୨ৎ genre: fluff with some slight angst and super cute moments that will make you ASCEND! also you’re an idol so kinda.. idolish things happening lol

୨ৎ summary: you had known jiyong since you were both young trainees trying to go above and beyond to become better than each other. what you weren’t expecting is falling for him and on a warm summer day ready to tattle on yourself.. he confessed and your life changed for the better. a few months into the relationship dispatch had caught the both of you wanting answers and interviews—that’s where you were now.

୨ৎ from myeong: hello!! I feel as if I’m so bad at these summaries! hopefully I get better and better as I work harder! I’m so happy to take this request and get it done for you. I hope you can enjoy it!! x

summer flashback

pink lips curling up into a gentle smile when seeing the man struggle with the numerous ice cream bars he had in both arms, almost tripping over his own shoe as he finally reached you and the bench you both sat on every afternoon or evening. his laugh caught you off guard when trying to grab one of the melona bars knowing that he would grab the same one which only made you crack another smile at him. “you know I always get us an extra one just in case.” he spoke and you only nodded popping open the package and biting a chunk of the green ice cream letting it melt in your mouth instantly feeling much cooler. though.. it was time. time for you to confess something that’s been bothering you for quite some time. lips parting and head turning to face him—jiyong was already looking at you. his eyes were soft and he had the cutest smile on his face you fell even more in love with him just by this sight. “jiyong I—” but you were never able to finish. he had beat you to it just like he beat you in everything else. “I like you.” and that day your life changed forever but for the better. that day was always your lucky one.

“what if pictures were taken of you? are you crazy jiyong!” you rarely yelled at the man but he had crossed the line with not caring about who saw him entering your apartment building. being an idol yourself wasn’t always sunshine and rainbows.. a lot of hiding and not being able to act yourself was involved. the media and fans already knew you had grown up with the man himself, gdragon or kwon jiyong as you knew—but nothing about the relationship you’ve started with him only months ago. “oh so what? your fans love you way too much to do any harm. plus.. I follow a few pages that ship us together.” jiyong couldn’t help but smirk as his arms wrapped around your waist bringing you closer to his body, letting his face hide in the warmth of your neck as he pressed a few gentle kisses against your soft skin. you wanted to push him away but it was always hard to do so especially when he acted cute and cuddly like this and he knew you loved it. “even if they don’t get upset there’s still a group of your fans! we don’t know how they’ll react ji. I don’t want you in any kind of trouble either.” that’s what jiyong loved the most about you is how caring, attentive, and loving you were to not only him but those around you. “princess, no one will be able to take me from you, okay?” and with that the discussion was over with a sealed kiss.

it had only been a few hours since jiyong arrived at your apartment and the article popped up causing a stir within your fanbase and his own. “so.. something may have happened.” the sound of his voice was enough to make you cringe but not in a bad way—more of a.. I don’t want to know what you did or what happened way. jiyong handed you his phone and hesitantly taking it your eyes widened the second you seen the article. how would pictures be out this fast..? how hard did those reporters work? “gdragon caught arriving at his girlfriend’s house who’s also an idol! pictures below!”

the urge to throw up was stronger than ever and you felt a sudden wave of regret, anxiety, and anger wash over you. why even agree to this? dispatch should be sued for invading your and his privacy in several ways! of course your apartment building wasn’t a secret since it had been leaked months prior but to camp outside and wait for any movement was the most creepiest part. “princess? look at you.. it’s going to be okay, hm? just take a few deep breaths. we’ve gotten through a lot of things together and we can get through this one.” jiyong had a way with words each time he spoke to you like this it made all of the worries and anxiety disappear and never come back. you were most thankful for him.

cutely waving to the camera knowing your fans would enjoy it the most jiyong did the same thing and leaned into your shoulder just a bit, giving off ‘shocking’ pda that made the hosts gasp and tease you. this wasn’t your first rodeo you were a 3rd gen idol you knew how things worked and came about but.. this wasn’t any typical show you’d be on with your group, a boyfriend was here with you and not just any man but the kwon jiyong himself from bigbang. “you both have gotten so much support the past few days! how’s that making you feel?” the question was directed to you and in that moment you paused while looking down at your hands, playing with the charms from your fake nail set. your lips curling up into a sweet smile when you finally found the words to speak up for the first time, “I think it’s.. shocked me the most. I didn’t want to surprise my fans in a negative way but I’m thankful to be here with them on this journey.” you stopped to look at the camera and bowed your head, “thank you my angels.” and gave up a ‘fighting’ fist which you always did with your fans.

jiyong answered a lot more questions since he was far more experienced, popular, and knowledgeable than you but that didn’t mean anything negative. he was the gdragon himself and it was so nice to see him interact with the hosts with confidence rather than his usual anxious and nervous self. confidence looked good on him and he always thanked you which was something you couldn’t ever understand but he always mentioned you gave him his strength and courage to continue on.

“I have a different opinion about that though..” you spoke up quietly not wanting to be rude but it naturally came about and the hosts turned to listen, “I’m dating the kwon jiyong himself! it definitely feels so surreal. we’ve know each other since we were younger and I watched him blossom into this man full of talent and love for what he does. it’s been a great experience so far and I’m very lucky to be dating a k-pop legend.” jiyong covered his face after you finished speaking and for a moment there you felt like it was just him and you back at your apartment being silly together. jiyong would gently push you in a playful way and get so easily embarrassed it was the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. that’s how it felt now and a few giggles left your lips, the chemistry between you both lighting up the entire room—the hosts noticing and making cute comments about it to one another and the camera. “I don’t know what makes her say such things because I’m very lucky to be dating the most popular, loved, and sought after girl.. you’re truly amazing my love.” it shocked you to see how he didn’t shy away from being so intimate with you on camera, his large hand grabbed your own and held it for the rest of the interview. this is what all girls wanted a gentle, genuine, and magnificent love.

after the interview jiyong took you to your favorite ice cream shop.. in daylight. in BROAD daylight which is something you both haven’t done since trainees at such young ages. jiyong was finally able to hold you close to him in public without caring about who was watching. he was finally able to kiss you as much as he wanted loving it when you got embarrassed and shy. “might sound crazy but I’m glad they caught us.” and he only earned a playful slap to his chest. although you had been so pissed about it earlier.. the urge to agree with him was strong—now being able to be a real couple in the public was something so rewarding.

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eatmyheartoutjpg · 2 months ago

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Part 1.

MEDIC ;; You have healing powers and get recruited by the GDA. It changes your life, for the better or for the worse. Crack, short fic.

04.03.25 Masterlist

You’d call yourself a normal person—well, as normal as someone can be when they wake up with the ability to heal people. Blessed? Maybe. Cursed? Probably. Your powers are pretty straightforward: you can patch up yourself or someone else, depending on how wrecked they are and how much energy you’ve got left in the tank. Which usually comes down to how well you slept the night before. Real thrilling stuff. Straight out of a budget comic book.

You don’t show off. Never had the urge to. You’re not the selfless type who goes around healing strangers on the street out of some burning sense of justice. You’re not a saint. You're just a person who happens to have something useful and very little motivation to use it unless there's a reason.

Unfortunately, one day, you got soft.

Some guy in a half-torn grey suit was pulling civilians out of rubble after some villain decided to make the downtown district a crater. He looked government—probably fed. And you, in a rare act of generosity (and partially hoping there was a tax break involved), healed him. Just a quick fix-up, no big deal. He looked like he’d been through hell, but he still managed to check on you. Like he was worried you were the one bleeding out.

So you returned the favor. No words, no thanks needed.

Before he could get your name—or ask how the hell you just did that—someone screamed for help and he was off again like his shoes were on fire. But not before giving you one last look. Memorizing your face. You saw it in his eyes. He locked you in his mental files.

You hoped that might help you someday. Court, taxes, jury duty—who knows. Probably wouldn’t. But you like to dream.

And yeah. That act of goodwill? Came back to bite you.

Turns out the guy you saved was named Donald. Big-time GDA agent. As in Government. As in Cecil’s inner circle. And the moment he was back on his feet, he reported you. They tracked you down like you were some kind of loose end—well, politely. The kind of politeness that comes with a folder, a contract, and a clipboard full of benefits.

You said no at first. Obviously.

Then they said dental. And threw in hazard pay.

So yeah. You signed your fate.

Not because you believed in the cause. Not because you wanted to help humanity. You signed up for a paycheck and stable benefits in a world where buildings get leveled weekly and your rent doesn’t come with insurance.

And honestly? You don’t regret it. Not really.

Being with the GDA threw you into situations that could only be described as straight-up horror shitshows. You’ve seen things. Touched things. Reassembled people who should’ve been dead five different ways. Superheroes, the ones people worship, bleeding out on stretchers while you try not to throw up or pass out.

You got used to it fast. Maybe too fast.

Your name started floating around, being whispered throughout the headquarters and mentioned in passing. You cringe every time people give you some type of nickname, get this one, “Miracle Medic”. Yeah, wrap it up.

You kept your distance from the supers. Professional. Cold. You were the healer, not their friend, not their emotional support. You patched them up, maybe muttered a sarcastic remark if you were tired enough to forget the filter.

“Damn. I would've retired after that one.” It helped you stay sane. A little.

And you don’t do the whole corporate professionalism thing. You keep things functional—you’re not out here making friends, but you’re also not about to censor yourself for the sake of workplace etiquette. You know you’re irreplaceable, and that kind of job security comes with privileges.

Like being as blunt and disrespectful as you damn well please.

“The fuck happened to you? Yikes. I don’t even want to touch that.”

You do touch it, obviously. But that doesn’t mean you have to like it.

Unfortunately, this job throws you into more bullshit than you thought humanly possible. It’s not just GDA calls anymore—you’ve got superheroes pounding on your door at ungodly hours, begging for help. Sometimes for themselves. Sometimes for a friend, a coworker, or some half-dead civilian they barely managed to scrape off the pavement.

It got so bad that Cecil had to step in. Too many capes showing up at your apartment was bound to get somebody killed. So, congratulations. You now have dedicated break rooms in the Pentagon, all for you. You practically live in them with how much the GDA needs you. And it was not out of kindness—Cecil just didn’t want to deal with the nightmare of if someone tracked a superhero back to your place and blew it to hell.

Well, life could be worse. Yes, it does get worse.

A/N ;; I intend to extend this to have multiple parts and include actual interactions and more writing, but only if its well received. I'm lacking motivation to write, sorry!

#sevs.☆wndw #fanfiction #fanfic #gn reader #invincible fanfic #invincible show #invincible comic #invincible x reader #invincible x you #cecil invincible #cecil stedman #invincible spoilers #invincible donald

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sapphicandgraphic · 1 month ago

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Ride It Out—Chapter 1

Synopsis: A hurricane rolls through Philly, and Melissa invites you over to ride it out.

Chapter: 1/?

Series Warnings: Mentions of minor violence, protective Melissa, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort

Chapter Warnings: None

—————

You had been sitting in the parking lot for almost ten minutes when Melissa materialized beside your car holding an umbrella. She rapped her knuckles on the window, startling you from your thoughts. Her familiar raspy voice was slightly muffled through the glass when she spoke.

“You waitin’ for an engraved invitation, kid?”

As usual, the sight of the redhead lifted your mood instantly. Her teasing question was rewarded with one of your megawatt smiles. You grabbed your bag before clambering out of the car, ducking to join her under the umbrella.

“Everything ok?” She asked.

“Yeah,” you said, stifling a yawn. “I was just holding out for a break in the rain.”

Melissa hummed but didn’t say anything. She had seen your car pull up, had watched you shut the engine off and then sit there with a zoned out, exhausted look on your face.

In the last few months, you had handled every challenge that Abbott threw your way, rising to the occasion with easy, unruffled confidence. If Melissa hadn’t known any better, she would have sworn you’d been teaching for years.

You arrived early and stayed late; always made time to cover classes when other teachers needed a helping hand; volunteered for any after-school event; held parent-teacher office hours every week.

At first, she had been impressed by your relentless determination, your seemingly endless well of energy and patience. It was rare that rookies could take on so much responsibility and not crack under the pressure.

But now, taking a closer look, it suddenly occurred to her that you might just be hiding the signs of burnout. Sure, you made it look easy. But she knew firsthand that it never was. These long, demanding hours would take a toll on anybody.

Together you shuffled across the parking lot, making your way into the school and down the hall to the teacher’s lounge. It was still early, but Barbara was already seated primly on the small sofa, watching a weather report on the television.

“Hurricane Huey is steadily barreling its way up the coast,” the announcer said. “Experts predict the Category 3 storm will make landfall later tonight.”

You stilled, listening to the forecast as you poured two cups of coffee, adding extra sugar to Melissa’s.

“For now, the greater Philadelphia region is advised to be on alert for fast-moving thunderstorms packing heavy rain, high winds, and pockets of large hail. This storm is likely to bring down trees, flood roads, and knock out power lines.”

“Yeah, yeah, now tell us what we really want to know,” Melissa said, leaning against the arm of the sofa and crossing her arms expectantly. “Are they closing the schools or not?”

You joined the two older teachers, handing Melissa her coffee before taking a sip of your own.

“Three sugars?” The redhead asked.

You nodded, bumping her hip with yours. “I know how you like it.”

“Thanks, hon,” she smiled, and you felt that familiar pleasant rush when the redhead winked.

Barbara shushed you both as the reporter turned to the topic of school closures.

“We’re just now hearing from the school district, confirming that all Philadelphia County public schools will be closed tomorrow and Friday.”

Barbara whooped. “Thank you, Jesus!”

Melissa chuckled, turning away from the TV in time to catch the worried look on your face.

“What’s a matter, kid?

You bit your lip, trying to push down the bubble of apprehension. “You think the flooding will be bad?”

Melissa shrugged, stowing her lunch in the refrigerator. “Most neighborhoods near the river usually get a decent storm surge,” she said. “Why?”

You shook your head. “No reason.”

Melissa straightened up and turned around, a curious look on her face. But before she could interrogate you properly, Gregory and Janine walked in.

In the ensuing chatter of updates about the storm, you slipped out of the lounge and down the hallway to your classroom.

Hours later, Melissa pushed back from her desk and stretched. It had been a busy day. But with schools closed tomorrow and Friday, the promise of a long weekend spent indoors riding out the storm sounded like a mini-vacation.

She was heading toward the parking lot when she noticed the lights were still on under your door. She paused, realizing she hadn’t seen you at lunch. You had a bad habit of forgetting to eat. Melissa’s feet detoured automatically, approaching your classroom.

You were hunched over your desk. Melissa leaned against the doorframe and watched you for a few moments, appreciating the thoughtful frown of concentration on your lips. The only sound was the furious scribbling of your pen as you marked tests and made notes for next week’s lesson plan.

Melissa cleared her throat, but you didn’t turn around. She walked over and opened her mouth, intending to coax you into packing up. But as soon as she laid a gentle hand on your shoulder, you flinched and recoiled, turning around with a wild look in your eyes.

“Whoa!” The redhead raised her arms, palms-up. “Easy, tiger, it’s just me.”

“Mel!” You placed a hand over your heart, which was hammering. “Sorry, I - I didn’t hear you.”

The older woman perched on the edge of your desk, concern shining in her green eyes. “Okay, what’s going on? You’re not usually this jumpy.”

A cloud seemed to pass over your face as you considered her words. Melissa waited, an uneasy feeling growing as she watched you hesitate, deciding how to answer.

“Nothing,” you said finally, running a hand through your hair. “Just didn’t hear you.”

Melissa knew you were lying—but she didn’t know about what, or why. Without more to go on, she decided to let it slide for now.

“Come on, it’s late,” she said, gesturing at the work on your desk. “This will all still be here when we get back next week.”

You looked at your wristwatch, thinking out loud as you stood up and stretched. “Yeah, maybe I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

Melissa scoffed, helping you into your jacket. “School’s closed tomorrow, remember?”

“But…that’s just for students, right?”

“Um, no,” Melissa looked dumbfounded, straightening your lapels absently. “You can’t come here, the place will be locked.”

“Shit,” you said, rubbing your tired eyes.

“Were you seriously planning to come in tomorrow?” Melissa said, regarding you with a mixture of fondness and incredulity. “During a literal hurricane?”

“Well,” you hedged. “The latest weather update is advising a few neighborhoods near the water to evacuate—including mine.”

Melissa zipped up your jacket, her knuckles ghosting over your stomach and chest. You tried not to shiver. The redhead seemed not to notice your reaction.

“They don’t mean evacuate here,” she said dryly.

“Big brick building, not in a flood zone, no interruptions,” you said, ticking off the obvious benefits. “What’s the problem?”

Melissa stepped forward and leaned over your desk. Without thinking, your eyes automatically gravitated to her ass. She was wearing leather pants that hugged her figure in all the right places. You shook your head, feeling like a horny teenager.

“Here’s what you’re gonna do,” she said, scribbling on a sticky note. “Go home, pack a bag, and meet me at this address.”

“But -“

“This ain’t a negotiation, doll,” she said, tone final. “Jacob’s going to stay with his boyfriend, and you’re coming to stay with me.” So I can keep an eye on you, she thought.

“I can’t do that, I don’t want to impose…” you started.

“Please.” Melissa, having anticipated this reaction, smoothly interrupted you. “You’d be doing me a favor.”

At your look of confusion, she continued. “Storms make me…nervous, alright? It’d be nice to have company for the weekend.”

The redhead glanced down, hoping her damsel-in-distress demeanor was convincing enough to sell you on the idea.

“Aww,” you said, bumping her shoulder gently with your own. “Is the big, bad Melissa Schemmenti afraid of thunder?”

She glared at the floor. “Not afraid.”

“Don’t worry, Mel,” you said softly, and she looked up to find you standing quite close. “I’ll protect you.”

Melissa swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

“S-so, we have a deal?”

Your eyes darted briefly to the pile of papers on your desk.

“Yeah,” you said. “I can just come in early on Monday to catch up…”

Melissa snorted, placing her hand at the small of your back and guiding you out of the classroom. “We’ll see about that.”

>>Subscribe to my Patreon for early chapter updates<<

#abbott elementary #wlw smut #wlw #melissa schemmenti fanfic #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #Reader insert

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lindsaynathi0n · 11 months ago

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𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 | ONE SHOT

Rafe Cameron S2 x Readers

{OPEN COMMAND}

[English is not my native language ❗️❗️]

SYNOPSIS: When a crazy killer runs through the streets of the Outer Banks, it’s better to be well surrounded. But what if the killer is your best friend?

TW: NON-CON, DUB-CON, smut, rape, violence, murder, vaginal sex, violent sex, caresses, death threats, lies, dark, victim blame, manipulation, unprotected sex, forced pregnancy, breach of trust, hair pull, insults, penetration, fingering.+18

______________________________________________

The nights of the Outer Banks have been dangerous lately.

A psychopath disguised as ghostface , the famous scream killer was running in the streets, killing Kook and pogue.

Good thing your best friend, Rafe, was there to protect you. When your boyfriend died, he was the first to come to console you.

That’s normal, because he’s your faithful best friend.

Even though Rafe was the kind of asshole who stabbed everybody in the back with knives, it was different with you.

He’d always been there for you, supporting you when you weren’t sure, or coming in whenever you had to tell him something-even if it wasn’t important.-

But recently, Rafe had been extremely busy. He hardly picked up his phone and rarely responded to your messages. You could understand, as your friends were being brutally murdered one after the other. But there was always that little voice in the back of your mind, whispering that it wasn’t normal, telling you to run.

This evening, Rafe had decided on a whim to spend the evening with you. You hadn’t refused, feeling too unwell to be alone. Rafe and you were seated on the couch, your back pressed against his chest as he played with your hair. You were watching television when your program suddenly cut to instead present a devastating new report.

Three girls that you used to talk to had been found dead on the side of the road. They had been brutally murdered, one of them was missing an eye and another was missing her heart.

"How can someone be so violent…" you say, feeling uneasy. Rafe laughs softly. "Who cares, they were bitches who deserved it." His tone was strange, there was a hint of satisfaction in it. It was like seeing you feeling guilty made him happy.

You begin to move away when he tightens his grip on your hair slightly. You give in, resting your head on his chest. "Rafe... If the police arrest me because they think I’m guilty, you’ll come visit me in prison… right?"

"Do you really think the police would think of you? You're harmless... So pure and too kind. You panic just at the thought of killing a bug." He laughs, moving his hand to your waist, pulling you closer to him. "But if they arrest you, I'll make sure to send you a nail file to help you escape." He laughs again.

You nestle against him. "You say that, but even my mother doesn’t dare look at me anymore…" Your voice becomes weaker and weaker. The urge to cry begins to take over.

Rafe's grip around your waist tightened, his other hand moving to brush gently a strand of hair out of your face. His touch was almost comforting, a stark contrast to the coldness that shone in his eyes.

"Your mother is always the first to judge Y/N. Everyone is going crazy because of some bastard who thinks he's Ghostface, even the mothers are suspecting their own daughters. But don't worry love, I believe in you. I know you're not Ghostface. You can't be."

Rafe kisses your cheek tenderly. You allow him to, feeling safe with him.

Rafe chuckled softly against your cheek, his warm breath tickling your skin. His hand pulled possessively at your waist, pulling you closer, until your body was pressed tightly against his. His touch was gentle, almost affectionate, but that little voice in the back of your head began to scream at you again, telling you to run, to get away as fast as possible.

A small moan escapes you as he kisses passionately your neck. "Rafe, we shouldn't…"

Rafe raises an eyebrow at your words, his smile slowly disappearing. His fingers slowly but dangerously trail down to your shorts, his touch becoming almost too intimate.

"I'm not going to hurt you Y/N, I just want you to feel good."his hand leaning lightly on your shorts, where your clitoris was hidden by the pieces of fabric.

"I know, but I don't want Ghostface to take you, Rafe. I don't want to lose y-"

He lets out a scoff, a hint of irritation in his voice. His hand begins to move, pressing even more on your clit.

"Y/N. You're making me sound like a damsel in distress. I can take care of myself. I'm not a fragile flower, you know. I can handle a masked madman chasing after a bunch of idiots with a knife. Don’t worry, I'm strong and smart enough to take care me, to take care of us both."

"I'm sure, Y/N, I've been waiting for this for... nearly forever" he chuckles slightly before his tone turns serious. "And you? Are you sure you want this?"

Without you realizing it, Rafe has laid you down on your back. he has leaned in and started kissing the top of your chest. His hot breath on your skin.

"Are you sure you trust me? Because once I start, there's no going back..."

You grip his t-shirt lightly. In reality, Rafe wouldn’t have let you tell him no. Not when he knows that he’s the only one who doesn’t believe that you’re Ghostface. "Yes…"

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across Rafe's face at your response. His fingers slide further up, in your shorts.

"Good girl."

He doesn’t give you the chance to respond. His lips crash into yours, the kiss hard and demanding, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth.

He kisses you aggressively, his kisses sloppy, possessive, and voracious. He removes his hand from your shorts and begins to give you little hip thrusts.

You moan, feeling his hard dick against your clit through your layers of clothing. He breaks the kiss to move down into your neck, sucking on your sensitive skin.

You frown in pleasure. "Fuck, it's so good…" You close your eyes, relaxing for the first time in far too long.

He smiles against your now slightly purple neck, his grip on your hip tightening slightly.

"You don’t know how much I want to ruin you."

One of his hands has moved up to entwine in your hair, pulling your head back to expose more of your neck. His lips nibbling and kissing your collarbone.

As he pulls on your hair, you let out a moan.

"Y/N, if you keep moaning like that, I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk again. I swear."

The idea excites you but you'll never admit it to yourself. "Sorry..." you bite your lip, trying to hold back.

Rafe knew. He knew you were too weak in this type of situation. And he loved knowing that, at some point, you wouldn’t be able to hold back.

He grins against your neck at the idea of impaling you on his cock excites him so much, that his cock becomes more and more painfully hard.

✩✽✩

Sleeping with Rafe has been so good. He had been rough, but you had liked it, as strange as it was.

The young Cameron had left more than three hours ago, his father had called him because of a "huge" emergency.

You sleep when small noises echo in your room, having sensitive sleep you wake up almost immediately.

You wake up and check the time on your phone, 2:30 AM.

You get up from your bed and immediately stumble back onto it. A sharp, excruciating pain in your legs prevents you from moving.

Rafe hadn't exactly been gentle. You force yourself to stand up and begin to walk, limping.

You make your way into the kitchen, where the noise is coming from.

As soon as you enter, your whole body freezes.

Your mother's lifeless body lay on the floor, blood gushing from her neck. Ghostface stood there, holding a bloodstained knife, looking at you silently. He tilts his head to the side, glancing at you.

He stepped closer to you, the knife still in his hand. Despite the mask obscuring his expression, you could sense the menace in his movements. Your trembling body betrayed your fear, and Ghostface seemed to revel in it.

"What's wrong, baby ? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

His voice was deep and distorted behind the mask, adding to the creepy factor.

Your eyes fixed on the body, you slowly widen your eyes. Before you can even realize it, Ghostface is right in front of you.

He grabs you by the throat, pinning you against the wall next to you.

You struggle to make him let go, his grip on your throat tightens slightly. You moan, Trying to gasp for air.

He moves his face closer to yours.

"Everything alright? You seem a bit...short of breath." he laughs sinisterly,

He puts his knee between your legs and brings his face to your ear, his voice dropping to a low, threatening whisper.

"No one's going to come save you. You're all alone here. With me...and the dead body of your whore mother." He laughs, but there's no hint of humor in what he says.

You start to cry as you try to remove his hand from your throat. "Please...I don’t want to die..."

He chuckled at your pleading, seeing the despair in your eyes.

"What's the matter, Love? Are you afraid? Afraid to die?"

He pressed even closer to you, his body pressing against yours, giving you chills. His hand moved to your hair, gently twirling a strand between his fingers.

"Don't worry. I'm not going to kill you...yet."

He steps away and lets go of your throat. You collapse, trying to breathe properly. He grabs you by the hair and kneels in front of you. "You know what? We're going to play a game!" he says sinisterly.

"If you answer all my questions correctly, I'll let you live but if you're wrong..." He takes out his knife from behind his back and presses it to your cheek.

"I kill you or something else. I haven't decided yet." he shrugs casually. As if he hadn't just threatened you.

"Who was my first victim?"

You think, there have been 9 people since then. Your lips begin to bleed as you try to find the answer.

"10,9,8..." He laughs and begins to count.

"Kiara Carrera!" You shout in panic. He tilts his head to the side and claps his hands.

"Well done, I thought I'd have to kill you with the first question."

"Okay, second question. What is the name of Elvis Presley’s wife?"

"Priscilla." A tear runs down your cheek, a tear of happiness.

"You’re much stronger than I thought, okay. Third and last question." He points his knife at your neck.

"Who did this to you?"

His head moved to your neck and chest, where the marks left by Rafe were clearly visible. He chuckled under his breath, his fingers tracing gently over one of the bruises.

"Looks like someone got a little wild with you, baby. Who did that to you?, your boyfriend? you know, I'd be happy to open his stomach and make a pretty necklace out of his guts"

"No! No! I don't have a boyfriend! I just had fun with a stranger! I swear!" You lie so that Rafe doesn't get killed, it would be unfair if he had to die because of you.

Ghostface chuckled again, clearly not convinced by what you were saying.

"Is that so? You just...had some "fun" with a stranger, and ended up with these marks all over your body?"

His hand moves down to his belt, he starts unbuckling it.

"You’re a bad liar, baby. Try again."

"A stranger I-" He grabs you by the neck and pushes your head hard against the wall.

Your head hit the wall so hard that it blurred your vision for a moment. Ghostface's grip on your throat was firm, his hand squeezing just enough to make it difficult to breathe.

"Baby, I hate hurting you but I don't like being lied to. I thought I had been clear. I'm going to ask you again, and this time I want the truth. Who did this to you?"

He takes off his belt and pushes it away.

You cry out as tears stream down your porcelain cheeks. "A stranger!"

The masked man tightened his grip on your throat, his patience clearly worn out. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a growl.

"You know what baby? I'm really starting to lose my patience with you. I don't believe you. Not at all. I'm going to give you one last chance to tell me the truth. Who did this to you?"

You cry and look at him. "A stranger."

Ghostface doesn't move for a few seconds. "Stop playing, you're tiring me."

He grabs your thighs and cuts your shorts and then your underwear.

He grabs your hair and forces you to lie on your stomach. "Stop it!" You cry and struggle. He grabs your wrists and puts them behind your back.

"Don't be afraid, baby. I promise it will be worth it." he whispers in your ear as he presses his body against yours, leaving no room for you to escape.

He slides his pants and underwear down his legs, letting them pool at his feet. He grinds his hips against yours, letting you feel the full weight of his arousal. His breath is hot against your ear as he murmurs: "Do you feel that? That's all the fucking anger you just caused me."

"I'm sorry, I swear!" You cry as you try to move.

"Are you ready to tell me the truth?" he asks.

He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressed against your sensitive flesh.

You freeze, not knowing what to say. "I told you-" "Shut your fucking mouth then."

He thrusts into you, filling you completely. He begins to rock his hips, setting a rhythm that steals your breath away.

You begin to cry and struggle, but he's much stronger than you. He sets a knife next to your head as a warning, whispering in your ear, "If you keep being disobedient, I swear I'll shove this knife inside your pussy Y/N, I swear."

"Fuck, Y/N, don't you get it? I love you!" He groans as he hits a spot that makes you clench around him, your body responding to his touch despite your tears.

His thrusts become more urgent, he lets go of your wrists and wraps one hand around your throat, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. "I killed your asshole boyfriend, that son of a bitch who said he didn’t love you just to survive. Do you realize? You’re so lucky to have me, baby."

He grabs your head and forces you to look at your mother’s dead body. while he destroys your pussy. You look away but he grabs your chin. "Look at her Y/N. She never liked you, that bitch deserved it and you know it."

His pace becomes even more brutal, each thrust hitting a spot deep within you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. He leans down, his little moans going straight into your ear as he whispers.

"I'm the only one who truly loves you, Y/N. Say it."

His thrusts become even more forceful as he revels in your moans and gasps. His hand is still around your throat, squeezing and releasing in time with his thrusts. "Don't make me force you to say it, baby"

you don’t answer and try to grab the knife

He chuckles his hand tightens around your throat, choking the air out of you as he reaches for the knife.

"You're the only one who loves me!" You say, feeling your lungs emptying of air.

You feel him growing around you, his thrusts becoming more urgent and rough. He uses the grip on the knife to drag it along your back, leaving a shallow line of blood in its wake. "Fuck, you're so tight," he groans, his vision blurring as the pressure builds.

He stumbles upon a sensitive spot, causing you to moan. He realizes his discovery and smirks, feeling a twisted satisfaction from the sound.

"Is this a sensitive spot? My love?" He presses down on it again, watching with satisfaction as you writhe beneath him. "Maybe we should take advantage of that."

You whimper as he pounds into you with an incredible, relentless pace. You’re not taking birth control, and he's not using a condom .the raw, unprotected contact only heightens the intensity of his act

"Help…" You cry out, desperation lacing your voice. With each thrust, your body is driven further into the ground, a violent dance of pleasure and pain.

He thrusts faster, the pace becoming almost frenzied. You watch as his mask falls aside, revealing his face inches from yours. He leans in close, his hot breath washing over your shoulder as he grunts with exertion, the sound vibrating through you.

Though you can't see his face, you can feel his lips nibbling and sucking at the tender skin of your shoulder, marking you with his mouth as he continues to claim you with his body.

"I love you, Y/N, I loved you from the instant I saw you." His hand grips at your left breast. "You will become the mother of my children. If you try to leave me, I'll kill you."

Your body freezes at the sound of the name. "Rafe...?" You whisper, a mix of shock and fear coursing through you as the truth hits.

He lets out a guttural growl as he releases his seed deep inside of you, his hips bucking as he empties himself completely. "Mine," He groans, a primal satisfaction filling him at the thought of impregnating you.

He straightens up, pulling on his pants, and retrieves his mask, tucking the knife back into his pocket. "Why?" you ask, lifting your head to gaze up at him. The man you once cherished now looms over you, his expression dark with a possessiveness bordering on madness.

"Because I love you." he says, and then drops suddenly to his knees, grabbing hold of your chin, his touch almost surprisingly gentle considering the way he looks at you, as if you were a mess he was intent on fixing. "Who gave you those hickeys on your neck?"

You swallow hard, fighting the urge to vomit as you utter your response. "You." His laugh cuts through the air like a dagger, and he moves his face closer to yours. "Good answer, my good girl."

✩✽✩

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redfoxwritesstuff · 6 months ago

Text

AN: I don't hate color. There's more than enough color here! I don't know why someone is spreading such hateful rumors!

Summary: You believed in treating yourself and what better time to treat yourself than the holiday season? Unfortunately, thanks to your packed schedule you didn't have a lot of time to do that. And when you do, you don't pay enough attention to which card you use to pay.

Vox is in for a rather exciting surprise in the company charge history

CW: Unconsentual voyogerism, sexy toys, anal plug

Seasons struggled to be much of a thing in hell, though they tried. It was often simply a case of hot versus hotter when it came to weather. Though there were extreme shifts that would linger for a few days to a few weeks, blanketing the city in thick layers of acidic snow.

It was pretty enough when you were just looking at it from the window, sparkling in the dim red sun of hell. Each snowflake was perfectly shaped. It was so pretty when it fell, flakes dancing through the air. You would indulge in hours, sitting at your window with a book and a hot mug of tea, enjoying the snow falling.

It was frankly terrible if you had to be out in it. The acidic snow slowly ate at the buildings, sidewalks, and roads. Anything caught up in it suffered from the acid slowly corroding through it. The longer it stuck around, the worse the damage to everything it touched was.

You, like everyone else who could afford items made of acid resistant fabrics, were decked out in it as you scurried from building to building. No one wanted to be out in this stuff longer than they needed to be, even with the expensive resistant gear and that included you. If you were out in it long enough, the acid would still eat through the resistant fabrics.

Your boss paid a lot of money to ensure the upper employees of VoxTek could have the ability to move about the city with class and dignity while the lowly sinners would run through the streets, screaming as the acid burned their feet and legs while they got where they were going.

You didn’t need to be out right now, though, not really. The peace of a rare snowy day had you restless in a way your mug of tea or a good book couldn’t seem to battle. It brought an unusual peace that you were not used to dealing with.

It was quite the trip across the city to make it to a store not owned by any of the Vees. At least, you were pretty sure this little sex store was outside of Valentino’s control. Stores outside of his control were few and far between, making it hard to ever really be sure.

It lacked the purple and pink branding Valentino was so fond of. That had to be a good sign, right? It wasn’t like you could ask and expect an honest answer. Lies flowed like water in hell.

Oh well.

Stepping inside, you took your time looking around after knocking the snow from your boots. The ground just inside the door was already showing the wear from melted acid snow eating into the tiles. It had only been on the ground for two days and yet by the time it was gone, the floors around the entry likely would need to be replaced.

Dildos, vibrators and plugs lined the back wall, all on proud display. The racks of clothing were stuffed full, making it difficult to flip through the options. Either they over ordered their inventory or the shop simply didn’t move product fast enough to keep up with the change in styles.

It didn’t matter to you, even if Val owned this shop, it fell outside your scope of duties. You ran business reports on tech sales for Vox, not the sales of sex toys and porn for Valentino.

Moaning filled the air as porn played on the large TV on the wall, advertising the movie choices similar to how your boss would advertise the movies and shows he produced on the large TVs in his electronic stores. It felt weirdly out of place and yet oh so fitting in the store.

You were growing far too numb to casual pornography exposure. When was the last time you batted an eye when walking into a studio to deliver some message or file to Valentino on behalf of Vox?

You were so tired, worked to the bone as Vox prepared for the holiday season. It surprised you at first that Christmas was a thing in hell, but once you started working for Vox, it all made so much more sense. It was the same as it had been in life, a capitalistic mockery of what the holiday had once been.

“I’ll just treat myself,” you whispered, being far too used to talking to yourself as you worked alone.

You flipped through slinky outfits, bra and pantie sets as you waited for something to catch your eye. What you wanted was something bright and blue. Cyan, ideally, but you’d settle for teal. You were picky, but not too picky.

You didn’t think you’d find anything. Your color preferences were so very bright for the citizens of hell. Finding so much to choose from made you giddy. Eagerly, you snagged a lacy robe and draped it over your arm. It was nearly totally lace, silky threads making the fabric soft rather than itchy. There was no part of your body that the garment would hide, nor would it do anything to keep you warm, but it would put you on display, and that was what you wanted.

Not that you had anyone to display yourself for other than yourself. Your crush on your boss was disgustingly one sided. You knew he had his thing with Valentino and even if he liked women, and you were not so sure that he did, you couldn’t hold a candle to the towering porn moth.

You had your fantasies, though, filed away for when you were off the clock, and that was good enough. It had to be good enough. It would be good enough. You would not fuck up your job and the security it provided by outing your little or not so little crush on Vox.

What you would do was just buy yourself intimate items that would remind him of you from the other side of town. He would never know. It was as close to having your cake and eating it too as you could get.

A bright blue push-up bra snagged your attention. It delighted you when you grabbed it, finding it to be in your size. It would surely place your tits on a shelf, making them look amazing. Along with it, you added a cheeky pair of panties. Thongs were so in style, but you loved the lace backing of the pair you grabbed, how it would hide none of your ass but draw attention to everything it pretended to cover. Rhinestones dotted the waistband, sure to glitter and catch the light through the robe.

The lacy continued on the front, dipping down into the silk that would cover your pubic mound and extend between your legs, covering your core in a sharp V. It was like it was made with your employer in mind.

Maybe it was. Vox was recently voted hell’s sexiest bachelor, though you doubted that if he hadn’t won honestly, he would have had you rig the results.

With your clothing sorted for the evening, you set about looking at toys.

You were far from a blushing virgin, but you didn’t have the largest collection either. If you were going to leave here with a whole outfit to remind you of Vox, one of many you had collected over the years but surely the most blatant one so far, you should go all out.

Dildos of very shape and size lined the walls. Some thrust on their own, some squirted some simulation of jizz for the lonely sinner who couldn’t find someone to actually cum in thier holes. They came in all sorts of shapes too.

The taboo of dildos outside of the human shape was long gone in hell. It was hard to give a shit about if a dick looked like that of a dog, a cat or something else when most of the citizens were far from humanoid in the rest of their bodies.

It was just one more thing you simply had to get used to.

“What would his look like?” Again, you were talking to yourself.

You picked up different shapes and styles, each heavy in your hand. What caught your eye and stopped your breath was a thick, humanoid cock that would stretch you. Vox was tall and surely he would be gifted in size as well. He would have to be to be proportionate.

It was meant to be; you decided as you ran your fingers over the veins. The plastic was dark blue and you couldn’t think past the way it reminded you of the color of Vox’s forearms when he’d shed his coat, rolling up his white sleeves and settling into a problem.

As you made your way down the aisle, you intended to call it a day. The items in your arms would be far more than you had intended to spend, but a bright blue anal plug caught your attention. A pretty blue gem topped shiny silvery metal. It was impulsive as you grabbed it up, adding it to the stack of stuff you piled on the counter.

“Please, hurry?” You asked the cashier after checking the time on your phone. You had a late meeting to sit in on with Vox. Thankfully, it was remote and you could attend from home, but Vox would know if you didn’t make it home in time.

The clerk did everything but hurry. Each item was scanned at a relaxed pace as you stood, bouncing on your heels as you waited. It was amazing how long it could take to scan what amounted to a handful of items.

“It’ll be $425,” the clerk said slowly. “And 37 cents.”

You rushed, grabbing a card from your purse and shoving it into the hands of the clerk as soon as it was time to pay. The total didn’t really matter to you. Truth be told, you didn’t really hear to number. Everything was expensive in hell, but Vox compensated you well for your work.

You snatched up the receipt and the card, shoving them both into the bag before dashing outside. The slowly melting snow splashed under your boots, shooting burning drops of water up onto your legs. Though the pants you wore were resistant, that didn’t stop the fabric from smoking slightly as you rushed your way across the city.

Vox leaned back in his chair as an unexpected notification ran across his screen. Someone used the company card at some slinky little sex store across the city. Digital eyes scanned the data, looking for the cardholder’s name so that he knew who it was he needed to kill for being so careless as to misuse company finds, only to find it was your card.

You were never careless. At least, not typically.

Vox delved deeper into the data, searching for who owned the unfamiliar store. It wasn’t one of Valentino’s, but that wouldn’t stop Vox from finding out what you had purchased.

Sure, it was a little stalkery but really; you had spent his money. Technically, those items belonged to him. He purchased them. He deserved to know what it was he had purchased for you. The store’s systems took little effort at all to break into.

In less than ten minutes, he was searching sales records for the order tied to you.

“Ah,” His eyes flicked from one screen to another as the search pinged with a result. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Vox had always been rather fond of you, growing more so as each year passed. You seemed to be unaffected by his flirting, attempts seeming to go right over your head. Though he had tried again and again to flag your attention, he never seemed to make any headway with you.

At least, that’s what Vox had thought.

Now, as he sat as his eyes scanned the sales list, he wasn’t so sure about that. It was hard to deny what he saw. The grin on his screen spread greedily as he imagined you wearing the bra and panty set you had picked out. What a lovely color it would be on you! Would you drape the lacy robe over your shoulders, tie it together and pretend to be covered?

You were taking the meeting from home tonight. Would you be wearing your pretty little getup as you listened to his voice? Surely, you had been thinking of him while you shopped. There was no way you picked the colors out based on a sense of company loyalty.

Vox hoped so. He had already decided he would take a peek at you through the webcam. What harm could it do? A little confirmation that they were for you and not some lover you had lined up. If you were into chicks only or had someone already, that would explain why you were not taking the bait on any of his advances.

Before he did that, there was more to the list. Scrolling down, he found a sex toy he had forgotten Val had roped him into making. It was a replica, well nearly, of his own tool. The item was discontinued years ago and Vox hadn’t allowed his name to be used for the marketing directly, but it would seem there are some still on the shelves of the smaller stores.

Along with the long forgotten replica of his cock, you had purchased a plug for your ass, topped with a pretty blue gem. Would you wear it while you worked? Vox hoped you would. He’d give anything to bend you over his desk and see that pretty little gem peeking out from under your skirt.

“Fuck,” Vox groaned as he settled into his chair, letting the cables connect to the back of his screen.

On the other side of the internet connection, you walked through your apartment. In your panic, you had mis-recorded the time of the meeting and found yourself with two hours to spare.

There wasn’t as much time as you wanted, but it was more than enough time. You made a point of rocking your hips as you walked up to the full-length mirror next to your desk. The robe hugged your curves, caressing your legs as you walked.

The bra and panties were such a contrast with the bright blue robe. It made the items pop out from under the fabric. The dark blue heels you wore clicked against the wooden floors.

You wished it was Vox you were walking up to. You wished it was Vox that would be taking your news purchases off your body. It wasn’t fair, but you would make do. There was no way you were going to present yourself to Vox, to ask him to notice you. He had Valentino and you would never hope to catch his eye over him.

You ran your hands over your curves as you rocked your hips this way and that. You couldn’t have Vox, but you could pretend. Long step after long step took you to the bed. There was no audience, but that didn’t stop you from putting on a show as you wiggled out of the lacy panties.

Crawling up onto the bed, you faced the mirror as you cupped your breast through the lace and cup of the bra. Spreading your legs, you moaned as the cold air washed over your wet folds. You grabbed the plug, small but no less intimidating to your inexperienced self, and ran the cold metal over your folds.

You gathered slick on it, using it to smear slick down to your virginal asshole as you watched yourself in the mirror.

On the other side of the internet connection, Vox watched with wide eyes as you gasped, head thrown back and breasts pushed out. The shiny silver point of the plug worked into your tight asshole as Vox’s pants grew painfully tight around his waist.

“Oh,” you moaned, the laptop speaker just picking up the sound. “Fuck, Vox.”

“Oh, shit.” Vox scrambled to work his pants open, eyes never leaving the screen as the plug sank deeper into your puckered asshole. “Oh, fuck. Oh, damn.”

“I’ve never,” you gasped again as your asshole gave up the battle against the intrusion, spreading to swallow the plug and pull it deeper in one quick motion, “Fuck,” you cried out before continuing, “Done this before.”

“Oh baby,” Vox cooed from his chair as he ripped the fly of his pants open and yanking his cock out. He pumped his fist around his shaft as he watched. “First time having something in that pretty little ass of yours? Let me show you how good it can be.”

You pushed and pulled on the plug in your ass, letting your body stretch and adjust to the intrusion. Shudders ran through your body as it struggled with the unfamiliar feeling.

That didn’t stop you from running your fingers over your clit, smearing slick around as you chased pleasure. Once your trembling stilled, you picked up the intimidating dildo.

It had seemed reasonable in the store, but now that it was out of the package and in your hands, you knew it would be a task. The bubbling sound of air in the viscous liquid filled the room as you squeezed a generous glob onto the head of the artificial cock.

The silky liquid was smoothe and cold as you used your hand to spread it over the soft plastic. You were determined to spread yourself over him tonight, before your meeting.

You deserved this. You told yourself that over and over as you worked the large head into your tight opening. The shaft inched deeper and deeper as you pushed it unrelentingly inside. The thin wall separating it from the metal plug in your ass was pinched, not painfully so, but enough that you couldn’t hope to forget how full you were.

“Fuck, Vox.” It was cheesy, lame to moan the name of your crush while you fucked yourself decked out in his colors, using toys that reminded you of him on your body, but you didn’t care. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he was going to ever find out, anyway.

“Fuck me,” you moaned as the dildo reached as deep inside you as you could push.

“In a heartbeat,” Vox said, fist working along his length greedily.

He zoomed in on the camera, using every bit of editing software he had to sharpen the image. His eyes ran over your body, taking in the way your cunt was spread over the poor replica of his cock.

“You’re so big,” you moaned as you wiggled the base of the cock, rocking the length inside you. “Can’t fit it all.”

“Don’t worry,” Vox’s hips twitched, humping up into his hand as he watched you pull the dark blue cock from your body just to shove it in again. “I’ll fuck you. I’ll make you take it all. You can do it,”

His rhythm was growing slopping as he chased his orgasm. With what little processing power he could spare, he reached out to Papermint- not his ideal assistant, but fuck, he would not bother you right now. You were doing far more important things for him.

He generated the email, marking it urgent and sent off his demand for the evening schedule to be cleared. You were lazy in your thrusts as he worked his fist faster and faster. His balls pulled up and as you moaned his name again.

“Fuck, Doll,” Vox was thrusting into his fist now, hand hitting his pelvis in a bruising pace. “Babydoll keep saying my name, just like that, and I’ll-”

“Vox,” you moaned as you thrust the dildo into you again and again, pace picking up. “Fuck, Vox.”

Vox’s legs kicked out as he came, hot ropes of white cream shooting through the air as he twitched. The screens all went blue, except for the one feeding the video from your camera. His hand lazily stroked his cock as he waited for more of his systems to power back on.

The blue screen that had replaced his face blinked once before Vox had regained his systems. He watched as you moved onto your knees, preparing to ride the dildo.

“Don’t worry, Dollface.” Vox said, tucking his cock back into his pants. “I’ll be right over.”

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord where we talk Vox, Hazbin, writing, reading, art and who knows what else. You may even catch some exclusive sneak peeks at upcoming fics from some of your favorite writers!

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