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goldfades · 19 hours ago

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never felt so alone───paige bueckers

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 6.7k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | requested by @wanderlusturous -> Paige x reader too 🤍 like maybe some teammate fics | i hope you enjoy, babe!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | angst to fluff, ACL injury stuff, paige being a cutie patootie, not sure if theres anything else but it has a happy ending!

The first time you let yourself cry about it—really cry, not just a few silent tears swallowed in the dark—you were alone in the training room, knee wrapped in ice, watching your team warm up on the screen mounted in the corner. The sound was off, but you didn’t need it. You could hear it anyway. The sneaker squeaks, the ball hitting the floor, the echoes of laughter and easy, thoughtless movement. It was the sound of a world that had moved on without you.

And you hated that it hurt this much.

It had been almost a year. A year since your body betrayed you in front of thousands. Since your whole life had changed in a single wrong step, your knee buckling beneath you in a way it was never supposed to. A year since you lay on the court, gripping your leg with hands that shook, blinking up at the overhead lights while everything around you blurred into background noise. A year since you had to sit in that tiny, sterile room with a doctor who didn’t bother to soften the news: ACL tear. Surgery. Recovery. Long, slow, brutal.

And just like that, everything you had been working toward, everything you had been so sure was yours—the draft, the number one pick, the future you had mapped out for yourself since you first picked up a ball—was gone.

You tried to be okay about it. You told everyone you were okay about it.

But you weren’t.

Because now, every time you walked into that gym, it wasn’t the same. You weren’t the same. You felt it in the way people looked at you, in the way their eyes darted to your knee before meeting your face. In the way their encouragement sounded more like pity, their reassurances empty, weightless.

“You’ll be back,” they’d say, and maybe they believed it. Maybe they didn’t. It didn’t matter. Because you knew the truth. You weren’t the same player. You weren’t the same person.

And you had never felt more alone.

But if there was anyone who understood, it was Paige.

She never said much about it, but she didn’t have to. She had been through it too. She knew what it was like to go from untouchable to sidelined, to watch the game you loved move forward without you, to wonder if you’d ever be the same again.

And lately, she was the only person you could stand to be around.

You had been staring at your phone for so long that the screen dimmed, and for a moment, you just let it. You let the notification blur into the background, just another soft glow in the otherwise empty space of your mind. But the words were already burned into your vision. You could still see them, could still hear them.

ESPN: The new projected #1 pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft has been updated.

You hadn’t even opened the article. You didn’t need to. The bets had been completely off for you for a while now. They had kept your name there at first, had held onto you like a favorite whose odds just kept slipping, but eventually, reality set in. You were old news now. Another cautionary tale. A talent with a question mark hanging over her head.

And now, someone else was in your place.

You stared at the screen, willing yourself to feel something other than this heavy, creeping numbness. You should be angry. Should be heartbroken. Should be something.

But you just felt… gone. Like the piece of you that used to care had been hollowed out somewhere along the way.

A year ago, you had been untouchable. A sure thing. The future. The kind of player people built franchises around. And now? Now, there was a chance there was no draft for you at all.

Because the truth was, you weren’t healing fast enough. You had tried. God, you had tried. You had pushed your body past the point of exhaustion, past the pain, past the doubt. You had done every stretch, every exercise, followed every rehab plan like it was a religion. But the clock was still ticking. And if you didn’t get back soon, if you didn’t prove that you were still the player they had once fought over, then what?

Then no one would draft you.

Then it would all be over before it even began.

Your fingers tightened around your phone, stomach twisting into knots, the weight of it pressing against your chest, against your throat, until you felt like you might choke on it.

And then, suddenly, it was gone.

You blinked, hands grasping at empty air as Paige plucked the phone from your grip, her movements casual but firm, like she had seen this moment coming before you even did.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just held your phone in one hand, looking down at you with those sharp, knowing eyes, the ones that had always seen through you too easily.

“It’s nothing,” you muttered, shifting on the bench, trying to sound bored, like your world hadn’t just cracked open a little more. Like you weren’t barely holding it together.

Paige didn’t buy it. Of course she didn’t.

She turned your phone over in her palm, thoughtful, before slipping it into the pocket of her hoodie. “You don’t need to look at that.”

The damage was already done.

Your chest still felt tight, your stomach still sick, your mind still racing down the same dark paths it had been on since the moment you read that notification. Paige could take your phone away, but she couldn’t erase the words from your head, couldn’t make you unsee them, couldn’t stop the way your pulse was pounding in your ears, reminding you over and over of what you had lost.

Paige must have seen something shift in your face because she exhaled, long and slow, before sitting down beside you.

“You’re still in this,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter now, edged with something softer.

You laughed, but it didn’t sound like you. “Am I?”

She didn’t answer right away, just studied you like she was trying to figure out how far gone you really were, how much of you was still left.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t sure of the answer.

The locker room was dead silent. Everyone could feel the tension thick in the air, suffocating, pressing against their chests. No one wanted to look at you. No one wanted to be caught in the crossfire.

You sat there, jaw clenched so tight it ached, hands curled into fists on your knees, staring at the floor like if you looked anywhere else, the whole thing would snap you in half.

"You think this is easy for me?" Geno’s voice cut through the silence, sharp, impatient. "You think I enjoy calling you out like this? I don’t. But this attitude you’ve had? It’s not helping you. It’s not helping the team."

You felt your throat tighten, but you swallowed it down. You always swallowed it down.

Geno sighed, dragging a hand over his face before leveling you with that look, the one you’d seen him give so many players before. The one that usually meant tough love, a push in the right direction. The one that used to light a fire in you.

"You know what I’ve told you before," he continued, voice calmer now but still firm. "Half the battle is in the mentality. You can sit here and feel sorry for yourself, or you can prove to everyone that you’re still the player they think you are. It’s your choice."

That was it.

That was the moment you broke.

The moment you couldn’t keep it all bottled up anymore.

Because it wasn’t just about your mentality. It wasn’t just about your attitude. It was about how everything had been taken from you in one second, how you had clawed your way through recovery, how you had done everything right and it still wasn’t enough. It was about the way people talked about you now, like you were a what-could-have-been instead of a what-still-could-be. It was about the fact that you didn’t even know who you were anymore without basketball, and no one seemed to understand that.

Your voice shook when you spoke, but the words spilled out anyway, raw and desperate and unfiltered.

"Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I don’t replay that moment every single night, over and over again in my head, trying to figure out how I got here?" You laughed, but it wasn’t funny. It was bitter, broken. "Do you think I don’t want to be out there? That I don’t want to be the player I was?"

Your eyes were burning now, but you refused to let the tears fall here. Not in front of him. Not in front of them.

"I’ve done everything I was supposed to do," you whispered, voice hoarse, barely holding it together. "And it’s still not enough."

No one said anything.

Not Geno. Not the team.

No one.

So you left.

You grabbed your stuff, shoved past the stunned silence, and walked out before anyone could stop you.

Paige was the only one who followed.

She didn’t call your name. Didn’t try to talk to you. Didn’t try to tell you it was okay, because she knew it wasn’t.

She caught up to you outside the gym, her footsteps quiet but steady, and the moment you turned to look at her, everything you had been holding in—the anger, the grief, the exhaustion—crashed into you all at once.

And without a single word, Paige wrapped her arms around you.

She hugged you tight, like she was holding you together, like she could feel the way you were unraveling, thread by thread. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself cry. Really cry. Not just a few tears wiped away before anyone could see, but the kind of tears that shook your whole body, that made it hard to breathe, that carried everything you had been too afraid to say.

Paige didn’t let go.

Not when your shoulders trembled. Not when you gripped the back of her hoodie like a lifeline. Not when your sobs turned into ragged, uneven breaths.

And that night, she didn’t leave your side.

She didn’t say much. She didn’t need to.

She just stayed, close enough that you could hear her breathing, close enough that, for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel completely alone.

Paige had always seen you as untouchable. As unstoppable.

Seeing you like this? Broken, vulnerable, hurting in a way that even she couldn’t fix?

That broke her, too.

You had always been the one. The kind of player people whispered about before you even stepped onto the court. The kind of talent that didn’t just demand attention but held it, bent the game around you like gravity. Paige had seen it from the first time she played with you, the way you moved, the way you thought the game three steps ahead of everyone else. You were special. And everybody knew it.

That was why, when it happened, it felt like the world had cracked open.

She remembered it too clearly. The sharp sound of your body hitting the floor, the way you clutched your knee, the way your face twisted in pain. She had never seen you like that before. Never seen you down and not bounce right back up.

At first, she thought—hoped—it was just something minor. A bad landing. A scare. You’d get up, you’d shake it off, and everything would go back to normal.

But you didn’t get up.

And when they helped you off the court, when she saw the way you wouldn’t even try to put weight on it, her stomach dropped.

Because she knew.

She knew before the MRI, before the press release, before the hushed conversations about recovery timelines and worst-case scenarios. She knew the second she saw your face.

And that night, when she found you sitting in the locker room long after everyone else had left, staring down at your knee like it wasn’t even yours anymore, she realized something else.

You weren’t just scared of being hurt. You were scared of what came next.

Paige understood that fear. She had lived it. She knew what it was like to sit on the sidelines and feel like the game was leaving you behind, like the thing that made you you was slipping further and further out of reach. She knew how isolating it was, how no amount of support or encouragement could touch the parts of you that ached the most.

But this was you. And in her mind, you had never been touchable, had never been stoppable. The idea of you being anything less than that—it wasn’t something she could wrap her head around.

So she had told herself, You’ll come back. You have to come back.

But months passed, and she watched the way you changed. The way your fire dimmed. The way you started retreating into yourself, isolating, pulling away from the team, from her.

The way your name slowly started disappearing from draft talks.

The way you looked at yourself like you weren’t sure you belonged here anymore.

And now, sitting beside you, holding you as you finally let yourself fall apart, she felt helpless.

Because this wasn’t a game she could win for you.

She could fight for you on the court. She could hit big shots, make big plays, try to keep the team moving forward. But she couldn’t fix this. She couldn’t make your knee heal faster. She couldn’t take away the doubt, the fear, the loss of everything you thought was certain.

She hated that.

She hated that all she could do was hold you, that all she could offer was her presence, her warmth, the steady rhythm of her breathing against yours.

But if this was all she could do, she would do it.

Because you weren’t alone.

And as long as she was here, as long as she had anything to give, she would make sure you never felt like you were.

It started with an alarm.

A shrill, relentless alarm at 5:30 AM. The kind that made you want to throw your phone across the room.

At first, you thought you had set it by accident. But then you heard the knocking.

No. Not knocking. Pounding.

You groaned, pulling your blanket over your head, willing whoever it was to just disappear.

No such luck.

"Get up," Paige’s voice rang through the door, clear, firm, unmovable.

You shut your eyes tighter. "Go away."

The door opened.

You peeked out from under the blanket just in time to see Paige standing in your doorway, arms crossed, dressed in workout gear like she had been up for hours.

You glared. "Do you not believe in knocking?"

"I knocked," she said, unimpressed. "Then you ignored me. Now get up."

You scoffed, rolling onto your side. "Not happening."

You should have known she wouldn’t just accept that.

Paige walked over, grabbed the edge of your blanket, and ripped it off you in one swift motion. Cold air hit your skin, and you practically yelped, curling into yourself.

"Jesus, Bueckers—"

"You can cuss me out later," she said. "Right now, we’re going to the gym."

You stared at her like she had lost her mind. "Paige, it’s five in the morning."

"Yeah, and you’ve got work to do," she shot back, unfazed. "Season starts in a few months. You wanna be ready or not?"

You hesitated.

Of course you wanted to be ready. Of course you wanted to get back to where you were before, to prove that you weren’t just some washed-up has-been before you even got the chance to be a someone.

But that want—that need—was buried under months of frustration, self-doubt, exhaustion. You had pushed yourself so hard for so long, and it still felt like you were running in place.

And now, here she was, asking you to choose again.

Paige must have seen the hesitation in your face, because her expression softened. She sat down on the edge of your bed, nudging your knee lightly.

"I know you’re tired," she said, quieter now, more serious. "I know this hasn’t been fair. But you’re too good to let this stop you. You know that."

You swallowed, looking away.

She sighed, leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees. "You’re not doing this alone," she continued. "I’m gonna be here every step of the way. If you have to push yourself, then I’ll push you. If you fall, I’ll catch you. But I’m not letting you give up on this. I won’t."

Something in your chest tightened.

Because she meant it. You could hear it in her voice, in the unwavering steadiness of it.

Paige had always believed in you. Even when you stopped believing in yourself.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough to get you out of bed.

You exhaled through your nose, rubbing a hand down your face before finally, finally sitting up.

"Fine," you muttered. "But if I pass out halfway through, it’s on you."

Paige grinned, already victorious. "You’ll live."

And with that, she tossed you your sneakers, stood up, and waited—because she already knew you were going to follow.

The next couple of months were hell.

But not the kind of hell you had been drowning in for the past year. Not the slow-burning, isolating, empty kind of hell where every day bled into the next, where the weight of your own expectations crushed you before you even got out of bed.

No, this was different.

This was the kind of hell that left your muscles aching in the best way, your lungs burning as you pushed through another sprint, your hands gripping your knees as you bent over, gasping for breath, feeling alive again. The kind of hell that reminded you why you had ever loved this game in the first place.

And it was all because of Paige.

She didn’t go easy on you. If anything, she was worse than the trainers. She forced you out of bed before sunrise, dragged you through drills that made you want to collapse, and refused to let you quit.

"You’re too slow," she’d say, breathless, as you tried to keep up with her full-speed cuts. "Use your damn left hand," she’d scold when your layup was just a little too stiff. "Again." That was her favorite. No matter how many times you told her you were done, she’d look at you with that infuriating smirk and make you do it again.

And somehow… somehow, you needed it.

For the first time in forever, you felt like a player again. Like you were clawing your way back to the person you used to be. And with every day that passed, with every extra rep, every bead of sweat rolling down your spine, every time you beat Paige in a shooting drill and got to see the way she rolled her eyes, shoving your shoulder with a muttered, "Whatever, lucky shot,"—you started to believe, just a little, that maybe you still had a chance.

It was exhausting. It was painful. It was the hardest thing you had ever done.

And you had never felt more alive.

But then there was the other problem.

Because somewhere along the way, between the early morning workouts and the late-night film sessions, between the inside jokes and the way she always, always knew exactly what to say to get you out of your own head—something shifted.

You caught yourself watching her too long. Not just as a player, not just as the Paige Bueckers that the world knew. But as her. As the person who had seen you at your absolute lowest and refused to let you stay there.

As the person who had held you when you broke. Who had stayed up with you on the nights where the doubt crept in too deep, the one who knew, before you even said a word, exactly what you needed.

And it scared you.

Because Paige Bueckers wasn’t just some random person. She was your teammate. Your best friend. The person who had dedicated months of her life to making sure you didn’t give up on yourself.

And you couldn’t risk losing that.

So you ignored it. You ignored the way your heart picked up when she brushed against you. The way her hand lingered on your back whenever she guided you off the court. The way she looked at you sometimes, like she was trying to figure something out.

You ignored everything.

Because preseason was coming. And you weren’t where you needed to be yet.

You had made progress—real progress. You were moving better, sharper, stronger than you had in months. But you weren’t there yet. Not fully healed. Not fully you.

But baby steps, right?

You weren’t giving up. Not anymore. And maybe—just maybe—you weren’t as alone as you thought you were.

The gym was nearly empty when Paige found you.

Late night, lights dimmed, the faint echo of bouncing balls from the other side of the facility. You had just finished your last set of shooting drills, your knee wrapped tight, sweat dripping down your back, exhaustion clinging to your limbs. It was another long day of almost being back, almost being who you were before.

But almost wasn’t good enough. Not yet.

You heard the door open but didn’t look up. You knew who it was. Paige had a presence, an energy that filled the space before she even said anything.

"You really gotta stop sneaking in extra workouts," she called, footsteps slow as she crossed the court. "What if I tell Geno? He’ll make you sit out of practice for real this time."

You rolled your eyes, bending down to grab your water bottle. "You won’t tell Geno, because that would make you a snitch."

She scoffed. "I think it makes me a responsible teammate."

"You dragged me out of bed at five in the morning for conditioning all summer, but now you wanna be responsible?" You shot her a look. "Little hypocritical, don’t you think?"

Paige grinned, coming to a stop a few feet from you, spinning a ball lazily in her hands. "That’s different."

"How?"

"Because I was supervising. You out here by yourself?" She made a tsk sound, shaking her head dramatically. "Reckless. Careless. Dangerous, even."

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. "Whatever."

Paige took a step closer, that knowing look in her eyes. "You know you don’t have to do this alone, right?"

Your grip tightened around your water bottle. It wasn’t the first time she had said something like that. And every time, it hit the same.

"I know," you muttered.

She studied you for a second, then nodded, spinning the ball again before flipping it toward you. You caught it out of reflex.

"One-on-one," she said casually, stretching her arms overhead. "First to five."

You narrowed your eyes. "You just had practice."

"So?" She smirked. "I still won’t go easy on you."

That shouldn’t have made your stomach flip, but it did.

You licked your lips, tossing the ball between your hands. "I won’t go easy on you, Bueckers."

Her smirk deepened. "Good."

And just like that, the banter faded into the familiar rhythm of competition—the kind where words weren’t needed, where the only thing that mattered was movement, instincts, the game itself.

But even as you tried to focus, as you tried to lock in, you couldn’t ignore the way Paige’s eyes lingered a little too long. The way her hands brushed against your waist when she reached for a steal. The way she grinned every time you scored, even though she hated losing.

The way the tension between you two had started feeling different.

And you weren’t sure what scared you more—losing the game, or what would happen if you stopped ignoring it.

The sun was starting to set as you and Paige walked back from physical therapy, the sky streaked with warm oranges and purples, the air crisp against your skin. Your knee was sore, but in the way it always was after PT—stiff, a little swollen, but manageable. You were used to it by now. What you weren’t used to was the fact that you didn’t hate these sessions anymore.

Not since Paige started showing up.

At first, you thought she was just being nice—checking in on you, keeping you accountable, making sure you weren’t wallowing in self-pity (even though you totally had been). But then, she started coming every time. She sat in the waiting room during your sessions, tapping her foot impatiently like she was the one getting worked on. She cracked dumb jokes when you winced through exercises, flipped through old magazines and read the worst horoscopes out loud just to make you laugh.

She was like your own personal emotional support dog. If emotional support dogs talked a lot.

And the thing was? She made you feel less bad about all of it.

The injury, the rehab, the endless cycle of progress and setbacks. It didn’t feel so heavy when she was there.

Now, as you walked side by side, your duffel slung over one shoulder, Paige stuffed her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie, gaze flicking toward you before settling on the sidewalk.

"You know, I’ve been here before," she said after a beat, her voice quieter than usual.

You frowned. "What do you mean?"

"This place," she nodded back toward the therapy clinic, her expression unreadable. "I came here after I tore my ACL. Same time, same days. Same routine."

You blinked. You knew about her injury, obviously—everyone did. But she had never really talked about it. Not like this.

"That was before I got here," she continued, exhaling, her breath visible in the cool evening air. "Before I really got back. And it sucked. So bad." She huffed a laugh, but it wasn’t really funny. "I don’t think people get how… alone it makes you feel. Everyone’s moving forward, the season keeps going, and you’re just stuck in the same place. Trying to convince yourself you’re still the player you were before."

Your stomach twisted at how familiar that sounded.

Paige kicked a loose pebble down the sidewalk. "I didn’t really have anyone who—like, I mean, I had people who cared, but no one who really got it. Not like this. I wanted someone to be there for me the way I’ve been here for you."

You stopped walking. Paige took a few more steps before realizing and turned to face you, her brows furrowing slightly.

"You never told me that," you said, voice softer than you meant it to be.

She shrugged, a little sheepish. "It wasn’t something I talked about much. Didn’t think it mattered."

"It does matter," you insisted.

Paige held your gaze for a second, something flickering behind her eyes. Then, she took a step closer.

"You know what else matters?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. "The fact that you were the only person who actually pushed me to get my ass back on the court."

You blinked. "What?"

She smiled, but it wasn’t teasing. It was real.

"You don’t remember?" She shook her head, laughing to herself. "I do. You were a freshman, and you wouldn’t shut up about how I needed to get back out there. You kept saying I was too good to waste it, that I had to stop feeling sorry for myself. It pissed me off so bad."

Your eyes widened. You… vaguely remembered that. You remembered standing outside the locker room, Paige still moving stiffly, not fully cleared yet, and you had said something—something blunt, something stubborn, something about how she was going to regret it for the rest of her life if she didn’t push through.

"You were annoying as hell," Paige added, smirking. "But you were right. I don’t know if I ever told you that."

You were still trying to wrap your head around it. You had no idea you’d made that much of an impact on her. That you had been the one to push her the way she had been pushing you now.

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say.

Then, finally, you huffed, shaking your head. "So… what you’re saying is, this is revenge?"

Paige snorted. "One hundred percent."

You both laughed, but beneath it, something else settled in your chest. Something warm.

She had been there before. She understood.

And maybe, just maybe, that meant you could come out on the other side of this too.

The doctor barely got the words out before Paige exploded.

"Let’s goooo!" she shouted, jumping up so fast her chair screeched against the floor. She clapped you on the back—hard, like she forgot her own strength—before pulling you into the tightest hug you’d ever been in.

You were still processing it. Cleared. Cleared. After nearly a year of waiting, of doubting, of pushing yourself until you couldn’t breathe, you were finally back.

You let out a breathless laugh, gripping the back of Paige’s hoodie as she squeezed you tighter. "You realize I’m the one who just got cleared, right? Why are you more excited than me?"

Paige pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes bright, that signature smirk tugging at her lips. "Because I knew this would happen," she said like it was obvious. "I told you. You’re too good not to come back. It was only a matter of time."

You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling warmer than you should’ve in an air-conditioned office. There was something about the way she was looking at you—like she had been waiting for this moment just as much as you had. Maybe more.

The doctor cleared his throat, clearly trying not to laugh. "Are you two done celebrating in my office, or do I need to step out and give you a minute?"

You and Paige both whipped around like guilty kids, muttering quick apologies, but the grin never left her face.

And it didn’t leave the rest of the day, either.

She refused to let you go home without celebrating. Took you straight to your favorite restaurant, ordered way too much food, and every time you even thought about checking your phone, she smacked your hand away.

"Tonight is not for film. Or texts. Or stressing," she said between bites of fries. "It’s for you. And me. And this delicious meal I just paid for."

"You literally stole my card to pay," you pointed out.

"Yeah, but I swiped it," she said smugly, sipping her drink. "Which means I paid. Which means you should be grateful."

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach flipped, and you weren’t entirely sure it was from the food.

Because here she was again. Paige Bueckers, making you feel like the most important person in the room.

And that feeling hadn’t gone away.

The first practice back, you were expecting a normal warm welcome. Some pats on the back, maybe a few sarcastic finallys thrown your way.

What you were not expecting was to walk into the locker room and see balloons tied to your chair, a giant cake sitting on the bench, and the entire team yelling, "She’s baaaaaaack!" the second you stepped inside.

You stopped in your tracks, wide-eyed. "What the—"

"Surprise!" Paige called, stepping forward with an exaggerated bow. "Courtesy of your personal hype woman."

You looked at her, then at the cake—white frosting, piped-on basketballs, and the words WELCOME BACK, SUPERSTAR in bright blue icing. You could tell she definitely decorated it herself, because one of the basketballs was slightly misshapen, and the lettering was just a little off-center.

Your chest felt tight, but in a good way. A way you didn’t quite know how to explain.

"You did this?" you asked, already knowing the answer.

Paige shrugged, but her grin was unmistakable. "Figured you deserved it."

The warmth in your chest spread.

"Alright, get over here and eat before I do it for you," she added, shoving a plastic fork into your hand.

The rest of the team dove into the cake, laughter filling the room as people threw icing at each other, teasing you about how they were gonna light your ass up in scrimmages.

And through it all, you kept sneaking glances at Paige.

Because this was the part that was messing with your head.

The way she always knew what you needed before you even said it. The way she was so damn proud of you, like this wasn’t just your win, but hers too. The way she looked at you sometimes, like you were the only person in the world that mattered.

And suddenly, you couldn’t keep pretending that your feelings for her were just friendly.

Because they weren’t. Not even close.

The second the buzzer sounded, the roar of the crowd barely had time to register before Paige was on you.

You didn’t even have time to celebrate properly, barely had time to process the fact that you had just played in your first official game back, before she grabbed you—hands firm on your waist, tugging you straight into her.

"You killed it," she practically breathed against your ear, voice thick with something deeper than excitement, something that sent a full-body chill down your spine.

You barely had time to respond before she pulled you closer, her arms locking around your back, holding you like she was afraid to let go. Her heart was pounding against yours, fast and erratic, and you swore she was holding on for longer than a normal post-game hug.

Not that you were complaining.

Your hands hesitated for only a second before finding their way to her back, gripping onto the fabric of her jersey, still warm from the game.

"You act like we just won a championship," you teased, but your voice came out softer than you meant it to.

She pulled back just enough to look at you, her hands sliding down to rest on your hips. "We won your first game back," she corrected, like that was the real victory.

And the way she was looking at you—the way her eyes were scanning your face like she wanted to memorize it, the way her fingers were still gripping onto you like she wasn’t ready to let go—made your stomach flip so hard you almost felt dizzy.

It was so obvious.

So obvious in the way she refused to move more than a step away from you during the entire post-game celebration, always lingering close, her hand brushing against yours, her shoulder bumping into you.

So obvious in the way she reached for you again when the cameras swarmed, her arm slung around your shoulders like it belonged there.

So obvious in the way she beamed every time she looked at you, like she was the proudest person in the damn world.

And it should have been overwhelming, should have felt like too much.

But it didn’t.

Because if you were being honest, you didn’t want her to let go either.

The ice cream shop was packed, buzzing with late-night energy—fans still wearing jerseys, kids on sugar highs, groups of students laughing loudly in the corner. The air smelled like waffle cones and melted chocolate, and the whole team was crammed into two booths, talking over each other, hyped from the win.

And through all of it, Paige wouldn’t leave your side.

She had slid into the seat next to you the second you got there, pressing close enough that her knee knocked against yours under the table. And she stayed there, so damn close, even when there was plenty of room to move.

Not that you minded.

She was warm, practically radiating heat against your side. Every time she laughed—really laughed, head tilting back just slightly—her shoulder bumped into yours. Every time she reached for her cup, her fingers brushed against your arm like she forgot how much space she was taking up.

Or maybe she just didn’t care.

"Alright, we’re making a bathroom run," one of your teammates announced, and the rest of them quickly followed, leaving you and Paige alone at the table.

The shop was still loud around you, but suddenly, everything between you two felt quiet.

You tapped your spoon absently against your cup, not looking at her. "You planning on sticking to me like glue all night?"

Paige scoffed, leaning back like she was just now realizing how close she was. But she didn’t move. "Psh. Please. If anything, you’ve been following me."

You raised a brow, finally meeting her gaze. "Oh yeah? That what you’re telling yourself?"

She smirked, like she had been waiting for this exact opening. "Well, you do like me, so."

Your spoon paused midair.

Your brain short-circuited.

She had said it so casually, like it wasn’t the biggest bomb she could have possibly dropped. Like it wasn’t the exact thing you had been trying not to admit to yourself for months.

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Blinked. "I—what?"

Paige just grinned, stirring her ice cream like she didn’t just say that. "Relax, it’s not that deep," she teased, but there was something lighter in her voice, something testing.

You swallowed. "So you’re just out here saying stuff?"

She shrugged, still grinning, but you could see the shift—the way she kept glancing at you, like she was trying to gauge your reaction. Like she was actually nervous.

You inhaled slowly. "Paige."

She finally stopped stirring her ice cream, finally let the teasing drop just a little.

"Okay," she said, quieter now, tapping her spoon against her cup. "Maybe it is a little deep."

The air between you shifted.

You could still hear the noise of the shop, the hum of conversations, the occasional burst of laughter from across the room. But none of it mattered. Not when Paige was sitting this close, looking at you like that.

Like she had been waiting.

Like she wasn’t scared of saying it anymore.

Your chest felt tight. "Oh."

Paige let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "Oh? That’s all you got?"

You swallowed again, your heart beating way too fast. "I mean—what do you want me to say?"

"I don’t know," she murmured, voice almost playful but not quite. "Maybe that you like me too?"

Your mouth felt dry.

Because you did.

Of course you did.

It had been obvious for so long, in the way your heart jumped every time she touched you, in the way you gravitated toward her like it was second nature. In the way she made the worst year of your life bearable just by being there.

So, really, what was stopping you?

You let out a breath, then shook your head, smirking just slightly. "You are so full of yourself."

Paige rolled her eyes but leaned in just a little closer. "Am I wrong, though?"

You huffed, pressing your lips together—trying to hold onto the last shred of self-control you had, but it was so hard when she was right there, when she was looking at you like she already knew she was right.

And then—

She reached out, fingers curling around your wrist, lightly, like she was giving you an out.

She didn’t need to.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

And before you could second-guess it, before you could talk yourself out of it—

You kissed her.

It was soft at first, tentative, like neither of you could believe it was actually happening. Like months of unspoken tension had suddenly snapped all at once.

But then Paige exhaled against your lips, like she had been holding it in for so long, and you felt her smile into the kiss before she kissed you again, deeper this time, her fingers tightening around your wrist, pulling you in.

You felt weightless.

Like everything—the injury, the doubt, the fear—had led to this.

And, for the first time in forever, you weren’t thinking about the past.

You weren’t thinking about the future.

You were just here, with Paige, and nothing had ever felt more right.

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #uconn #uconnwbb #uconn huskies #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers uconn #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers smut #paige buckets #paige bueckers x female oc #paige bueckers x y/n #uconn wbb #uconn x reader #ncaa wbb #wcbb x reader #wcbb smut #wbb x reader

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ask-underfazverse · 2 days ago

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"He didn't decide it. No one, not even saints truly decide these things."

He summons a glass, full of a strange, sweet smelling alcohol, and sets near him. "Real heroes answer the call, because no one else will. Some do it out of spite, others are cornered into it by fate, some are cornered into it by others who refuse to die alone. But whatever the case, no one chooses to be a hero. Especially not in a case like this. Someone has to save everyone, and this "someone" can't do it alone."

He forms some more glasses, full of the sweet, almost nectar-like alcohol and gives it to the rest of the gang, before downing his own drink. "...Malak is an active hero now. Technically commanded legions at the side of one of my brothers. Things are changing. People are changing. And these worlds will die if we let them. We CAN'T let them... One over the majority. Too many fall, we all do."

He sets his glass down on the counter of the bar. "...I have seen too much death, in my very short eternity... I hope we will see fewer, perhaps even none. But the mortality rate will not go down, if we sit quietly. It will just be quieter..."

The multiverse is full of infinite possibilities...

Most worlds tend to connect through similar builds. Through stories, people, themes...

It's no surprise seeing a stranger to the multiverse. What IS surprising, however, was his condition. Covered in deep wounds, limbs twisted and torn, and he appeared to be drowning in his own blood by the time he was found. Holy weapons were embedded in his skin, and the flesh sizzled liked bacon around it.

He had red skin, gray hooves, horns that looked far too round and circular to have normally grown out of his head. His long pointed tail is covered in hand prints, and there are bones exposed out of his back. He lays face first in a pool of his own boiling blood, barely breathing or moving.

@ask-underfazverse

Cry’s come from the mass amounts of strangers, many just back away to cowedly to do anything, but a few step up, and begin to heal him. Mainly the younger, less evil Malak’s, a few Doug’s that are just simply concerned, and only one Bierce.

Dream Malak very hurriedly takes him to his hospital, with the help of the others.

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f-misc · 1 day ago

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(captain america: brave new world spoilers)

sambucky scene transcript!

----

On Sam, looking at Torres in the hospital, hearing footsteps come up behind him.

Sam: "It's a private room. Go away."

Bucky comes into view beside Sam.

Bucky: "Missed you too."

They look at each other. Bucky a soft smile. Sam looks away, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth.

Sam: "I hate to admit it...I'm glad you're here."

Sam looks back to Bucky and they both go in for a hug, Bucky closing his eyes in it. They part, stood side-by-side again.

Bucky: "You looked good out there on that 6 o'clock."

Sam shakes his head a bashful smile. Then sombre again.

Bucky: "Then I saw this."

Sam: "Doctors had to restart his heart. They don't know if..."

Sam closes his eyes.

Bucky: "This isn't your fault."

Sam: "It makes me think of Steve. How many alien invasions did he stop, again?"

Bucky: "Two."

Sam: "Two. Wow. What made me think I could follow that. I should have took the serum. Like Steve. Like you."

Bucky looking at Sam.

Bucky: "Why?"

Sam: "Because this is all starting to seem much bigger than me."

Sam turns to fully face Bucky.

Sam: "Ross, he asked me to restart the Avengers, Buck. But Joaquin's in here. Isaiah's in prison. And Sterns...I had him. I had Sterns. Right in my hands. And he got away. He damn near pushed us to the brink of war, because I wasn't—"

Sam emotionally cuts himself off.

Bucky: "Say what you need to say."

Sam looks down, then back to Bucky.

Sam: "Steve made a mistake."

Bucky: "No he didn't. He gave you that shield, not because you're the strongest, but because you're you. You think if you had that serum, you'd be able to protect all the people you care about. Steve had it, and he couldn't. You're a human being and you're doing your best. Steve gave people something to believe in, but you...you give them something to aspire to."

Sam squints at Bucky.

Sam: "Did your speech writers help you with that?"

Bucky: "They did, yeah, the ending, a little bit. Did you like it? Was it—?"

Sam: "No no, it was good. Solid...B plus."

Bucky: "Emotional."

Sam: "Very. I felt it."

Bucky: "But just enough."

Sam: "Yeah."

Bucky: "Listen, I've gotta...catch a plane. I have a campaign fundraiser. It's so stupid."

They look over Torres, smiling. Bucky looks at Sam.

Bucky: "He's gonna be all right, man."

Sam looks at Bucky, shakes Bucky's hand.

Sam: "Thanks, Buck."

Bucky: "I love you, buddy."

Bucky claps Sam's arm and leaves; Sam nods, looking after him.

#sambucky #captain america brave new world #ca:bnw #sam wilson #bucky barnes #captain america 4 #brave new world #captain america brave new world spoilers #brave new world spoilers #captain america: brave new world #cabnw #cabnw spoilers #this doesn't even capture the emotion GOsh. the way that they are...#the way bucky looks at sam. the way he's so genuine and serious and prompting and loving when he asks why.#the love he has when he says no he didn't. how resolute he is.#the way they're such an open and supportive space. Gah. bucky barnes the husband that you are to this man.#couple who are a TEAM. they're everything #I won #not even mentioning the framed picture sam keeps of him and bucky on the most eye-level shelf in his office!!!#and sam didn't want anyone in that room with him...but when it was bucky? that healed his whole soul 🥺#(I actually think I've tagged this with spoilers enough ways to not have a read more??)

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loverboysturn · 1 day ago

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˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ it’s valentines day and cinderella!reader can’t help but feel a little jealous !

you can find all other writings for this au here.

happy early valentine’s day 💌

february 14th.

you scribbled the date in the top corner of your notebook as you sat in the classroom, trying to focus on the lecture taking place in front of you. the clock on the wall ticking slowly, each second dragging as you notice the chatter amongst students all discussing their valentines evening plans and most people seemed like they had something exciting to look forward to. whether it was a big party, dinner dates, bouquets of flowers being delivered at their door but you, on the other hand, knew exactly what your evening ahead looked like, the same as it did every year.

you’d be working at the diner, serving endless refills of coffee and late night pancakes, offering people the valentine’s day special your stepmother had made up which was just a strawberry milkshake that was the same as the one served all year round, just with a hefty price increase but you’d smile sweetly through it, serving sickly sweet couples and pretending you were happy to be doing it.

this year would be slightly different for you though, you had a valentine for the first time, but in a way it didn’t feel any different because the truth was, chris still didn’t know who you were. it didn’t matter that you were falling for him more and more with each day that passes because the reality was the same as it always had been this whole time, he was living his life and you were living yours, still too afraid to let him in completely.

you glance over at chris, sitting in the back corner of the room, surrounded by his usual crowd, it was always hard to ignore the way people so easily gravitated towards him, laughing and joking with him like he was the center of their world, you can understand that, though.

you knew there was probably a long list of girls lined up, all wanting him to be their valentine, just waiting to ask him and yet, despite all of the attention he received and the situation the two of you were in, he still chose you. the thought caused butterflies to erupt in your stomach, quickly followed by a rush of anxiety. out of everyone, chris sturniolo had chosen you.

your thoughts are interrupted by the door swinging open, and in walked nick, followed closely by nate, who was dressed in a cupid costume, complete with a fake bow and arrow and a pair of wings twice his size.

“it’s valentine’s day people,” nick announces, strolling to the front of the classroom next to where your professor was stood, nick’s voice loud and confident. “and you know what that means.”

“it’s the annual lollipop delivery,” nate grins, as he pretends to shoot his arrow over to the football team in the corner.

the lollipop delivery was a tradition that took place every year, students could send anonymous heart-shaped lollipops to anyone on campus, and they would get delivered throughout the day during class, people sometimes added handwritten notes to their lollipops but most people kept it simple. you weren’t expecting any. you had already received yours earlier this morning in your first class of the day, knowing it was from your best friend. you’d sent her one back, the way you did every year and of course, you’d sent chris one too.

nick began making his rounds, you could feel the excitement in the room building as everyone waited to see if they were going to get one. he moved down the aisles, handing out the lollipops to students and ticking them off his list, nate following closely behind him, dishing out a wink or a flirty comment or two.

when nick reached chris’s desk, it was obvious that the delivery was mostly for him. one by one, he handed chris lollipop after lollipop, before glancing at his list and dumping the rest of the box onto chris’s desk, knowing they had all been sent for him. chris laughed, trying to downplay the attention, stacking the sweet treats on the corner of his desk, his casual grin doing little to hide the fact that he was the centre of attention, as always. meanwhile, you sat there, struggling with a feeling of jealously you couldn’t shake, one that you also couldn’t do anything about.

as silly as it seemed, each one chris had received was a reminder of how distant he truly was. in private, he was yours, but moments like this only made it painfully clear how many others were chasing after him, pushing you a step further away from confessing your identity to him.

the bell rings, signalling the end of class and you stand up, eager to leave. as you grab your things together, you can’t help but notice the group of girls heading toward the football team’s corner of the classroom, likely to tell chris about the lollipops they had sent him. it makes you feel stupid, knowing the one you had sent was now just another amongst the pile on his desk.

as you’re leaving the classroom, you notice nick standing alone just outside the door, looking up at you as if he had been waiting. you stop for a moment, and he flashes you a smile. “hey,” he greets you, his tone friendly. “i completely forgot to give you this earlier.” he says, handing you a lollipop. “it’s a lollipop from me,” he adds, his smile genuine as he meets your gaze.

you watch him walk away, feeling confused but then you notice a folded piece of paper tucked under the lollipop’s wrapper. curious, you open it and as your eyes read the words on the paper, your breath catches.

“he’s in love with you. tell him who you are.”

divider by @/saradika-graphics 💌

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regressionschool · 2 days ago

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What tumblr authors for diaper stories do you recommend?

That's an excellent question! Reading stories is a big part of why I write ABDL stories and captions. I also draw a lot of inspiration from the many other talented people in this community.

Below, you'll find a list without any specific order. I'm also 100% certain that I've forgotten many great writers and storytellers. @personalias

@all4thedips

@just4n0th3rus3r (mostly on Deviantart)

@thecradlequill

@junipercommunes

@destinedfordiapers

@welcome-to-alteredstates

@something-misremembered

@omnomnomdomcaps

@the-bunni-story-corner

@mellowsadistic

@curiouslittletoddler

@akumialice

@drdaddy19

@diapergirlstories

@regressionrevolution

@babywriter

@paddedlittleparadise

@brattyprettysub2 I really love a few works that are outside of tumlbr that i just have to mention: I adore Babystars Comics over at [link]

Princesspottypants is a big part of why I love captions [link]

And PieceofSoaps games are out of this world [link] Below you'll find a few stories/captions linked that I really enjoyed reading. They Grow Up so Quickly

Playground Rivalry

It’s the third day that usually breaks them.

You'll smell the difference

Huggies Playmates

the playground

Little Space, Big Mess

#ab/dl diaper #diaper stories #ab/dl stories #ab/dl #ask #send me asks

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tsskyx · 2 days ago

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George Orwell (real name Eric Arthur Blair) was many things: a rapist, a bitter anti-Communist, a colonial cop, a racist, a Hitler apologist, a plagiarist, a snitch, and a CIA puppet.

Rapist

...in 1921, Eric had tried to rape Jacintha. Previously the young couple had kissed, but now, during a late summer walk, he had wanted more. At only five feet to his six feet and four inches, Jacintha had shouted, screamed and kicked before running home with a torn skirt and bruised hip. It was "this" rather than any gradual parting of the ways that explains why Jacintha broke off all contact with her childhood friend, never to learn that he had transformed himself into George Orwell. - Kathryn Hughes. (2007). Such were the joys

Bitter anti-Communist

[F]ighting with the loyalists in Spain in the 1930s... he found himself caught up in the sectarian struggles between the various left-wing factions, and since he believed in a gentlemanly English form of socialism, he was inevitably on the losing side. The communists, who were the best organised, won out and Orwell had to leave Spain... From then on, to the end of his life, he carried on a private literary war with the communists, determined to win in words the battle he had lost in action... Orwell imagines no new vices, for instance. His characters are all gin hounds and tobacco addicts, and part of the horror of his picture of 1984 is his eloquent description of the low quality of the gin and tobacco. He foresees no new drugs, no marijuana, no synthetic hallucinogens. No one expects an s.f. writer to be precise and exact in his forecasts, but surely one would expect him to invent some differences. ...if 1984 must be considered science fiction, then it is very bad science fiction. ... To summarise, then: George Orwell in 1984 was, in my opinion, engaging in a private feud with Stalinism, rather that attempting to forecast the future. He did not have the science fictional knack of foreseeing a plausible future and, in actual fact, in almost all cases, the world of 1984 bears no relation to the real world of the 1980s. - Isaac Asimov. Review of 1984

Ironically, the world of 1984 is mostly projection, based on Orwell's own job at the British Ministry of Information during WWII. (Orwell: The Lost Writings)

He translated news broadcasts into Basic English, with a 1000 word vocabulary ("Newspeak"), for broadcast to the colonies, including India.

His description of the low quality of the gin and tobacco came from the Ministry's own canteen, described by other ex-employees as "dismal".

Room 101 was an actual meeting room at the BBC.

"Big Brother" seems to have been a senior staffer at the Ministry of Information, who was actually called that (but not to his face) by staff.

Afterall, by his own admission, his only knowledge of the USSR was secondhand:

I have never visited Russia and my knowledge of it consists only of what can be learned by reading books and newspapers. - George Orwell. (1947). Orwell's Preface to the Ukrainian Edition of Animal Farm

1984 is supposedly a cautionary tale about what would happen if the Communists won, and yet it was based on his own, actual, Capitalist country and his job serving it.

Colonial Cop

I was sub-divisional police officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty kind of way anti-European feeling was very bitter. ... As a police officer I was an obvious target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up on the football field and the referee (another Burman) looked the other way, the crowd yelled with hideous laughter. This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of young men that met me everywhere, the insults hooted after me when I was at a safe distance, got badly on my nerves. The young Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were several thousands of them in the town and none of them seemed to have anything to do except stand on street corners and jeer at Europeans. All this was perplexing and upsetting. - George Orwell. (1936). Shooting an Elephant

Hitler Apologist

I should like to put it on record that I have never been able to dislike Hitler. Ever since he came to power—till then, like nearly everyone, I had been deceived into thinking that he did not matter—I have reflected that I would certainly kill him if I could get within reach of him, but that I could feel no personal animosity. The fact is that there is something deeply appealing about him. - George Orwell. (1940). Review of Adolph Hitler's "Mein Kampf"

Orwell not only admired Hitler, he actually blamed the Left in England for WWII:

If the English people suffered for several years a real weakening of morale, so that the Fascist nations judged that they were ‘decadent’ and that it was safe to plunge into war, the intellectual sabotage from the Left was partly responsible. ...and made it harder than it had been before to get intelligent young men to enter the armed forces. Given the stagnation of the Empire, the military middle class must have decayed in any case, but the spread of a shallow Leftism hastened the process. - George Orwell. (1941). England Your England

Plagiarist

1984

It is a book in which one man, living in a totalitarian society a number of years in the future, gradually finds himself rebelling against the dehumanising forces of an omnipotent, omniscient dictator. Encouraged by a woman who seems to represent the political and sexual freedom of the pre-revolutionary era (and with whom he sleeps in an ancient house that is one of the few manifestations of a former world), he writes down his thoughts of rebellion – perhaps rather imprudently – as a 24-hour clock ticks in his grim, lonely flat. In the end, the system discovers both the man and the woman, and after a period of physical and mental trauma the protagonist discovers he loves the state that has oppressed him throughout, and betrays his fellow rebels. The story is intended as a warning against and a prediction of the natural conclusions of totalitarianism. This is a description of George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four, which was first published 60 years ago on Monday. But it is also the plot of Yevgeny Zamyatin's We, a Russian novel originally published in English in 1924. - Paul Owen. (2009). 1984 thoughtcrime? Does it matter that George Orwell pinched the plot?

Animal Farm

Having worked for a time at The Ministry of Information, [Gertrude Elias] was well acquainted with one Eric Blair (George Orwell), who was an editor there. In 1941, Gertrude showed him some of her drawings, which were intended as a kind of story board for an entirely original satirical cartoon film, with the Nazis portrayed as pig characters ruling a farm in a kind of dysfunctional fairy story. Her idea was that a writer might be able to provide a text. Having claimed to her that there was not much call for her idea... Orwell later changed the pig-nazis to Communists and made the Soviet Union a target for his hostility, turning Gertrude’s notion on its head. (Incidentally, a running theme in all every single piece of Orwell’s work was to steal ideas from Communists and invert them so as to distort the message.) - Graham Stevenson. Elias, Gertrude (1913-1988)

Snitch

“Orwell’s List” is a term that should be known by anyone who claims to be a person of the left. It was a blacklist Orwell compiled for the British government’s Information Research Department, an anti-communist propaganda unit set up for the Cold War. The list includes dozens of suspected communists, “crypto-communists,” socialists, “fellow travelers,” and even LGBT people and Jews — their names scribbled alongside the sacrosanct 1984 author’s disparaging comments about the personal predilections of those blacklisted. - Ben Norton. (2016). George Orwell was a reactionary snitch who made a blacklist of leftists for the British government

CIA Puppet

George Orwell's novella remains a set book on school curriculums ... the movie was funded by America's Central Intelligence Agency. The truth about the CIA's involvement was kept hidden for 20 years until, in 1974, Everette Howard Hunt revealed the story in his book Undercover: Memoirs of an American Secret Agent. - Martin Chilton. (2016). How the CIA brought Animal Farm to the screen

Many historians have noted how Orwell's literary reputation can largely be credited to joint propaganda operations between the IRD and CIA who translated and promoted Animal Farm to promote anti-Communist sentiment.1 The IRD heavily marketed Animal Farm for audiences in the middle-east in an attempt to sway Arab nationalism and independence activists from seeking Soviet aid, as it was believed by IRD agents that a story featuring pigs as the villains would appeal highly towards Muslim audiences. 2

[1] Jeffreys-Jones, Rhodri (2013). In Spies we Trust: The story of Western Intelligence

[2] Mitter, Rana; Major, Patrick, eds. (2005). Across the Blocs: Cold War Cultural and Social History

Additional Resources

George Orwell was a terrible human being | Hakim (2023)

A Critical Read of Animal Farm | Jones Manoel (2022)

(copied from here)

very funny to me when people act like animal farm and 1984 are revolutionary anti government texts that the Powers That Be dont want you to read when they have literally been a part of every standard middle/highschool english lit cirriculum in the usa and beyond for decades. precisely because theyre such convenient primers to propagandize that Commies = Bad. the government is quite literally making kids read them

#politics

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revelboo · 2 days ago

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Idk if you ever have seen the "Thats it youre grounded get on top of the fridge" "this house is a fuCKING NIGHTMARE!!!!!!" But. That second line i feel like is Megatron about his fuckass army. Just one day he's on. The Brink bc of all the human fucking and kidnapping and hes Old so his backstruts hurt and yknow. being SPARKED.

And a Normal Inconvenience happens like. A Normal ass autobot vs Decepticon battle happens over an energon supply and the vehicons come back with their tails between their legs and are like "The autobots beat us..." and he just BLASTS a wall and "tHIS SHIP IS A FRAGGING NIGHTMARE!!! AAAAAAAAHG!!!" Crashout King.

He’s just so tired and so over being the only one not fragging the human, but still ending up the one sparked.

Everything Is Alright Pt 131

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• All the chatter immediately stops as soon as he opens the door to his habsuite, all of his cassettes and the little human staring at him. Talking about him? Venting tiredly as Ratbat wings up to his usual dark corner and tucks his wings about himself, optics glaring balefully down at him. Because the former Senator is never letting that grudge go. Turning his attention on Frenzy and Rumble and their human, he’s not quite sure what to say. “Hello, little one,” he says, hesitantly lifting a hand like he’s seen you do. And Rumble and Frenzy beset him, talking at the same time. Introducing their human as their mate and asking for their own habsuite. Spark aching as he navigates this, he’d known the cassettes, his little found family, would drift apart eventually. That after the war they would want their modifications reversed. Want their own lives and no longer need his protection, but it’s always been a distant prospect. And it’s bittersweet seeing them happy, Rumble tucking his little human against his side as they smile up at him, expression uncertain. Wants this for them. Wants them to be happy. To live.

• Stretched out against Starscream, you smile when his lips brush your cheek. Because you’d missed this. Just the two of you tangled in each other talking. “I don’t like Megatron just making decisions for my world. There needs to be a human voice,” you mutter. Someone to rein him in when he gets too ambitious. To tell him no and make him listen. And somehow you know it’s going to have to be you. His spark mate. Groaning, you press your face against Starscream’s neck. Startling when the door opens and Megatron’s optics slide around the room before finding you both. ‘You can’t speak his name, you summoned him,’ Starscream growls as Megatron smiles lazily.

• “Doesn’t this look cozy,” Megatron says, servos flexing as you look over your shoulder at him and Starscream curls an arm more possessively around you. “I hate to interrupt, but you wouldn’t want to neglect your sparkling you saddled me with.” Taking a petty satisfaction in tormenting Starscream as you brush your mouth against his in an apology before you’re standing and glaring up at him. All defiance while he cups his hands around you and Starscream tenses, wings flared out aggressively. “I’ll bring our little mate back. Maybe.”

• Sighing at him as you settle in his hands and he carries you to his quarters, you hang on to his servos. “Do you have to mess with him? That’s what makes him do awful stuff.” And Megatron glances at you, that smug smile falling away as he studies you. Know he’s not as awful as he pretends to be. If he was, he’d have let you die instead of trying to save you and ending up a part of this mess. “He’s trying to do better, but you have to stop backing him into a corner,” you add as he lets himself into his habsuite and secures the door before heading for his berth. You expect him to just shift the panels around his spark and hold you up to it. Not to mass shift so you end up in his arms when he sits. Skin prickling when he just lays back, legs handing over the edge and you sprawled on top of him. “What are you doing?”

• What is he doing? This is an unnecessary risk and he knows it, but he wants to have this. The soft warmth of you against him. For a moment pretending this is his. His spark, not Starscream’s that’s been foisted upon him. “Relax. I’m not going to molest you. With my luck you can be sparked again already.” Which shouldn’t be an appealing thought. Shouldn’t be curious how soon you can be sparked after passing the existing sparkling to a sire to fully develop. Definitely shouldn’t want to find out. Shifting his plating, he waits as you push up and stare down at him. Wanting you to reach out to him. To touch his spark.

• That’s… something that hadn’t occurred to you. Can one of them spark you again so soon? You’d barely had the last spark any time, it had never even had time to really register. To become real to you before everything had gone wrong. Stretching out on him alongside his spark chamber, you dip your fingers toward that warmth and whimper when he snares you. Falling into him. Into his spark. And he’s there waiting for you, almost overwhelming as he wraps himself around you with a sense of relief. Can feel that lonely ache inside him as he pulls you in to fill those gaps in himself. He’s everywhere, swimming through you and you tremble when he shows you that fragile, little spark you’d created with Star. Yours. Curling tighter into him, something settles inside you feeling that new life.

• Needed this, the feel of you tangled in him easing his tension. Wraps himself tighter around you, around that spark. Trying to ignore that disconnect. That this isn’t really his even as he wants to claim it as his. Wants to place his own claim on you. To lay beside you, talking together, for you to smile at him the way you do at Soundwave and Starscream. To not be your enemy. And tangled in you, there’s no keeping those desires secret, feels you see them. Spark aching when you accept his needs. Accept him.

• Where are you now? Ever since Starscream severed his partial bond, he’s not been able to sense your emotions humming in the back of his processor and it hurts to be cut off like that. A part of him just gone unless he focuses and tries to find you. Because seeing Rumble and Frenzy happy, looking toward their future, left him even more empty. Feeling that missing bond with you. Where are you? Are you okay? There, but faint. He’s moving without conscious thought, drawn toward you. He’ll ask this time, not take in a moment of passion. Wants to move forward, too. To heal.

#transformers x reader #starscream x reader #megatron x reader #soundwave x reader #megatron #soundwave #starscream

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wosospacegirl · 1 day ago

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And they were roommates - part 1

Summary: Y/n gets injured and has to stay in recovery for 8 months. It's a good thing her friend and teammate Kyra is more than willing to move in with her. wink wink

Warnings: mentions of injury; Kyra is a pest and reader is grumpy

Word count: 3.5k

Masterlist here

| PART 2 |

Y/n’s teammates said she didn’t scream when Millie Bright stepped on her tibia. Beth said she could hear the crack as Y/n’s bone broke in two. But again, Y/n didn’t scream.

Leah said Y/n didn’t cry when the medical staff took her to the infirmary when they touched her broken leg to see where it hurt.

Y/n didn’t show any emotion. It was as if she wasn’t there.

Y/n was unable to answer any of the doctors’ questions when the Arsenal staff went to check her in at Great Ormond Street Hospital. They gave Y/n’s personal information and explained what had happened during the match against Chelsea.

Y/n was now lying in a hospital bed, wearing an ugly hospital gown, as a series of different doctors tried to explain her condition to her.

“It seems like a transverse fracture, miss,” one of the doctors had told her.

“Surgical intervention will be necessary—” said another.

“At least 8 months to full recovery,”

That last voice echoed endlessly in/n’s mind and that’s when she cried for the first time.

Y/n’s has been at the hospital for two days now. Her operation was yesterday, and thankfully, she was able to go home, but there was one problem: Y/n had no one to go home to. She has lived on her own since moving to London years ago after she signed for Arsenal.

Y/n was sure she could look after herself. She had been injured before and had managed just fine on her own. She was very independent, self-reliant and—

“Stubborn,” Kyra told her. “You are the most stubborn person I have ever met in my entire life,” the Australian said. Standing in front of Y/n’s hospital bed with her jaw clenched.

“I am not stubborn. I have the legal system on my side, and I’m not letting you break into my house,” Y/n told Kyra, her long-time friend and teammates

Break in?” Kyra said exasperatedly, pressing her palms to her face and dragging them down in frustration. “You’re making it sound like I’m kicking you out of your own house so I can live in it alone.”

“That’s basically what’s happening,” Y/n said, rolling her eyes.

“I’m only moving in with you because you need someone to help you around until you are completely healed.” Kyra took a step closer to Y/n’s bed, softness on her face. “It will be just like when we have film nights, come on’.”

Y/n and Kyra had been friends since the U19 World Cup. When they met again as Arsenal’s teammates, their friendship just grew. They were always at each other’s houses and always found something fun to do after training alongside Alessia or any other girls. Y/n adored Kyra. How could she not? Kyra was sweet and funny, and yeah, sometimes a pest, but Y/n loved her anyway, she was her happiest self when Kyra was by her side. Unfortunately, Y/n wasn’t in a position to be just her usual self. She was injured and didn’t even know if she would be back on the pitch when her recovery was complete.

She was frustrated, and at the moment, Kyra was her punching bag.

“I’m not incapacitated, I can take care of myself, they gave me crutches and everything,” Y/n said, pointing to her new best friends for the rest of the year. The crutches were in the corner of the room, next to the hospital bag Leah packed for her after the team found out that Y/n would be in the hospital for a few days.

“And how will you drive? How will you do your groceries? How will you cook?” Kyra said, trying to make Y/n see the real situation they were in. She needed help, and Kyra was on a mission to be everything Y/n needed right now, even though she was being difficult about it.

“I can take a cab and order takeaway,” Y/n said persistently. “Besides, you can’t even cook! Last time Alessia tried teaching you how to make chicken pasta and you couldn’t even touch the chicken

“Okay, first of all, chicken is gross,” Kyra got up from Y/n’s bed and picked up Y/n’s bag from the floor, along with the girls’ crutches. “Second, I’ll try hard to cook us both good meals! I even bought a cookbook,” Kyra said proudly

“Oh God, you’ll poison me.” Y/n said dryly, pressing the bridge on her nose.

“I will if you don’t get out of this bed and let me take you home. The hospital needs its bed back,” Kyra handed Y/n her crutches and helped her to her feet. It wasn’t the first time the girl had stood up after the surgery, but she still wasn’t used to her new cast. She felt like a baby giraffe trying to walk for the first time.

The cast looked cute, though. The Arsenal girls had come by later that day, and everyone had written well wishes on it, Vic had even draw some flowers near Y/n’s ankle. Kyra also took a lot of time drawing small doodles all over it; the Australian had said it looked sad, ugly and boring before her special touch.

With a hand on Y/n’s back, Kyra slowly urged the girl to take a step in. “Does it feel all right? Do you think we should get a smaller crutch?” She asked, hovering over Y/n.

Y/n looked at the crutches in disgust. “No, their size is fine, I just— I hate this, and I hate this cast, and—” Y/n felt her eyes well up with tears.

Frustration.

Y/n’s body was filled with frustration and pain. Her leg hurt, even though she had been given strong painkillers, and now she was a mess, crying in an ugly hospital gown. Her hair was dirty because she hadn’t had a chance to wash it since the game. Her life was completely chaos. And there was nothing she could do about it.

Y/n was used to being independent. She had moved to London after her eighteenth birthday to play for Arsenal, her first professional club. For the first time in her life, she was without her parents and family, and she genuinely thrived on it. Y/n was pretty much a free bird, she didn’t need anyone, until now.

Y/n felt Kyra coming closer, friendly arms embracing her before she could resist the physical touch. “Shh, it’s okay,” Kyra said to Y/n, trying to comfort her. “You’re in a lot of pain right now, and the situation hasn’t really sunk in for you yet, but once it does, it’ll get easier.”

Kyra was the same age as Y/n, but she was definitely the most easy-going and good-humored of them, although right now Kyra looked older. Y/n was usually the more mature one, at the moment she wasn’t. So, she just let her friend comfort her.

“Steph told me that she cried for a whole week when she got injured during that Matilda’s match back in May,” Kyra said.

“Is that an attempt to soothe me?” Y/n asked playfully, lips still trembling.

“I’m trying my best,” Kyra admitted. “I’m better with jokes than support-giving.”

“I think you are pretty good at both,” Y/n replied. “But it’s all right now, no more affection,” Y/n mumbled, cleaning her cheeks away from the tears and pulling away from Kyra’s embrace

Damn, Y/n really needed that hug. Maybe the whole neuroscience community was right when they said that humans needed other humans. Oxytocin released all that.

“Oh, come on, you love my affection,” Kyra teased, a glimpse of her cheeky smile showing.

“No, I don’t.” Y/n huffed.

“Stop lying to yourself.”

“Whatever.” Y/n rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips. She took a deep breath and looked around the room she’d called hers for the past few days. “Can you get my things please?”

Kyra rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh, asking for my help now, are you?”

Y/n crossed her arms. “If you keep being annoying, I’ll just ask Leah to come over and take care of me.”

Kyra picked up Y/n’s belongings from the hospital’s wardrobe, it wasn’t much, but other players had been kind enough to send gifts for Y/n. “Leah’s a tough love person; you guys wouldn’t last a day living together,” Kyra warned.

Y/n sighed. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“I always am,” Kyra said under her breath, taking one last look around the room “I think I have everything,” Kyra said, shifting a load of things in her arms. “I’ve got your bag, the flowers Millie sent as an apology, Beth and Viv’s plushie, Leah’s basket, Alessia’s ballons…”

Y/n bit back a laugh. Kyra wasn’t exactly short, but with all the things she was carrying, she looked like a child drowning in oversized toys and presents.

The two girls left the hospital, and for Yn’s misery, she had to use a wheelchair. Kyra teased her all the way out of the hospital to the car.

After a 20-minute drive, Kyra parked her car in Y/n’s garage. It was a sunny Tuesday, and the neighbourhood was quiet. Y/n neighbours were not around at this time of the day—they were busy at work and school— which Y/n was grateful about; she didn’t want any further attention on her injury.

It was already enough having a million texts from her family every 5 minutes asking how she was, she didn’t want her neighbour to worry too. Especially Mrs. Petunia, the old lady who lived across the road. Mrs. Petunia was a sweetheart, but she started to treat Y/n as a child once she found out the girl lived ‘all alone,’ during one of their quick conversations.

When Kyra turned off the car, Y/n was already on a mission to unbuckle her seatbelt and get out of the car, but Kyra was quicker.

“Hey, hey, slow down,” Kyra said, helping Y/n to her crutches against her will. “I can’t have you falling face-flat on the pavement on my first day as your caretaker.”

“I can get out of the car own my own, Ky, thank you very much!” Y/n said grudgingly, trying to get keep her balance on the crutches, but failing miserably. “Okay, I may need your help,” Y/n admitted.

Kyra smiled, as if she had won an argument. “See! that wasn’t so hard.” The other girl said, holding Y/n’s elbow, guiding her towards the front door.

Y/n didn’t answer, a forming on her face.

��Don’t start getting annoying now, we’ve barely made it to your house, we’ve got a long way to go,” Kyra said, unloading Y/n’s belongings from her car. “So just try to smile—like this.” She flashed an exaggerated grin at Y/n, showing off her pearly white teeth.

“I’m going to be annoying until this stupid bone grows back, which will take a longtime, and that’s why you don’t need to move in with me ,” Y/n said, still unwilling to accept the whole arrangement Kyra and the rest of the team had apparently plotted behind her back.

"Will you drop it?" Kyra asked, pulling a large teddy bear out of the car— the one with a ‘Get Better Soon’ t-shirt, courtesy of Katie and Caitlin. “It’s already been decided; I’m staying here until you are completely healed.”

“That’s the problem! Who decided it? It’s my house, it’s my life,” Y/n argued, if she wasn’t holding on to the crutches for dear life, Y/n would dramatically throw her arm into the air.

“Me and Leah decided it when you where—well, you know—catatonic,” Kyra replied, fishing a set of keys from her pocket.

“I was never catatonic! What are you going to say next? That I’m hysterical? Is this the early 20th century?” Y/n said, allowing herself to be melodramatic.

“You do look a bit crazy right now,” Kyra shot back, turning the key in the door.

Y/n wished Millie hadn’t broken her good leg, or else she’d have kicked Kyra right there. So much for five and a half years of friendship.

“Hand on, how did you get my keys?” Y/n asked when she noticed that Kyra was already unlocking thedoor.

“Leah took them from your locker at the stadium after you went to the hospital,” Kyra explained. “Just so you know, Leah came here yesterday to make sure the doors and windows were locked and to check if you had left the cooker on or not.”

“Leah was here? And she took my keys and gave them to you? And why would I even leave my cooker on anyway?”

“Yep. She was also kind enough to make up your guest room for me to sleep in while I stay here,” Kyra said with a grin, ignoring Y/n’s rhetorical question.

Y/n rolled her eyes. “Good to know my house is not my house anymore.”

“It’s our house now,” Kyra teased as she let Y/n pass through the door first, following close behind. “We are roomies!”

“No, we are not,” Y/n muttered.

“Roomies!” Kyra repeated, more enthusiastically

Y/n tried to hold her laughter, but she failed. Kyra looked cute when she was excited. It was Y/n’s first real laugh she broke her leg on the pitch.

Maybe sharing a house with her best friend wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Y/n hated sharing a house with Kyra. She wasn’t sure is she could do it anymore.

“Wow, rude! I’m right here!” Kyra pouted.

“Oh, did I say that out loud?” Y/n asked, her voice dripping with false remorse.

Kyra rolled her eyes. “I’m just helping you get down the stairs. Can’t your brain tell the difference between receiving help from a gorgeous friend and feeling threatened?”

Now, it was Y/n’s turn to roll her eyes. “You are so dramatic, Kyra.”

“So are you!” Kyra replied, raising her eyebrows. “At least I got two working legs.”

“That’s low even for you,” Y/n said, elbowing Kyra in the stomach— not hard enough to hurt.

“And now you attack me, what’s next? Hit me with your crutches? Kick me…”

Kyra explained to Y/n all the ways she could hit her, given the circumstances, as they walked down the stairs. Y/n thought them but decided not to act on her deviant ideas—especially after Kyra made her popcorn, like the sweetheart she was.

Y/n was stretched out on the couch, the popcorn bowl on her stomach, her bad leg propped up on a pillow in Kyra’s lap as they watched a ‘90s rom-com. Y/n couldn’t even remember the title. The plot was the same though—about a boy and a girl.

“God, I love popcorn,” Y/n said, “I could eat it all day.”

“I can see that,” Kyra smiled. “Just don’t choke on it, I don’t know how to do the Heimlich maneuver. Kyra picked up some popcorn and threw it playfully at Y/n’s head.

Always the pest.

Kyra’s love language was an act of disturbance.

“I still don’t know why I put you as my emergency contact,” Y/n said, eating more popcorn and watching as the couple on the screen shared their first kiss.

“Because you love me,” Kyra said smugly without taking her eyes off the screen. “There is no way that was a technical kiss; I can literally see their tongues!”

Y/n squinted at the television. “Yeah, there was definitely tongue there.” Y/n agreed.

Damn, Y/n missed being kissed like that. It had been a long time since she’d been to a club and really seen other people. It was hard to combine a social life with football season. That was probably why most footballers dated within their own circle-- an athlete understood another athlete.

Maybe Y/n should stop looking for a girlfriend in London’s busy nightlife and start looking for one on the pitch.

Y/n stared at Kyra, but the girl was too caught up in the film. Y/n shook her head, trying to get rid of the very strange thought she’d just had.

During the first night, Y/n cried. “Stupid fucking leg”, she said through her tears as Kyra at her feet on the bathroom floor, a worried look on her face. Y/n hated crying in front of people, but in the last few days it had been all she could do.

Y/n had convinced Kyra that she was more than capable of having a bath by herself, she only asked Kyra to get the bath ready for her. At first Kyra didn’t agree, but Y/n was very persistent, so Kyra made her warm bath and left Y/n alone.

Big mistake.

Five minutes after Kyra had closed the bathroom door, she heard a scream. Kyra was sitting out in the hallway like a lost puppy, so It didn’t take her long to get inside the bathroom again.

Unfortunately, the scene Kyra encountered was ugly. Y/n had a white towel wrapped around her body, but she was lying on the floor, tears streaming down her face.

Kyra quickly picked Y/n up from the floor and sat her on the toilet. Checking for injuries. “What happened? Where does it hurt? Did you slip?”

Y/n just nodded through her sobs. “I should’ve had li—listened to you.”

She should, Kyra thought, but she wouldn’t say it.

Kyra didn’t want to leave Y/n alone, but she also didn’t want Y/n to feel that she had no privacy or control over her life, especially when Kyra knew Yn was private about her body.

Y/n was always the one to hide behind her lockers in the changing room when she was putting on or taking off her kit, even around their teammates, who were all more than used to seeing each other in underclothes. Kyra had asked Y/n at one of her girls’ nights why she was so shy about it. Y/n just explained that it was the way she was, and Kyra left it at that

Kyra didn’t know what to say, so she just let Y/n cry on her shoulder. She wasn’t used to seeing Y/n like that. They’d been best friends and teammates for five years now, they’d seen each other on their ups and downs, both on and off the pitch. but Kyra had never seen Y/n this frustrated and angry.

“How about we try again?” Kyra suggested, feeling her heart ache for the girl in front of her. “The water’s still warm; do you want to get in? Or we can wait till tomorrow— it’s your call.”

“I want to take a bath today,” Y/n said. “I still smell like the hospital.”

Kyra smile. “No, you don’t, you smell like buttered popcorn.”

“I don’t think that’s any better,” Y/n murmured.

“It’s not,” Kyra teased. “So, this is my plan…” she continued, saying as if she was planning a football game strategy. “—I’m going to help you into the bath, then you’re going to sit down and I’m gonna lift your leg…you’re already wearing your cast cover, that’s good.”

Y/n couldn’t help but smile, Kyra looked adorable with her furrow browns and narrow eyes.

“That’s a good plan,” Y/n agreed. “Now help me, please.” Y/n lifted her arms so Kyra could help her off the toilet.

Kyra did so, her strong arms steadying Y/n until she was at the foot of the tub. “Close your eyes,” Y/n said, shyly

It was true she didn’t like being naked in front of people--some people were comfortable with it, but Y/n just wasn’t. It wasn’t rooted in insecurity or anything; it was just the way she was. But standing there with Kyra, Y/n realised she wasn’t as uncomfortable as she thought she'd be. But she wasn’t sure why.

Of course, they had been friend for years, but she wouldn’t be okay if it was Alessia in the room with her right now. Kyra’s presence just felt different, but Y/n wasn’t sure why.

Maybe the painkiller was messing with the way her brain cells were wired. Which made sense because she was taking ibuprofen, naproxen and hydrocodone. She wasn’t in the right frame of mind.

Kyra held Y/n’s arm with one hand while dramatically covering her own eyes with the other. If Y/n had been paying attention, she might have notice the way Kyra shallowed hard. “No need to tempt me,” Kyra teased.

Y/n let her towel drop to her feet, feeling secure in Kyra’s strong grip as she lowered herself into the warm bath.

As promised, Kyra carefully lifted Y/n’s injured leg, Kyra’s hand lingering on her cast for a moment too long before pulling away.

The bubbles in the bath concealed most of Y/n’s body, and the berry-like smell scent filled the bathroom. Y/n was sure her skin would be smelling of strawberries until morning.

“Are you comfortable?” Kyra asked, sitting beside the tub.

“Yes. Thank you for helping me—and sorry for all the crying I’ve been doing,” Y/n added sheepishly.

“I always knew you were a softie,” Kyra teased.

Without missing a beat, Y/n splashed water at Kyra’s face.

“Hey! I thought we were making some progress here!” Kyra pouted, glaring at the wet patch spreading across her grey sweater.

“You wish,” Y/n laughed.

PART 2 HERE

Read more of my work here -> Masterlist

Please like, share and let me know what you think! :D

#woso fanfic #woso x reader #kyra cooney cross #kyra cooney cross x reader #woso fanfics #woso writing

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eupheme · 1 day ago

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— you’re the one that I want

worst!wolverine/logan howlett x f!reader

tags: soulmate au, roommate!wade & neighbor!f!reader, valentine’s day fic, blind dates, use of alcohol, flirting, light misunderstanding, semi-public makeout

rated m - 2.6k

a/n: my submission for the loveuary challenge hosted by the wonderful @lubdubology and @yxtkiwiyxt! thank you so much, this was so fun 💘

“You really think there’s anyone worth my time at that shithole?”

Wade gasps in offense.

“Sister Margaret's is a New York institution. If America’s Sweetheart was a bar, she’d be it.” His eyes narrow, voice lilting as he adds, “Besides, you really want to miss out on the chance to meet your soulmate?”

“No fucking way.”

Wade’s groan stretches long, as his head lolls against the back of the sofa.

“Logan. Peanut. My sweet cheese, my good-time boyeh, please-” His voice strings out the syllables, “I need you to do this for me. I already set it all up, all you gotta to do is go.”

Logan’s scowl deepens, with a sharp jerk of his chin, “I’m not fucking going.”

A sigh then - Wade’s legs stretching wide, as he springs to his feet. Circling around to where Logan leans against the counter, looking every bit rooted to the apartment as the thing growing in the corner of their shared shower.

“I need this. I am finally back on track with Vanessa, and this is a real chance for me to knock it out of the park.” A finger raises, before poking him in the chest, “But I can’t have Mr. Grumpy Gus cramping our style. You feel me?”

An eyebrow arches up, but Wade barely pauses for a breath, “Besides, would you really stand a girl up on Valentine’s Day? Don’t you know what that could do to her psyche? What if that was her thirteenth reason? You really need that on your conscious?”

The filthy scowl Logan shoots him is like a three claw punch to the gut. Wade at least has the decency to look ashamed - fingers splaying wide in placation.

“Just give it a shot. If it all goes south you can just come right home. I won’t even be mad, even if it’s mid-coitus. Pinkie swear.”

The visual makes Logan’s lip curl. Arms crossing over his chest, as his head tilts, “You really think there’s anyone worth my time at that shithole?”

Wade gasps in offense.

Wade misses the sharp look Logan shoots his way. His tone still teasing, missing just how deep his comment thrums through him.

How it meant something different in his world, rather than the shallow note of connection it seemed to mean here.

It didn’t matter, anyways. There’s only one person in the city he might not mind seeing, and surely you would have other plans.

Logan’s seen your recent date, stopping by the door down the hall in the evenings. Doesn’t much care for his goody-two-shoes vibe, the State University tone.

The memory sends his skin itching. An urge to move - and it’s enough that his arms are loosening.

Deep down, he really doesn’t want to stick around. Had been planning on hitting up a bar, anyways.

Can’t take much of this lovey-dovey shit, never been one of his favorite holidays.

And if his drinks are on Wade’s tab, then…

He’s sure he can let whoever the poor girl is down quick.

“Yes. Yes! Thank you, bestie.” The resignation must flick across his face, because Wade’s fist pumps with triumph, “This is gonna be great, I promise. Even better than the Tony Awards.”

Logan ignores another asinine reference - a final warning leveled his roommate’s way, as his hand curls around the doorframe.

“You got thirty minutes.”

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Wade grins.

“That’s twenty-nine too many.”

The heel of your boot bounces underneath the booth. Fingernails drumming on the surface of the sticky table, trying to keep your eyes from flicking to the door each and every time it opens.

This was stupid.

You don’t know how you let Wade talk you into this.

Sister Margaret’s was not your idea of a place to meet someone - romantically, at least. And therefore, the chances of this evening going well were historically low.

But it’d beat your second year of ordering in - the prices hiked up with the holiday. Of another movie marathon alone, picking apart the sordid end of your last relationship.

Anything was better than that, surely.

You’re double-checking your phone for the third time, confirming the text noting which booth to be in - the back left corner one next to the totally-not-a-bloodstain on the floor - when a shadow passes over the edge of your table.

Eyes catching on the flannel that creeps into your vision. Worn, in shades of brown and muted red - a slow drag upward across a broad chest, then higher. Your breath catching, as your mind whirrs - racing catching up.

You should tell your upstairs neighbor “hi”.

Something that resembles polite, normal conversation.

But you can’t seem to find the words.

Because as he slips into the booth, you’re quickly realizing he might just be here for you.

What you do find is -

“Is this a joke?”

Logan’s frown deepens.

A snarled out “what?” that sends a jolt though you, but you’re too confused to examine it. Left babbling, trying to make sense of this.

“Is this because I told Wade he’s a winter?” Your voice pitches higher, “Because his photo was really blurry, and I don’t even do that kind of color analysis-”

Logan scoffs, a hand braced on the table as if to push himself up. Hesitating for the briefest of moments, before he’s asking, “Why would this be a joke?”

Your lips part.

“Because-”

Because you’re here in the hopes of finding someone else. A distraction.

Unsure what to make of this magnetic feeling deep inside your chest when you see him. Having to hold yourself back from taking one step, and then another, when he lingers near the mail room.

You had hoped tonight would help you erase the man that surely does not even know you exist.

“…because I’m sure you have better things to do then uh, do this.”

“This?” He hedges, a brow arching.

“A blind date.”

Something in his eyes flicker, when you finally meet them. The little mark between his brows deepening with the rough rasp of his voice. ”You really didn’t know who you were meeting?”

“No,” Your head shakes, “No. Did you?”

His eyes drop for a beat, before they flick back up.

“No.”

Your tongue dips out to dampen your lip, and you miss the way his eyes track the movement. The question slipping from you without thought.

“Would you have come, if you did?”

The silence stretches out, tipping towards uncomfortable.

And yet, he does not leave. A leather jacket still slung across the back of the booth, as his fingers tap the table.

“I’m gonna grab a beer,” He deflects. “You want another?”

Logan’s head dips towards your drink, only the glittery dregs of red remaining, a cherry nestled against the ice.

Your shoulder lifts, about to answer that you probably shouldn’t. That you’ve already made enough of a fool of yourself.

His lips curl at the edges, before you can voice your answer. ”Wade’s buying. Thought we could make a dent in his wallet.”

“Oh.” The word draws out, as your smile stretches.

So, not a rejection.

It might just be an invitation, actually.

“Definitely.”

It’s not how he thought his night would go.

Should have peeled himself away twenty minutes ago, somewhere between your second and third drink and the wind of conversation.

Slunk back home, or to another bar.

Had thought about it, in that moment when you confessed that you hadn’t known he was meeting you.

The thought of it being a disappointment turning his stomach, until you had voiced your question. The hope that wound its way between your words.

Unable to answer, even if he knows what it would have been.

The alcohol flickers inside him, a brief respite to the burn of sore muscles and a bone-deep ache that he’s carried since his world.

Should stop drinking this shit, but he’s been taking it a day at a time. Swapping rubbing alcohol for anything with a kick. That for vodka. Vodka for beer.

It’s not progress, but it’s something.

The feeling never sticks around, but something about you almost mirrors it. A wash of calm as his chin cups in his palm. Senses narrowing down, blocking out all the noise around him.

Eyes snagged on the curl of your lips around the white straw, the pink tinge of gloss left behind.

Helpless, to the tug at his arm as you loosened. The point of your finger to the empty dart board, how he had followed two steps behind.

You’ve missed a handful of your throws. Two darts stuck between the numbers running around the rim. His lips twitching at the frown that pulls down the corner of your lips, the hand that braces at your hip.

“So, did Wade guilt you into coming?”

Your fingers brush his, as you hand over the darts.

“You could say that.” He grunts, eyes slipping towards the board. Still catching the scrunch of your nose, as he amends, “But, like I said. Didn’t know.”

It’s not an answer to your question before, but it’s something that tip-toes close to one. It’s enough that your expression softens - an excited touch against his shoulder when his throw flies true.

“Same.” Your fingers curl against his shirt, transfixed. Hazy - those walls around you from before unstacking one brick at a time, “Almost didn’t go. But you know Wade, and his puppy-dog eyes.”

Logan didn’t.

“-and I uh, thought it would be nice. To not be alone, this year.”

He missed his next throw. A side-eye shot your way.

“Alone?” The word comes out close to a scoff.

Can’t pretend it hasn’t been eating at him. Wondering what the hell Wade had been playing at, inviting you.

“Figured you’d be out with your boyfriend.”

The last dart sinks into the green rim around the red center.

“Very funny.” You hum, stepping up to take his place. A glance over your shoulder, to find him still watching you.

That frown back, as your head tilts.

“I really don’t know who you’re talking about.”

He wished he hadn’t asked. Should have just stayed silent, taken this night for what it was.

“Thought I’ve seen a guy around the last couple weeks.“ Logan hands shove into his back pockets, “Just figured…”

Your expression persists. His fingers tap his temple, “Grey streaks, suit.”

As if he doesn’t have some of his own.

“Oh!” Recognition flickers, as you spin back, “Definitely not boyfriend. He’s like, super married.”

Your shot flies wide, bouncing off the wooden walls behind the board - a little huff as you turn back, “They’re due to have their first in a couple months. Been helping them pick things out for the nursery.”

A finger pointed back towards yourself, in explanation, “Figured I could help. Interior designer, and all.”

Something like relief flickers in his chest. Another feeling - deeper, hungrier - almost drowns it out.

The words smooth, as they slip from his lips.

“No guy, then?”

The shake of your head is slow, and that sweet smell that clings to you curls around his senses. Thickens, even - betraying you.

It gives him the confidence to step into your space. Emboldened by the look you give him from beneath the thick fan of your lashes. Hope, burning once again in blown-dark pupils.

“Here.”

A hand touches at your hip, as he eases closer. Plucking the dart from limp fingers.

“You’re holding it too far back. Lemme show you.”

He never gave a damn about this game, but he’ll take any excuse to get closer. To feel the way you stiffen beneath his fingertips, the hitch of your breath.

The shot is lined up.

His wrist extends as he aims, chest brushing against your back, and suddenly - your palm curls around his forearm. Fingers splaying wide as a jolt arcs through his nervous system, shooting from his hand to his core.

Your words muted - it’s only his enhanced senses that have him catching the tail end.

“-like me.”

He makes a rough sound, and again you turn to face him. The prick of goosebumps as your finger trace the dots at his wrist.

“I said you have freckles like me.”

The knitted cuff of your sweater tugged back to show him how yours mirrors his, down to the very last mark.

Time stands still.

Logan’s dreamt about this moment for decades.

Using that little crisscross of dots like a compass.

Guiding him through life - thinking there had to be something about the mansion, its symbol, that tied it to him. Taking on the mantle that mirrored the shape, ink-like against his skin.

Thinking it would lead him somewhere.

Even if he’d been certain he had missed it, somewhere in those two-hundred years. Ships passing in the night, across a lifespan that has stretched far too long.

Always trying to push away those “what ifs”. Had stopped looking a long time ago. Never once, since he’d crossed over. Told himself he was luckier not to have a match.

Not to know love like that - because one day he’d have become acquainted with the loss of it, as well.

He’s had enough of that, in his lifetime.

And this - it’s not what he ever expected.

Finding you in a world that’s not his own. His match with a girl, living on the floor just below his.

It leaves him mute, as your eyes linger.

Not sure what to make of him, he’s certain. Of the part of his lips, his own heart hammering beneath his ribs.

Unsteady, for the first time in decades.

His name pulls him out of his thoughts. Cherry-sweet on your tongue, lilting into a question.

The dart is thrown by muscle memory.

Your fingers still pressed against his mark, as it hits dead center.

He takes his prize, back in the shadowed corner of the booth.

Your eyes already slipping shut, when his fingers tuck under your chin. Lips parting, and he finds himself grateful again for those animal-senses.

Permission in the galloping of your pulse beneath your skin. The held breath as you wait, balanced on the knife’s edge of anticipation.

The soft inhale of breath, when his mouth slants against yours. Fingers curling in his shirt once more, as you part for him.

Swallowing your moan, with the sweep of his tongue. Sweet - grenadine syrup blending with you, and it’s like he cannot get enough. The kiss drawing out, insistent and hungry - a shuddering breath when it finally breaks, as if you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Pliable, in the way he tugs your thigh over his, seating you in his lap. How you follow, so easily.

Fitting against him as if you were meant to.

And maybe you were - the thought sending his fingers tightening, where they grip at your hips.

As if he won’t let you go, now that he’s found you.

You’re right there with him. Just as affected - your palms smoothing over his chest. Tracing the chain biting into his neck, sinking into his hair when they loop around his shoulders.

Letting your hips rock - a tentative movements, paired with the softest sighs.

Growing bolder when you feel him beneath you - how he encourages it, with the press of his palms. The tips of his fingers slipping under the hem of your sweater, a pulse of pleasure at the way you shiver with his touch.

The second gift of his name, and it’s the one he’ll remember most. Drawn-out. Needy, and it only makes him want to hear it more.

Another breath huffed out, a heady throb against the too-tight confines of his jeans.

There’s the crack of a pool cue, a cheer rising at the table across the room.

The bubble bursts.

Bringing him back - even in this dim corner, it’s still far too public for everything he needs to do to you tonight.

A shared thought, your lips kiss-swollen as they press against his neck.

“Can we go home?” You husk, into the shell of his ear.

Something deep inside him purrs at the word. Possessive, wrenching a growl from deep in his chest as he carefully eases you off him.

Pushing himself up from the booth - a hand coming to wrap around your wrist.

Thumb pressed against your pulse, feeling it thrum beneath your skin once more.

Right against your mark.

He’ll tell you tomorrow.

He’ll have time - he’s always had that.

Never been grateful for it.

Not until now.

thank you again, lub and kiwi! I am so excited to check out the fics for your event, and happy I was able to contribute one! I’ve wanted to write a soulmate fic for some time, this has me 👀💖 about writing more!

#happy (early) Valentine’s Day friends 💖#logan howlett x reader #logan howlet fan fic #logan howlett x you #logan howlett x f!reader #wolverine x reader #worst wolverine x reader #klloveuary2025

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everytimewetouch-dot-mp3 · 2 days ago

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it’s actually bonkers to me that there are xtians who aren’t aware of the great commission?? like that’s the whole point?? the church i grew up in (evangelical nondenom mega church flavor) had a whole week-long ‘convert the world’ celebration. i took a ‘go convert people’ class when i was like 12 and that was STRONGLY encouraged by the adults around me. it was celebrated as exceptional devotion.

i remember learning in 2nd grade that the goal was to ‘lead people to christ’ and immediately went and tried it on my friends from school.

i only learned after leaving the church like 7 years ago that proselytizing is disrespectful and invasive, because i grew up learning again and again that it’s the greatest good that you can do for someone else. that everyone is empty inside and just waiting for someone to show them the joy and fulfillment they’ll only find with christ. they had us reading the entire bible every year. they made little booklets and gave them to everyone (and that was, again, tens of thousands of people) and encouraged people to read it with their kids.

idk this is obviously not a defense of any of that, just. it’s fucked up on all sides. the fundie brainwashing ignorance of scripture side is vile. but i was raised on an analytical philosophical ‘close read the text, know it and understand it and internalize it—but only our interpretation’ tradition.

and the intellectualism is just as insidious because it all seems so deeply reasonable. on sundays they gave us their arguments and then supported them with the text, with the greek and hebrew and aramaic of the original texts, and that made those arguments feel watertight. they encouraged us to do the same. we were the ones who really understood, not like those hateful bigots who twisted scripture to their own ends.

there was a controversy once in my city. the baptist church next door had a sermon where the pastor said something homophobic like ‘if your son has a limp wrist, break it,’ and ofc people came to protest. but they were protesting on the corner across from us instead of them, so we went out and brought them water and folding chairs and put up a tent so they wouldn’t be too uncomfortable.

we prided ourselves on doing good, but the core of it was still the same and i didn’t realize it until i was far away to see the whole forest. until i heard that there was a mass exodus of young people because the pastor gave a transphobic sermon. until i spoke with other queer people who’d left and they asked questions i couldn’t answer.

i’m rambling. but yeah. it’s all insidious, it all finds a way to worm inside and make you think You’re Right.

Since posting that "how many mass graves and extinct cultures" post last month, I've had multiple Christians in the notes whining that there isn't a "specific instruction of belief that Christianity needs to wipe out every other religion in the world" in Christianity's teachings, and that it's all just The Church/King James/etc.

And every time, I point to the literal text of the passages of The Great Commission.

And nearly every time, that shuts them up; the only time it didn't, it was to engage in some disgusting semantical goalpost moving.

But it's like...

Why do Christians not know the content of their own texts? Is your faith really so tribalistic and totemic around the concept of "Jesus" that you all don't bother to actually read the religious texts?

It feels like it must be--I've heard of too many instances of Christians walking out of readings of The Sermon On The Mount because they think it's "liberal nonsense" and the like, but I just find it baffling and more than a little sad that I, a Jew, apparently knows the New Testament's text better than the people who swear by it and ostensibly believe and follow it.

#sometimes i’ll say something totally normal to me and my bestie will be like #JO YOU GREW UP IN A CULT #and tbf the ‘inner members’—there were like 200 of us who had drunk the koolaid real deep and brought their kids along #that was pretty culty #very isolate and control and ‘our truth is the only truth and we have proof’

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formylovetodaryldixon · 2 days ago

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"His only one." Daryl Dixon Imagine.

You are his only one, he told you that the day you got married, that's why you don't mind the neighbors' blatant flirting with your husband, but the third time's the charm, and at that moment, you make clear to her that his ass belongs to you (literally)

A/N: I saw a post here about someone asking to write about Daryl and the flirty neighbors making him feel uncomfortable haha so this is my failed attempt, although it made me smile a little so I hope you like it at least a little, too. Thanks!

The first time it happens, you let it go.

It's not that you don’t care, but you know that a relationship is built on trust, and if there is one person you trust even if someone had put a blindfold on you, it would be Daryl. Daryl was quiet most of the time, but his personality was actually very funny after you saw who he really was when you two were alone, when you saw his true self behind his crossbow and the way he used to push others away for fear of getting too attached. But when Daryl became open about showing his own vulnerabilities, only with you, it was so easy to fall for him, plus, the love and shyness in his gaze every time he saw you coming was sweet—a love only reserved for you.

After he let you in, you realized he had a lot to offer as a person with a good and brave heart, so willing to protect others even if it put his own at risk. Daryl was always a good company: he spoke little but paid attention, remembering even the smallest detail that you swore was unimportant, just because to him, everything related to you was important. But when he asked you to marry him along the way, that was a big surprise, however, you found a shelter in his arms, a real home with him: and maybe because his gaze always made you trust that there would be no one else, you never doubted him even after you saw how the neighbors turned to look at him. Maybe it was also because everyone was focused on his exterior, on that almost pornographic image that he was, (with his broad shoulders, his arms in that sassy sleeveless shirt, and that face that seemed carved by God when HE was in a VERY good mood) but no one paid attention beyond the obvious, so you never felt threatened.

Now, slowly, like a pretty moving photograph, the sun starts to hide away in the infinite horizon, painting the calm sky of that new world with beautiful shades of orange. The end of the day is quiet on your home, with your husband sitting on the porch steps, carving an arrow because several are never enough, Carol on the wooden floor close to you while she solves another crossword puzzle, and you, rocking lazily in the rocking chair, eyes and mind on the book you managed to find in the last search for supplies.

A comfortable silence abounds in the air, until Miss Ellis walks by on her way to her own home.

"Hi, neighbor." She purrs, with a bright smile and the way the corner of her lip curls like a kitten's.

Like meerkats when danger is latent, the three of you raise your heads (almost in a comical way) to see her walking away, watching her lowering the hand with which she had just greeted Daryl, and only Daryl: although his first reaction is to look in your direction, like he’s asking for help to understand what the hell was that. You know Daryl has a tough exterior, but his personality, when it came to accepting flirtations, almost reached the point of stuttering.

“Wait a sec, weren't there three of us here?” Carol asks, frowning playfully.

“Yeah… did we suddenly become Casper the damn Friendly Ghost?” You chuckle, turning your attention back to the book. “Not to state the obvious, but I think the neighbor has a crush on you, love.”

Carol chuckles too, but your disinterest in the matter and his best friend's mockery makes Daryl frown.

“What are ya waitin' for, woman? Go over there and defend yer husband’s honor.”

Carol shrugs, agreeing with him.

“Well, she just looked at Daryl like he was a piece of meat, (Y/N).”

You nod, but you don’t even bother to look up.

“I know. But going there would only prove that Daryl have some interest in her, and since I know he doesn’t, I don’t see why I should bother.”

Daryl scoffs, but he knows you are absolutely right, so he returns his attention to the arrow.

“I see ya're not even the slightest bit afraid of losin’ me, woman.”

Carol chuckles at your silence.

"Yeah, (Y/N), I mean, Daryl's such a great catch, especially with his gruff personality."

You chuckle.

“I know. I know the neighbors have been staring at him ever since we arrived in the community, but I don't blame them because, look at him..." From top to bottom, you point at him with one hand, still paying attention to the words in the book. "Daryl is like walking porn."

Carol laughs, longer this time, but your unfiltered words make Daryl blush under the sunset as he keeps his eyes down, still carving the same arrow.

The second time it happens, you are a little far to say something.

At the end of the day, you arrive last to the community meeting after your rotating job at the infirmary, taking your place against the concrete wall in Deanna’s backyard. Alexandria’s head keeps talking, directing people and you pay attention for a moment, until your sight catches the image of Mary, probably one of the most striking neighbors, and the way her mischievous fingers try to touch the exposed skin of Daryl’s bare arm as she keeps trying to make a conversation with him, who looks like a kitten cornered in an alley by a pack of dogs.

The comparison makes you laugh, but you stifle the laughter with a gentle smile when some of the neighbors in front of you turn to look at you. Waving back, they turn their attention to the front, and you keep your eyes ahead too even after you feel your husband’s presence next to you, after a very short while.

“What did I miss?”

Daryl shrugs.

“The same shit as always. How was work?”

“Quiet, just two people with a cold and a baby who came for his second vaccine.” You try to keep a calm expression as you speak your next words through a softer voice. “You are a grown ass man, Daryl Dixon, and yet you looked terrified of a small woman.”

Embarrassed, he grunts.

“What do ya want me to do? Fight her? That’s yer job n ya ain’t doin’ it.”

You chuckle.

“I don’t fight over a man, love, never did, never will.”

Daryl crosses his arms over his chest, eyes still ahead.

“I forgot ma wife is the most unbothered person in this damn world.”

You chuckle again.

“There are priorities even in this life, my dear husband, but if you want, next time we go on a supply run we can take her with us, and something mysterious can happen to her. We can make it look like an accident.”

You’re joking and Daryl knows it, but he chuckles, the corner of his lips curling adorably.

When the meeting is over and everyone returns to the safety of their homes, you and Daryl are one of the first to leave, walking side by side to your house that is almost on the other side of the community. The weather is warm during that season, and for the first time in a long time, the night doesn't grow deeper, darker or scarier. However, your gaze travels from the moon illuminating your path to your hand when you feel your husband's on yours.

You frown, making an amused expression.

"What are you doing?"

Daryl mimics the look on your face.

"What? I can't take ma wife's hand?" He scoffs, making you shrug, so you look ahead again, ignoring some neighbors behind you, with Mary between them since her house is close to yours.

But you know why he's doing that like never before. Daryl is reserved with his married life, always keeping his displays of affection within four walls, too shy and slightly awkward to let other people see who needy for your love he became sometimes.

"But… ain’t yer job to mark yer territory or some shit like that? Like, make it clear for her that I'm yer husband?"

You frown playfully, looking back at him.

“I'm not a damn dog, Daryl. Or do you want me to pee on your leg or something?"

A little surprised, Daryl chuckles.

"Are ya really not worried? Or slightly jealous?"

You shrug again.

“No. I mean, I trust you, but if you start bringing squirrels just for her, that’s when I will get worried. You are like those cute penguins who bring the most beautiful stone to the love of their life: believe me, the squirrels are your stones.”

Daryl chuckles, letting go of your hand only to slide it over your shoulders and pull you into him, doing it because he wants to.

The third time it happens, you intervene.

A few minutes earlier, you walked out of your house to sit on the rocking chair with a sandwich on a plate, eager to continue with your book after a successful supply run. Daryl and Rick took the lead to leave the things found in the community warehouse, walking down the street towards your house about half an hour later. But too engrossed in old poems from the last century, you miss the way Daryl is intercepted by Ellie two houses away, until the voice of one of your family members catches your attention.

"Aren't you going to save your husband, (Y/N)?" Rick chuckles, standing near the porch steps. You follow his gaze, lingering on the way that every time the female neighbor tries to make a subtle step, Daryl takes one back. “Please, do, this went from being funny to being sad.”

You roll your eyes, leaving the book aside.

“Fine.”

“Wait... are you going to fight her?” With his gaze slightly more open, Rick stands there as you walk past him. “Because I've seen you take out walkers for less.”

“Goodnight, Rick.”

He chuckles, walking towards his own home.

Maybe it's your height, maybe it's the way your gaze turned deep, serious, with a quiet but menacing personality when the occasion called for it, but there's something about you that makes the neighbor take a step back when you stop next to them, slapping your husband’s butt playfully but almost shamelessly, almost making him jump in place.

“Whatcha doing, buttercup?” You smile at him, with his surprised look on you, even after you turn your attention to Ellie. “Hi, neighbor, I didn’t see you there like the way you didn't notice me last week when you greeted my husband. Ellie, right?”

She nods, surprised by your calm outburst.

“Don’t be scared please, I’m not going to hurt you, although, I could, you know? But I just wanted to ask you nicely not to try to suck all the air out of my husband’s face because you make him uncomfortable, and he’s not going to do anything about it, but I will: trust me, I’ve killed people for less, so imagine what I’d do for his ass, which is mine, so… yep, I guess that’s it.” Keeping the cutest smile you can muster, you take Daryl’s hand to make him walk with you. “Say goodbye to the neighbor, sweetheart.”

As all words have left Daryl’s mind, he simply waves goodbye once. And he lets himself be guided in silence until you are within the four walls of your home, but once the door lock has clicked and a second after you let go of his hand, he catches it again to pull you towards him, lifting you up in those strong arms of his until you have no choice but to tighten your legs around his waist.

Daryl is smiling, in the way he only does with you.

"Fuck, woman, I don' know if I'm scared of ya, impressed, or turned on."

You chuckle.

"Your ass is mine, Dixon, why do you think I married you?"

He chuckles along with you, before pressing his lips to yours.

@fluffy-dixon

#daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon #daryl dixon twd #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl x y/n #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x you

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nina-ya · 1 day ago

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Synopsis: Stuck in a snowstorm, you and Law have to resort to sharing body heat to stay warm. Who knew an act of survival could turn so sexual? Pairing: Law x AFAB reader CW: NSFW MINORS DNI, Hand job, cunnilingus, law is a piece of shit and ruins your clothes • ficmas masterlist • ko-fi • discord server •

The snowstorm raged outside, the howling winds battering against the walls of the abandoned cabin as though the elements themselves sought to break through and terrorize you. Through the warped slats of the wooden walls, the cold spilled in. Snow piled against the single-paned windows, rendering any view into the outside world useless.

Inside the cabin wasn't much better– empty and run down, save for a broken chair, an upturned table, and a rotting woodpile too damp to be of any use. You and Law were in what seemed to be the common area, breaths fogging the air, and the absence of any heat source made every second a test of endurance. Law sat cross-legged on the rough wooden floor, leaning back against the warped planks of the wall, and you were across from him, crouched with an air of grim determination as you furiously rubbed two sticks together in a vain attempt to coax a spark into existence.

“You know,” Law drawled, his voice tinged with amusement despite his ever-growing coldness, “if sheer stubbornness could start a fire, you’d have the place burning down by now.”

You shot him a glare, blowing a strand of hair from your face as you worked the sticks together with renewed vigor. “Well, unless you have a better idea, Mr. Genius, let me work my magic.”

Law didn’t respond immediately, his gaze darting around the cabin as though searching for a solution to their predicament in the shadows of the corners. Then, without a word, he gestured for you to sit beside him with a tap to the space on the ground next to him.

You hesitated, glancing back at the desolate room once more, but the persistent chill and his expression boring into you left you with no other choice. You wrapped your arms tightly around yourself and shuffled over, lowering yourself beside him and pressing your side against him. The warmth from him was a near-instant relief, though far from enough to chase away the cold.

“It’s freezing,” you murmured, tucking your hands under your arms for extra warmth.

Law shrugged off his coat and draped it over both of your shoulders as he stated as practically as ever, “Body heat. It’s the most efficient way to conserve warmth.”

With that, he shifted closer, his side pressing right up against yours, his heat steadily seeping into your frozen skin. You couldn't stop the shivers that racked your body, the icy tendrils of winter coiling tighter around you.

Without thinking, you reached out, your fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt and pressing against the warm skin of his abdomen. He jumped under your touch, immediately jerking away from your touch.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed, his voice more a growl than a question.

Your lips curled into a playful grin, the chill momentarily forgotten in the face of his reaction. “I already told you, it's freezing,” you started with a mock serious tone, fingers pressing against his warm skin again. “And you’re so warm.”

Each time he tried to evade you, you followed, your hands persistent as you darted around his attempts to push you back. He was rapidly shifting backward from you when something caught on an uneven floorboard, sending his feet flying in the air and his back hitting the ground with a thud. Before he could recover, you were on him, straddling his hips with a triumphant laugh.

With a soft, playful laugh you leaned down, lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “Got you.”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond, one of your hands snaked lower, sliding beneath the waistband of his pants, feeling the warmth of his pulse beneath your fingers. Law’s body tensed, his breath a sharp hiss as you closed your fingers around him slowly as if savoring the moment. His cock was already stiff and oh so impossibly warm against the cold air of the cabin.

“See?” you said, voice low and teasing as you squeezed lightly. “So warn…”

Law’s breath hitched, his head tipping back against the wooden floorboards with a dull thud. He muttered a curse under his breath, his hands reflexively gripping your thighs in a futile attempt to ground himself. His body arched subtly into your touch, his jaw clenching as a soft groan spilled past his lips.

“Fuck… So cold…” he muttered, voice strained. Your icy touch sent sharp, electric jolts through his nerves, intensifying the feelings your hand around his cock brung out. You stroked him slowly, drinking in the way his hips jerked involuntarily as you teased him.

“I can find a way to keep you warm,” you murmured, your voice teasing and soft. You shifted, leaning down so your lips hovered over his, your breath ghosting against him. “Do you like it?” you whispered, your tone dripping with playful intent as you gave him another slow, deliberate squeeze.

His response was immediate, his hands tightened on your thighs, nails digging lightly into your fleece-lined leggings. “You’re a menace,” he rasped, but the words lacked bite, his gaze locked onto yours with a mix of frustration and undeniable need. He couldn’t help but roll his hips into your hand to chase the friction, his inhale sharp and shaky. “You’re torturing me,” he breathes out, his tone less accusatory and more pleading, a desperate edge woven into each syllable. One of his hands left your thighs, opting to grab your wrist and guide you. “Don't stop…”

And you didn’t. Your strokes quickened, the slick guide of your hand drawing him closer to the edge with every movement. His body tensed beneath you, his muscles taut and trembling, as his breathing slipped into broken moans. The hand on your wrist tightened, guiding your movements more frantically as his need overtook him.

“I’m–” the words barely left his lips before his release hit, a shuddering cry breaking free as his body arched into you. His cock pulsed in your grasp as ropes of cum spilled over your hand and up, some splattering against your cheek, sticky and warm. You froze for a moment before laughing softly as you looked down at him.

“Messy,” you murmured, your tone dripping with amusement as you brought your hand to your mouth. Your tongue flicked out to clean your fingers, your eyes never leaving his. The sight of your tongue wrapping around each of your digits sucking and savoring his essence drew a groan from Law as the hand on your thigh flexed against you.

His hands planted firmly on your hips, sliding you up across his abdomen with ease. You yelped at the sudden motion, and before you knew it, he was guiding you until you hovered right over his face.

“Law--” your thoughts were cut off as he hooked his fingers into the crotch of your leggings, gripping until–rrrrrip. You gasped at both the cold air kissing your slick cunt and the sheer audacity of him to rip your clothes without an ounce of remorse or hesitation.

You opened your mouth to yell at him, but your words dissolved into a whimper as his cold nose brushed against your slick core, turning you to jelly. “Relax,” he huffed out. His icy lips ghosted over your folds and your hips attempted to jerk away from his touch, but his hands kept you firmly in place.

His tongue suddenly darted out, a hot, deft stroke that had you wailing out. His hands tightened on your hips, keeping you anchored to his face as he devoured you like a man starved. You squirmed against him as he drove you to the brink of madness with every stroke of his tongue. He groaned into you, the vibration sending your mind into a tizzy.

“L-Law,” you stuttered, your voice shaky as you reached for something to ground yourself, fingers lacing through his dark hair. He only responded with a growl, his tongue flicking over your clit before sucking it. You cried out, your hips bucking into his face.

He teased and tormented, alternating between soft, teasing flicks, and firm, deliberate strokes that sent bolts of electricity slamming right into your core. The wet sounds of his mouth working against you filled the space, each sound a sinful melody.

Your thighs trembled, and you began to rock against his face, your juices smearing across his lips and chin. He hummed in approval, the vibrations pulling a shuddering moan from your chest. His hands guided your movements, helping you chase your pleasure with a feral sort of need as if he couldn’t bear for you to pull away for even a second.

The pleasure was consuming you, your mind hazy and unfocused as you chased that blinding peak. But then, through that haze, a faint sound reached your ears. Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.

Your eyes fluttered open, and you turned your head to look over your shoulder. Your eyes were met with one of Law’s hands wrapped tight around his leaking cock, stroking himself with a brutal intensity. His slicked hand moved in time with his eager might, the sight devastatingly obscene.

A breathless laugh escaped you, though it was half swallowed by a moan. “You’re so–” you began, voice trembling, “needy.”

Before you could say more, his tongue dragged a precise stroke over your clit, the pressure timed with a slow stroke of his hand. Your words dissolved into a broken cry as your body arched sharply, the tension inside you coiling impossibly tight.

He didn’t let up for even a moment, his mouth relentless as he alternated between consuming you whole with broad strokes and zeroing in on that sweet, sensitive spot that left you gasping for air.

Your body shuddered violently as the black snake of pleasure coiled around you, threatening to end you with its venomous bite. Your hips rocked with desperation, grinding against his mouth, every motion perfectly in sync with the steady pull of his hand on his cock. “Oh, fuck. I’m gonna--”

And then the snake finally sunk its teeth into you, its venom shooting right through your veins as an overwhelming pleasure ripped right through you. Your back arched as the waves of bliss crested and crashed through you, your vision blurring as you clung to the world around you, your body trembling and shaking uncontrollably.

At that exact moment, Law grunted, his release hitting with equal force, the pulse of his cock in his hand matching the spasms of your cunt. His honey spilled over his fingers and dripped onto his stomach as he groaned deeply into your sensitive folds.

And as you both trembled from the aftermath, Law licked you clean, savoring every drop of your essence, tasting you and making you jerk and whine out from the sensitivity of your recent orgasm.

When you finally managed to slide off him, the motion was slow, your body fatigued. And as you pulled away, a thin string of your shared fluids stretched between your bodies, fragile but stubborn, until it snapped with a soft pop.

You collapsed beside him, breathless, your body flushed and spent. It was only until now that you were able to take a good look at him, the way his lips and chin glistened with your juices, the way his chest heaved with each breath, the way his hand was still resting on his softening cock, coated in the remnants of his own pleasure.

Neither of you could speak, and neither of you wanted to. There was no need for words when the atmosphere around you was still sizzling with the raw intimacy of the moment. However, that bliss ended quickly as you remembered his earlier stunt of ripping your leggings. And as you perched yourself up on your elbows, face snapping to his with an expression that radiated irritation, he just sighed, knowing what was to come. Instead of thinking of excuses or remedies, he spent those few seconds of tensioned silence thinking of the quickest route to your thighs in order to keep your mind once again occupied with the thoughts of his mouth and fingers instead.

#nina writes~✦#trafalgar law x reader #trafalgar law #law x reader #one piece x reader #x reader

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