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moonstruckme · 2 days ago

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i was wondering if i could request a james or sirius who's stuck in an elevator with a reader who has extreme claustrophobia? love ur writing ❤️

Thanks for requesting!

cw: claustrophobia

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 1.5k words

At first, James thinks that the doors are only taking a tediously long time to open. Sirius and Remus’ building has the slowest lift in the world. You can’t even feel it moving, its progress marked only by the numbers on the dial above the door trudging upward at a snail’s pace. So when it stops, it stops so gently you’d hardly know it has until the doors slide open. So when James registers that it has stopped and he waits patiently for the doors to slide open, it takes him a handful of seconds to realize that they aren’t.

“Bollocks,” he says.

“Is it stuck?”

James could have almost forgotten you were there. The lift’s sole other occupant, standing stiffly in the corner.

“Seems like it.” He reaches forward, trying the open doors button once before going to the red call one. You flinch at the loud ring.

Sirius, James knows, will be irritated at having to wait to start their film. He loves being fashionable late but can’t stand when anyone else does it to him. You seem antsy for your own reasons. James supposes being stuck in a six-by-four-foot box isn’t really how anyone aspires to spend their evening.

“Maintenance,” a man’s voice crackles through a speaker.

James quickly explains the situation. The man, who works for the building, says he’s going to come try to get you out himself. If he can’t manage it, he’ll phone the fire department.

“How long?” Your voice is sharp. James turns around in alarm, and you lower it with a short breath. “Until we can get out of here?”

“Hard to say,” says the man over the speaker. “Could be any amount of time, but no more than a couple hours, I’d say. We’ll have you out as quickly as possible.”

He hangs up. The breath you take back in shakes audibly. Now that James is looking at you, most of you is shaking. You’re shivering like a wet dog left out in the cold, a tightness to your expression and a faint shine in your eyes.

“Hey,” James says in his gentlest voice. “You okay?”

You nod. Once, twice, three times, all too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

You only keep nodding. Slowly losing momentum as your expression becomes strained.

“Let’s sit down.” He starts lowering himself to the floor, hoping you’ll follow. “We might be in here a while.”

It’s entirely the wrong thing to say. Your breath catches, then rasps, a tear dropping from your lashes.

“Hey, it’s alright,” James tries. He scoots closer to you, reaching for your hand. He’s not sure how much you’d like to be touched right now, but you let him use it to coax you down beside him. Your knees are visibly trembling as they collapse in front of you.

“I’m okay.” Your voice is hardly a whisper. “I’m okay, I’m okay.”

“You’re okay,” he agrees. You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself, poor love. “What’s your name, lovely? I’m James.”

You push out a couple of harsh breaths. Another tear plods down your cheek. It takes James a second to realize you’ve not heard him, and when he asks again you answer.

“Do you live here?” He’s still holding your hand. It’s warm and dampening with sweat; James has the strange urge to blow on your palm to cool it off. At your nod, he goes on. “My best mates do, too. They’ve had all sorts of issues. Water bubble in the ceiling, old microwave that stopped working. Maintenance seems very good, though, don’t they? They always fix things so quickly.”

This is not, by what Sirius has told him, strictly true. But though James doesn’t know how, he wants to make you feel better, and he’s willing to fib a bit to do it. If your experience with the building maintenance has been different, you don’t say.

You only nod. Your wide eyes are pinned to James’ face, chest rising and falling in little jumps. He strokes his thumb over your knuckle.

“What about you, do you like it here? Had any issues?”

“My wash—” You’re cut off by a breath, but you look to be trying. “My washing machine.”

“Yeah? Was it broken?”

You nod. “It left oil streaks on my clothes.”

“No!” James’ mouth actually drops open, dismay not all for show. “It ruined them, then?”

“Yeah.”

“Bugger. They at least replaced your machine, I hope.”

Your head bobs. “It took a couple weeks, but they did.”

“That’s good.” James smiles. He feels better now that you’re able to speak in full sentences, your breaths not quite so ragged. “They’ll be here for us sooner than that, I’m sure.”

You nod again, your unoccupied arm wrapping tightly around your legs. “I’m sorry. I don’t do well in small spaces.”

James figured as much. He tries to look confident. “That’s alright, lovely. I think you’re doing remarkably well, all things considered. We can just chat for a few minutes longer, and then I’m sure we’ll be out of here.”

You give him a watery smile. “Thanks.”

He’s about to tell you not to mention it, but a knock on the metal door clangs through the space. Your eyes go big and frightened. James tightens his fingers around yours.

“Maintenance.”

“Hello!” James calls back cheerily.

“I went ahead and called the fire department. We won’t be able to get this moving for a while, but you should be able to crawl out once they open the doors. Just a few minutes.”

“Oh, there, see?” James smiles at you, squeezing your hand. “Just a few minutes.”

There’s sweat glistening at your hairline, but you let James talk you through those few minutes as the doors squeal open and your metal cage rattles in protest. You end up pressed close to James’ side and with his arm hugging you firmly around your back. An absolute sweetheart, you thank him more than once as your trembling ebbs and flows.

He makes sure you’re out of the lift first. Fights the urge to hold onto your ankles for added security as the fireman lifts you down to the floor, but feels as relieved as if he were out too when he hears you let out a long breath. James gets manhandled out just the same. When his head comes through he realizes Sirius is there waiting for him.

“Hey,” he says, smiling as he’s set gently down.

“Hi.” Sirius grins back at him. He stands out, in his dark jeans and grey t-shirt and blushing slightly surrounded by all the firefighters in their suspenders.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“Yes, I’m very cross with you. Remus is making us wait to start the film. I came out here to scold you, but it seems you have an excuse.”

“Yeah.” James glances at you, speaking with the maintenance man with your arms held tightly around your ribs. “Had some issues with the lift.”

“I gathered. She alright?”

“Yeah, she’s…I think she’s okay now. Not a fan of small spaces.”

“Ah, that’s shit luck.”

James knows Sirius means that it’s your shit luck to be trapped inside a lift as well as James’ to be trapped with you. And he agrees that he wishes you didn’t have to endure what you did. But if he’s honest with himself, James doesn’t feel that his luck was very shit at all.

“One second.” He goes to you, touching your elbow with perhaps a too-familiar hand. “Hi. You alright?”

You look over as though surprised he’s still there. Not unhappy, just surprised. “Hi,” you say. James is somewhat bowled over by how lovely your voice sounds when it’s not choked off. You’re a bit shy now, embarrassed, but nothing more. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thank you for all of your help. Really.” You give him a tender look, heartwarming in its sincerity. “I appreciate it a lot.”

“It was no problem at all. My mate, Sirius, he’s in 14B,” he gives out Sirius’ address thoughtlessly, but a quick glance at his friend shows he’s not paying attention, “he has my information, in case you ever…I don’t know. Yeah.”

“Okay.” You smile faintly. “Thanks.”

“I’m going to go. It was nice meeting you.” James walks backward, giving a lame wave which you return. Somehow it looks better when you do it.

He goes to collect Sirius, who’s flashing a rakish grin at a fireman standing nearby. “Hello,” he says.

“Boyfriend,” James reminds him.

“Yes, I know.” Sirius sounds harried, but allows James to tug him along by his elbow. “Christ, where’s the fire?”

“Is that an intentional pun?”

“No, but I’ll take credit.”

“I thought Remus was waiting for us to start the film.”

“Ooh, do you think we ought to tell him?” Sirius looks wistfully over his shoulder. “He might like to come out and have a look.”

James considers calling his friend a degenerate, but he needs him in a half-decent mood to ask a favor. “Hey, you know that girl from the lift?”

“The one looking all freaked and bambi-eyed? Yeah, I’ve seen her around.”

“If she ever comes to your place looking for me…”

“Oh, Jamie. Save it ‘til we’re inside, I can already tell Remus is gonna love this.”

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requiem-under-the-stars · 2 days ago

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You name her Ceres. Yes, her. Your three-headed dog is a girl. This is your first reason for thinking your puppy can’t be the Guardian of the Underworld. Unfortunately, you realize, despite your Greek mythology hyperfixation, that you’re not entirely sure if there’s only one three-headed dog.

Sure, there’s the main one, but who knows how many others there might’ve been and you know from experience that things have a tendency to get mentioned once and forgotten about. Not to mention the amount of literature lost to time because some idiot forgot paper disintegrates when it gets humid.

In any case, you take her for walks at night. One, to avoid the strange looks people give you for having a three-headed dog and two, because you don’t have time to walk her before work and if you have to wake up before the sun rises someone at work is gonna die. Plus, you’re pretty sure scary dog privilege definitely applies to a three-headed dog so you’re not too worried about being in the park at night.

You do start to worry, however, when the ground starts rumbling and splits open in front of you. Ceres is barking like mad and it takes all of your admittedly meager strength to hold her back.

Out emerges a very large, very familiar-looking three-headed dog. You glance at Ceres, but she’s stopped barking to look at this new occurrence. Her tail starts wagging and you relax a little because she’s usually good at recognizing threats.

Cerberus (?) trots over to you and starts sniffing Ceres cautiously. It really is remarkable how similar they look, like wolves, which you always thought was strange because you’re pretty sure your German Shepherd doesn’t have wolf blood.

You wait, watching the pair when soft eyes, and so you’re still there when the man emerges from the same spot. This one makes you nervous, because getting kidnapped is one thing, meeting a god has a tendency to end horribly for mortals.

He’s surprisingly well-dressed, although you sense a harried sort of air to him. Pale skin, dark eyes, matches what you would expect of the Lord of the Underworld. You watch him nervously as he approaches, clutching Ceres’ leash tightly in your hand.

When he speaks, it carries an ancient weight. “Cerberus.”

Cerberus lifts one of his heads to look at Hades while the other two keep sniffing Ceres. He wags his tail at his master, but doesn’t move towards him.

Hades turns to you as if noticing you for the first time. Your heart stills and your breathing suddenly deafens your hearing.

“Hm, this is unfortunate,” he says gravely.

His eyes continue towards Ceres and you seem to notice surprise on his face for the first time. It’s mostly just a slight shift in his expression, but it’s enough to cause another spike of fear.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, then turns to Cerberus. “Cerberus,” he repeats. “What did you do?”

Cerberus tail droops. Ceres looks at him in confusion. Hades looks at you again. You try not to throw up.

“Where did you get your dog?” He says it conversationally, but you get the feeling it’s anything but.

“U-um, she…she’s my other dog’s…puppy. She’s only a few months old.” You’re pretty sure you’re gonna pass out.

“I see.” He turns to Cerberus. “When were you going to tell me you had a daughter?”

Your body stops working entirely and you have to lean on Ceres (who already comes up to your waist) to keep from collapsing on the ground. Everything suddenly makes sense and you kind of wish it didn’t.

“Oh shit,” you say out loud. You are struck with the sudden realization that naming her Ceres was not the best thing you could have done, considering Hades and Demeter’s…relationship.

Cerberus’ heads droop as he walks over to join Hades and Ceres follows his movements with all six eyes.

“Oh shit, indeed,” Hades says, acknowledging you. “You didn’t think anything was..strange?”

You’re suddenly defensive. “Well, yeah, but I wasn’t gonna give her up. I’m not heartless.”

Hades watches you and you get the sense you’re being studied like an errant fly. Maybe you need to choose your words more carefully.

He sighs. “Well, in that case, I don’t see why you can’t keep her. At least until she gets bigger.”

“Bigger?” you exclaim loudly, forgetting to stay respectful. “She’s already huge!”

“Yes, well, that’s the thing about three-headed dogs. They’re big. Need to be, to guard my gates,” he explains calmly. His eyes gleam a little, as if in warning.

You take the hint. “Oh, that…that makes sense. Um, what…what do I do when she gets…um, bigger?”

“I’ll come get her, then. Bring her to the Underworld. Where she belongs,” he says it with a note of finality.

Your face falls as you glance down at Ceres. She looks at you with six bright eyes and you feel a sense of loss. To be honest, you hadn’t really been expecting a puppy, even a normal one. When your dog got out of her leash and ran off for a couple days, you were just glad to have her back, you didn’t even consider that maybe she came back with something else until you noticed her gaining weight.

By then, it was too late to get rid of them, not that you would have, you’ve always had a soft spot for animals. Plus, it would’ve been expensive and you had already decided to get your dog spayed in case anything like this happened again. When Ceres was born, despite the three heads, you already knew you were gonna keep her.

You should have known it wasn’t going to last.

Hades watches you struggle through your emotions and glances at Cerberus. Cerberus looks back at him, eyes pleading, and he sighs. “Very well, don’t say I never do anything for you.”

He turns back to you. “I suppose, if you wanted, once she learns to control her size, she can come back to visit you. It already seems like she’s…attached.”

Your heart swells with gratitude as Ceres howls in excitement. One of her heads headbutts your hand and you pet her with a rush of love for her. You don’t think either of you were ready to give each other up.

“Yes, well, since that’s settled, I’ll see you in a month’s time. That’s about when the growth gets…out of hand.”

He moves to walk away, then stops as if remembering something. “Out of curiosity, what did you name her?”

Your throat dries and you stare at the god in horror.

Fuck.

“U-um, C-Ceres.”

You avoid his eyes, holding Ceres leash tightly and wondering if it’s too late to run, not that you’d make it far.

The air grows dangerously still. You risk glancing up and see Hades frowning. You resolve yourself to dying and early death.

Cerberus nudges Hades in the side, breaking the tension. Hades sighs. “Well, I suppose it can’t be helped. Farewell, mortal. Until we meet again.”

He vanishes into the crack in the earth. Cerberus follows after him, looking back at Ceres and wagging his tail before disappearing into the earth. The ground comes together as if nothing happened. Everything is still.

You stand there, dumbfounded. This was not how you expected today to go.

You look at Ceres and she wags her tail at you. You smile, some of the stress melting away.

“C’mon, girl. Let’s go home.”

Your dog recently gave birth to a puppy with three heads. The vet says it was triplets that went wrong, but after a few months, you believe that the puppy is actually Cerberus.

#wheeeeeeeeeeeee got carried away #named her Ceres cause its close to Cerberus and then I Realized #sharing custody of a dog with the lord of the dead lmao imagine #he bettet pay child support

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inuiiwonderland · 2 days ago

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Empire

Being crowned as empress of the Yuunkaedangon empire at the age of 17, you begin to start loving the new status and power. But it soon gets a bit boring and demanding the moment you turned 18. Harem? Heirs? Tf not!

Chapter 2

Words:1.0k

Fem reader but I don’t really say any she or her in this.

Being an empress has started to get a little boring now if you’re being honest. You frown at the stack of books and papers you had sitting on your desk. You turned to your attendant with a pout. He only shakes his head with a soft sigh.

“It’s the only way you can keep the higher ups from demanding an heir at the moment” He says calmly. You sigh as you pick up your writing equipment.

Bill passing….

BORING!

“I’m too young to have a child” You muttered. A little annoyed.

“Having kids isn’t all that bad, but I get why you’re upset”

You hum softly.

Now this isn’t you saying you hate kids or anything! You think they're alright, a little needy and loud but overall okay.

It’s just

You aren’t ready

“Ah I’ve had a talk with one of the higher ups earlier and he said that your consorts need ladies in waiting” You perk up.

“Ladies in waiting?”

“Mhm”

“I guess you’re right. Plus, it’ll be nice company for them since I’m not always gonna be there”

“Great. I’ll tell the higher ups tomorrow and have them assign them their own”

“Make sure they do background checks. Can’t have creeps and unworthy people working for my lovely consorts now can I?” You say. Your attendant nods.

“By the way, how’s your son?” His eyes lit up. He then goes on a rant about how his son is currently taking swordsman lessons and that he's getting better day by day. You smile.

At least now you can slack off just a little bit!

You watch as the last of the few ladies and men have been brought into the throne room. You eyed every single one carefully, some shivering under your watchful eyes as others seemed confident or uncomfortable.

“These are the best candidates the higher ups were able to gather last night” Your attendant, atsushi bows before calling out the first person up.

Both Riddle and Leona watch carefully at every single person that steps up. Listening closely to every single thing that comes out of their mouth along with their appearance, how they carry themselves, etc.

“Ace trappola! Young man from the Queendom Of Roses, good talents are cleaning, tending animals, and……card tricks?” The boy, “Ace” stifles a laugh but was given a stern look from his older brother which made him stop.

Riddle can already sense that he’s big trouble while Leona could really care less.

You get a good look at Ace.

He’s average height, fair skin, fluffy orange hair, and scarlet like eyes.

Not bad

And you won’t lie, he’s kinda funny.

You turn to riddle, wondering if he’ll take in trappola as a lady in waiting.

Riddle can already feel your stare on him. His cheeks turn a light pink at your stare.

“I’ll take him” He mutter softly. Small pout as he looks away. Leona scoffs.

“Excellent! Next”

After what seems to be hours (years even)

Your two lovely consorts have each of their own ladies in waiting.

Riddle: Ace Trappola, Deuce Spade, Cater Diamond

Leona: Ruggie Bucchi, Jack Howl

Once everyone was satisfied with their choices, your attendant dismissed the ones who weren’t chosen. You walked down to greet the new ladies in waiting with a soft smile.

“It’s nice to have you young gentleman here” You say. The boys jumped before quickly bowing to you. You smile.

“Now you know that each of you will be staying with and taking care of my two precious consorts right?” Riddle turns a bright red as Leona looks away. You can tell your charms got to him by how he fiddles with the hem of his sleeves.

“I hope you guys take good care of them!……or else” You gave them a menacing look. The five boys gulp, before nodding their heads. Some of them held a look of determination while a few….looked a little scared.

Perfect!

“Great! I’ll have my lovely attendant escort you guys back to your pavilions” You gave each concubine a kiss on the cheek before making your way out. A happy go lucky look on your face as the ladies in waiting can only look at each other and shiver in fear.

What a scary empress!

It’s been two months since you’ve gotten your consorts their ladies in waiting.

And it’s going great so far!

….

…..

Kinda

Riddle has been having trouble with Ace lately- scratch that, he’s been having trouble with him since he entered the heartslabyul pavilion.

He’ll rant to you about him every time you stop by and visit. You’ll just massage his tensed shoulders and whisper sweet words in his ears until he stops and relaxes.

Other than Ace, the other two don’t trouble him at all! Very good care takers, cleaners, and cooks!

Leona on the other hand, doesn't have any trouble with his ladies in waiting.

They’re patient, quick and ready to do anything he needs, and very good cooks!

Happy wives, happy life!

Not wives yet

Now speaking of wives, you are currently reading a letter from a high end family that wants their son to be a part of your harem.

Ha….you haven’t gotten one of these in months

“The Ashengrotto Family” You mutter. You paced back and forth in your home office as you read the letter.

“He’s the son of a very high ranking merchant. His mother owns a very successful restaurant somewhere near the east side and his stepfather is an ex military official”

“Mm”

You haven’t taken anyone in after Leona. And your vassal keeps pestering you to grow your harem.

Weirdos

Maybe it’s finally time to take someone in again!

“Schedule a meeting for tomorrow in the afternoon” You yawn out, ready to end this busy day and go to bed.

“Already done”

“Huh?” You turn around to see your attendant wearing a prideful smile.

“I know you will agree!” He says.

Eh?!

“Are you serious?”

“Mhm! Now go get some sleep, Mrs. Ashengrotto is very excited to meet you tomorrow!”

“You’re killing me”

“No”

“Yes….”

“By the way, are those papers done yet?” He asks.You froze. He raises a thick brow as he patiently waits. You batted your lashes at him as you sway side to side.

“Y’knowwwww you’re right! I should get some much deserved sleep, don't you think?” You slowly walk closer to the exit, still making eye contact as your hand slowly inches closer to the door.

“Y/n” he says sternly.

“Bye bye good night!” And with that you make a quick escape.

“Y/n!”

atsushi only sighs before a small smile creeps up upon his face.

“Just like their old man”

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ilium-ilia · 3 days ago

Text

As Your Skin Gives

ghoap x fem!reader | pet!au | masterlist

Chapter One: jeans

tw: drugging, abduction

There’s an insidious force that lurks somewhere in the dark, dusty corners of your room.

You feel it there just beyond what your eyes can witness as it watches you crumble. A tornado has blown through your entire flat, leaving clothes strewn on every surface as you tear through dresser drawers and hampers. The thick July heat bakes you alive within your apartment, wetting your skin with perspiration so thick that you stick to nearly every surface you come in contact with. Nervous teeth chew on your lip as you rummage through the bottom drawer of your dresser for the umpteenth time this afternoon.

Sitting back on your haunches, you wipe the sweat from your brow as you stare at the various leggings, jeans, and skirts playing peek-a-boo from between faux wood paneling. It’s a difficult fact to swallow—realizing that your favorite jeans have now been lost to the void.

Things began to go missing in your apartment around the beginning of May. At first, it started out with small items. It was nothing but a trickle as you lost trivial items. A pair of socks or your favorite pair of underwear—minor things. Things that you would chalk up to having fallen down some odd crevice that you’d retrieve again upon move out day when you would—hopefully—upgrade to a better apartment.

Except nothing turns up, and more and more things seem to be swallowed by whatever malevolent god is playing cruel tricks on you. Your favorite jumper that your mother gifted you for your 21st birthday, a high quality wet comb that never yanked on your hair, and even your toothbrush; they’ve all dissipated into thin air as if they had never existed in the first place. Face falling into your hands, you groan. You’re just going to have to settle for wearing your joggers at work tonight.

Something buzzes on the edge of your nightstand, pulling you out of your fit of frustration. Bleary eyes catch sight of your phone as the screen illuminates with your mother’s caller ID and you feel a ravenous pit gnaw at the soft tissue of your stomach.

You slide the phone into your hand. “Hey mum.”

“Darling, it’s so good to hear from you!” Your mother’s blithe voice bleeds through the speakers just like they do every Sunday, but this time you can’t get yourself to smile at the sound. Keeping the phone pressed against your ear, you continue to ransack your room. “I take it you’re getting ready for work?”

“Yeah, just trying to find some clothes to wear,” you murmur. Huffing, you grab a pair of grey joggers and a pale, cream tank top. It’s not your first choice, but it’s all you have left in your ever shrinking wardrobe. “I can’t find those jeans I bought last year. You know, the cute ones with the heart designs on the back pockets?”

“Well, they couldn’t have just vanished,” her mother muses. “I’m sure they’ll turn up when you least expect them to. Probably when you’re not rushing to get ready.”

Nodding, you put the phone on speaker before you begin to shuck off your clothes. You use your shirt to soak up the stray sweat on the back of your neck before tossing it into the hamper. “With my luck, you’re probably right.”

She hums. “Speaking of luck… how did the interview go? Did you hear back from them yet?”

Your throat grows dry and that terribly familiar chagrin pokes at the back of your mind like a cattle prod. The clothes you wore to the interview are still laid out on the foot of your bed—your best button-up blouse and your favorite pencil skirt—but the sight of it leaves a sour taste on your tongue. It was your fourth failed interview this month. Any hope that you had in becoming a museum tour guide and escaping your life as a bartender slipped through your fingers the very moment you sat yourself down in that chair.

They’re looking for someone more personable—someone more poised.

Someone who’s not you.

“Erm, it went fine,” you mumble as you shove your legs into a pair of joggers. After pairing them with your tank top and slathering on enough deodorant to hopefully survive through the amount of sweat you’ll have to endure tonight, you pick up your phone with your thumb hovering over the end call button. “Look mum, I’m running a bit late already. I’ll try to call you tomorrow when I’ve got more time, okay?”

“Alright sweetie. Have a good night at work.” Her voice cracks—tense and heartbroken. “I love you.”

You tell yourself you’ll make it up to her tomorrow. “Bye mum.”

Without a second thought, you’re flying out the door with nothing but sick cordolium to haunt you on your travels to work. First your botched interview, and now your clothes—your life is falling apart at the seams. But you’ve always been a good actress—something you’ve been told time and time again will never earn you a true living—so you arrive at work with a smile as if the stale bleach and lingering nicotine doesn’t fry your nerves.

There’s no time to gently settle into the flow of things. You’re tossed into turbulent waters and expected to swim through unrelenting waves of patrons as they request pint after pint. Your only reprieve is your tank top, which does a fair job at keeping you cool through the summer heat. Beads of perspiration gather along your collarbones like a necklace as you smile politely through drunken requests and gauche compliments, but the shine is giving you more attention than you’d like.

One man in particular traces you with his gaze—though, it’s not as if he could trace you with anything else. Sporting a balaclava in the midst of July, the only thing visible on your new patron is his eyes. They’re dark like charcoal, but they do not shine or glint in the pale fixtures above you. He hunches over the bar with his elbows resting on the counter as if he’s attempting to crowd you with his tall frame and obnoxiously wide shoulders. Thick fingers patiently tap on the counter in front of him as you wipe your station down with a moist rag.

“What’ll it be?” you ask.

It’s fine. His gaze is no more ignoble than what you’re used to.

“A pint of whatever’s cheapest.” Blunt—dull—bored.

Nodding, you retrieve an empty glass before you start pouring from the spout. Every muscle that twitches as you move is scrutinized by this hulking stranger before you, and despite his searing gaze, he doesn’t speak a word. You wish he would. Even some debauched comment would be more comfortable than the algid bite of his gaze. The head of the beer you serve him isn’t your best, but you slide it toward him with a smile, eager for him to leave.

“Thanks, pet.” He slinks off into the crowd, vanishing to some table shrouded in penumbra before settling in to watch the game. You don’t have the strength to call after him to ask if he wants to open a tab or not.

You shake your head with a huff, glad to no longer be pinned beneath his attention. Anxious fingers grab a plastic cup before you quickly fill it with Coke. You don’t think you’ll be able to make it through this shift without a caffeine kick.

“Who the hell is that?” your co-worker’s voice bleeds into your ear.

You don’t even have to ask who she’s talking about. “Couldn’t tell you.” You pause as you swirl the contents of your cup. “He called me pet. I hate that shit.”

“What, like you’re a dog?” she asks humorously.

“Woof woof,” you deadpan.

Humming, she snatches her own plastic cup from your station before following your lead with pouring herself a drink. “Bit barmy, isn’t he? Shoving himself in that mask like that with this heat.”

You shrug as you sip on your soda. Thick carbonation bites into your tongue as you swallow it down. It bubbles in your stomach, quiet and tranquil as it gnaws on the soft tissue there.

“Maybe he’ll overheat and he’ll leave early,” you muse.

It’s wishful thinking. As your shift drags on through the evening, that masked stranger continues to lurk in the corner where the numbra shrouds his body as he watches the football game with vacant eyes. Each time your eyes find him through the thin crowd, he hasn’t moved a muscle. If he’s not huffing at the game, then he’s brooding over something on his phone as he props it against his pint.

The foamy head has vanished, but the rim has yet to kiss his covered lips.

You pretend to be gregarious as your patrons begin to leave one by one. They pay their tabs with drunken smiles before slinking out of the bar with inebriated laughter. Your masked friend is no different. He approaches the counter with a couple quid ready in his hands before he tosses it next to you with little care. You smile and slip it off the counter before turning your back to him to get him the change he’s owed. He lingers uncomfortably behind you as you slip the coins into your palm, and he waits until you turn back around to face him to croak out “Keep the change.”

Your gratitude attempts to leave your throat, but it dies the moment you’re met with the sight of his swaying shoulders as he leaves the building. Rolling your eyes, shove the leftovers of his graciousness in the pocket of your sweats. It’s been quite some time since you’ve had to serve anyone as rough-hewn as him, but you take solace in knowing that your night is nearly over.

Once the last patron leaves, your co-worker closes the door behind them and locks it with a sigh. “Glad that’s over. Ready to clean up?”

Nodding, you look down at the fizzing dregs of your soda. Its iridescent shine has your eyes narrowing, but you shake your head before you gulp the remnants. Tossing the empty cup into the bin, you wipe the sweat off your brow. “Yeah. I’m ready to get out of here.”

One by one, you clear the tables off with precision and care while your co-worker handles the wash. You wipe up condensation and stray crumbs from chips as you hoist the chairs up onto the countertop. Most cups are left empty, or at least mostly empty, but there is one that still dances around the brim of the glass—completely untouched.

“Freak,” you murmur to yourself.

An unyielding wall of heat hits you the moment you attempt to take the bin out. It’s sudden, like a flash flood. Your clammy fingers are hardly able to grip the bag before the world begins to tilt. Your perfidious stomach lurches as a wicked vertigo traps you in its clutches, and you find your hands needing to grip the sides of the bin to keep yourself from toppling over.

“You feeling alright?”

Your co-worker’s words hardly reach your ears, and when you twist your head to look at her, you find that she won’t stay still. She’s swaying—dancing as if there’s a liquid barrier between the two of you.

“Yeah, just… really warm, I dunno,” you sputter.

“Why don’t you go outside and get some air,” she suggests with a kind hand on your shoulder. “It’s hotter than hell in here, and you’ve probably overworked yourself.”

Nodding, you wipe at your forehead again. How is it already so wet? “Okay. Yeah, just… just five minutes and I’ll c-come back and help.”

There is little reprieve to be found outside in the sepulchral streets. Each step is agonizing as your body attempts to keep balance despite the way the ground shifts beneath your feet, yet you still push forward. Your lungs revel in the fresh, cold night air yet perspiration still plagues you just as incessantly as it did inside. You’re stricken with an unnamable prostration that burrows into the marrow of your bones. Not even the bench you take refuge on shakes its grip.

Liquid fingers slip into the pocket of your joggers just as the world begins to darken. Your phone seems to phase through your grip at least three times before you’re able to yank it free from your pants. The screen illuminates and you attempt to make sense of what it’s showing you, but a kaleidoscope of color shrouds your vision.

Mum, you think to yourself. I should call her.

“Feelin’ alright, pet?”

He appears out of the shadows like an omniscient wraith. Mask still pulled over his face, your strange patron from earlier has a hand on your shoulder before you can fully comprehend his existence in the first place. It hurts. His fingers curl into your skin until he meets bone—he’d cut through your scapula if he wanted to.

“I-I’m fine,” you slur. “Just taking a b-”

“You look sick,” he interjects. His hand slides off your shoulder and down to your arm where he yanks on your bicep, urging you off of the bench. “Need a good home, don’t you pet?”

Your eyes flutter as your knees liquify. Something clatters and shatters on the pavement at your feet, but you can’t bring yourself to care even as you step on the shards. The only reason you’re even standing is because this stranger is the only pillar of support you have. “I dunno wh… what you’re…”

Words fail you. Each syllable feels too large on your tongue and they refuse to roll out of your teeth. Dragging you forward, you stumble alongside him with convulsing muscles and a cloudy brain. Nothing you say makes sense. Nothing he says makes sense. Everything is numb—the hand on your arm, the leather seat he lays you on, the dark eyes that obscure your vision.

“Don’t worry,” he hums. It’s patronizing—something you say to an animal flailing against its own good. “I’ll get you home nice and safe, Bonnie.”

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lupinqs · 3 days ago

Text

CHAPTER SIXTEEN ━━ Steal My Girl

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 7.3K

❀ ━ warnings: kissing, underage drinking

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: long time no see

CORRECTION: best friends who kiss a lot.

Like, a lot.

Paige hadn’t really entirely thought the whole thing through when she suggested it—when she’d looked Jo in the eye and said, best friends who kiss, like it was some totally normal, reasonable agreement between teammates, roommates, friends. But now, a little over a week since they got back from the ski trip, she’s realizing that maybe she underestimated just how much kissing was going to be involved.

Because it’s all the time. Whenever they’re alone, whenever there’s even a sliver of opportunity, Paige finds herself pulling Jo in, tilting her head, slotting their mouths together like it’s second nature. It’s like her body has required itself to need this—to need Jo’s lips, the warmth of her hands, the quiet little noises she makes when Paige catches her off guard. And it’s not just the kissing—it’s the way Paige always feels the urge to be touching her, in some way or another. A hand on the small of her back when they walk, a knee pressed against hers when they sit, fingers trailing along Jo’s arm absentmindedly while they watch TV in their apartment. She can’t help herself. And Jo never stops her.

Which is… confusing.

Because Paige knows how she feels—knows, with painful certainty, that she likes Jo. That she likes her a whole fucking lot. So much so that she isn’t even sure if like is the correct term for it anymore. And Jo? Paige thinks she feels the same. Just based on the way she acts, the way she kisses Paige back every single time like she means it, the way she touches Paige almost as much as Paige touches her. Paige knows Jo well, can usually get a good read on her. But this feeling is a little harder to pin down, and Paige doesn’t want to push.

So, instead, she just keeps kissing her.

Like right now.

It’s a couple of hours after practice, and they’re still in the gym, like they have been most days lately—Paige doing her so-called Coach P duties, working with Jo, pushing her to be better, sharper, more confident. Jo’s been improving, Paige sees it (which is certainly saying something because she was phenomenal when she got here), but today has gotten boring, and they’ve been at it for a while. So while Jo is focused on drilling her threes, Paige makes her move.

She steps up behind her, slipping her arms around Jo’s waist, pressing her front against her back. Jo’s still slightly damp with sweat, her body warm, her practice jersey loose and soft against Paige’s skin. Paige leans in, presses a kiss to the side of Jo’s neck, then another, then another.

Jo laughs, low and breathy, tilting her head slightly to the side. “I don’t think it’s very professional for a coach to be doing this,” she jokes.

Paige just hums against her skin, pressing more kisses there, squeezing Jo’s waist in her hands. “Eh, I think you fuck with it,” she says lowly, lips brushing against Jo’s jaw now, and then she’s spinning her around, hands firm on her hips, so they’re facing each other.

Jo blinks at her, her lips already slightly parted, like she knows what’s coming. Like she’s waiting for it.

Paige doesn’t make her wait for long.

She leans in and kisses her, and just like always, Jo melts into it almost immediately, her hands coming up to grip at Paige’s t-shirt, pulling her in closer. Paige grins against her lips, tilting her head, deepening the kiss, sucking at Jo’s bottom lip just enough to make her sigh into her mouth.

Jo mumbles against the blonde’s lips, “I’m supposed to be shooting—”

Paige just cuts her off with another kiss, firmer this time, and says, “Nah, tha’s enough. We’re done for the day.”

And, well, that’s that.

Jo doesn’t argue. She never really argues when Paige is kissing her like this. Instead, Paige can feel her let herself get pulled in deeper, lets Paige back her up a step, and another, until her back is pressed up against the padded wall of the gym. Her fingers dig into Paige’s sides, her body softening against the older girl’s, and Paige feels something hot and longing curl low in her stomach because—fuck, she loves this. She loves the way Jo feels against her, the way she kisses her.

They’re making out now, properly, Jo’s mouth warm and wet against hers, her hands sliding up, fingers gripping the back of Paige’s neck, and—yeah, okay, maybe this isn’t exactly what they meant when they agreed to best friends who kiss, but Paige doesn’t care. She likes this, needs this, and she isn’t sure she could ever bring herself to stop.

She presses closer, deepens it further, lets her hands slip beneath Jo’s jersey, her fingertips brushing the warm skin just above her waistband. Jo exhales sharply against her mouth, her grip tightening, and Paige swears she could stay like this forever.

Unfortunately, though, she can’t, because the sound of the doors creaking open slices through the moment, sharp and jarring.

Paige startles so hard she rips herself away from Jo like she’s been electrocuted, heart slamming against her ribs. In her haste, she stumbles—her foot catching on her own damn shoe—and before she can do anything about it, she’s going down, limbs flailing in the most uncoordinated way possible before she lands hard on her ass.

Pain jolts up her spine, but that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is the way Jo stares down at her, utterly incredulous, like she cannot believe what just happened. Paige feels her face heat, scrambling to push herself up, but then—

“Oh—for crying out loud,” comes a familiar, exasperated voice from across the gym.

Paige stills. So does Jo.

Slowly, they both turn their heads toward the entrance.

CD stands there, arms crossed, eyes sharp as she scans the scene before her: Paige flat on her ass, clearly having just fell, Jo still pressed against the padded wall, both of them looking entirely too guilty for two people who are, technically, just getting extra shots up after practice.

Paige swallows thickly.

CD exhales loudly, shaking her head as she strides further into the gym, her sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. “Paige, really?” she says, stopping a few feet away, hands now on her hips. “You have a brand new knee, and you’re out here throwing yourself on the floor like you want to set back your rehab?”

Paige opens her mouth to respond—probably something stupid ready to spill out, because she happens to specialize in that—but CD just waves a hand, not done yet.

“And you,” she says, shifting her attention to Jo, who immediately straightens under her stare. “Practice ended two hours ago. Two hours. That’s overdoing it, Jo. Your body needs rest as much as it needs work.”

Paige watches as Jo presses her lips together, nodding quickly, looking like she wants to be anywhere else.

CD sighs, rubbing her forehead like they’re giving her a headache. “I swear, you kids get more difficult every year,” she mutters. “You’re not doing yourselves any favors by pushing past your limits. Both of you.” She levels them with one last look before pointing toward the door. “Go home. Now. Get some food, get some rest. I don’t want to see either of you back here until morning practice. Understood?”

“Yes,” Jo says immediately.

Paige, still slightly flustered from the whole falling on her ass while making out with Jo situation, just mumbles, “Yep, got it.”

CD gives them a lingering, assessing glare, but—thankfully, thankfully—she doesn’t look suspicious. She doesn’t overanalyze the way Paige scrambled away from Jo like she was guilty of something. Doesn’t comment on the sheer amount of space Jo suddenly put between them.

And then, just like that, she’s gone, walking off toward the offices without another word.

Paige lets out a slow breath.

Jo meets her gaze, still looking vaguely amused by Paige’s very ungraceful fall but mostly relieved that they didn’t just get caught doing something they definitely shouldn’t be doing.

Paige swipes a hand over her face, exhaling. “Okay. That was—”

“Too close,” Jo finishes.

Paige nods. “Way too close.”

There’s a brief pause, one where Paige knows they’re thinking the same thing: they have to be more careful. They don’t plan on sharing this. It’s just between them, and it’s going to stay that way. Neither of them have any interest in messing with the team or getting in trouble with their coaches.

Then, Jo jerks her head toward the doors. “C’mon,” she says. “Let’s go home.”

Paige nods again, standing up with only mild embarrassment still lingering in her chest.

She doesn’t even hesitate before following Jo out.

IT’S GAME DAY. Their first one since break, and even though Paige won’t be playing—which she’s used to by now—there’s still a hum of anticipation in her chest, a familiar pre-game buzz that never really goes away, even when she’s sidelined.

She leans against one of the lockers, in her sweatsuit. The rest of the team has just jogged out to the curt for early warm-ups, and she and Jo are the last ones left in the locker room. Paige watches as the brunette pulls her long-sleeve shirt over her jersey, her movements quick. Then, Jo reaches for the chain around her neck, the small silver clover charm catching the light as she lifts it over her head.

“Hey, come here,” Jo says, glancing at her.

Paige pushes off the locker, stepping closer without question. She’s just magnetic.

Jo holds up the necklace—the one Paige gave her for Christmas. The clover cheek, meant for good luck. The word steady engraved into the back, meant to ease Jo’s anxiety, to remind her to stay calm. It’s supposed to be a symbol, a charm, something small to hold onto when she needs it.

Jo swallows, running her fingers over the chain. “I, um—I can’t wear it during the game.”

Paige nods, already guessing where this is going, but she stays quiet, letting Jo say it.

“So,” the younger girl continues, gaze flicking up to meet Paige’s, “will you wear it for me?”

Paige stills, something warm curling in her chest.

It’s a simple request. Logistically, it makes sense—Jo can’t have jewelry on while playing, and Paige is sitting on the bench, so there’s nothing stopping her from wearing it. But Paige knows Jo. Knows that this isn’t just about the necklace.

It’s supposed to be Jo’s good luck charm, her anxiety reducer. But it’s more than that.

It’s Paige. Paige is Jo’s good luck charm. Paige is the one who steadies her, keeps her from spiraling when the nerves creep in. This is just Jo’s way of saying it without actually saying it.

Paige nods, throat a little tight. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Jo steps closer, reaching up, her fingers brushing against the back of Paige’s neck as she clasps the necklace into place. Paige barely breathes, the touch so soft and careful. Jo’s eyes stay locked on hers the entire time, something quiet, something real passing between them in the silence.

Paige doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to move.

Jo finally drops her hands, her fingers briefly grazing Paige’s throat before she takes a half-step back. Her gaze flickers toward the entrance of the locker room, checking. When she sees no one’s there, she leans in, pressing a quick, soft kiss to Paige’s lips.

Paige exhales the second Jo’s lips touch hers, her hands finding purchase on Jo’s hips without even thinking. She wants to hold her there, keep her close for just a little longer. It’s so easy to get lost in this, in Jo, in the way her mouth slots perfectly against Paige’s own, the way her touch feels like it belongs.

But then Jo pulls away, smiling at her in that way—that soft, secret, adorable way that makes Paige’s heart feel like it’s about to burst.

“’Kay,” Jo murmurs. “I gotta go warm up.”

Paige barely gets the chance to nod before Jo is jogging toward the locker room exit, her shoes squeaking against the tile as she disappears down the tunnel.

Paige stands there for a moment, entirely still.

Then, she reaches up, fingers lightly brushing over the necklace.

And she smiles to herself, feeling like a complete and utter idiot in the best way possible.

The game starts soon after, and even though Providence isn’t exactly their toughest competition, Paige still locks in the second the ball tips. Sitting on the bench is always the worst part. She doesn’t care how many months it’s been since her injury, how many times she’s tried to make peace with it—she hates being stuck on the sideline. It doesn’t get easier. It just becomes more of a dull ache instead of a sharp one.

But she still does what she can. She argues with refs, hypes up her teammates, reads the game like she’s on the court herself. And she watches Jo.

She always watches Jo.

Even now, as she absentmindedly fiddles with the necklace around her neck, rolling the clover charm between her fingers, she can’t take her eyes off of her. Jo plays well—really well. She’s aggressive, controlled, confident. Every time she gets the ball, something good happens.

She ends the night with a solid stat line.

The locker room after the game has a carefree energy, the kind that always follows a dominant win. Paige’s teammates are laughing, hyping each other up, moving around in various states of exhaustion and post-game adrenaline. Paige drops onto the bench next to Jo without thinking, bumping their shoulders together.

“Twenty-six points, six assists, four steals,” she says, grinning. “Who you feelin’ like?”

Jo lets out a short laugh, shaking her head as she peels off the tape from her wrist.

Paige bites the inside of her cheek, trying not to let herself stare too much, even though it’s difficult. Jo looks good. She’s still flushed from the game, her hair messy, a sheen of sweat clinging to her skin. Paige knows it’s just from playing, just the natural aftermath of a game, but it does something to her, something that makes her stomach feel tight and her thoughts go places they probably shouldn’t when they’re sitting in a room full of their teammates.

She forces herself to look away, down at her hands, at the necklace still hanging from her neck.

No one knows what’s going on between them.

Sure, Aubrey and Azzi know that Paige likes Jo. They’ve known that for a while—Paige had told them herself, when she realized her feelings and had a crisis over it. But they don’t know about this. About the kissing. About how much they touch each other now, how it feels like Paige is always reaching for Jo in some way, and Jo never seems to mind. They don’t know how Jo had given her this necklace, this good luck charm, right before the game, looking at her like she was the actual good luck charm.

And they plan to keep it that way.

Aaliyah’s voice breaks through Paige’s thoughts and the blonde lifts her head to see her clapping her hands together. “Ted’s tonight?” she proposes, smiling and sticking her tongue out at everyone.

Immediately, everyone’s agreeing, and Paige watches as Jo grins and nods, saying, “I’m down.”

PAIGE, UNFORTUNATELY, IS not down.

A couple hours later, she’s exactly where she figured she’d be—sitting on the couch, laptop open, a blank Google Doc staring back at her like it’s personally offended by her procrastination. She really should be getting ready to go to Ted’s right now, celebrating the win, doing shots with the team, watching Jo all night because that’s what she does. But she can’t.

Because she has an essay due at midnight and she’s yet to write a single word for it.

She’s tapping random keys, brain empty, before she hears Jo’s bedroom door open, and then—

“Are you sure you can’t come?”

Paige looks up from her laptop just in time to see Jo step into the living room, now fully dressed and ready for Ted’s, and—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Jo is in jeans—good, perfectly fitted jeans—and a cropped black tank top that makes her tits look so good that Paige has to force herself to blink. And then blink again, just to make sure she’s actually seeing her correctly and her brain isn’t just filling in the blanks with delusion.

Jo stands there, pouting slightly, waiting for an answer.

Paige wants to go out with her, she really does. She wants to throw on an outfit and follow Jo to Ted’s, drink just enough to feel warm and giggly, dance with her like they’re something more than whatever weird, undefined thing they’re doing right now. But she can’t. Because this essay is worth a huge portion of her grade, and she’s already pushing it by how long she’s waited to start it.

She sighs, closing her laptop as she stands up. “‘M sorry, Joey.”

Jo exhales, dramatic, like she wants to be annoyed but isn’t actually annoyed. “Ugh, I know. Fucking school.”

“Literally,” Paige mutters, her eyes very unsubtly dragging down Jo’s figure again. And, okay, she swears she’s just trying to be good. She wants to be good. She knows Jo has to leave, and she knows she has a paper to write, but Jo’s standing right in front of her, all pretty and pouty and wearing a top that Paige is definitely not strong enough to ignore.

Actually, suddenly, being good is the last thing on her mind.

She hooks her fingers into Jo’s belt loops without even thinking, tugging her in closer, her thumbs brushing just under the hem of Jo’s jeans, right over the soft skin of her hips. Jo lets herself be pulled in easily, and Paige absolutely takes advantage of that.

“You look good, by the way,” she murmurs, eyes flickering down, eyes lingering a little where Jo’s tip cuts off.

Jo grins, her fingers lightly brushing over Paige’s wrists. “Thanks.”

And Paige could respond, should respond, but instead, she just leans in and kisses her.

It starts slow, careful, just a press of lips, but then Jo makes this quiet, breathy sound against her mouth—barely even a noise, really, but Paige hears it, and she feels it in the way Jo’s fingers tighten slightly where they’re resting on Paige’s forearms. So Paige does it again, pressing in just a little more, lips parting slightly, letting herself get lost in it.

Jo moves her hands then, sliding them up from Paige’s arms to her shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of Paige’s hoodie, pulling her in, like she wants more, and Paige is absolutely not about to deny her. She tilts her jaw down, deepening the kiss, and Jo melts into her, using Paige’s hoodie as leverage as she presses forward, until the older girl is nearly stumbling a step back.

Paige shivers, and she thinks Jo must notice, because the next thing she knows, Jo is kissing her harder, more insistent, and Paige is gone. She slides her hands up from Jo’s belt loops, skimming over the bare skin of her waist, feeling the way Jo inhales sharply against her mouth. Paige smirks against her lips, but Jo doesn’t let her gloat for long, because suddenly her tongue is brushing against the seam of Paige’s lips, teasing, soft, and Paige’s breath hitches.

Paige’s tongue tangles with Jo in her mouth, and the blonde feels like she might actually lose her mind. She can taste the faint hint of gum Jo was chewing earlier, spearmint and something sweet, and Jesus Christ, it’s not fair. Paige groans against her lips, hands gripping Jo’s hips, pulling her in tighter, like that’ll somehow make it less overwhelming, but it just makes things worse.

Because Jo is warm, and she’s kissing her like she doesn’t care that she supposed to be leaving, like she’d rather be here, with Paige, pressed up against her, moving against her, making her forget about everything else.

And Paige lets her.

For far too long.

They keep kissing, slow but heated, Jo’s hands skipping from the back of Paige’s neck and into her hair, tugging lightly, and Paige feels like rolling her eyes into the back of her head at that, one of her biggest weaknesses. Instead, she just tugs Jo closer, slides her hands up her back, feeling her, mapping out the dips and curves of her spine with her fingers, and Jo sighs into her mouth, like she likes it, and Paige can’t take it—

And then Jo laughs. It’s breathless and warm, and Paige hates it, because she already knows what’s coming before Jo even pulls away.

Paige furrows her brows slightly, still hazy, lips still trying to chase the younger girl’s, but Jo moves her head away just enough to breathe, “Okay, okay, I really gotta go.”

Paige immediately whines in protest, reaching for her again, but Jo is already backing away, slipping out of her arms with a grin that Paige wants to wipe off her face—preferably by kissing her more.

Paige groans, hands falling to her sides in defeat. “Ugh.”

Jo just laughs again, shaking her head, grabbing her jacket from the bar stool. Paige watches her put it on, still pouting, arms crossed over her chest.

Jo catches the look, amused, rolling her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re mean,” Paige mutters, but there’s no truth behind it.

Jo grins, pulling her hair out from under her jacket before walking toward the door. Paige watches her, feeling annoyingly fond.

Before Jo steps out, Paige calls, “Be careful! And lemme know when I should pick you up!”

She’d offered earlier, since Jo was definitely going to drink with the team, and Paige would be here, sober, pretending to work on her essay.

Jo turns back, still grinning, and nods. “Yeah, okay.”

IT’S 12:45 WHEN Paige’s phone buzzes against the couch cushion, and she barely has to glance at the screen before she knows—Jo is drunk.

She sighed, stretching an arm over to grab her phone, and unlocks it to see a message that looks like Jo sent it while her thumbs were actively fighting against her. It’s riddled with typos, a mix of lowercase and uppercase letters in a way that definitely wasn’t intentional, extra letters thrown in where they shouldn’t be, and a string of random emojis at the end.

Ma freshie 💘

pOaige come pic me upl pls 😇😇😇😇😇😘😘😁😁😁😁😁🙏🙏🙏

Paige shakes her head, biting back a grin, and types out a quick response.

PB 😱😱

Yeah ofc

On my way!

She grabs her keys off the coffee table and slides her feet into her Uggs, barely bothering to get her heels fully in them. She already knows Jo’s gonna be clinging onto her like a koala when she gets there, so the faster she gets out the door, the better.

The drive to Ted’s is quiet, just the hum of the engine and the steady voice of SZA playing low through her speakers. The streets are mostly empty at this hour, streetlights flickering across the dashboard as she makes her way across campus.

When she pulls into the parking lot, she barely has to look before she spots them.

Caroline and Jo, standing near the exit of the bar.

And Jo is gone.

Like, fully, entirely drunk. Like, maybe drunker than Paige has ever seen her.

She’s hanging off Carol, her whole body pressed against her side, giggling at something Paige can’t hear. Caroline, for her part, looks about how she always does in situations like these—mildly exasperated, but patient, used to being the responsible one.

Paige parks and gets out, shutting the door behind her as she walks over.

It takes Jo a moment to register that Paige is there, approaching, but when she does, it’s appears to be the best thing that’s ever happened to her. Her face lights up, her whole expression shifting into something overjoyed, teeth glinting as she smiles.

“Paaaaige,” she practically sings, stretching out her arms like she’s about to fling herself at her, but Caroline tightens her hold last second, keeping Jo from face-planting into the pavement.

Paige snorts, reaching for her. “Hey, JoJo.”

Carol looks immensely relieved to pass Jo off, stepping back as Paige takes over. And Jo doesn’t even hesitate—she just sinks into Paige like a deadweight, her forehead landing against Paige’s shoulder as if it’s the exact spot she was meant to be in.

Paige has to brace herself, adjusting her stance and planting a firm hand on Jo’s lower back to keep them both balanced. She feels the younger girl sigh dramatically, pressing her face into the fabric of Paige’s hoodie.

“Nika was a bad influence,” Jo mumbles against her shoulder, her voice slurred and sleepy, barely coherent. “Made me do sooo many shots.”

Paige huffs a laugh, hand tightening around Jo. She lifts a questioning eyebrow at Carol, silently asking, That true?

Caroline nods, looking less than impressed. “Yep.”

Paige lets out another sigh, shifting her grip on Jo, who has now wrapped her arms around Paige’s waist like she has no intention of ever letting go. “Figures.”

Caroline rolls her eyes. “Yeah.” Then she glances back toward the bar. “Speaking of which, I should probably go check on her.”

Paige chuckles, shaking her head at the thought. “Good luck with that.”

The sophomore gives her a look, a mix of Yeah, no shit and I hate my life, before she starts to turn away. But before she goes, Paige notices the way Caroline’s eyes flick between them—Paige, holding Jo close and tight against herself; Jo, clinging to Paige like she needs it.

Paige feels her face get a little warm, cheeks surely growing slightly pink, but she doesn’t say anything.

And, thankfully, neither does Carol.

She just shakes her head, muttering, “Get her home safe.”

Paige nods. “Yeah, I got her.”

Caroline gives her one last look, something knowing in her expression that Paige definitely doesn’t want to analyze right now, before she turns and disappears back into the bar.

Paige exhales, adjusting Jo again, trying to get her to stand at least somewhat on her own. Of course, Jo just whines in protest, nuzzling further into Paige’s shoulder, her breath warm against the fabric. It makes the blonde’s stomach flip a little, which she pointedly ignores because now isn’t really the time.

“Jo,” she says, trying to pry her off gently. “Let’s go to the car.”

Jo groans, reluctant, but she shifts just enough to peer up at Paige with big, glassy, drunk eyes. “But you’re so warm,” she complains, her voice dragging, her lips pursed into the tiniest pout.

Paige’s gaze lingers on them for a little too long, before she swallows and rolls her eyes slightly. “Yeah, well, my car is warm, too,” she tells Jo, trying to sound persuading. “C’mon, I’ll even turn the seat warmers on for you.”

Jo hums like she’s actually considering it. Then, she huffs dramatically. “Fine.”

Paige makes a satisfied sound, hooking her arm around Jo’s waist tightly. And she tries to walk them both, but she’s essentially having to drag the younger girl toward the car—which wouldn’t be so bad if Jo wasn’t actively working against her by being all clingy and floppy and generally very unhelpful.

She keeps stopping every few steps, stumbling a little and giggling like something is hilarious, even though there’s nothing funny happening at all. At one point, she lets her full weight slump against Paige like she’s actively trying to make this all the more difficult, arms draped around Paige’s waist in a way that should be frustrating, but instead makes Paige’s chest flutter the way it always does around Jo.

Paige huffs, but she can’t even pretend to be mad.

“Joey, you gotta walk,” she says, shifting her grip and trying to get her to move again.

Jo merely makes a sound in the back of her throat, resting her chin on Paige’s shoulder like she has no intention of ever moving on her own again. “Mmm. Don’t wanna.”

Paige groans, but it’s not a real groan, more like a God, you’re annoying but also cute and I hate that I don’t actually hate this kind of groan. Still, she tightens her hood and somehow manages to get Jo the last yard or two to the car, wrestling her into the passenger seat. Jo groans dramatically as she finally lands on it, slouching back like she’s exhausted from all the work she didn’t do. Paige just rolls her eyes, bending down to buckle her in.

And, of course, Jo isn’t helpful for this part either. She squirms, giggling as she shifts just enough to make the task far harder than it needs to be. “You’re being so bossy,” she teases, voice all slow and syrupy, like she’s speaking in molasses.

“Yeah, maybe if you cooperated, I wouldn’t have to be,” Paige mutters, finally getting the damn thing to click into place.

Jo just beams at her. “You always take such good care of me, Paige.”

Paige’s stomach does that stupid flipping thing again, but she just ignores it, patting Jo’s thigh like that won’t make things worse for her, and mutters, “Yeah, yeah. Stay put.”

She closes the door before she can see whatever expression Jo makes at that and walks around the car, sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling out of the parking lot.

The drive home is mostly quiet, save for the soft hum of the radio and Jo’s occasional laughs to herself, like she’s still thinking about something funny from earlier. Paige just focuses on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift—that is, until Jo reaches for it, her fingers beginning to absentmindedly toy with hers, running over Paige’s rings, twisting them slightly like she’s seeing which ones might come loose. She’s not even looking, her head leaned back against the seat, her eyes half-lidded, mouth tugged up in this lazy little smile. It’s nothing. Just Jo being drunk and fidgety. Cute, even. Paige flexes her fingers slightly, hooking a few of them around Jo’s to hold them. She glances over to see Jo’s smile widening slightly, her head tilting down further.

But then, with zero warning, Jo moves, swiping Paige’s phone from where it sits on the console, and unlocking it like it’s her own. Paige barely has time to wonder what she’s doing before she hears it—the loud, unmissable opening to Steal My Girl.

“Jo,” Paige groans, immediately shooting her an exasperated look.

Jo just grins, squeezing Paige’s hand and looking entirely too pleased with herself. “I did you a favor.”

“A favor, bro?” Paige repeats. “By playing One Direction in my car?”

“Yes,” Jo says seriously, nodding like this is a widely accepted fact.

Paige rolls her eyes once more but doesn’t bother fighting it, knowing at this point it’s a losing battle. Jo loves One Direction, and therefore she loves forcing Paige to listen to them because she knows Paige isn’t really a fan.

Jo makes it a whole thing, too—drunkenly singing to the song dramatically, pointing at Paige during the most ridiculous lyrics, making full eye contact while belting and messing up the words.

It’s a little annoying, even more funny, and just so Jo.

And Paige just… lets it happen.

Because Jo is drunk, and happy, and still playing with Paige’s fingers in her lap, and Paige is so, so stupid for her.

By the time time Paige turns the car off and the engine cuts out, the energy Jo’s been bubbling with has fizzled out. She’s slouched against the passenger door, her head lolling back, eyes fluttering a little. Paige isn’t sure whether Jo having too much energy or not enough is better, so she just shakes her head and gets out of the car, walking over to the passenger side. She opens the door, leaning over Jo to unbuckle her seatbelt.

“A’ight, come on, Joey,” Paige mutters softly, her fingers brushing against Jo’s arm as she starts pulling her from the seat. Jo’s body goes limp, a deadweight of tiredness, her head falling against Paige’s shoulder. Paige can’t help but smile fondly as she wraps an arm around Jo’s waist, feeling the younger girl lean into her.

“Drank too much,” Jo mumbles out, and there’s a laziness to her words that makes Paige’s heart heavy and fond. It’s cute when Jo’s like this—all messy and soft.

“Just a little,” Paige says as she guides Jo through the parking lot, toward the dorm building, supporting her as she sways with every step. It’s not very hard, not like it was getting her to the car when Jo refused to keep her feet going. Now, she stumbles but keeps them moving, and even though she’s wobbly, she’s light enough for Paige to guide her without much problem.

When they finally make it up all those stairs, the slow drag of their bodies, the weight of Jo’s arms hanging loosely around her neck, makes Paige’s shoulders ache a little. Jo’s still mumbling, not really saying anything coherent, just sounds that remind Paige of how endearing Jo is when she’s this tired.

As soon as they’re inside the apartment, Paige shuts the door behind them with a soft click. Without thinking too much, she guides Jo over to the couch and drops to her knees in front of her, hands already reaching for Jo’s shoes. Jo stares down at her with unfocused doe eyes, barely lifting her feet as Paige unties the laces and slides the shoes off gently. Once they’re off, Paige’s hands linger on Jo’s ankles, making sure she’s stable there, before standing up, leaning in close to the brunette. She slides her arms around Jo’s waist, slowly walking her toward the bathroom. Paige doesn’t say anything, which she knows is probably unusual since she always seems to be talking, but there’s really no need right now. She knows Jo’s tired, knows that this is exactly what she wants: to be close, to be taken care of.

In the bathroom, Paige gently pushes Jo to sit on the closed toilet seat, leaning her back slightly so she’s steady. Jo’s head tilts, her face softening, her eyes fluttering half-closed. Paige grabs the makeup wipes, pulling them out and gently wiping away the traces of the night—smudged eyeliner, remnants of mascara and concealer—making sure to be soft.

Jo’s eyes flutter open when Paige wipes the last bit of makeup away, and she lets out a sleepy laugh. “You’re so nice, P,” Jo murmurs, and her voice is a little slurred, but she sounds happy.

Paige shakes her head, trying to fight the grin stretching her face. “Quit bein’ so cute,” she tells the younger girl, reaching for a towel to pat Jo’s face dry.

Jo lets out another quiet sigh, her head falling back a little bit more until Paige reaches over to hold the back of her neck, keeping her upright. “Can’t help it,” Jo replies with a cheeky, delirious smile that has Paige chuckling. The blonde shakes her head again, as if in disbelief, her fingers brushing against Jo’s cheek softly. She’s sure Jo’s right—that she can’t help being cute. It only makes sense, considering she always is.

“‘Kay, c’mon,” Paige murmurs, reaching for Jo’s hands to pull her up to stand once more. She helps her out of the bathroom and into her bedroom. As soon as they reach the edge of the bed and Jo realizes, Paige thinks she hears her mumble thank God. The blonde chuckles a little, keeping her hold on Jo’s arm so she’s still standing, swaying slightly. Jo’s gaze shifts between the bed and Paige, with those half-lidded eyes try at make everything in the older girl’s chest go soft. “Just wanna sleep, Paige,” Jo whines.

Paige nods, pulling her a little closer so she doesn’t fall down onto the mattress yet. “I know, but you gotta change first,” she says. “You can’t sleep in jeans, c’mon.”

Jo groans in response, and she manages to pull away from Paige enough to flop down onto the bed. “I don’t wanna change,” she complains, clearly not having the energy to argue much but still wanting to put up some kind of fight. “‘M so tired.”

Paige lets out another quiet laugh, brushing Jo’s hair from her face again, her hand lingering for just a second too long as she gazes down at her. Jo’s lips are slightly parted, her face still flushed from the alcohol, and the sleepy pout on her lips makes Paige want to kiss her. But she doesn’t, not right now. Instead, she takes the rare role of being the responsible one.

“I know,” she repeats, her hand gently pulling at Jo’s arm to get her to sit back up. “But you’re gon’ be a lot more comfortable if you change. Just for a sec, ‘kay? Then you can sleep.”

Jo’s eyes flicker with resistance for a moment, but Paige can already see the fight leaving her. The brunette lets out a deep sigh, her voice a little slurred. “Fine. But only ‘cause you asked nicely,” she says.

Paige grins, nodding, and going over to Jo’s dresser to pull out the small pajama shorts she likes and one of her oversized t-shirts. She hands them to Jo before saying, “Okay, I’mma turn around, just lemme know when you’re done.”

Jo mumbles something about how she doesn’t care, but Paige isn’t about to test that line of thinking tonight. She’s never seen Jo naked, and she doesn’t plan on the first time being when the girl is so drunk she can hardly stand. So, Paige keeps her back turned as Jo changes, her fingers fingering with the edge of the comforter while she waits. She can’t help but smile a little in amusement as she hears Jo rustling behind her, occasionally sighing, or making a little noise like she’s struggling with the shirt.

Finally, the sound of fabric shifting stops, and Jo clears her throat. “I’m done,” she announces, her voice a little sing-songy, and Paige turns around, meeting Jo’s sleepy, soft-eyed gaze. She’s so cute, so completely lost in her own little world right now. Paige moves to sit down next to Jo, who’s already sinking into the bed, her arms stretching out toward Paige, pulling her in without even realizing it.

Paige doesn’t hesitate; she lies down beside her, wrapping her arm around the brunette’s waist, feeling the soft weight of Jo’s body settle in close. Paige hears Jo let out a content sigh, curling up against her, her face nuzzling k to the crook of Paige’s neck. Jo’s legs tangle with hers, and Paige tightens her hold, slipping her hand down Jo’s back to pull her closer, just a little bit more.

Jo moves again, this time throwing her arm over Paige’s chest, and as Paige adjusts, she can feel Jo’s breath warm against her neck, before her lips pressing down, the lightest of kisses. She presses a few more on her skin, soft and tender. But then, without warning, Jo’s lips find a spot just below Paige’s ear, and she sucks, her tongue ghosting along skin. The warmth of it catches Paige off guard, her pulse speeding up slightly.

Paige would be lying if she said it didn’t make her feel warmer—her cheeks, her chest, her stomach, all of it flushed with the quiet burn of want, even though it’s more playful than anything else. A soft, breathy chuckle escapes her lips, her hand reaching up to brush through Jo’s hair absently, trying to ignore the way her heart is racing. “You tryna mark me up?” she teases.

Jo hums against her, the sound so sweet, yet impossibly drunk. Paige can practically feel her smile in the way Jo presses her lips against her skin again, then playfully nips at her neck.

Paige punches at Jo’s waist lightly, trying to get her to pull away and answer. Jo makes a little sound before disconnecting her lips from Paige’s skin. “Gotta make sure they know,” she mutters, and her words come out in an endearing slur. “Gotta show the other girls that I get you the most.”

Paige blinks at her, momentarily confused. The words don’t quite register at first. Because there’s no way. No way that Jo actually thinks that there are still other girls. Paige can’t wrap her head around that. How could there be? The two of them have been inseparable, spending more time together than she can even remember, and here Jo is, drunk and rambling about some nonexistent competition. Paige dips her head to push a strand of hair away from Jo’s face, trying to search her eyes—but they’re still closed, her head hidden in Paige’s neck.

“Jo,” the blonde says softly, her voice a little strained with confusion.

“What?” Jo asks, barely lifting her head from Paige’s shoulder, her voice sleepy and thick with alcohol. “The roster needs to know I’m your favorite.”

Paige’s heart stutters for a second, and then she pulls back fully to look at Jo, her eyebrows furrowing. It’s insane to her that Jo thinks this. The roster has been virtually nonexistent since Asher and Jo broke up, maybe a couple hookups here and there, but since the ski trip? Nothing. Of course not. No one compares to Jo, even if they have each other convinced the kissing and touching and all of it is just platonic.

“Jo,” Paige repeats, a little firmer this time. “Don’t act like I haven’t been spendin’ all my time with you.”

Jo shrugs like it’s nothing, her eyes barely open. “So?”

“So,” Paige continues as she pulls Jo closer by the waist, her fingers trailing lightly over her skin. “There are no other girls.”

The words hang in the air for a beat longer than Paige expects. Jo doesn’t respond immediately, her body still loose and pliant in Paige’s arms, but Paige can feel the shift in her. She can feel Jo’s body relax, a subtle tension leaving her shoulders as if the words take some heavy weight off of her. And Paige, despite everything, feels something lighter within herself too.

She watches Jo’s face soften, a little smile pulling at her lips as she mutters something under her breath that Paige can’t quite catch. And suddenly, Paige is grinning too, her chest feeling warm. Maybe this is just drunk Jo talking, but Paige thinks this also may be more than that. That Jo is finally letting her see something real without even realizing it.

Jo hums, her hand still tucked snugly against Paige’s side, as if to make sure she’s not going anywhere. “Good,” she says quietly. “Good,” she repeats, and Paige doesn’t need to hear anything more. She can feel it in the way Jo’s body relaxes, in the way her fingers curl tighter around Paige.

Paige’s heart skips a beat or two. She lets herself think—if Jo cares about other girls, doesn’t that mean something? That maybe she feels the same; that it’s not just platonic? That maybe they’re actually on the same page, and the feelings are reciprocated, and they’re not just two best friends who casually kiss, but more than that? Or, at least, on the track to being more?

She hopes so. She really, really hopes so.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #wbb #wcbb #uconn #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers series #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers angst #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x reader #ncaa wbb #wlw #nobody gets me

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deadrobinthoughts · 2 days ago

Text

† i hope : various.

⋆˙⟡ "I hope I die first, 'Cause I don't wanna live without you, I don't wanna ever learn, How to fall asleep without you, Tell me what's worse, Losing you now or later? Maybe, I can break the curse, And I can be in love forever, If I die first"

⋆˙⟡ featuring: dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne, cassandra cain, bruce wayne, ↦ kalico note: you know you're doing great when you tear up while writing. what does it say when the writer is crying? + SHIT SORRY, TW for mentions of death.

⋆˙⟡ 𝐃𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧 is warmth, is laughter, is the effortless joy of a sunrise after too many sleepless nights. he is the one who pulls you close when the world feels too heavy, the one who reminds you - without even trying - that love can be easy, that it can be safe. and maybe that’s why the thought of losing him feels like swallowing glass, why the very idea of a life without him feels like something you would never recover from.

"i hope i die first."

you don’t mean for it to slip out, but it does - soft, quiet, like a secret you never meant to share. his arms tighten around you instantly, the playful hum of the moment disappearing into something deeper, heavier.

"hey," he murmurs, leaning back just enough to look at you. his brows pull together, blue eyes full of something raw, something you weren’t supposed to see. "what was that?"

you press your face into his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek, and you don’t take it back.

"i don’t want to learn how to live without you, dick." your fingers curl against the fabric of his shirt, desperate to keep him close, to keep him real. "if you go first… i won’t know how to sleep in our bed. i won’t know how to wake up without you next to me. i won’t know how to be... okay again."

his breath hitches; so faint, so quiet, but you hear it. and then he’s wrapping you up, holding you so tightly it almost hurts, pressing his lips to your forehead like he can breathe reassurance into your skin.

"baby," he whispers, his voice softer now, but laced with something unshakable. "i’m not going anywhere. not for a long, long time."

"you can’t promise that."

he exhales, and you feel it more than you hear it. "maybe not. but i can promise this - no matter what, i'll always do my best to make my way back."

even as he kisses you - slow, lingering, trying to pull you back to something lighter - the fear doesn’t leave. because if the universe is cruel, if it takes him first, you don’t know if you’ll ever recover.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝 already knows what it means to die. to be taken away, to leave behind the people who love him, to return only to find the world has kept turning without him. he doesn’t talk about it - not the way he should, not the way that makes it easier to carry. but you know. you always know.

and maybe that’s why you’re scared. because he’s already been gone once, already been a name carved in stone, already been a whisper of what once was. and if it happens again? if fate is cruel enough to steal him from you when you’ve only just learned what it means to love him?

"i hope i die first."

he freezes. completely.

you don’t even realize you’ve said it out loud until you feel his grip on you shift, his hands moving to your waist, to your arms, like he needs to ground himself, like he needs to see your face, needs to read your expression, needs to confirm this is real.

"the hell kind of thing is that to say?" his voice isn’t angry - it’s something else. something tighter. something strained.

"jay-"

"no." he shakes his head, jaw tight, brows furrowed, that rare flicker of panic dancing just behind his eyes. "don’t.. don’t say shit like that."

"but it’s true." your voice is softer now, but you don’t back down. because it is true. because even thinking about a world where he isn’t in it makes your chest ache, makes your lungs stop working properly.

his fingers tighten where they rest against your arms, like he wants to shake some sense into you or maybe himself. "you’d be fine without me."

"i wouldn’t."

"you would."

"i wouldn’t, jason." you exhale, long and slow, and place your hands over his, fingers curling around his wrists. you feel the pulse beneath his skin, steady, alive, and you can’t help but cling to it. "i don’t want to learn how to live without you. i don’t want to know what that feels like. i don’t want to wake up in an empty bed and try to figure out how to keep going when the person i love is gone."

something in his face breaks.

because jason knows loss better than anyone. jason knows what it means to wake up in a world that has moved on without him.

"you can’t think like that," he mutters, voice rougher now, rasping around the edges. he leans forward, presses his forehead against yours, eyes slipping shut like he can pretend - just for a second - that this is a conversation that will never matter. "i’m right here. i’m not going anywhere."

"you don’t get to promise that."

a slow inhale. a slower exhale. and then, his lips brush against your temple, against your cheek, against your mouth - all soft, all careful, all full of something he will never be able to put into words.

"then let me promise this." his voice is quiet now, barely more than a whisper. "if i ever do go first? if fate really is that much of a bitch?" he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, blue-green eyes burning with something dangerous, something desperate. "i will crawl my way back to you.. already done it once."

and somehow, you believe him.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐓𝐢𝐦 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞 exists on borrowed time. you have seen it in the way he moves, in the way he never stops, never slows down, never allows himself the luxury of standing still. he is a man who keeps one foot in the past, one foot in the future, and barely enough left for the present. you know he loves you. god, you know he does. but that doesn’t stop the fear from creeping in, doesn’t stop the thought from clawing at the back of your mind - what if one day, he doesn’t come back?

"i hope i die first."

it’s quiet, like a confession, like something you were never meant to say out loud.

tim stills, fingers halting where they had been lazily tracing circles against your wrist. his breath catches, just slightly, just enough for you to notice.

"that’s not funny." his voice is soft, even, but there’s something there. something cautious.

"i wasn’t joking." you swallow, shifting so you can look at him, so you can see the way his expression shifts, the way his lips press together, the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly around your own.

"you can’t-" he stops, inhales sharply, tries again. "i don’t want to think about that."

"i don’t either." your fingers thread through his, squeezing lightly. "but i don’t want to think about losing you, either."

tim exhales, slow and steady, like he’s processing something too heavy to carry. but then he leans forward, presses his lips to your forehead, and lets the silence speak for him.

because he doesn’t know how to promise forever. but he knows how to love you while he’s still here.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 was never supposed to love like this. love was not something given freely in his world, not something soft, not something safe. it was a weapon, a duty, a thing to be wielded with precision and purpose. and yet.

yet, when you love him - when you look at him like he is something worth loving - he is undone. and that is why your words strike him harder than any blade ever could.

"i hope i die first."

the moment you say it, he stops. every movement halts, every breath sharpens. his head tilts slightly, like he is assessing a threat - only this time, the threat is something he cannot fight, something he cannot defeat.

"you are being ridiculous," he says, carefully measured, but there is something beneath it - something tight, something raw, something almost panicked.

"damian-"

"no." his voice is sharper now, cutting through the air like a blade. his fingers clench at his sides, his jaw locking in that way it does when he is trying too hard to hold something in. "that is a weak way of thinking. a coward’s way of thinking."

"it’s not about being weak," you murmur, stepping closer. he doesn’t move away, doesn’t stop you, but his shoulders go tense beneath your touch. "it’s about the fact that i don’t want to live without you. that i don’t want to figure out how to keep going in a world that took you from me."

his breathing is uneven now, his pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips. and for the first time in a long time, he does not know what to say. because damian has trained for every kind of battle, for every kind of loss, but he has never trained for this. he has never trained for the quiet, suffocating terror of loving someone so much that the thought of losing them feels worse than dying himself.

"you are not dying first," he finally says, low, firm, final. his grip on you tightens, pulling you closer. "that is not an option."

you exhale, shaking your head. "you can’t control that."

"the hell i can’t." his voice is rough, full of something dangerous, something desperate. he shifts, pressing his forehead against yours, his fingers trembling where they hold you. "i will not allow this world to take you from me."

"and if it takes you first?"

his silence is answer enough.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐢𝐧 does not speak often. she does not need to. her love is something quiet, something felt in the way she moves, in the way she touches, in the way she breathes. but tonight, she needs to hear your voice.

"i hope i die first."

she stops. completely.

her fingers, which had been absentmindedly tracing shapes against your skin, still. the gentle rise and fall of her breathing pauses. she does not speak, does not move, but you feel the way her heart pounds just a little harder against your back.

"why?" her voice is soft, careful, but there is something else beneath it. something fragile.

"because i don’t want to live without you," you admit, barely above a whisper. "i don’t want to wake up one day and realize you’re not here anymore. i don’t want to forget what your laugh sounds like, what it feels like to hold you."

cassandra swallows, her hands pressing more firmly against your sides, like she is physically keeping you close. she does not answer right away - because how could she?

"you would be okay."

"i wouldn’t."

she shifts, her breath warm against your shoulder, her arms wrapping around you like something desperate. "i would not be okay either."

you blink, turning slightly so you can look at her. her expression is unreadable, but her eyes - god, her eyes - are raw, open, honest.

"then what do we do?" you murmur, tracing your fingers against her wrist.

she tilts her head, considers you carefully. and then, finally, she leans in, presses a slow, deliberate kiss against your temple, and breathes;

"we stay."

and for now, that is enough.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 has been preparing to die since the night he was old enough to understand what loss felt like. he has carried death on his shoulders, worn it like a cloak, let it become a part of him in ways that no man should. but you? you are different.

you are not something he is willing to lose.

"i hope i die first."

the words slip into the space between you, quiet, barely above a whisper. but bruce hears everything. he always hears everything.

his whole body tenses, his fingers curling against the fabric of his suit. he does not react immediately - he never does. but you can see it, in the way his jaw tightens, in the way his breath slows, in the way his eyes darken like the mere thought of your absence is something he refuses to entertain.

"you don’t mean that," he says, but it is not a question.

"i do." you swallow, watching his face, trying to decipher what he’s thinking. it’s impossible, as it always is. "i don’t want to live in a world without you, bruce. i don’t want to know what it’s like to wake up alone, to reach for you and find nothing."

he exhales sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment - as if forcing the image from his mind. and then, when he opens them again, his gaze is sharp, steady, but there is something in it. something so painfully human.

"i won’t let that happen."

"you don’t get to choose that."

"i do." his voice is low, steady, but there is something unshakable beneath it. "i have spent my entire life ensuring that death takes me first. that it does not touch the people i love. i refuse to let it take you."

"bruce-"

"no." his grip on you tightens, not possessive, but grounding, like he is reminding himself that you are still here, still breathing. "you live. if something happens to me, you live. you fight. you move forward. that is what you do."

your throat tightens, your fingers gripping his arms. "you’re asking me for something i don’t think i’m strong enough to do."

bruce studies you for a long moment. and then, for the first time, his mask slips. his lips part slightly, his eyes soften, and when he speaks again, it is not batman who answers you. it is him.

"then i suppose i’ll have to make sure you never have to."

#dc comics #dc scenarios #batfam #batfam x reader #batboys #batboys x reader #damian wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #cassandra cain #bruce wayne #damian wayne x reader #dick grayson x reader #jason todd x reader #tim drake x reader #cassandra cain x reader #bruce wayne x reader

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terraswallows · 2 days ago

Text

Had an encounter today with a transphobic asshole.

So, this guy—big neckbeard looking dude, reeked of sweat and cheap deodorant. Like i mean full neckbeard, beer belly, sunglasses, the works—walks into the store where I work wearing a "Make America Great Again" hat while waiting for his family to buy a chess set. I know the family; they’re super chill, but apparently, this guy is their uncle or something.

While I’m ringing up the chess set, the mom compliments my nails and asks where I got them done. We’re chatting when this guy walks over and, with zero hesitation, says, "Real men don’t get their nails done. You one of them faggit types?"

I was so caught off guard that I barely had time to react before the mom nervously tried to brush it off, telling me to excuse him for being rude.

After taking a moment to collect myself, I just smiled and said, "It’s fine, these things happen. And you’re right—real men don’t get their nails done. But I’m not a real man. Well… not really. I’m actually transfemme."

His face twisted in confusion until his eyes landed on my trans flag belt. That’s when his expression shifted.

Before he could say anything, the mom smiled at me and said I looked wonderful. But then the guy grunted and muttered, "Ugh, it’s one of them. No wonder… I’m glad he’s doing what he’s doing. You people need to be stopped."

I was still processing that garbage when the mom apologized again, quickly packing up the chess set in a bag she’d brought. She said they’d be leaving now since they didn’t want to cause a scene.

But of course, the guy wasn’t done. He kept going: "You know, he’s right. Your kind really is a problem. We can’t have you corrupting our kids."

Through clenched teeth, I gave him my best customer service smile and said, "Everyone’s entitled to their opinion. However, I’m going to have to ask you to leave." Then I turned to the woman and said, "I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I hope you have a wonderful day."

The guy tried to keep ranting, but the mom snatched his hat off his head and dragged him out of the store, muttering under her breath about how he just had to do this here, on her kid’s birthday, of all days.

Later, my boss came over and asked if everything was okay. I nodded, but honestly? It’s infuriating. The same hate is spreading here, too (for context I live in South Africa). The bullshit happening in America is bleeding into everything and everywhere.

#trans #trans community #transgender #mtf trans #transfem #trans woman #transgirl #lgbtq #lgbtqia #vent

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urhoneycombwitch · 2 days ago

Note

This may not work cos it would have to be like a modern!steddie, but the prompt

“It's only a proper date night if we're all there!”

feels sooooooo steddie to me. Like if eddie was away for a show or something and you and steve were going to dinner, he’d be all pouty until steve put his phone in his jacket pocket and stayed on FaceTime the whole date so he could be there.

- def not @rebelfell she would NEVER

foreword: CAUGHT YA rebelfell in the inbox u knoooooww it’s gonna b good!! okay since I’m keeping my Steddie x R world in the late 80’s/early 90’s I got creative with the pre-FaceTime ways of phone usage! exists in the same world as this Steddie mlist of mine but no need to read beforehand. xx

cw: R is referred to w/ she/her pronouns, R wears a dress + has breasts, Eddie being Pathetic™️, alcohol consumption, lack of restaurant manners

wc: 1.6k

___

It’s ten minutes past the time you and Steve were supposed to leave for dinner reservations but you’re both busy- you with a last-minute jewelry change, Steve with a call that just rang in to the landline.

He’s got the corded phone jammed between ear and shoulder, shaking out the opposing sleeve of his nice dinner jacket while speaking distractedly to the person on the line. “Yeah, I get it. Totally blows and I do feel for ya, I really do-”

There’s a sharp scoff of crackly incredulity from the other end. Steve rolls his eyes. “Right, okay, so maybe I don’t feel too bad since you did this to yourself.”

Steve listens to his boyfriend's stream of woe, using the brief interlude to multitask and pull on one of his black dress shoes before interrupting- “Sweetheart, you know that excuse won’t hold up in her court. Gonna have to take the loss and grovel later, that’s the best advice I got-”

“Smart boy,” you quip, floating into the trailer’s kitchen swathed in red velvet and slipping a second glittering crystal earring into your lobe. “I assume that’s our jilted lover you’re speaking with? Tell him the prison he’s in currently is self-made. And also that we need to leave.”

Steve closes his mouth from when it had dropped open upon seeing the amount of cleavage your dress allowed.

He nods solemnly, fiddling with his tie, honeyed eyes warm and locked on your form even as he speaks into the receiver- “She said… somethin’ about a jail. And that we gotta go. Honestly, man, my mind is mostly blank right now, and if you could see her you’d understand why.”

It’s your turn for a fond eye roll, crossing the laminate kitchen flooring for your pair of navy pumps next to Steve’s feet.

Eddie’s voice is distinct enough through the speaker, though you can’t make out any words- Steve listens, holding out a hand for you to take and balance with as you step into your shoes until Eddie’s words end.

“Hold on, I’ll ask her-” Steve covers the receiver, conspiratorial and faux-serious- “Our boyfriend is requesting I describe the general look and feel of your ass in this dress since he’s not here to see it himself.”

You smack Steve lightly on the arm and he chuckles into the phone, at least having the decency to look flustered when you crowd in to talk to Eddie, using deliberate and spine-chilling emphasis: “If you wanted to come to dinner with me and my spectacular ass, you should’ve requested the night off like I told you, months ago.”

With this final word, you reach past Steve for your overcoat, body pressing into the length of his as he stammers out, “Y-yeah, that’s, uh- that’s all folks. Sorry pal. You heard the judge.”

Steve thumbs gently over the crook of your elbow before hanging up the phone, then helps you into your coat. “Honey, you don’t think you’re being… just a tad harsh on him? He’s even worse than I am, with dates, you really can’t blame the guy for-”

“Two months.” Your voice is unwavering, with a finality that makes Steve want to bend for you immediately, no matter the cost. “He had a whole eight weeks to put a request in for a single night away from the garage. With all the times we brought it up since then and now, I don’t feel bad for him and neither should you.”

Steve smooths a hand down the pretty line of the back of your neck, the soft slope disappearing into the collar of that red fabric. The only ‘bad’ he feels is his errant partner getting to miss out on seeing you. “Heard loud and clear, boss. Your chariot awaits.”

___

Luckily it’s no big issue that your Enzo’s reservation was originally intended for three; you and Steve are seated within minutes of your arrival at a cozy table near the far wall of the room.

Of the three of you, Steve is the designated sommelier (i.e., has stolen enough during high school from his father’s private reserves to know generally what’s what), so you let him order a bottle for the table.

The waiter pours a glass each, and you twirl the stem between your fingers, watching the plummy color slide down the insides of the glass walls.

“Got it to match,” Steve says, taking a sip, sliding his free hand palm-up on the table for you to take.

At the quirk of your brow, he explains further, pulling the back of your hand up to his lips for a quick kiss- “To match your dress. And my cheeks, too, apparently- christ, you’re hot.”

A genuine beam lights up your face; giving Steve’s hand a squeeze, you tilt your head- “Safe to say you’re a little obsessed?”

“A lottle.”

You both giggle at that, until you’re interrupted by a wait staff member who approaches and asks for you by name.

“My apologies, miss- there’s a call waiting for you.” The waiter holds out the restaurant’s cordless phone for you to take, then promptly leaves.

Your eyes cut daggers into the chunk of white plastic in your hand, and Steve clears his throat, shifting uneasily, muttering “Oh boy” before you bring the receiver up to your ear.

“Hello.”

“Princess!” Eddie sounds much too happy for your liking as you’d prefer silent and remorseful thinking to be taking place, instead. “Holy shit, can’t believe they put me through to you. You guys order entrees yet? Stevie talked you into some overpriced ditchwater alcohol, I’m sure.”

You almost can’t hear Eddie over the amount of irritation and upset rushing through your auditory system, heart thumping fast under the gold locket between your breasts, a present from both of your boyfriends. “Eddie Munson. I really, actually, don’t want to hear it.”

“Babe, c’mon-” Eddie sighs. In the background, there’s distant clanking and various car repair noises- you guess Eddie’s using his uncle’s office phone to call. “I’m sorry. Okay? I fucked the date up, that’s on me, but I’m on break right now and I just wanted to hear your voice-”

“Well, you’re hearing it now.” You’re not sure how much longer you can keep up the quickly-thinning veil of anger around your words, tears welling faster than you can keep them at bay, voice cracking three words in- “I just wanted- I wanted you here.”

Steve watches you quietly from across the table, picking up your hand again and frowning when he sees the almost-tears forming. You squeeze back, using his touch as a grounding lifeline when Eddie speaks again.

“Baby. I’m so sorry.” To his credit, Eddie does sound genuinely pained, which eases your anger to a low level, sadness taking the lead.

Your eyes drop to the cloth napkin in swan formation on your plate, and you sniffle. “Well, sorry doesn’t make you magically appear.”

“Give me a week and I’ll build you a teleportation device. Seriously. Dunno if it’s possible but I shall make it so.” There’s a rhythmic tick tick on the other end, familiar to your music-loving boy- he must be tapping a pen against the desk. Your heart aches with love.

“A week’s no good,” you reply, smiling soft at your other boy, holding his hand, still- “How ‘bout now?”

Eddie’s quiet on the other end until he says, cautiously- “I think a quantum crystal’s gonna be a little hard to find this time of night, but I’ll do my best-”

“No,” you laugh, and Steve grins upon hearing it- “I mean, I’ll put you on speaker for the rest of your break. But you better behave yourself.”

Eddie swears his fealty and sings your praises before you hit the speaker button, resting the phone upright on the table. The speaker feature is luckily on a low volume, and with the background music of the restaurant it’s unlikely anyone but you and Steve will be hearing it.

“This is cool as hell,” Eddie says, voice tinny but certainly audible. “Stevieboy, set the scene for me. Exactly how plunging is the neckline you’re staring at?”

Steve leans in as if he’s about to give a genuine answer and you snatch the phone back, keeping it on speaker but growling into the receiver- “Munson. Thin. Ice.”

Playing nice, you set the chunk of plastic back down and ask, demure- “What did you call Steve’s wine choice, again?”

Eddie answers immediately, likely believing the speaker was turned off since it was your voice last- “What, ditchwater? Honey, we’re actively dating a guy who got half his tastebuds singed off in the underworld- wouldn’t trust his recommendations further than I can throw. And you know I’ve got the arm of a Little Leaguer.”

Steve’s mouth drops open again but this time it’s in righteous indignation and shock, a hank of soft hair falling over his brow when he leans in on his elbows to hiss- “Says the guy who drank half a bottle of melon liqueur and passed out in my bushes Sophomore year.”

Eddie chortles, delighted at having been caught- “Whatcha gonna do, Stevie? Spank me about it?”

Speakerphone was probably not a great call but you can’t find yourself caring too much, instead soaking in the bickering of your two most beloveds over a glass of wine that tastes of nothing but its color.

#love u Sarah this one goes out to youuuu #steddie #steddie x reader #eddie munson x reader #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things fic #mdni

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moonstruckme · 1 day ago

Note

Hey! 👋🏼 Ty for taking the time to write such eloquent and inspiring fluffy works for us!

I'm a writer as well, and what I've read of yours (most of your marauders in the last 2 days 🫣) has scratched an itch I've had for inspiration! This is greatly appreciated!

I was wondering if you'd mind writing something for Gn!reader and poly!Wolfstar where one of them aren't well (a cold or flu perhaps?) and reader cares for them, convinced they won't catch whatever the other has. But, it inevitably happens anyway and then they're all miserable and help each other through it? Muggle AU or whatever you're comfortable with. :)

If not, no worries! I just love your writing style and it's refreshing!

Have a fantastic day!

Thanks for your request babe <33

poly!wolfstar x gn!reader ♡ 711 words

“Rem.” You kiss your boyfriend’s temple, trying to wake him gently. “Remus.”

He hums, a tired, croaky sound. His face turns further into the pillow.

“Sorry, lovely. Your soup’s going to get cold.”

Remus cracks an eyelid. “Oi,” he grunts. “Get away.”

You let out a breathy laugh, sitting up. “Gosh, you’re so sweet when you’re sick. Aren’t I lucky?”

“You’re going to be sick too if you’re not careful,” he says, though he scoots into an upright position against the pillows of the bed once he sees the soup you’ve made him sitting on the nightstand. You pass it to him. “Thank you, love.”

“Don’t mention it.” You lift your hand, brushing some hair aside to feel his forehead. “How’s your throat?”

As if reminded to do so, Remus makes a gravelly throat-clearing noise before blowing on a spoonful of soup. “Better, I think.”

You make a pitying sound, stroking your thumb over his temple.

There’s a tsk from behind. You turn to find Sirius carrying in a cup of tea. He levels you with a reproachful look.

“You’re begging to get sick.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not.”

“S’what I told them,” says Remus.

“I never catch the flu,” you defend yourself.

“Just…” Sirius sets Remus’ tea down on the nightstand, taking you by the hips to pull you a few inches down the bed. “Let’s keep some distance from patient zero here. Not that I don’t love you,” he says to Remus with a saccharine smile, “because I do, but I don’t need to miss my work party on Friday because this one felt cuddle deprived.”

“Totally understand.” Remus slurps his soup.

You frown. “It’s nothing so wholly selfish as cuddle deprivation. If I wanted those, I could just get them from—” You’re cut off when a bit of phlegm gets caught in your throat. You clear it hastily. “From you.”

Sirius’ eyebrows have inched upwards. “No, I don’t think you could. You’re catching it already.”

“I am not,” you say, but you can’t help coughing a couple of times. “Sorry, there’s just something stuck in my throat.”

Remus groans. Sirius pins you with a glare.

“Get in the bed.”

Unfortunately, despite Sirius’ best efforts, Friday morning finds all three of you sniffling and foggy-headed, each too warm to tell if the others have a fever.

“Two blankets is plenty,” Remus reasons with Sirius.

“I’m freezing.”

“I’m sweltering.”

“I’m going to make tea.” You haul yourself upright, dragging one of Sirius’ three requested blankets with you like a cape.

“Oh.” Remus sounds hesitant. “I’m sorry, lovely, I ran us out of honey last night. I’ll go to the co-op.”

You try not to let your shoulders slump too obviously with disappointment. Or to curl up on the floor, or to start crying, or any of the things you’d really like to do.

“That’s alright,” you say. “I can just dissolve a cough drop in it. It’ll work the same.”

Sirius whines. “Baby, that sounds pathetic.”

“I’ll only be a few minutes.” Remus starts to rise. “We need more tissues anyway.”

“No,” you and Sirius say at the same time.

“The last time we let you go on an errand,” says Sirius, “we found you nearly passed out in the lift.”

Remus’ already flushed cheeks turn a deeper pink. “I did have all the groceries, though.”

“I’m calling James,” you announce.

“No,” Sirius and Remus chorus.

“Why not?”

“Lily said if we got him sick, she was going to take Harry to her parents’ and leave us to take care of him.”

“James invented the man cold,” Remus tells you, sniffling. “It would be awful.”

“Fine, then I’ll go to the store.”

“No, come here.” Sirius reaches for you, wrestling you back down onto the bed. His warm cheek presses to your clammy forehead. “I’ll do it, I’ll call James. We’ll just tell him to leave the stuff outside the door.”

“You know he’s going to want to come in,” says Remus, though he reclines against the pillows again with a relieved sigh.

“Yes, well.” Sirius sets his lips to your temple. “Better to risk a whiny James than one of you keeling over on the sidewalk, I suppose.”

“I did not keel over.”

“Hush, darling. You’re growing delirious.”

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spicyschemmenti · 2 days ago

Text

SOMEHOW, SHE'S IN CHARGE ➫ casey novak

pairing: casey novak x bumbling idiot!fem!reader

synopsis: casey is prepared for a lot of things in her career. grueling cases, tough defense attorneys, and long nights buried in paperwork. what she isn’t prepared for is discovering that the new district attorney is the same woman she just watched pour orange juice into her coffee

warnings: reader puts herself in awkward and embarassing situations, reader is clumsy and chaotic

word count: 1.2k

MASTERLIST

Casey’s day had been going fine. Court had gone smoothly, she only had one more case review before lunch, and she’d managed to avoid running into that adorably chaotic woman who seemed to exist in a constant state of mild distress.

Until now.

She stands in the break room, staring in absolute disbelief as you, the aforementioned human disaster, stir orange juice into your coffee like it’s completely normal. You’re not even paying attention, humming to yourself, wearing an oversized blazer that looks two seconds away from slipping off your shoulder, your hair slightly messy like you forgot to brush it in your rush to work. The lid to the orange juice carton is on the floor, and Casey is pretty sure you didn’t even realize you dropped it.

"You, uh… you meant to do that?" she asks, tilting her head.

You blink like you just remembered she was there. "Huh?"

Casey gestures vaguely to the abomination in your hands. "The coffee. The orange juice. You just—" She waves her hand, unable to even finish the sentence.

"Oh! Yeah." You take a sip, and your face immediately contorts in regret. "Oh, wow, that is so bad."

"Yeah," Casey deadpans. "Shocking."

You make a small, suffering noise and set the mug down, like you don’t even trust yourself to hold it anymore. Then, as if the universe needs to hammer home just how much of a mess you are, you spin to throw something in the trash and promptly knock over an entire stack of case files that were sitting on the counter.

Papers scatter across the floor. You freeze. Casey closes her eyes for a brief moment, inhaling like she’s gathering strength.

"Cool," you mutter to yourself, hands on your hips as you stare at the chaos you’ve just created. "Super cool."

Casey sighs and kneels down, helping you gather the papers. "You always like this?" she asks, handing you a file.

"Oh, yeah. Whole life," you say with an exasperated smile. "I mean, it’s mostly fine! Just little things. Like, this morning I tripped getting out of bed, and my coffee maker kind of exploded, and then I dropped my phone in a puddle, but—" you hold up a finger, like you’re about to make an excellent point—"I got here on time! Which is more than I can say for yesterday."

Casey just stares at you. Who lets you operate heavy machinery?

She’s already mentally filing you away as someone she’s going to have to keep an eye on—not in a bad way, just, you know, to make sure you don’t accidentally set the office on fire—when a voice interrupts.

"Ms. Novak?"

She turns to see one of the junior attorneys standing in the doorway. "Are you ready for your meeting with the DA?"

"Yeah, just—" she stands, brushing dust off her skirt. "Where are they?"

The attorney gestures toward you. You.

Casey looks at you. You give her a sheepish little wave, still clutching a file upside down.

"You're the DA?" Casey blurts out before she can stop herself.

"Uhh… yeah?" You say it like even you can’t believe it. "Newly appointed! Just started last week. You know, whole ‘shiny new District Attorney’ thing. Trying my best. Not setting things on fire, so, y’know… that’s a win."

Casey squints at you. You are holding a coffee cup full of orange juice. There is a very real possibility that you misplaced your own office keys at some point today. This person is running the DA’s office.

"Uh-huh," Casey mutters, rubbing her temples. "Right. Okay. Cool."

"Anyway!" you say brightly, rocking on your heels. "We should totally get to that meeting before they send a search party."

And then you walk directly into the doorframe.

Casey groans. "I need a stronger coffee."

Casey follows you to the meeting room in a state of mild shock, clutching her coffee like it’s the only thing tethering her to reality. You, this complete and utter disaster of a human, are the District Attorney. The head of the office. The person she technically answers to.

She sneaks a glance at you as you walk, still a little dazed from the revelation. Your oversized blazer keeps slipping off your shoulder, and you keep pushing it up only for it to slide right back down. You’re flipping through a file as you walk, mumbling something under your breath, completely oblivious to the way the hallway full of other attorneys keeps subtly moving out of your way, as if they’ve all learned to give you a wide berth for their own safety.

Casey is starting to suspect that you might be a legal genius trapped in the body of a chaotic mess. That’s the only explanation, right? Otherwise, there’s no way you’d have this job.

You finally reach the conference room and push the door open, except it doesn’t move because you’re pulling instead of pushing. You blink at it for a second, clearly confused, before switching tactics and shoving it open with an awkward laugh. Casey, standing right behind you, just closes her eyes and exhales slowly.

Inside, the room is already full of attorneys and detectives, papers spread out across the table. Olivia Benson and Elliot Stabler sit on one side, their expressions unreadable, while some of the ADAs murmur amongst themselves. Casey takes a seat, watching as you drop your files onto the table with an unceremonious thump.

"Alright, folks," you say, clapping your hands together. "Let’s talk case strategy."

You don’t even notice that your coffee cup, which you set down a little too close to the edge, is teetering dangerously. Casey notices. And now, apparently, it’s her job to keep you from causing minor disasters, because she smoothly reaches over and slides the cup to safety before you can knock it onto a detective’s lap. You don’t even register it.

The meeting begins, and Casey is bracing for impact. But then something wild happens.

You start talking about the case, and it’s like flipping a switch.

Your previously scattered energy sharpens into focus as you flip through documents and analyze evidence with an alarming level of precision. You start throwing out legal strategies, breaking down arguments, and countering objections before anyone can even make them. Every time someone raises a concern, you have an answer ready—a good answer.

It’s terrifying.

Casey watches, stunned, as you pick apart a potential defense strategy like it’s nothing, completely in your element. You lean forward, tapping a document with your pen, your once-awkward movements now deliberate and confident. Even Stabler, who usually looks unimpressed by everything, is giving you an appraising nod.

This… this makes no sense.

Not even ten minutes ago, you were drinking orange juice coffee. You almost took yourself out by walking into a doorframe. And now you’re making legal arguments that even Casey wouldn’t have thought of?

Who are you?

Then, in the middle of a brilliant breakdown of jury strategy, you gesture a little too enthusiastically and send your pen flying across the table.

It lands in front of Olivia with a soft clink.

The room goes silent for a second.

You blink at it.

Then, with absolutely zero shame, you just point at Olivia and say, "That’s yours now."

Olivia snorts. The tension in the room breaks, and a few people chuckle. You just keep going like nothing happened, diving back into your strategy like the absolute menace you are.

Casey drops her head into her hand, suppressing a groan.

She has no idea how you exist, but she’s starting to suspect she’s never going to be bored again.

#spicyschemmenti #casey novak #casey novak x reader #casey novak x female reader #casey novak x you #x fem!reader #x female reader #x female y/n #x reader #law and order svu #law and order special victims unit #special victims unit #svu #l&o svu

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nevarrhoe · 2 days ago

Text

mea culpa (m.m) - 2

SUMMARY: "mea culpa" (exclamation - noun/legal term)

used as an acknowledgement of one's fault or error.

↪ in which matt murdock accidentally falls in love with the district attorney's daughter.

warnings: smut, angst, swearing, fem! reader

masterlist

It was a little hard to stop thinking about Matthew Murdock over the next few days.

Nevermind the fact he’d left hickeys all over your neck - it was the fact he was texting you every few hours with absolutely indescribable fantasies that made it difficult to think about anything else. Your blood would run cold every time your phone buzzed, just on the off chance that one of your friends, or god forbid your father, see your phone screen. It put you on edge in the best way. This entire thing was already beyond fucked up for more than one reason and yet, you wanted more. So much more.

Can’t wait to taste you again.

Can’t wait to hear you scream my name again.

Hope you haven’t been thinking about anyone else.

And it was funny, really, because Matt was a perfectly respectable man from the outside. Quiet, unassuming, a dry sense of humour - you never would have taken him of all people to be the one to make you feel so fucking alive. It wasn’t just how good he was in bed, but rather the thrill of it all. Nothing got your motor running like a situation’s potential to disappoint your father but hey. That was for your therapist to deal with.

Of course, your father had asked several questions about where you’d disappeared too after the gala on Friday. He was more concerned about it had looked for him, and to have his daughter run out on a big charity event. Your mother had been less worried about that part, and more about her vintage Chanel suit. You’d settled both their worries by a) telling your father you’d had stomach problems (because who was gonna ask about that?) and b) promising to send the Chanel off to a dry cleaner.

It was on a slow Monday afternoon - exactly three days after you’d met him - that Matt sent you a not so dirty text. It was so casual, in fact, that it caught you more off guard than any of the filth he’d sent you over the weekend.

Wanna grab lunch?

“Are you okay, honey?”

You blinked, eyes shooting up to your best friend. Okay, maybe not a best friend - those were hard to come by in high-society. She was your most tolerable friend. It had been her idea to get martinis for lunch. Your idea of fun wasn’t exactly sitting around with five rich girls and their daddy’s credit cards but it wasn’t like you had work to do, right?

Part of you so badly wanted to tell them about the escapade over the weekend - about how much better an older guy was than all their ridiculous, frat-house boyfriends, and how good he’d made you feel. But did you trust them? Not with your damn life. And for risk of being cut out of your father’s will, you figured it was something to keep to yourself.

“Yeah,” you cleared your throat. “I gotta ditch. My dad needs me to get something from his office.”

Grabbing your jacket - a tan Chanel parka, naturally - you slid out of the booth and straight out of the restaurant. Matt’s number was dialed into your phone before you even hit the street.

“Matthew, hi!” you greeted him. “I’m down for lunch.”

“Perfect,” you could hear the smile in his voice. “Wanna come by my office?”

“Sure. Want me to grab takeout?”

“It’s okay. I already have lunch here.”

“Okay. Text me the address.”

–

The Nelson & Murdock office wasn’t too far from where you’d been. Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t exactly your stomping ground but your Uber had dropped you off right outside, and you had a taser in your bag. Not to mention the years of Krav Maga and karate that you’d done in high school and college. You could have been a damn vigilante if you wanted to.

It was the shorter, Nelson half of Nelson and Murdock that saw you first. He seemed taken aback at first - maybe by your expensive appearance, but also maybe because every other person in the room was a middle-aged man there for free legal advice. By the looks of your Chanel bag and red-soled shoes, he figured you probably didn’t need any legal advice for free. Especially not from him. It seemed much more apparent that you had the likes of Jeri Hogarth in your pocket should you need any legal assistance.

“Hello. Hi.” Foggy greeted you with wide eyes. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Uh, no,” you turned around to face him, sticking out your hand. “You’re Nelson, right?”

“I am Nelson,” he replied, shocked look still not faltering. “How do you know my name?”

“I’m a friend of Matt’s,” you explained. “I don’t suppose he’s around?”

Speak of the devil. Your conversation was cut short by Murdock’s entrance. He looked hot in a suave sort of way; tie loosened around his neck, top button undone and sleeves rolled up. It was the first time you’d seen him since you’d left his apartment early on Saturday morning and frankly, you didn’t know how to act. Most of the men you slept with didn’t invite you to their offices for lunch - hell, most of them didn’t have offices.

“Hey, Murdock,” you gave him a small wave.

“Hey - come in,” Matt shot you a grin, ushering over to his own office in the corner.

It was neater than you’d thought it would be; there was a laptop perched on his desk, with a braille translator and a stack of legal files. They were probably the same legal files your dad had, just..the other side of the story. After all, Nelson and Murdock were known for looking out for the little guy. That was much more admirable than daddy dearest and his famously corrupt evidence.

“Your shirt fits better today,” you commented, shrugging off your jacket. “That’s a real shame.”

“Is that a comment about my arms or the way I dress?”

“I think you know that it’s about your arms.”

You pushed aside the files, hopping up onto Matt’s desk. He had you caged in within a second, broad hands gripping your hips and guiding you up into a kiss. It was a little softer than the ones you’d shared on Friday night - there was less heat; a causal air to it. You didn’t think it was possible to miss the lips of a man you’d fucked exactly once.

“So,” you murmured against him. “You said you had lunch here.”

“I do,” Matt gave you a shit-eating grin. “You.”

“Matthew!” you hissed, hitting his shoulder. “Did you seriously invite me over here just for a fuck?”

“Not exactly!” he quickly replied, raising his hands in surrender. “I wanted to check in with you and see how you were.”

“Oh, okay,” you raised an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. “I’m not too bad. I was having lunch with some of my friends when you texted-”

Matt suddenly attached his lips to your neck, teeth gently nipping on the same mark he’d left a few days ago. You didn’t mean to let out a moan, but how could you not?

“Matthew!” you exclaimed again.

“No, go on!” he stopped for a second. “I’m listening. You were having lunch with your friends and…”

“And you texted and I was bored, so I left and - Jesus fucking Christ, that feels so good.”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “You left your friends to see me?”

“I would leave my dying Aunt Betty’s bedside to see you,” you said. Without a second thought, you grabbed him by the tie and pulled him back towards you. “Enough catching up. I’m good to have lunch now.”

He gave you a grin and a few moments later, his hands found your way under your ass. Matt shoved aside the pile of legal papers and moved you further onto the desk, lips back on your neck and working a thousand times harder than they had before. Instinctively, you tangled a hand in his hair and just let him have at it.

The build-up wasn’t as tense as it had been the first time you fucked, but that was because Matt knew you better now. He pretty much had you memorised; the ticklish spot on your neck, the most sensitive spot on your hips, the way you liked his nails to dig into your back just enough to hurt. That was just a testament to him. Who else would remember that? Who else would take the time to learn what you liked after just once?

“Not that I don’t enjoy this,” Matt paused for a second. “But my lunch break isn’t that long. If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna have to be quick.”

“You’re real cheap, Matthew Murdock,” you scowled. “Do you invite all girls over here for a fuck disguised as lunch and then rush them?”

“No, not all of them,” he shot back. “Some are more breakfast kinda gals-”

“- oh shut the fuck up.”

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pulled him back into a kiss. Matt couldn’t help but smile against you - at how badly you wanted him, how you chastised him but still didn’t stop him.

It was in that moment that you thanked every deity there was that you’d chosen to wear a skirt that day. But frankly, you wouldn’t have given a fuck if Matt had ripped your Versace mini-skirt to shreds. He would have been okay with that too, especially if it meant you have to borrow a shirt of his to leave in.

Still, Matthew Murdock was nothing if not respectable - at least enough so not to destroy your designer clothes. Instead, he simply pushed it up, large hands making their way to your ass cheeks and giving one of them a light slap. You froze when he did - how many clients were out there in the waiting room right now? Even with the blinds closed and the door shut, how many of them could hear what was going on?

“Problem?” Matt paused.

“There are people out there who could hear us-”

“- not with the air conditioning on. Foggy always has it going. Don’t worry.”

You scowled. “How do you know that?”

“Just do.”

Matt wasted no time in resuming his activities. Grabbing you by the hips again, he lifted you with ease and spun you around so that he was the one on the desk, and you were in his lap. The friction of his hard-on in his trousers against your core was almost unbearable and he could tell you were desperate by the way your grip on him suddenly tightened.

“Look at you,” he grinned. There was something about the way his voice dropped four octaves every time he was about to fuck you. “You’re calling me sloppy but you’re gagging for it, aren’t you?”

You let out a small grumble, shaking your head. “I thought you didn’t have time to tease?”

“You’re lucky that I don’t have time to do a lot of the things I want to do to you, sweetheart,” he said. “Everyone out there would be able to hear me fucking you if I didn’t have to be back in twenty minutes.”

“Matthew,” you growled. “I don’t care how long you have - if you’re not inside me in the next thirty seconds, I’m going somewhere else.”

“I didn’t think there would be many men around at this time willing.”

You let out a derivative snort, acrylic nails dragging down his neck and hand settling ever so gently on his throat. “You think I don’t have plenty of offers? You’re not the only man who can make me scream.”

It was almost like your words awakened something in Matt. In a flash, he’d pulled you off the desk and positioned you against it; there was the sound of his belt and a second later, his dick was inside you. Rock hard and beautiful, and the perfect length to have you clenching around him in mere fucking seconds.

He wasted no time in pounding into you from behind, one hand tangling his fingers with yours on the desk and the other wrapped around your throat. You had complete and utter trust in him and maybe that was why you placed your own hand over his and encouraged him to squeeze harder.

Matt’s movements were rapid and consistent: time was of the essence after all, and there was no way in hell he was going back to work until you came.

It didn’t take much, to be honest. Not when you had his gruff voice muttering things in your ear. It was hard not to make noise then - Matt moved his hand from your throat accordingly, clutching it over your mouth in an attempt to muffle your moans. What an ass. Not to mention that it only made you even fucking louder.

“Do they make you feel this good?” he teased. “Do they?”

He managed to hit the right spot over and over and it wasn’t long before you felt that knot in your stomach. It was a plunge; like a plane falling out of the sky, anything that caused a sharp drop in your gut. The room was practically spinning around you as you came undone, red acrylics digging into the skin of Matt’s arm for some kind of relief.

“There we go, sweetheart,” Matt murmured. He softened his pace, slowing down for a minute to revel in his own high. “Good girl.”

He released his hand from your mouth, chest heaving against your back for a minute as you both came down from your respective orgasms. A broad arm wrapped around your waist, steadying you. Matthew Murdock was a gentleman, even when he was rearranging your guts.

You slowly turned around to face him, pulling him into another desperate kiss.

“Are you free tomorrow night?” Matt softly asked.

“Yeah, I am,” you ran a hand down his chest, faltering for a second. “Why? You gonna take me out for dinner?”

“Yeah, but an actual meal. It’s not a euphemism, I promise,” he gave you a grin.

You returned the gesture for a minute, a wide smile on your face - but then it faltered. “Matthew, I would love for you to take me on a date, and I adore spending time with you but…”

“But what?”

“My dad,” you groaned, dropping your head into his shoulder. “If anyone catches me with you, I’m done for - as hot as that is.”

Matt couldn’t help but chuckle. “Okay, fine. What if we just hang out at my apartment and get take out? You can dress like a slob and no-one will see us.”

“Yeah, that sounds great,” your smile quickly returned. “But I am not dressing like a slob. I wear Chanel or I wear nothing.”

“I would much prefer it if you wore nothing.”

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock imagine #matt murdock imagines #matt murdock smut #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock reader insert #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x fem! reader #daredevil x reader #daredevil imagines #daredevil imagine #daredevil smut #daredevil angst #daredevil reader insert #daredevil x fem! reader #daredevil #matt murdock #daredevil born again

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joaosnovia · 2 days ago

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Hiii!! I've been thinking about this for a while, and I feel like you're the best person to write it. Something where the reader and Kenan are getting involved, spending time together, but no one knows. They don’t follow each other on Instagram and try not to like each other’s posts so no one gets suspicious. She told him it would be the best way to avoid gossip since she’s the daughter of a famous retired football player and wants to keep things low-key. But after a night together, Kenan tells her he's tired of hiding, that he wants her at his games, and that he doesn't care about all that. Still, she keeps avoiding it. There's an important match in two days, and he really wants her to be there. Then, out of nowhere, her dad decides to visit and takes the chance to watch the game. She texts Kenan, telling him that his wish is coming true—she’ll be there, and no one will suspect anything. The game is amazing, and she ends up appearing on the big screen next to her father. Those images start circulating on football pages because everyone is fascinated by how stunning the ex-player’s daughter is. This brings a lot of attention to her, and suddenly, some bolder footballers start following her. Kenan does not like that…

I feel like there could be more to this, but I can’t think of an ending. I know you can turn this into gold!

❦ - hidden in plain sight.

summary:: what the req says + i honestly wouldn’t be able to tell u bc i didn’t proofread this and i wrote it like last week (idek if this even follows the req but im posting this otw to school?)

warnings:: uhhh none

writers note:: RIGHT so i think im people favourite kenan writer bc the reqs just keep coming (i love you guys pls don’t ever stop my cuties!) anyways enjoy 💔.

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp @universefcb ; lmk if you wanna be added or removed!

kenan leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching as you slip one of his hoodies over your bare shoulders. it’s too big, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips, but you wear it anyway. you always do. the early morning light filters through the curtains, casting a golden glow on your skin, making the moment feel softer than it really is.

you’ve spent the night together, again, but as always, you’ll be gone before the world wakes up. it’s your unspoken rule.

but something feels different this morning. there’s a weight in the air, something unspoken lingering between you. you can feel kenan’s eyes on you as you tie your hair into a loose ponytail, as you reach for your bag. normally, he lets you go without a fight. normally, he kisses you once more, watches you walk out the door, and waits for the next time.

but today, he doesn’t just let it go.

‘you really think this is still working?’ his voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it.

you pause, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. ‘what do you mean?’

‘this. us. hiding like this.’

you turn to look at him, his expression unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes, frustration, longing, something deeper than either of you have ever acknowledged out loud.

he steps forward, his hands slipping around your waist, pulling you closer. ‘i want you at my games. i want to see you in the stands, wearing my jersey, cheering for me. i want to go out with you without having to think twice about who’s watching.’ his fingers tighten just slightly, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. ‘and i don't care who knows.’

your heart clenches, but you force yourself to shake your head. ‘kenan… you know why we do this. the second people find out, it won’t be about us anymore. it’ll be about my dad, about gossip, about every little thing i do. and then there’s your career-‘

‘my career?’ he scoffs, his jaw clenching. ‘you think i give a damn about what people say? i want you. that’s it.’

you look up at him, searching his face for something, understanding, patience, anything to make this easier. but all you see is frustration and something deeper, something that scares you.

‘kenan…’ your voice is soft, uncertain.

‘no. i’m tired of this, babe.’ his hands tighten on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away just like every other morning. ‘i want you there. i want you to be able to post a picture of us without thinking twice. i want to hold your hand in public without looking over my shoulder.’

you want that too. god, you do. but it’s not that simple. it’s never been that simple.

‘please,’ he says, voice lower now. ‘come to my game.’

you don’t answer. you just press a kiss to his jaw and step back, reaching for your bag. ‘i’ll see you later, kenan.’

he watches as you leave, jaw tight, hands clenched into fists like he’s fighting the urge to chase after you. but he doesn’t. he never does.

two days later.

you’ve been avoiding the topic. every time your phone lights up with kenan’s name, you hesitate before answering, knowing exactly what he wants to say.

then, out of nowhere, your dad calls.

‘thought i’d come visit for a few days,’ he says casually. ‘been a while since i saw you. figured we could catch up, and… oh, i got us tickets to that big juventus match. i know you don’t care much, but come on, it’ll be fun.’

your heart stops.

kenan’s game.

the universe has a twisted sense of humor.

when you text kenan, your hands are shaking, half from nerves, half from something else.

you’re getting your wish. i’ll be at the game. no one will suspect a thing.

his reply is instant.

finally.

match day.

the stadium is packed, the energy electric. cameras flash everywhere, fans wave banners, the roar of the crowd vibrates through your chest. you sit next to your dad, pretending this is just another game, just another night. but it’s not. you know it. and kenan knows it too.

you try not to look for him, but it’s impossible. every time he gets the ball, every time he makes a play, you feel his presence like gravity pulling you in. and then, in a moment so brief you almost think you imagined it, he looks up, right at you.

you don’t breathe.

he smirks. just for a second. just for you.

then the screen shifts.

your face. your dad’s. plastered across the big screen for the entire stadium to see.

your stomach drops.

your dad laughs, nudging your arm. ‘guess they like seeing an old legend in the crowd, huh?’

you force a smile, but your pulse is racing.

the internet moves fast. by the time the game ends, pictures are everywhere, sports pages, football accounts, gossip sites. ex-player’s stunning daughter spotted at big match. the comments flood in. admiration. curiosity. and then… attention. the kind you didn’t want.

your notifications blow up. blue check accounts start following you. some of them are footballers, bold enough to slip into your dms, dropping fire emojis, compliments, invitations.

and kenan?

he’s livid.

later that night.

you’re in your apartment when he shows up, not even bothering to knock.

‘so that’s what it takes for you to show up at one of my games? your dad bringing you?’ his voice is sharp, but underneath it, there’s something else. jealousy. frustration. something that makes your chest tighten.

you cross your arms, shifting your weight. ‘kenan, don’t—’

‘don’t what? act like i didn’t see how many guys suddenly started following you? or how you ignored my texts but had time to post?’

‘oh my god, are you serious right now?’ you let out a short, humorless laugh. ‘this is exactly why i didn’t want us to go public. the second people know, it becomes a thing.’

he steps closer, his jaw clenched. ‘this isn’t about people knowing. it’s about you acting like you don’t want to be seen with me.’

that hits harder than you expect. you open your mouth, then close it, unsure what to say.

kenan shakes his head. ‘you think hiding protects us, but all it does is push me away.’

you swallow hard, because deep down, you know he’s right.

‘you’re mine,’ he says, voice lower now, rough with emotion. ‘and i want people to know that. so tell me right now. do you want this or not?’

the answer is easy. it’s always been easy.

you step closer, press your hands to his chest, feel his heartbeat pounding beneath your fingertips. ‘of course i want this, kenan.’

his lips crash into yours before you can say anything else, months of frustration, longing, and unspoken words pouring into the kiss. he backs you against the wall, hands firm on your waist, like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s had to pretend you weren’t his.

when you finally pull away, breathless, he smirks. ‘good. because next time i look up in the stands, you better be there, and not because your dad brought you.’

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. ‘fine. but if i show up, i’m wearing your jersey.’

kenan grins, hands still tight on your waist. ‘now that’s what i like to hear.’

#football x reader #football one shot #football fluff #football x y/n #football x you #kenan yildiz x y/n #kenan yildiz x you #kenan yildiz x reader #kenan yildiz

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