“ugh! stupid screw” you groan as you struggle with a screw on the hinge of your broken kitchen cabinet.
your hair is up and out of your face as you stand on your kitchen counter, trying to secure the cabinet door.
you jump slightly when you hear the door to your apartment open.
“uh hello?” you call out.
“you’ve gotta start locking your damn door, woman” a familiar voice scolds. you sigh in relief.
“hi kuna! in the kitchen!” you call out. still struggling with the screw.
“you’re gonna get robbed one of these days” he scoffs as he walks into the kitchen. “what the hell are you doing?”
“what the hell does it look like i’m doing? use your eyes” you roll your eyes. “this fucking screw won’t work” you mutter to yourself.
“do you need help?” he asks, setting his keys on the counter.
“no. just make yourself at home. we can order food if you want.” you say, focused on getting the screw in the hinge.
“do you know what you’re doing, ma?” he tilts his head, crossing his arms as he watches you with a smirk.
“i swear if you start mansplaining to me how to fix a fucking cabinet i will throw this screwdriver at your head and break up with you.” you say, shooting him a glare.
“i’m not mansplaining shit, baby. jus’ tryna help my girl” sukuna says, walking closer to you.
“i don’t need help. i can fix things myself. i don’t need a man to fix things for me” you scoff.
sukuna’s expression softens. he sighs as he reaches to put his hand on your leg.
“ma.” sukuna says in a firm but gentle tone, which makes you pause to look over at him.
“what..” you say quieter.
sukuna pats the counter, gesturing for you to sit. you sigh and do so. he stands between your legs, his large hands on your hips.
“i would never try to reduce you to anything other than an independent, badass woman. i fuckin love that about you. but it’s okay to have someone help you every now and then. especially if you’re struggling. kay? you go hop in the shower, ma. i’ll fix the cabinet and order some food. sound good?” sukuna says, placing your tank top strap back on your shoulder as it was falling.
“…fine” you sigh, leaning onto his shoulder. he rubs your back for a few moments.
“alright. c’mon. go clean up so you feel better. want me to run you a bath instead?” sukuna asks.
“no, i’ll do it myself” you say, hopping off the counter and walking to the bathroom. a few seconds later you peak your head around the wall. “hey kuna?”
sukuna turns his head.
“hm?”
“i love you” you say softly. sukuna forms a soft smile.
“i love you, baby” sukuna winks. you roll your eyes with a smile as you turn to walk back to your bathroom as sukuna refocuses on the cabinet.
a pushy regular crosses the line one too many times, and steve steps in before you can weaponize your heels.
bet u wanna meet the reader ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
pairing: steven harrington x diva!reader
warnings: fem!reader, post-upside down peacecore, aged up steve (around 32-33), also unmentioned age gap (r is like 24-25) , small business owner steve again!!, boss!steve x employee!reader, verbal harassment, sexual harassment (verbal, non-explicit), a misogynistic piece of shit, alcohol mention, feminine rage, reader tries to use her heel as a weapon just like sabrina carpenter in the tears music video, protective steve activated, lots of flirty banter at the end!!!!!!!!, ok i'm done word up
wc: 2k
You can’t stop staring at this man’s teeth. And not in a flirtatious way, but rather, out of strict morbid curiosity. The same reflex that makes you rubberneck highway pileups and squint at energy drink labels.
They’re decaying at the root. A couple in the front jutting sideways from a few too many bar fights you imagine.
You’re not a dentist, but you are deeply afraid of gum disease, and fear is basically a credential if you think about it long enough.
You wonder if it’s the seltzers. Or the whiskey he drinks every evening, same stool, same time, same breath leaning a little too close.
He’s a regular. Loud. Touchy. Familiar in a way that assumes access, but he tips well. Really well. Obnoxiously well, if you perform.
If you laugh when he expects it, if you lean in just enough to make him feel special without actually inviting anything, if you pretend you don’t notice the smell or the thousand ways he almost crosses the line.
This probably makes you come across as a judgmental, rude person.
You’re not, though. You’d like to think you’re actually very nice. You say please and thank you. You remember orders. You smile at strangers even when they don’t deserve it.
However. This guy is the human embodiment of a wet ashtray. Like if nicotine and entitlement had a baby and raised it exclusively on cheap beer and unsolicited opinions.
He’s been prowling around Hawkins long enough to think he owns the pavement, the trees, the women behind the counter.
And you — with your city-girl perfume, your shiny lip gloss, your boxes still half-packed and optimism still mostly intact — are just the new girl.
Easy to overlook when it’s convenient. Easier to reduce to something decorative when it’s not.
“They got you closing again, huh?”
You nod without really looking at him, wiping the same clean stretch of counter like it might suddenly reveal something useful if you scrub hard enough.
He’s your last customer left.
Ten more minutes, you think to yourself. He’ll stay for all of them. He always does.
“Mmm,” you hum. “They like to keep me around for morale.”
“Morale,” he echoes, laughing under his breath. “Sure. That’s what they’re calling it these days?”
You don’t rise to it. “We all serve a purpose.”
“If I were runnin’ this place, I’d find a better use for you than pourin’ drinks.”
Bile shoots up your throat so fast it’s honestly impressive you don’t gag audibly. Years of practice.
You swallow it down with a vengeance, refuse to let even a flicker of it reach your face, and instead pivot on your heel like you’ve just remembered something vitally important.
The ice bin. Obviously.
You scrape the scoop around, clink clink clink, and picture him alone later, apartment dim and sticky in that way that suggests bad choices and worse hygiene, couch permanently fused to the floor, TV screaming at nobody because nobody ever stays.
You clink the scoop again, harder this time. If you do it long enough, maybe he’ll take the hint. Or choke.
Either way works.
You aren’t so lucky, however.
“Wouldn’t take much,” he continues. “You could make a hell of a lot more off the clock. Hell, I’d pay.”
Motherfucker.
There’s a hot, furious pressure climbing your throat, like your dignity is halfway to manifesting physical form just to slap him itself.
Screw the tip. Seriously. Screw the tip, screw being polite, screw every single time you’ve laughed something off instead of burning it to the ground.
Your brain floods with responses — sharp ones, mean ones, elegantly humiliating ones — each better than the last. You could ruin his night. You could ruin his self-image. You could make him think about this interaction every time he looks in a mirror for the rest of his natural life.
However, when you straighten up, you hit a wall. A warm one. A broad one.
Steve.
You almost eat his shirt. That’s how close he is. You swear the breath knocks out of you on impact, your body going full ragdoll as you slam the brakes just short of ramming into his chest.
You clamp down on a sound that would’ve been humiliating in a different way and blink up at him, brain scrambling to reorient.
You were mad a second ago, weren’t you?
There was a whole speech forming, something about men with no concept of personal space and bar etiquette and how you’re not a goddamn prop in their weird little fantasy.
But it manages to flit away at the sight of him. How very curious.
You weren’t expecting him. You were so sure he wasn’t working tonight. He mentioned something about a friend — Dustin? Yes, definitely Dustin.
Something a game night, maybe.
You hadn’t been listening all that closely because he’d been wearing a backward hat at the time and the sleeves of his shirt had been straining around his arms in a way that made concentration a lost cause.
He taps your side. A directive. And you move instantly because unfortunately for you, your body has decided he’s your boss (which he is) or Jesus (this could also be plausible) or both (most likely scenario).
It’s kind of hot, which is probably an issue for later.
He plants himself in front of you like a one-man riot shield, blocking out the blinding fluorescent spotlight of that man’s gaze.
He’s shaking. Just a little. His muscles strain, tight and coiled, hands braced hard against the bar, knuckles bleaching white.
You have this fleeting, ridiculous thought that the wood might splinter under his grip.
“So this is what’s gonna happen,” he says, and it’s so direct, so firm, you almost snap to attention like you’re in basic training or about to get scolded for misusing the soda gun. The guy says nothing, which is either the first smart thing he’s done all night or a sign of a mild concussion from being hit with the full brunt of Steve’s disapproval. “You’re gonna pay for your tab, tip generously for wasting her time, and head out. Sound good?”
You don’t breathe. You’re not sure you even can.
“Because if not,” Steve adds, leaning in ever so slightly, “we’re gonna have a very different conversation.”
“Whoa — hey,” he says, palms lifting slightly. “I was just talkin’. Didn’t mean anything by it.” He cranes his neck, squinting past Steve’s shoulder, like you’re about to step in and vouch for him. “I was complimenting her. That’s all.”
“Right,” you say flatly.
You watch him roll his eyes, a sneer forming, showing all of those not-so-pearly whites you were examining earlier. You imagine they’ll fall out sooner or later.
He doesn’t argue though. Doesn’t apologize either, not that you were expecting him to.
He just exhales through his nose, digs out his wallet with exaggerated patience, and slaps cash on the bar like he’s doing you a favor.
And right as he reaches the door, he tosses it over his shoulder: “Bitch.”
And you’re not sure why (you’ve heard worse) but everything whites out.
Like, literally whites out. Like some kind of fashion-induced berserker mode where all you can see is vengeance and your own reflection in the glassware.
Your heel is off in your hand in half a second, perfectly weighted, weapon-shaped, and your brain is already calculating trajectory and impact radius when Steve’s arm bands across your waist.
“Hey — no,” Steve murmurs, hauling you back against him as you kick uselessly at the air.
“Let me throw it,” you hiss, incandescent. “I could take an eye out. I have excellent aim.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m stopping you.”
He eases you back down to the floor only when the man is halfway down the street, like he’s afraid you’ll try to bolt again.
Which, okay, fair.
“You really should’ve let me,” you murmur, voice dipped in sugar but laced with arsenic. “A little blood never hurt a man’s ego.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want my favorite employee in jail,” Steve says dryly, brushing past you to start cleaning the ring spots the man’s drink left behind.
That’s all it takes for you to perk up.
“Favorite employee, huh?”
Steve snorts without looking at you. “As if that’s a surprise to you.”
“It’s not,” you say breezily, leaning against the counter, chin in your palm. “But I like hearing it. It’s like a little affirmation. Very confidence-boosting. Very workplace wellness of you.”
He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like unbearable.
“Well now I’ve got all this rage and nowhere to put it,” you sigh.
Steve turns around slowly, squats down, and chucks a rag into the laundry bin under the sink. “I’m not falling for that.”
“Falling for what?”
“The whole ‘I’m full of rage and maybe you should help me burn it off’ routine.”
“Excuse me,” you say, putting your heel down with a little click. “I was going to suggest a nice, cleansing run. Steve Harrington, really. You should be ashamed. Projecting your little fantasies on me like that. Disgraceful.”
A blatant lie.
He tilts his head, slow and patronizing, like he’s indulging you just for fun.
“A run?” he echoes, mouth twitching. “Sure. Just let me know when hell freezes over, and I’ll lace up.”
You hum, and give a one-shouldered shrug as you wiggle your heel back on.
Steve leans against the bar, watching you longer than necessary.
“But seriously, you okay?”
“Please,” you say, “I work behind a bar. That wasn’t even top five.”
You expect him to laugh with you.
You need him to.
Because right now he’s looking at you, all quiet and worried and kind, as if something in you might crack open if he pries gently enough.
And you are not built for those kinda of cracks. You patch over things, you don’t examine them.
You survive with jokes and lipstick and a shoulder-shimmy that says try again, asshole, not tearful honesty in a dimly lit bar.
But Steve doesn’t laugh.
Instead he frowns, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t like being normal for you.”
“Normal is relative,” you say quickly. “When I was living in Chicago, I once had a guy propose to me at a bar while telling me I reminded him of his ex-wife’s sister and then proceeded to say I was exactly the kind of woman men enjoy ruining because I’d still smile after, so like, context. Perspective. The Midwest is lovely! People are much kinder here! Plus, I have you now — well, not like have you, but like, you’re here, and that’s… protective. In a very masculine, boss-adjacent way. So. Yeah.”
You fight the urge to pray to the gods for the ground to open up beneath you.
“Sounds like that guy had a very complicated relationship with women who are out of his league.”
You could cry, honestly. Or kiss him. Or both. Because he clearly knows you well enough to see the panic swimming behind your lashes, the way your sentences get longer and your metaphors get weirder the more uncomfortable you get, and instead of pointing it out, instead of asking again, he just tosses the life raft of flirty sarcasm and lets you climb back into the version of yourself you actually like.
You let out a shaky laugh. “I’d say that sounds about right.”
He watches you for a second, then nods toward the back.
“Why don’t you head out,” he says, “I’ll close up.”
You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “Sure. Real long journey, though. Hope I don’t get winded on the stairs.”
“Need me to walk you up?” he calls after you. “You know, in a very masculine, boss-adjacent capacity.”
You glance over your shoulder and flip him off with all the grace of a pageant wave.
“Not funny.”
He’s still smiling when you’re out of sight.
You didn't see the man at the shop again, not after that night, not once, and you didn't exactly mourn the loss, though a few days later (maybe three, maybe four, you weren't exactly keeping tabs), you did spot him outside the corner store, half-hidden behind a rack of dented chip bags and what looked like the saddest display of beef jerky you'd ever seen.
His eye was black.
Something that might come from someone tall enough to see over excuses and patient enough to wait until witnesses are gone.
You didn't do the math out loud. You didn't need to. Some equations solve themselves.
tw 4 entrie series: obsessed!nettspend x model!reader, reader is unattached and uninterested, nett is golden retriever coded lowkey, weed mentions, slight hints to eating disorders, thats all for now!
lets act like the timestamps on the texts say different days okay? it wouldn’t work and i gave up!
summary — you, in the middle of a live segment with mayor berkowitz, are seconds into questioning him about his suspiciously large office budget when the roof caves in. thank god your emergency contact is clark kent — or, well, superman.
diva!fem!reader , same old shenanigans ;) more
you’re live on air ragebaiting mayor berkowitz, barely listening as he stutters through a deeply boring answer about about city sanitation that you shamelessly phrased as: “so, how does it feel to spend more on gala dinners than fixing, say, literal sewage?”, when the roof above the stage cracks and starts to crumble.
“that is definitely a safety hazard. mayor berkowitz, unless you’re planning to literally bury us under your accounting skills, i suggest we get moving, like, now —” before you can finish, half the roof caves in with a thunderous crash, dust filling the air, cameras wobbling as panic rises in the background.
“alright, everyone,” you bark, voice sharp, commanding. people freeze while you point like a general with lip gloss, “do not run. i want a single line, toward the north stairwell — no elevators, no detours.”
a female voice yelps near the stage and you continue, “if you’re wearing heels, take them off. if you’re wearing flats, congratulations, you’ve won today. leave everything behind, a bag is not worth your life, unless it’s vintage. help anyone who’s slower than you — hurry, this is not a drill, people.”
a lighting rig comes crashing down but you don’t even flinch, you’ve been taught safety by the most heroic there is. though your heart rate ticks up slightly with adrenaline, just a split second faster than usual.
too busy organizing an evacuation in heels, you don’t have the time to feel scared, yet across the city, somewhere above metropolis, someone else felt it.
because your heart rate spiked.
— and he noticed.
in less than three seconds, the air shifts, the building shakes again, but this time, it’s from a comically sonic boom, then, a blur of red and blue crashes through the open skylight. he doesn't look at the mayor, the crumbling ceiling or even the crowd.
just you.
you turn calmly, hands on your hips. "took you long enough, smallville."
clark — superman, is at your side in half a second, worriedly scanning you for injuries , “are you hurt?”
your heart swoons at his gentle expression, he feels it. scoffing, you speak, “sweetheart, a roof threatened to fall near me, not on me.”
his chest rises like he just ran through a war zone, which thinking about it, he most likely did, “your heart rate jumped."
“It was the drama, superman.” you roll your eyes. “i didn’t flatline on camera, i was about to dismantle a local politician, not perish.”
clark’s heroic figure checks you regardless, hands gentle, worried, reverent.
“you scared me.”
you melt, only slightly. the worry in his voice, the way his hands hovered to not break your mighty bravado. it hit you gently, subtly. not enough to make you crack, but enough to make you soften.
perhaps you like how his voice goes tight when you’re near danger.
you hum, lips curving like silk pulled taut. “well, aren’t you just to die for. though, if you really want to help,” you turn around in one elegant movement, hair, set to perfection, doesn’t move an inch. pointing with one manicured finger, you command the room, “let’s get this production team out before someone catches a beam to the head. smallville, keep this building in one piece, will’ya. i’ve got the interns and the dramatics.”
clark hesitates, not out of confusion, but because he’s looking at you like you’ve just rewired the planet’s orbit. he stands there, colorful suit clinging to every inch of that ridiculously lean build, curls perfectly gelled with just one curl hanging down over his forehead in the kind of way that should be a hazard in itself.
glacier blue eyes, mesmerizingly unreal, carved out of daydreams and comic books, are locked on you like he’s seeing a supernova mid-evacuation.
“preferably now, superdork” you snap him out of the haze.
clark — superman, does his part clearing fallen beams, lifting a sound guy with one arm and shielding a grip from another ceiling crack with the other. all while sneaking glances at you, as though you might vanish, like you’ve already unmade him in ways he doesn’t have the words for.
when the last person stumbles out, coughing but safe, you stop and let yourself take in a deep breath.
superman’s cape is slightly scorched, his hair an adorable mess. still — still, he’s watching you like you’re the most hazardous thing in the room.
“still tracking my vitals?” you tease.
clark swallows. “always.”
your kitten heels cross the space like sin, then you let your manicured fingers trace his jaw, other hand sitting perfectly on the famous S pressed proud across his chest.
“then i suggest,” you mutter seductively, lips brushing the stubble at his jawline, “you keep tracking ‘cause when i get home tonight? that spike’s gonna need containment.”
when you catch him off guard with a teasing grin, his ears flush in a shade of pink, betraying the hero beneath the cape who’s way out of his depth when it comes to you.
you grin wickedly.
twelve hours later you’re back in the bullpen, sipping an iced latte, phone screen dimming under the weight of hundreds of notifications.
“you broke twitter,” jimmy announces before you even sit down, spinning in his chair with a look that’s somewhere between astonishment and irritation.
lois doesn’t glance up from her keyboard. “superman broke twitter. y/n broke clark.”
perry storms out of his office waving a printed tweet like it’s damning evidence in a federal case, “superman didn’t land for the mayor, the crowd, or the collapsing ceiling. he landed for her. that’s biblical — what does this mean, is this what journalism has come to?!”
“it means the nation has eyes, perry.” you retort.
you scroll through twitter without shame, the comments are chaos, your mentions are worse.
and then
— he walks in.
clark kent, late and flustered as always, with his shirt somehow still crisp and those adorable glasses sliding down his nose just enough to be unfair. the curl on his forehead is somehow worse than yesterday — so messily charming, so him. he smiles politely, carries too many folders, and nods earnestly as if the world didn’t see him soft-launching his emotional devastation for all of metropolis.
the dark haired journalist deadpans, “congrats on being the reason our city’s most powerful being is officially down bad.”
you shrug, “same old.”
he makes it to your desk, sets down a copy of your headline, and clears his throat like he didn’t practically vaporize a lighting rig to check your pulse yesterday, “morning,” he says softly, pink creeping up his neck.
clark then settles into the chair beside you, careful not to spill the stack of papers in his hands, “you really had me worried,” he murmurs, voice low enough only you can hear.
you glance up, smirk tugging at your lips, “well, i like being the reason your heart races.”
the smile returned is soft and genuine, as if time itself holds its breath for just a moment between you.
this time, that spike in your heart wasn’t adrenaline at all.
i ain’t gonna lie sis i would love to see jack tryna handle some diva ts 😩👀
i was hoping someone would say jack 😩
im taking so much inspo for diva!reader from chappell roan and hayley williams bc hnnnng i love them both so much
minors/ageless blogs dni
i feel like he'd be able to handle a diva. i mean, he's woke as fuck and he clearly doesn't subscribe to the stereotypical traditional family lifestyle of like husband works and wife stays home, you know? he doesn't believe in all the oh, women should be seen and not heard bullshit.
he loves how loud you are. loud about your beliefs, loud about boundaries, loud about making sure people around you are treated right. he loves how loud you laugh and how loud you love, how unafraid of taking no shit or putting someone in their place you are. you're not afraid to be confrontational or set some shit straight, and he admires that.
he loves how loud your makeup is and how loud your outfits are. you always look damn good, dressed up or down. he loves getting to watch you get ready for nights out, the little show he gets. watching you put on your makeup, do your hair, pick an outfit. i feel like he would do his research, too (on top of you getting him lowkey addicted to rupaul's drag race), eventually understanding enough about art of makeup to give suggestions when you ask. you always get giddy and leave a few lipstick prints on his cheek when he gives particularly good suggestions and he's proud to wear them.
Polished. Untouchable. Sharp-tongued. Silk-wrapped. Devastatingly composed. High-maintenance in taste. Low-tolerance for nonsense. All poise. All precision. Dangerously soft when she doesn’t mean to be. Older-man attention. Ren was a blind spot, not a love. A mistake dressed like stability. Safe until it felt humiliating. Quiet ache filled with praise and patience and promises that sounded expensive. Soft lies. Borrowed affection. Sukuna is violent gravity. Mutual destruction. Unwanted intimacy. Heat without safety. Honesty without mercy. Tension. Challenge. A mirror she didn’t ask for.
summary: when Clark and reader meet again for the second time while she’s in distress, they know for a fact the next time they will meet with be planned
A/n: bro I loved writing this one, it’s just a little short one to get me back into posting. I hope u enjoy it💋
“Twice in one week” Superman states beaming down at you with a big goofy smile “-I’m starting the think you like trouble miss.”
“I just seem to attract it, among other things” you reply tilting your head with a grin, completely ignoring the criminal with a now mangled gun being held be his shirt, a disgusted expression on his face from the clear flirting in front of him.
“We might as well make a habit out of this” he grins trying not to look to excited as he brings up the possibility of a planned meeting.
“can you two stop flirting and just take me to jail?”
“Anyway thank you for…saving me. Y’know you should come by the daily planet to let me interview you” you shrug stepping closer while rocking on your heels,a flirtatious smile creeping up on your lips
“yeah? Interview me about what” lingering closer he drops his voice lower for just the two of you.
“your fashion choices, I’m curious about this primary color scheme you got happening” as you laugh softly your hand waves in a gesture to his suit, your other hand resting over your lips to conceal your giggle.
“hmph…sure, i guess it’s a date, I’ll come around next Thursday if I don’t save you from getting robbed again first” he shakes his head while chuckling, hand combing over a stray curls as he unconsciously grooms his appearance.
“bye miss y/l/n” he calls out as you walk out the dark alleyway, eyes trailing your retreating figure
“bye superhunk” you echoed your sweet voice trailing behind you as you walk, pausing to look back at him, hiding your pleased grin at the lopsided smile on his face and the blush spreading across his ears and face
