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mandoalorian · 3 days ago

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a body to break against [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: a night of chinese food, shots, and unexpected camaraderie with the new avengers forces you to confront your place on the team, and it's especially difficult with bucky’s stare lingering on you.

word count: 6200

warnings: 18+ for eventual smut, enemies to lovers, thunderbolts* spoilers, alcohol consumption, mention of family member death, details of physical and emotional abuse, grumpy!bucky, avengers tower fic

masterlist

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You didn’t know what woke you. Maybe it was the absence of weight in the air. Or maybe it was the silence—thick and undisturbed, like something had finally shifted. For a moment, you lay still beneath the blanket, eyes fixed on the ceiling, waiting for the storm to return.

But it didn’t.

You stepped out of the room barefoot, expecting to find Bucky Barnes still haunting the apartment like some cold draft. Instead, the kitchen was empty. The chair he’d claimed last night was vacant, the beer bottle gone. His presence, which had been so sharp and intrusive, had vanished.

And you were relieved.

Until a voice startled you from the table. “Morning,” it said — warm, casual. You turned your head and saw him.

He was younger than you expected. Messy curls, soft features, and a grin that looked like it came easy. Joaquin Torres.

He waved a spatula at you. “Sam said you might be up soon. I made eggs. Hope you’re not vegan.”

You hesitated in the doorway, unsure how to exist in a space that felt suddenly… normal. And then, because your stomach growled before you could think of an excuse, you nodded and stepped in.

Joaquin talked about the grocery store being out of oat milk again, about some neighbour who kept confusing him with his own cousin, and about music. He didn't ask who you were or why you were here. That made it easier.

You ate quietly, letting the rhythm of his voice fill the silence.

When Sam walked in, the room changed. Not with tension—not like it had with Bucky—but with a kind of quiet awareness. He froze in the doorway when he saw you sitting at the table, a plate of half-eaten eggs in front of you, a rare flicker of something soft brushing across his face before he caught it and cleared his throat.

“Morning,” he said, nodding.

You nodded back, unsure if you were more startled by how natural this felt… or by the way Sam looked at you. Like he was trying not to look too long.

He joined you at the table, grabbed a coffee, and the three of you sat like a real group of roommates — almost.

But even as you smiled faintly at something Joaquin said, you felt it: Sam was watching you more closely than before. Like he wanted to say something, he hadn’t quite found the right words for.

The eggs were almost gone. Joaquin had started poking fun at your lack of hot sauce tolerance, making exaggerated wheezing noises every time you reached for your water. You rolled your eyes, but the amusement was genuine — fleeting, but real.

Sam watched the exchange with a half-smile, arms crossed, leaning back in his chair like he was cataloguing something in his mind.

“Hey, Joaquin?” he said suddenly, voice steady but layered.

Joaquin glanced over, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “Yeah, Cap?”

“Can we get a minute?”

Joaquin blinked. Then his eyes flicked between the two of you, his expression comically exaggerated. “Ooooh. Private talk. Say no more.”

You raised a brow. “It’s not—”

He was already standing. “Hey, I support emotionally mature conversations. You want me to pretend I didn’t hear anything, I will. You want me to eavesdrop through the wall, also doable.”

“Joaquin,” Sam said, a warning threaded through the name.

“Going, going,” Joaquin grinned, walking backwards toward the hall. “If either of you cry, I want a full recap.”

You huffed a breath through your nose. Sam waited until the bedroom door clicked shut, and the apartment fell quiet again. Then he turned back to you.

He leaned his elbows on the table, hands laced together.

“I opened my home to you,” he said quietly. “I gave you a safe place. I know it’s only your second day here, but you know I’m on your side. I need two favours from you. I want you to know, they aren’t conditional. You don’t have to answer. You’ll still have a home here, for as long as you need, until you get back on your feet. But I also need you to consider doing the right thing.”

You looked at your plate, then slowly lifted your gaze to meet his.

“I need the truth,” he said. “About your powers.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just sat with it. The truth. The weight of it. The danger in it. Sam was right. You knew what the right thing was. You knew he deserved to hear it.

You swallowed. “I’ve had them… for as long as I can remember.”

Sam didn’t blink.

“Most of the time, it’s just…” You hesitated, unsure how to put it into words that wouldn’t make you sound unhinged—crazy, even. “I can see people’s emotions. Auras. I can feel things — what’s coming, what’s hidden. It’s instinct, but stronger. Like… something crawling under my skin.”

“And the rest of the time?”

You met his eyes.

“Sometimes I spiral,” you said. “Sometimes it’s not just reading emotions. Sometimes I feel this… surge. A force. I can predict people. Their moves. Their lies. I can see through them. And if it gets loud. Too loud…I…”

Sam leaned back a little. Not away — just adjusting. Digesting.

“Have you ever hurt anyone with it?”

You didn’t answer.

That silence was enough.

Sam looked down, nodding once. Then he spoke, voice calm but weighted. “There’s a war in space.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“The New Avengers know. Joaquin knows. The government knows. It’s not public, and it’s not simple, but it’s coming. And if it’s already happening above the atmosphere, it could be a matter of days—weeks, even, before it comes to Earth. We don’t have enough people ready for what’s next. And I need all the help I can get.”

You stared at him. “So this is a recruitment speech?”

“This is me telling you the truth. Which leads to my second favour…” He leaned forward again, tone shifting into something firmer, something that settled into your bones. “I don’t want to sign Bucky’s peace treaty. I don’t trust it. But we both know I’m going to do it. For the greater good. Because we don’t have time for egos,” He paused. “And I’m asking you to do the same. Join us.”

You folded your arms across your chest, more for comfort than defiance.

“You want me to be an Avenger?” You bit your lip, looking down at the table. The proposition made your stomach twist with unspoken anxiety.

“Have you ever wanted to be more?” Sam asked softly. “Because now’s your chance. You’ve already survived so much. But if you step up, you won’t be alone anymore. You’ll have purpose.”

You looked at him. The man who’d picked you up off the street and offered you warmth and protection. A home.

“I’m not a hero,” you said quietly.

Being an Avenger was your brother's dream, not yours.

Sam smiled, just a little. “Neither was I. Until Steve gave me the chance to be. Now, I’m giving you that chance.”

You didn’t answer right away. But something shifted in your chest. The tiniest spark of belief.

And when Sam stood and grabbed the treaty folder from the counter, you didn’t stop him.

You watched him sign it.

And for the first time in a long time, you wondered what it would feel like to stop running — and start becoming.

────✪────

The ride to Avengers Tower was quiet—not tense, but contemplative. Sam sat in the front, flipping through the treaty folder. You didn’t get a chance to read it for yourself, but you had gathered that they were filled with terms authored by Valentina Allegra de Fontaine herself, chairman of O.X.E. and figurehead of the New Avengers. You remembered yesterday, Sam’s passing comment about her being Bucky’s girlfriend.

That had to have been a joke.

Joaquin, in the backseat beside you, kept trying to lighten the mood with whispered jokes and dramatic gasps every time the tower came into view.

“Ever been in the Tower before?” he asked, nudging you.

You shook your head. “No, this is all very new to me.”

“Oh,” he said, eyes wide. “Brace yourself. It's like a reality show in there. But with superpowers and less shame. Maybe.”

“Torres, you haven’t even been to the tower before,” Sam snickered, shaking his head. Joaquin’s cheeks flushed a dusty pink, and you quirked an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Forgive me for trying to impress the lady,” Joaquin grumbled. “Okay, I’ve never been, but I’ve heard a lot about it.”

“I imagine it’s very different now, compared to what it was like when I lived there with Tony, Steve and the rest of them.”

“I would have loved to be part of that.” Joaquin hummed, his eyes filled with dream and longing.

“Yeah, it wasn’t so bad.” Sam reflected with a small smile upon his lips.

The car pulled up to the glass entrance, sleek and towering, the A emblazoned above the doors like a warning more than a welcome. Security scanned your faces — or rather, Sam’s — and let you in.

Inside, it was exactly as Joaquin promised.

Before you could say a word, someone shouted.

“Yelena, stop putting gum in John’s helmet!”

“I’m conducting an experiment!”

“Your experiment almost took out my peripheral vision!”

“Maybe use your brain instead of your biceps for once, huh?”

From across the lobby, a burly man with a strong Russian accent called out, “Does anyone know where I put my beer? It is emotional support.”

You blinked.

Sam sighed beside you. “Welcome to the New Avengers.”

A woman with sharp, blonde hair and electric blue eyeliner passed by, muttering under her breath and typing furiously into a tablet. “I swear to God if Bob drops those milkshakes again—”

Right on cue, a clatter, broken glass and milkshake all over the pinewood floor. Bob, you assumed, stood with wide eyes, examining the mess he had made with an almost delayed response. Again? This wasn’t the first time he had done this?

“Why did you even make so many milkshakes?” Yelena sighed, already grabbing a mop to clean the mess.

“Bucky said we might have guests,” Bob replied, looking genuinely disappointed that his time making milkshakes had been wasted.

“Oh my god,” you murmured.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Joaquin whispered, clearly delighted.

And then, amidst the chaos, a familiar figure appeared — Bucky Barnes. Standing at the top of the stairs in full tactical gear, arms folded, jaw tight. His eyes swept over the three of you, stopping on you for half a second longer than necessary.

He descended slowly, calculated and unreadable.

“Nice of you to show,” he said to Sam. “Been waiting.”

Sam held up the signed treaty. “Got what you wanted.”

Bucky didn’t smile. But he did take the folder, nodding once.

Then his eyes returned to you. Just for a breath.

You met his gaze and said nothing.

Because whatever this was — truce, alliance, manipulation — it wasn’t over. And Bucky Barnes wasn’t just an Avenger.

He was your enemy.

And now you were on his team.

Bucky led the three of you through a winding corridor of glass and steel, toward a meeting room tucked behind reinforced doors. He hadn’t said a word since taking the treaty, and you were fine with that. The less you had to hear his voice, the better.

Still, you could feel his presence — heavy, watchful, tense. And it made your skin crawl.

Joaquin gave you a sympathetic look as the doors closed behind the four of you. “This feels like being summoned to the principal’s office,” he whispered, earning a glare from Bucky that only made him grin wider. “Yup, confirmed.”

Sam ignored them both and took a seat at the table, gesturing for you to do the same. You hesitated — only a beat — before sitting across from Bucky. He opened the folder and flipped through the pages, then set it aside.

“The team’s unstable,” Bucky said bluntly, addressing Sam. “We’re barely functioning. Half the government wants to shut us down. The other half wants to use us as weapons. This treaty… it’s not just a co-leadership agreement. It’s our last shot at legitimacy.”

Sam nodded. “That’s why I signed it. But you know, I still don’t trust the system behind it. This whole thing is like the Accords all over again. Everything that we fought against.”

“I was on Steve’s side that day, regardless of his beliefs. I didn’t care for the politics. Kinda had my own shit going on.” Bucky sighed, running his metal hand through his wavy hair. The metallic black caught a sliver of light and sparkled under the afternoon sun.

“Which is how it’s always been,” Sam frowned. There was that look again. The betrayal. If you hadn’t known any better, you might have thought that Sam and Bucky were ex-lovers, going through the breakup of the century. The tension in the room was sharper than a knife. “You saying you’re okay with being under the control of Val, Congressman?”

“No. No. And I’m not a Congressman anymore,” Bucky corrected like it was an extremely important detail he had to defend himself from. “You know me. You know what I’m trying to do here.”

Sam nodded briefly, something in his face softening. You read his aura, and it glowed with faith. Belief. Hope. “I still don't trust this.”

“I don’t either,” Bucky admitted. “But I trust you.”

Silence settled between them. You watched closely — the decades of history between them pressing into every glance, every pause. There was something unspoken there. Something heavy.

“Then let’s get to work,” Sam said. “She’s in.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you again. “You sure?”

You crossed your arms. “I didn’t come all this way to sit on the bench.��

“Good,” Bucky muttered, standing. “You start training tomorrow. Physical and tactical.”

“With you?” you asked, unable to keep the disdain out of your voice.

“Problem?”

You gave him a tight smile. “Guess I’ll just have to lower my expectations.”

He stared at you, unreadable, before turning to leave.

Sam caught your gaze as the door closed behind him. “He’s rough around the edges,” he said. “But he means well.”

You didn’t respond. Because it didn’t matter what he meant.

You had a personal mission. And this was only the beginning.

You were still sitting at the conference table when the door slammed open like a bad sitcom entrance.

“Lena said she’s ordering Chinese food,” Bob announced, stepping inside with the grace of a golden retriever on roller skates. “Anyone staying for dinner?”

Joaquin leaned forward immediately. “Does that include dumplings? Because if so—hell yes.”

Sam chuckled under his breath. “I could eat.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking to the door that Bucky left from. You were still recovering from sharing air with the man, let alone sweet and sour chicken.

But... maybe you needed to see what you were up against.

“Sure,” you murmured.

Bob smiled. “Great. Fun. Exciting. Oh! I can make you a milkshake too, if you’d like. I can do vanilla or chocolate, or strawberry. But not banana. They don’t blend properly because John freezes them. And come to think of it, someone keeps hiding the strawberries from me.”

“What do you mean, someone is hiding the strawberries from you?” Sam asked, puzzled with a hint of mild concern. Not concerned for the strawberries, but for Bob.

“I’ve said too much,” Bob stilled. “Gotta run!”

And with that, he was gone, practically leaving an air of smoke behind him.

“I can’t believe this is the team Bucky formed,” Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Right?” Joaquin grinned, his brown eyes gleaming with excitement. “I can’t wait to get to know everyone.”

────✪────

When the sun set, The Avengers Tower common room looked more like a college dorm—empty takeout containers already littered the table, and someone (Alexei) had managed to crack a fortune cookie clean in half before opening it.

You were seated on the oversized sectional with a plate of noodles in your lap, wedged between Yelena—who kept stealing your spring rolls with zero shame—and Joaquin, who had already named three different sauces after himself and started rating them out loud.

“I call this one ‘Torres Tang,’” he said, holding up a little cup of neon orange sauce. “Sweet with a kick. Just like me.”

Bob laughed so hard he choked on his dumpling. Ava handed him a bottle of water without looking up from her phone.

Sam had taken the big armchair like some kind of dad overseeing chaos. Bucky sat at the edge of the couch, mostly silent, mostly brooding, chopsticks barely touched.

And somehow, somehow, it didn’t feel as tense anymore. You were still wary. Still watching him. But the noise helped. The food helped.

Empty, grease-stained boxes were scattered about, chopsticks poked out of rice bowls at odd angles, and someone had already spilt duck sauce on the rug (Bob, according to Yelena, who’d ratted him out instantly).

You were half-listening as Alexei brought over a full bottle of vodka—his contribution to the evening.

“Let’s make it fun,” he said, plopping it down with a loud thud. “One shot for every ‘Never Have I Ever.’ If you have, you drink. If you lie, I will know.”

“Dad… this is so weird.” Yelena groaned, squeezing her eyes shut.

“You're terrifying,” Joaquin said with an impressed whistle, already reaching for a shot glass.

Alexei didn’t use one. He took a clean swig from the bottle and grinned like it was water.

You blinked.

“Jesus,” you muttered under your breath. “Is that even safe?”

“No,” Ava answered without looking up from her phone. “But here we are.”

“Russia’s finest,” Alexei smirked, licking his lips. “Me, not the Vodka. I got this from Walmart,” He nudged you, and you looked at him with a hardened yet confused expression. “I was Russia’s answer to Captain America, you know? They call me the Red Guardian,” He flexed his bicep. “Touch it.”

“I uh—“ you glanced around the room. Yelena looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. Bucky watched, his stare unreadable as usual. And Joaquin was beaming, amused, like this was the most entertaining thing he had ever seen. “No, thank you.”

“One day, you will touch it,” Alexei smiled, proud. “100 percent super soldier serum coursing through my veins. You see how I am much bigger than these two?” He gestured to John and Bucky. “That’s the vodka.”

“The serum actually went to his head and made him delusional,” John said pointedly. “I can bench press 600kg. Nice to meet you.” He extended a hand for you to shake, but you just looked at it, speechless and slightly disturbed.

“Can you guys stop being so odd, you’re gonna make her run away,” Ava warned before mouthing an ‘I’m sorry’ in your direction. You smiled, grateful for her comfort.

You had no plans on running away, and in all honesty, you weren’t really that creeped out. You’d dealt with a lot worse, like Shane and some of the men who frequented McCready’s bar. Because of that, you were quick to realise that these guys were no more than just a simple group of harmless misfits. And for the first time, you felt like you could fit in with them. Besides, you were certainly confident that they weren’t going to harm you, and that counted for something.

Everyone settled into positions on the sectional. Sam had taken a seat in the armchair, casually draped like he wasn’t watching every interaction in the room. But you felt it. The way his gaze drifted to you more than once. Not heavy, not unwelcome — just steady. Soft. Like he was trying to read you.

And then there was Bucky Barnes, sitting across from you.

His drink was untouched at first. But when Alexei took his second swig, Bucky gave a quiet sigh and knocked his own shot back. No flinch. No change in expression. You had no idea what kind of alcohol tolerance came with a super soldier serum, but whatever it was, it was intimidating.

“Okay!” Yelena bounced beside you, already a little flushed, a little chaotic. “Never Have I Ever—uh—crashed a government vehicle!”

You stared as Bob, Bucky, Sam, Joaquin, and Alexei all drank.

“Seriously?” you asked.

Sam gave you a sheepish shrug. “It happens.”

“More often than it should,” Ava muttered.

“I’ve never even driven a government vehicle.” You revealed, almost feeling a little left out.

“Don’t worry,” Yelena grinned at you. “You’ll get there.”

Another round.

“Never have I ever... kissed a teammate,” Ava said, a coy little smile playing on her lips.

Joaquin drank immediately.

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

He didn’t explain. Joaquin just leaned into you and whispered, “Regret nothing.”

You didn’t drink. But you did feel two sets of eyes on you.

Sam’s—quiet, full of something like concern or curiosity.

And Bucky’s.

His was different. His stare settled against your skin like a spark. It crawled across your collarbone, dragged over your throat, and stayed. Hot and unmoving. You didn’t dare look back.

You felt your face warm — maybe from the shot, maybe from something else.

“I need another drink,” you muttered and reached for the bottle.

“Atta girl,” Joaquin said, clinking his glass against yours. “Let’s ruin our livers together.”

You laughed. Too loud. You were getting tipsy, and Yelena wasn’t helping — giggling as she told stories about “murder yoga” and missions gone wrong. Joaquin kept the mood light, telling stories about Sam and Red-Wing.

“Who’s Red-Wing?” You asked with a slight stumble over your words.

“Oh, you’re gonna love him, he’s adorable.” Sam beamed proudly.

“He’s like… your dog?”

Joaquin laughed at your suggestion.

“No! He’s my surveillance and reconnaissance drone!” Sam answered, taking a swig of beer, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Even John Walker got into the discussion, though he was a loud, cocky drunk. Every time he spoke, you wanted to toss an egg roll at his head.

Alexei, on the other hand, drank like a man built to survive nuclear winters. You were genuinely impressed he was still upright. He did, however, disappear to pee every ten minutes.

And somehow, Bucky had knocked back three shots without blinking. But he had been so quiet all night. You wondered if this was normal for him.

When it was your turn, you found yourself blurting it out before thinking:

“Never have I ever… felt like I belonged on a team.”

The room went still for a beat too long.

Everyone drank, except you.

Yelena bumped your arm. “That’s because you haven’t had us yet. These guys aren’t just team mates, they’re family. And we hope that, now you join us, you'll feel the same.”

You smiled. A little. But your fingers tightened around your glass.

You wanted to believe her.

And as your eyes flicked across the room—to the quiet kindness in Sam’s, to the electric weight of Bucky’s—you wondered if, for once, you finally might.

The chaos had dulled. Yelena had passed out sideways on the couch, her braid tangled in a takeout box. Ava and Alexei disappeared an hour ago—something about a chessboard and bad Russian soap operas. Bob wandered off humming a lullaby in a different language.

Sam was at the door, pulling on his jacket while Joaquin tried to find both his shoes.

“I told you to keep them on,” Sam muttered, exasperated.

“They were cramping my style,” Joaquin replied, wobbling dramatically with one sock on. “Besides, Yelena dared me to do a split.”

Sam gave you a look like this is my life now.

You grinned, maybe a little dazed, leaning back against the counter in the kitchen. The vodka had crept up on you with slow fingers, leaving your limbs warm and your thoughts fuzzy around the edges. You weren’t drunk, but you were hovering somewhere on the ledge between honesty and recklessness.

“You good?” Sam asked softly, his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just need to cool off. And maybe drink a gallon of water.”

Sam gave your shoulder a squeeze, lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Don’t disappear tonight.”

You blinked. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he said, but his eyes lingered, warm and heavy. Like he was seeing more than you wanted him to. “Call me if you need anything. You know that, right?”

You nodded again, trying to pretend you didn’t feel the heat of his hand even after he let go.

Joaquin blew you a kiss on his way out. “Don’t let the assassin bite.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re thinking of Yelena.”

“Same energy,” he called, already halfway out the door.

The apartment fell quiet.

And then you realized you weren’t alone.

You turned — and found him there.

Bucky Barnes.

Leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

You stiffened.

Of course he’d be the last one standing.

The buzz of alcohol still coursed through you, making everything feel a little lighter, a little less sharp. You weren’t sure if it was the drink or the chaotic energy of the night, but your mind had begun to drift in and out of clarity.

You slid off the counter, intending to steady yourself, but the room suddenly tilted, and you stumbled forward, your feet tangled up in the wayward stretch of your own legs.

Before you could hit the ground, there was a hand on your arm, warm and steady. Then another, pulling you back up with an ease that made your stomach flip. His chest was hard beneath your palm, his muscles flexing as he adjusted his grip, the heat of his body surrounding you like a wall.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you instinctively pressed your hand a little firmer against him, your fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth and strength underneath. He smelled like soap, leather, and something faintly metallic — unmistakable.

You slowly looked up, meeting his eyes, and for a split second, you forgot where you were. The intensity of his gaze—blues that seemed to see right through you—made your heart flutter uncomfortably. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t look away.

"Got you," he muttered, steadying you, his voice low.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close you were to him. How alive you felt in the space between you.

There was a moment of stillness. A breath.

"Are you... reading my aura?" he asked, his voice quieter now, though it carried a hint of teasing.

You tilted your head, eyes locking onto him, your lips parting slightly. "No, I'm just looking at you."

The words came out before you could stop them, and immediately, the flush of heat spread across your face. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. The way his muscles moved beneath his shirt when he adjusted his hold, how his eyes flickered for a second—soft, startled. Almost shy.

And then, just like that, you saw it. The faintest blush creeping up his neck. His cheeks flushed a soft pink, and for the first time tonight, he seemed... off-balance. The man who had walked into every room like he owned it, now suddenly unsure of himself. It felt like power. Like control slipping through his fingers.

You couldn’t help but smirk at that, though your head spun slightly, making it harder to focus.

"Didn't mean to make you self-conscious," you said, your voice a little slurred.

Bucky laughed softly, shaking his head. "No... you didn’t. Just... wasn't expecting that."

You both stood there for a beat, caught in the weird energy hanging between you. He still hadn’t let go, though you didn’t know if it was because you were still too wobbly to stand or because he was hesitant to break the tension. Either way, you didn’t pull away. The air felt thick, charged, and you could sense it—there was something about him that made you feel like you were about to do something you weren’t quite ready for.

But then, in a sudden shift, Bucky cleared his throat, letting go of your arm but standing close enough that you could still feel the heat radiating from him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped forward, opened the fridge, and pulled out a cold bottle of water. He held it out to you without a word.

You eyed it like it might explode.

“I’m not gonna poison you,” he said flatly.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Reluctantly, you took the bottle from his hand. Your fingers brushed his glove. Static popped between your skin. You pulled back too fast.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

Bucky didn’t move. He just watched you twist the cap, take a long sip, and then wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. You could feel his eyes on you. Focused. Cautious.

Like he was trying to piece you together.

“I guess tonight we learned that you shouldn’t mix vodka and Chinese food,” he murmured.

“Smartass. I’m fine. You sound like an Avenger,” you shot back. You weren’t even sure what you meant by that, or where the relevance was. Maybe you were also reminding yourself that you were an Avenger now, too.

“I am one.” He deadpanned.

“Yeah. Unfortunately.” You sighed.

He flinched—just a flicker of something in his jaw, something regretful—but didn’t fight you on it.

“You still hate me,” he said.

You looked away. “I haven’t decided.”

“Okay.”

The silence stretched, soft and brittle.

You hated how nice the water felt. How steady he was, even when you didn’t want to trust him. He hadn’t tried anything. He hadn’t said anything clever or smug. Just… stood there. Let you exist in your tired, tipsy state without pushing.

“I can get you a cab,” he offered after a moment. “Or you can crash here. We’ve got spare rooms.”

“Why are you being so—” you stopped. Swallowed. “Why are you trying to take care of me?”

He held your gaze. “I just… I don’t know,” he looked away. “We’re family now. And family takes care of each other.”

Your throat tightened.

You wanted to say something cruel. Wanted to twist the knife, remind him of your brother, of what he did.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Because you didn’t feel like spiralling tonight.

Not when he looked at you like that.

Bucky hadn’t moved. You were still clutching the cold water bottle like it was a lifeline, and for once, he didn’t feel like a threat. Just a quiet presence, filling the silence without demanding anything from you.

You hated how easy it was to let your shoulders relax around him.

“I guess I’m just not used to this,” you muttered.

He tilted his head slightly. “Used to what?”

“Someone… noticing,” you said, voice low, almost embarrassed.

His blue eyes softened.

“I don’t need it, by the way,” you added quickly. “I’ve been fine on my own.”

Unlike Sam, Bucky didn’t contradict you. Didn’t say that doesn’t sound fine.

He just stayed quiet.

You didn’t look at him when you spoke again. “You’re not what I expected.”

He raised a brow. “Cold-blooded killer with a vibranium arm and a brooding attitude?”

“That’s not… entirely wrong,” you smirked faintly, despite yourself. “But you’re less of an asshole than I imagined.”

He chuckled, just once. A real one, deep and unexpected. “High praise.”

You took another drink of your water. Bucky watched. “What kind of name is Bucky, anyway? It’s kind of dumb.”

“My name is James,” He revealed, and something in you shifted at the revelation. A sliver of his personal life. “My sister was called Rebecca, and we called her Becky. My middle name is Buchanan, so my folks called me Bucky. Becky and Bucky.”

You felt your heart stop in your chest. “You have a sister?”

“Had,” Bucky corrected. “Being 111 years old means I don’t really have much family left.”

“Oh," Ditto. "So you’re really old. Like, older than my grandpa…”

Bucky frowned.

“Do super soldiers die?” You pondered out loud.

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“How does one kill a super soldier?” You giggled through the water bottle, enjoying the sudden confidence that the alcohol had instilled in you.

“You’ve had way too much vodka,” Bucky huffed under his breath, extending his hand and having it hover over your shoulder, like he was afraid to touch you.

“No, no no no, trust me, if I were sober I’d be asking the same questions.” You laughed harder this time. Bucky stood there, watching you, confused, but then he finally let his hand rest upon you, and you let out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding in.

"Come on," he said, a little more briskly, though his voice had the same softness as before. "Let's get you to bed. You need water."

You blinked, still a little dizzy, but nodded. "I’m fine," you protested, but the words felt like they slipped out half-heartedly.

He raised an eyebrow. "Sure you are."

The two of you walked quietly back into the living room, but you didn’t miss the way his hand floated just a little too close to your back, as though it might reach out again if you needed it.

But you didn’t need it. Or did you?

You weren’t sure.

You followed him down the corridor. The tower was dim, most of the lights on a motion sensor timer. You could still hear someone’s snores echoing faintly—probably Alexei, given the volume.

He stopped at a door and opened it for you. The room was surprisingly cozy. Not lavish, just… calm. A bed with fresh sheets, folded blankets, and a little chair by the window. It felt untouched, like it was waiting for you.

You stepped inside, but before you could say goodnight, Bucky’s voice followed you.

“Training starts at six.”

You turned, narrowing your eyes. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious,” he said. “You want to stay on the team, you train with me. Early.”

You groaned, already regretting everything.

“Water’s on the nightstand,” he added, nodding toward it. “And Tylenol in the drawer. You’re gonna want it.”

You didn’t thank him. Not out loud.

But you lingered in the doorway.

“Why are you like this?” you asked, quieter than before.

He looked at you, confused. “Like what?”

“Careful. Thoughtful. Like you’re trying to be better.”

He paused for a long time.

“Because I have to be,” he said. “If I’m not, then I’m just him again.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t have to ask who him was.

He turned to leave, but then hesitated.

“I see the way Sam looks at you,” he said, voice tight. “It’s not just a teammate thing.”

You blinked. That was the last thing you expected him to say.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Sam looks at everyone like that.”

“No,” Bucky said. “He doesn’t.”

You didn’t answer. Just stepped into the room and let the door click shut between you.

But even after you lay down, curled into the strange sheets and tried to close your eyes, you could still feel Bucky’s voice in the room with you.

And the strange, unwelcome comfort that came with it.

Bucky closed the door to his own room with a quiet click.

He leaned back against it, exhaled slowly, and raked a hand through his hair. The dim light from the hallway disappeared under the seam of the door, and for a moment, he stood there in silence. Listening. Thinking.

You.

God, you were loud in his head.

He moved across the room, sat on the edge of the bed like he was waiting for something to pass—some thought, some feeling—but it didn’t. It just kept building.

The way your lips had curled, tired but amused, when he’d handed you that bottle of water. That small smile like it wasn’t supposed to be there.

The way you looked tonight—dressed in soft cotton and drunk warmth, all fire and fight and something almost tender.

You had a sharp tongue. You didn’t hide your disdain for him. In fact, you wore it like perfume—thick and impossible to ignore.

But he saw the way your expression faltered when you thought no one was looking. The heaviness behind your posture. The moments where you softened, briefly, like you didn’t know how to hold it together anymore.

And your eyes—those damn eyes. Always reading. Always pulling more out of him than he gave.

He hated that.

He hated how much he noticed you. Hated how it pulled something out of him he didn’t have a name for.

You hated him. You should hate him.

And maybe that’s what made it worse. That he knew he didn’t deserve anything else.

But still…

Still, when he closed his eyes, it was your face he saw.

The tilt of your head. The sliver of skin at your collarbone. The sound of your laugh—rare, unpredictable.

He sat back on the bed and dragged a hand down his face.

“This is stupid,” he muttered to himself.

Feelings were messy. Dangerous. They clouded judgment. He didn’t want to want anything—not peace, not forgiveness, and definitely not you.

But wanting had a way of sneaking in. Quiet and slow and relentless.

He lay back on the bed, arm draped over his eyes, heart beating too loud in the stillness.

Tomorrow, he’d train you. Tomorrow, he’d look at you and pretend none of this mattered.

But tonight… he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you felt when you stumbled into his chest.

So, so stupid.

You hated him, and he hated you.

Or, he hated being hated by you.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

Fic taglist: @ruexj283 @avengemepercy @espressovz @sebastians-love @cherryandsugar @torntaltos @ficr3ccs @sexyvixen7

Want to be added to a taglist? Let me know which one!

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #avengers tower fic #sebastian stan #sebasitan stan x you #sebastian stan x reader #thunderbolts #thunderbolts spoilers #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #fic series #the new avengers #mcu #marvel #avengers #avenger bucky

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jihyoruri · 2 days ago

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❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ HOUSE OF BALLOONS (richgirl!yn | chaewon x reader )

richgirl ⭢ that girl (she’s delicious) ⭢ idon’t smoke ⭢ pretty when you cry ⭢ homesick ⭢ super rich kids ⭢ girl, so confusing ⭢ take your mask off ⭢ carmen ⭢ untitled

— BONUNS CHAPTER | the dark sides of the moon family- the tales of the three young moons on a power trip (or slowly loosing their minds) the lost media of the young heirs that can never be found

SEPTEMBER 1st 2016

ARTICLE HEADLINE—“RICH KIDS GONE BAD??”

“a deeply unsettling video featuring moon yn, a first-year high school student, and her older brother moon jae, now in his final year, has started circulating online and it’s sparking serious concern.” click the video below ⭣

the shaky footage, clearly taken in secret, shows the two siblings in their school uniforms, each wearing a distinct chanel brooch. but this was no time to admire their luxury.

the video begins with a girl standing nervously in front of them. jae has his hand under her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. his words are too quiet to hear, but his body language says enough, sharp, intimidating, and cold.

he lets go of her chin and moves his hand to her shoulder in what looks like a comforting gesture, until he begins applying pressure, pushing her down until she’s sitting against the wall. he lets out a low laugh and walks away, leaving yn standing over the girl.

yn kneels in front of her, mimicking her brother’s earlier gesture. she lifts the girl’s chin again, but where jae’s aggression was clear, yn is harder to read calm, collected, and unreadable in a way that makes your skin crawl. she says something too quiet to hear, then smirks.

as she straightens up, she turns her head, looking directly into the camera. there's a soft gasp from behind the phone as the person filming realizes they’ve been caught. the video cuts off abruptly.

the internet explodes… and then goes quiet

but as quickly as the clip emerged, it vanished. users began reporting that links were broken, posts were mysteriously deleted, and accounts sharing the video were suddenly locked or suspended. some claimed the file had been “scrubbed” from search engines entirely. a few who claimed to have saved the video reported their files becoming corrupted.

with no formal statement from the moon family and no official media coverage, the moment began to fade from public memory. a handful of reddit threads and obscure blog posts remain, clinging to what little evidence is left, but for the most part, the world has moved on.

those who still remember are left with questions, unease, and an unsettling silence.

but who they to question what’s going with the moon family? whatever yn and jae did was completely warranted obviously.

THE VIDEO IN THIS ARTICLE IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

OCTOBER 31st 2016

ARTICLE HEADLINE—“WHO WOULD’VE THOUGHT THE YOUNGEST WOULD BE LIVING UP THE MOON NAME THE MOST?”

“a voice audio of who seems to be moon yn the youngest of the moon family talking to a teacher has people thinking only one thing, her father sure did raise her.” click the video below to hear the audio⭣

it starts off soft.

“sir…” her voice is sweet, almost delicate. “I’ve been feeling like this for a while, and my brother’s noticed it too. it seems like you’ve been treating us a little unfairly… because of our name? would i be correct if i said that?”

there’s a pause before the man responds, calm and condescending. “yes, you would.” his voice is firm, too confident. “the moons need humbling, and you prove that every day. I’ve been doing this since your oldest brother was here. he took it. so did jae. now it’s your turn. moons don’t deserve the benefit of the doubt, so suck it up, young lady.”

“oh…” she sounds hurt. quiet. small. but don’t be fooled.

“that’s too bad,” she says, and there’s a shift. some faint shuffling. her tone sharpens, losing its sweetness. “but here’s the thing… I’m not like my brothers. take that as a mental note.”

he doesn’t respond. silence.

“but anywho…” she sighs, fake and theatrical. “I should get going. it’s a shame we couldn’t come to better terms.”

then, her voice lowers to a near whisper. “but I guess everyone’s gonna love to hear about how much you like your female students.”

the laugh that follows is soft. too soft. and then, the audio cuts.

as of now, moon yn, is rumored to be a trainee under sm entertainment. insiders claim she’s been groomed for the spotlight her whole life, and based on this clip, it’s clear she knows how to perform, even when no cameras are supposed to be rolling.

but just like the infamous school hallway video of the moon siblings, this audio has vanished from the internet.

accounts that posted the original clip were suspended, links broken, files corrupted. forums discussing the audio were locked or mass reported. even users who claimed to have saved it privately say the file mysteriously disappeared or won’t play. no trace remains, and most who've heard it now speak of it like an urban legend, something you had to be online at the right time to witness.

and now, another piece of moon family history is buried.

but hey, she was so right, who was he to mistreat a moon?

THE AUDIO INCLUDED IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

FEBRUARY 5th 2017

ARTICLE HEADLINE — “ALL THREE MOON SIBLINGS CAUGHT IN DISTURBING LATE NIGHT FOTAGE.”

a leaked clip of daeun, jae, and yn leaving an exclusive bar has resurfaced whispers about the moon family and this time, no one was laughing. click the video below to watch ⭣

it’s dark, filmed from across the street, blurry, shaky, and obviously taken in secret.

the video opens with the glowing sign of the club, an exclusive bar only frequented by chaebols, heirs, and politicians' children. entry is invite only. drinks are never cheap. and minors are never allowed.

but in the video, all three moon siblings step out of the building. daeun, the eldest and the only one legally allowed to drink, walks out first in a sleek designer coat, jaw tight with exhaustion. jae follows, swaying slightly as he pushes his hair back and looks like he’s trying to hold back a glare. and yn the youngest walks behind them both, not stumbling, but not exactly steady either.

the three of them look like they’re falling apart in silence. no one speaks. no one smiles. the air is thick.

a black car pulls up, but none of them move toward it.

daeun turns to jae and says something low. he flinches. daeun throws his cigarette down. yn leans against the wall, staring at the pavement like it’s talking to her. none of them look like they want to be there. none of them look like they want to go home either.

and then, jae lashes out, not violently, but enough to startle. he kicks something near the curb, mutters something at yn that makes her roll her eyes, and she finally snaps back. it’s silent on video, but the way they speak, no hesitation, no filter, it’s clear the masks they wear in public aren’t on tonight.

daeun rubs his temples. he looks older than ever.

the three eventually pile into the car. the door slams shut. and the video ends.

why was this ever online?

the footage appeared online late one night under the caption “are the moons okay?” and in less than an hour, it was reposted hundreds of times. viewers weren’t shocked by the drinking, they were disturbed by what it revealed.

“daeun looks like he’s seen hell.” “yn isn’t old enough to drink and she looked the most checked out.” “jae’s energy is always so off. the way he moved… i can’t explain it but it made me sick.” “why did they just stand there like that for so long? they looked so… broken.”

and then it was gone.

just like the school hallway video. just like the teacher audio. accounts were suspended, posts wiped, and copies of the video corrupted or removed. users now speak about it like some sort of cursed file — if you didn’t see it when it dropped, you probably never will.

some believe sm’s legal team got involved now that yn is a trainee. others say the moon family themselves had it buried. and a few claim it was never supposed to exist at all.

THE VIDEO INCLUDED IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

#richgirl!yn #lesserafim x reader #lesserafim #le sserafim x reader #chaewon x reader #kim chaewon #chaewon #kim chaewon x reader #girl group imagines

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kakashisacademia · 2 days ago

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a/n: a little something based on this fanart by @|tearofgods on twitter

pairing: model Sukuna x photographer you x model Satoru Gojo | warnings: teasing, edging, dirty talk, overstimulation, oral (both ways), fingering, vaginal sex

summary; you’re a rising star among the photographers, but your professionalism slips completely when you have Gojo and Sukuna in front of your lense

ೃ⁀➷ The Heat Behind The Lens

You’d worked with models before. Gorgeous ones. Famous ones. Some had even tried to flirt. All charm and cologne, but you’d learned early on to stay cool and professional. You were good at this. A rising name in fashion photography.

Unshakable. Focused. Calm. Until today.

The studio doors slid open and they walked in.

First came Satoru Gojo, six feet plus of smug confidence and unreasonably long legs. His silver-white hair looked artfully messy, but you knew it took at least two stylists to get it that way. He wore dark sunglasses indoors, a knowing grin already stretching his lips as he caught sight of you.

Then came Sukuna, walking sin, all sharp eyes and lazy dominance. His body was a roadmap of ink and lean muscle, and the way he looked at you? Like he knew you were about to fall apart, and he was just waiting for it to happen.

“Yo,” Gojo called, finger-gunning at you like you weren’t already clenching your thighs behind the camera. “You’re our photographer? Cute.”

You cleared your throat, brushing sweaty palms on your jeans. “Yes. I mean - yes, I’m Y/N. I’ll be leading today’s campaign shoot. Thank you both for being on time.”

Sukuna smirked. “We wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

God help you.

Fifteen minutes later you were adjusting lights and pretending you didn’t hear their low voices and laughter from the changing area. The stylist had prepped them with nothing but tight black boxer-briefs and striped low-rise trunks for the ‘Raw Summer’ campaign - minimal clothing, all body, all heat.

And when they stepped out? You nearly dropped your goddamn camera.

Gojo strolled out first, bare chest glistening faintly under the overhead lights, thumbs hooked just beneath the waistband of his briefs like he was already flirting with indecency. “This angle good for you, sweetheart?” he asked, twisting his hips like a damn runway model, eyes sliding over your face with delight.

Before you could answer, Sukuna followed, muscles rippling, arms covered in stark black tattoos that drew the eye right to where his hands casually adjusted his waistband. He didn’t say a word. He just held your gaze and smirked, head tilted as if he already knew the heat rising in your cheeks had nothing to do with the lights.

You adjusted the camera, clearing your throat again. “Let’s, uh… start with standing poses. Arms relaxed, look into the lens like you own it.”

They did own it. They owned the room. The camera. Hell, they were starting to own your heartbeat too.

Gojo sauntered up, leaning just a little too close. “How’s the focus, baby? Hands shaking?”

Sukuna let out a low chuckle from behind him. “Bet she can’t even look at us without blushing.”

You did blush hot and fast, and Gojo’s grin stretched wider. This was going to be a long, long shoot. But you weren’t going to let them win.

Gojo’s teasing? Sukuna’s lazy hunger? No. You were a professional. And no matter how hard your heart pounded or how warm your cheeks were, you had a job to do.

“Okay,” you said, swallowing down the heat in your throat. “Next shot’s from a low angle. I need to capture the abs. All that definition, tension in the core.”

Sukuna arched an eyebrow. Gojo just smiled like he knew something you didn’t.

“Low angle, huh?” Gojo drawled. “You sure you can handle that view, sweetheart?”

Instead of answering, you dropped to your knees, camera in hand, thighs spreading wide for stability as you sank down right in front of them.

Click.

You knew it the second it happened; the shift. They weren’t smirking anymore.

Gojo blinked behind his shades, mouth parted just slightly, like he was about to say something and forgot how to talk. Sukuna made a low, unreadable sound deep in his throat, eyes fixed not on the lens but on you. The way your legs were spread, how you were perfectly framed between them, camera poised like you belonged there.

Kneeling. Focused. Mouth slightly open, breathing heavy from the effort of controlling your desire.

Sukuna tilted his head, slow and dangerous.“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice gravel and fire. “Pose like that, and we’ll forget this is a shoot.”

Gojo’s voice dropped too, full honey-laced and full of heat. “You always get on your knees like that when you’re working? Or just when you’re looking up at us?”

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t flinch or move. You just adjusted the focus ring and said, “I go wherever I need to get the perfect shot.”

Gojo let out a sharp exhale, licking his lips. “Tch. You’re gonna kill me.”

Sukuna didn’t blink. “She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

You did, but it wasn’t just for the effect. This shot? It was art. Their abs tense, the sunlight catching beads of sweat on their skin, the way their hands hung low over their waistbands like they were seconds from peeling the last of the fabric away…

Click. Click. Click.

And just as you leaned in for one final frame, Sukuna’s body shadowing yours, Gojo’s cocky voice above your head murmuring, “You sure you’re not enjoying this a little too much, baby?”, your hand slipped.

Only a little. Just enough to brush Gojo’s thigh and he froze slightly.

Sukuna leaned in, voice a growl at your ear. “You touch us like that again, sweetheart, and I’ll make you drop that camera.”

Your breath caught. The shutter clicked once more.

You exhaled slowly, rising to your feet with practiced grace. Camera secure, knees only slightly shaky. “Alright,” you said, voice a touch breathless. “That’s a good stopping point. Let’s take five.”

You tried to sound casual, cool and unbothered by what just happened. You failed spectacularly. Because when you looked up? They were staring.

Sukuna hadn’t moved an inch. He was still standing in his tight briefs, arms crossed lazily over his chest, but his eyes had darkened. Not with annoyance, but with hunger. The kind of look that made your mouth dry and your thighs clench.

Gojo sat on the edge of the low platform you’d used for the last round of shots, legs spread wide, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. His electric blue eyes were locked on you. No jokes and playful grin. Just that slow, simmering heat as he watched a bead of sweat trail down your collarbone.

The air in the studio shifted. You suddenly realized you were still standing between them. The way prey might stand between two predators and they knew it.

Gojo leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “You always kneel that pretty when you’re working, baby?” he asked, tone deceptively soft.

You hesitated. That was your mistake.

Because Sukuna moved. Just a step closer, barely noticeable, but your body felt it. Like static before lightning. “I could see down your shirt,” he said bluntly, voice low and dangerous. “Bet you didn’t even realize what kind of show you were giving us.”

You swallowed, defending yourself. “I was just getting the right angle.”

Gojo chuckled, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah, and we were just modeling. Funny how everyone’s pretending right now.”

You looked at them, really looked. Sweat on their skin and tension in their jaws. Not posing anymore, not acting. Just watching you and waiting. One wrong move, one step too close, one word too sweet or shy or cocky and they’d close in. And you’d let them.

You turned toward the lighting stand, trying to compose yourself, but your hand trembled as you adjusted the reflector.

Sukuna’s voice rolled in behind you like thunder. “Still think you’re in control, little photographer?”

And then Gojo, closer now, right at your shoulder. “Or are you just waiting for us to break that camera so you can finally drop the act?”

You turned around slowly, cautiously. Two gods of sin, shirtless and starved, watching you like dessert. God help you, you thought again. Because the break wasn’t cooling anything down. It was only winding them tighter.

You tried to keep moving then. Check the monitor. Adjust the lighting. Pretend you didn’t feel their eyes dragging over you like touch hot and heavy, slipping beneath your clothes and into your skin.

But they knew. God, they knew. You hadn’t hidden well that flicker of hunger behind your lashes. That soft parting of your lips when Gojo had leaned in. The way your breath hitched when Sukuna’s voice brushed your neck. You were drenched in restraint, dressed in professionalism, but they could see the cracks forming in real time.

Gojo stretched, long and loose, and the way his arms flexed was deliberate. “You okay over there, sweetheart?” he asked, deceptively casual. “You’ve been staring at the same setting for the last minute.”

“I’m not staring,” you said a little too fast.

Sukuna gave a low, dangerous hum. “She’s memorizing,” he murmured. “Every line. Every vein. Every inch.”

You bristled, spinning around with a too-tight smile. “I’ve shot models before, you know.”

Gojo tilted his head, grin spreading slow. “Mm. But not us.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick. Because they weren’t touching you. Weren’t closing in. They were just standing there half-dressed and gorgeous, letting their words peel you apart.

Gojo’s voice dipped low, smooth and dark. “Bet your camera’s not the only thing overheating right now.”

Your stomach flipped.

Sukuna’s eyes dropped to your hands and saw the slight tremble. “Tryin’ so hard to act like you’re in control. It’s cute.”

You forced a laugh, lifting the camera again. “You think you’re intimidating me?”

Gojo chuckled, shaking his head. “No, baby. We’re just wondering how long you’ll pretend you don’t want us to ruin your whole professionalism act.”

Click. Your finger pressed the shutter like it might save you. It didn’t.

Because Sukuna stepped closer, closing the gap. Not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him.

“We can wait,” he murmured, low and lethal. “But the longer you hold back, the worse it’ll be when you finally let go.”

Gojo’s voice floated in like a silk rope tightening around your throat. “And we’ll make you beg for it, sweetheart. But not with words. Just… looks. Shaky hands. A little whimper, maybe.”

You inhaled sharply.

Sukuna’s eyes gleamed. “There it is.”

They hadn’t touched you. They hadn’t crossed that line. But you were already shaking on the edge. They weren’t going to push you off. Not yet. They were going to make you jump.

The final setup was a two-man shot. Both models in frame, half-lit, low exposure to catch every ripple of muscle, every glint of moisture on their skin.

You didn’t mean for it to feel like a climax, but it did. Because now touch was required. And you were the one doing it.

“Okay,” you said, steadying your breath as best you could. “Sukuna, I want you seated on the edge of the platform. Gojo, stand behind him. Right hand on his shoulder, the other on your hip.”

They obeyed without argument, but with intent. Gojo’s palm slid over Sukuna’s bare skin like he meant it. Sukuna leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, neck bowed just enough to show off the tendons flexing along his spine.

You swallowed. Then moved closer. Water spray bottle in hand. Your fingers shook slightly as you misted Sukuna’s chest. Cool droplets catching the light, turning his tattoos into gleaming, dripping lines. You sprayed Gojo next, droplets sliding down the curve of his abs.

Sukuna’s jaw twitched.

Gojo exhaled through his nose. “This part of the job always this fun?”

“It’s to catch the light,” you murmured.

Gojo smirked. “Sure it is.”

You moved in, closer, too close, and reached out. Your fingertips brushed Sukuna’s collarbone. Just a gentle adjustment of his posture. But under your touch, his muscles tensed. Not flinching, more like bracing.

“You’re stiff,” you said.

Gojo choked on a laugh behind him. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, “you really shouldn’t say things like that.”

You tried to ignore him, but then you stepped between them, guiding Gojo’s arm higher, repositioning it on Sukuna’s chest and your palm pressed against Gojo’s bicep. His skin was hot. His breath ghosted your cheek. And when you turned your head slightly, your lips were inches from his. Your thighs pressed together again unconsciously, automatically. You couldn’t help it. You were buzzing. On power, on lust, on the way they both watched you like they were trying not to pounce.

And then you caught it. Gojo shifted behind Sukuna, eyes hooded, jaw clenched, and… oh.

You didn’t mean to look down. You absolutely didn’t. He was definitely not soft anymore. Neither, you realized with a thrill of horror and excitement, was Sukuna. You stepped back fast. Sprayed them both again like you were punishing them for it.

“We’re almost done,” you said quickly.

Neither answered. Both of them were staring at you with the same expression. Dark. Tense. Starving.

Sukuna’s voice finally cut through the thick silence. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

Gojo’s lips curved. “And we’re running out of patience.”

You lifted your camera. Clicked the shutter and whispered, “So don’t break.”

Their breath hitched. Touch wasn’t the problem. The problem was how much you all wanted more.

You didn’t know who moved first.

Maybe it was you, lingering too long as you adjusted Gojo’s hand on Sukuna’s chest. Maybe it was Sukuna, the way he looked at you like touching was a promise, not a line to avoid. Or maybe it was Gojo, whispering something dark against your temple that made your knees buckle.

“Final frame,” he murmured. “C’mere, baby.”

You should’ve said no. You meant to. But you turned your head, just slightly and he kissed you. Soft at first, almost gentle. Then not. Gojo’s mouth opened over yours like a command, tongue teasing the seam of your lips before pushing in. One hand on your cheek, the other gripping your waist like he was holding himself back.

Behind you, Sukuna moved in like a shadow. His hands curled around your hips, fingers dragging up under your shirt, calloused palms rough against your soft skin. His mouth hovered at your ear.

“Still wanna be in control, sweetheart?” he growled.

You whimpered and that was answer enough.

They didn’t give you time to think. Gojo pulled you into his lap as Sukuna knelt behind you, hands slipping under your leggings, dragging them down slow. Gojo kissed you harder, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth just as Sukuna’s fingers brushed the heat between your legs.

“So fucking wet,” Sukuna muttered. “She wanted this.”

Gojo laughed breathlessly. “She still trying to act like she’s working?”

You barely heard them. You were on your knees now again, but this time, on purpose. Stripped and eager. Eyes blown wide, body shaking.

And when Gojo pushed his boxers down, thick and already leaking? You didn’t hesitate. Your mouth wrapped around his cock like you’d been craving it. Your mouth was hot and willing. He groaned low, fingers tangling in your hair.

“Holy shit. Fuck, sweetheart. That mouth.”

Behind you, Sukuna crouched again, snapping the strap of your bra down your arm and pulling it off slowly. His phone was in his hand and your camera discarded and reclaimed. A flash went off. You gasped around Gojo’s cock, throat tightening with the surprise, and he hissed.

“Ohhh, don’t stop now,” he moaned. “She looks so good like this, doesn’t she, Sukuna?”

Another flash. You turned slightly, dazed, to find Sukuna smirking behind the lens.

“Look at that,” he said, voice gravel. “Messy mouth, big eyes, tits out. Bet you’ve imagined this every time you looked through that camera, huh?”

You whimpered and sucked harder, cheeks hollowing as Gojo’s head tipped back. He didn’t last much longer. Neither of them did.

Because once you had Gojo moaning above you, Sukuna was next. He dropped the camera, stripped bare, and nudged your thighs open with his knees. He didn’t fuck you yet. He just leaned down and dragged his tongue up your inner thigh, slow and greedy.

“You wanna come, don’t you?” he whispered. “Tell us.”

You shook your head. Apparently the wrong move.

Gojo pulled you up by the chin, wiping your mouth with his thumb. “Say it, baby. Or we’ll stop.”

Your voice broke. “I…I wanna come.”

Sukuna laughed low, pleased and wicked. “Not yet.”

You were soaked. Your thighs trembled while your hole clenched around nothing. Breasts flushed and bare, nipples hard from the cool air and Gojo’s mouth which had been all over you minutes ago. Sukuna had your legs over his shoulders, his tongue everywhere but your clit, taking his time like he had a fucking grudge. Still no one had let you come. They were drawing it out on purpose. They treated you like their personal playground.

Sukuna’s tongue flicked low, maddening slow before he pulled away. “You’re twitching, sweetheart.”

Gojo chuckled behind you, where he was now lounging half-hard, lazily stroking himself as he watched. “She’s close. I can see it in her eyes.”

You whimpered, hands fisting beneath you, body arched and aching. “I can’t…” you breathed. “Please.”

Sukuna’s fingers slipped in just enough to stretch, to tease. He didn’t give you rhythm you needed.

“No begging yet,” he growled, thumb brushing lightly over your clit. One sweet, electric touch that made you sob out loud. “You haven’t earned it.”

Gojo leaned forward, pressing his lips behind your ear. “What happened to the confident little professional, huh?”

You turned your head, panting. “She’s… she’s gone.”

He laughed, genuinely delighted. “Oh, baby. That’s hot.” Then he kissed you, tongue slipping in to taste your helpless moan.

Sukuna pulled away, leaving you empty. You cried out, hips chasing his mouth and fingers. “No,” he said simply. “Not yet.”

Gojo’s voice was soft and cruel. “We want to see what you look like when you snap.”

You tried to move, to grind against a thigh, a hand, anything. But Gojo pinned your hips down and tsked.

“You gonna come without permission?” he whispered, mocking. “After all that discipline?”

“I can’t… I can’t think…”

“Good,” Sukuna murmured, lips brushing your inner thigh. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

Another kiss. Another flick of his tongue.

Gojo pressed two fingers to your lips. “Suck.”

You obeyed. Obscene, wet sounds filling the room as your mouth wrapped around his fingers like you’d done his cock. He hissed.

“God, she’s such a mess.”

Sukuna growled. “Not messy enough.”

He dropped his mouth again, sucking your clit just hard enough to make your vision white out. You screamed, actually screamed, hips bucking and then he stopped.

You choked on Gojo’s fingers, tears flooding your eyes. “No!”

“Ohhh, baby.” Gojo pulled his fingers from your mouth, wiping your spit over your cheek. “You’re gonna come so hard when we finally let you.”

Sukuna sat back on his heels, panting slightly, face shiny with your arousal. “She’s shaking.”

You were. A full-body tremble, broken sobs falling from your lips. Gojo reached for the camera.

“Smile for me, sweetheart.”

Click. Another photo. A snapshot of your ruin.

You didn’t know then how many times they’d edged you anymore. Three? Four? Every one worse than the last. You were trembling all over, hair sticking to your damp skin, your body humming with tension so deep it felt like it was carved into your bones. You’d begged.

Fuck, you’d begged so much and many times.

Not pretty, not proud. Full-blown sobs. Broken whimpers. Pleas ripped from your throat while your body screamed for release and they still hadn’t let you come.

Gojo was behind you now, long body wrapped around yours, his fingers between your legs again. Light, lazy, barely-there touches that made you cry out and shake harder.

“Please,” you gasped, eyes wet, hips twitching. “Please, please, I… I can’t.”

Sukuna knelt in front of you, hand fisting the roots of your hair, forcing you to look up at him. “You’re fucking beautiful like this,” he growled, cock thick and flushed, inches from your mouth. “You gonna cry for it?”

You already were.

“Open,” he commanded.

You did and he slid in slow. Not all the way for now, just enough to feel your lips stretch around him, your throat flutter. You choked, moaned, clutched at Gojo’s arm around your waist like it was the only thing holding you together.

“Such a mess,” Gojo breathed, mouth at your ear. “You gonna fall apart for us, baby?”

You tried to answer, but couldn’t. Because Sukuna pushed his fat cock deeper, fucking your throat in slow, shallow thrusts that matched the pace of Gojo’s fingers against your clit.

The stimulation. The teasing. The cruel control. You were unraveling.

“Let her,” Gojo murmured. “She’s ready.”

“Not yet,” Sukuna hissed. “I want her broken.”

He pulled out, spit and precum dripping from your lips, and grabbed your jaw with one hand. “Look at you. The little boss behind the camera, reduced to this.”

You whimpered. “Please, I’ll do anything-”

“Oh, baby.” Gojo chuckled darkly. “You already are.”

His fingers slid in, two at once, pumping shallowly. So close. Your walls clenched. Your legs kicked. You were babbling now incoherent nonsense, praise and begging and curses all tangled on your tongue.

Sukuna’s lips brushed your ear. “You come without permission, and we’ll start over.”

No!

Gojo curved his fingers right into that spot. That evil, devastating spot that made your vision flicker. You shrieked.

“Don’t you fucking come,” Sukuna growled, biting your throat. “Take it. Let it hurt.”

You were crying. Your thighs were shaking. Your body was on fire. And then Gojo leaned in, hand still moving, mouth pressed to your shoulder.

“…Come for us, baby.”

That was it. You shattered. Back arched. Legs locking. Screaming into Sukuna’s shoulder as your orgasm ripped through you like a fucking storm.

Hot. Endless. Violent.

It didn’t stop. They didn’t stop. Sukuna pressed his cock against your tongue again as Gojo fucked you through it with his fingers.

“You’re so good,” Gojo whispered. “So fucking good for us.”

You collapsed in their arms, twitching, sobbing, lips swollen, pussy dripping. Absolutely broken.

You thought you’d been wrecked before. You were wrong. Because after they let you come? After they praised you and held you and murmured sweet filth into your ear while your body trembled in the aftershocks? They still weren’t done.

You were limp in Gojo’s arms when Sukuna rose up from where he knelt, looming over you like the devil himself, eyes burning.

“You think we’re finished, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low, dangerous.

You blinked up at him, dazed.

And Gojo, grinning like a man unhinged and whispered, “No cameras this time.”

Then Sukuna flipped you onto your stomach and dragged you up by the hips, ass in the air, thighs spread. You had one heartbeat to breathe before he lined up and slammed into you. You screamed.

Slick, hot, already so sensitive and he didn’t give you time to adjust. Just gripped your hips and fucked into you, hard and fast, each thrust brutal and deep. Your hands scrabbled for something, anything, to hold on to.

Gojo knelt in front of you, cock flushed and aching. “Mouth,” he commanded.

You opened and he pushed in. Suddenly you were filled from the front and back, no mercy, no tenderness, just two bodies using yours like you were made for it. Like you’re nothing, but a cocksleeve.

“Fuck,” Sukuna growled, nails digging into your hips. “She’s gripping me like she needs it.”

“She does,” Gojo said, fucking your mouth slow while you choked on him. “Look at her. She was made to take us.”

You were crying again. Overwhelmed. Shaking. You wanted more, reduced to a filthy toy that wanted her holes filled. Sukuna hit deeper, harder, each thrust making your eyes roll. Your mouth drooled around Gojo’s cock as he fucked your throat, one hand stroking your hair as if to mock how gentle he could be.

They were both panting now. Both close.

Sukuna leaned over your back, growling in your ear, “You want us to come inside you, baby?”

You sobbed as Gojo slid out so you could answer, “Yes… yes, please, I need it. ”

Gojo groaned, cock ramming back into your throat. “Fuck, that voice.”

You came again, or more you exploded, thighs shaking, body clenching so tight around Sukuna he snarled and buried himself to the hilt, hot and thick and deep as he spilled into you.

Gojo followed seconds later, pulling out and stroking over your lips, coming messily across your cheek and tits, panting curses between gasps.

The three of you collapsed in a pile, skin on skin, sweat and come and tears smeared between your bodies. The room was silent. Spent.

Until Sukuna, flat on his back, still breathless, muttered. “So…when’s our next photoshoot?”

You wheezed a laugh into Gojo’s shoulder.

And Gojo, voice rough and wrecked, grinned and said. “Hope you’ve got a wide-angle lens, sweetheart. ‘Cause we’re not fitting all this tension into one frame.”

#satoru gojo #sukuna #satoru gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo smut #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #sukuna smut #sukuna x reader #satoru x you #satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #satoru smut #jjk x reader #jujustsu kaisen x reader

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whatdoeseverybodywant · 2 days ago

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Mile High (2)

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS

Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤

All OC Characters belong to me

Josh felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. She was close. His jaw ticked. He didn’t need to turn around to confirm it, the faint scent of her vanilla and something floral that always lingered too long, like a memory refusing to fade. He wasn’t even paying attention to what Jakara was saying anymore. His full focus was on the presence of Essence.

Don’t turn around. He told himself over and over again. Don’t fucking do it.

But it was like his body didn’t trust his brain. His shoulders were tight, fingers flexing at his sides like they remembered how she used to hold onto him when no one else was looking. Like they remembered everything he was trying so hard to forget.

His breath hitched in his throat as they made eye contact. Even though she had ripped his heart out of his chest and stomped on it, she was still the one his broken heart desired. She was the one he wanted to wake up next to every morning, The one he wanted to share every win, every loss, every damn breath with. But that wasn’t what she wanted.

He clenched his jaw as he gave her a tight nod and turned his attention back to Jakara. His heart was hammering in his chest. The broken look on her face would be permanently scarred into his brain.

She didn’t want you.

He had to keep reminding himself. This was what she wanted.

“You doing anything after the show?” Jakara asked him and he heard Essence suck in a deep breath, The sound of her heels echoing in the hallway as she all but ran away from them.

Josh didn’t even realize he was walking away until he was already doing it.

Jakara called his name behind him, confusion in her voice. He didn’t stop, he had already made up his mind. He rounded the corner just in time to see the dressing room door close behind her.

His stomach was in knots as he knocked on the door. “Essence.” He called out softly. He closed his eyes, resting his hand flat against the wood. “I know you hear me.”

Inside, Essence stood just a few feet away, frozen. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, her back to the door, as if distance could shield her from the weight of his voice. But it didn’t. “I’m not here to fight,” Josh said, his words more like a confession than a plea. “I just… please open the door.”

Essence stayed still, her mind running wild. She wanted to ignore him. She wanted to scream at him to go away, to go back to Jakara, but she couldn’t; instead, she found herself turning towards the door and unlocking it. She cracked the door open just enough so that their eyes met.

His heart stuttered in his chest as he got a good look at her for the first time in three weeks. He wasn’t over her. He had told himself he was. Josh didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, eyes locked with hers through the narrow space of the open door.

Her eyes were swollen and puffy from crying. For a second, neither of them spoke. The air between them was dense with everything left unsaid. They stared at each other before Essence quietly opened the door wider. Josh cleared his throat and walked into the empty dressing room. Josh stood inside the dressing room, the door clicking shut behind him. Essence didn’t move, didn’t speak. She just watched him.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he muttered, almost to himself, but didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not when she was looking at him like that.

Essence nodded, leaning her back against the closed door. “Then why did you?”

Josh let out a slow, shaky breath. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“Because no matter how many times I try to hate you,” he said, his voice low, “I can’t.”

Essence’s lips parted, but no words came out. Her throat was tight, her chest rising and falling like she’d just run a mile. She didn’t know how to respond to that. Instead, she took the easy route.

“I saw you…” She started, her eyes trained on the floor. “With Jakara. You looked… happy.” She shrugged, and Josh scoffed.

“I mean, this whatchu’ wanted right?” He asked, his voice full of emotions that he was trying to keep at bay.

Essence flinched at the bite in his tone, but she didn’t argue. Because she couldn’t, he was doing exactly what she thought she wanted.

“I thought…” she started, then shook her head, blinking fast. “I thought it would be easier for you. If I stepped away before I became just another thing you had to carry.”

Josh stared at her like she’d just slapped him. “Easier?” he repeated, his voice low, incredulous. “Do I look like I’ve had it easy these past three weeks? I’ve been miserable, E.”

“I didn’t know what else to do, Joshua!” She finally snapped. “I was scared. Everything between us was starting to feel real, and it scared me.”

“You think I wasn’t scared, too?” he asked, eyes searching hers. “You think I knew what to do with how I felt about you? Hell, I still don’t. But the difference is, I stayed. I wanted to stay. I wanted to work out this love thing with you.

“Josh…” Essence trailed off, tears now falling down her cheeks. “Each one of my relationships ended with me getting my heart broken.” Her voice cracked, and she took a shaky breath, arms wrapping tighter around herself like she was trying to hold the pieces in. “I just… I thought if I ended it first, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much this time. Maybe I could control it—stop it before it got bad. But I was wrong. It still hurt. God, it still hurts.”

“You don’t get it, man,” Josh said softly, shaking his head. “You don’t get how much I fucking cared about you, How you were the only person on my mind.” Josh took a step closer, his voice trembling now, no longer sharp with anger but heavy with hurt. “You were it for me, Essence. Like… the one. Not some fling. Not some secret. I was ready to give you all of me, flaws and all, because I thought—” he swallowed hard, “I thought you wanted me, too.” Josh closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I was never going to leave you, Essence. I loved you.”

Essence’s breath caught. She looked up at him sharply, eyes wide with disbelief. “Loved?”

Josh held her gaze, his own eyes swimming with unshed emotion. “I don’t know what I feel anymore,” he said honestly. “Part of me still loves you. Part of me hates what you did. And part of me’s just tired of hurting every time I think about you.”

“I’m sorry.” Essence whispered. “I was just trying to protect myself, but I ended up destroying the one thing that felt real.”

Josh didn’t move. He tilted his head to the side as he gazed at her. “I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Essence whispered. “But I needed you to know the truth. That it wasn’t about you not being enough. It was me not knowing how to handle someone who actually loved me like I mattered.”

Josh looked down, then back up, like he was trying to hold himself together with threads that were already fraying. “So what now, E? What are we doing here?” His voice was tired. “Because I can’t go through this again unless it’s real. Unless you’re in it for real this time.”

Essence stared at him, the gravity in his voice anchoring her in place. For a moment, she didn’t breathe. She wanted to run. Her first instinct was always to run. But she stayed in the same spot, eyes locked onto his. “I want you. I want everything.”

Josh’s expression didn’t change right away. He just stared at her, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, like he was afraid she’d take the words back if he blinked too hard.

“You want me now,” he said quietly, the weight of doubt heavy in his voice. “But what about when it gets hard again? What happens when you start to feel too much? When it gets real again?”

Essence took a step forward. Just one. Her voice was still soft, but her eyes were steady now.

“Then I stay,” she said. “Even if I’m scared. Even if I don’t know how to do it perfectly. I stay. I show up. I try.”

A tear slid down Josh’s cheek, and he didn’t bother wiping it away. His throat bobbed as he swallowed the lump threatening to choke him.

“You broke me, E,” he whispered, pain etched in every syllable. “You tossed me to the side like I meant nothing.”

“I’m sorry, Josh. I’m so fucking sorry.” She whispered, moving closer to him. Essence's voice was barely audible when she spoke again. “I didn’t know how to love you the way you deserved. But I know now.” She stepped even closer, the space between them shrinking until there was nothing but their shared breath. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it right.”

Essence could feel the heat of Josh’s body against hers, the steady thrum of his heartbeat matching the frantic pace of her own. She wasn’t sure who moved first, but the next thing she knew, Josh was leaning down, his lips brushing against hers with a softness that took her by surprise.

It wasn’t a forceful kiss, nor was it rushed. It was slow, deliberate—like they were both savoring the moment, testing the waters, unsure if it was real.

Essence’s fingers found the back of Josh’s neck, pulling him closer, and he responded in kind, his hands settling on her waist, guiding her closer as if he couldn’t bear to be apart from her any longer. The kiss deepened, the tension from weeks of silence and hurt melting away, leaving only the rawness of their connection.

"I missed you," Essence whispered against his lips, her voice trembling with emotion. "Every single day."

“I missed you, too,” Josh muttered back as he broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers. “Me and you.” He said, staring deep into her eyes. “Me and you, Essence. No more pushing me away, no more running.”

“No more running,” She promised. Josh’s grip tightened slightly around her waist, pulling her even closer. The way he held her felt different—stronger, as though he was anchoring them both in the moment, ensuring neither of them could slip away again.

Essence met his gaze, her heart racing in her chest. She had always ran, always pulled away when things got too real. But now? Now, she wasn’t sure she had the strength to walk away again. Not when everything she wanted was standing right in front of her.

Soooo... what yall think? Worth the wait or I could've kept this shit lmao? 🤣,

Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤

Taglist : @paigereeder @empressdede @jaethaone @mzv11 @shantinextdoor

@xmonetsworld @li-da-savage @adoreesun @bebesobrielo @rianasixx

@queeny23 @cyberdejos2 @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @msbigredmachine @ashykneee

@callmekayd @yana3sworld @alichesmi @nayys-world @partypoison00

@raya-hunter01 @trippinsorrows @theusotwinzcom @vampygomez @christinabae

@amandairene88 @4milly @mindairy @fearlesschimera @emotionalhottiee

#wwe #jey uso #jey uso x black oc #jey uso x reader #jey uso angst #jey uso imagine #jey uso x black reader #black reader x jey uso #wwe fanfiction #jey uso fanfiction #wwe x reader #wwe x black oc #wwe x black reader #wwe imagine #wwe angst

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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 6 hours ago

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𝐎𝐊𝐀𝐘, 𝐒𝐎 𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐄 this...

You come home late. The lights in the apartment are dim, golden. The door clicks shut behind you, and the tension you’ve been carrying all day already starts to loosen.

From the living room, you hear the soft crackle of vinyl. A slow jazz record hums through the air like candlelight, warm and intimate. You follow it—and him.

Sylus stands by the turntable, wine glass in hand, half-silhouetted in the amber light.

He’s wearing that robe. The one that says he wasn’t expecting you… but everything else about him says he was..

His glasses are perched low on the bridge of his nose, catching the faintest glint of light. His hair is mussed like he’s been running his hand through it for hours. And he’s humming—softly—along with the music, like the sound has settled into his bones.

You stop in the doorway, quiet.

Watching him in this moment feels like intruding on something sacred. Like you’ve stumbled into a painting. A prayer. A love letter he hasn’t sent yet.

He doesn’t see you at first. Not until the music swells and he turns, as if he felt you there.

And then he smiles.

Soft. Crooked. Devastating.

“Kitten,” he says, and it’s more breath than word. Like it’s what he calls you in his dreams. He sets the wine glass down and stretches out a hand. Waits.

You walk to him like you’re answering a call only your heart could hear. Let him pull you into him, chest to chest, arms looping around your waist.

He sways you gently, no rhythm but the one carved out by familiarity and longing. His chin rests against your head. His breath slows.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs. “Bad day?”

You nod against him.

He hums again—this time just for you. The kind of sound that settles somewhere beneath your skin.

“You stress too much,” he whispers. “You should say yes to Onychinus.”

You laugh softly, and he smiles into your hair.

“I’m serious,” he says. “Better hours. Less paperwork. More time with me.”

You tilt your head up to meet his eyes, and there’s something there—quiet, pleading, full of love.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers.

And for the first time all day, you feel like breathing is easy again.

His arms stay around you as the record spins, warm and worn like the moment it holds. Your head rests against his chest, and the steady thrum of his heartbeat syncs with the music. Slow. Certain. Home.

You feel him smile against your hair, just before he speaks.

“Do you remember this song?” he murmurs, voice low.

You don’t answer right away. Just listen. Let it settle. It’s familiar—soft horns, a slow piano, the same quiet ache it carried years ago.

He pulls back enough to look at you, thumb brushing over your cheek. His gaze is soft, glassy almost, like he’s somewhere halfway between now and then.

“This was the first song we danced to,” he says. “That night at the auction.”

You blink, surprised—and then the memory rushes back.

The charity gala. The old record player tucked into the corner of the rooftop garden. You in that dress he still keeps in the back of his closet, like fabric can hold a memory. Him, loosening his tie with a crooked smile, asking you—quietly—if you’d give him the honor.

You didn’t speak much that night. Didn’t need to. He had your hand. You had his heart.

And now—years later—he’s holding you the same way.

“I remember,” you whisper.

He closes his eyes for a moment like that admission means something more than words. When he opens them again, there’s a softness there that makes your knees go weak.

“I almost kissed you then,” he says, his smile gentle and rueful. “Didn’t. Thought it would be too soon. Thought I’d scare you off.”

You laugh under your breath. “You waited until the next mission. When I had a concussion.”

“Strategic timing,” he says with a shrug. “You were too dazed to push me away.”

You nudge him in the ribs. He catches your hand and twines your fingers with his, pressing a kiss to your knuckles like you’re still on that rooftop. Like you’re still everything.

“I’d do it all again,” he murmurs. “The auction. The dance. The stupid nerves. Even the part where I watched you flirt with that diplomat for intel and nearly combusted.”

You smile up at him. “You were jealous.”

“Desperate.” His eyes drop to your lips. “I’ve always been… a little helpless with you.”

The record hums on, gentle as a heartbeat. And Sylus—half-dressed, half-saint, half-myth—pulls you in closer. Dancing with you like the world outside the music doesn’t exist.

And in that moment, it doesn’t. It’s just you. Him. And the echo of a memory that still chooses to stay.

— I NEED THIS IN MY LIFE!!!!!!!!!!

#love and deepspace #l&ds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lnds sylus #sylus qin #lads sylus #sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x reader #sylus x you #I NEED THIS IN MY LIFE #WHY IS MY BRAIN LIKE THIS

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kier-with-a-k · 2 days ago

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LAST NIGHT - M.S.

A/N: first fic! Omg I'm so happy to share this! I hope y'all enjoy this one!

Warning: death, angst, I think that's all

Not proofred!

--- Y/N's POV ---

It’s 6:59 PM, and I’m walking into a club. A little early, I know — but you can’t really blame me. I cough into my hand as the sharp scent of alcohol hits me like a truck. The place isn’t alive yet, but a few people are already scattered around, nursing their drinks and waiting for the night to begin.

I’ve convinced myself I’m going out tonight. No backing down... not that I really can. A week ago, they told me I only had one week to live.

And today... today is the last day.

---

7:00 PM.

The clock on the wall flips to 7:00, and my chest tightens. I don’t know if it’s this tight top cutting off my circulation or something deeper.

Everything feels off — like I’m floating outside my own body, watching someone else live my life. None of this feels real.

I wander the club, heels clicking against the floor, until my eyes land on a man sitting alone.

He’s strange-looking — not in a bad way. Attractive, even. But there’s something about him that feels... unraveling.

I adjust my tight black leather skirt as I walk toward him. Normally, I don’t dress up. But tonight... I kind of have to.

He’s surrounded by empty bottles, and judging by his slumped posture, he’s been drinking for a while.

I open my mouth to speak —

“He—”

“Go away,” he cuts me off sharply, voice flat.

Not exactly a "talk to me" tone.

Who the hell does he think he is? But since it is my last day on Earth... I decide to be a little menace.

My lips tug into a smirk.

“Day drinking, huh?”

“Day drinking? It’s fucking 7:05 PM.”

I grin wider. “Didn’t think you were gonna talk to me, Mr. Grumpy.”

He groans — it’s sharp, but weak at the edges. Tired.

Silence falls between us. Ten seconds pass before I sit beside him like I belong there.

I scan the crowd. The club’s still relatively tame, but the bitter smell of liquor clings to the air.

“What do you want?” he asks suddenly, snapping me out of my people-watching.

I turn to him, studying his face.

His eyes are impossibly blue — the kind that pull you in. But they’re ringed with dark circles, and his skin looks pale under the low lights.

He looks exhausted.

“What do you want?” he repeats, more impatient now.

I cough — louder this time. He notices.

“You know you really shouldn’t be here,” he mutters. That same voice — weak, but not soft. Like a storm he’s trying to keep inside.

I grin at him. “You seem really concerned.”

“I don’t care. Do whatever you want with your life. Just leave me alone.”

---

7:30 PM.

It’s been half an hour since I sat down next to him. He still hasn’t said much.

I glance at his outfit again — plain white button-down, creased and slightly damp from sweat and spilled whiskey. The collar is askew, like he stopped caring halfway through the day. Or halfway through life.

“You look incredibly sad,” I say, folding one leg over the other, letting my heel dangle off the tip of my toe like I don’t notice how bold I’m being.

He scoffs, takes a long breath. Doesn’t meet my gaze.

“Do you always talk this much?”

“Nope,” I pop, “just when I’m around people who look like they need saving.”

He shoots me a glare — the kind meant to cut. But the edges are dull. There's something in it that almost feels… curious.

“And what makes you think you’re the savior in this situation?”

I shrug, leaning in slightly, a ghost of a smirk tugging at my lips. “Because between the two of us, I’m the one still standing.”

He glances at the empty glass I took from him earlier, eyes narrowing. “You're annoying.”

“And you’re not nearly as scary as you pretend to be.”

He laughs — bitter, sharp — and then it softens. Just a little.

There’s a pause. A shift. Like the air decides to press closer.

“You wanna play a game?” I ask.

He raises a brow. “What kind of game?”

“A stupid one. Since, you know…” I trail off. I don’t say since I’m dying tonight, but it hangs there between us like invisible ink we’re both pretending not to read.

I smile, more playfully this time. “Let’s see who can make the other fall in love first before sunrise.”

He stares at me, like I’ve said the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“You think love is something you can win?”

“No,” I whisper, “but it’s something you can fake. And I want to see who fakes it better.”

He studies me — eyes lingering too long. “You’re messed up.”

“And you’re intrigued.”

His lip twitches. The tiniest crack in the armor.

“Fine. You’re on.”

---

8:00 PM

The club is louder now. Bodies are moving, the lights pulsing in time with the bass. Everything feels warmer — hazy in that almost-too-much kind of way.

He’s dancing.

Matt — I finally got his name in between shots and half-laughed insults — stands across from me, smirking as the music swells. His sleeves are rolled up, collar loosened, and there’s a dangerous sort of charm to the way he moves. Confident but chaotic.

I laugh at something he muttered in my ear — something about me being a menace with a god complex — and slide my hands up his chest, fingers playing with the edges of his collar.

“You’re getting soft on me,” I tease.

“Please,” he says, brushing his fingers along my waist like he’s barely touching me. “If I’m getting soft, you’re the one making it happen.”

My breath hitches — just slightly — but I recover fast.

“Still convinced I’m gonna fall first?” I ask, head tilted.

He leans in closer, lips ghosting the shell of my ear. “I already saw the way you looked at me five minutes ago.”

“That was pity,” I lie.

“That was interest,” he counters. “And it’s mutual.”

We’re dancing closer now. Closer than I expected. My hands find his shoulders, and his hand — warm, grounding — settles on the small of my back.

It’s dangerous, this thing we’re doing.

But for the first time in days, maybe weeks, I don’t feel like I’m dying.

I feel alive.

And that’s exactly what scares me most.

---

8:52 PM.

He says he’s getting us drinks. I nod, watch him weave through the crowd like he knows exactly where he’s going. I should’ve followed.

A hand grabs my wrist. Not gentle. Not familiar. Just... rough.

“Hey,” some stranger slurs, reeking of vodka and something sourer.

I try to pull away. I say “no.” Once, then louder.

And that’s when I see him — Matt — storming back toward us like the floor itself is shaking beneath him.

“Let. Her. Go.”

One swing. Then another. Glass breaks. Someone yells. There's blood on someone’s collar — maybe his, maybe not.

We’re thrown out before I can even process what happened.

---

9:10 PM. Outside the bar.

“What the hell was that?” I shout, heart racing as we stumble into the cold night air. “You just... punched that guy!”

“He touched you,” he says simply, like that explains everything.

“You got us kicked out!”

“I don’t care.”

I stare at him, shaking my head, still panting from the adrenaline. His lip is bleeding. I reach up without thinking and wipe the corner with my thumb.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world not falling apart.

“I’m not losing this game,” he says.

Neither am I.

---

9:45 PM.

The hotel room is shitty. One flickering lamp. A mirror that’s probably seen too much. One bed.

I sit on the edge, legs crossed, watching him toss the room key on the desk like he’s been here before.

“We’re really doing this?” I ask.

He shrugs, tugging off his jacket. “Unless you’re scared.”

“I’m dying. What do I have to be scared of?”

His eyes flick up. That word again. Dying.

I see it hit him — not like a truck. Like a slow realization that burns.

He doesn't say anything. Just crawls into bed beside me, leaving a full foot of space between us. It's weird. The restraint. Like he's scared of touching something that won’t be there in the morning.

---

10:30 PM.

We talk.

Not flirt.

Not tease.

Talk.

He tells me about his brother. About the hospital bills. About the pawn shop he robbed and the camera he didn’t know was there.

“I'll turn myself in tomorrow morning,” he says.

I tell him how my lungs are slowly giving out. How I spent months pretending I had more time than I did. That the world’s too loud and I’m too tired.

“You don’t look sick,” he whispers.

I laugh bitterly. “That’s the worst part.”

There’s a silence between us, thick like molasses.

And then — he inches closer. Our hands touch under the covers. Just barely. But it’s enough to make my heart ache.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“Not right now,” I whisper. “Right now it feels like breathing.”

---

12:02 AM.

I don’t know when we fell asleep. I just know his arm’s around me and his breath is in sync with mine.

There’s something sacred about it — like we’re stealing hours the universe didn’t want to give us.

He mumbles my name in his sleep.

And for once... I wish I had more time.

--- Matt's POV ---

5:58 AM

Something’s off.

It’s the kind of quiet that feels wrong — not peaceful, not soft. Just… wrong.

I blink awake slowly, eyes burning from too little sleep and too much everything else. She’s still beside me, her body curled into mine like she never planned to leave.

Her head rests against my chest. I can feel the weight of it. But… not the warmth.

“Hey,” I whisper, voice thick, cracking in my throat. I shift a little, brushing her hair from her face.

She doesn’t move.

Something in my chest snaps.

“Hey,” I say again, louder now, sitting up. My hand goes to her shoulder, gently shaking. “Come on. Don’t do that.”

She stays still.

My heart is thudding. Loud. Stupidly loud. I press two fingers to her wrist. Nothing.

Her lips are parted — barely — and I swear I can feel the absence of breath like it’s trying to suck the air out of the whole room.

“No, no, no—” My voice starts to crack open, sharp and raw. I shake her harder now, panic drowning me. “Don’t do this. Please don’t fucking do this.”

But she’s not waking up.

She’s not here anymore.

And it’s like the world is splitting in half.

---

I pull her into me, arms wrapped so tightly around her that if holding someone hard enough could bring them back, she'd be breathing again. Her skin’s cold. Not frozen, but that kind of cold that feels like the start of forever.

“I didn’t mean to win,” I whisper against her hair. My chest is shaking.

“I didn’t want to win.”

I keep rocking her. Back and forth, like that might keep time from moving forward. Like maybe if I just don’t stop, I can undo the sunrise, the sickness, the silence.

“I was supposed to go to jail,” I choke out. “You were supposed to— You weren’t supposed to leave first.”

She looks like she’s sleeping. Like if I just say the right thing, she’ll open her eyes and tell me to shut up and stop being dramatic.

But she doesn’t.

She doesn’t.

So I stay there. Holding her. Talking to someone who can’t answer. Crying so quietly the walls can’t hear it.

Because even if it was a game,

even if we only had one night,

I lost something I didn’t know I needed until it was already gone.

---

A/N: YAY! I'm really proud of this work! I hope you cried... Cause I did!

Thank you to these divas who helped me!!! @sturnsblogs @oopsiedaisydeer

@bambisturns @sturns-mermaid

Deviders from: @bernardsbendystraws

#kier writes #nick sturniolo #chris sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo #the sturniolos #christopher owen sturniolo #matt fic #matt angst #matt sturniolo angst #matt sturniolo x reader

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the-kr8tor · 2 days ago

Note

HI POOKIE

may I have sum Ekko 😓 please 😓

like a lazy morning where you woke up too early for your likings but can't fall back asleep, so you're just laying with him and he then starts to talk in his dreams about work and stuff and you can't help but find it funny, talking to him and having him reply back like you're part of his dreams. then you giggle too loud and he wakes up, ready to pay back for laughing on his face with lots of kisses 😈 the dream is free to choice ✨️

EKKO I MISSED YOU!!!! Thank you for requesting bleaky!! ❤️❤️❤️

Pairing: Ekko x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.2k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, established relationship, no s2 spoilers, cw suggestive, fluff!

Navigation

Your tired eyes open and you're met with the dim cold blue of the room. Judging by the sky right outside the window, it's far too early to be awake. Ekko lies beside you, fingers twitching, groaning like he's about to wake up after sensing that you're awake too. But as he stirs in bed, with the simple action of you placing yourself in his arm and closer beside him until his warmth ebbs through you, he suddenly stills, like a blanket of comfort draped over him. Ekko hugs you and laces his leg around your own, refusing to let you go.

You tamp down a chuckle with a hand covering your mouth. Who knew that the fearless firelights leader likes to cuddle? He sighs in his sleep, palm resting on the small of your back while his face is tucked on the crook of your neck. Holding onto his bare bicep, the scratch left by the previous patrol still left on his precious skin, you gently run your thumb over it like your touch alone could heal him.

Ekko answers with a hum against your neck, nose brushing along the curve of your jaw. At first you thought he woke up, but from how limp his legs and arms are around you, and his soft snores fan over your skin, he's absolutely knocked out. He needs the rest, so you let him sleep, eyes closing to fall back into dreamland with him.

“Scar…”

Your eyes fly open when he suddenly speaks. Craning your head gently to look at him, you find that he's still fast asleep beside you. Lashes fluttering and white hair covering his closed eyes. His fingers twitch against your spine, fingertips pressing gently on your back before resting again— He's dreaming.

“Where…” sniffing, Ekko scrunches his nose. “...where the fuck is my board?”

You almost laugh if you didn't catch yourself before you could. Your muffled giggles escape through your fingers as he grimaces, still dreaming.

“I need…” His arm tightens around you. “... I need my board.”

You've heard of people talking in their sleep before, and a fellow firelight once told you that they could answer back coherently if you ask them while they're asleep. Some would even stand up and pace around like they're going about their daily routine. So you decide to test that knowledge.

“Why do you need your board for, Ekko?” You softly ask, hand gently resting on his hip right under the tangled blanket.

Clicking his tongue as if the answer to your question is obvious, Ekko stretches his legs before falling limp around your own. “To fight.”

“There's no one to fight right now, everyone's asleep.” You say with a growing smile.

“Crime never sleeps.”

Laughing silently, your head lolls back on the pillow before he unconsciously grabs the back of your head to pull you back against him.

“Sorry.” You giggle quietly, “well you need to sleep, Ekko. You have to rest.”

“No.” He huffs, almost a whine.

Your eyes gaze at him with endearment, resisting the urge to kiss the tip of his nose. “You could get sick or worse if you don't.”

“Who's going…” his voice wavers, and you almost think the sleepy chatter is ending until he squeezes you with his legs. “Who's going to protect my girl?”

Inhaling, heart full, you really want to kiss him right now. You decide to play with his dreams some more. “Who's your girl, Ekko? Is she nice?”

“Fucking hot.” At first you gasped out silently from his unabashed revelation, but as he kicks the blanket off of him, you understood what dreaming Ekko meant.

He wraps his arms around you fully, shifting on the bed to lay himself flat on his back, dragging you with him as he lays you on top of him like you're a pillow. You let out an oof, chin tucked above his clavicle as he holds onto you. This is where you live now.

Humming, Ekko goes quiet. You thought that was the end of it for a moment, but as he whispers your name with a wince, you gaze at him sleepily.

“What is it, Ekko?” You gently move his hair off his eye. “What're you dreaming about, firefly?” Maybe he's dreaming of something sweet with you, the first meeting perhaps? Or the very first time he kissed you?

“Slowly…” he mumbles against the top of your head. “...Don't rush.”

Or maybe it's you training with him on the hoverboard while the two of you are flying above the hideout with its makeshift obstacle course hanging around the branches and roofs. As his hand moves down to the back of your knee, he grabs your leg and lifts it up to his waist, thumb drawing soft circles around your skin.

“Hey, am I winning the race?” You smile, knuckles brushing along his jaw.

He leans against your touch, smiling softly in his sleep. “...Just like that.” With a breathless sigh from his lips, face full of bliss, you know it's not a hoverboard race he's dreaming about.

You can't quiet down your laughter anymore as you roll away despite his arms around you, effectively bringing him down with you.

Ekko wakes up, one eye open as he finds himself halfway on top of you while you hide your searing cheeks from him.

“Wha–what happened?” He asks throatily, “are you okay?” Taking your hand away from your face, his eyes narrow at your grinning face, nose scrunching and with a questioning expression.

“It's nothing, Ekko.” You say in between bouts of flustered giggles. “I just had a really good dream.”

“Yeah?” He sleepily says, laying his head on your chest as he rests.

“Yeah.” You run your hands all over his back. “Did you have a good dream?”

Ekko sniffs at the cold air like he's contemplating. “I don't remember it.”

“Oh really?”

Lifting himself up by his elbows, he gazes at you through half lidded eyes. “You know something, don't you?”

You shake your head innocently, fingers cupping his chin and watching as the rising sun bathes the side of his face. “Nope, nothing.”

“No, you know something. I know you do.” Ekko leans closer, nosing your own fondly. “Tell me, was I talking in my sleep.”

“You? No,” you mumble with a lilt. “You were very quiet.”

“Tell me.” His brown eyes narrow, lips curving into a playful smile. “C’mon, tell me.”

“No, because there's nothing to tell—!” You're met with a barrage of kisses, giggling with each kiss while his hands hold you down by your waist.

“Tell me!”

“Never!”

Ekko pauses, eyes softening as his hair falls over his face. “What if I say please?”

“Why would I tell you if you already know?” You raise a brow at him, palms on his bare chest as he inhales above you.

“Shit,” his face falls from embarrassment. “I was talking?” You nod, humming. Head falling down your neck, he lets out a groan.

“It's okay, firefly, it happens to the best of us.” Chuckling, you pat his back comfortingly, albeit teasingly too.

Ekko suddenly lifts his head up, a smile slowly appearing in the corner of his lips as you know what his shining eyes convey. “You wanna recreate the dream?”

#request done #the kr8tor's creations #ekko #ekko x reader #ekko arcane #arcane ekko #ekko arcane x reader #arcane ekko x reader #arcane fanfic #arcane x reader #ekko fanfic #ekko fanfiction #ekko fluff #ekko x fem! reader #ekko x you #fanfic #x reader #arcane fluff

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amirawrah · 22 hours ago

Text

⭐︎Blocked Love

with JUDE BELLINGHAM⭐︎

synopsis: A heart that ran from love finally comes back, but is it too late to fix what was broken?

amirah: here is a little draft, hope yall like it!

You were never quite sure what to call it—what you and Jude had.

It wasn’t just sex, though that part came easy. It was the way he looked at you when you were mid-rant about something stupid. The way his hand always found yours. The quiet dinners. The sleepy good mornings. The comfortable silences and the teasing touches. It was something. It just wasn’t… defined.

And you didn’t ask. Maybe because deep down, you already knew the answer you didn’t want to hear.

Still, it was enough for a while. Enough to keep letting him in, emotionally and physically, while pretending your heart didn’t ache every time he left without saying, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Until one day—he didn’t come back.

No message. No call. No voice note saying he was swamped. Just nothing.

You’d stared at your screen for far too long, thumb hovering over his name, until you finally tapped to open the chat and realized… you were blocked.

Blocked.

Like you were some casual fling he needed to erase. Like you didn’t know his favorite way to fall asleep. Like he hadn’t once kissed you in the middle of a grocery store aisle for no reason.

The worst part? You never even got the dignity of a goodbye.

The silence stretched for days.

Then weeks.

Every ding of your phone made your chest tighten. Every tagged post, every blurry party video, you watched with narrowed eyes—scanning for a glimpse of him.

And then you saw it. Jude. At some lounge in Madrid. Leaning in, whispering something to a girl with slicked-back hair and a red dress that hugged her like skin.

You didn’t cry. You refused to cry. You closed the app. You curled up under

Time dragged.

People who knew asked about him. Mutual friends danced around his name like it might bite. You smiled through it all, made jokes, told them you were good.

You weren’t.

And yet, life didn’t stop. You still went on your walks. Still worked. Still listened to the playlists he made you, because torturing yourself seemed easier than deleting him entirely.

A week after seeing him on someone’s story, you woke up and couldn’t shake the urge to leave the house. It was too stuffy. Too quiet. You needed air.

You slipped on your sneakers, hoodie pulled up, ready to escape the weight of your apartment. As you opened the door—

There he was.

Jude.

Standing on your front step. Holding a bouquet, like some tragic rom-com cliché. His curls were slightly messy, eyes tired, but his smile was soft and hopeful.

“Hey.”

Your body froze. For a second, you wondered if this was some sick hallucination brought on by three hours of sleep and half a protein bar.

But it was him. Real and breathing. Looking at you like the sun rose with you and not over Madrid.

You didn’t smile back. How could you.

You didn’t say anything.

You just stared—arms crossed, heart slamming against your ribs.

“I know,” he said, dropping his gaze. “You probably wanna slam the door in my face.”

You raised your brow.

“That crossed my mind,” you murmured.

He let out a breathy laugh, but it faded quickly. “Can I come in? Please.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to hear what he had to say—but because you weren’t sure your heart could take it.

Eventually, you stepped aside.

He stepped inside quietly, like he didn’t want to disturb the air between you, even though it was already thick with everything unsaid.

You closed the door behind him. The click echoed.

He held the flowers awkwardly, like he’d forgotten what to do with his hands. You didn’t offer a vase.

Jude looked around the room he hadn’t been in for weeks. Everything was the same. Everything was different.

You stood by the counter, arms crossed again.

“Say what you came to say,” you said, your voice soft, but not kind.

He looked down at the flowers. “These are for you.”

You didn’t move.

He swallowed hard. “I’ve been an idiot. I know. I know what it looks like—what I did, what I didn’t say.”

You tilted your head slightly. “You blocked me, Jude.”

His jaw clenched. “I know.”

“You ghosted me like I meant nothing.”

He shook his head quickly, taking a step toward you. “No. Don’t—don’t say that. You meant everything. That’s the problem.”

You blinked. “Well fucking elaborate jude.”

He ran a hand down his face. “I started falling in love with you, and it scared the hell out of me. We aren’t even together—we aren’t calling it anything, and I keet telling myself that its fine, that its just casual.”

“It wasn’t casual,” you said sharply. “At least not for me.”

“I know,” he said, pain pinching in his voice. “It wasn’t for me either. But I didn’t know how to do it. I didn’t know how to ask for more without losing what we had. So I did the stupidest thing imaginable. I tried to rip it off.”

You were quiet for a moment. “So you blocked me.”

He nodded. “Because seeing you—talking to you—was making it worse. I was already in too deep. And I thought maybe, if I created space, it’d go. That I’d forget the way you talk in your sleep, or how you make fun of me when I’m losing at Uno. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

Your heart twisted painfully.

“And then I saw you weren’t reaching out anymore,” he continued, “And I thought, maybe she’s moved on. Maybe she’s okay. So I tried to be okay too. Went on dates. Smiled in the photos.”

You clenched your jaw. “So I was just a phase you had to shake off?”

“No,” he said immediately. “You were the best thing that ever happened to me. And I ran from it like a coward.”

Silence settled between you again. He took a careful step closer.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said. “But I did. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

You stared at him, arms still wrapped around yourself like armor.

“I waited, you know,” you whispered. “I waited for a call. A text. Anything. I checked your name every day like an idiot.”

Jude’s shoulders dropped like your words physically hit him.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said. “I blocked you to ease the pain, but it only made it worse. I thought I could force myself to stop loving you.”

Your breath caught.

He looked you in the eye, finally stepping close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.

“But I do,” he said softly. “I love you. I’m in love with you. I never stopped.”

Your arms slowly dropped to your sides.

You didn’t say anything.

He held the flowers out again—an awkward, pleading gesture. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I needed to tell you. Even if it’s too late.”

There was a long beat. And then you exhaled the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“I hate that I still love you,” you said, voice cracking.

His eyes flickered with hope.

“But I do,” you added, blinking back emotion. “I love you. And I hated you for making me feel like I wasn’t enough.”

He stepped closer again, setting the flowers down on the table so he could gently, cautiously touch your cheek.

“You’ve always been more than enough,” he said.

Your lips trembled.

And then—finally—you let yourself fall forward. Into his chest. Into the arms you missed every night. You felt his breath stutter as he held you tight, one hand at the back of your head like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, over and over, into your hair.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, face inches from his.

“You don’t get to run again,” you said. “If we do this… we do it for real.”

His eyes were glassy. “I want that. I’ve always wanted that.”

Then he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not hungry.

Just soft. Real. Like a promise made with lips instead of words.

The kiss deepened slowly.

There was no urgency, no hunger to make up for lost time. Just warmth, like breathing after holding your breath too long. His hands cupped your face gently, and your fingertips curled into the soft cotton of his hoodie, grounding yourself in something real. Him.

When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads rested together.

You both smiled. Small. Tired. Safe.

“I missed you,” you whispered.

He kissed your cheek. “I missed us.”

You stepped back, finally picking up the forgotten flowers and walking to the kitchen to find a vase. Jude followed silently, like he didn’t want to be more than two steps away from you ever again.

As you filled the vase, you asked softly, “Are you staying tonight?”

“Do you want me to?”

You gave him a look. “Jude.”

He grinned a little. “Yeah. I want to stay. Not just tonight. Every night, if you’ll let me.”

You tried to hide the way your heart soared. “Let’s just start with one.”

The night was quiet after that. You reheated leftovers. He sat at your kitchen island watching you like he couldn’t believe he was here again, like he didn’t deserve this peace but was grateful for it anyway.

You both curled up on the couch afterward, half-watching a film neither of you really cared about. His arm wrapped around you, your legs over his, your head on his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear.

At one point, you looked up at him and whispered, “Why now?”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Why come back tonight?”

He took a breath. “Because I saw a photo of you yesterday. Just walking. Headphones on. Laughing about something on your phone. And I realized that I could spend the rest of my life going on fake dates, trying to forget you—but I’d never be happy.”

You stared at him.

“And if you’d already moved on,” he added softly, “I was ready to let you go. But if there was even the smallest chance you still loved me… I had to try.”

Your eyes welled up.

You pressed your lips to his again, this time slower, more certain. Like something sacred. He pulled you closer, your bodies flush together, not out of lust—but because there was no other way to be close enough.

One kiss turned into two.

Two into more.

His hands slid up your waist, careful, familiar, patient.

He lifted you into his lap, your mouths still moving together, it wasn’t a firestorm—it was warmth. Home.

That night, you made love like it meant something. Like it always had.

No more confusion. No more blurred lines. Just you and him, rediscovering each other with whispered apologies and soft touches. His lips murmuring your name like a prayer. Yours tracing his shoulder like you were mapping your way back to something you never truly left.

He said “I love you” again. You said it back.

And when you finally collapsed together, tangled in sheets and each other, he kissed your forehead and smiled.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You believed him this time.

#mirahsworks🦫#jude bellingham #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham oneshot #jude bellingham x black reader #jude bellingham x you #footballer x black reader #footballer x reader #footballer x you #footballer x y/n

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alltimecharlo · 1 day ago

Note

I think puck bunny will would be so interesting!

anon you are SO right… 🩵 emphasis on the puckbunny here lol :) fic under the cut!!

Will Smith is bored of normal guys.

Frat boys? Been there. Finance bros? Literally couldn’t pay him to go back. Guys who talk about Bitcoin and forget your name mid-hookup?

No thank you.

So when his roommate drags him to a Sharks game on a Thursday night—good seats, cheap beer, no expectations—Will goes purely to look hot and scream a little. He wears a cropped Sharks tee and a tiny silver chain, tucks his hands in the back pockets of his jeans when he walks down the aisle, and doesn’t pay attention to the roster.

Until he shows up.

#71.

Will notices him during warmups. Chestnut hair. Angry-looking. Rookie, judging by the way the older players are chirping him. Gorgeous, in a punchable kind of way.

Will leans forward over the glass, licking salt off the rim of his cup.

“Who’s that?” he asks his roommate, eyes locked on the guy doing rapid-fire wrist shots like he’s mad at the puck.

His roommate checks the scoreboard. “That’s Macklin Celebrini. First-round pick. Supposed to be, like, the next Crosby.”

Will squints. “He’s kinda cute. In a grumpy, scowly, never-smiled-a-day-in-his-life way.”

“Yeah, well,” his roommate says, already bored, “he’s probably not looking for guys in crop tops.”

Will smirks. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

⸻

The game is a blur of lights and music and cold beer, but Will watches him the whole time.

Mack takes two big hits and throws three. He doesn’t score, but he’s everywhere—relentless, magnetic. The Sharks win in OT, the crowd goes nuts, and Will’s already halfway down the stairs before the buzzer finishes.

He knows what he looks like—eyes lined, lips glossy, tee riding up when he moves. He lingers near the players’ tunnel, pretending to scroll on his phone, chewing gum slow. His stomach buzzes with possibility.

A security guy walks by. “Players only, man.”

Will smiles sweetly. “Just waiting on a friend.”

It’s mostly bullshit.

Until, suddenly, it’s not.

Because Macklin Celebrini walks out of the tunnel with his helmet tucked under his arm, looking a little dazed and sweaty, and Will steps right into his path.

Mack stops short.

He looks at Will.

Will looks back.

And then, very calmly, Will says, “Hey. Good game.”

Mack blinks. “Uh. Thanks.”

“You don’t know me,” Will says. “But I came to see you tonight.”

Mack frowns. “You a reporter or something?”

Will laughs. “Do I look like a reporter?”

Mack glances him up and down—at the crop top, the necklace, the gloss. “No.”

Will steps closer. “Good. Then you know I’m here for something else.”

Mack’s ears go red. His mouth opens, then closes. He clears his throat.

“You a fan?”

“I am now.”

There’s a beat of silence where neither of them moves.

Then Will tilts his head, biting gently on his straw. “You going out tonight?”

Mack shrugs. “Team might hit a bar for, like, one drink.”

Will smiles. “Skip it.”

Mack’s brows lift. “Why?”

Will leans in, just a little. “Because I’m staying five minutes away. And I’d really like to get to know you better.”

Mack’s pupils blow wide.

Will doesn’t push. He just waits, gaze steady, letting the tension pull tight between them like a string.

Finally, Mack says, “Okay.”

⸻

The Uber ride is a blur—Will’s hand on Mack’s thigh, Mack staring out the window like he can’t believe this is happening. The rookie energy is strong. Nervous but wired. Will finds it adorable.

They get upstairs, Will’s keycard stutters on the first swipe, and Mack’s standing behind him like a furnace. The door clicks open and Will turns, and they just look at each other.

“You ever done this before?” Will asks, a little amused, a little tender.

Mack shrugs. “Not like this.”

Will smiles, soft and sure. “That’s okay. I got you.”

He kisses Mack first.

It’s easy. Mack’s taller, strong, but he lets Will take the lead, lets Will guide him back toward the bed. Their mouths slide together—hot, slow, just the right edge of hungry. Will tastes adrenaline, Gatorade, the aftershock of overtime.

Mack groans, low and quiet, like he’s been waiting forever for this exact thing.

⸻

After, they lie tangled in the sheets. Mack’s shirt is somewhere on the floor. Will’s gloss is smudged halfway across his cheek.

Mack runs a hand down Will’s bare side. “You really came to the game for me?”

Will grins. “I had a feeling you’d be my type.”

“What type is that?”

Will rolls over on top of him, smirking. “Hot, repressed, slightly overwhelmed hockey rookies.”

Mack flushes. “Jesus.”

Will kisses his jaw. “Don’t worry. I’m very supportive of your journey.”

Mack snorts, wrapping his arms around Will’s waist. “You’re not what I expected tonight.”

Will hums. “You either, superstar.”

They fall asleep like that—tangled, warm, happy.

And the next morning, Mack slips out for morning skate, kisses Will on the temple, and says, “Text me?”

Will grins into the pillow. “Already did.”

♡

#love love love #kind of fem!will here #he just jumped out 🤷🏼‍♀️#willmack prompts #willmack #will smith hockey #mackwill #macklin celebrini #wacklin #san jose sharks #hrpf fic #hrpf #hockey fic #hockey hrpf

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lyn31 · 3 days ago

Note

SERIOUSLY LOVE your writing so much omg! i discovered your acc by your zayne pregnancy fic and i was wondering if you can make zayne and mc had a soft lovemaking (two rounds) while zayne's being gentle? 😆

Ahh yess ofc, most people find me through that series 😂 Which honestly perfect, love that series! 🫶🏻😩 I did not expect to write the whole thing ahahaha but anyway! Here's a gentle love making, ah well, it's not two round technically, I mean you can count it as two, but it just the perfect cut! I thought if I continue it'll drag on too much but there's plenty of gentleness going around 👀

OH! And... I kinda make it like a fill in blank for Fragrant Possession card ;-; Dw, there's not much spoiler if you didn't read the story yet! Just letting you know! Let me know what you think!💕

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Zayne Fragrant Possession (Celebration)

Summary

After the storm of battle and the glow of recognition, you let Zayne peel back every layer of your tension with steady hands and quieter love, until what’s left between you is nothing but warmth, want, and the ache of being truly seen.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Smut, Gentle sex, a lot of kissing, a lot of touching, body worshipping, multiple position, oral, banter! :D This is basically a fill in blank fic, where after MC did the speech, they eat at the restaurant and back to their hotel room, celebrating on their own :) Enjoy!

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The hotel room door clicks softly shut behind you.

Zayne doesn’t speak at first. He just stands there for a beat, eyes tracing the length of you—your tousled hair, the way his coat still hangs loose over your dress, the tiny scratches on your skin left behind from the earlier battle. You’re halfway between disheveled and radiant, and he looks at you like you're the most breathtaking thing he's ever seen.

Then, a slow exhale. A quiet, unshakable kind of awe.

“You were incredible today,” he says simply. But the words land heavy, warm. His voice doesn’t tremble, but something in his gaze gives him away completely.

You let out a soft laugh, dropping your purse onto the dresser. “You say that like I didn’t just get dirt on my tights.”

“And still accepted an award like royalty.” He steps closer, undoing the first button of the coat draped over your shoulders.

Your lips twitch. “Well, without your coat I would look like a battle-hardened maiden.”

“While that’s not really proper for a formal event, I think the world would be grateful to see it.”

You laugh, swatting his shoulder playfully. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smiles, the corners of his mouth lifting as he slides the coat down your arms with careful hands. “Hmm. Miss Hunter of the Year.”

You murmur, “Zayne…” but he’s already hanging the coat and returning to you. His fingers graze your cheekbone as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, gentler than the night deserves.

“Congratulations again,” he says quietly. “I’m proud of you. More than I can say.”

And it’s not the words that unravel you—it’s the way he says them, low and reverent, like you didn’t just win some award, like you built the stars he looks at every night.

You don’t say anything back right away. Just stand there in front of him, heartbeat slow and full, feeling the space between you shrink to nothing.

The night outside is quiet. The city doesn’t know what you gave up to be here. But he does.

He leans in.

It’s not rushed or sudden—just the natural conclusion of everything unsaid. His lips brush yours like he’s still asking permission, and you meet him there with a softness that nearly undoes you both. Slow. Warm. A kiss that speaks in quiet gratitude and long-held admiration.

Your hands find the collar of his shirt, and his find your waist—familiar now. You press your forehead to his as the kiss breaks, breathing against his mouth.

“Shower,” you murmur, almost dreamily.

He hums in agreement, the sound low in his throat, almost amused. His hands slide a little lower, then around, and with practiced ease, he lifts you effortlessly into his arms. There’s no urgency to it—only care, only the certainty that you’ll be safe wherever he carries you.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, cheek against his collarbone as he walks toward the bathroom, the soft shuffle of footsteps on hotel carpet the only sound around you.

The light in the bathroom is muted when he switches it on—golden and quiet, like the rest of the night. He sets you down with a gentleness that makes your chest ache and turns the water on, testing the temperature with his hand before adjusting it to something warm and steady.

Neither of you rushes. You undress in that slow, unhurried silence of people who know every inch of each other. He reaches for the clasp at the back of your dress without a word, fingers ghosting against your skin as he lowers the zipper. Your clothes fall away between soft glances, and when he undresses, it’s with the same quiet calm—never showy, never impatient.

The moment you step beneath the stream of water, your shoulders finally drop. Heat sinks into your skin, loosening the last remnants of tension.

Zayne steps in behind you a second later, hands grazing your waist as he closes the distance again. He doesn’t touch with hunger—this time he touches to soothe. He takes the shampoo from the hotel shelf and begins working it into your hair, fingers slow and sure, massaging your scalp with delicate pressure. The water runs down your back while his thumbs circle behind your ears, and you can’t help the sound you make—barely a sigh, but one that draws a small smile from him.

“You always melt when I do this,” he murmurs.

“Feels good,” you say softly. “Feels like you.”

He rinses your hair with the same care, cupping water in his palms to shield your eyes. Then he works his way down—your shoulders, arms, sides—rinsing and washing, never lingering too long, but never moving too fast either. The silence stretches, comfortable and golden.

You return the favor in kind—lathering soap in your hands and trailing it down the long line of his back. You feel the way he exhales when your fingers skim his spine. He leans just enough into your touch that you know he needed it too.

By the time you finish rinsing each other, the bathroom is thick with steam, warm enough to soften the mirrors and blur the corners of the world. Your skin glows with heat, flushed from both the shower and the way his hands had moved over you.

You glance at him, cheeks damp, hair dripping in soft waves against your neck. There’s a pause—just long enough to feel it—and then Zayne reaches up, his knuckles brushing beneath your chin, tipping your face toward him with a feather light touch.

“Better?” he asks, voice low and steady.

You nod. “Much.”

Zayne hums, then reaches for a towel, unfolding it with quiet care. The moment the fabric touches your skin, it’s warm and plush, a gentle contrast to the cool air outside the shower.

He starts at your shoulders, patting you in slow, deliberate passes. Between motions, his lips find your temple. Then the bridge of your nose. The curve of your cheek.

You stand still beneath the weight of it—of him—not because you don’t want to move, but because you don’t need to. He lowers the towel slowly, brushing it along your arms, down your sides. Every pass feels less like drying and more like memorizing.

When the towel reaches your waist, his mouth finds yours—unhurried, tender, the kind of kiss that makes your fingers curl against his shoulder, still slick with water. You breathe a laugh against his lips.

“I don’t think this is very efficient, Dr. Zayne.”

His mouth slips down to your jaw, then lower, his breath cool against the heat of your collarbone. “Multitasking,” he murmurs, “has a proven success rate.”

You snort softly but don’t argue. Not when his hands feel this careful. Not when his lips make you forget what dry even feels like.

But when the towel skims down your legs, you reach behind him, grabbing the other towel and lightly tapping it against his shoulder. He pauses, glancing up. You arch a brow.

“Pretty sure I’m dry enough,” you say with a teasing tilt of your head. “Your turn.”

Zayne straightens at your nudge, and you step in close, mirroring what he did moments ago—starting at his shoulders, gently patting the water away from his chest, then his waist.

He watches you quietly, his expression unreadable, but you feel the shift in him when you rise on your toes to press a kiss to his jaw. Another to the hollow beneath his ear. Then one more, soft and certain, against his lips.

You both pause when you're done, towel draped over the edge of the sink, robes slipped over clean skin, damp hair tucked behind your ears.

His hands settle at your waist again, light and certain.

“Definitely the efficient way,” he says, tone calm as ever. “We should always dry off like this.”

You laugh, warmth bubbling in your chest.

Zayne pulls away just enough to reach for the small hotel hairdryer, his brows lifting in a silent question. You sigh, dramatically.

“Do I have to?” you murmur, though you’re already turning around, letting your damp hair fall loose over the towel draped across your shoulders.

“You’ll catch a cold,” he replies, deadpan.

“And here I thought you were warming me up just fine a second ago.”

A soft huff of laughter escapes him, but he says nothing at first—just plugs in the dryer and gently begins to run his fingers through your hair, loosening the strands before the hum of warm air starts. The heat wraps around your scalp, and his hand never leaves you, guiding each section with quiet patience.

You close your eyes.

It’s not the heat that makes you melt—it’s the way his fingers never leave your hair, always grounding you, gentle and steady. Each motion is unhurried, reverent in its own quiet way. You feel his breath near your ear as he shifts angles, the towel still draped loosely over your shoulders.

“This part always makes me sleepy,” you murmur, lips curving faintly.

He makes a low sound of acknowledgment—something between a hum and a chuckle—but says nothing, continuing with the same careful attention.

“Is this my reward for winning an award?” you ask lightly.

“No,” he says, his voice softer now, more certain. “This is just a reward for being by my side.”

You swallow, caught off guard by how easily he says it—like it’s obvious. Like your place beside him is something valuable, not questioned.

Then, after a pause, he adds. “But now that you mention it... We should do something more tomorrow. A proper celebration.”

The dryer clicks off.

You turn slowly to face him again, hair still a little damp at the ends but no longer dripping. Zayne sets the dryer down, his hand slides to the edge of the towel, pulling it off from your shoulder as he meets your gaze. The air between you shifts again—closer now. Warmer. His hands then find your hips through the robe’s fabric.

“Tomorrow?” you echo, your voice quieting.

“Mhm. Tonight’s for us.”

Your fingers drift up to the knot at his robe, tugging it loose as you lean in. He meets you halfway—his mouth brushing yours in a kiss that starts soft but lingers, deepens. His hands curl at your waist. Yours slip under the lapel of his robe. There’s nothing rushed about it, just heat gathering between touches, weightless and slow.

By the time you part for breath, your noses are still brushing, and your lips are slick from the kiss. His hand cups the side of your neck, thumb stroking lightly just below your jaw.

You whisper, “Should we…?”

His gaze is already on your mouth when he answers, “Come here,” and kisses you again—this time guiding you slowly, deliberately toward the bed.

The bed is cool beneath you when you sink onto it, the mattress shifting gently under your weight. Zayne follows you down without breaking the kiss, one hand braced beside your head while the other finds your thigh beneath the robe—skin to skin, cool, warm and searching. His fingers trail up slowly, following the curve until his palm rests just beneath the hem, the pads of his fingers pressing lightly into your skin.

Your breath stutters when he deepens the kiss. No hunger unchecked. Just that same careful reverence he’s held you with all night.

Your hands move to the lapels of his robe yet again, fingertips slipping past the fabric to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. You part the robe a little more, easing it back over his shoulders until it hangs loose, framing the strong line of his body. Your palms splay across his skin, taking in the heat of him, the softness just beneath the muscle. He exhales softly against your mouth, like the touch alone is enough to ground him.

His hand slides higher along your thigh, the heel of his palm brushing the curve of your hip as he leans closer. The robes part further with every movement, but neither of you bother to shrug them off. There’s something more intimate in the layers—how they slip and shift just enough to reveal skin, but not all at once. Like the night is meant to be savored, not conquered.

You tilt your head back just a little, letting your lips part beneath his—and he leans in with a kiss that turns deeper now—less tentative, more claiming. His teeth graze your lower lip before he draws back just enough to whisper, “Tell me if you want more.”

Your breath catches—he’s close, warm, waiting. The ache between your thighs throbs at the edge of restraint.

“Yes,” you breathe, almost too soft to hear, but he hears it. Feels it in the way your hands curl into his robe, tugging him closer.

His mouth finds your jaw, then the edge of your throat, cool and open. You gasp when his hand cups under your knee and slowly draws your leg over his hip, aligning you more closely. The heat between you flares as your bodies press together through the thinning layers of fabric.

“You feel…” he starts, but trails off, voice roughened, lips against the hollow of your throat.

“Like yours?” you murmur, teasing—but the sentiment hums low in your chest, dangerously real.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, to see your face beneath the dim light. The answer is already there in his eyes, but he says it anyway, because it’s the way both of you like it.

“Always.”

His hand moves beneath the robe again, fingertips trailing a path across your waist, your stomach, then down again to your thigh, brushing it slowly. Your own hands mirror him—exploring, learning him again in the hush between kisses. Every sigh, every shift, every quiet press of mouth to skin adds to the slow rhythm you’re building, one touch at a time.

Then his hand slides higher, finding the edge of your robe and drawing it open a little more. You feel the fabric fall away from your chest as his mouth moves lower—past your collarbone, the slope of your shoulder, until his lips brush the swell of your breast. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t dive in. He parts his mouth over your skin, kissing softly around it, never quite where you ache for him yet.

You gasp as his hand move to touch the other where his mouth is not, kneading you gently through the loosened robe. Your body arches into his palm without thinking, and he responds with a soft exhale, lips dragging over the skin he’s not yet fully bared.

The coolness of his touch spreads under your skin like ice melting slowly beneath sunlight—his fingers stroking in slow, deliberate circles, coaxing out every reaction.

Still, his mouth lingers close but avoids the center.

He’s savoring you, utterly focused, as if every inch of you deserves its own moment.

His other hand is moving too, sliding along your inner thigh, just shy of where you need him. The sensation is maddening—the heat, the teasing pressure that makes your breath hitch and your hips shift without thought. You can feel the anticipation building, centered deep between your legs, pulsing and insistent.

Your hands find his chest—his robe already fallen halfway down his shoulders, giving you room to touch further. Your fingers trace the lines of muscle across his chest. With every slight movement, his breath hitches, then finally up to his shoulder where you clutch gently, grounding yourself.

Then his hand finally moves, slipping the rest of your robe aside so your breast is fully bare beneath his palm. The contrast of his skin on yours makes your breath stutter. He cups you directly now, and this time when he rubs his thumb over your nipple, you let out a soft, broken sound.

Zayne hums against your skin like approving the sound you make.

His fingers roll and flick the sensitive peak, gentle but purposeful, coaxing another gasp from you. But his mouth still doesn’t move to meet it—still kisses just around, just beside, as if teasing you is its own form of reverence.

“Zayne—” your voice catches in your throat, heavy with want.

Your hips shift again, arching toward the hand that still lingers at your thigh. Your body is already aching, already pulsing beneath every careful stroke.

He feels it—the way you move against him, the way your thighs tremble slightly under his touch.

And finally, his hand glides up, cupping your bare core under the fabric. You moan then, head tipping back into the pillow as the heat flares. He doesn’t go straight to it—doesn’t press too deep yet—but slides his fingers along the seam of your entrance, slow and patient.

Your grip tightens on his back, fingers curling into his bare shoulder.

He exhales again, slower this time, like he’s feeling it all with you. Then he leans up slightly, brushing his lips across your cheek as his fingers tease just barely inside the edge of your folds.

“You’re so warm…” he murmurs, low and quiet like a confession meant only for you. “And already so ready…”

His voice sends a fresh ripple of heat down your spine.

And his fingers—circling the entrance in maddening, deliberate strokes—leave you trembling with want.

His mouth trails downward again, brushing just beneath your breast before returning to it with a lingering kiss. The coolness of his breath and the drag of his lips make you shiver beneath him, and still his fingers stay at your entrance, applying only the lightest pressure—enough to keep you aware of his presence there, but not enough to ease the ache.

Then you feel it—his lips parting around your nipple as he sucks gently, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak in slow, savoring strokes. The sound you make is almost a whimper, hips rolling toward his hand instinctively.

His free hand is just as worshipful—cupping your other breast, thumb circling the nipple there, kneading softly in time with his mouth.

The combination pulls soft gasps from you with every motion. Your back arches, offering him more, chasing the pressure he still keeps just out of reach. And Zayne… he enjoy it thoroughly. Every flick of his tongue, every graze of his teeth is deliberate. Measured. Like he wants to know how each one makes you breathe.

He finally gives your breast one last suck and a stroke of his tongue, then lifts his head slowly. His hand still teases your breast, but his mouth starts moving lower again.

You feel his breath first—tracing the path down your stomach, then the light drag of his lips as he leaves open kisses along the curve of your belly, just above the soft edge of your robe.

With each kiss, he parts the fabric more, exposing more of you to the warm night air and to him. There’s reverence in it—no rush, no hurry, just the quiet focus of someone who’s utterly devoted to the woman beneath him.

Sometimes, it still stuns you—how gently he touches you when he could so easily take. Like he’s not just savoring you, but committing every part of you to memory. You wonder if he knows how safe he makes you feel. How easy it is to fall for him like this.

And when he reaches the very top of your thighs, he pauses just so he can look at you.

Then he leans in.

Soft. Slow. Like he’s greeting you.

You jolt at the sensation, a shuddering breath caught in your throat as your fingers tighten in the sheets.

Then he brings his hands to your thighs—gently parting your fold—before carefully spreading you with his fingers. You feel exposed, flushed, but the way he looks at you...

His eyes lift to yours, gaze steady, reverent.

And then—he licks you.

Long, slow, deliberate. Like he’s tasting something exquisite. His mouth is still cool and wet, tongue gliding from your entrance upward, catching along your folds. You moan, hips lifting in response, but his hands on your thighs keep you grounded—gentle, but firm.

His nose brushes your clit as he focuses on your entrance again, tongue teasing just inside, and the brush of pressure there sends your head falling back with a gasp.

“Zayne…” you breathe, voice shaking. One hand finds his hair, fingers threading into the soft strands, holding on.

He groans quietly into you—pleased—and the vibration of it makes you tremble. He licks deeper this time, tongue sliding into your entrance, slow but sure, like he’s not just doing this to make you feel good, but it’s also make him feel good.

His nose nudges your clit again, not quite an accident, but he doesn’t stay there—just a tease, another layer of the delicious torment he’s weaving.

The slick sounds of his mouth on you grow louder as your arousal builds, and the heat in your core starts to throb with growing need.

You feel it when his tongue pushes deeper, just enough to make your breath catch again, and when his mouth pulls back slightly, his fingers replace it—slick and warm with your arousal. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you with those calm, hungry eyes as his finger circles your entrance, then slowly slides inside.

The gentle stretch still makes your hips jerk.

“Fuck—Zayne—” you pant, eyes fluttering shut.

He hums again, and you feel it in your bones.

He slides the finger in all the way, slow and careful, letting you feel every inch of it. Then he pulls back just enough to add another—pressing in with a steady rhythm, stretching you around him. Your walls flutter at the intrusion, already slick, already clenching as if trying to pull him deeper.

“Still so tight,” he murmurs against your inner thigh, voice soft, but thick with heat. “Even after how wet you are for me…”

His tongue returns to your clit, finally closing around it with a slow suck that draws a broken moan from your lips. The motion is deliberate, focused—just like the rhythm of his fingers, thrusting slowly, curling slightly inside you.

He’s not rushing. Zayne devours you like he’s trying to memorize every part of your taste, every sound you make, every twitch of your body beneath his touch.

You can barely breathe through it. His fingers thrust deeper, angled just right to brush against the spot inside you that makes your toes curl—and the same moment, his tongue flicks hard across your clit, making your hips buck up into his mouth.

His grip on your thighs tightens to keep you grounded while he builds you higher.

“You like that,” he says quietly against you, his breath teasing your sensitive flesh. “You always do…”

Then he flattens his tongue, pressing it firm to your clit as his fingers thrust harder—still slow, still controlled, but with more purpose now. The slick sounds of him fucking you with his fingers, the wet flick of his mouth, the way he keeps watching your face even as he works you apart—it’s all too much.

Your thighs tremble again, starting to close around his head as your orgasm threatens, but he holds you open, patient and unrelenting.

“Zayne—ah—don’t stop—”

He groans again, a low rumble against your skin, and the vibrations ripple straight through your core. His fingers curl deeper, finding that spot again and again, each stroke timed with the pressure of his mouth. And this time, when his lips close around your clit, he sucks harder—tongue circling in tight, slow spirals that make your eyes roll back.

You’re close. Too close. It hits you in waves—heat and pressure and pleasure mounting into something sharp and overwhelming.

Your fingers twist tighter in his hair. Your back arches. Your legs shake.

And then you break.

The orgasm hits like a crash—sharp, clenching waves pulsing through your core as your hips jolt up into his mouth. You cry out his name, breathless and broken, voice catching as pleasure floods through you. But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps his tongue on you, keeps his fingers moving inside you through every pulse, drawing it out, dragging you through every last ripple until you collapse back against the bed, panting, thighs trembling.

Only then—only when your body begins to twitch with over sensitivity—does he finally ease off, fingers slipping out of you with a slick sound. He kisses your thigh once, then again, slower this time, soothing.

You’re still catching your breath when he moves up your body, mouth trailing wet kisses up your skin. His hand brushes along your side, grounding you gently as he settles above you.

And when he finally leans in to kiss you—his mouth still tasting of you—it’s soft yet deep.

Like he’s claiming you and worshiping you all at once.

Your hand finds the back of his neck as he kisses you, fingers threading into the damp strands there. He’s still panting faintly from how long he kept his mouth on you—still reverent, still hungry.

And then you feel it.

His arousal, hard and heavy, pressed against your stomach. The warmth of him, the way it twitches slightly against your skin when your hand slides lower—wrapping around his cock with a slow stroke.

Zayne shudders above you.

His breath stutters, lashes fluttering briefly before his eyes meet yours again, darker now. He just watches you as your hand moves, slow and curious, stroking him from base to tip.

You feel everything. The weight, the heat, the faint slickness from his own arousal. He’s thick, pulsing in your palm, and the way his hips twitch subtly against your hand makes you smile.

His mouth finds yours again, less urgent now—just deep and slow, tongue brushing yours.

When he finally pulls back, his voice is a low rasp against your lips. “I’ll get the condom.”

He starts to shift off the bed, reaching to the nightstand, but you’re already sitting up.

Your fingers beat him from opening the foil, snatching it from his finger.

Zayne blinks as you tear it open with your teeth.

You shoot him a wink. “I got this.”

And then—you lower your mouth on him.

He groans, hands bracing on the mattress as he watches you. Watches the way your lips wrap around the head of his cock, how your mouth moves with deliberate slowness, sliding the condom down with your tongue and then your hands, unhurried and intentional, like you’re enjoying every second.

When it’s finally on, you sit up again, tossing the wrapper aside and wiping your mouth with the lick of your tongue. You straddle him easily, settling your thighs on either side of his hips.

“I can’t do it fully tonight,” you murmur, hands on his chest, pushing him down slowly and glancing down with a grin. “Because someone’s eager.”

Zayne actually snorts at that, quiet and amused. But he doesn’t argue.

Because it’s true.

He wants to be inside you—wants it in a way that makes his body tremble beneath your hands—but not with urgency. Just with need. A calm, aching desire that burns steady and slow.

You guide him to your entrance, lining him up with a roll of your hips, and his breath catches as the head of his cock nudges against your slick folds.

Then—slowly—you sink down.

It’s a stretch, thick and full, but the wet heat of your body welcomes him, inch by inch, until he’s seated deep inside you. You both moan—soft, shared—and he grips your hips, head falling back against the pillow as you pulse around him.

He groans, almost reverently when you clench around him.

You start to move. Not fast, not hard—just a slow, dragging grind of your hips as he thrusts gently up to meet you. The rhythm is lazy, unhurried, but deep. Every roll of your bodies pulls a new sound from your throat, from his mouth—a quiet symphony of pleasure and heat.

His hands roam—sliding up your sides, cupping your breasts again, thumbs brushing your nipples, making you shudder, until they’re swollen and sensitive. Your own hands explore in return, dragging through his hair, brushing his jaw, pressing to the firm planes of his chest.

You’re both touching constantly—palms and mouths and fingertips everywhere, like you can’t get close enough. He thrusts into you slow and deep, each roll of his hips stretching you just enough to keep you gasping, but it never becomes frantic. It’s all heat. Intimacy. Reverence.

“God,” you whisper, leaning down to kiss his neck. “You feel so good…”

Zayne’s hands slide down your back, smoothing over the curve of your spine. “So do you,” he murmurs, voice breathless, raw. “You’re perfect…”

He thrusts again, his hips lifting into yours as he whispers your name—low and tender against your skin.

Your fingers slip down between your bodies, finding your clit, and Zayne groans softly as he watches your hand move. His own reaches up, gripping your free hand now—twining your fingers with his as your bodies move together.

That simple contact—your joined hands, his palm firm against yours—grounds you in a different way.

He meets you with each movement, slow thrusts that fill you perfectly—stretching, pressing, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you like he knows your body already, like he was made to fit just right.

You tighten around him as your pleasure coils again, faster this time. More insistent. Every deep stroke of his cock inside you pushes you closer to the edge, especially with his eyes locked on yours like that, watching every twitch of your mouth, every flutter of your lashes.

He lifts his hips with more purpose now, still slow, still deep, but the weight behind each thrust becomes more deliberate. He’s chasing it too—his need rising just under the surface, trembling through his arms, his breath.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice low and coaxing, and the heat of it rushes through you like a wave. “Let me feel it…”

Your breath catches as the release finally crashes over you—your body clenching hard around him, back arching as you cry out his name. Your grip tightens in his hand, anchoring yourself in that shared moment, in the pleasure ripping through you like a slow, burning flood.

Zayne follows a second later with a rough groan, his hips stuttering as he comes inside you, buried deep. He doesn’t let go of your hand—his fingers tighten almost desperately, holding on as the pleasure wracks him, pulse after pulse drawn from him while your body still flutters around his.

You collapse forward slowly, your chest pressed to his, breath mingling with his as you both tremble together—still joined, still locked in that grip that hasn’t eased.

Zayne turns his face toward yours, kissing you softly now, like he’s still lost in you—slow and open-mouthed, lips brushing between uneven breaths—when you feel him begin to pull out.

His movements are careful, deliberate, and you whimper faintly at the loss of him inside you. His cock slides out of you with a wet sound. He peels the condom off with a flick of his fingers as he shifts to the edge of the bed with a heavy breath.

He turns his head slightly, preparing to toss it—

Then pauses. Because your foot has lifted, toes curling deliberately around the softening base of his cock.

Zayne jolts under the touch, eyes flicking to yours—surprised, then amused, then desire again as his cock begins to twitch back to life beneath the teasing press of your foot.

Already, he’s half-hard again. Persistent. Responsive. Like his body refuses to believe it’s over.

You lick your lips slowly, your thighs falling open as you meet his gaze with a sly tilt of your head.

“Want to go again, boyfriend?”

His expression doesn’t even twitch for a second—and then, slowly, he shakes his head with that faint, amused exhale. But his eyes… they’re heat and yes and please all at once.

He reaches for another condom with calm precision, but there’s nothing casual in the way he crawls toward you—his body sliding between your parted legs, positioning himself right in front of your entrance like gravity’s pulling him there.

He rolls the condom on quickly, his hands practiced, then brings them to yours—lacing your fingers together and pressing both your arms out to the sides, gently pinning you down beneath him.

Then he pushes in.

It’s slow. Deep. He stretches you again with that aching drag, and both of you groan softly—like your bodies can’t quite believe you’re doing this again so soon, but neither of you would dream of stopping.

Zayne lowers himself fully, chest to chest, mouth brushing yours as his hips settle in the cradle of your thighs.

This time he moves even slower.

Every thrust is deliberate, the pace unhurried, savoring every ripple of heat between you. He’s not chasing the release this time—he’s sinking into you like he wants to stay just like that.

His lips find yours again, soft and wet, kissing you through the rhythm of his hips. His hands tighten around yours just slightly with each thrust—like he needs the anchor of your body just as badly as you need his.

You moan into his mouth as his cock presses deeper, your walls fluttering around him, still sensitive, but wanting more. Always more.

He groans softly in return, the sound vibrating against your lips.

Neither of you speaks now.

There’s only touch—his cock moving inside you, your bodies sliding together in the dim light, his mouth pressed to yours like a seal.

And his hands—still tangled with yours, holding you in place as he makes love to you like it’s the only thing in the world he needs.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The room is quiet now, except for the low hum of the night and the even softer rustle of blankets shifting as you both curl closer under them. You’re in your pajamas—finally—your hair still a little messy, your skin carrying the aftershocks of everything that just happened. Zayne’s chest rises slowly beneath your cheek, and his arm is draped around your back, fingers absently tracing patterns across your spine.

You're half-asleep, but not quite. Drowsy. Safe. Content.

“I can’t tell if I like you teasing or being gentle better…” you murmur, voice slurred from the edge of sleep.

Zayne’s brow lifts faintly, the amused breath he lets out brushing the top of your head. “I thought you liked me being rough? Isn't that what you keep asking me to do?”

You swat his chest with the back of your hand. “That’s what I’m saying! You still find a way to torture me even when you’re being gentle! I can’t understand it at all!”

He chuckles softly, then leans down to kiss your head—lips warm, lingering.

“That just means we’re perfect together,” he murmurs, low and certain.

You go still for a second, your lips twitching.

“Awww,” you whine, lifting your head just slightly to peer at him. “Well when you put it that way I can’t really make a joke about it.”

“You always find a way,” Zayne says smoothly, the corner of his mouth tugging up just a bit. “Miss Rookie of the Year.”

You blink at him, snorting at how he still goes on about the award you won, before you pursed your lips as you actually think about it. “Like maybe how I adapt to your way of doing things? Like when we fight side by side? Wait a minute—that’s not a joke, that’s just the truth…”

You groan and drop your head dramatically to his chest, muffling your face against his shirt.

Zayne lets out a quiet laugh, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head like he’s tucking you into him. You feel the press of another kiss at your temple.

“You’re the big spoon tonight,” you grumble against his chest.

“Yes, darling,” he replies instantly—so calm, so amused.

You groan again, but this time it sounds more like surrender than protest. He kisses your head one last time, his body warm and still, and the steady rhythm of his breathing lulls you under with him, tangled together and too in love to care whose legs are where.

Sleep pulls you both down, quiet and close. Perfectly matched.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes

I mean I have to? No? I def have to ahahaha But anyway! Hope you enjoy this! They're too sweet for this world 🫶🏻😩 Another card's fic is over here! Zayne - Immediate Disorder Extended (Mature) Zayne - Immediate Disorder Extended Extra (Smut)

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babyjinsu · 1 day ago

Text

pairing ; boyfriend!heesung x fem!reader x ex boyfriend!sunghoon

warning ; angst, emotional cheating(?), non-proofread & edited

heesung noticed you’ve been distancing yourself from him.

it’s nothing big or serious—but recently, it didn’t feel the same as it did the past two years.

you still hold his hands, but your fingers don’t curl as tightly around his. you still text him back, but hours later—and with replies that feel more polite than personal.

you don’t tell him you miss him.

you still kiss him goodnight, but your lips are colder and hesitant and the kiss falls short. it barely lasts a second longer.

heesung doesn’t say anything at first. he tries to be optimistic about it—your finals are coming up and it’s stressing you out. it’s just a passing mood. everyone goes through phrases, right? there’s no perfect relationship.

“where are you off to?” heesung asks, looking back over his shoulder from the couch.

you’re standing by the mirror, putting on lipstick, smacking your lips together. the tube clicks shut in your hands as you adjust your cardigan. you look at him from the mirror, smiling. “out,” you hum lightly. “just having dinner with friends.”

heesung nods. “where at?”

you spray some perfume over your bare neck. “that seafood place at the end of seongsu street.” you reply—no longer looking at him. he nods once again, turning his head back towards the tv. there’s something off about your tone, but he doesn’t question it.

when your boyfriend doesn't reply, you finally glance over. he’s not looking at you anymore. his eyes are on the screen, but they’re unfocused. the remote sits idle in his hand. you want to say something to ease him, but nothing comes out.

instead, you walk over to him and plant a chaste kiss on his cheek from the back. “...don’t wait up.”

he doesn’t answer.

——

when heesung first transferred to pangok high, his new friends told him that he absolutely can’t develop a crush on you.

because you were park sunghoon’s ex girlfriend.

“trust me dude,” jake said, his fingers struggling to rip open the pack of bread. “it’s not worth it. that’s sunghoon’s ex.”

heesung didn’t question why you were off-limits—but later found out that you and sunghoon were in a relationship longer than heesung could believe it. since you guys were primary students. jungwon said it started off as a joke, where the two of you would get shipped together but it became real quickly after.

you became their friends because of sunghoon. and you stopped because of sunghoon as well.

sunghoon moved to another country. two weeks of countdown, one night spent together, and then he was gone—you couldn’t bring yourself to the airport so sunghoon left various of voicemails until he boarded the plane and begged his friends to send his letters to you.

you couldn’t do long-distance. the two of you were only 16.

everything changed.

you didn’t stop being their friend immediately. but over time, things and distance grew quieter. the group chats dulled, then you left. you didn’t join them to late-night convenience store runs anymore. they still saved you a seat at lunch—but then it became heesung’s.

they were sunghoon’s friends. not yours.

you were sunghoon’s girlfriend, and when he left, so did your place among them.

and for a while, heesung didn’t think much of it. everyone was someone’s ex at one point. you were pretty, prettier than the girls heesung knew. self-contained, soft-spoken. when you laughed and threw your head back and then laughed again out of embarrassment, something warm within heesung blossomed. you were polite to him—to everyone—never too much of anything.

he really did try to hold himself back and remind himself every now and then that you were the ex-girlfriend of his current group of friends’ friend. and yet—

heesung fell for you anyway.

he told himself he was different. that whatever history you had with sunghoon had ended, written its final page, and he didn’t mind being the next chapter. he became close to you in secret from his friends.

the two of you became friends after graduating high school, and as fate decided, you ended up in the same university. whatever it was you had in sunghoon was left in pangok high. it was just high school love.

heesung thought love meant choosing each other every day and he thought he—that was enough.

but he’s not so sure now.

the warnings echo louder than ever—

“that’s sunghoon’s ex.”

——

when heesung wakes up, the side of your bed is empty.

he checks the bathroom and the kitchen before allowing himself to overthink—but when you’re not anywhere in the house, he scrolls through his phone to call your bestfriend, aeri. you always told him that if anything happens, aeri knows.

so he calls her.

“hello?”

“aeri—hey, sorry but is yn with you?” he asks.

there’s a pause on the other end.

“she—uh,” she sounds like she’s trying to figure out how to soften it—. “yn got super, super drunk earlier. like really bad. and she passed out so,” —but there’s no good way. “sunghoon took her back.”

heesung’s blood runs cold. he sits down on the edge of the bed.

silence.

he swallows hard, tries to keep his voice steady and the way his chest tightens. “....back, where?”

“i don’t know. he just said he’d handle it. she wouldn’t wake up and we didn’t wanna call her dad, so—heesung, it’s fine. you know how she is—”

he hangs up.

heesung stares at your empty side of the bed again, like maybe he misheard. he still doesn’t allow himself to overthink—but overthinking never really knocks.

you don’t sleep on your side of the bed, but someone else's.

——

if you could turn back time, you wish you had cried twice harder and let yourself be sad over the break up.

but you didn’t, and maybe that’s why all of these emotions come crashing down on you like a meteor.

you’re not easy to love—until now, even. so when nine year old sunghoon came to you at the park with hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks flushed and knees scraped—and told you that he likes you, you found it hard to believe.

you leave when things feel too good—because good things never lasted in your world.

when thirteen year old sunghoon came to you at your desk with red ears and redder cheeks—and told you he loves you for the first time after being together for four years, maybe you weren’t so hard to love after all.

sunghoon was more bite than bark. he wasn’t just a boyfriend, he was your bestfriend too. he defended you from boys asking you to speak up and called you on his mother’s phone whenever he’s allowed to use it. he learned your silences like a second language.

sunghoon wasn’t just your boyfriend—he was your everything first. he was the first one to make you feel loved (aside from your dad), the first one to kiss your cheek, forehead, eyes, and lips. he was the first one to make you feel like you belong in a place. he’s your first fight, first argument, the first person you slapped and pushed away.

sunghoon was also the first one—to be your first.

part of you always thought that sunghoon would always be there forever. as a boyfriend—and that he would be the one who never left.

until he did.

if you could turn back time, you wish you had been more honest about your feelings with heesung.

if the word kind was a person, it would have heesung’s face. if understanding had a voice, it would sound like heesung when he reassured you that everything will be okay, even when it’s not exactly the situation.

heesung loves you with his whole heart and being, and you love him with the remaining pieces of yours that didn’t belong to sunghoon anymore.

you thought you could move on from an eight years relationship in two years—but you were far from that. because it’s been eight years now, and the feelings are still there.

but you didn’t, and maybe that’s why you’re standing in front of heesung’s apartment and waiting for him to open the door.

it’s the next morning and your heels ache from wearing your loafers. your cardigan doesn’t smell like heesung’s air purifier, and your heart beats like it’s trying to outrun the rest of your organs.

you heard the lock clicks and the door swings open.

and there’s your boyfriend.

his hair tousles like he didn’t sleep and his eyes are dull and swollen.

heesung doesn’t say anything but he flashes you a soft smile like he knows. you know he knows.

you wet your lips, “hee,” you breathe, and his name sounds like an apology.

he takes your bag from your hand and steps aside. “come, it’s freezing.” he says quietly.

you do, shrugging off your cardigan and tossing it into the laundry basket. you watch as he walks over to the kitchen and starts making tea. the kettle hums in the background, his back to you, shoulders drawn tight.

you open your mouth to say something, only to close it again.

“i’m not mad,” heesung finally says without turning around. “i just… wish you’d told me.”

you fiddle with the hem of your top. “...’m sorry,” you murmur, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“nothing happened, i promise. he—he slept in his living room.” you hesitate.

your boyfriend lets out a quiet breath like a sigh. “i know. i… i didn’t ask,” he says.

your heart splinters a little more. heesung never accused or doubted you of anything—there was never a reason to before this. until now— “i know you wouldn’t do that.”

that makes it worse. even now, standing in the wreckage, heesung still believes the best in you.

you squeeze your eyes shut, your voice barely hangs over a thread, “i should’ve told you.”

you hear heesung sets his mug down gently. “do you still love him?��

——

sunghoon’s made a lot of wrong choices before—but leaving you has got to be the worst one.

it felt like the right thing at the time to accept the new opportunity presented before him. a scholarship. that was his chance to grow bigger and better for his future.

he told himself you’d understand and that you’d wait. his mom said if it was meant to be, it would all come back around anyway. he didn’t like that—the two of you were always meant to be.

when you broke up with him, sunghoon thought that someone like you don’t come around twice.

so when he saw you again—eight years older and different and prettier, but somehow still you—his mind told him he’d already lost you, but his heart hadn’t caught up.

because then you laughed at something he said—and brushed your hair behind your ear the way you used to when you were shy. for a second, sunghoon swore he saw the version of you that was his girlfriend.

he missed you so much it made him sick.

so he let himself believe maybe there was still something left—even if you have someone else now. even if that someone was everything he used to be for you.

because sunghoon’s made a lot of wrong choices before.

and getting you back from your boyfriend was no exception.

——

💭 i REALLY have to get this out of my head bro. i think i'll write more because i just can't. sorry. i love angst. angst is everything to me. emotional cheating hurts MORE. i'll write more about this please wait for me.

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fandoms-in-law · 1 day ago

Text

Lips

Summary: Steve asks Robin her opinion after getting distracted by his reflection at work. It leads to her being the supportive best friend over his crush.

Author's note: My brain is tired, the prompt I had for today was a bunch of words from loveheart sweets. It happened is all I can say.

“Do I have hot lips?” Steve asked one quiet afternoon at Family Video. He’d been looking at his reflection in the window instead of hoping to see customers coming in.

Robin gave him an odd look, “I don’t know what that means.”

“Are my lips hot?” He repeated, “Attractive? Sexy? The alluring pout boys go crazy for?”

She shook her head, “Lips aren’t hot. Smiles are cute and actions made with a mouth can be hot but I refuse to believe hot lips exist unless burnt or covered with like chilli or hot sauce to make them feel like they’re burning.”

“So my lips aren’t hot?” He pouted at her.

Robin nodded resolutely, “Nobody’s are.”

Steve crossed his arms, huffing a little, “I think Eddie’s are when he’s quiet.”

She threw up her arms, moving to tidy the shelves. “I give in. Go and ask him!”

“You’re letting me leave work early?” He smirked at her, turning around.

“No! You’re on till until the end of the day.” Robin clicked towards it, laughing at his groan.

Robin had noticed the comment earlier on, but decided not to question it while they were in the shop. It wasn’t a good place to bring up the subject when too many people could overhear. Now they were at his home she had to ask, “So Eddie’s lips? You’ve noticed them before?”

“Haven’t you? They’re hot and gorgeous.” Steve agreed. “Why is that interesting?”

“Pretty sure we could ask everyone we know and they wouldn’t agree.” She stated, “Also because it’s nice to hear you talking about one person you like rather than vague attributes. It’s got to be my turn to tease you over a crush now.”

Steve rolled his eyes, “Really? Can’t I just be happy to have something that stands half a chance of happening for a while?”

“You entirely can be happy, but best friend rights say I can tease.” She agreed cheerfully, “Cause that’s what real love is.”

Playfully frustrated, he nodded, “Fine.”

“Maybe I should try playing DnD with them,” Steve muttered, waving the party out of Family Video. “Casually spend more time with Eddie that way.”

Robin scoffed, “Casually play DnD? You? Dream on Steve, none of them would be casual about that, and only Henderson knows you’ve even tried playing. It’d be major drama and all of Eddie’s friends would be suspicious of it.”

“What do you suggest then? I can’t hope for another town disaster to casually fold clothes next to my crush like you and Vickie.” He complained.

She thought for a moment, before gesturing, “Use that empty house of yours to advantage. Let them play there. You heard the brats say they’re having trouble arranging it since the school isn’t letting any clubs run while rebuilding work is happening.”

“Now who’s dreaming? If my parents get wind of that then I’ll be looking for somewhere new to live, not just a place to play a game.”

“And you’ll live with me. Besides, that’d require them actually coming back to the town they barely set foot in even before the ‘natural disasters’.” Robin pointed out easily.

The Corroded Coffin boys looked at Robin in confusion when she opened the door, getting shoved aside a moment later by Dustin who rolled his eyes when seeing the cause for the delay. “Come on, I want to get set up.” He called vanishing into Steve’s house.

“What’re you doing here, Buckley?” Gareth asked cautiously, taking slow steps as he entered the house, looking around as if expecting someone to attack him.

“It’s my besties home so I’m gonna be here whoever he’s got hanging out.” She simply explained. “Steve’ll be your waitress today. You know the rest of your roles. Anyone need a tour?”

The men shared a glance before following her through a little less cautiously.

They had a sleepover after the DnD had ended and everyone had gone home, collapsing together onto Steve’s bed, Robin curling into his side.

“Are you still teasing me about the new crush or can I ask you to be kind now?” Steve spoke quietly into the dark.

Robin had insisted they could talk better without lights on and it had actually become truth from the amount of times they’d done it. She didn’t try to turn and look at him, just made a quiet affirming noise.

He took a deep breath, “Do you think I actually could ask Eddie out? That he might agree if I do it right?”

“I think that if you just be you, he’ll be leaping at any chance to date you offer.” She answered slowly. “He’s always been pretty open about being queer and definitely flirts with you. Don’t change though. That’s one of the things people back off from when you do it. Just be you.”

“I can try that. What’d I do without you?” He sounded thoughtful, and horribly sentimental.

Robin nudged him gently, “Same answer, you’d just be you, lonely, stressed, babysitter you.”

“Hey!” He tickled her side in a short burst in retaliation for the tease. “I’m glad I’m not lonely when I’m just me with you.”

“Me too.”

#stranger things #steve harrington #robin buckley #platonic stobin #implied pre-Steddie

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callmecoke · 2 days ago

Note

Hi again! I looked through your blog very briefly (gonna take a deeper dive once I am free from uni stuff, sigh), but honestly you feel like someone I would click quite well, so if you are still looking for requests, I would really love to see something fluffy and comforting about Graves from you. I really will devour with great pleasure anything you cook, but if you do something for Graves x Russian reader, I'd be even more happy. No pressure tho, genuinely

Most importantly I really hope you write things you enjoy and have people you like around you, here and offline obv. Sorry if I sound annoying lol, I just think you're cool. Much love!!

HEY!!!!!! You’re not annoying at all and I really appreciate the request! So, minor warning before hand, I am incredibly Australian, and know, admittedly, fuck all about Russia or Russian people. So if anything here is wrong or incorrect, just put me down 😞 (JK, lemme know and I can correct anything, or maybe add a few tidbits if a learn some new things) Anyways, I hope you enjoy this! I decided to do a headcanon list and not a full story lol I hope that’s okay.

Russian Reader x Graves Headcanons (Fluff)

Graves has picked up a few words during his time working with many, many different types of folks from all four corners of the world. They’re not full sentences though, more random tidbits. Sometimes their phrases that he doesn’t fully know the meaning of, but finds fun to say (The Russian version of “I’m going to fucking kill you” was repeated to him so much he started saying it out loud around the house. Didn’t know what it meant until you had to sit him down and explain why your relatives were looking at him a bit offended)

Despite how well he can repeat phrases he finds on the field, he absolutely fumbles when attempting to actually teach him the language. Suddenly, his fat American tongue can’t wrap around the words and it sounds like the syllables are choking him. Looks at you all proud each time because in his mind, he’s absolutely nailing this (he isn’t)

But there are some phrases you’ve taught him that he caught on to quite well. Things like “Я люблю тебя” (I love you) and “Любовь всей жизни” (Love of my life) he learned pretty quickly because his association was with you. He also looooves to pull these out when he wants something from you or is trying to soften you up. He a cheeky bastard like that.

Now, Phillip is all about the grill. He is the man who has full control of the barbecue at any and all social functions. He has self assigned that role and he takes it very seriously. However, that doesn’t mean that he is a single minded cook. In fact, with a clear recipe he can just about make anything to near perfection.

Pirog? The juiciest meat stuffing available. Kasha? Every morning with side of strawberries. Literally any dish you want, he can make. He cooks to impress. (And it’s a bonding moment if you have some recipes you wanna teach him. If you stand behind him and guide his hands you’ll get him blushing a little and give him a good laugh because you knooooow he’s normally the one with his chest against your back)

I do believe this man is a chronic google-er so he spends a lot of time on his phone searching up phrases like “New Russian Partner” “How to impress Russian family” “Russian culture” “Russian language learning easy”

If you’re new to America and are struggling to find your footing, he is more than happy to come to your rescue. And doesn’t necessarily mean he understands what you’re going through, because he honestly doesn’t know what it feels like to be homesick or isolated to such a degree. But that won’t stop him from trying to help.

I think you’ll find a lot of that in your relationship with him. There’s no real way around the fact how different the two of you are culture and upbringing wise. That’s not even talking about the distance between a civilian and a pmc. But that doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t give up for nothing, even for a partner three times out of his league.

He knows he’ll never fully understand the cultural shock, or your upbringing, or even half the words you speak. But he keeps doing his darnedest every single day, in the hopes that one day he will understand. One day he will speak Russian fluently, and understand Russian culture, and learn the history and learn everything and anything about all the things that make you, you. One day, starting now.

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iyannatrip · 3 days ago

Text

— chapter 05.

this chapter will contain: heavy language, mentions of mental health struggles, hostile dialogue, and emotionally intense conversations.

series summary: in a small, run-down psychiatric facility, two patients—both broken in their own ways—are forced to share a room. reader, a twenty-three-year-old whose been in and out of these places for years, is used to being alone. matthew, a twenty-one-year-old with a history of violence and instability, is just another lost soul thrown into the mix. neither of them expects to get along, but as they clash and navigate their painful pasts, a connection forms—one that could either break them or give them a reason to fight for something more.

the next day wasn’t much different. same walls, same shitty food, same heavy silence hanging between you and matt like a storm cloud that refused to break.

he sat in his usual slouch, arms crossed, eyes cold as always. you caught him watching you once or twice, but neither of you said anything. not yet.

when an aide stepped into the room mid-morning, clipboard in hand, you already felt your stomach twist.

“group session today,” she said, tone flat like she didn’t care if you liked it or not. “both of you. 11 a.m.”

matt scoffed under his breath. you rolled your eyes, dragging your hand down your face. perfect. stuck in a circle with people you could barely stand—and now you had to sit next to him too.

as the aide turned to leave, she paused at the door, eyes flicking between the two of you. “looks like things have been… calmer.”

you and matt both let out bitter laughs at the same time.

“sure,” you muttered. “real peaceful in here.”

the door shut, and the room fell quiet again.

breakfast came and went. he still sat across from you, still picked at his food like it personally offended him. you didn’t bother looking at him this time. wasn’t worth the energy.

“food’s colder today,” he muttered suddenly.

you sighed through your nose, shoving a bite of soggy toast into your mouth. “congrats on figuring that out.”

his lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. you noticed. you hated that you noticed.

by the time 11 am hit, you were already bracing yourself. group sessions were always a mess. forced sharing, fake progress, people pretending they weren’t one bad day away from snapping.

the chairs were set up in a circle like always. you dropped into yours with a thud, crossing your arms tight over your chest. matt slumped into the seat beside you, legs sprawled out like he owned the place.

some loudmouth patient across the circle—the same one matt shut up the other day—smirked and leaned back in his chair. “look at the dynamic duo. didn’t think y’all could sit this close without killing each other.”

your jaw clenched. matt’s fingers twitched like he wanted to throw something.

the counselor started talking, but you barely listened. your eyes flicked to matt when the loudmouth muttered something else under his breath, too quiet for the counselor to hear.

matt’s head turned slow, eyes dark. you knew that look by now—cold, sharp, dangerous.

but this time, he didn’t lash out. didn’t stand up or snap. just stared until the other guy looked away.

you shifted in your chair, arms still crossed, chest tight. for some reason, watching him hold back made your stomach twist worse than when he actually exploded.

the session dragged on. people shared, voices droned, and you stared at the scuffed floor just waiting for it to end.

when it finally did, you pushed up from your chair so fast it scraped loud against the floor. matt followed, steps heavy behind you as you both made your way back down the hall.

back in the room, the door clicked shut again—locking the two of you in like usual.

you dropped onto your bed, exhaling hard through your nose.

matt kicked his shoes off with more force than needed, slumped back into his chair, and muttered, “group’s useless.”

you let out a short, bitter laugh. “yeah. waste of time.”

he glanced at you then—brief but sharp. “tired of pretending shit’s getting better.”

your throat felt tight. you swallowed hard, looking away. “same.”

the silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. but it wasn’t hostile either. just… drained. like both of you were running out of fight.

the silence stretched until it felt like it was pressing down on your chest. you flicked your notebook open again, more out of habit than anything else, flipping through pages you didn’t even wanna read.

“what do you even write in that thing?” matt’s voice broke through, rough but quieter than before.

you didn’t look at him. “stuff. thoughts. shit that’d get me in trouble if i said it out loud.”

he huffed. “same reason i don’t talk in group. they don’t wanna hear the real shit.”

your fingers stilled on the page. you glanced at him then, catching the way he leaned his head back against the wall like he was exhausted down to his bones.

“been in places like this before?” you muttered.

his eyes flicked toward you, sharp but tired. “too many. this one’s just another stop.”

you let out a breath, bitter and tired. “same.”

matt’s mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh but couldn’t quite manage it. “figures.”

you flipped your notebook shut with a soft snap. your chest ached, but the words kept tumbling out before you could stop them. “i used to think maybe i’d actually get out. like for real. not just for a few weeks before they bring me back.”

matt’s gaze locked on you then—sharp but not in that angry way. more like he actually heard you this time.

“yeah,” he muttered. “me too.”

the quiet after that felt different. heavier. more real.

you shifted, your hands fidgeting with the edge of the notebook. “they ever tell you what’s ‘wrong’ with you?”

his jaw clenched. “depends who you ask. some say i got anger issues. some say trauma. some say both.” he looked at you, eyes darker now. “but nobody really gives a damn. they just wanna slap a label on you and move on.”

your throat burned. you nodded, swallowing hard. “yeah. been there.”

he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping lower. “it’s like… you get so used to being the ‘problem’ that you start believing it. like maybe you really are just broken.”

those words hit too close. your chest went tight, and for a second, you couldn’t even look at him.

“you’re not the only one who thinks that,” you muttered, voice thin.

the room fell quiet again, but this time it wasn’t tense. it was raw. like you’d both peeled something back and didn’t know how to cover it up again.

matt let out a breath, slow and shaky. “yeah. well… doesn’t matter. nobody cares anyway.”

your eyes finally met his—really met his—and your voice came out before you could stop it. “i care.”

his eyes flickered, like that caught him off guard. like he didn’t expect that from you.

neither did you. but it hung there between you anyway.

he leaned back again, blinking slow. “yeah. well… same.”

the quiet after that felt weirdly solid. not soft, not warm. but steady. like for once, neither of you wanted to rip each other apart.

you both sat there in that heavy silence, breathing through the weight pressing down on your chests.

a/n: earlier it literally wouldn’t let me post this but here y’all go. just got home from my dance performance and i’m so fucking tired omg, i'm ready to go to bed.

#nicolas sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #fanfic #mental illness #mental health #psychiatric hospital

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trippiexlove · 3 days ago

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Story Masterlist

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Ch.5

The fluorescent lights of the hospital seemed a little less harsh as Evren walked in, a subtle lightness in her step that hadn't been there for weeks. The memory of Jey's smile on the screen, the sound of his voice, lingered like a warm ember.

"Well, look who decided to join the land of the living," Zahria teased from behind the nurses' station, a playful smirk on her face. "What's got you all 'giddy' this morning?"

Evren chuckled, a genuine sound that made Zahria's eyes widen slightly in surprise. "What? A girl can't just be having a great morning?."

"Uh-huh," Zahria said, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't tell me that Josh has anything with you having this good morning?"

"Something like that," A soft smile touched Evren's lips. "We had a video call last night."

Zahria gasped, her hand flying to her chest. "A video call! Girl, you skipped, like, five bases! What was it like? Did he look as good as his brother?"

Evren's cheeks warmed slightly. "He... he looked just like Jimmy, but different. You know? It was really nice. We just talked."

"Just talked?" Zahria echoed, her eyebrows raised suggestively. "About what? Did you ask him why he was locked up?"

"No I didn't," Evren playfully rolled her eyes. "We talked most about day. He made it real easy, I felt comfortable talking to him." She stated, smiling subconsciously.

"So," Zahria pressed, her gaze knowing, "how do you feel now that you've actually seen him, heard his voice? You feeling' him now?"

Evren hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. She busied herself adjusting a stack of charts. "I should really go clock in. Don't want Dr. Rhodes to find another reason to critique my time management." She offered Zahria a small, somewhat evasive smile before heading off.

Throughout the morning, however, Evren couldn't shake the image of Jey's face from her mind. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the concern in his voice when she mentioned her day – it all replayed in her thoughts, a comforting distraction from the usual hospital drudgery.

The afternoon found her in the small, empty break room, reviewing a complex patient chart. The quiet was a welcome change from the bustling floor. Lost in the details of lab results, she didn't hear the door creak open. It wasn't until she felt a sudden pressure against her back that she snapped to attention, a jolt of surprise and unease running through her.

Startled, Evren turned quickly, the chart slipping slightly in her hands. Her eyes widened in shock and a knot of dread tightened in her stomach as she saw Dr. Rhodes standing far too close, a smug look on his face.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, a sense of violation already creeping in.

He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. "Just rewarding you for all your hard work you been doing lately." His gaze lingered on her, making her skin crawl. She then felt his hands settle on her backside, a deliberate and unwelcome pressure. Her body frozen in shock and fear.

He leaned in, and she could feel his breath warm against her neck, sending a shiver of disgust down her spine. His grip on her backside tightened, a squeeze that was both invasive and demeaning. Just as she felt the sickening press of his lips near her neck, the shock that kept her frozen in fear, wore off, replaced by a surge of anger and panic.

With a gasp, Evren shoved him away with all her might, putting distance between them. "Get away from me!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with outrage and disgust. She could feel herself start to have a panic attack.

She tried to move past him, desperate to escape the suffocating closeness of the small room, but he was too quick. He reached out and pulled her back, her spine hitting his chest with a jarring thud. His arm snaked around her waist, trapping her against him.

He lowered his head, his breath hot against her ear once more. "You can't deny us for long, Evren," he whispered, his voice a chilling mix of arrogance and possessiveness. Then, just as suddenly, he released her.

Stunned and shaken, Evren didn't hesitate. She practically ran from the break room, the encounter leaving her feeling shaken and vulnerable.

Back at the nurses' station, the concerned faces of Zahria, Bianca, and Jade were a blur. Zahria immediately moved towards her, her usual cheerful demeanor replaced by worry. "Evren? What's wrong?"

Evren could feel the tears pricking at her eyes, her voice tight. "I just- I just need to go. I don't feel well." She couldn't bring herself to articulate what had just happened, the violation too raw and upsetting.

"Are you sure? Do you need me to cover for you?" Zahria asked, her hand reaching out.

Evren just shook her head, grabbing her bag and jacket. "Y-yes please if you could, I-I need to get out of here." She offered a weak, unconvincing smile and hurried out of the hospital, the sterile environment suddenly feeling suffocating. She felt like she sprinted, with how quick she got to her car and drove out the parking garage. Tears threatening to fall.

The moment she stepped into her apartment, the carefully constructed dam of her emotions broke. She stumbled into the shower, the hot water doing little to wash away the feeling of being touched. Tears streamed down her face, mingling with the water as she finally allowed herself to sob, the day's frustrations and the recent violation overwhelming her.

Hours later, wrapped in an oversized t-shirt, she lay in bed, the exhaustion seeping into her bones. Her phone buzzed, and her heart gave a familiar flutter before she saw the sender:

Fatu, Joshua #1759: "How was your day, ma?"

A wave of conflicting emotions washed over her. Part of her wanted to pretend everything was fine, to keep their safe, separate world intact. But then she remembered the comfort she found in his words, the feeling of being understood without judgment. Hesitantly, she began to type, her fingers trembling slightly as she recounted the events of her day, the words pouring out in a rush of pain and anger.

The silence after she sent the message felt heavy. She replayed the incident in her mind, the feeling of helplessness returning. Finally, her phone buzzed again.

Fatu, Joshua #1759: "Give me 30 minutes."

The familiar ring of the video call app on her iPad thirty minutes later was both a comfort and a source of anxiety. She took a shaky breath and tapped the answer button.

Jey's face filled the screen, the usual easygoing charm completely absent. His brow was furrowed, his eyes dark with a concern that mirrored her own fear. He took in her blotchy face and swollen eyes, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "Evren? What happened ma?" His voice was low, the playful edge replaced by a deep, resonant worry. "Talk to me. What's goin' on?"

Tears welled in Evren's eyes again, and she swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. The simple act of seeing his genuine concern threatened to unravel her completely. She hesitated for a moment, the memory of Dr. Rhodes's touch still vivid and sickening. Then, the dam broke again. The words tumbled out, shaky and punctuated by sobs, as she recounted the encounter in the break room, the violation, the fear, the utter disgust she felt.

Jey listened intently, his gaze never leaving hers. His expression hardened with each word, the earlier worry morphing into a simmering anger that radiated through the screen. He didn't interrupt, didn't try to minimize what had happened. He simply listened, his presence a silent anchor in her storm of emotions. "I was so scared" Evren stated, barely a whisper as she sniffled away, wiping her tears as they fell.

When she finally trailed off, exhausted and emotionally drained, a heavy silence hung in the digital air. Jey's eyes, usually full of light and teasing, were now dark pools of fury.

"Evren," he said finally, his voice low and gravelly, "that ain't right." He paused, taking a deep breath as if trying to control the rage she could see simmering beneath the surface. "He touched you, f'real ma?"

She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. Shame mixed with the lingering fear.

"Listen to me, Evren," Jey continued, his voice softening slightly but still carrying an undercurrent of steel. "This shit ain't your fault. You ain't did nothing wrong. He's the one who's twisted and fucked up in the head." He reached a hand towards the screen, as if he could somehow touch her. "Damn I wish I was there right now. I swear..." He trailed off, clenching his jaw.

He took another deep breath, trying to regain his composure. "Look, I know you're hurting right now, and you're scared. That's okay. It's okay to feel all of that. But you need to know that you're not alone in this. You got me now, and ain't nobody gon' try you like that again. You hear me?."

He offered words of comfort, his voice a soothing balm to her raw emotions, assuring her that it wasn't her fault and that she would be okay. He spoke softly, his usual playful banter replaced by a genuine tenderness that reached across the miles and the prison walls. He encouraged her to focus on taking care of herself, to allow herself to feel what she needed to feel.

After a while, the raw edge of her sobs began to subside, replaced by a heavy, weary exhaustion. Jey gently urged her to get some rest. "Get some sleep ma, take care of yo'self. We'll talk more tomorrow, 'ight?" His gaze softened, filled with a protective warmth.

Evren managed a weak nod, a small sense of comfort settling within her despite the lingering trauma. Knowing he was there, even just through the screen, offered a sliver of solace.

"Thank you, Josh," she whispered, her eyelids feeling heavy.

"I got'chu, ma," he said softly, his image remaining on the screen until she finally ended the call, a profound sense of loneliness washing over her as his face disappeared. Yet, beneath the sadness, there was also a fragile seed of hope, nurtured by his unwavering support.

As Evren drifted off to sleep, unaware of the storm brewing on the other end of the call, Jey's anger was a palpable thing. The image of Evren's tear-streaked face was seared into his mind. He ended the call and immediately dialed Jimmy's number.

"Yo, Jimmy," Jey said, his voice tight with controlled fury, careful to keep his tone neutral. "Remember that problem I was telling you about at Evren's job? The overbearing doctor?"

"Yeah, the one giving her a hard time," Jimmy replied, a hint of understanding in his voice.

"Well, things escalated today," Jey continued, choosing his words carefully. "It seems like I need you to send him a message. A reminder to keep his distance and his hands to himself." He deliberately used vague language, knowing the call could be monitored.

Jimmy's tone shifted, a dangerous edge creeping in. "Say no more, uce. Me and Solo will pay him a visit. Consider it handled."

Jey felt a sliver of grim satisfaction. "I appreciate it, uce. Just make sure it's just a message. Nothing that'll cause any real trouble."

"Understood," Jimmy said, the unspoken promise hanging in the air before he hung up. Jey stared at his phone, a cold resolve settling within him. He couldn't be there to protect Evren, but his family could. And they always had his back.

The late-night hospital parking garage was a cavern of shadows and echoing silence. The only sound was the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the distant whoosh of a car passing on the street outside. Dr. Rhodes, his shoulders slumped with the exhaustion of a long shift and the lingering arrogance of his earlier encounter, finally reached his sleek Mercedes. The familiar chirp of the car unlocking cut through the stillness.

Just as he reached for the door handle, two figures seemed to materialize from the darkness between the parked cars. Jimmy, clad in all black with a mask obscuring the lower half of his face, stepped forward.

Rhodes recoiled, his eyes wide with sudden fear. He instinctively threw his hands up, a pathetic gesture of defense. "Hey man, look, I don't want no problems," he stammered, his voice trembling slightly.

Jimmy chuckled, the sound low and menacing in the quiet garage. "Too late for that, doc. Should've thought about that before you messed with my brother's girl, pussy."

Before Rhodes could even process the chilling words, a second figure, Solo, emerged from behind him and delivered a brutal blow to the back of his head. Rhodes crumpled to the ground with a grunt, his keys skittering across the concrete.

A primal, protective fury took over the brothers. A barrage of kicks and punches rained down on the defenseless doctor. Jimmy's movements were precise and controlled, each strike carrying the weight of his brother's anger and Evren's pain. Solo, younger and more volatile, unleashed a raw, unrestrained assault.

"That's for touching her," Jimmy growled, his voice tight with rage as his fist connected with Rhodes's face.

Solo, heated, continued landing heavy kicks to Rhodes's leg.

Jimmy, his chest heaving, finally grabbed Solo's arm, pulling him back. "'ight, we made our point."

He leaned down, his masked face inches from Rhodes's bloodied and bruised one. "Consider this your first and last warning, Rhodes. Next time, we ain't gon' be so nice. If you ever fuck with Evren again, we'll be back. And trust me, you won't like the return visit."

Without waiting for a response, Jimmy grabbed Solo's arm, and they melted back into the shadows as quickly as they had appeared, leaving Dr. Rhodes groaning on the cold concrete, the chilling threat echoing in the empty parking garage.

Ooooh! Big Jim and Solo handled business 😬. Let me know how y'all feeling about this chapter below!

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