#Cap Compression Machine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

o9sessions · 2 months ago

Text

coach!simon riley who after years of black ops, violence, and loss chooses somewhere quiet—a small Southern town where no one knows his name unless he gives it — to settle down. bought a secluded ranch-style house with a porch swing and woods out back. keeps to himself. drinks bourbon on the porch in silence every evening.

coach!simon riley who after realizing how much the silence ate at him after retiring. waking up before dawn out of habit. jogging miles with no mission. sitting in the dark with nothing to prepare for. and he hated it. decided to take on the role as head coach of the lone oak rotc program at the local university

coach!simon riley who wears black compression shirts that cling to every inch of hard earned muscle, military cargo joggers slung low on his hips, and beat-up combat boots like it’s uniform. has a cut jawline, permanent scowl, and a mouth that rarely smiles, even under the balaclava he always wears. the way he barks “cadet” makes even the cockiest recruits stand straight.

coach!simon riley who keeps his sleeves rolled high to show the forearm veins and faded ink no one dares ask about. never yells—he doesn’t have to. just stands there, arms crossed, that massive frame casting a shadow over the whole damn gym.

coach!simon riley who works out with the cadets—shirt clinging to his back, boots pounding the track, chest heaving and sweat dripping down his temple. but he never stops.

coach!simon riley who has the college girls whipped. calling him “coach” all breathy like it’s foreplay. showing up to PT in crop tops that barely cover anything. laughing a little too hard at his deadpan instructions like he’s cracking jokes. they show up with fake questions about the military. bent over his desk, pretending they don’t know their leggings are see-through.

coach!simon riley who notices you—a sweet lil’ thang sittin’ all pretty behind the desk at the athletics rec center—when he goes to turn in the weekly training log because his assistant coach is out sick. chewing on your pen cap like you got no idea what you’re doing to him. you blink up at him all soft, all polite, voice sweet as syrup when you say “mornin’, coach”

coach!simon riley who starts using the front desk more than needed. forgot a clipboard? had to ask about the gym schedule? needed extra towels? suddenly, he was showing up every day. leaning one arm on the counter, head tucked low to speak into your ear. barely saying more than a few words but lingering just long enough to make your thighs press together.

coach!simon riley who starts clocking the exact time you come in every morning. doesn’t matter what room he’s in—he knows the minute you walk through that door. hears the front desk chair squeak. hears your little yawn. and when you stretch? shirt riding up just a bit, exposing that velvety brown skin, leggings hugging all the right places? yeah, that’s when he tells the cadets to run laps. he needs a minute. before he loses it.

coach!simon riley who sees you laughing with the head track coach by the vending machines, looking too damn pretty. he doesn’t say a word, just stares. and when you finally look up and smile like you didn’t just spend five straight minutes torturing him in the worst possible way? he mutters incoherent words under his breath before storming off. gloves clenched.

coach!simon riley who calls you into his office that same night, only to bend you over the desk after hours, one hand gripping your throat while the other slides between your thighs, gloved and ruthless. grabs a fistful of your ass and pulls you back against his straining cock. “this what you’ve been beggin’ for—laughin’ with other men like that? flashin’ those eyes like you don’t already fuckin’ belong to me? hm? needy lil’ thing.”

coach!simon riley who fucks with his mask still on, voice muffled and low as he presses your face into the dark wood of his desk. doesn’t even undress you fully—just yanks your leggings down and takes what’s his. when he finally pushes in, it’s slow, deliberate—like he wants you to feel how deep he’s settling. one hand pins your hip while the other braces against the desk beside your head.

coach!simon riley who told himself it was a one-time thing. just a release. just a moment of weakness. but now? he’s showing up earlier. staying later. taking “short breaks” just to press you against the wall and feel your thighs around his hips. can’t go a day without hearing your breath hitch, feeling your nails in his back, watching your gloss smear because of him. he fucks you like he’s trying to memorize you—like if he doesn’t have you again, he might actually lose his mind. “can’t focus, sweethear’. not when I know how good you sound sayin’ my name.”

coach!simon riley who has you on his lap in the back of the weight room while cadets train outside, his hand clamped over your mouth as he bounces you on his cock slow. whispering filth in your ear, “keep quiet. let ‘em hear you and I’ll fuck you harder.”cums on your stomach, chest heaving, glove gripping your jaw as he watches your lips part all soft and sweet

coach!simon riley who never planned on staying long in that sleepy Southern town—until now.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #call of duty #cod #o9sessions

609 notes · View notes

heliosunny · 16 days ago

Note

Anything Kevin Kaslana or Sunday please?

Smudge-Proof

Yandere!Actor!Sunday x Makeup Artist!Reader

You woke up to the sound of your doorbell. Your eyes cracked open, sticky and heavy, a cold compress slipping halfway off your forehead as you shifted under your blanket. Your throat burned when you swallowed. Whoever it was could just leave the package at the door, you weren’t expecting anyone.

But the bell rang again. The third time, there was a soft knock too. You dragged yourself to the door, one hand pressed against the wall for balance, the other fixing the pad back onto your forehead.

Through the peephole, you could just make out the familiar silhouette - tall, broad shoulders, a black mask, a plain baseball cap pulled low. But you’d know that posture anywhere.

You unlocked the chain with trembling fingers and there he was, your impossibly difficult client.

“What are you doing here? You have a-”

“I’m taking care of you.” He lifted the bag in his hand - a paper bag with your favorite soup place’s logo on it, a glimpse of medicine boxes peeking out from the top.

He didn’t ask permission when he shrugged past you again, heading straight for your kitchen as if he knew where everything was.

And just like that, the living room filled with the sound of him rummaging through your cupboards, the faint scent of hot broth, and the realization that Sunday, the walking money machine, was in your tiny apartment fussing over your cough medicine.

*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒

Sunday had been standing under the harsh lights for almost an hour. He looked every bit the perfect centerpiece: crisp suit, sleek hair, and the new glasses perched neatly on his nose.

He’d barely glanced at the one his colleague picked. The moment you tapped the second pair against your palm and murmured, “This one frames your jaw better” he’d just nodded. No questions, he never did when it came to you.

You’d done a quick touch-up then, smoothing out the line of his concealer to balance the new frames, brushing a thumb over the bridge of his nose where the pads rested so the light wouldn’t bounce weird. He didn’t even flinch, just looked straight ahead while you worked, like the world didn’t exist until you stepped back and said, “Perfect.”

Now, with the final take wrapping up, you’d stepped away to check on the others, making yourself useful, as always. Sunday caught it just as the director called for a break: you, standing close to one of the rookie actors. The boy was sitting on a high stool, fidgeting with the hem of his blazer while you uncapped a soft pink lipstick and leaned in, steadying his jaw with your hand.

Sunday’s expression didn’t change at first. He didn’t bother handing his props off, didn’t even tell the staff he was stepping off set. He just moved, straight across the white floor, cutting through the staff’s startled chatter.

By the time he reached you, you were brushing the last swipe of color onto the rookie’s lower lip. The boy’s wide eyes flicked up at Sunday just as his shadow fell over you both.

“Oh my god, S-Sun—” the kid stammered, but Sunday ignored him. His hand shot out to grab your wrist mid-motion.

You turned. “Sunday?”

His gaze pinned the rookie in place. The younger actor squirmed under it, mouth half open as if he might apologize for something.

You didn’t let Sunday speak. You stepped closer, gently pulling your wrist free.

“It was my fault.” you said, “I shouldn’t have done a touch-up here. He already had a look approved. Sunday was just stopping me so I wouldn’t mess it up.”

A neat, quick lie. One that saved Sunday’s perfect, difficult reputation from yet another rumor about how he treated people like territory.

For a second, he didn’t move, just looked at you, reading you the way he always did when you did something for him instead of because of him. Then his eyes flicked back to the rookie.

“Next time,” he said, “get your own makeup artist.”

The kid nodded frantically, half-bowing, muttering yes, I will, like a prayer.

Sunday turned back to you, there was a tension there that told you he’d have words for you later.

*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒

The underwater shoot had stretched into the late afternoon, the crew bustling around the edges, half lost in their own hushed awe whenever Sunday emerged from the water. His hair slicked back, droplets sliding down the clean lines of his jaw, the ripple of muscle across his shoulders impossible to ignore. But if everyone else was busy admiring his physique, you were squinting at the faint smudge along the bridge of his nose.

It was a test shoot, after all, the company’s new waterproof line, a sponsorship Sunday had agreed to only because you said you’d make it work. And for the most part, it had. The foundation clung to his jaw, the contour stayed sharp, the subtle highlight catching every perfect angle each time he broke the surface like a god dragged out of some myth.

But his nose — that damned nose — always lost its cover first. The moment he exhaled too sharply underwater or brushed a hand across it, you’d see the pigment fade. It drove you mad, more than it should have, standing there with your kit in hand while everyone else pointed cameras at the parts of him they thought were worth worshipping.

When the director finally called it, the crew started packing up. But Sunday didn’t get out right away. He lingered by the deeper end, elbows hooked on the ledge, eyes following you as you fussed with the leftover tools on your tray.

It wasn’t until everyone else was out of earshot that he finally pulled himself up in one smooth motion, water cascading down his chest, the pool lights turning each drop into liquid silver. He snagged a towel, raked it through his hair once, then draped it loosely around his shoulders as he stepped closer to you.

You were still squinting at the slight raw patch on his nose. “It’s still the nose...” you muttered, mostly to yourself. “The rest is fine but—”

“—How can one person be so clueless about other emotions?” he cut in.

You blinked up at him. “What?”

Sunday cocked his head, droplets clinging to his lashes, his breath misting faintly in the cold air. He looked at you the way he always did when he was about to cross a line.

“If we really want to test how long it lasts…” He stepped forward, close enough that the damp heat off his skin cut through the pool’s chill, close enough that you caught the faint clean scent of his shampoo, the chemical bite of chlorine under it. His hand came up, thumb brushing lightly at your jaw, tilting your face so you could see him clearer “…maybe I should see if it survives this.”

His mouth caught yours, so deceptively careful it made your breath catch in your throat. Then his hand slipped to the back of your neck, damp fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted his head and deepened it.

His lips parted yours. There was a smear of your tinted lip balm on his mouth.

He huffed a small laugh, “Still looks good to me.” he murmured, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as if he’d fix it, as if he’d ever let anyone else do it.

Sunday’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing just in time to catch a blur of movement. Someone in black bolting behind the stack of equipment crates, the studio door banging faintly as they fled.

You turned, but Sunday’s hand stayed firm at your neck for half a second longer. Then he let go.

That night, he checked for the security camera. His jaw ticked when the clip ended.

He was standing in front of that staffer’s apartment. It would be a shame not to pay them a visit.

“Forget it.” “Next time, you won’t see me coming.”

He'd make sure that man paid the price if he didn't keep his promise.

*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒

The confession scene had been set in a park — fake cherry blossoms strung through the set trees, petals drifting on cue from hidden blowers each time the camera rolled. You’d watched it unfold from behind the director’s monitor, arms crossed, eyes flitting from Sunday’s face to the script on your tablet to the slightly trembling hands of the young actor standing opposite him.

It wasn’t your first time watching Sunday transform under the lights — the subtle shift in his voice, the tilt of his head, the soft, almost heartbreakingly open look in his eyes when he stepped fully into a character who loved someone so much it hurt. But tonight, it hit different. Maybe it was the lines, the kind you secretly loved reading at night when you curled up with your phone. Or maybe it was just the way he made it real, even when his co-star stiffened again and again, missing the emotional beat by a hair each time.

“Cut. Again.” The director’s voice sliced through the set.

As you moved closer, you heard bits of the conversation. Sunday’s voice was calm, his eyes gentle in a way you knew he reserved only for people he deemed salvageable. “…don’t rush the pause. You look at me first. Feel it. Then say it.”

You stepped in then, brushing stray hair off his forehead, blotting a faint shine at his jawline. He glanced at you only briefly, a flicker of something softer than what he showed the cameras, before turning back to his scene partner.

He got it in two takes after that. The younger actor found the pause, the line landed, and the fake petals fluttered down like blessings when Sunday smiled — that small, trembling smile that would break half the country’s heart the moment the episode dropped.

When it wrapped, you were waiting with a warm pack for his cold hands.

*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒

You told him about the week off you’d filed for. “My best friend will cover for me, you’ve met them. They know your shades. They’ll do fine.”

Sunday’s smile stayed on his lips but not in his eyes. For a second you saw the flicker of don’t go — the selfish tug you knew he’d never say aloud.

“A week, then.” He squeezed your hand once before letting it go. “Rest properly. I’ll… be fine.”

You left thinking he’d be fine. And he was, in all the ways that counted — marks hit, tears dropped on cue as millions streamed the newest trending scene. But off-camera, Sunday carried it with him, a ghost hovering just behind that flawless posture.

At fittings, he sat still and let the stylists pin and fuss, but his eyes would flick to the empty spot where you usually perched on the counter. The substitute did well enough, but they didn’t lean in to check the corner of his eye just so, didn’t wipe the faint tint from his lips between takes.

When break times came, he scrolled your messages on his phone. Short updates from you like: “It’s sunny here” “I found this book I think you’d like” He never replied with more than a thumbs up. But he read them twice over when no one was watching, thumb brushing the screen like he might find the warmth of your voice there.

On set, the younger actors whispered about how he seemed polite as always, but distant. He’d slip out as soon as the cut was called.

There, he’d sit under the bright mirror lights, staring at his reflection. The lenses he wore, the tinted balm, the faint leftover scent of your setting spray clinging to his collar. He’d touch the bridge of his nose where the foundation used to slip first, remembering how you’d fuss and grumble and pat it back into perfection.

Sunday knew better than anyone that the machine didn’t stop for something as small as longing. But for that week, the longest he’d felt in months, he let himself count down every empty hour until you’d come back.

*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒

Sunday sat alone in the back of the van, engine humming softly under him as they idled outside a late-night ramen shop where the crew was grabbing a quick dinner. He’d waved them off, told them he’d join in a minute, but he hadn’t moved.

The low light from the street lamps barely reached him, but his phone screen glowed bright in the dark. His thumb hovered above the familiar blue icon of your profile — the private one, the one he knew everything about.

He scrolled slowly. Your posts — filtered glimpses of your lunch, your cat curled up in your lap, a faint shot of the ocean you’d promised to visit when you finally took that break. The tiny captions he’d read so many times he could recite them if someone held a gun to his head.

He didn’t like any of them, never left a heart or a comment, never gave anyone else a reason to wonder why your top follower was him. He only watched.

Tonight, though, tonight something new caught his eye. 1 new follower and following.

He knew the number by heart. You kept your circle small. Old classmates, your family, that hobby page for indie makeup reviews you liked so much, him. But this one — he tapped it, thumb tight enough to make the screen creak faintly under the pressure.

A man. Some sun-soaked profile picture of a beach, golden hour light across tan shoulders. He flicked through the feed. Waves, fishing nets, a half-finished tattoo on a forearm.

He scrolled up, eyes scanning the pinned location — the same island you’d posted.

He exhaled. Tapped the man’s message box open — then closed it again. His thumb flicked back to your page instead, to your last story, a blurry sunset over water. He wondered if the man had been standing there too, just out of frame.

Outside, the van door slid open. “Sir, do you want to join them now?”

Sunday didn’t answer right away. He just stared at your profile a moment longer, memorizing the new name, the new threat. Then he locked his phone, tucked it back into his coat pocket, and smiled.

“Let’s just go, I'm not hungry.”

*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒

You were back on set the moment your week off ended.

Today, he barely looked at you.

You’d brought him something special - a new collection you’d splurged on just for him, a fresh line of lip balms and tinted sticks in shades you thought would suit the softer scenes for the next arc of his show. You’d laid them out neatly on the counter in his dressing room, the pretty packaging lined up like a gift, little swatches painted on the back of your hand for him to see.

But Sunday just sat there, eyes flicking to your reflection in the mirror once before darting back down to his phone. He didn’t even nod when you tapped his chin up to check the new foundation match, didn’t hum when you murmured “turn a bit for me” in that soft tone you always used just for him.

He let you work, but he didn’t say a word.

When the last scene wrapped, you packed your kit quickly, trying to ignore the tight pinch in your chest. You told him “I’ll leave these here for you, okay?”. He didn’t answer, just gave the faintest tilt of his head, like a stranger trying to acknowledge someone they’d rather not see.

You didn’t ask. You never did when he got like this, prickly for reasons he’d never spell out. So you left when your time was done, you slipped past the line of starry-eyed staff bowing and whispering about how perfect Sunday looked as always.

You didn’t expect him at your door that night. Not with two bottles of wine tucked under his arm and a bag from your favorite takeout spot swinging loosely from his wrist. Not with that quiet, guilty look on his face when you opened the door in your oversized shirt, hair still damp from your shower.

But what he really didn’t expect, what made the edge snap so cleanly through his politeness, was the man in your living room.

He saw him first, sprawled comfortably on your couch, phone in hand, that same easy grin from the profile picture that had burned itself behind Sunday’s eyelids.

He didn’t even bother with hello. He dropped the wine and the takeout on your kitchen table and strode forward.

“Who the hell—” the man started, already pushing himself to his feet — but Sunday was already there, one hand fisted in his collar, the other shoving him back a step.

“You think you can just—” He pulled the man closer.

“Sunday!”

You threw your towel onto the counter, rushing forward to wedge yourself between them. You pressed a palm to Sunday’s chest.

“Stop it! What are you doing?”

Sunday’s jaw clenched, his hand still tangled in the other man’s shirt. “This— you just let him— here? In your house?”

“What do you mean? He’s my sister’s fiancé.”

For a second, nothing moved. The man in Sunday’s grip snorted, equal parts nervous and offended, and tried to tug himself free.

“He’s staying over because they’re visiting.”

Sunday stared at you. Then at the man. Then back at you. All he did next was slowly loosen his grip, pushing the man back with a final, frustrated shove.

“Next time you get mad at me for nothing…” You gave him a smile. “…maybe bring dessert, too.”

*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒

You’d barely stepped out of the shower when your phone buzzed. By the time you opened the message, Sunday was already downstairs, asking if you were free, if he could come up, if you still had those new lipsticks he’d seen you stash away in your kit.

You were bone tired, but you didn’t have it in you to say no when he knocked. So you let him in, hair still damp, wearing an old tee and soft shorts while he made himself perfectly at home on your couch.

You sighed, rummaging through the bag for the softest shade, the one you’d thought would suit him for an early morning scene tomorrow. “You really want to test these now?”

He only looked at you with that faint glint under his lashes — the same one that always told you he’d decided this was happening, whether you liked it or not.

“Just one,” he murmured. “One for tonight.”

So you relented, sliding onto the couch beside him.

A soft coral-pink, glossy but not too bright.

“Stay still.”

He did, for about two seconds.

You angled his chin up, did the usual. The moment you leaned back to check, Sunday tilted forward. His mouth caught yours in a soft kiss before his hand slid up your back to hold you there.

It wasn’t deep at first, just the faint drag of his bottom lip over yours, smearing the color you’d so carefully applied. He pulled back just enough to see the faint surprise flicker across your eyes, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“Doesn’t suit you,” he murmured, “Try another one?”

“Sunday! The point is to test on you, not—”

You didn’t get to finish. He kissed you again, deeper this time, a soft push and pull that left the tint smudged at the corner of his mouth and yours. When you huffed and pushed at his chest, he only chuckled under his breath, the sound rumbling against your skin as his lips slipped to your jaw, then lower, the faint brush of his mouth at your neck making your breath catch embarrassingly loud.

“You— this is wasting the samples—” you hissed, trying to angle away, but his teeth grazed your collarbone through the thin cotton of your shirt, his hands anchoring you right there on his lap.

“Mm. I’ll buy you more,” he murmured against your skin, lips dragging along your shoulder, heat pooling where he pressed soft, biting kisses just above the collar of your shirt. “Better ones. All the shades you want. Ruin them all if you like.”

“Do this again and I swear I’m quitting. Find someone else to—”

Sunday lifted his head just enough to catch your eyes.

“Quit?” He leaned in, brushing your lips again. “Try it. I’d make sure to ruin your life.”

You were speechless, half flustered, half tempted to shove him off the couch for real this time. But his mouth was already tracing your jaw again, hands slipping under the hem of your shirt like he’d never once intended to let you go.

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #honkai star rail sunday #sunday hsr #sunday x reader #yandere sunday x reader

366 notes · View notes

delusionalwriterr · 1 year ago

Text

Gym Buddy

Pairing: Beefy!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You have a hard time keeping your eyes off of your gym crush.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: none

A/N: Shoutout to my gym girlies out there, this one's for you 🫵🏻

Masterlist

———

“What are we hitting today?” your friend asks you as you both enter the gym. You look over to the receptionist and greet him with a smile. Adjusting the gym bag on your shoulder, you turn to your friend and shrug.

“I was thinking legs?” you suggest as the two of you head to the locker area. You usually go to the gym alone, but today was thankfully one of the rare occasions your schedule aligned with your friend’s so you took this opportunity to invite her to the gym with you— something you used to do back when you were still in college.

Your friend nods in response before beginning to stuff her locker with the stuff she didn’t need, you mirroring her actions. “Quads, hams, glutes, or all of the above?” she chuckles, pulling out her shaker bottle and scooping in some pre-workout.

“I did quads last time, are you cool with hams and glutes?” you ask to which she nods again. “But you can do quads if you want.”

This time she shakes her head, “Nah, you know me. I can never say no to a good glute workout.” She turns to her side and nudges your hip with hers, drawing a chuckle from you.

You walk towards the workout area, your eyes scanning the room and immediately stopping by the benches. You feel your heart hammer in your chest as you watch him do bench presses— his chest puffing out and leaving no room for imagination thanks to the compression shirt he was wearing.

Bucky Barnes started going to your gym a few months ago, and to say you were shocked to see him there the first time was an understatement. Not that you were complaining though, but you practically fell off the treadmill you were using when you saw him walk in for the first time donning an oversized shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and a baseball cap.

Safe to say that he is definitely your gym crush, and you would be lying when you say that you look forward to going to the gym just to see if he was there.

Your gaze stayed on him as your friend led you to the Smith machine. You glance at his face, eyebrows furrowed in concentration and mouth letting out huffs of breath as he raises the 100kg dumbells above him.

Goddamn.

Your attention is brought back to your friend as she begins loading the bar with a few weights to start your first exercise. You snap out of your daze and help her by loading up the other side before finally beginning.

Taking turns, the two of you did a few sets of back squats, but your mind was definitely elsewhere. You desperately tried not to look at Bucky for too long, afraid that your friend might notice or worse, you get caught by Bucky staring at him.

“Okay, what’s up? I feel like you left your brain back at home,” your friend joked as you took a break before starting your next exercise. You roll your eyes, taking a swig from your water bottle, ignoring her question.

Your eyes subconsciously trail to Bucky, once again. This time, he was hunching over the bench as he stared at his phone, chest rising and falling at a steady pace. Your friend follows your gaze and hums in realization.

“Ah, I see,” she pipes up with a smirk on her face, “you got hots for the Avenger.”

You laugh softly, turning back to her and shrugging your shoulders. “Guilty as charged.”

“Why don’t you go for it?” she pesters, causing you to rapidly shake your head. “No way, I’m scared he might just glare at me or something.”

She scoffs before beginning to look for other plates to load the smith machine. She looks around your area only to find none that would suffice for your next exercise. So she scans the gym in search of heavier plates only to find a stack of 25’s that were conveniently placed beside Bucky.

She smirks before trudging her way towards him despite your attempts to pull her back. “Come back here!” you whisper sharply, but ultimately give up once she reaches him.

You see her gently tap Bucky on the shoulder, prompting the super soldier to turn and face her. You feel your whole body tense and your face starts to heat up. You watch as your friend points to the stack of plates beside Bucky and you see him nod and begin to stand up.

Oh god, is he coming over here? You thought to yourself. Sure enough, you see your friend and Bucky each pick up a plate and head towards your direction. Your eyes briefly meet his, causing you to turn away and act busy by scrolling through your phone.

You feel your heartbeat quicken as you see them grow closer through your peripheral until they are standing right in front of the machine. “Thank you so much!” your friend smiles as they both load the weights onto the bar. “I would’ve asked my friend to help me out, but the pre-workout hasn’t kicked in for her, you know?” she jokes, earning a soft chuckle from Bucky and a glare from you.

“It’s no problem,” Bucky says, gaze shifting between the two of you, a shy smile on his lips. “Have a nice workout,” he adds, before heading back over to the benches.

Your friend turns to you, a wicked smile on her lips. “See? He won’t bite,” she chides, causing you to roll your eyes before heading to the machine to start RDLs. “Unless you’re into that sort of stuff,” she continues, earning a smack on the shoulder from you.

“I’m never working out with you again.”

—

The next few days were not as uneventful as you’d hoped. You thought by going to the gym alone like you usually do would mean that you’d have more time to just subtly watch Bucky from across the room without worrying about any friends that would force you to interact with him.

But just a few days after your initial interaction with Bucky, you were put in a situation where you had the chance to look at him up close once again.

You were doing tricep pushdowns on the cable machine when you felt a hand tap you on the shoulder, causing you to jump. You turn around to meet the pair of blue eyes you so desperately gazed at all the time.

You were frozen in your spot as you took in how attractive he looked in his compression shirt, arms bulging by the sleeves. You were snapped out of your daze when you realized he was talking to you. “I’m sorry, what?” you asked sheepishly, removing one of your earphones.

Bucky smiled shyly in return. “Are you using the other cable?” he asked, pointing at the machine next to you. You shook your head, heat rushing to your face upon the thought of him working out beside you. “No, go ahead.”

He smiled again before positioning himself beside you and starting his workout. You tried your best not to get distracted by the godly sight next to you, but you didn’t muster enough courage to talk to him after that.

The next time you talk was the week after that. You were doing a particularly heavy set of dumbbell shoulder presses (while keeping note of Bucky somewhere behind you doing bicep curls). It was already your third set, and you were aiming to push out 12 reps until you started to feel your weaker arm give out.

You braced your core harder as you pushed yourself to get the last rep in until you saw Bucky drop the dumbbells he was holding to rush behind you. “I got you,” he mumbled, lightly placing his hands just below your triceps to give you stability.

You tried to ignore your heart that was hammering in your chest as you were finally able to fully lift the dumbbells over your head. You moved to lower them to put them down, but Bucky suddenly wrapped his hands on your wrists. “All you, give me one more.”

Jesus Christ.

You pushed yourself one more time, ignoring the pain in your shoulders as you gave it your all. Once you finally put the dumbbells down, you turned to him. “Thanks,” you smiled, which Bucky returned.

“No problem,” he replied, but before you could say anything else, he was already walking back to his spot to continue his set. You were extra energized to workout that day.

Which brings you to a week after that. You were just stepping out of your car when you spot Bucky getting off his bike. You subtly watch as he took his helmet off, and revel in the way he tied his hair into a small bun by the nape of his neck.

God, you were down bad.

You were too busy trying not to drool and fail to notice that he was actually staring back at you. It wasn’t until he gave you a shy nod when you snap back to reality and return the gesture but throwing him a sheepish wave.

“What are you training today?” he calls out as he watches you take your gym bag from the trunk of your car and slung it on your shoulder. “Oh, I’m doing pull today. What about you?” you ask, silently hoping he was planning to do the same.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks which practically made your heart do backflips. Trying to hide your giddiness, you give him a short nod as you and him begin to make your way inside the gym.

You enter and greet a few familiar faces as Bucky follows suit before stopping in front of the lat pulldown machine. “Are you okay with starting with this?” you ask.

“What, no warm up?” Bucky asks in return, prompting your cheeks to heat up. “I don’t warm up,” you start, “And before you lecture me, I know it’s bad… I’m just too lazy to do it.”

He chuckles softly at this as he begins to take off the sweatshirt he was wearing to reveal that he was wearing a muscle tee underneath, leaving almost no room for imagination. “S’okay. I’m too lazy to warm up sometimes too.”

You laugh as you take a seat in front of the machine, pick a favorable weight, and begin your set. You weren’t going to lie to yourself, the thought of Bucky Barnes standing just beside you to watch you do your set was both nerve wracking and motivating at the same time. Sure, you wanted to impress him with the amount of reps you could push out, but the way he was staring at you was also making your knees grow weak.

Thankfully, you finish your first set with minimal struggle before standing up and gesturing for him to go next. “That seemed a little too easy for you,” Bucky began, “I know you can lift heavier than that, doll.”

You try to ignore the way your stomach flipped upon hearing the pet name and reply with a playful scoff instead. You take a swig from your bottle as he starts his set. While lifting the whole stack, you admire the way his back muscles expand and contract without focusing too much on the soft grunts that were leaving his mouth.

Did it suddenly get too hot in here?

After a few more workouts and taking turns checking each other out, you both decide to end the day with a set of hammer curls. You watch in awe as he begins to work with a pair of 80kg dumbbells, making your weight look puny.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” you huffed as you continue your set. You see him slightly turn his head towards you in acknowledgment. “Given that you literally have a serum that makes you… you know, strong enough to lift a truck—“ he laughs at that, “why do you still work out?”

He ends his set and places his dumbbells back on the rack. “Well it sort of feels like therapy for me. When I go to the gym, it’s like— are you done with these?” he stops, pointing at the dumbbells you placed down while he was talking. You nod and before you could protest, he picks up the pair with one hand and places them back on the rack for you. “Anyway, when I go to the gym, I can forget about everything, you know? It feels nice to leave the rest of the world behind and pretend like everything is normal in my life,” he finishes.

Bucky lifts his metal arm in front of him. “This doesn’t really help with that though,” he adds, letting out a sad laugh. Your heart clenches at his sentiment, but before you know it, you blurt out, “Do you wanna get coffee after this?”

You widen your eyes at your sudden forwardness. A few weeks ago, you could barely approach him to ask help in re-racking weights, but you also never really imagined you would one day do pull with him, too. So this was sort of like a seize the day kind of thing.

Bucky, too, was caught off guard with your invitation. He never really talked to anyone when he went to the gym, preferring to just keep to himself, but there was something about you that pulled him closer. Maybe it was how friendly you were with everyone in the gym or how he saw you continuously push yourself to your limit in every exercise you do, but he was always intrigued by you.

His therapist told him to step out of his comfort zone more, so with a smile, he replies, “Only if you let me be your gym buddy from now on.”

Your smile reaches your ears as you offer him your hand, which he gladly took, “Deal.”

———

A/N: This really gives off crack energy, but hope you liked it either way ◡̈

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #marvel #the avengers #marvel headcannon

2K notes · View notes

aussie-engene · 3 months ago

Text

Non idol!Jay x fem!reader

Gym love/strangers to lovers

Fluff

Warnings: a spine tattoo, kissing

You are rather a really sporty person. You go to the gym every day at exactly 7 pm. It was the time when most people were done with the machines you wanted to use. You never changed your time program since if you went earlier, there would be many people, and if you went later, you wouldn't have much time before the gym closes.

Today, you had a pretty tough program, but you were determined to pull it through. You had a pretty fir body that you were proud of. You didn’t show it much, tho unless it got really hot in the gym or the exercise was really hard. You finished your program and don't even remember in which set you took off your shirt.

You grabbed your stuff and left the gym to go home, take a shower and relax.

Jay loved going to the gym. If he could he would live there. He had a body which looked like one a Greek god would have. He also went to the gym everyday but at 8pm, enjoying the pretty much loneliness of the gym.

Today was no different. He entered the gym at 8pm as per usual. He reached out to the machine he wanted to use for the night and just as he was about to start his set he laid his set he couldn't help but stare at a specific figure. It wasn’t the body that made him look but a small detail that he swore it could drive him crazy. The figure had a spine tattoo one so dmsimple yet so addictive. He took in every single part of it. He was memorizing it at this point. Only after he was done with the tattoo he noticed the body of that said figure. Honey skin, high ponytail with a cap on covering it's face. A fit body embraced by tight leggings and a matching sport's bra. He couldn't resist looking. He snapped out of his thoughts when the figure left but he just sat there replaying the whole scene.

During the whole workout he had that picture in his head. That spine tattoo was too hot to handle. He didn't even know the person or even if he would see them again. He finished his work out and headed back home seeking the comfort of his bed.

After that day he saw the figure plenty of times but again in the same way. Back turned towards him,spine tattoo on full display, face barely visible.

One day you were running like crazy. Paperwork, tasks, getting to places. Everything had to be on the same day unfortunately. Luckily you managed to finish everything on time and even had a bit of time for yourself. You looked at your phone to check the time. It was 7pm the time you usually went to the gym. You were debating on whether to go or stay at home. The gym won. You immediately changed into your gym clothes and went straight to it.

It was 8pm and there weren't many people there. Some huge dudes flexing their muscles at the mirrors and some just minding their own business. You were wearing simple black leggings that hugged your body and an oversized tee shirt on top putting your hair in a loose low ponytail.

Today was your worst day of your workout program. Weights. And specially everything that had to do with the bench. You wanted to go and do legs but you stich to the program. Even if you were whining about how you couldn’t even bench press you could lift a lot of weight. Usually you had one of your gym friends help you with it but today you were alone. You looked around the gym in order to see someone that would be willing to help you. Scanning the gym your eyes landed on a guy pretty much the same age as you pretty good looking if you had to admit. You stood up and decided to ask his help.

You went up to him and it was obvious he had finished a tough set. Toned body that you could see through his compression shirt. Sharp jaw followed by sharp eyes. He looked like a nice guy even if his appearance said otherwise.

"Umm hello. Sorry for interrupting your workout but is there any chance you could spot me on the weights?" You said trying to sound normal as much as you could. You didn’t talk to hot guys everyday.

"Umm hello. Sorry for interrupting your workout but is there any chance you could spot me on the weights?" Jay heard a voice. It was sweet like melody to his ears. Looking up he saw an insanely good looking girl. She had a sweet smile and shining eyes. He was stunned. And what did she say? Something about spotting her? He was too shocked to understand what she had just said. He snapped out once she cleared her throat. Giving a sweet smile.

Once he smiled you melted. You just stared at him trying to find your words.

"Yeah, sure, gladly." Jay cursed in his mind for sounding too taken aback.

Once you both reached the bench, you positioned yourself and turned to him, grinning. "Please don't let me die." He laughed, you paused. 'Cute~', you thought. "I'll try my best to keep you alive," he continued your joke. The air was really warm and comfortable. You started your set, and Jay was a really good spotter. He even encouraged you to continue.

"I'm Jay by the way" he said once you finished the first set extending his hand for a handshake. "Y/n" You said trying not to blush at the contact of your hands.

The rest of the workout went really well. Jay also continued working out with you his own program long forgotten. He wanted to be close to you and he managed to do it perfectly. You cracked jokes and had a really nice time hanging out together. You never understood how the time went by so fast. You bid your goodbyes and left for your homes.

You got home and couldn't help but smile. You thought of his face and how you had fun. That's when it hit. You had a gym crush! Your eyes widened. It was just a small gym crush...right? You tried not to think about it but a mischevious idea came to your mind.

You were gonna change the time you went to the gym!

You internally cursed at the impact this 'small' crush had on you but you liked the idea of spending more time with him.

Jay crushed on the couch. How ironic. At this point he wasn’t only crushing on the couch but he was crushing on you! He found a gym crush and didn't complain about it. You were really pretty but most of all you seemed a really nice person. He wanted the other day to come so badly and hoped to see you at the gym again. He hadn't seen you before and that's what scared him and got him hoping for you to be there again the same time tomorrow.

Changing your gym time was the best thing you could have done! You and Jay hang out together every day, swapping phone numbers in case of 'emergency' as he said. You both developed huge gym crushes at this point.

It was about 3 weeks of working out together, and it was starting to get hot. Summer was around the corner, and the temperatures were rising more and more every day.

You went to the gym as per usual only to find Jay in a tank top, which made you stare. That was so not Jay coded. Yes, he wore tight shirts but tank tops? Never. And man, was he hot. You blinked and approached him. Once he saw you, he gave you his smile that you adored. You couldn’t help but smile back.

"Well, hello, my rival." it was a nickname you both used. You challenged each other as to who could lift the most. He always won, of course, but you never stopped teasing him about you being better. It was a daily routine now.

"Hello to you too. Are you ready to lose against me today again?" You said as a playful smirk grew on your face. He smirked back. 'Oh god' you thought.

"I'm so ready to watch you lose..."

"Ha! You wish! I'm gonna win just like every single time"

"We'll see about that..."

The workout was intense, and the heat wasn't helping at all. You put your hair up in a high ponytail because you were getting extra warm. Jay noticed this and stared at you. For some reason, he found it really hot, but his thoughts were harshly stopped when he saw something a bit lower than the back of your neck,your spine almost. You turned to him and took him to the next machine. What was that, tho? Maybe a tag from your shirt. Yeah, that must be it. After a bit, he didn't think much of it. Well, until the last machine stop... The rowing machine...

Jay was confident about it. He sat down and took the bar in his hands, bragging about how he was winning.

"As you can see, it's already the first set, and I'm obviously winning!" He grinned

You chuckled, and your rivalry spirit was turned on. It was your turn now.

"Well, let's do it the right way then"

He was confused. What did you mean by that?

As you were about to go to the machine, you took a hold of the hem of your shirt, taking it off, revealing your fit body. Jay's mouth fell right open. He looked at every part of your body. You were like you had been kissed by the sun, and he was getting jealous about it being able to kiss you. You saw his reaction and giggled. "You like what you see?" "Yeah" he didn't think. The words just came out of his mouth, his hand covering it really quickly. You couldn’t help but laugh at his words.

Little did he know that your body reveal wouldn't be his biggest surprise...

You turned your back at him, and you were about to start your exercise. But then you heard a loud gasp coming from behind you. You quickly turned around only to be met by a wide-eyed Jay.

"Umm are you okay? You look like you've just seen a ghost"

"It's you"

"Huh?"

"It's you!"

"What's me?" You were getting confused

"The girl with the tattoo"

"The girl with the what now?"

"You are the girl I was staring at!"

"Ughhh creepy but okay...Jay are you sure you're good?"

"I'm totally fine! You! You used to leave the gym at 8pm didn’t you?"

"You mean before we met? Yeah, I came at 7 and left at 8, but I still don't understand what you're talking about"

"It was really you! Before I met you, there was this girl, well you, with a spine tattoo that drove me crazy. She would leave at the time I came and I never saw her face properly. It was you, tho!" He was almost jumping up and sown from excitement.

"You mean that you had a crush on my spine tattoo " you teased him.

"Yeah! Wait, no! Well...kinda...Ughhhh, it's complicated!"

You laughed again, this time stepping closer.

"I guess I had a chokehold on you, huh?"

"You still do." He blurred out, covering his mouth again at the sudden confession

"Oh...I still do because of myself or... because of this?" You turned your back at him, and he almost died on the spot.

"You-yourself. The tat-tattoo just makes you extra hot. " At this point, he wasn't thinking properly. He just said whatever he was thinking without a filter. He was as red as a tomato and so cute.

"You're really cute." You said, making him even redder if that was even possible. You liked how you were controlling him. Stepping even closer now, you put your hands around his neck. He froze.

"You know except from you cute you are also very handsome and...hot..."

Something clicked inside him. He was no longer shy. A wave of boldness took over him.

"Hot?" He was smirking now. Your eyes widened at his sudden change. He rested his hands on his waist, and you were the one now to blush.

"Why are you blushing? Now you're shy? First, you take off your shirt in front of me, show your tattoo, and you're getting shy by a little contact?" He chuckled.

He took his hand from your waist and traced down your spine with his fingers, which made you shiver under his touch.

"I guess you're not the only one having an impact on me." You shook your head, and he slowly leaned down and cupped your lips in his.

"Wanted this in a while now"

"Me too." You smiled up at him as he leaned for another kiss.

After than night you continued going to the gym together but not as 'rivals' but as a couple. He was a really sweet and caring boyfriend. Addicted to you in every way possible and so were you.

#enha imagines #enhypen #enha fluff #enha #enha x reader #jay park #park jay #enhypen jongseong #jay x reader #enhypen jay

61 notes · View notes

regal-bones · 1 year ago

Text

”A carcass. Decaying, and grey. The guts of the creature spilled across the landscape, rust eating at the metal pipes, and thickets of grass growing thick between shards of fallen debris. It sat at the centre of a great crater, the impact shifting the earth itself to a great ring of stone. Like a ripple in a pool of water set forever in unmoving rock. At the edge, a stranger looked outwards. Past the crash site, to the lush valley, the dense forests. Deep, rich lakes reflecting the sun, and stoic mountains looming in the distance. They wore a purple robe, tattered and old, and underneath the faded garb the gentle mechanics of their body ticked and whirred. Old machinery, forgotten machinery. The gentle beat of their processor in their chest was the only sound in the still land. Like a heartbeat - slow, steady, each pump pushed hot blood through the intricate web of piping that ran through their system. They shifted slightly, the sound of metal on metal could be heard, of glass vials clinking together from within their robe, and pistons compressing and extending. Even the subtlest of movements made a noise, unseen gears clicking and servos firing within their cold, steel bones, their metal fingers resting so softly in the grass. They looked outwards, and from under their weathered mask, a shaky sigh left the stranger. Such a human expression, they thought. How long had they been sitting there? They looked down to one of their legs, stretched out in front of them. Dandelions knitted themselves in between the intricacies of the sharp metallic shape, and tall grass sprouted from the motionless knee joint. A pale fungus, thin, with button-like caps, poked out of an open compartment. Within, a set of salvo missiles slept, a gentle blanket of spores dusting the warheads and lichen creeping over their ancient casings. Above them, it began to rain. The stranger looked up at the sky as the flecks of rain fell. Fat beads of water trailed down their steel mask, each lit with the brilliant blue light that leaked from the mask's visor and following the sharp geometry down to its chin, where they fell to the eager grass below. With a careful movement of their arm, the figure moved back their cloak to reveal something. Underneath the purple fabric, nestled within the robe, was another machine. The lifeless body of another robot. It was far smaller than the stranger. It had a small, spherical torso, two arms, and two boot-like legs. But, most notably, was its head - it looked just like a flower pot. Within the pot was neatly packed soil, and, softly, the rain fell on the coarse layer of dirt. The two sat, and the rain fell. The clouds churned above them, writhing, worming through the sky. Always moving, dancing, an endless parade across the vast stretch of sky. Far away, an eye opens. A wet, chesty cough, blood flecked phlegm working its way through a strained throat. The same rain falls on its hot, raw skin, and strained eyes gaze at the clouds. Over the distant canopy of trees, the sun dipped below the horizon. Night fell on the quiet carcass, and the stranger enjoyed this moment of silence. Who knows how long this peace might last?”

You can support me on Patreon for £1 and see concept art, assets, and snippets of story for the game!

219 notes · View notes

maskedcop10 · 3 days ago

Text

AI created by Learub

The low hum of the engine echoed in the underground parking garage as the two men stepped out of the matte-black SUV. Their full leather race suits creaked with every calculated movement, molded tightly to their physiques like a second skin—each zipper, seam, and buckle placed with surgical precision. They moved in unison, their boots thudding heavily on the concrete, steel-capped and polished to a mirror sheen. The scent of oiled leather mingled with the faint chemical bite of rubber as they adjusted the harnesses on their backs—each man carrying a twin set of compressed oxygen cylinders connected to their full-coverage gas masks by thick, ribbed double hoses. The masks were masterpieces of fetish engineering—jet-black silicone contoured to the shape of the human face, seamless and unforgiving. Their lenses were one-way mirrored, offering no hint of the eyes behind them. Instead, the polished chrome glinted under the sodium vapor lights, giving the impression of emotionless sentinels or voyeuristic machines. Each breath hissed rhythmically through the air hoses, filtered through carbon scrubbers tucked neatly beneath the tanks. The sound was primal—controlled, erotic, and mechanical. Even inside the masks, the world was a sensual labyrinth: the scent of latex, the soft resistance of the silicone mouthpiece, and the pressure of the internal valves that opened only when they inhaled. There was no talking—just the slow, aroused rhythm of breath and the heat of anticipation building under the sealed suits. One man turned to the other, the lenses of his mask catching the reflection of his companion. He reached out, gloved hand brushing the chest of the other, tracing the insignia embossed in the leather. A small nod passed between them—wordless confirmation that they were ready.

Behind the reinforced door at the end of the corridor, the party waited: a subterranean haven where control, gear, and anonymity reigned supreme. With synchronized steps, they walked forward, each breath echoing in stereo through the dual hoses—two figures of lust, leather, and chrome, mirrored to the world but completely revealed only to each other.

The reinforced door hissed as the biometric lock disengaged, revealing a passage bathed in dim red light. Music throbbed beneath the surface—slow, bass-heavy pulses that reverberated through the walls and into their chests like a shared heartbeat.

They entered. The Sanctum wasn't a typical party. It was more like a cathedral for the devout—those who worshipped discipline, anonymity, and control. Figures moved through thick clouds of mist, their identities erased by hoods, masks, and layers of gleaming rubber and leather. The scent in the air was unmistakable: sweat, silicone polish, warm metal, and pheromones humming like static.

The two men stood side by side for a moment, their mirrored visors reflecting a distorted, feverish world. The taller of the two, known here only as Ares, stood with a subtle authority. His suit was custom-made, reinforced with matte black carbon panels at the shoulders and ribs, armor-like and ceremonial. His breathing through the gas mask was slower, deliberate. Ares wasn’t just attending this party—he commanded it. Beneath the mask, he was older, eyes sharp and calculating. He'd been coming to the Sanctum for years, and his presence here was mythic. The second man, leaner and slightly shorter, was called Rook. Newer. Hungry. His suit was glossier, almost liquid in the way it caught the light. His hoses flexed with each quickened breath, betraying his arousal and nervous energy. Though silent and masked, his body language spoke volumes—tense, eager, obedient. Ares had brought him here for the first time, to be broken in, so to speak. They walked deeper into the main chamber. Around them, scenes of ritualized desire played out: one man tethered by a series of chrome chains to a ceiling pulley, suspended and rotating slowly while others circled like animals in heat; another pair engaged in silent gestures of command and obedience, one gesturing with a gloved hand while the other knelt, perfectly still.

Ares placed a firm, gloved hand on Rook’s back, guiding him to a vacant padded platform beneath a steel arch studded with hooks, rings, and pneumatic attachments. The sound of the hoses—their shared breathing—was now indistinguishable from the pulsing rhythm of the Sanctum. Ares reached up and clipped Rook’s air hoses to a fixed overhead rig. It hissed as it took over the air supply, locking Rook in place with nothing but controlled oxygen, dependent and exposed. Even through the mirrored lens, Rook’s pulse could be seen in the rise of his chest and the tremble in his knees.

Ares leaned in close, his visor reflecting Rook’s. Their mirrored faces stared at each other—unreadable, unknowable, intensely present. Ares activated a control unit on his wrist, and Rook’s internal air flow slowed slightly, not dangerous—but perceptibly more restricted. It made every breath a conscious effort. A silent command to focus. Submit. With a slow motion, Ares zipped down the front of Rook’s suit, exposing just enough skin for the chill of the air to send a ripple across his body. Not a word had been spoken. None needed. Their communication was in breath, in movement, in mirrored eyes that saw everything without giving anything away. The party moved around them, shadows and shapes in shared fantasies. But in that moment, behind their masks, in that sanctuary of chrome and leather, they were alone—two reflections, perfectly matched in desire and restraint. The Sanctum was alive now—fully awake and pulsing like a living, breathing organism. The haze of synthetic mist clung low to the floor, illuminated by strips of cold LED light buried in the architecture. The air was thick with tension and heat. The rhythm of the music had slowed to a grinding tempo, deep and deliberate, like bodies colliding in a dream. Rook, now strapped to the overhead air rig, floated in sensory suspension. Every breath was regulated. His vision blurred slightly from the effort of each inhale through the double hoses, now routed through Ares’ wrist-mounted regulator. He was fully suited, fully sealed, but the zipper at his chest remained teasingly open—just enough to expose vulnerability beneath the armor of his leather. Ares stepped back, watching his creation breathe, squirm, and submit. And then—he appeared.

From behind a curtain of industrial chain, the third figure emerged. Head to toe in total enclosure rubber: thick, black, polished until it reflected even the dullest red light. His hood was expressionless, molded with a smooth finish except for a pair of breathing ports and two tinted lenses. Twin hoses, thick and gleaming, fed from a pressurized tank on his back, coiling over his shoulders like venomous serpents. He moved with purpose—silent, composed, lethal in his restraint. Ares turned, intrigued.

The rubber man approached them slowly. He was taller than Rook, broad-chested, with heavy boots that landed with damp authority. His entire body shimmered under the club’s red glow. He stopped a meter away and raised a gloved hand—a simple, formal gesture. A signal: permission to engage. Ares tilted his helmet slightly, approving. Wordless, always. Rook, watching through mirrored lenses, felt his body tense with anticipation. The rubber man stepped in close and reached out with thick, gloved fingers, running them slowly across Rook’s exposed chest, then down, tracing the edges of the opened zipper. He leaned in, his masked face nearly touching Rook’s. The hiss of the hoses became louder. Each man now breathed in concert: three rhythms, each one unique, forming a synthetic harmony of lust. Ares circled them, like a handler inspecting his subjects. He reached up and clipped the rubber man’s hoses into a separate feed—one he controlled independently. Now both of them—Rook and this silent stranger—were under Ares’ command, their oxygen flow subject to his whim. With a flick of a switch, Ares cut their airflow for exactly three seconds. One... Two... Three...

Then he restored it. The rush of breath through their hoses was a wave of pure sensation—heightened by denial. Both gas-masked submissives writhed, Rook arching slightly, the rubber man’s gloved hands gripping harder onto the frame above Rook’s head, exhaling hard through his filtered valves. Ares stepped between them, pressing a gloved hand onto each of their chests, feeling the rise and fall—measuring control, measuring need. He guided the rubber man's hand lower, over Rook’s groin, firm and slow. The suit's leather creaked as pressure built. Rook’s muscles strained under the suit. He moaned into the mask, but it came out as a low, filtered groan—barely audible, but felt in the bones. The rubber man responded in kind, grinding slightly as Ares manipulated their movements, a puppeteer with breath as his strings. Steam rose from the suits, slick with sweat sealed beneath layers of latex and leather. And all the while—mirrored lenses stared at mirrored lenses. No names. No faces. Just breathing. Control. Submission. Reflection.

In the Sanctum, they weren’t people. They were machines of pleasure. Interlocking. Obedient. Bound by the hiss of air and the absence of self.

7 notes · View notes

devirnis · 1 year ago

Note

“feeling each other's pulse” pleeaassseeee 🥺👉👈

Anything for you, Molly my dear!

quiet my fears with the touch of your hand

Rating: G Relationship: Evan Buckley/Eddie Diaz Word count: 1.2k Contains vague season 7 spec

Eddie comes to with a burning in his chest and Buck’s name on his lips.

For a second, he has no idea where he is or what’s going on, but then sound filters in around him – water crashing, sirens, people yelling out orders – and it all comes back to him in startling clarity.

The ship shifting suddenly. Debris crashing down and blocking the exit. Water rising with no way out.

Buck looking at him, heartbreak in his eyes, and saying, “I love you.”

“Oh, thank God,” someone says above him. It might be Bobby. “Ravi, help me get him in the ambulance.”

No, no, Eddie can’t go into an ambulance – not until he knows –

“Buck,” he gasps, trying to look around. “Where’s Buck?”

A hand on his shoulder, and the ground beneath him starts to move. “Eddie, just lie still.” Definitely Bobby. “We need to transport you.”

Eddie shakes his head. Bobby didn’t answer his question. That means he either doesn’t know or doesn’t want to tell him. Neither option is acceptable. “No, I don’t – where’s Buck?”

A telling pause. “Hen and Chim are working on him,” Bobby finally says.

Working on him? Eddie’s stomach plummets. No, Buck can’t – not again – not after he said –

“Ravi, on three,” Bobby orders.

“No!” Eddie flails his arms, tries to push himself upright. “No, let me – I can help – I need to see –”

“Eddie,” Bobby says calmly. “Hen and Chim have got him. Let us take care of you.”

Eddie glances around wildly. His gaze lands on a familiar turnout with WILSON written on the back, crouched over a few feet away from him. She’s obscuring his view of Chim, but Eddie can see that he’s on top of someone, performing compressions.

“Eddie –” Bobby tries again.

“Cap, I’m not going anywhere until –”

“He’s going to be okay, Eddie. Just let Hen and Chim –”

“I’m not going –”

“We’ve got a pulse!” calls Hen’s voice.

Relief crashes over Eddie like a tidal wave. His arms give out and he slumps down onto the backboard, finally allowing Bobby and Ravi to load him into the ambulance.

He’s unconscious before the doors slam closed.

---

When Eddie regains consciousness again, he immediately knows he’s in the hospital.

If the fuzzy memories of fighting with Bobby while he was bathed in the red emergency lights didn’t tip Eddie off, the exposed feeling of wearing a hospital gown underneath starchy sheets and the beeping from various machinery confirms it. It takes a monumental effort, but eventually Eddie manages to get his eyes open. The lights are dim, so it must be night. He lolls his head to the side and sees Bobby, asleep and slumped in a chair at his bedside.

Eddie frowns; he figured that if Bobby would be keeping vigil over anyone, it would be –

Buck.

Panic surges through him as he struggles to sit up. If Bobby is here and not with Buck, then that must mean Buck is in the ICU or surgery or –

As Eddie rips the covers back and swings his legs off the side of the bed, his eyes scan the rest of the room and he realizes he isn’t alone. There’s another bed across from him, and in it is a sight so dear that Eddie nearly topples off his bed as the fear drains out of him in an instant.

Buck is unconscious or asleep – Eddie can’t tell, and his eyes immediately flick to the vital signs monitor at Buck’s bedside. Buck’s pulse and blood pressure are normal and his oxygen levels are fine, but just reading Buck’s vitals doesn’t do much to soothe Eddie’s worry. He’s seen Buck hooked up to machines in hospitals too many times before, and only hours ago Buck’s heart was stopped again. Eddie is suddenly overcome with a desperate need to touch him. He needs to feel Buck’s heartbeat, his blood pumping in his veins, and only then will the uncomfortable, anxious skittering under his skin finally settle.

Eddie eases himself off the bed, grabbing his IV stand for support. The last thing he wants to do is go crashing to the ground and wake Bobby up. He gingerly makes his way across the room in his bare feet, and lowers himself into the chair at Buck’s bedside. Reaching out, he gently takes Buck’s hand and flips it over, pressing his fingers into Buck’s wrist.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Buck’s pulse is strong beneath Eddie’s fingertips. The tightness in his chest loosens, and Eddie relaxes back into the chair, keeping Buck’s wrist in his grip. He’s alive, Buck’s alive; they’re both going to be fine.

Eddie doesn’t know how much time passes, but he finds himself slowly nodding off, soothed by the steady beat of Buck’s heart. He’s completely fine with drifting off to sleep in this chair, but then he feels Buck twitch. Eddie straightens up a little, suddenly awake, as he looks over Buck for any sign of distress. His vitals still look good, but his heart rate is starting to climb.

Buck’s face twists, and he makes a small, pained noise. Eddie’s own heart rate spikes and he starts fumbling with his other hand, searching for the nurse call button –

“Eddie…” Buck whispers.

Eddie shifts his grip, grasping Buck’s hand firmly. “I’m right here.”

Buck shakes his head back and forth. “Eddie…”

Oh god, is Buck hallucinating? Eddie’s just about to press the call button when Buck’s eyes fly open and he sits bolt upright, his gaze skittering around frantically.

“Eddie!” he gasps again. “Where’s –?”

“Buck, Buck, I’m right here!” Eddie squeezes Buck’s hand. “It’s okay, I’m right here.”

Buck’s eyes finally land on him. He blinks a few times, like he’s expecting Eddie to disappear any second. Eddie squeezes his hand again and Buck looks down quickly before looking back up at Eddie.

“You-you’re okay?” Buck rasps.

Eddie smiles. “I’m okay, you’re okay. We’re both okay.”

Buck presses his lips together into a thin line, still clearly uneasy. Eddie can’t blame him; after all, he walked himself across the hospital room in bare feet just so he could get his hands on Buck to reassure himself that Buck was fine, even if he had the evidence right in front of his eyes.

“Here,” Eddie says. He takes Buck’s hand and touches Buck’s index and middle fingers to his pulse point, just like he’d done for Buck earlier. “Feel that? That’s my heart. I’m here with you.”

“Ye-yeah,” Buck croaks. He presses his fingers more insistently against Eddie’s wrist.

They stay like that for a few minutes, just sitting in silence, Buck’s fingers on Eddie’s pulse, Eddie’s eyes on Buck’s monitor. Buck’s heart rate slowly returns to normal and Eddie finally feels like he can breathe easily again.

Eventually, Buck clears his throat. “Do you… do you remember what I said?”

“You think I was gonna forget you telling me you’re in love with me?” Eddie teases gently.

Buck blushes, averting his gaze. “I’m sorry –”

“Don’t apologize,” Eddie interrupts. Then a horrible thought strikes him. “Unless you didn’t mean –”

“No!” Buck’s wide-eyed gaze snaps back to him. “No, I’m just sorry that I told you like that. I wish– I wish it was in a romantic setting, not a life or death one.”

Eddie brings Buck’s hand up to his lips. “Once we get out of here, I’ll take you out for dinner. That new fancy Italian place that just opened.” He kisses Buck’s knuckles. “You can tell me again then.”

Buck gives him a bashful, pleased smile. “Deal.”

(also on ao3)

#911 fic #buddie fic #evan buckley x eddie diaz #physical intimacy prompts #myfic #fic: quiet my fears with the touch of your hand #bigfootsmom #ali answers

84 notes · View notes

steveguyhi1243 · 2 months ago

Text

Summer Triangle Chapter 25

“Dad?!” Wendy’s eyes shot open as a golden statue stared at her from the corner of her living room. She must have dozed off, working another long shift at the Mystery Shack.

The golden statue was one of a heavy-set, larger, muscular man, with a ginger beard and lumberjack’s cap to boot. The familiarity was unmistakable. Dad had the same expression of agony on his face Wendy had seen during Weirdmageddon, the only time in her life she had genuinely worried for his safety. Dad was built like a tank. It would take nothing short of an interdimensional demon to take him out.

Yet, there he was, frozen in place with eyes and mouth agape. Her brother’s weren’t too far behind, scattered about the living room in various phases of escape. Sam was halfway out the living room window. His golden arms were frozen to the frame. Tommy’s half-turned body stared back at Wendy as if caught by surprise. Jack was still on the floor, lying down as if half asleep. A pool of red spilled from his forehead.

A cold breeze hit Wendy from the front door. Without thinking, she ran over to the metallic remains of her family, clutching them like broken pieces of glass and clawing at them to try and get any sort of response. Even with her years of lifting, she could no longer lift them, dad falling out of his chair and splintering the spruce wooden floor. Wendy dug her hands into the sharp kindling and tried to dig him out. The wood dug into her hands and beneath her fingernails. A fountain of red soon poured from her raw hands. Wendy no longer cared.

“Wake up!” Wendy shouted, “Come on! Please!”

Her breath turned sour as hyperventilation forced air into the back of her throat and stung the tissue. Tears began to well in her eyes, not caring if her family saw them. All she received in return was dad’s dead stare.

She turned him over and began chest compressions. It was futile, given that golden lungs couldn't breathe, but it was worth a shot. She pressed down as hard as she could, so hard that the bones in her fingers began to crack. His chest didn’t move. Wendy would’ve been better off trying to raise a skeleton.

She screamed until her throat was raw. Wendy only stopped when she heard rustling in the bushes outside.

“Hey!” Wendy shouted, reaching for the knife attached to her hip, “Hello?!”

There was no response. She backed up against the wall, almost falling over the remains of her petrified brother. Her limbs grew weak, the world around Wendy spinning as if she was in the center of a washing machine, tripping over her own feet and slamming into the back wall and knocking over a family portrait.

Her head slammed into the ground. Wendy pulled herself up with her non-mangled hand, hyperventilating so strongly that her vision was beginning to go blurry. She pulled herself up from the floor and rose just in time to watch a shrouded figure stumble through the door.

AO3 Link

9 notes · View notes

capping-machine · 19 days ago

Text

Optimizing Investment in Cap Compression Moulding Machines

In today’s fast-paced packaging sector, equipment pricing can significantly influence production planning and profitability. For plastic cap manufacturers, understanding the Cap Compression Moulding Machine Price is essential when upgrading systems or starting new production lines. The Cap Compression Moulding Machine Price reflects a complex combination of technology level, output capacity, energy efficiency, and after-sales support. Taizhou Chuangzhen Machinery, a trusted name in compression molding, provides cost-effective solutions that meet both quality standards and budget expectations.

One of the most prominent cost drivers is machine capacity. Systems with more cavities—such as 32 or 48—naturally command a higher investment than entry-level models. However, these high-capacity machines offer lower cost-per-cap production, making them ideal for beverage or pharmaceutical companies requiring millions of closures monthly. Chuangzhen’s rotary compression units are designed to handle high-volume manufacturing with precision and consistency, justifying their investment through long-term operational savings.

Automation is another pricing factor. Fully automated machines with PLC control, touchscreen interfaces, and advanced safety features tend to cost more but dramatically reduce labor dependency. By investing in smart control systems, manufacturers improve repeatability, reduce scrap, and gain better control over production. Chuangzhen’s systems offer integrated monitoring and diagnostics, reducing the risk of breakdowns and supporting predictive maintenance strategies.

The quality of materials used in construction also plays a role in pricing. Machines built with high-grade steel, anti-corrosion coatings, and precision-milled components may come with a higher price tag but deliver significantly better durability. Lower-quality machines might need frequent maintenance or parts replacement, leading to downtime. Chuangzhen’s robust machine design includes long-life components, centralized lubrication systems, and user-friendly access panels to ensure reliable performance under continuous use.

Flexibility is another factor that influences cost. Manufacturers often need to switch between different cap sizes or formats. Compression molding machines that allow quick mold changes and offer compatibility with various cap types usually come at a premium. Chuangzhen’s modular machine platforms support rapid mold replacement and adjustment, enabling producers to respond to shifting market demands with minimal disruption.

Operational costs, including energy consumption and maintenance, should also be considered. Compression molding is inherently more energy-efficient than injection molding, offering savings over time. Chuangzhen integrates servo-driven systems and optimized heating elements to reduce power usage and support eco-friendly operations. This not only helps lower utility bills but also supports sustainability goals.

Finally, support services add value to the overall price. Comprehensive training, technical support, and spare parts availability can reduce long-term risk and improve machine uptime. Chuangzhen provides dedicated post-sales assistance to ensure buyers maximize their equipment’s potential. The availability of remote assistance and fast service response further enhances the machine's value proposition.To explore full specifications, request a custom quote, or compare machine models, visit Taizhou Chuangzhen Machinery’s official website: https://www.capping-machine.net/ .

#Cap Compression Moulding Machine Price #Cap Compression Machine #Capping-machine #packaging machinery #molding technology

0 notes

sengardet · 1 year ago

Text

Assassin's Encounter (Part 2)

Continued from:

Sophie's eyes fluttered open slowly, squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights shining down on her from the sterile white ceiling. As her vision came into focus, her heart started racing with panic, the frantic beeping of the ECG monitor filling the small windowless room. She tried to sit up but found her wrists and ankles bound tightly to the cold metal exam table.

The door clicked open, and Terra walked in, her slender dark fingers trailing along Sophie's pale thigh.

"Hello, my darling, welcome to the basement. like it?" Terra said softly, her full lips curling into a seductive smile.

Sophie swallowed hard. "What...what are you going to do to me?" she asked, her voice quivering.

"Shhh, don't be frightened," Terra said, circling a finger around Sophie's chest. "You see, I'm doing some… let’s say, flash course… medical training and I need a subject for practice. those stupid plastic torsos won’t do." Her hand slid higher, fingers curling around Sophie's delicate throat. "And you, my cute little assassin, are the perfect specimen for me to work on."

Sophie's pulse raced under Terra's grip, delighting the madwoman.

Terra pulled the crash cart closer, its wheels rattling on the tile floor. She reluctantly released the woman's neck to flip the defibrillator on with the beep and hum of charging capacitors. Sophie squirmed against her restraints, blonde hair splayed across the table, her lithe anatomy naked and exposed in a pathetic display.

"How long do you plan on keeping me like this!?" Sophie panted; blue eyes wide and terrified.

Terra ignored the question, focused on her task. She unscrewed the cap on a bottle of conductive gel with a soft pop. Tilting the container, she squeezed a generous dollop of translucent blue goo onto the pale curves of Sophie's heaving chest.

The assassin's breath caught at the cold sensation. Goosebumps rippled across her skin. Terra pressed the paddles to the top right and left side of Sophie's chest, framing her heart, massaging the slick gel over Sophie in firm circular motions.

"I've got you now," she murmured, speaking to the quivering cornered organ pounding between the flat metal pads.

A jolt of electricity surged through Sophie's pale body, causing it to stiffen and arch off the table. Heaving gasps filled her buzzing chest as her heart raced erratically. Terra's dark fingers adjusted the defibrillator, readying another shock.

“Wait! Wait!” Sophie screamed, back bowing as the current seared through her. The frenzied beeping of the heart monitor filled the room as a dull ache and unsteady throbbing replaced the feeling of her pulse.

Terra watched the erratic peaks on the EKG, biting her lip in anticipation. Almost there. Sophie could only take so much, and the precious thing was putting up a fight. More. She needed more. She pushed the machine to the max.

Another shock. Sophie convulsed, jaw clenching, tendons straining in her elegant neck. The erratic beeping grew more frantic, fighting against the inevitable. Sophie’s labored breaths the only steady thing going on in her body. Her pitiful eyes searching for an end.

Then finally one more shock and… success. The rapid beeps merged into one continuous tone as Sophie's tortured heart seized and fell still. Her body went limp as her consciousness slowly faded without a heartbeat. Terra grinned in triumph - she'd pushed Sophie right to the very edge. Now to train on the best canvas money can’t buy, a still heart in need.

Setting aside the defibrillator paddles by the syringes of adrenaline and atropine, Terra began chest compressions, ready to restart Sophie's helpless little heart.

The game was only just beginning. Its ending dictated by Terra’s cruelty or compassion, but one thing was for certain…

Regardless of what won out, Terra’s twisted adoration, her possessiveness over the hapless delicate little creature beneath her would ensure neither outcome lead to freedom or finality any time soon.

#dark cardiophilia #defib #defib on beating heart #resus toy #f/f

46 notes · View notes