#Rust x Zero One

[that-gay-guy-from-hell]

Here have this *slaps this on the table*.

Had some random sketches laying around and felt like doodling some Zero x Rust stuff lmao. The meme redraw was something I had sitting around for a while that I just never finished, so I resketched it and put it on here lmao.

TLT MASTERLIST

[cage-cat-yt]

ZeroRust art trade

Art trade with @itsrllygol1ath on Instagram :3 I actually love how I did the piece

Want to financially support me? Buy me a tea on Ko-Fi :3

[two-tonexiptr]

The living tombstone fanfiction?!!

guess who wrote his first living tombstone work? Ya boi Heres the Ao3 link if you are interested: Click me i will also be cross posting it on Tumblr if you want to stay on site!! Brief summary:

“{ Calmly he addressed Tesla with bare phlanges and began to sign,

‘I appologize for disrupting your work so abruptly, but I fear you and many of the others have been pushing yourselves too hard as of recent times’

…

‘so,’ they continued hands still steady, but with less firmness as they held before ‘I’ve taken it upon myself to ensure that you all are treating yourselves correctly” }

A drummer is supposed to to keep a band together, and Doc intends to do their job to the best of their abilities

And what better way than wrangling all of the tombsonas for a night of coziness and relaxation? -~-

So this will be doc centric but have most of the other members, there will be a lot of disability rep (as i am disabled) but anything that could be a TW (like vivid depictions of overstimulation) will have a warning before it Very fluffy, slight Doc/tesla if you squint but I didn’t mean to have that happen! So interpret it as romantic platonic as you will No beta reader so i will have many mistakes!!

[extinctlesspains]

What about Dae-Ho from squid game 2 and teen!reader? Like teen!reader is here for some abusive reason (maybe to pay her abusive father debts) and Dae-Ho is mostly like a big brother figure to reader? It's like during the game of the carrousel and reader as no one to go to and almost die until Dae-Ho save her. Then after the game, they eat and Dae-Ho ask her why did she join the game at such a young age so reader explain and Dae-Ho became very protective toward reader?

𝐵𝑟𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 [𝐾. 𝐷𝑎𝑒-𝐻𝑜]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛᴇᴅ: ʏᴇs ᴏʀ ɴᴏ

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴋᴀɴɢ ᴅᴀᴇ-ʜᴏ x ᴛᴇᴇɴ ғᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: ғʟᴜғғ, ᴀɴɢsᴛ.

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅʟʏ ɢᴀᴍᴇs, ᴅᴀᴇ-ʜᴏ sᴀᴠᴇs ᴀ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ, ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙʟᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇsᴛᴀɴᴛ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴘᴇʀɪʟᴏᴜs ᴄʜᴀʟʟᴇɴɢᴇ, sᴛᴇᴘᴘɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟsᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ. ᴀs ᴛʜᴇʏ ʙᴏɴᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ sʜᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴍᴇᴀʟs ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ sᴛᴏʀʏ, ʜᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇs ʜᴇʀ ғɪᴇʀᴄᴇʟʏ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ɢᴜᴀʀᴅɪᴀɴ, ᴅᴇᴛᴇʀᴍɪɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ʜᴇʀ sᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴsᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴏᴅᴅs.

ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴs ᴏғ ᴀʙᴜsᴇ, ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴇxᴘᴇʀɪᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇　

The carrousel loomed like a monstrous relic in the center of the arena, its rusted metal creaking as it began to spin. The ominous voice of the announcer echoed through the room, explaining the next pairing number:

"Two."

Panic rippled through the crowd of contestants as they scrambled to find someone to trust—or, at the very least, someone they could tolerate. Amid the chaos, you stood frozen, clutching the fraying edges of your jacket. Your small frame and young age made yoy an oddity among the hardened contestants, and no one seemed eager to approach you.

You took a tentative step forward, your voice trembling as you tried to speak to a nearby man. "Excuse me, can we—"

"Beat it, kid." He pushed past you, locking eyes with someone older and more capable.

Your heart sank, and you glanced around desperately. The crowd was thinning as people paired up, and the rooms began to flood.

"Five seconds remaining," the voice boomed.

Your breathing quickened, your limbs heavy as the realization hit—no one would pick you.

Just as the timer reached zero and the guards grabbed their guns, a hand yanked you back into a room with surprising strength. You stumbled, crashing into someone’s chest. Looking up, you saw a man with sharp features and tired eyes.

Dae-Ho.

“Hang on,” he muttered, gripping your arm as shooting became very loud. He held you steady, shielding you from the chaos around you both.

The survivors stumbled back into the main room, their faces pale and hollowed by exhaustion. The stark white walls felt oppressive, a stark contrast to the blood and marking on their bodies. Dae-Ho released his hold on you but stayed close, his gaze scanning the room as if calculating threats.

“Keep up,” he said curtly, glancing over his shoulder.

You nodded, your legs trembling as you followed him through the corridors. The silence between you was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the fluorescent lights.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He stopped abruptly, turning to face you. His expression was unreadable, but his tone was softer. “Why didn’t you pair up sooner? You almost got yourself killed.”

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. “No one wanted to.”

Dae-Ho’s jaw tightened. He looked like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. Instead, he started walking again.

When you reached the main area, trays of food were waiting—a meager portion of rice, a hard-boiled egg, and a slice of bread. Dae-Ho grabbed his tray and sat at a corner bed, gesturing for you to join him. You hesitated, glancing around the room, but the hard stares of the other contestants made your choice clear.

As you sat on the bed besides from him, he pushed his egg toward you without a word.

“You need it more than I do,” he said, taking a bite of his bread.

Your eyes widened. “I—I can’t take this. You need it too.”

“Don’t argue.” His tone left no room for debate.

You nodded, peeling the egg carefully and taking small bites. The food felt heavy in your stomach, and for a moment, the knot of anxiety loosened.

Dae-Ho leaned back in from his seat, watching you closely. “What are you doing here?”

Your hands froze mid-bite. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a kid. These games… they’re not for someone like you.”

Your throat tightened, and you looked down at your tray. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Everyone says that,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But what’s your reason?”

The words spilled out before you could stop them. “My dad… he’s in debt. A lot of debt. He said it was my fault, that I had to fix it. So, I…” You trailed off, your hands trembling.

Dae-Ho’s expression darkened. “Your father sent you here?”

You nodded, tears threatening to spill over. “He said if I didn’t, the loan sharks would come for me anyway. This was my only chance. He gave me the card and told me to call.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, Dae-Ho reached across the table, placing a hand over yours.

“You shouldn’t have to do this,” he said, his voice firm. “But you’re here now, so you have to survive. No more freezing up, understand?”

You nodded, wiping your eyes. “Okay.”

“And stick with me. No one’s going to mess with you while I’m around.”

From that moment on, Dae-Ho rarely left your side. He became a constant presence, guiding you through the challenges and shielding you from the more ruthless players. He taught you how to read people, how to spot traps, and how to hide your fear.

In a world designed to break you, you found solace in each other.

But the games weren’t over, and Dae-Ho knew that your bond would be tested in ways neither of you could imagine.

[buckysleftbicep]

for better or for worse (6) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, heavy angst, mentions of torture, mentions of injuries, bucky breaking down, flashbacks

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 5.1k

author's note: hi darlings! it's insane how we have reached chapter 6 of this series! i have had the best time writing it 💓, i have so much to be grateful for and the support and love from you guys is one of it 💌 i love you guys, and please stay safe out there!!

series masterlist

You didn’t know how many hours it had been. The light hadn’t changed, just the slow, steady drip of water somewhere behind you and the pulse of your own blood ringing in your ears.

Your head ached, dull, slow, like the aftermath of being slammed too hard into a wall. Which, frankly, wasn’t far from the truth.

Your arm was the worst of it. A jagged gash tore down the outside of your forearm, raw and throbbing, dried blood cracked in thick, rust-colored streaks across your skin. 

Your lip had split too, probably from the backhand that sent you sprawling earlier, and it kept bleeding every time you swallowed. 

Every blink felt like your body was reminding you of something new that hurt, bruised ribs, a stiff shoulder or a swollen ankle from being dragged across the concrete floor.

But it wasn’t the pain that scared you. It was the silence.

No voices, zero footfalls. Just the occasional creak of metal above, the shift of the building settling like a creature breathing heavy in its sleep. It left too much room for your mind to wander. And it wandered exactly where you didn’t want it to.

To him.

It was stupid, really. He wasn’t here. And you couldn’t afford to be sentimental right now, couldn’t afford to lean into memory like it might bring him back. But the quiet made it impossible to stop the flood.

You thought about Madripoor, the alley where the rain had slicked the pavement, mixing with the sharp scent of neon-lit rot and the metallic tang of blood lingering in your mouth. 

Sam’s voice had echoed in the background as you and Bucky locked into another one of those fierce arguments. 

He’d been so damn close that night, angrier than usual, and it rattled you, because beneath the fury, beneath the sarcasm and snarl, there was something else flickering in his eyes.

You closed your eyes for just a second, just long enough to stop seeing the rust-stained floor pressing against your vision. 

And then your mind betrayed you, drifting back to that night—the heavy downpour swallowing sirens whole and leaving the streets slick with oil and neon reflections.

The alley behind the bar smelled of cigarettes, rot, and far too many secrets, the ones that the city-state. And it didn’t help that you were pissed, furious in that sharp, fiery way that didn’t quite reach your voice.

“You didn’t need to show up,” you snapped, voice low but sharp, pacing toward the exit. “I had it handled.”

Bucky’s boots echoed behind you, steady and sure. “You think sitting in a snake pit with three armed super soldiers and no backup counts as ‘handled’?”

You whirled around. “I was buying time. And I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

He didn’t flinch. Just stared with that flat, tight-lipped expression—arms crossed like he was holding himself back from snapping. 

Maybe from strangling you. Or perhaps himself.

“You went in with no weapon, no eyes, no exit plan. That’s a fucking death wish.”

“You don’t get to lecture me on suicidal choices,” you shot back. “You were seconds from throwing yourself off a rooftop last mission.”

“That was different.”

“Why? Because you decided it was?”

Sam finally caught up, muttering as he pulled off his comms. “I swear, if I have to break you two up again—”

“Stay out of it,” you and Bucky said in unison.

Sam threw his hands up. “Fine. Die mad.”

He stalked off, clearly done.

You turned back to Bucky, whose jaw was ticking like a timer.

“Why are you even here?” you asked, bitterness thick in your throat. “You don’t trust me. You don’t even like working with me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” You laughed, dry and bitter. “I see the way you look at me Bucky, like I’m some ticking time bomb, waiting to blow up and ruin your perfect mission.”

His eyes darkened. “I don’t think you’re a time bomb.”

“Then what am I?”

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again, swallowing hard.

You stepped closer, reckless fire rising before you could stop it.

“You hate that I don’t take orders. You hate that I talk back. You hate that I make my own calls. But most of all—” you paused, catching the flicker in his eyes “—I think you hate that you care what happens to me.”

He said nothing. Denied nothing.

Just stood there, rain dripping from his hair, his chest rising slow beneath that worn black jacket.

The silence between you stretched tight—like a wire waiting to snap.

Then, as if the universe needed a release valve, Sam called out from down the alley.

“You’re either about to fuck or kill each other, and either way, I’m not gonna be here when it happens.”

You looked away first.

Back then, you always looked away first.

You shouldn’t be this cold.

The room wasn’t freezing, but your body had long since stopped registering temperature. Hours ago, maybe. Or maybe it was the steady drain of blood, or the dull ache crawling through your bones like a warning. Or perhaps it was what happens when adrenaline finally fades, and fear slips in to claim its place like a shadow that won’t let go.

You pressed your back hard against the cold, unyielding wall, trying to will yourself to breathe. 

One slow breath in. One measured breath out. Again. 

Your arm throbbed with each heartbeat, a relentless pulse of pain and warning. Your throat felt like sandpaper. Your lip cracked every time you moved it, raw and bleeding beneath your teeth.

Still, you bit down.

Just to remind yourself you were still here.

You didn’t cry. You never cried.

But your vision blurred, edges wavering, not just from the pain, but from something darker. Something that seeped into the spaces between your thoughts. You told yourself it was temporary. That it would pass, that someone would come.

That he would come.

And yet, the silence stretched, long and merciless, like a taunt.

You tried not to think about him. You really did. But your mind had other plans, a cruel reflex it had learned to torture you with.

Bucky. The walking contradiction. Callused hands, haunted eyes. The man who never gave you straight answers—god, you hated that—but somehow always had your back in a firefight. The man who fought like he had no intention of surviving, but looked at you like maybe you were the reason he wanted to.

You hated him, sometimes.

Hated the way he made you feel. Hated that even now, bruised, bloodied, tied up like some corpse no one would mourn, you weren’t thinking about escape. 

You were thinking about him. And Madripoor.

And that look in his eyes when you told him you hated that he cared—like you’d cut past the walls he built, like you’d found a part of him he never meant to show.

You were never supposed to let it get this far.

This complicated.

You were soldiers. Operatives. Hell, maybe even tools, some days. You didn’t get to feel. Didn’t get to long for things, or people. 

And if you did, you certainly didn’t get to hold on.

But something in you had always pulled toward him.

The glances that lingered just a second too long. The arguments that dragged on for hours, always burning hotter than they should have. The way your hands brushed once during a stakeout—and how you both froze, like it meant something only the two of you understood.

Maybe it did.

But that night at the club, the one you never let yourself think about—was proof enough you were wrong. That maybe he had wanted you once, but only like a man wants something he can’t afford to keep.

A complication.

That’s all you were.

And complications always get left behind.

You curled your knees up, or tried to, but the chains held you tight. Your wrists ached. Your ankle swelled again. The cold metal bit into your skin like it was reminding you of a cruel truth.

He’s not coming.

You flinched as if someone had spoken the words aloud.

But even through the bitterness, the fear, the half-buried rage—there was a stubborn, foolish part of you that refused to die. 

A quiet voice whispering: He will.

He’d find you, he had to. Because if he didn’t, if this was the end, then all those stolen looks, those late-night talks, every time his voice softened when he said your name… they would mean nothing.

You couldn’t accept that. You wouldn’t.

So you sat there. Bleeding. Shaking. Not knowing how much longer you could hold on. And you whispered into the silence, just once:

“Please.”

Not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

Just enough for your own breaking heart.

The silence had wrapped itself around you like a second skin.

Not a balm, but a fucking shroud, smoke curling in your lungs, seeping into your thoughts, pressing down hard and too close. You barely registered the sound at first. 

The low creak of boots scraping against cold concrete. Heavy and measured, slower than the usual rhythm of the guards. Not lazy, deliberate. Hunting.

You didn’t look up.

Not until the voice came, slicing through the dark like a blade.

“Well, well. Still going strong, sweetheart?”

Your jaw clenched until your teeth ached.

Andrei.

You didn’t need to see his face to feel the cruel smirk twisting every word like a noose tightening around your throat. But you lifted your head anyway, because you wanted him to see you—bruised, bleeding, but unbroken. 

“Don’t call me that,” you rasped, your voice raw and ragged.

He clicked his tongue, stepping closer. 

The overhead light buzzed faintly, catching the glint of the blade at his hip—just decoration now. But a promise all the same.

“Why not?” he mused, voice cold. “Is that what Barnes calls you?”

Your breath hitched, just for a moment, a stutter in your defenses.

But that was all it took.

His eyes sparked, grin widening like he’d just found your pulse under his thumb.

“Oh,” he drawled slowly. “I hit a nerve.”

You said nothing.

“Shut the fuck up,” you ground out, voice low and trembling.

He crouched before you, settling on his haunches with lazy menace, as if time was his to waste. His gaze roamed your battered face, tracing every cut, every bruise, every flinch like a collector admiring his prized possession.

“I knew it,” he whispered, dark and certain. “There’s something going on between you two. Saw the way he looked at you.”

He leaned closer, and your skin crawled.

“Men don’t look at women like that unless they’ve fucked them,” he murmured. “Or they want to.”

“You know nothing,” you spat.

Andrei chuckled low and ugly. “Don’t I?”

He leaned in further, close enough for you to smell the sour rot on his breath—thick with blood and decay.

“I know exactly how men like him fall apart. Silent types. Repressed. Loaded with guilt, nowhere to put it, until you walk in, and suddenly, they’ve got something to hope for. A reason to live.”

You didn’t move.

“I know he’s coming,” Andrei said softly, voice almost cruelly gentle—as if delivering a death sentence. “Right now, he’s probably tearing through half the fucking island to find you. But it won’t matter.”

He tilted his head, smile sharp and dangerous.

“Because by the time he gets here, you’ll be nothing but pieces.”

Your stomach twisted cold.

“I’ll send him your hand,” he said, voice low and hungry. “Maybe your face. Something personal. A reminder. And when he breaks, I want to be there to watch.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. You choked on the horror, on the truth. The part that scared you most was that he was right.

He saw it. He knew.

“That’s the thing about men like him,” Andrei murmured, brushing his knuckles along your cheek, cold as death.

“It’s not the blood that ruins them. It’s the love. One taste and they’re finished. And you?” His fingers trailed down your jaw, slow and deliberate. “You’re the one thing that still feels human to him.”

You flinched. Couldn’t stop it.

He smiled wider, satisfied.

“He’ll fall apart for you. We all do fall apart for someone, eventually.”

Your eyes burned. Salt stung your cracked lips. 

Your hands trembled—was it pain, fury, or pure fear? God, you didn’t know.

“Sit tight, princess,” he said, pushing himself up with a grunt. “We’ve got time. And when you beg, I’ll make sure he hears it.”

He turned away, boots clicking steady and cold as he walked toward the door. You didn’t realise your wrists were shaking until the chain rattled harshly against the floor.

Didn’t notice the tears slipping down your cheeks until they smeared red across your jaw. You pressed your head back against the wall and closed your eyes.

Tried to steady your ragged breath. Tried to forget his words. Tried to forget how terrifyingly close they had landed to the truth.

And somewhere, quiet, a faint crackle sparked beside you.

The room was dark, the only light a cold, steady glow from the mission monitors. The comms had been dead for hours. Static. Nothing but endless white noise choking every channel.

Until suddenly it wasn’t.

A faint crackle flickered through the feed. Then the signal surged, sharp, raw.

And a voice came through.

Not yours. His.

“Well, well. Still going strong, sweetheart?”

The air in the command center snapped taut, like a wire pulled taut.

Yelena’s spine straightened, eyes narrowing. John’s hand froze, gripping his weapon so hard his knuckles blanched.

Then your voice—weak, fractured, barely there.

“Don’t call me that.”

What followed unravelled like a nightmare they couldn’t wake from. Andrei’s voice slithered through the silence, every word soaked in venom. Cruelty dripping like acid, threats laced with dark promises, taunts sharp as knives. 

Your breath hitching in the void. And then that suffocating silence—when you couldn’t speak, couldn’t fight back, couldn’t bear the weight of it all.

The room held its breath.

Not a single soul dared to make a sound.

Until the line cut—sudden, final—like a door slammed shut on hope.

And then—

“Bucky.” Walker’s voice cracked, low and uncertain. “What the hell just—”

“Not now.”

Bucky’s voice sliced through the room like a blade—cold, hard, utterly dangerous. A sound so stripped bare of humanity it sent a chill down every spine.

He didn’t meet their eyes.

His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white as bone.

“I need to find her.”

Time had stopped making sense.

You weren’t sure if it had been minutes or hours or longer. The pain had dulled around the edges, but not in a way that felt like healing, more like your body was giving up on trying to warn you. 

Your arm had gone numb, the gash now sticky and crusted, and your ankle throbbed with a rhythm that made your teeth grind. The cuffs had dug in so deep you were starting to forget where your skin ended and the metal began.

Your head lolled forward, neck too weak to hold it upright. Everything was slow, too slow. You knew your body wanted to sleep, to shut down. You could feel it in the way your thoughts came slower, heavier, like each one had to fight through sludge just to surface.

You didn’t let it. Not yet. Not until you knew whether anyone was coming.

Then—something changed.

It was small at first. A shift in the air, a pressure drop. Then sound. Distant. Muffled. Not like before, not the bored shuffle of guards or the occasional metallic clang of a pipe. A thud.

A yell, fast, panicked, in Russian.

Then chaos broke loose.

Gunfire sounded out.The staccato burst of automatic fire ricocheted off the concrete walls, each shot a heartbeat too close. Screams followed. The sound of boots pounding, frantic shouting. Someone was giving orders and someone else was begging not to die.

Another blast, louder this time. Close enough that the ceiling dust rained down over your shoulders in pale, choking clouds as smoke curled under the door. 

You coughed, blinked against it, tried to focus.

A body slammed into the wall outside with a sickening crunch. The whole frame shook. You barely flinched.

Then silence. Just for a breath.

Two.

BANG.

The door exploded inward. It didn’t open — it shattered, splintering off its hinges, crashing against the wall like it had been blown in by sheer force of rage. The smoke parted.

And then—

A grunt followed. Then the wet crunch of bone, maybe a nose, maybe a rib, before another body hit the floor with a shriek.

Andrei.

He was still conscious when she grabbed him by the hair, dragging him back with a snarl in her throat, screaming curses.

But you didn’t see her. 

You saw him. Bucky.

His silhouette filled the ruined doorway, broad shoulders heaving, blood soaking his knuckles. His eyes found yours instantly, like they’d been looking for nothing else. Something in your chest gave out.

He moved before you could blink. Dropped to his knees beside you with a force that rattled the floor, his breath hitching as he saw the cuffs, the blood, the state of you. His fingers reached out, not shaking, but fast. 

Desperate.

“You came,” you whispered. It was barely a sound. Your throat couldn’t manage more.

He didn’t answer. Not at first.

Just took the chain in his vibranium hand and snapped it in a single twist. Like it offended him. Like it had dared to touch you.

His other hand cupped your cheek. Rough palm, stained in blood, but careful. Too careful.

“I would never leave you,” he said. His voice sounded destroyed. “You hear me?”

You nodded — or tried to. The motion sent fresh pain shooting down your spine, and you winced when his thumb brushed too close to the gash on your arm.

“Shit,” he muttered, pulling back, his expression twisting. “You’re hurt—god, you’re bleeding—”

You pushed yourself upright instinctively, but your legs crumpled beneath you.

He caught you before your body could even register the fall. One strong arm under your knees, the other braced at your back, pulling you in against the solid heat of him. 

You sagged into it. Couldn’t fight it. Didn’t want to.

He held you like you were made of glass and grief.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, his mouth pressed to your temple. “Sweetheart. Please. Just—stay with me, okay?”

His voice cracked on the last word.

Your eyes were already sliding shut. It felt good. Too good.

But you heard him. Somewhere in the thick, dark fog, you heard him.

A voice echoed down the hall you vaguely recognised as Alexei’s.

“Medics coming! Bob sent them, they on their way!”

You heard movement, footsteps, the clatter of gear being thrown open.

But none of it touched you.

Just him.

Just his arms—iron around you, just the sound of his voice, low and unsteady, raw with something that sounded like pleading, vulnerable in a way that didn’t belong to him. 

Bucky didn’t beg. 

Not for anything, not until now.

Andrei didn’t land so much as collapse.

Yelena dragged him by the hair, his boots scuffing uselessly behind him, his mouth leaking blood and broken teeth. He was whimpering now, his face a wreck, nose bent sideways, one eye already sealed shut, his jaw swelling beneath fresh bruises.

She kicked a chair into place with a metallic screech.

Then she shoved him into it, still gripping his hair, the other hand already reaching for her blade.

“Sit,” she said, almost gently. “Or I’ll start with the knees.”

He spat something in broken Russian, garbled, half-conscious.

Yelena crouched beside him, tilting her head like a curious animal.

“You want to speak my language?” she murmured. “Good. Let’s begin.”

John stepped through the busted doorway, sleeves rolled to the elbows, kevlar stained with blood and dust. 

“Well,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Didn’t think you’d save me a seat.”

Yelena didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed locked on the man trembling before her.

“Do you know what they say about us Russians, Andrei?” she asked, voice low and smooth. “We don’t bluff. And we don’t rush.”

She twirled the knife between her fingers. The blade caught the light like a smile.

“We enjoy this part.”

Andrei was shaking now, hands twitching against the arms of the chair.

“Please,” he stammered. “You don’t have to—”

“Don’t have to?” John echoed, tone flat. “You talked about cutting her up. Mailing bits of her like fucking party favours.”

“I didn’t touch her—” Andrei gasped, shrinking back as the blade kissed his cheekbone.

“You talked,” Yelena snapped. “That’s enough.”

“Please—please—I'll give you anything! Names! Locations! Passwords! Just—don’t.”

Yelena stood. 

“You’ll scream a lot more before I believe you.”

The hallway still echoed with the aftermath—the stench of smoke and blood, the groans of men who wouldn’t be getting up again. But Bucky didn’t hear any of it. All his attention was on you, unconscious and limp in his arms, your breathing shallow and fragile, barely there at all. 

Your blood soaked through his shirt, warm and wet and unbearably real in a way that made it impossible for him to let go. He’d seen a hundred bodies in his life, carried them, buried them, mourned them even, but this was different. 

This was you.

“Hey,” he whispered, gently brushing the hair back from your face. “I’ve got you. You’re okay now, alright?” But there was no response. Only the faintest rise and fall of your chest. His heart clenched tighter.

Then, footsteps came, fast and urgent, breaking through the quiet. The medics burst through the broken doorway, gear strapped to their backs, already pulling gloves on in practiced motion. 

Bob had sent them, air-dropped in as soon as the comms had flickered back to life.

“Where is she?” one shouted, spotting the blood staining Bucky’s shirt. Another knelt down hard beside him, voice sharp and commanding: “We need to lay her flat. Sir, you need to let go.”

Bucky didn’t move.

“She’s losing too much,” the medic said, unzipping his pack. “If we don’t start now—”

“I said I’ve got her,” Bucky snapped, but the crack in his voice betrayed how close he was to breaking. “I’ve got her.”

“Sergeant Barnes.” A third medic stepped forward, calmer, firmer, more steady. “We’re here to help her but you need to let us do our job.”

His jaw clenched. He looked down at your face, eyes closed and skin pale, almost translucent in the harsh light. 

He could still feel your heartbeat against his chest, faint, distant, as if it belonged to someone else. Slowly, painfully, he eased you down, as if touching you might shatter something fragile inside him.

He stayed by your side as they worked, one hand still curled protectively around yours. His fingers trembled, but he didn’t let go. “Blood pressure’s dropping,” one medic called. “Tourniquet, now. Apply pressure on that arm.”

“Start an IV line,” another added urgently. “We need fluids in her, fast.”

The voices blurred into static, fading at the edges of his awareness. He couldn’t focus on anything except you. His eyes locked on your face, trying to imprint every detail. And suddenly, memories flooded in, sharp and vivid.

It was late, Madripoor again, somewhere between missions, you had found a rooftop no one else knew about, and he’d followed you there without thinking. 

You were sitting on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge like you weren’t afraid of falling. Like the world couldn’t hurt you unless you let it. 

He hated it. And envied it.

“I ever tell you what scares me?” he asked quietly, voice low and unexpected.

You looked at him, that little tilt of your head full of curiosity. “No.”

He paused, searching for the words. Then said softly, “That Steve was wrong about me.”

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t comfort him, you just looked at him, steady and unflinching.

“Steve was wrong about a lot of things Buck,” you said simply. “But not you.”

That was it, no dramatic pause, no grand gesture. Just that, and it lodged somewhere deep inside him, deeper than he knew what to do with.

Back in the present, one of the medics spoke again, snapping him back. “We’ve stopped the bleeding. She’s stable, for now. But we need to move her.”

The brunette nodded, barely.

He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

Bucky remembered that night.

You had been drinking something awful, street vendor liquor in some unlabelled bottle, still warm from the sticky heat of Madripoor.

He didn’t drink much, his enhanced body processing alcohol faster than most—but you were already halfway through your second when you shoved the bottle into his hand and teased, “You’re brooding again.”

“I don’t brood,” he muttered, taking a casual sip, unfazed by the burn that would have floored most people. You laughed harder.

You were sitting across from him on the rooftop ledge, your boots swinging lazily over the edge, the city flickering like a living thing beneath your feet. The humid air smelled of exhaust and ocean salt, thick and heavy, buzzing softly with neon hums from the streets below. 

You looked at home there, unbothered, untouchable, moonlight casting silver across your skin, lighting the sharp planes of your cheekbones, the slow, easy curl of your smile.

He couldn’t stop watching you. It struck him then, suddenly, how long that had been happening. How his eyes found you in crowded rooms before he realised, how his footsteps began matching yours without thought, how your voice, even when teasing or mocking, cut through the noise in a way no one else’s ever had.

It hadn’t hit him all at once. It crept in. 

A glance that lingered too long. A silence too full. 

The way his chest tightened when someone else touched you, when someone else smiled at you. 

But that night was different. That night was when it finally clicked. When he could no longer deny it.

You asked him a question, one of those late-night things you tossed at him when the city was quiet and you felt like neither of you were more than ghosts sharing space.

“If you hadn’t gone to war,” you said, chin resting in your palm, “what do you think your life would’ve been like?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Before Hydra. Before everything. What would it have been?” you asked softly. “A normal life. What would you have done?”

He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know how. It was like asking a shadow what it would do if it had a body. You didn’t fill the silence. You let it hang. You gave him space to sit with it.

Finally, he said, “I think I would’ve married someone.”

Your brows rose, not in surprise at the thought but maybe at the fact he’d said it at all. 

He swallowed, thickly. “I used to want that, a family. Something quiet, someone who looked at me like I was enough.”

You nodded. “You still want that?”

He hesitated.

“I don’t know if I get to.”

That was the truth, the brutal, naked truth. Deep down, beneath the soldier, beneath the missions, beneath the man who’d learned to live without wanting—he didn’t believe he deserved anything soft.

Then you said it. “You do.”

Two words, soft and certain, no hesitation.

You weren’t trying to comfort him, you weren’t trying to fix anything, you were just telling him something you believed.

He looked at you. 

The shape of you, perched so close. The tilt of your mouth, the stubborn glint in your eyes. You were always so sharp, so reckless, so much—and yet here you were—quietly offering him something no one else ever had.

Not pity. Not forgiveness.

Belief.

And in that moment, something split open in him.

He didn’t say anything. Of course he didn’t, he couldn’t.

But the thought slammed into him like a punch to the ribs.

It’s you. It had always been you.

You were the one who made him believe there was still something good buried beneath all the wreckage, something, someone worth saving, even after everything.

The only person who could see him clearly, scars and sins, silence and violence—and not turn away. You didn’t flinch at the soldier. You didn’t fear the monster everyone ran from. 

And somehow, impossibly, you still saw the man, you saw him. He’d fallen in love with you long before he admitted it to himself.

But that was the moment he knew, and it scared the hell out of him.

Because love wasn’t safe. It wasn’t calculated.

It didn’t fit in mission reports or debriefings or the kind of life that came with blood on your hands and a kill count longer than your memory.

Love meant losing. Risk. Vulnerability.

And yet— When you looked at him that night, just a glance across the rooftop, city lights burning behind you, he thought, If she asked me to run, I’d go.

No hesitation, no questions.

Just go.

But you didn’t ask, you just leaned back on your hands, looked up at the sky, and let the silence stretch again.

Comfortable. Easy.

And he stayed beside you. He always would.

Even now, with blood on your skin and too many wounds to count, even now, he was right here.

Because there was never a world where he wouldn’t be.

Not for you.

Bucky sat there beside you, watching your chest rise and fall under the thin hospital blankets. Each breath came a little steadier than the last, a fragile rhythm in the quiet room. The dim light cast soft shadows across your face, revealing the faintest hint of color returning to your cheeks. 

Despite the stillness, every tiny movement felt like a victory, a quiet reassurance that you were still here, still fighting. He didn’t take his eyes off you, as if letting his gaze linger could somehow keep you tethered to the world.

And quietly, almost without realising it, as if the words slipped out on their own, he whispered it aloud for the first time.

It wasn’t an attempt to draw you back or demand a response. It was something raw, something vulnerable, carried on a breath that felt too fragile to hold inside any longer.

“I love you.”

You didn’t stir.

No flicker of recognition, no small smile to answer him. Just the steady rise and fall of your chest, the shallow rhythm of your breathing. But he stayed anyway. He remained rooted beside you, unwilling to leave or break the fragile connection you and him shared in that moment.

Just in case you heard him.

a/n: i am also proof reading chapter 7 and i am so so excited for you guys to read it! i am kinda sad this series is coming to an end :") and i hope you guys have enjoyed it so far!

taglist: @hughjackmanadict @vxllys @f1padfoot @mortallydistinguishedwolf @midnightvitality @starglory @benbarnesprettygurl @biggestfangirl @lexavalon52 @harrietandcats @cjand10 @loganficsonly @kqliie @kitkatyap @buckyslefttooth @its-in-the-woods @yessebastianstanus @buckysgirl27 @lokisgirlie @furiousprincesskingdom @keira-kaz2y5 @amatiswayland @emilyswortwellen @samanthaw16 @bobscucumber @rrosiitas @alicetesser @morphoportis @polkadot-567 @w-h0re @c3iiaaaaa @mouseratface @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @that-daughter-of-hephaestus

[stargirlygirl]

no, you can't buy my ranch

rancher!sylus x spoiled!city girl!reader

⭑.ᐟ part one: new home

summary: today is the day you move into your dad's ranch house, but there's a problem. who is this silver-haired man touring your property?

contains: swearing, angst, 1.5k words

You never thought it would come to this, but as rolling grassy hills and cattle whir past your tinted car windows, you realise it indeed has.

You’re a city girl. You love the buzz and bustle of the concrete jungle; the fact that there are so many people, no one looks at you. You blend right into this fashion-forward, $8 coffee-drinking, road rage mania. It’s your home.

When your father bought a property in the middle of nowhere a few years ago, you didn’t think much of it. Not until a couple of months ago, when he asked you to pack up and move in there for the next year, so he won’t be taxed on rent collection. You were in utter disbelief and refused straight off the bat. You couldn’t give up your barista-made 57-degree oat milk lattes, let alone your apartment, or your job. And what of your gym membership? Your weekly outings with friends?

But here you are, growing frustrated at your GPS as you try to navigate the few roads of this tiny town.

You’ll be working remotely for as long as you stay here, and daddy-poo bought you an espresso machine in preparation for your move. In your mind, this next year couldn’t go any faster. You can’t wait to be out of here. Sure, the countryside looks nice. But it’s not going to be very nice when you find snakes in your backyard and can’t pop down to the supermarket after work because it closes at 5pm.

And don’t get me started on the small town gossip. Within days, everyone here will be fluent enough in your life story to write a biography about you. What high school you went to, every crush you’ve ever had, how many times you’ve peed in the pool, all of it! They’re going to know, and there’s nothing you can do to stop them from talking about it. You said so to your father when he saw you off.

“This is a bad idea,” you pouted. And he just sighed and waved as you pulled out of the parking lot and hit ‘start route’ to your new hellhole home.

For the third time in the last hour, your GPS has missed a turn and is now redirecting you back to the main road. The busy ice cream parlour workers must be tired of seeing your rust bucket of a car; they’re probably gossiping about this fucking loser who keeps circling. Determined not to go past your turn again, you drive extra slow, take the right lane, and round the corner when clear.

Driving to the end of empty grasslands, you find a small ranch house. Blue-tiled roof, white exterior, chimney, and is that a rocking chair on the porch? The sun is setting, tangerine hues casting the quaint house in a cosy glow. It’s enchanting, even more so as you pull off the dirt road and park on a nearby worn patch where you assume the prior tenants parked.

But there’s just one problem.

On the opposite side of the dirt trail is a black pickup truck. Stepping out of your beat-up tin car, the hinges groaning as you gently shut the door. Staring at the intruding vehicle, you notice the red interior of the truck and various tools stacked up on the tray. Huffing, you head to the passenger’s side and turn your handbag inside-out looking for the house keys. Upon grasping them, you lock your car and stride up your new ‘home’.

Drawing closer, you hear muffled voices from the side of the house. A deep, resonating chuckle accompanies feet crackling on the tall shrubs. You change course, following the sounds of the approaching strangers instead. It only takes a few seconds before silky silver locks glinting in the fading light come into view, followed by narrow crimson eyes. They settle on you instantly, zeroing in and assessing you like a predator does to its prey.

He’s gorgeous. Ahem. Fine. He looks fine.

Angular features, rippling muscles beneath his button-up, broad shoulders and the sluttiest little waist (that black vest understood the assignment). You’re practically ogling him with how your lips are parted, a bit of spit forming at the corner of your mouth while your eyes rake up and down his every line and curve.

Sylus’s dark boots squish every insect and hint of vegetation in their path until he stops a few feet away from you. His shadow looms over you, making you feel small and weak. His eyes have you glued in place, rendering you speechless and flushed as you wish you could run to your car and book it back to the city. So what if it’s another six-hour drive? Who cares? You certainly don’t if it means escaping the hunk of man in front of you.

Feebly, you murmur, “Who’re you?” The way it comes out, you sound like an abandoned kitten drenched by an unrelenting storm. He smirks; it sends chills rolling up your spine.

“I could say the same about you, kitten,” he confidently drawls.

Your eyes widen as you stutter, “W-what? What did you just call me?”

The man by his side, whom you haven’t even spared a glance at, interjects, “Miss, this is private property. If you don’t identify yourself, then you could be charged with trespassing.”

“Trespassing?!” You echo, a hint of panic in your tone.

Crossing your arms beneath your chest, you scold him, “If anyone’s trespassing, it’s you two.” Your gaze flickers to the silver-haired man, his sharp eyes still fixated on you; they observe every breath you take, the darkness beneath your eyes, and how you shift uncomfortably on your feet like you’ve been driving for hours.

You continue, irritated, “My father owns this property. Who’re you to come here and accuse me of—”

“Oh,” Sylus interrupts, his voice rich like dark velvet.

“So, you’re Miss L/n, then?” He continues with a raised brow and a mocking grin on his perfect face. Oh, how you wanna punch it off! You nod, a little knot in your brow, which he finds amusing.

The silver-haired man introduces himself, “I was hoping to make your acquaintance sooner or later. I am Sylus, and I’d like to purchase your ranch.”

Your jaw slackens as you stare at him, sputtering, “Y-you what?”

“Mr Qin is a successful ranch owner and businessman. You have quite a nice block of land, Miss L/n. I was showing him around the property in preparation for a sale, once your father gives the word, of course,” the other man explains. You notice that he’s in a suit and holding several papers. Must be the real estate agent, you think.

You scoff, “Who… who do you think you are, you prick?” Pointing at Sylus, you scowl, “You have no right to be inspecting my land and you—” Your fury switches to the real estate agent, “are out of your fucking mind! Showing potential clients around here? Are you so desperate for commission? Get the fuck out of here or I’m calling the police.”

Delving into your back jean pocket, you retrieve your phone and open the dial pad.

Sylus’s charming chuckle unnerves you, “There’s no need to do that, sweetie. The tour is finished anyway.” Glancing up from your screen, you step back reflexively as he steps forward.

He holds out a red card between his long fingers, smirking, “My business card for when you’re ready to negotiate price.” You snatch it from him, glaring at him the entire time. And you don’t stop until you can make out his tall figure (bakery in full view btw) amongst the sunset backdrop, climbing into his truck and driving away in a flurry of dust and mystery.

Locking your phone, you slide it into your pocket and flip over Sylus’s business card. Address, email, phone number, all detailed in silver embossed lettering on a smooth background. But not as smooth as his voice. What?

Shaking those thoughts out of your head, you trudge back to your car and flip open the boot. It’s a long night, pulling out the few boxes you could fit, carrying them up the porch steps and eventually dumping them in the warm living room. Luckily, everything’s mostly furnished. It’s just your homely touch that needs to be added.

You unpack the ‘essentials’ box: toiletries, fry pan and toaster, and phone charger. Shortly afterwards, you collapse into bed, a certain silver-tongued fox on your mind. His shrewd gaze haunts your dreams, as do the defined contours of his body, evident in the afternoon light.

Oh, what it would be like to feel such muscles beneath your palm, to have his eyes on you for eternity. Such dreams are forbidden, yet you cannot stop the wandering mind from doing just that in the early hours of the morn.

masterlist

[fortunxa]

Blue hair, blue eyes, blue lights

Jinx x fem!reader / modern AU

summary: The chances of a blue-haired girl being chased by the cops and hopping in my car, simply yelling “Drive!” are low, but never zero.

author’s note: It’s my first time publishing a Jinx one-shot of mine, I hope you enjoy! This is a relatively new blog, so if anyone wants to become mutuals I’m definitely open to the idea! :)

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Fourteen days.

A mere two weeks stand between me and move-in day for my freshman year of college. In other words, summer break is slowly coming to an end, and I’ve done fuck all to make it memorable.

I can feel life passing me by as I watch like a bystander. Usually, the clock is my enemy—a constant reminder of my youth running out, and, shit, I’m too young to feel that way. This time, it serves as a way to free me from the shackles of the evening shift as a front desk worker at our local gym.

The clock strikes midnight, and, like a modern-day Cinderella, I jump up from my seat and make a beeline for the exit, hurriedly clocking out. I simultaneously greet and say goodbye to the night shift going in, already halfway through the small yet relatively empty parking lot. The smell of sweaty ‘gym bros’ is long forgotten as the breeze engulfs me, my dirty sneakers thudding on the concrete. The rust on my beat-up jeep shines in the moonlight as I approach—so seductive, I snicker to myself. I toss my duffel bag in the trunk, hop behind the wheel, and start the engine. I take this moment to commence my connect-phone-to-car-or-die-trying mission and thank the universe for its successful outcome. I browse a bit through the plethora of playlists before settling on the usual one, the sound of Arctic Monkeys filling the space as I leave the parking lot.

I don’t want to go home—not yet, at least—so I settle for a late-night drive. The cookie-cutter, upper-class houses pass me by as I mindlessly cruise through the clean streets—a stark contrast to my neighborhood, where you either learn to stick up for yourself or go home crying to your mama. A place where there is more sewage sludge than trees. A place where I grew up and one I learned to love.

In the midst of it all, I don’t notice the particularly nasty bump on the road that makes my song abruptly cut off. I take a right, pulling over in an alley with an annoyed groan as I resort to phase two, also known as connect-phone-back-to-car-before-I-impulsively-crash, of my initial mission. As I fiddle with the settings, showing my inner cheek no mercy as my teeth dig into their feast, a hissing and spritzing sound comes through my open window.

I think I’m imagining things at first, that post-shift fatigue surely getting the best of me, but I spot the source of the sound rather quickly: a figure, hidden almost out of sight between the fancy houses, switching between various colors of spray paint as she defaces the picture-perfect facade with her graffiti. The sheer speed of her actions makes it look like she’s juggling.

How do I know it’s a girl? Well, although she is wearing a hat to shield her face from any surveillance cameras, a neck warmer up to her nose, and a black, oversized tracksuit already covered in pink paint splotches, her disguise was blown the moment she decided to leave her blue, ankle-length, twin braids out. I twist my neck and reach over the dashboard to try and get a better look at her work. I can barely make out the shape of a green monkey’s face before moving on to the next element. ‘Get ji-’

My reading is interrupted by the sound of sirens piercing the air and blue lights illuminating the area. Instinctively, I turn my headlights off and duck, watching the girl as she hastily packs the cans into her backpack. I swear I can see her eyes twinkle with excitement as she takes one last glance at her—presumably—finished artwork and takes off running through the gardens. Her faint giggle reaches my ears, and a bewildered smile graces my features. I wanted fun, and now it’s right in front of me. I definitely couldn’t get a clearer sign than this.

I observe as one of the cops chases after her as the other drives away, seemingly trying to cut her off. Lightbulb moment. I put the car into gear and waste no time following them from the comfort of the dark alleys, reaching the mysterious girl first through the shortcuts. I catch her contemplating her next move and, without hesitation, quickly flash my high beams at her twice. This seems to grab her attention, and I signal for her to get in with a simple nod, tapping the car door as confirmation.

To my surprise, she actually runs over and hops in the backseat, her back lying flat as she takes a swift peek through the window, and holy shit, I didn’t think that she actually would.

“Drive!” she yells through her panting, and I do. I feel my heart beating wildly against my ribcage as the blue lights appear once again in my rearview mirror. Don’t fuck this up, I think before taking a sharp left. I hear her elated squeals as I visualize the district’s roads and plan the perfect getaway.

Right.

Right, once again.

Left.

Straight down the street.

Sharp right.

I can hear the sirens getting closer as I speed through the familiar routes. It doesn’t matter that I know this area like the back of my hand; the cops probably do, too. There is only one thing left to try, and, albeit risky, it should work. They hadn’t spotted my car yet, and we were quickly approaching a busy intersection—the perfect distraction.

The tires squeak as I harshly pull into an empty driveway, turning the engine off in hopes of blending in.

“What the hell are you doing?!” the blue-haired girl grumbles with brooding eyes. I don’t reply. Instead, I shush her as I grab her waist and roll her off the seat, pushing her into the legroom before ducking underneath the steering wheel. We fall silent, holding our breaths in as the police car passes us by. I watch as they get lost in the dense traffic, a sigh of relief escaping me as I throw my head back. I climb into my seat again and take a peek at the tagger in the back, confusion crossing my features as I watch her stuff her face with candy. My candy. “Hefty stash you got back there.” Her mouth twists at the sour taste of a Warhead she picked. She seems completely unfazed by this whole situation.

I notice that she had discarded her hat and neck warmer and take the opportunity to get a better look at her: blue eyes matching her hair, light freckles splattered across her straight nose and rosy cheeks, pouty lips, her dark and expressive brows… She truly is breathtaking. I feel a blush creep up my face as she climbs over the console, wiggling her way into the passenger seat. She takes her hoodie off, revealing her black tank top, and fuck me, she has tattoos.

She faces me with a curious look herself, seemingly analyzing me too. Her gaze is difficult to decipher as her eyes trail over my figure, and I stiffen. She shoots me a knowing smile before throwing her hands around my neck and placing a kiss on my cheek. “You’re a lifesaver, toots,” she muses into my ear. The pleasant smell of paint and bubble gum hits my nose making me lick my lips. “Name’s Jinx, by the way. Stands for Jinx,” she cackles to herself, drawing her lower lip between her teeth awaiting my introduction.

I blink a couple of times, realizing how silent I’ve been throughout this whole ordeal. I can get awkward, sure, but I’m not timid, so I muster up the courage and consciously relax, trying to project a nonchalant attitude. “I’m Y/N.” I shoot her a smile of my own.

“Y/N. Hmm…” Jinx gives an approving hum as she repeats after me, my name rolling off her tongue like honey. “What made you help little ol’ me?” New observation: she’s a teaser.

“I need some excitement in my life,” I answer truthfully and she perks up with a spark in her eyes.

“Toots, you’ve just made friends with the perfect candidate to help you with that.” Her giddy attitude returns as she beams at me.

“We’re friends, huh?” I tease at her choice of words, my eyebrows raised in a cocky manner.

“Sure we are! I feel like running from the cops together is the perfect bonding experience, don’t ya?” She gives me a once-over before her mouth curves into a smirk. “Unless you want to be more than friends. That could work, too.” She winks. Her straightforwardness should make me turn crimson, but instead, it makes my confidence grow. I give a low chuckle as I shake my head in disbelief.

“Tell you what,” I begin, starting the engine and trying to connect my phone back to the car for the third time already, “let me get you home safely, and we’ll see what tomorrow brings to our friendship. Deal?” I extend my hand toward her, and she ponders my proposition. I can practically see the cogs turning in her head, her facial expressions jumping from sour to doubtful, as if she were battling her thoughts before settling on a satisfied grin.

Her soft hand reaches mine in a princess handshake, and I try not to look at her manicured nails for too long. “Deal.” The blue-haired girl snatches the phone out of my hands, adding her number to my contact list and sending a quick text to herself. Just when I think she’s giving it back, she picks a song, and I hear Arabella playing through the speakers. How fitting.

As I leave the stranger’s driveway, I sense her shuffling in the passenger seat, throwing her legs out the window. She puts her head on my lap freely, toying with the colorful charms on my keychain. In the spur of the moment, I gingerly brush her bangs behind her ear, revealing her side profile. Her gaze catches mine, and I see her eyes soften before I turn mine on the road again.

Jinx tells me her address, and I realize how close to me she lives—the perfect circumstances. I feel her lightly bobbing her head to the music as her left cheek strokes my thigh, her fingers tracing mine as they sit on the gear stick. Her demeanor feels different from the badass tagger who willingly hopped in a stranger’s car. She looks peaceful and content now.

My shoulders slump in disappointment as I park outside her house. She clicks her tongue and lazily lifts her head from the comfort of my lap. She looks around the empty streets of her neighborhood and hums, her curious eyes now shifting to mine. As we take each other in, I can’t help but gravitate toward her—her presence feels almost intoxicating, and I don’t want to part ways just yet. To my surprise, she copies my actions. She’s so close I can feel her minty breath mingle with mine. Instinctively, my gaze drops to her lips as she tentatively licks them. I let out a faint sigh, and she slowly closes the distance. I can hear my heartbeat as I wait for our lips to meet.

But they never do. “I don’t kiss on a first date,” she murmurs in my ear, and my face flushes. Jinx pulls away as she flashes me a toothy grin, and before I can even react, she’s already skipping to her front door, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. Wha-? When did she grab her stuff? I stare in disbelief as she turns around, her braids flailing behind her. “Let’s see what tomorrow brings,” she teases and blows me a kiss before disappearing into the dark hallway of her home.

Fourteen days.

Give me two weeks to make her mine.

╰┈➤ sequel – ‘Fourteen days’

[woradat]

just wonder.. will you write for rodimus? 🥺 I mean, that jump-to-your-soul pic of him have to mean something right??

also do you take any req?

Done with your ex

SUMMARY – just an ego through the roof captain and his ex on the same ship, long trip together

PAIRING – rodimus x reader

NOTE – you take a hint huh. What are you, a government spy? I'm already working on him for a while now. And yes, I do a requests. You can see the rules/details in the pinned post. I just added+edit about few day ago

The loading ramp of the Lost Light hissed open like the universe itself was trying to be dramatic

Rodimus barely glanced up. He was in the middle of arguing with Swerve about whether installing retractable flame decals on the hull would count as 'atmospheric augmentation" or just "unnecessary and definitely going to kill us"

Then he saw movement out of the corner of his optic—and everything in his CPU short-circuited

There you were

Striding up the ramp like you owned it. Like you hadn’t ghosted out of his life with nothing but a pointed sentence and that half-smile that always meant checkmate. Like you hadn’t once told him—flatly, and with clinical precision—that loving him felt like "trying to put a fire out with gasoline"

And dammit if you didn’t look exactly the same. Polished. Poised. Primed for war and polite company. Elegant as ever. Calm as a sunset before a Category Five energon storm

You weren’t flash, never were—but you had that aura. That smooth, coiled presence like a vibroblade sheathed in silk. Oh the look—that faint, unreadable smile like you knew something he didn’t and were gracious enough to let him flounder in ignorance. That same neutral expression you used when pretending not to judge the tactical decisions of people clearly beneath your IQ range. That same stride that said “I’ve already calculated the probability of this going sideways and I brought snacks"

Rodimus froze, his spark dropped so hard it might’ve left a dent in his internals ‘No. Nope. Absolutely not!’

It couldn’t be you

Except, of course, it was. Because the universe loved poetic suffering and apparently it was his turn to monologue through one. He stared. You stared back. Unbothered. Professional. Radiating the exact same emotional energy as someone walking past their ex at a high-society gala—with better posture and zero regrets

Rodimus blinked so hard his optic lens recalibrates “What— what are you doing here?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just turned to him with a look that was one part serene and two parts smug, tilted your helm slightly. That little angle that always meant “I heard that. I’m just choosing violence later” Your voice, when it came, was like silk over sharpened steel

“Captain. How lovely to see you again”

“You’ve got to be—this is—no. Nope. Absolutely not”

Ultra Magnus appeared like a summoned ghost behind you, arms crossed, expression stiffer than a rusted gear “As I explained in my three prior reports, they’ve been appointed to the crew as strategic analyst”

Rodimus blinked "Three reports?"

“High-level pattern recognition. Crisis forecasting, multi-factional battle simulations, inter-faction negotiation” Magnus went on, tone flatter than the C.I.C. floor “They’ve been correct approximately 91.3% of the time. Statistically, that qualifies them as one of the best. They will be a valuable addition”

You gave a modest nod. Like someone who totally didn’t memorize those numbers already “Besides” you added smoothly

“I’m here for work. Nothing more. You can unclench now, Captain”

Rodimus looked like someone had just served him a steaming mug of his own poor life choices “Right. Work. Of course. Just work. Nothing else weird about this at all. Nope. Totally chill"

You stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that your electromagnetic field skimmed his. Cool, clean, unreadable. Like an encrypted data packet wrapped in charm and sarcasm

“You always did have trouble being chill” you murmured “Still trying to solve everything by flying straight into it?”

“But don’t worry, captain. I’m not here to relive the past”

Rodimus sputtered. Behind him, Swerve audibly choked on a laugh “Oh, Primus, it is the ex. The one who called him ‘reckless with delusions of grandeur' I thought that was a metaphor”

You didn’t dignify that with a response. Just tilted your helm, optics flicked to him—neutral. But your smirk said “I win”

And with that, you turned and start walking down the hall—measured, composed, calculating—like a battlefield was unfolding beneath your pedes and you’d already chosen where all the pieces would fall – Rodimus stared after you like he’d just watched his worst mistake reappear in haute couture and get a standing ovation, as if to twist the energon dagger in his spark just a little further, you said—without turning back

“And for the record… I liked you better before you started trying to be respectable

Rodimus stood frozen, expression somewhere between awe, horror, and very mild arousal

“This is fine” he said out loud “This is great.. This is the best worst day I’ve ever had”

“Wanna talk about it?” Swerve offered

“Wanna be spaced through an airlock?”

“You’ve been out here for twenty minutes” Drift said, suddenly beside him. Rodimus jumped like he’d been caught digging through a black ops file “I’m not spying..!” “Sure” Drift glanced pointedly at the window “Just… monitoring morale with your face pressed against the glass?” Rodimus shoved a blank datapad into his hands "I’m checking their reassignment logs! That’s normal. Curiosity is normal” "You could just ask” “I can’t just ask! What if they think I still care?” “Rodimus, you’re literally stalking them through a wall" Rodimus made a noise somewhere between static and a dying turbo-ratchet “Okay, fine. Then you ask”

“Me?” “Yeah. You’ve got that wise monk aura. People think your invasive questions are… philosophical" Drift gave him a look so dry it might’ve been illegal in five star systems “If they throw something at me” he said, turning to leave “I’m blaming you”

Rodimus was not asking

He was simply conducting a targeted data acquisition exercise. Command-level intel. Tactical morale assessment. Strategic background audit on one of his newest officers. Perfectly normal captain things. Not weird. Not personal. Absolutely not fueled by the gnawing ache of unresolved emotional abandonment

“So” he began, too casually, sidling up to the corner of Swerve’s bar where Drift was trying to enjoy a moment of monk-like silence and absolutely not entertain any of Rodimus’s mid-spark crises “hypothetically—if someone used to date someone, and that someone got assigned to their ship without, say, any warning whatsoever, that would be… strange, right?”

“Strange. Uncomfortable. Emotionally volatile” Drift didn’t even look up from his cup “So yes. Very you”

Rodimus scoffed. Loudly. Overcompensating “This isn’t about me”

“Of course not” Drift said blandly “We’re speaking in totally neutral hypotheticals about your insanely sharp, tactically brilliant, emotionally impenetrable ex who now occupies a front-row seat in every strategy meeting like an elegantly silent death sentence”

Rodimus’s scowl could have curdled energon “They’re not that elegant”

“They once ended a meeting by folding a datachip in half. With one hand. While smiling”

Rodimus muttered something under his breath about “intimidation tactics” and “showoffs”. Drift, clearly bored of the deflection game, pulled up a datapad with a flick of the wrist—graceful, like a librarian about to ruin your life “Alright. Let’s see what your not at all relevant ex has been up to post-breakup…”

Rodimus leaned in. But not like he cared. More like he was... intellectually engaged. Professionally intrigued. Possibly a little nauseous

“They worked under Prowl"

“PROWL?! You mean—rules incarnate? Mister ‘Let’s Commit War Crimes But Quietly’ !?”

“The one and only” Drift confirmed smoothly “High-level strategy corps. Joint command ops. Dozens of successful missions. Commendations for tactical elegance, command precision—”

“Okay, okay, you can stop reading their résumé, this isn’t a talent show” Rodimus began to pace, movements sharp and erratic like a hovercraft trying to salsa “They worked with me and said I was reckless, but then they go partner up with Prowl? That sentient flowchart? Seriously?”

Drift was already sipping again “Maybe they like the quiet, measured type now. The kind who doesn’t detonate their own escape pod just to spell ‘hello’ in midair”

“That happened one time”

“And it was somehow still in the mission report”

Rodimus groaned into his hands. He imagined you and Prowl standing next to each other, talking shop, making flawless tactical adjustments while not even blinking at each other — It was horrible. It was clinical. It was worse than anything he could’ve imagined

“What else?” he asked, in the voice of someone about to regret every answer

Drift’s optics flicked “They turned down a permanent command position. Said they wanted a ‘change of pace' ”

“—So… they chose this ship. My ship”

“Seems that way”

“Knowing I was the captain”

“Still seems that way”

Rodimus blinked. Then frowned. Then blinked again, slower. Like it would change the data “So what you’re telling me is: either they’ve secretly forgiven me and came to rekindle the flame—”

“Highly unlikely”

“—or they came here to watch me fail up close, with popcorn in hand and a tactical spreadsheet”

“That one sounds more plausible”

Rodimus placed both hands dramatically on the bartop and huffed. Dramatically. Theatrically. The only way he could before he declared, straightening up “I’m fine.. I’m a professional. This is my ship. I am not threatened by my ex working with a glorified calculator"

...

..

“…Do you think they ever kissed?”

“Please go to therapy”

—

The outpost was still burning behind you

Fires licked at twisted steel frames and shattered windowpanes, the heat rippling off slagged ground like a second atmosphere. The smoke stung your optics, even with the filters on, but you didn’t blink. Hot Rod stood a few paces away, armor scorched and mouth set in that stubborn line that always came right before he said something reckless. You didn’t give him the chance

“What were you thinking?” Your voice was level. Too level. The kind of calm that meant someone was furious. Hot Rod flinched. Not visibly—but you knew the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the flicker in his EM field when he was caught “I saved them”

He said “I had to”

“You disobeyed a coordinated strategy, blew through our cover, and almost got yourself killed—again”

He looked at you now. Really looked. Heat still clung to him like a second skin, optics burning, frame vibrating with leftover adrenaline. And somewhere underneath all that fire was a flicker of… confusion. As if he still didn’t understand why you weren’t proud of him

“But it worked”

“That’s not the point”

You turned to face him fully, field tightening, anger settling into your shoulders like weight “You’re not a one-mech army, Hot Rod. You’re not invincible. You can’t keep throwing yourself into every explosion and expecting everyone else to clean up after you”

He stepped forward, hands half-raised “I did it to protect other”

“No. You did it because you wanted to be seen protecting other”

There it was. The silence after a sharp cut. His optics widened, and for a moment you saw it, that bare, wounded flicker of a spark hit too close to the truth. But he covered it with bravado—because that’s what he did. That’s what he always did “So that’s it? You think I’m just some attention seeking show off?”

“I think you’re brave. I think you’re passionate. I think you’ll make a great hero one day–”

“..But I also think you’ll never learn how to lead, if you can’t learn how to listen” That hit deeper than the last shot he’d taken in the field

He turned away, jaw locked, fists clenched “So what, then?” he said, voice tight

“You’re walking away? Just like that?”

You hesitated—but only for a moment “I don’t want to. But I can’t spend my life patching up the aftermath of every decision you make on impulse –You always dive first and ask questions later. And I.. I want to build something that lasts. Not chase something that burns” you admitted softly

The silence between you was long and cruel —without another word—you stepped back. Hot Rod didn’t stop you. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what hurt the most

After the breakup with Hot Rod, you took a high-ranking strategic position under Prowl—not romantically, but deeply professionally and intellectually tense

Prowl respected your mindset but hated your moral flexibility and tendency to “go rogue if the math is prettier that way” You – in turn, found Prowl’s rigid morality fascinating and enjoyed poking holes in his logic — Their relationship was legendary among staff—half strategy meetings, half philosophy battles. You both made an unstoppable duo on paper. But behind closed doors?

“That is not regulation protocol”

“Neither is surviving half the war. I’ll take my odds”

Eventually, you left when the war ended, saying something like: “If I stay any longer, I’ll either become you or throw you out an airlock. Neither’s ideal”

The medbay lights flickered once before steadying again. Outside, the sky over the outpost glowed red with the aftermath of an explosion. You stood at the outside, arms crossed, helm tilted just enough to convey “I’m not mad, but I’m seconds away from strangling you with my own field”

The door hissed open with a battered flair, and there he was—Hot Rod in all his half-scorched, grinning, chaos-stained glory. One arm was covered in carbon scoring. His left shoulder was leaking a thin trickle of energon. There was what looked like a thruster casing lodged in his hip plate

And he was still smiling. Of course he was

“You should’ve seen it” Hot Rod said, voice bouncing with adrenaline “I looped around the ridge, came in low—boom! Took out the flank in one go. Didn’t even need backup”

You didn’t look up from your datapad “You told me you’d follow the plan”

“Technically, I did. For the first ten seconds”

“And after that?”

“...It got boring?”

You set the datapad down. Slowly

Hot Rod’s grin twitched “It worked, didn’t it?” he said, stepping closer “Mission success. I’m standing. The ridge is rubble. Everyone’s cheering”

“You nearly didn’t come back”

You stared at him—really stared. All that molten gold, still burning in his optics. His armor still warm from the blast. That stupid, crooked grin he wore like a shield

“You know I hate improvising. Not because it’s reckless. But because it’s you. You gamble like your life isn’t worth anything”

“Hey, come on—”

“Rod”

That landed. His grin faltered for real now

“I’m serious. Every time you run off-script, it’s like you’re testing fate. And I’m the one stuck writing the damage report” You stepped closer, thumb brushing a burn mark near his jaw. The scorch made your spark ache a little. He leaned into your touch without thinking. Like a reflex. Like your hand on his face was the only real thing in the place

“One of these days” you murmured “you’ll pull that stunt and I won’t be there to drag your aft out”

“That’s not true” he said softly

“No?”

“You’d come back for me. Always”

You wanted to argue. But you couldn’t. Not really. Because even now—even furious, even worn out—you were here. And when he leaned forward to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth his head dipped low down to your jaw, kissing soft like apology, you let him. His hands found your waist. Familiar. Easy. A rhythm you both still remembered

“You love it when I push my luck” he said into your helm

“I love you, Roddy. That doesn’t mean I love watching you destroy yourself”

That hit harder than a mine to the chest. He didn’t pull away. Just held you tighter. You sighed, pressing your faceplate against his shoulder. He still smelled faintly like ozone and energon. Still radiated that wild, sun-hot energy that made you both love and fear him

“Next time” you said into the space between you “you disobey a field order, I’m duct-taping you to Ultra Magnus”

“...Kinky”

You laughed. Just a little. Couldn’t help it “Don’t make me regret loving you”

There was a long silence. No snappy comeback. No flirt. Just a stillness that made your spark ache. His arms tightened around you and for one fleeting, fragile moment—you let yourself believe this would last

—

You are alone in the quiet of the hallway. Staring at the window, the stars wheeling slowly past beyond the glass. It wasn't dramatic solitude—you weren't hiding. Just… decompressing. That was all. Your optics drifted to your own reflection—faint, transparent, caught in the black

And for some damn reason, his voice echoed there instead

“You'd come back for me. Always"

Primus

You let your head fall back with a soft thunk against the reinforced wall. He wasn't wrong

You had come back. Not for him—never that, never openly. But… well. You hadn't exactly gone out of your way to avoid the Lost Light, either. And when Magnus had offered the post? You could've said no. You didn't and now here you were. Sharing meetings. Sharing air. Sharing old ghosts

Your fingers tapped against your datapad in a slow, guilty rhythm

“Stupid charming idiot with fire in his optics and no sense of self-preservation” you muttered under your breath. You knew that smile he gave you in the last meeting. Knew it like a habit you never quite kicked and the worst part? That stupid little ember in your spark still glowed when he looked your way

“Okay. Fine. He was right” You let out a small, strangled sound through your vents

Not quite a groan. Not quite a sigh. Just the noise of someone on the edge of "Why am I like this?" and "I could still jump out the airlock and make it look like strategy” You pressed your head lightly against the cool surface of the wall. Just for a second. Just enough to feel the metal and imagine it was hitting you back. No matter how reckless he was. No matter how much he grinned like the universe owed him forgiveness. No matter how much it still ached when you looked at him and remembered the way things used to be. You stood upright again with a snap of your shoulders and a squint of righteous self-annoyance

“Next time if he opens that mouth" you mumbled “I’m going to verbally gut him. Real clean. Sharp. Professional. Something with bite, doubling the sarcasm. Go for the ego. Aim for the fins. That’ll shut him up" You narrowed your optics at your reflection—your own face looking smug in the glass “He gets one more pass. After that, I’m escalating. He’s going to wish I never came back”

“Stars, I hope he does that thing with his optics again though…” and maybe—maybe—if you kept throwing enough barbs, you could stop remembering how it felt when he held you like that and made you believe the fire wouldn’t burn

You buried your face in your hand

“..I need therapy"

[iheartmira]

Can you doo boothill x reader

Where he was after the reader for they hade a really big bounty on them but right when he was about to get them they escaped?

"the bounty and the bullet" - boothill x reader

✧ ✧ ✧

the bounty on your head was enough to make even the laziest bounty hunters salivate. enough zeroes to make a man reckless, desperate. you’d lost count of how many wannabe gunslingers, corporate dogs, and dead-eyed mercenaries had come sniffing after you, thinking they’d be the one to bring in the ghost of the stars.

but boothill? he was different. he wasn’t just after the payday. he was after you.

you’d been dodging him for weeks, barely slipping through the cracks each time he came close. the bastard had an uncanny knack for knowing where you’d be, showing up just late enough to make your pulse spike but early enough to leave you no time to breathe. and this time? this time, he was closer than ever.

the old freight station was supposed to be abandoned, a place for you to lay low while the heat cooled. the air was thick with dust, rust clinging to the walls like barnacles on a dead ship. you could hear the distant hum of power lines still faintly alive, the only sign this place hadn’t been swallowed whole by time.

then came the sound you dreaded most: the jingle of spurs. slow. unhurried. a gunslinger who knew there was nowhere left to run.

"well, well," boothill drawled, his voice cutting through the silence like the edge of a well-honed blade. "ain't this a sight. finally got you penned in, darlin'."

you exhaled, already scanning for exits. the rafters were too high, the main door blocked by his imposing figure. that left the side panel... a slim chance, but better than none.

"you've been a darn headache to chase," boothill continued, stepping closer.

the dim light caught the sharp gleam of his teeth as he grinned. "ten billion credits worth o' trouble, and i gotta say, you sure wear it well."

"you here for the money?" you asked, keeping your tone level, casual. the kind of voice that had slipped through countless traps before.

"nah." he tilted his head, eyes glinting like a reticle settling on a target.

"a legend's only worth somethin' if someone's around to tell it, ain't it? hate to see yours get cut short."

a chill ran down your spine. boothill wasn’t like the others, wasn’t some ipc hound looking for a fat paycheck. he was enjoying this. the chase, the thrill, the knowledge that every second he got closer, your story became part of his.

too bad for him. you weren’t about to let yourself become a footnote in someone else’s tale.

the second his boots scuffed against the floor, you moved. a sharp feint to the right, making it look like you'd try to bolt past him. his hand twitched toward his gun, ready to pin you down...

and that’s when you really ran.

a burst of motion, straight for the side panel. you hit the latch with your shoulder, felt the metal groan before it gave way. the air outside was sharp and cold, the drop steep, but hesitation was a death sentence. you leaped without looking back.

boothill’s curse echoed behind you, followed by the unmistakable sound of a gun firing. not at you, but at the door frame, sparks flying where he’d aimed just a breath too slow.

you hit the ground in a roll, feet finding purchase on the loose gravel. the engine of your stolen speeder was already humming nearby, primed and waiting. you scrambled onto it, twisting the throttle hard just as boothill stepped into the open, his silhouette framed against the flickering station lights.

for a second, just a second, you met his gaze. that shark-toothed grin was still in place, but his eyes told a different story.

you’d won this round.

but you both knew this wasn’t over.

boothill raised two fingers to his hat, tipping it in a lazy salute. "run fast, sugar," he called over the roar of your engine. "next time, i ain’t missin'."

you smirked, wind whipping past your face as you tore into the dark.

next time? maybe.

but if he wanted to catch you, he’d have to earn it.

✧ ✧ ✧

‹𝟹 ‎ ⠀⠀ˑ˚₊ ·⠀interested in requesting? check out my pinned!

© 2025, iheartmira

[jaggedamethyst]

trying...

pairing: bucky x reader (non gender specified)

content: bucky is dealing with trauma as a result of his time as the winter soldier, you accidentally get caught in the crossfire. (references to physical harm, mentions of violence, inferred ptsd symptoms and trauma, etc). also slight stucky if you squint bc i know theres fans out there.

notes: ive thought about trying to put this into words for so long, i hope it translates well. i may do a part two if the people want it. pls read the content warning above and steer away if this may trigger you.

word count: 1.8k

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

In recovering from the absolute torture that was Bucky’s life the last few years—there were few moments of solace. The worst being the slight feeling of peace before all of his progress abruptly drained back to zero… before he’d been reminded of a trigger. 

Something would suddenly pop into his brain—betraying him—and he’d be forced to physically and metaphorically swat the idea away. The problem, though, was that this soldier was doing what any good one does, fighting. James Buchanan Barnes knew what it was to be a good man, a good soldier. But the Winter was more formidable than ever. 

Whenever the opportunity presented itself, the assassin had to make an attempt at clawing its way out. 

The attempts weren’t infrequent. 

Bucky would sit by the window, unable to sleep. He would often be forced to watch the sunrise. Daybreak. He’d long committed the color of the sun meeting the skyline to his memory and with it the unfortunate feeling of his companion wanting to make an appearance. 

Whenever he’d volunteer to build something. The screws, bolts, and nails would be shiny enough to reflect Bucky’s face back to him. An image he’d hate to observe, of course. All he could see in them was potential, though. Positive connotations escaped him in this instance because all he could see was an opportunity for destruction…natural wear and tear…oxidation. Like him, these pieces of metal existing just meant that there was a chance to become worn. To decay. To become something bad…rusted. 

Numbers were the hardest to avoid and he realized just how often something can torment you when it becomes a thing you hate. One, nine, seventeen. Nine, seventeen, one. Seventeen, one, nine. In any order or occurrence these numbers seemed to follow him as close as his shadow—if not more so. He’d become particularly hateful towards one. The casual “one second,” “one moment,” and “I’ll call you back in one minute” seemed to linger in his brain for far too long. 

Freight car. Attempts to get out more proved futile. No matter how far he tried to get away, the sound of rumbling would fill his ears. He knew the sound too well. Bucky knew the feeling of air leaving your lungs. He’d grown accustomed to the feeling of falling. He felt it every day. 

The thing about falling is that when it occurs for long enough it almost feels normal. That slight weightless feeling and euphoria tricked Bucky the first time it happened. That was until he hit the ground. In experiencing one or more of his triggers every day, the feeling of weightlessness returned—so consistent that in a weird way, Bucky felt as if he’d won. He could no longer be shocked by the initial stomach drop if he continued to propel towards something nonexistent. He could no longer be surprised by the euphoria if the impact never came…if he never hit the ground. To him, if it happened so frequently that you were no longer taken aback, you’d beaten your triggers right? 

He couldn’t be more wrong. He was terribly so. 

If there was one thing Bucky learned and ignored in his various therapy sessions is that acting like something isn’t there is not…ideal. Having this being claw and tear at him left him with metaphorical lesions that he wasn’t tending to. People tried. There was never an interaction for which Steve wasn’t looking at his best friend with longing. Longing for the stoic and confident man he once knew. This person was a shell. Even with all the progress, he would never forget the one person he had left seeing him as nothing more than a mission. One only wonders how he’d feel to know that Bucky sees every day as one, a mission, an attempt to not crash the fuck out. (That was something new he learned, suited him for sure).

Again, people tried. Without even realizing it, you tried. 

The day you met Bucky, he just seemed grumpy to you. “Valid,” you’d thought with a shrug. There wasn’t really much to not be grumpy about these days. Yet, you flashed him a smile that warmed his insides—and not in the usual evil entity trying to escape way. 

In the darkest of days inside his mind, he found something to aspire towards just knowing you walked this planet. 

You’d known each other for a while before it became anything serious; he was reasonably weary of getting close to anyone for fear of dragging them down with him. But, he promised he’d never hurt you—every time he uttered the phrase in passing you shrugged him off, reassuring him that you knew. 

“James, we both know you wouldn’t hurt a bee—“ you stopped to point to him, his brow arched as you knew it’d be. “And I know that's not the phrase, okay! You’re an old man and you know all the platitudes.” 

Bucky stood to meet you in the center of your shared apartment, “what does that have to do with you saying the phrase wrong?”

“My point,” you said, tapping his nose for emphasis, “is as I said.” You snaked your arms around him, “you wouldn’t hurt a bee.” You locked eyes with him, “because even if a bee was attacking you, swarming all around you, and wanting to hurt you…you still wouldn’t hurt it. You wouldn’t swat your hand or anything. Some may say that's just stupid…but I think it pretty much sums up the person you are. I know that. You know that.” 

You pecked his lips and walked away. 

Bucky was left speechless and almost teary-eyed by your analogy. But that was you, trying…without trying. He owed it to you to try, too. 

The thing about that is, there was still so much for him to uncover. He had fallen for so long, he knew that. He’d been traumatized for so long without saying anything. 

He had nightmares that only went away when he stopped sleeping altogether. It had been so long since he truly rested that he let himself forget about that inconvenience.

Tonight, he decided, was the night he would face his fears by being well-rested to take on the next day. He mumbled to himself, “One day at a time, right?” He slipped into bed with an excitement he hadn’t really expected. It wasn’t long before sleep overtook him. 

_______________________

He woke suddenly to screams. A woman? The high-pitched and erratic yells made his head hurt worse than he’d ever experienced. 

“What the hell is happening?” 

He turned in bed to see you not there, which immediately made him spring into action. Calling your name and getting no response anywhere in the apartment was enough to make him want to cry. But the screams. They were coming from outside, not in. 

He looked out the window to see if he could see what was going on and oh my gosh. 

With no shoes, he ran. He felt as if the stairway was endless. The pain of the asphalt was nothing in comparison to the pit in his stomach as he ran directly towards it. Towards your car wrecked. Completely wrapped around a tree. How could this happen? The one time he’d gone to sleep. 

Nobody was helping you. Your car literally sitting with you inside motionless. There was no time to think, he ripped the door off. He reached for you, pulling you from the car. He knew CPR but everything was escaping him, it seemed. 

He pleaded and yelled for someone to help, realizing that your body was much more limp and cold than ideal right now. He repeated “no” more times than he’d ever in his life. He clung to you, squeezing you, praying for a miracle. But there was nobody. He clawed at anything; your clothes quickly became battered. He was so confused. His head met your chest, his attempt at trying to wish you back to life. Back to him. But the look in your eyes was so—wait. Not your eyes…

The “no, no, no” repeated again, without him even trying. He felt a scratching at him. A darkness enveloped him and his surroundings and his hand…

His hand was on someone's neck. No. A man. 

He remembered this. His body working against itself to execute orders. His mind fighting within its own skull to erase the memories of James. 

James

It repeated faintly in his mind, and yet as much as he grasped for it he couldn’t seem to reach it. 

James

It was getting lower. He tried, he was trying. He felt it pounding at him. Suddenly, that familiar jolt. But rather than an electric current pulsing through his body in an attempt to disconnect him from reality, he’d finally have to face this one. 

He was sleeping. No, he was dreaming. The voice inside his head, you, calling to him in a plea to stop. The James that would never hurt a bee, had hurt you. 

He fell back quickly, feeling himself glossed over in sweat. He looked to you, speechless, bruises already forming on your arms. He clung to you, squeezing you. 

Bucky sobbed immediately, reaching to console you. You moved back before even processing it. The flash of hurt in his eyes moved you, but your fear kept you at a distance. 

“Did I,” he mumbled, “did I ch-“ he couldn’t get the word out. 

You shook silently, eyes shifting to the bedpost that was now clearly disfigured…a set of fingers printed along it. His hands on someone's neck. 

You were lucky, a split second and some scratching and you were able to get some distance between you. Even there, you didn’t feel settled. You witnessed your boyfriend, grasp what could’ve very easily been your neck and squeeze with an ease so unsettling that you had no choice but to try and stop him. Despite all the advice you heard to never wake someone this way, you knew he’d been hurting. You hit him, as hard as you could. He tried, he was trying. He felt it pounding at him.

“I am,” the man inhaled, “more sorry than I can ever begin to express to you. I don’t know what happened.” You observed him slowly rise to his feet, clearly drained. “I made you a promise. Who am I… if I can’t let that be true?” 

Bucky moved silently and quickly, ignoring your voice calling out to him. Even in shock, you were trying. You tried. 

Within minutes some people you recognized started to look you over—empathy in their eyes. You drowned out their medical talk, looking for Bucky, noticing he slipped out without a word. 

People tried. He tried. But the scars of the Winter Soldier had become so big that they’d inadvertently grown. Like roots—weeds—they festered and spread to the ones he loved. 

He didn’t know what to say to you, or if he could ever be with you ever again. But he watched from a distance, observing you be tended to like a fresh garden. The weeds seemed to dwindle. While still there, he knew that at the very least—he wasn’t contributing to your stunt growth. Without him, you could blossom into so much more.

(ps. sorry about the emotional scarring 💀)

- amethyst 💟

[nattiebugs]

shoreline secrets

jjmaybank x oldfriend!reader (blurb)

𝜗ৎ - you and jj dig up an old time capsule you buried together five years before. inside were old things you had deemed as “important” and a letter you never meant for him to read…

warnings - none! zero! zilch!

also, i am kind of reflecting my past experiences into this one yall. so be prepared for (previously) in love nattie! also, SLIGHT hamilton reference.

it had been nearly five years since you stood in front of the pogues and told them you were leaving for college - out of state, out of reach, out of everything that felt like home. you still remembered the way their faces fell, how the air seemed to thin with every word. there were tears - quiet, aching ones from everyone. everyone except jj. and his reaction seemed to be the one that stuck with you the most.

he didn’t say much when you told him. he just stood there, jaw clenched, arms crossed like he was trying to hold himself together. no questions. no goodbye. just a short nod, a scoff, and a sharp flick of his eyes to the ground, like looking at you would make it worse - or maybe make him break. he cracked a joke that nobody laughed at, shrugged like it didn’t matter, and walked off before you could even finish your sentence. but with the way his hands were shaking, you knew that he cared more than anyone in that room.

but it didn’t mean anything right? because that’s what you’ve been telling yourself since you started walking with him along the dune trail behind the boneyard, the sky streaked in hues of orange sherbert and pink cotton candy, the sun dragging its last light over the ocean.

“are you sure it’s really still there?” he asks, kicking at the sand with the side of his boot.

you nod, though you’re not. who knew if it had gotten washed away with the tide or if some kid dug it up while building sand castles. “unless the ocean ate them.”

jj doesn’t laugh. instead, he gives you an unreadable sideways glance.

you two haven’t really talked since you came back - not like this, anyway. not one-on-one. there’s been a few bonfires, parties, and a few accidental shoulder brushes that made your breath catch for reasons you wish would go away. but today when you asked him to come with you, he did.

you reach the spot just as the light starts to fade. it’s nothing special - just a patch of dune with dead sea grass and an old driftwood stump. but to you, it might as well be a time capsule of your teenage self. because it is.

you remember being eighteen, both of you sunburnt and giddy and full of things you didn’t know how to say yet. you remember jj carving his initials into the side of the box, and you remember writing a letter and shoving it into the box before he could bury it in the sand.

now, your fingers are digging into the cool sand, trying to find the metal box. jj drops beside you, wordless, and starts digging too. soon, your hands reach something smooth and slightly grimy. the tin emerges like a ghost - old, rusted at the edges, and still sealed.

jj whistles low under his breath. “well, i’ll be damned.”

you let out a soft laugh, wiping your hands on your legs and crack open the box. inside was dust, a polaroid, a lighter that probably doesn’t work anymore, a CD with don’t laugh, this slaps scrawled across it in faded sharpie. and two folded letters.

jj pulls out the polaroid first - you and him, younger, pressed together like gravity didn’t want to let go. you’re wearing his sweatshirt. he’s got that sun-bleached mop of hair and a grin so wide you almost flinch to look at it.

“god,” he mutters. “we were just kids.”

you don’t say anything. you can’t. there’s too much sitting in your chest.

jj pulls out the letters next. he holds them up - yours and his that you had wrote to each other - the looks at you.

“wanna read these?”

you nod. “let me read the one i wrote first.”

he nods in agreement and you go to grab yours, hands meeting in the middle. his fingers brush yours. you feel it and so does he.

you unfold your letter slowly. the edges are worn, the ink faded, but your handwriting is still the same - slowly written and neat like you were saving the moment. because you felt everything you wrote in this letter. it was real.

my dearest, jj

if you’re reading this, it probably means that i’ve told you about me going away to college and you’re missing me. whether that’s true or not, you’re here and you’re reading this. but anyway, i guess im saying this because i don’t think i ever will out loud.

you’re my best friend. you know that. but i know that you’ve always been more than that, i just never knew if i was allowed to say it. maybe you didn’t feel it. maybe i didn’t deserve to. but every time you laughed, every time you looked at me softly, like i mattered - i swear it felt like the only thing that was ever real.

when i come back, maybe we’ll talk. or maybe we’ll pretend none of this never happened. i don’t know. just… promise you won’t forget me.

i couldn’t forget you if i tried…

i think i love you,

yn

you read it twice. and by the time you looked up, you could see that he was peeking, reading along with you.

he looked up, staring at you like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know how to make it fit into words.

“i kinda wrote mine like you were never gonna read it,” he says quietly. “didn’t think you were gonna come back.”

“i didn’t think you’d still be here,” you admit.

the silence stretches between you - not uncomfortable, but full. he leans back on his hands, looking out toward the water. you watch the wind ruffle his hair, the way the last gold lights glint off his jaw, the curve of his shoulder beneath his worn out hoodie. it’s the same body that used to cannonball off the pier, that used to hold you when you’re problems began to heavy to deal with, that used to walk beside you to get groceries from the store. now, you’re both older. but he still feels like home.

“can i ask you something?” he asks suddenly, not looking at you yet.

you nod.

jj turns his head, and now he’s watching you like he’s memorizing you. every emotion on your face. every movement you make.

“did you mean it?”

you know exactly what he means. the letter. the feelings. all of it. and you don’t hesitate to give him an answer.

“i did,” you say. “i still do.”

he exhales slowly, likes he been holding it in for years.

then, quieter: “can i kiss you?”

his voice is low - almost like he doesn’t trust it, like the words are too fragile to be said out loud. there’s a flicker in his eyes you haven’t seen in years: fear, hope, longing. he’s asking, not assuming. giving you an out. giving himself one, too.

you nod, but this time it isn’t easy. your throat is tight, your heart caught somewhere between your ribs and your mouth, beating so loud you’re sure he can hear it. your breath stutters, but you don’t back away.

he shifts a little closer, one hand moving between you, uncertain at first, like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he touches you too fast. and then he leans in - slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of this moment before he steps into it.

when his lips meet yours, it’s not hungry or rushed. it’s soft. careful. reverent. like he’s afraid to want too much, but he does anyway.

you melt into him before you can think better of it - because it’s familiar, god, it’s so familiar. the way his mouth moves with yours, the warmth of his hand brushing your cheek, the salt air clinging to your skin. it’s like slipping into an old dream. like maybe this was always going to happen. like maybe, somehow, it never really ended.

the ocean murmurs behind you, the box with your old letters sits between you in the sand, and for the first time in five years, nothing is being held back.

he pulls away just barely - his lips lingering for a breath, a heartbeat, one last second - before pressing his forehead to yours.

his voice breaks the quiet. soft. steady.

“i’m glad you came back.”

you don’t answer right away. your eyes flutter shut, letting the weight of everything you’ve both carried finally settle.

and when you do whisper back, your voice is barely more than a breath.

“so am i.”

and you meant it.

[that-gay-guy-from-hell]

A tragedy in two parts:

Don't worry, Rust gives some head pets later as a "good boy" without actually calling Zero a "good boy".

TLT MASTERLIST

Forgot to post this here lmao (also sorry if the layout is strange, I'm on my cellphone not my PC lmao). I have more Zero x Rust brainrot art coming soon and maybe some other stuff..? Tbh Zero and Rust have consumed my time and I've not worked on anything else lmfaoooo.

Zero throwing it back thing is in reference to this video:

Original:

[cage-cat-yt]

Tlt drawing page. I'm almost finished with breaking bad and I'm fixating on Dog Nightmare :3 (the analog horror)

[cheollipop]

move

navi | taglist

pairing: pole dancer!choi san x club owner!reader (fem)

w.c.: 3.3k

tags: smut, ft. pimp!woo

song rec: 'move' by taemin

with his toned thighs wrapped around the pole, sweat glistening under the changing lights, you felt the urge to wipe the cocky smirk off the new hire's lips. but little did you know, choi san loved performing for a crowd.

warnings: this —in white— is san's outfit for reference (except tighter, cheaper-looking and with a different chain), mentioned mxm, reader has one drink but everything is consensual, switch!san (shorty give me whip-whiplash), mean!reader, she's a badass though, public sex, unprotected sex (👎), san has a nipple piercing, some nipple play (m), multiple orgasms (m), multiple creampies, some edging, overstimulation, a hint of breeding/impreg kink, voyeurism/exhibitionism, degradation, so much dirty talk, nicknames (sannie, pretty boy; miss, darling), I think that's all (?)

A/N: this is for my lovely, pretty, gorgeous, insanely kind, amazing, genius, and beautiful alyssa (@kitten4sannie) <3 I'm sorry this took over a month to get to ;; I really hope the wait was worth it though!! happy reading~ ^^

nsfw under the cut—minors dni!! 🔞

Scrunching your nose at the rancid odour of sewage, your heeled boots clacked against the pavement leading to the guarded club entrance, digging into your coat pocket and fishing out a stack of bills to lay gently in front of the homeless man’s sleeping bag. You passed by him every night, his yellow grin a stark contrast to his surroundings—fetid air driving everyone in the area to hold their breath, disease-ridden rodents and pretentious high school dropouts with one too many stacks of their daddy’s money crawling around in the vicinity.

You walked past the burly guard at the front, watching his ninety-degree bow from the corner of your eye as you stepped into the club. It wasn’t the best area to run such business, but you got enough loyal customers—mostly rich men lying to their wives—to pay the bills. You supposed you should be thankful to your father for that, the wretched bastard leaving his only daughter to run this shithole.

You walked down the short hallway and into wide room, blues and purples illuminating the shiny tile and peeling walls as you carried yourself to the bar near the entrance. The rusted stool creaked as you rested your body weight down on it, ignoring the young bartender as she scrambled to make your usual drink, drops of expensive liquor flying over the bench before she dropped a decorated glass in front of you. Giving her a tight-lipped smile, you wrapped your fingers around the cup and allowed the bitterness to sink into your taste buds.

Sitting sideways at the bar, forearm flat on the surface with the drink loosely held in your hand, you focused your eyes on the man to your left, moving his body around the pole anchored in the middle of the room. Cheap, glittery fabric pressed into the skin of his toned chest, stretching around his biceps until a peak of his warm skin tone shone through the white. His thighs wrapped around the pole, the muscles bulging as he held himself up and rolled his body around the metal rod, a dainty belly chain loose around his narrow waist, head rolled backwards to stretch out the column of his freckled throat. You could tell he was trying to show off his rounded backside, but his movements carried a certain stiffness that made you scoff. The customers spread out on the seats surrounding the stage—a mix of older, unhappily married men, and younger, broke college students who couldn’t afford a fancier club—didn’t seem to mind as much, taking in his lousy attempt of an arch and the prominent bulge pressing against the thin material of his shimmering bottoms, ogling eyes zeroing in on the metal bar piercing his nipple as it occasionally brushed against the pole.

He lowered himself down onto the LED flooring on his tiptoes, maintaining the graceful stance as the song came to an end, feline eyes flitting upwards to bore into yours. He oozed confidence, the air around him almost unbreachable, and for a reason you couldn’t place your finger on, the cocky curl of his lips irked you, your eyebrow twitching in irritation at the shameless show of brashness.

Veiny arms circled your shoulders, a familiar rasp in your ear, “that’s the new hire I was telling you about. Pretty neat, don’t you think?” His dark brown locks tickled your temple, curved nose nuzzling into your hair.

You hummed in agreement, “Mm, good job, Woo. He’s pretty.”

“And tight, ‘tried him out myself,” you could hear the smirk in his voice, proud of his take on a job interview.

You reached back to smack his shoulder, a faint smile on your lips. “He’s a little too confident for someone who can’t even arch properly, though,” you critiqued, narrowing your eyes at the man now bent over in front of the small crowd, thick fingers wrapped around the pole while he attempted to move his stiff muscles.

“He’s not that bad,” Wooyoung rolled his eyes, tracing over the man’s plump ass with his eyes as he played back the events from the previous night in his mind, the throaty moans and whimpers still fresh in his ears.

“Even you can do a better job than him, and that’s saying a lot.”

Two fingers pinched your upper arm through the blazer covering it, Wooyoung’s unamused huff blowing over the shell of your ear. “If you’re so displeased by his performance, why don’t you teach him how to do it yourself?” He pushed back the image of the man’s narrow waist and puckered hole, replacing it with the memory of the private show you’d put on for him the week before.

While Wooyoung was too busy fighting off the sudden tightness in his pants, you contemplated his words—despite knowing he’d spoken them humorously. Tightening your hand around your drink, you brought it up to your lips and gulped down the rest of it, pushing Wooyoung off you and standing up. He scrambled to find his footing, caught off guard by your brassy stride towards the center of the room, aiming towards the occupied chair right across the stage.

With a hand on the college freshman’s shoulder, you pulled him off the worn-down leather, sitting down in his place and watching him scurry away with a hand halfway down his pants. Redirecting your attention towards the handsome man in front of you, his gaze instantly locked with yours, and something in his eyes gave away that he knew who you were. His hips swayed with more finesse—still not up to your standards—and his expression contorted to mimic a state of ecstasy. He was trying to impress you.

You watched for a few seconds, until he bent down lower, the pathetic arch of his spine pushing the words off your tongue, “Choi San, was it?” your voice cut through the music. “It seems like Wooyoung may have spoken too highly of you. I’m a little disappointed,” you took pleasure in the slow erasure of his cocky smirk, his movements faltering as he took in your words, hints of discontent evident in your tone. “Stand up straight, pretty boy.” You leaned forward in your seat, resting your elbows over your thighs as you watched him hesitantly part from the pole to straighten up.  A smirk—a sign of power, perhaps—found its way onto your lips, “why don’t you grind on that pole for me? Since you seem so confident in yourself.”

Red tinted the shell of his ears, and you wondered how a few words could have affected a man like him so easily, as though he wasn’t standing in a room full of people ogling at his body, two pieces of glimmering fabric hiding him from their deviant gaze.

You could almost see the thoughts churning in his pretty head, dubiously reaching for the pole once again, standing behind it and beginning his decent into a full squat. Firm muscle bulged out of his thighs, oiled, tan skin reflecting the moving lights shining over his figure, his clothed bulge trapped between the metal and his abdomen. His hands remained above his head as he sunk lower, the cropped material of his shirt riding up to reveal more of his flushed chest. You watched him wordlessly, eying the deliberate brush of his nipple piercing over the pole, a muted ‘clink’ drowned under the music. Your eyes moved back to his face, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth and his eyebrows drawn in, and when you trailed down his body, your lips only curled further: his half-hard length pressing against the scratchy fabric, a wet patch spreading through the material and shimmering alongside the glitter. You may be starting to understand Wooyoung’s strange infatuation with the man.

You pushed off the creaky leather, smoothing down your suit before taking a few steps onto the round LED flooring, standing next to the crouched man and watching him twist his head to look up at you.

It was known rule everywhere that the dancers were not to be touched, and you figured your next move would probably be setting a bad example in front of your customers, but your clientele consisted mostly of regulars, people who knew you to be the boss. People who knew you made the rules.

You reached down to grab his face, fingers digging into his jaw and angling it further upwards, “you’re too stiff.” Your lips curved at his attempt at pushing away, nose scrunched up in defiance.

“’m not stiff,” he retorted weakly, words muffled through the tight squeeze of your fingers around his face.

“What’s the matter, Sannie, did Youngie fuck you too hard last night? Can’t even arch your back properly?” You gave his head a firm shake with every rhetorical question, pouting your lips in faux sympathy. His cheeks heated up under your touch, the pretty pink bleeding down his neck and chest as your aired out his nightly endeavors.

“I can arch my back-”

“My club is gonna run out of business if you keep running your mouth instead of doing your job properly, pretty boy. My old man would be rolling in his grave if that ever happened. We don’t want that now, do we?” You watched panic seep into his features when you spoke your next words, “how will you pay off your debt then, hm?”

“I-I’ll learn how to do it, please just-” his fingers release around the pole and wrap around your calves instead, his knees falling to the floor by your feet while he pleaded. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

His touch wasn’t unpleasant, rough fingertips brushing over your clothed skin, squeezing gently while he squirmed under you. Your fingers eased around his jaw but didn’t let go, pleased to have a man of his stature in the palm of your hand, yours to maneuver and handle however you wished. “And what will you do until then? Learning takes time, and we’re short-staffed, you know.”

A dangerous glimmer lit up San’s dark eyes, a sense of danger churning in your gut. Skilled hands slid up your legs, past your knees and thighs to settle on the curve of your hips, nuzzling his face into your palm before speaking. For a reason you couldn’t exactly pinpoint, you allowed him to do as he pleased, as though you suddenly had your own personal, human-sized cat, brimming with affection it didn’t know how to express. Siren eyes blinked up at you, a smile loaded with playfulness and mischief directed at you.

“I’ll just make sure to put on a performance they’ll never forget.”

--

Antsy hands pushed open your unbuttoned blouse to slide over the heated skin, your dress pants tossed and abandoned over the chair you’d been sitting in, lace panties dangling off the ankle resting on San’s shoulder. His glitzy top scratched against your skin, forming a blister you were too busy to care about as San’s body pressed against yours with his belly chain forming indents into your navel, his cock pounding into you to the steady beat of the music blasting through the decrepit speakers, a distant whirring disrupting the audio.

You slapped his hand off your chest, a warning look in your eyes and a pathetically despondent one in his, reaching for your hand and guiding it to his own chest, a silent ‘touch me instead.’ It was fascinating how quickly San’s cocky persona vanished once he got his dick wet, his face contorting—eyebrows furrowed and his eyes lidded—while you pulled on his piercing, rolling his nipple under your thumb and reveling in the tight moans rolling off his tongue.

“Fuck, ‘m close,” he mumbled, readjusting on his knees, the tight material of his bottoms low on his thighs restricting the movement.

“Already?” you teased, sucking in a sudden breath at the new angle, his cock curving into your g-spot through his relentless thrusts, his previous rhythm lost in his overflowing lust. “What a waste of a pretty cock, can’t even last long enough to make me cum.”

You noted the rose bleeding into his ears once again, his hips stuttering and a throaty moan leaving his lips as he emptied inside you, his hot seed spreading warmth through your lower belly. You laughed as he lowered himself onto you, hovering over your torso while he rolled his hips into your cunt, riding out his orgasm with airy moans and tightly-shut eyes. Paper bills fluttered in the air, some sticking to the sweat beaded on San’s back while the majority landed around your tangled bodies.

You were about to get up, words of beration forming on your tongue, but San took a few breaths and drove his cock further into you, grinding his length between your dripping walls until it chubbed up once again. It caught you off guard, his eagerness to perform, to prove himself to you, to fuck you dumb in front of all your customers.

The slow pace he adopted wasn’t enough, but the deliberate drag of his cock over your g-spot nearly sent you spiraling, the leg perched up on his shoulder shaking with every thrust. “Ngh, do you like being watched, pretty boy?”

San’s bashfulness was nowhere to be found, replaced with a pleased smile and a quick nod to his head, “Mm, I do,” his fingers kneaded the flesh of your thigh, his other hand pushing down your right leg to further open you up for him, driving his cock into you twice before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “what about you, Miss? You’re the same, aren’t you? I can feel your cunt squeezing around me every time you look at the perverts watching us.”

Your limbs felt heavy, something in your stomach convulsing at his words. “Watch your mouth-”

Calloused fingers slipped under you to tangle in the hair at your nape, tugging sharply until your neck craned at the force, your next words dying on your tongue as he began pistoning his cock into your needy cunt, a broken cry ripping through your chest as his cockhead pressed into your sweet spot repeatedly.

“You want them to watch how I’m gonna fuck you full? I’ll give you all I have, Miss, every last drop, until you’re all swollen with my cum,” he rambled, soft lips pressed against your temple while he hammered into you, sending you barreling towards the edge.

A tingle spread through your limbs, the edges of your vision darkening, and you prepared to freefall into a numbing orgasm, but San’s hips suddenly slowed to a languid grind, his lips stretching menacingly against your skin.

“No- fuck, I was so close-”

San interrupted your complaints, “tell me you want it.”

Your eyebrow twitched in annoyance. It was as though he was holding your orgasm for ransom. “Don’t be a fucking asshole, I’m still your boss-”

“-and I’m the one fucking you stupid,” he retorted, that vexing smirk on his face once again, and you wanted to punch it away. You’d assume abusing an employee would bring bad rep to your club, though, and you couldn’t afford to lose any customers. So you settled on glaring at him, attempting to roll your hips but huffing when San’s hands anchored you down to the floor.

“C’mon, just say you want it. I’ll give you whatever you want, Miss.” He lowered his voice down to a whisper, “all of it, just for you.”

The deep baritone of his voice, the words flowing smoothly off his tongue, warm hands splayed over your hips, occasionally squeezing at the flesh at the end of every sentence, his musky perfume mixed in with the tangy scent of his sweat engulfing your senses. Your walls pulsed around his cock, sitting  thick and heavy inside you while you squirmed under him, the skin of your cheeks heated under his gaze as he awaited the words he wanted to hear. After a few minutes of his relentless stare-down, cat-like eyes boring into yours with incessant demand, you gave in, muttering the words under your breath and breaking eye contact.

Just when you thought you could breathe again, his deep chuckle echoed in your ear, the pleasant sound preferable over the music playing in the background, but his words sent a wave of cold sweat seeping out of your pores, “No, no. Say it louder for me, darling.”

You huffed in exasperation, the smell of alcohol swimming in the air between you. Shutting your eyes to relieve yourself of the sight of San's sharp jawline and arched eyebrow, you missed the way his gaze flitted upwards to meet with Wooyoung’s—the man now sat in the chair to the left of the stage, palming at the obvious tent in his pants.

San gave a harsh thrust to egg you on, the shot of pleasure shooting up your spine at the gesture enough to push the words off your tongue, “just fucking give me your cum already, ‘want it all inside,” you slurred, voice breathy with hints of desperation.

San didn’t waste any time before picking up his pace, pounding into your heat with urgent want, as though he was a starved man at a banquet. It was as though he’d lit your nerves on fire, the pleasure so intense your mind went numb, nails digging into San’s biceps as he pulled moan after moan out of you. “Hnnngh! L-like that, yeah-”

There was no build-up to your orgasm, and you found yourself tumbling down a steep cliff into a valley of ecstasy, lips forming an ‘o’ while San guided you through it. With your back arched off the ground, your blouse damp and stuck to your slick back, you clung to the fluid drag of San’s throbbing cock between your fluttering walls, the sound of skin-on-skin following the beat vibrating through the speakers.

San’s fingers dented your skin with enough force to promise blossoming bruises, his breath laboured as he began to chase his own high after you’d ridden out yours, fucking into you like a madman, “’m almost there, Miss, ‘gonna make sure you’re nice and full of me,” He groaned near your ear, the sound melting away the tinges of overstimulation jolting you away from him, his tight grip keeping you in place to buck his hips into your used hole. “So full you might get pregnant- ngh!”

Driven to completion by his own words, San’s throaty moans drowned out the melody strumming in the background, spurts of hot cum adding to the white painting your walls as he milked himself of every last drop. It seemed like you were the one who had fucked him stupid, barely-coherent, babbled praise flowing into your ear as he tucked his head into the crook of your neck.

Your knee dug into your chest, and you stared at the lace still hanging off your ankle where it sat on San’s shoulder, pins and needles pricking at your muscles from the prolonged position. But you didn’t complain, simply basking in the afterglow while San’s chest rose and fell into yours. You could see the flutter of paper bills in your peripherals—more than you’d ever seen before on a slow, Thursday night—barely any of them reaching you as the men tossing them had their dominant hands preoccupied. Your eyes moved sideways, meeting Wooyoung’s, already staring back at you with a knowing smirk on his pouty lips.

Through the thick haze of the orgasm still clouding your mind, your muscles twitching with its remnants as San’s cock spasmed pathetically between your flooded walls, two loads streaming out of your stretched cunt, you realised just how much Choi San enjoyed performing for a crowd.

And just how much you could profit off that.

reblogs/feedback are greatly appreciated!! ^^ apply for my tag list here (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

“Love’s Gonna Get You Killed”

Chapter 6

“Distance + Retaliation”

Synopsis: A wounded mafia heir stumbles into a late-night convenience store, where a quiet clerk patches him up. He walks out—but can’t stop watching her. As danger circles and their worlds quietly collide, one question remains: Can you stay untouched in a life soaked in blood?

Word Count: 2,440

Karina X Male Reader

Suijoon dragged his bloodied leg across the cracked pavement, leaving a smeared trail as the van idled under the moonless sky. His shirt clung to him, soaked with sweat and failure.

The driver lit a cigarette, watching him struggle. “Zero for two,” he muttered, smoke curling from his lips. “Boss’ll be thrilled.”

“Shut the fuck up and drive.”

The silence in the van was thick. The only sound was Suijoon’s labored breathing and the rattle of broken weapons at his feet.

They pulled into the shipyard—the Syndicate’s ghostlike base carved into rusted steel and sea rot. Floodlights hummed to life. Armed men lined the path in silence, eyes tracking Suijoon’s limp like vultures scenting weakness.

Inside, the boss sat beneath a single bulb, suited in black, rings gleaming like threats on his fingers. His chair creaked as he leaned forward.

Suijoon didn’t even get a word out.

The backhand came fast—sharp, practiced. He hit the floor hard, copper in his mouth.

“I said nothing,” the boss growled, low and precise. “Because I’m done hearing excuses.”

Suijoon coughed, spit red on the floor. “Boss, it was a setup. I didn’t expect—”

“You didn’t think. That’s your fucking problem.”

The room stilled.

The boss stood, walking toward him with deliberate steps. “Do you think this is a game? You’re not some street punk throwing punches for pride. You’re wearing my colors. That means when you bleed, it stains me.”

Suijoon looked up, jaw tight. “I’ll fix it.”

The boss crouched, grabbed him by the jaw. “You’re not fixing shit. You’re lucky I haven’t fed you to the harbor yet. Two failures. Two.”

A blade glinted in his hand—not raised, just there, a quiet threat between them.

“You’re becoming a liability,” he whispered. “And you know what we do with those.”

He let go. Suijoon slumped, chest heaving.

“Now get out of my sight. And pray you’re worth more alive tomorrow than you are dead tonight.”

While the scent of gunpowder still lingered in the air and the distant echo of sirens began to creep into the night, you and Karina crouched in the shadows of a narrow alleyway. The glow of a single flickering streetlamp above you cast long silhouettes on the wall. Your back leaned against the cold brick, hand pressed tightly against your side—warm blood slipping through your fingers.

“You good?” you asked, your voice ragged, panting.

Karina looked at you, face pale but steady. “I should be asking that,” she replied, eyes darting to the spreading red on your shirt. “You’re bleeding—Y/N, you’re hit.”

“Yeah,” you managed, smirking despite the pain, “just a scratch.”

She scoffed, trying to stay calm, but you could see her hands trembling as she reached into your coat pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. She pressed it against the wound with shaky but determined pressure.

The truth hadn’t quite settled in her eyes yet. You could see it—the storm building behind her silence. She had questions, hundreds of them, but her lips didn’t move. Not yet. Instead, she stayed beside you, kneeling in the filth of the alley, pressing against the bullet wound of a man she only thought she knew.

The next night, you came by the convenience store again.

Same time. Same door chime. Same quiet “Hey Rina.”

But something had changed.

She didn’t turn around immediately like she usually did. No soft smile. No teasing remark. Just a faint nod over her shoulder as she restocked a shelf of instant noodles. “Hey.”

You tried to pretend it was nothing.

You placed the brown paper bag on the counter like always. Kimbap. Her favorite. You remembered.

“I brought you food again,” you said casually, like your hands hadn’t held a gun last night, like you didn’t have a stitched-up bullet wound under your coat.

She didn’t move from behind the register. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” you said, your voice low, “but I wanted to.”

Her eyes flickered to the bag, then to you. There was something unreadable in them. Not fear exactly—just a distance. Like someone looking at a stranger wearing someone else’s face.

“You didn’t tell me,” she finally said.

You stayed silent.

She looked down at her hands. “I thought you were just… someone who liked midnight snacks. Someone with good taste in tteokbokki and bad jokes.”

“I didn’t want to drag you into my world.”

“But you did,” she said sharply, not angry—just tired. “And now I can’t unsee it.”

Silence settled between you, heavy like the gun you still had holstered under your coat.

You wanted to reach for her. Say something. Anything.

But she stepped back slightly, a subtle shift in weight that said more than words could.

You didn’t push. You just nodded, grabbed the untouched food bag, and turned to leave.

And for the first time in weeks, the door chime behind you didn’t sound like comfort.

It sounded like goodbye.

Monaco. 12:47 AM.

The alley was wet—fresh with blood and rain. Sirens screamed in the distance, but no one dared approach. Not when he was in town.

Two men already lay crumpled on the pavement—one with half a face missing, the other still twitching, as if trying to crawl out of death. A trail of smeared crimson marked his final attempt. He didn’t make it far.

A third man was breathing—barely. Curled behind a dented trash can, knees to chest, his body trembled with each breath. He hadn’t even realized he pissed himself.

Then came the footsteps.

Not rushed. Not heavy.

Measured. Calm. Like death taking its time.

Click. Clack. Click.

The man’s heart pounded so loud he thought it would give him away. He pressed his back tighter against the brick wall, eyes wide, lips quivering in silence.

Then

A voice. Smooth. Low. Cold enough to burn.

“You know what happens to people who flee?”

The words wrapped around his throat tighter than fear.

Silence.

“They perish.”

Another step closer.

“Because people who flee… are cowards.”

A breath hitched. He bit into his knuckle to keep from screaming.

Smoke curled past the edge of the trash can. A faint scent of blood and gunpowder mixed in the air. The air was heavy—wrong—like the alley itself was holding its breath.

Draco’s voice came again—soft, but with enough weight to crush the world.

“I know you’re behind that trash can.”

Silence.

“Right where rats like you belong.”

A pause.

“Let’s make this simple.”

Draco’s boots stopped a few feet away.

“Do you know a gang called ‘Uncharted’?”

The man opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Just the soft click of his tongue failing him.

Then came the final sound.

A single gunshot.

BOOM.

One bullet. Clean through the trash can—and the skull behind it.

The body slumped forward, twitching once before going still. A small pool of blood began to form, stretching out slowly like it wanted to escape but couldn’t.

Draco stepped over it. Unbothered. Untouched.

He lit a cigarette and took one drag, eyes barely flinching in the smoke.

“Cowards don’t speak,” he muttered to no one.

“Only corpses do.”

He walked away, the sound of his boots echoing long after his shadow disappeared

Back at the base, the air was thick with smoke, curling lazily toward the ceiling like ghosts of your thoughts. You lay on the bed, half-dressed, a cigarette between your lips, and melancholic music spilling softly from the speakers—slow, somber, almost too fitting. The kind that echoes in your chest long after the last note fades.

Your eyes were open, unfocused, tracing the cracks in the ceiling you never bothered to fix.

You never expected acceptance.

Not really.

Not with a last name like yours, Not with blood on your hands before you were even old enough to shave, You were born into shadows, and whether it was loyalty or fear, people never truly saw you.

They saw Draco’s heir.

They saw the empire.

They saw the violence, the weight, the name.

But you accepted it—because it came with privilege, with power. And power costs. You knew that. You’ve always known.

Still…

Even her?

Even Karina?

She didn’t flinch the first few times. She smiled, even. Laughed when you brought her snacks. Teased you for your coat. Gave you something you never knew you missed—normalcy. Something soft.

But now?

Now, there’s a distance in her eyes. A hesitation in her voice. Like she’s already writing the ending in her head.

You couldn’t blame her. Who would want to be tangled in this world?

Who would want to love a man who can kill and smile in the same breath?

You inhaled, the tip of your cigarette glowing red in the dark. You watched the smoke drift away, disappearing into nothing.

Just like the idea of her staying.

You told yourself it was fine.

You’ve been alone before.

You’ve lived in silence before.

You’ll do it again.

But the thing about softness is… once you’ve felt it, it hurts more when it’s gone.

And she was the softest thing you’ve ever known.

Nightfall. 3:12 AM. Somewhere in Seoul.

A concrete room dimly lit by a single flickering bulb. Cigarette smoke hung like a veil in the air, curling around the edge of Suijoon’s jaw as he leaned over the table — maps, surveillance photos, red circles scratched in anger around one girl’s face.

Karina Yu.

“Convenience store clerk,” he muttered, tracing her image with a gloved finger. “Works the graveyard shift. No parents. In debt. No one to miss her.”

He looked up at the handful of men standing before him — all in black, armed to the teeth, faces cold, eager. A smaller man handed him a tablet — CCTV footage. Y/N and Karina, smiling, eating tteokbokki. Another angle — Y/N shielding her behind the counter when the gunfire broke loose. Suijoon sneered.

“Draco’s heir… falling for a stray. How poetic,” he said bitterly, snapping the tablet shut. “This girl? She’s not just leverage anymore. She’s the wound. And you don’t beat the heir by going for the head. You beat him by infecting the heart.”

He walked to the weapons rack, grabbing a knife, then a silencer-equipped pistol. He flipped the safety, slow and deliberate.

“We won’t kill her. Not yet,” he said darkly. “We grab her. Make it public. Let the son of Draco come crawling.”

A grunt of agreement echoed around the room.

“But sir…” one man dared to speak. “Didn’t the boss say not to—”

“The boss,” Suijoon interrupted, stepping forward until their foreheads nearly touched, voice low, venomous, “doesn’t have the balls to end this war.”

He stepped back, smile forming like a crack across ice.

“I do.”

He turned to the group. “Gear up. Black vans. No masks. We’re not hiding this. I want him to know.”

He lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his eyes — wild, cruel, desperate to prove something.

“Tonight,” Suijoon said, exhaling smoke like a devil whispering prophecy,

“we cut out his heart.”

Back at the estate, you were still lying on your back, smoke curling lazily into the ceiling, headphones on as melancholic jazz hummed through the room—your only comfort lately. You hadn’t seen Karina in days. Not really. Not like before. Her eyes no longer lingered. Her smile no longer reached you. You couldn’t blame her. Who would want to love the heir of Korea’s most feared mafia?

Suddenly, the door burst open.

“Sir!” Jun-ho shouted, breathless, eyes wide. “We’ve got movement. Four black vans. Same make. Same pattern. They’re circling Gangseo District. Near the convenience store.”

You sat up instantly, gun already in hand. “Karina.”

Jun-ho nodded grimly. “Yes, sir. They’re after her.”

You stormed down the hallway, boots heavy with urgency. Just as you neared the armory entrance—thud.

You bumped shoulders with a tall figure standing in your path.

Killian Draco.

Sharp suit, colder eyes. A calm storm in human skin. He lit a cigarette slowly, took a drag, and exhaled in your face.

“Where do you think you’re going, son?”

“I don’t have time—”

“You make time,” he cut in coldly. “For me.”

Silence swelled.

“Don’t do this,” he continued. “She means nothing. A girl scraping for debt. A pawn they’ll use the second they realize she matters to you. Is that what you want?”

“She’s not a pawn. She’s—”

“She’s a weakness,” Draco interrupted. “And love? Love is an art of vulnerability. Loving means weakness. And I didn’t raise a weak little squirt.”

You glared at him, chest heaving. “You didn’t raise me, you dumbass!”

His eyes narrowed.

“You taught me how to kill, how to gut a man, how to clean up blood without flinching. But you didn’t raise me. You raised a weapon. She’s the only human thing I have left.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped. “You think you’re different from me. You’re not. You carry my blood. You love her now? Good. Watch what happens when they put a gun to her head because of it.”

“I’d rather die trying to save her than live like you—numb and alone.”

He stepped aside slowly, his expression unreadable. “Then go. Save her.”

You moved past him, steps furious—but he called out behind you, voice like frost cutting the air:

“But remember this, son… If she brings war to our house, if your heart turns into our downfall…”

He turned, smoke dancing from his cigarette like a curse.

“Then I’ll end it. Even if that means you.”

You didn’t look back.

You just ran

You ran.

Through alleys slick with rain and streets that smelled like metal and neon. Your breath came in sharp bursts. Your coat, half-soaked, flared behind you like a shadow chasing a ghost.

You turned the corner.

The convenience store.

Lights flickering inside, humming faintly under the pale glow of the streetlamp. But something felt off.

You pushed the door.

Ding. The chime echoed like a scream in an empty church.

No footsteps.

No soft hum of Karina’s voice singing under her breath.

No rustle of snack wrappers or the tap-tap-tap of her scanning items at the counter.

Just silence.

And blood in your throat.

“Karina?” your voice cracked.

Behind the register, taped sloppily onto the plexiglass, was a note. Scribbled in red ink.

You yanked it free.

“Looking for your little night clerk?

Should’ve kept her hidden, heir.

You want her back? Come bleed for her.

— Suijoon.”

Your fists clenched so hard the paper crumpled, veins pulsing like live wires.

And in that moment, everything else — the mafia code, your father’s warnings, the war it might start — it all drowned under one truth:

He took her.

And you’re going to burn the whole fucking world to get her back.

[xoxorory]

Locked In (and Tension-Filled) !

Pairing: Percy Jackson x Fem! Reader Genre: Humor | Fluff | +18 (light, suggestive) Word Count: ~3,000 Trope: Friends to lovers Warnings: Suggestive themes, romantic tension, playful language POV: Reader

1. The Worst Assignment Ever (Or How We Fell for the Trap)

“Tell me this is a joke,” I muttered, crossing my arms.

Next to me, Percy was staring at the inventory list with the same look of horror.

“Nope. Definitely a trap,” he confirmed, flipping through the pages like he might find some hidden clause that could save us from this torture.

We were in the camp’s storage room, surrounded by shelves overflowing with war supplies—dull swords, crates of bandages, bottles of nectar and ambrosia, rusted armor, and who knows how many other random objects.

The mission was simple: take inventory and organize.

But honestly, there was zero chance this was just a coincidence.

“All the cabin counselors were busy? Really?” I scoffed, leaning against a crate. “Even Travis and Connor?”

“Yep. They had something ‘super important’ to do.” Percy air-quoted. “Playing cards.”

“And Annabeth and Clarisse whispering before dumping this on us?”

We exchanged a look.

“We got played,” we said in unison.

Percy sighed, resigned. “Well, at least we’re in this together.”

His smile was enough to make me forget, for a second, how awful this assignment was.

Damn you, Jackson.

2. The Trap (And the Definitely-Not-Accidental Lock-In)

Twenty minutes later, while we were trying to work in silence, it happened.

CLACK!

The door lock clicked shut behind us.

My demigod instincts kicked in instantly. I spun around and ran to the exit.

“No. No, no, no, you have got to be kidding me…”

I twisted the knob. Nothing. Knocked on the door. Solid.

Percy leaned against the wood with the most defeated expression ever.

“We’re locked in, aren’t we?”

“We’re locked in.”

He pulled out Riptide, full of confidence, and tried to slash the door in half.

CLANK!

Nothing.

He tried again. Same result. Then, I heard laughter. Familiar, unmistakable laughter. Annabeth and Clarisse.

I blinked.

“No way.”

“Annabeth and Clarisse totally set us up.”

I crossed my arms and sighed. “We’re stuck.”

Percy looked at me and smirked. “Could be worse.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

“There could be spiders everywhere.”

“You think this is funny, Jackson?”

“I think it’s always better to laugh at our misery.”

I glared at him… but, unfortunately, his stupid smile made me smile too.

3. Heat, Stares, and Way Too Much Tension

The storage room was getting unbearably hot.

“It’s warm in here,” Percy muttered, taking off his jacket and tying it around his waist.

“It's june Jackson,what did you expect?.”

I tried fanning myself with the inventory sheet, but it didn’t help.

Then, I felt it.

His stare.

And not just any stare.

Percy was looking at me. Really looking.

Like he had just now noticed my sports top sticking to my skin or the sweat trickling down my neck.

I swallowed hard.

“Want some water?” His voice was lower than usual.

“Yeah,” I murmured.

He crouched down to grab a bottle. And for the love of the gods, why did even that have to look good?

Muscles flexing under tan skin, his stupid orange camp shirt stretching across his back.

No one gave you permission to be this unfairly hot, Jackson, I thought, because seriously, I’m strong, but not that strong.

I looked away before he could catch me staring.

I failed.

Percy turned just in time to catch me mid-appreciation.

His smirk was slow. Teasing.

“You okay?”

“Perfectly.”

“Sure?”

“Completely.”

He handed me the bottle. When I grabbed it, our fingers brushed.

A spark ran up my arm.

Percy noticed.

Oh, he definitely noticed.

4. The Lock-In Dilemma (And How to ‘Pass the Time’)

“We could yell for help,” I said, desperate for distraction.

Percy laughed.

“Yeah, right. Like Annabeth and Clarisse are letting us out anytime soon.”

“Maybe someone else will pass by.”

“Maybe. Or maybe we’re stuck here all night.”

I swallowed hard.

“That would be… terrible.”

Percy raised an eyebrow.

“Would it?”

“I mean… yes.”

“Uh-huh.”

I ignored his suggestive tone.

“The important thing is staying busy until we get out.”

“And how do you suggest we ‘stay busy’?” he asked, emphasizing the words.

I shot him a look.

He looked back.

Silence.

A silence way too charged.

Percy stepped closer.

I didn’t step back.

His gaze dropped to my lips.

My heart pounded.

His hand brushed my waist.

Gods.

We were really about to cross that line, weren’t we?

5. Interrupted (By Two Traitors with Smug Smiles)

Percy was inches away when—

CLACK!

The door swung open.

We jumped apart so fast I nearly tripped over a crate.

In the doorway, Annabeth and Clarisse stood with way too satisfied grins.

“How’s the ‘inventory session’ going?” Clarisse asked, crossing her arms.

“Oh, gods!” Annabeth gasped dramatically. “Did we interrupt something?”

Percy and I exchanged glances, still catching our breath.

“Rot in Tartarus,” I muttered.

Clarisse burst out laughing.

Annabeth smirked knowingly.

And Percy…

Well, Percy shot me a sideways glance with that stupid, stupid smile of his.