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[comatosebunny09]

and they were roommates | sylus

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, slice of life, mild language, mutual pining, reader is shorter than sylus, flirting, gendered terms (good girl), mild jealousy, 2.2k of self-indulgent dribble now playing: sweet time - raveena part 1 | part 3 | part 4

Coffee. 

Cuban, aromatic, sweet, bold. Nostalgic.

It’s the first thing to bring you to consciousness, followed by birds chirping outside, and the unbroken purr of a lawn mower.

You’re in your bed, swiping along the sheets in wide arcs as if chasing the remnants of sleep. Dreams of cerulean beach waves, sand caught in the interstices of your toes, the sun warming your cheeks.

Morning announces itself in the form of a golden strip cast over your eyes. 

You peek them open, throat dry, mouth sticky. A little sad to see you’re not at the beach, not tucked safe in your childhood home.

You push up with an unflattering yawn and crackling limbs. A glance at your phone reveals it’s a little past eight. It’s your day off. Still got some time to get ahead of the morning rush for grocery shopping.

The scent of coffee curls around you like a wispy shawl, and you’re warm inside. Smiling, lugging yourself off the bed to the window where you know he’ll be.

A glance outside and across the street reveals that familiar thatch of white, contrasting with the vibrant grass as Sylus pushes the lawn mower back and forth.

You’d almost forgotten he was back, kind of used to getting along without him. And of course, he’s up bright and early, helping your elderly neighbor tend to his yard. Made time to make you coffee on that expensive espresso machine he refuses to let you touch.

Funny. 

For someone who claims to abhor the sun, he’s best friends with it—the way it threads through his hair like he’s Atlas himself, bearing the sky on burly shoulders. How it highlights the rippling muscles in his back beneath a sweat-slicked tank, the tendons flexing in his legs as he works. 

You cross your arms and lean near the window, watching him push to a standstill when your neighbor approaches with water and a towel. Like clockwork, the old man draws him into conversation, nonsensical things in no particular order. And Sylus is always patient, letting your neighbor ramble like he’s got all the time in the world.

As if remembering yourself, you blink away your reverie. Shake it off. You sound like a lovesick fool. A secret admirer. Aren’t you? You’ve got better things to do than pine after your roomie.

So you strip down and crowd into the shower, the crisp spray a welcome reprieve for your stiff muscles. You slip into something that fits the heat—the kind that refracts light waves off the pavement, scorching enough to fry eggs outside and bring the mosquitoes out.

You sweep your hair into something passable, trotting down the stairs to the kitchen. The coffee’s still hot, warm in the mug between your palms and down your gullet. 

Not only is he a tolerable housemate, but he listens. Made it a point to stock your pantry with coffee that chased away your homesickness—imported—probably sick of you bitching about how much you missed it. Tired of asking why you’ll never go back.

A plate covered in a cheesecloth awaits you on the stove with a sad excuse for a cat scrawled onto a sticky note on top. You snort. Fish out a piece of bacon, pop a few blueberries strewn across your pancakes into your mouth. 

From the kitchen window, Sylus and your neighbor have moved to the old man’s porch. They’re seated on his rocking chairs, mouths moving, expressions easygoing beneath the flag fluttering in the balmy breeze. It’s infectious, that rare quirk to Sylus’ lips. Everything about him seems infectious these days. 

Swiping your keys from the counter and toeing on your sneakers, you push through the front door, and the humidity slaps you with zero remorse. 

Both men across the street perk up when you hit the remote start, your neighbor waving at you with a wrinkly, knowing smile.

You return his greeting, prickly when scarlet eyes track your every step as you round the car to the pooped-up trunk. 

You’re shuffling things around to make room for groceries when you feel him behind you—a tingly pressure between your shoulder blades, his shadow pressing into you and blotting out the sun.

“Going somewhere?” he asks, amused.

You jolt, a hand over your heart. You knew your roommate was back there, yet that voice is something lethal. Always manages to make you forget the world is a thing, breathing and thriving around you.

You turn, propping against the trunk’s edge, trying to play it cool over crossed arms. “God, warn me next time, will you? For your info, I’m going grocery shopping so my roomie doesn’t think I’m irresponsible and broke.”

There goes that lethal combo—that smirk, that chuckle. It’s not fair that he makes something as simple as roosting his hand on the edge of the trunk look cool, so close, you make out the veins and sinew jumping in his arm. Smell the sweat salting his skin, the grass staining his shorts.

“Irresponsible, yes.” Sylus pokes your forehead, and you sputter at how rough he pushes. “Broke, never. Not with me around.”

You huff, looking off to the side, pretending to be annoyed. Pretending like it wouldn’t take much to grab the front of his shirt and tug him down and—

Enough of that.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m assuming you’re done being a good Samaritan since you have time to talk.”

He straightens, that humor never leaving, that gaze sliding over you, stopping center mass, before finding your eyes again. He tugs on the towel around his neck, and you’re swallowing when his Adam’s apple bobs, chasing the sweat pouring down his throat. 

“Mostly. Want company?”

You jut your chin out defiantly, haughty, like you’re not giddy at the prospect of him tagging along. “Thought you didn’t like crowds.”

Something shifts in those lava fields. A glimmer of something burrowing deep before he’s back to his usual, smug self. Angles himself closer, making your heart skip a beat.

He’s all teeth when he says, “They’re bearable when I’m with you. Give me ten, and I’ll come with.”

You’re nodding like a lovelorn idiot, mouth halfway open, still processing what he said as he wanders into the house.

It’s hard to keep your walls up when he says shit like that. Chips away at those aged bricks you put up around your heart after you assumed he was seeing someone—the feminine name he’d say in hushed urgency, stepping out of earshot to take her call.

Whatever. 

It’s just a trip to the store. And he’s always been a tease. 

You brush it off, slamming the trunk shut, and slipping into the driver's seat to wait for this enigma of a man to clean up. 

—

Mornings have never been your forte. 

But you take advantage of them when it means getting a leg up on the housewives and boisterous teens who like to crowd the supermarket later on.

It’s eventless inside, a few customers scuttling about, music echoing from the speakers. The overhead lights compete with that of the sun bleeding through the windows, and your cart squeals and sticks.

One hand is tight around the buggy’s handle, the other pressing your phone to your chest. You’re tense, tight-lipped, pulse jackhammering in your throat. 

The source of your anxiety walks a comfortable distance behind and to the side, perusing the aisles with as much interest as someone out of their element. He’s not as close as he was before when he’d manipulated you into bringing him with you, but you’re still all prickly like he wrote sin into your bare skin with his fingers.

You always get like this when he’s gone for a while and comes back. Like meeting up with a stranger, sifting through the filing cabinet of your mind on what to say and how not to sound stupid saying it. 

You’re nestled between towering aisles of cereal when you glance over your shoulder, mouth moving, but nothing coming out. Sylus watches you, brow lifted, expectant. And your tongue’s suddenly too heavy for your mouth as you laugh it off, facing forward again.

You’ve never been this shy before. Never been this hesitant to fill the space between you with shit-talking and an interrogation on where he ran off to this time. Real estate conferences typically don’t last for most of the month. But you know your prodding won’t get you anywhere because he’s so good at diverting your questions and changing the subject.

“So,” you finally begin, attempting to break up the dense air between you. “We need milk, eggs, and bread. Maybe that bourgeois yogurt you like. Butter, oatmeal, and—ah, fuck. Forgot the plums.”

You stiffen, prepared to turn around, abandoning the cart in the middle of the aisle, but Sylus cuts you off. You almost run into him, that solid wall of strength, the heat of his skin overwhelming, the crisp notes of his cologne like chloroform. 

You look up to that knowing cant on his lips, and with a hand in his pocket, he tells you, “I’ll take care of it. You handle the rest.”

Nodding, you watch him walk off before venturing further down the aisle by yourself, grateful for the save.

At the end of the aisle, of course the oatmeal you want is on the top fucking shelf. And you’re straining on tippy-toe, fingers just barely grazing it. You purse your lips, contemplating stepping on the shelves for an assist, but it seems some higher being pities you today.

“I got you,” chimes a friendly voice from behind. 

His hand reaches over you before you put a face to a voice, plucking the tub of oats down for you. Almost close enough to crowd you against the shelves. You turn, following the stretch of his arm as he steps back, a nervous chuckle in your throat when he deposits the container into your hands.

“Hey, thanks,” you say, smile courteous, the container pressed to your bosom. “I owe you one.”

It’s awkward. Blinking. Staring. Averting your eyes. 

Your savior makes no move to leave, instead making himself comfortable, all teeth and confidence as he leans against a shelf. 

“Hard to believe a pretty thing like you shops all by herself. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in town. You live around here?”

You have this nasty habit of letting your face convey your emotions in place of your words. It’s instinctual. But this guy was nice enough to help, so you tamp down your discomfort, chuckling anxiously. Maybe if you entertain him a little, he’ll take the hint and leave you alone. 

“Um, yeah. Just out running errands. Trying to get my life together. You know.” 

Mr. Smug Smiles still doesn't budge, doesn’t pick up on your unease, instead taking you in like a starving wolf ogling skewered meat. 

“Maybe I could help you out. Grab anything else you can’t reach.” He steps closer, voice descending. “And maybe you could give me your number.”

Before you can work your mouth into a retort, you feel it—quiet, intimidating pressure behind you. Swallowing you whole, though the ire pouring off his skin isn’t directed at you. 

You nearly leap some fifty feet out of your body when a sizable hand falls to your back. The touch is light, but it’s hard not to sense the possessive flex of his fingers as he scorches you down to the bone.

You peer up as Sylus steps in, glare unrelenting on the man before you, and he drops a bag of plums into the cart like they’ve personally offended him. Your breath corks in your throat as his jaw pulls, the tendons in his throat twitching. If looks could kill, you’re sure he would’ve murdered this guy a thousand times over. It’s kind of…hot. And it convinces you just for a second that maybe your roomie’s into you, too.

Sylus’ demeanor shifts from murderous to sweet, giving you whiplash when he looks down at you. Asks, “Do you have everything you need, sweetheart?”

The way the name rolls off his tongue drips hot into your belly, and you’re nodding like a mindless little thing, lost in the soft stir of his irises. He reaches around you to grip the cart’s handle, trapping you between cool metal and sweltering strength. He turns you away from the sputtering man who had no idea you kept such company, walking you down the aisle into another.

Moments pass, and Sylus doesn’t let go. Doesn’t release you from the cage of his body, doesn’t loosen the clench of his jaw until you’re in the frozen section.

You start when he angles low, his hair tickling your neck, your cheek, lips a tease by your ear. It’s pleasant, satisfying, the way his voice drags like chalk against a smooth sidewalk, igniting a flurry of goosebumps across your skin.

“The next time you need assistance, don’t ask a stranger. Wait for me. Understood?”

You have this nagging feeling there’s more to his words than what’s at surface level. And you have half a mind to tell him you didn’t ask for anything. Yet you stutter out a quiet, “Ye-yeah,” absently nudging closer to his mouth.

You feel it curve against your ear—his sly smile. Watch his fingers tighten around the buggy’s handle, forearms just barely brushing your sides.

“Good girl.”

And you don’t realize you’re still clutching the damn oatmeal for dear life until you drop it on your foot.

tags: @pemhpredo, @bluesidez, @thirstblogforaparchedgirl, @freeprincesslove, @raginginferno267, @dyeinsomniadontwake

[goldfades]

more crash out couple please, such a powerful duo I need more, like maybe her being mad Luka got traded or something 😭😭

hell yes!!! i missed this iconic duo<3 (me and the 100 ppl who read it, love yall)

You almost break your phone when you see the notification.

The screen lights up with the headline—Mavericks Trade Luka Dončić to Lakers in Blockbuster Deal—and suddenly, the entire world tilts.

The gym around you fades, the echoes of bouncing balls and sneakers squeaking on hardwood becoming white noise. You’re supposed to be getting shots up before practice, but instead, you’re gripping your phone so tight your fingers ache, reading and rereading the words like they might shift into something less catastrophic if you just glare hard enough.

They traded him.

They traded your Luka.

Your jaw clenches. Your fingers flex. You’re already mad, but then the push notification updates, and you see the trade details—Luka Dončić to the Lakers in exchange for draft picks and—nope. That’s it. That’s all it takes.

The ball in your other hand gets launched across the court.

It smacks against the padded wall with a thud, loud enough to make Sabrina stop mid-shot and stare. The assistant coach flinches. Even the rookies, who have already witnessed a fair share of your outbursts, hesitate before returning to their drills.

You don’t care.

“Yo.” Sabrina’s voice cuts through the tension, cautious but curious. “You good?”

You turn to her, expression thunderous, and shove your phone in her face. “They traded Luka.”

She blinks. “Oh, shit.”

“Oh, shit?” you repeat, voice rising. “That’s all you have to say?”

She exhales, lowering the ball in her hands. “Look, I get it, but—”

“No, you don’t get it,” you snap, shoving your phone into your pocket and pacing like a caged animal. “They traded him. They didn’t even—Luka is Dallas! You don’t just—” You stop, shaking your head violently, hands on your hips as you try to keep from combusting. “I swear to God, if I see Mark Cuban in public, it’s over for him.”

Sabrina mutters something about fines under her breath, but you’re already spiraling.

Because this isn’t just about basketball. This isn’t just about Luka having to swap jerseys or move to another city.

This is about the fact that they ripped him away from the team he built. The city that loved him. And worse—worse than anything—they did it without so much as a warning.

You know Luka. You know how much he gave to that franchise, how much he meant to it. And now he’s supposed to act like this is just part of the business? Like it’s fine?

The thought makes your blood boil.

And then, as if the universe is personally taunting you, your phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a text from Luka.

“Babe.”

That’s it. That’s all he says, but you can already hear his voice, can already picture the way he’s probably sitting somewhere with his head in his hands, trying to act like this doesn’t hurt.

Oh, hell no.

You grab your bag and are halfway out the gym before anyone can stop you.

“Where are you—”

“To LA,” you call over your shoulder.

Sabrina sighs. “You don’t even have a flight booked.”

“I will by the time I get to the airport.”

You shove open the gym doors and step out into the cold New York air, pulling your phone back out and dialing before you’ve even fully caught your breath.

Luka picks up on the second ring.

“Baby, listen, I—”

“I’m furious.”

There’s a pause. Then, a tired chuckle. “Yeah, I figured.”

You clench your jaw. “Where are you?”

A beat. Then, softer, “Hotel.”

“Text me the address.”

Luka hesitates. “You don’t have to—”

“I wasn’t asking.”

Silence. Then a small exhale, almost like relief. “Okay.”

Your phone buzzes a second later with the location, and you’re already pulling up flights.

If the NBA thinks Luka is just going to smile and move on, they’re dead wrong.

The flight to LA was a blur. You didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, barely even blinked. Your thoughts ran too hot, looping over and over on Luka, on the Mavericks, on the absolute disrespect of it all. Every time the plane hit turbulence, you imagined it was Mark Cuban getting body-checked into the stands.

Now, at 5 AM, you stand outside Luka’s hotel room, heartbeat hammering.

You don’t knock. You don’t hesitate. You swipe the key card he sent you, shove the door open, and step inside.

The lights are dim, but Luka is awake. Of course he’s awake.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He’s still in the clothes he probably wore to whatever last-minute meeting the Lakers shoved him into yesterday—a hoodie, sweatpants, sneakers untied like he never bothered to take them off. There are unopened water bottles on the nightstand, a half-eaten protein bar beside them.

When the door clicks shut behind you, he looks up.

And the second he sees you, something in him breaks.

Before you can say anything, before you can even take a full breath, Luka is on you.

His arms wrap around you, tight, desperate. His body folds into yours like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His face buries in the crook of your neck, and you feel him exhale, long and shaky, like he’s been holding his breath for the past twenty-four hours.

You don’t hesitate. You grip him just as fiercely, fingers digging into his hoodie, grounding him, keeping him here. He smells like faint cologne and exhaustion, and under that, something more raw. Something unsteady.

Luka isn’t the type to crumble. He gets mad, gets loud, gets chaotic—but he doesn’t crumble.

Except now, in your arms, he does.

“I hate this,” he mutters against your skin. His voice is rough, thick with exhaustion and frustration and everything in between. “I hate all of it.”

You slide a hand up his back, fingers pressing into his shoulders, firm and steady. “I know.”

“I didn’t even—I didn’t get a say. They just—” His grip tightens. “Four years. Four years, I give them everything, and then—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to. You feel the rage simmering beneath his skin, the betrayal laced into every word.

You shift slightly, just enough to pull back and look at him. His face is tired, jaw clenched, eyes rimmed with sleepless frustration. You reach up, brushing a thumb against his cheek, and his eyes flutter shut at the touch, like he’s been waiting for something—someone—to anchor him.

“I’m here,” you say, quiet but firm.

Luka’s eyes open, and for a second, he just looks at you. Then, he exhales again, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

“You flew all the way here,” he murmurs.

“Of course I did.” Your tone is sharp, like the mere suggestion that you wouldn’t is offensive. “You think I was gonna let you go through this shit alone?”

Something flickers across his face—something raw, vulnerable, something he doesn’t let just anyone see.

Then, after a pause, he tugs you toward the bed.

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls you with him, and you let him. He flops back, dragging you down beside him, arms still wrapped around you, holding on like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

The room is quiet. The city outside is already waking up, but in here, time slows.

“You’re the only one I need right now,” he mutters, voice low, almost like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud.

Your chest aches at the confession, but you don’t say anything. You just shift closer, pressing a kiss to his temple, letting your presence speak for itself.

Luka sighs, and for the first time in what feels like forever, his body fully relaxes.

You stay like that, tangled together in the quiet, until sleep finally claims him.

A couple of hours later, you’re sitting across from Luka in the dimly lit hotel dining area, watching him glare at a plate of eggs like they personally orchestrated his trade.

“You have to eat,” you say, prodding at your own food.

“I’m not hungry.” His voice is flat, mutinous. His hoodie is pulled up over his head, shadowing his tired face.

“You think I care?” You level him with a look. “Eat.”

Luka grumbles something under his breath in Slovenian, but he picks up his fork anyway, stabbing at a piece of toast like it offended him. You take that as a victory.

The only other people in the restaurant are a few early risers and some poor intern in a Lakers polo grabbing coffee-to-go. The news of Luka’s trade is still hot, and you know the media will be circling like vultures the second he steps outside, but right now, in this quiet pocket of time, it’s just you and him.

And, apparently, his rage.

“Four years,” he mutters, pushing eggs around his plate. “Four years, and they don’t even call me first. I wake up, check my phone, and boom—I’m a Laker.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Not even a fucking text from Mark. Not even a ‘thank you for carrying our franchise on your back, Luka, we really appreciate you.’”

You cross your arms, leaning back in your chair. “I told you. If I ever see Mark Cuban, it’s over for him.”

Luka huffs a laugh—short, but real. It makes your chest loosen just a little.

He takes a reluctant bite of toast, chewing like he’s being forced at gunpoint. “And now I have to do the whole welcome to LA bullshit,” he continues, words muffled. “Smile for the cameras. Shake hands. Act like I wanted this.”

Your fingers drum against the table. “You gonna be nice about it?”

He looks up at you, incredulous. “Have you met me?”

Fair point.

You exhale, shaking your head. “I swear, if they make you say some PR-scripted ‘I’m excited for this opportunity’ speech, I might actually throw up.”

“They already sent me a script.” Luka shoves his phone across the table, screen glowing with an email from Lakers PR. You skim the message, eyes narrowing at phrases like thrilled to join this legendary organization and I can’t wait to start this journey.

You push the phone back. “I hate it here.”

Luka leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, voice dropping lower. “And you know the worst part?”

“What?”

He gestures around vaguely. “It’s too fucking sunny here.”

You blink. “Luka.”

“No, seriously.” He gestures toward the windows, where the LA morning is already creeping in, golden and warm. “It’s February. There should be clouds. Wind. A little sadness in the air. But no, it’s all palm trees and sunshine like nothing happened.”

You stare at him for a long moment before snorting. “You’re mad at the weather?”

“Yes!” He throws his hands up. “It’s unnatural.”

That shouldn’t be funny. But with the way he says it—with all the intensity of someone who just lost a Game 7 at the buzzer—it is. You press your lips together, trying to keep a straight face.

Luka narrows his eyes. “You’re laughing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.” You take a sip of orange juice to hide your grin. “I just think it’s hilarious that out of all the shit you could be mad about, this is what broke you.”

Luka leans back in his chair, crossing his arms like a sulking teenager. “You don’t get it. I had seasonal depression in Dallas. I needed that.”

You roll your eyes, kicking him lightly under the table. “Eat your damn eggs, sunshine.”

He glares, but he takes another bite.

For a few minutes, you eat in relative silence, the weight of everything still heavy in the air but not suffocating like it was before. Luka looks exhausted—his face drawn, his usual sharp smirk replaced with something duller—but at least he’s eating. At least he’s here.

And at least he has you.

After a while, he exhales, poking at his plate with his fork. “I know it’s stupid, but…” He trails off, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “It just feels like I didn’t get a choice.”

Your heart clenches.

“It’s not stupid,” you say, firm. “They did you dirty, Luka. You’re allowed to be pissed.”

Luka tilts his head, studying you. “You’re more mad than I am.”

You scoff. “Of course I am. You know I fight harder for you than you fight for yourself.”

He shakes his head, a soft chuckle escaping. “My little menace.”

“Damn right.”

There’s a beat of silence before Luka stretches out his legs, nudging your foot under the table. “You’re staying, right?”

You raise a brow. “In LA?”

He nods, something unspoken behind his eyes.

You huff. “Where else would I be?”

Luka exhales, and just like that, you see some of the tension in his shoulders finally—finally—ease.

Yeah. You’re staying.

Even if LA is too sunny, even if the trade is bullshit, even if the next few months are going to be a mess. You’re not going anywhere.

--

A few weeks later, you find yourself sitting under the blinding lights of a New York Liberty press conference, fingers tapping rhythmically against the table as some PR rep drones on about preseason expectations.

You’re seated between Sabrina and one of the rookies, both of whom look way more at ease than you feel. Sabrina leans back in her chair, arms crossed, while the rookie—bright-eyed, still a little too eager—nods along like she actually cares about whatever corporate script is being read.

You, on the other hand?

You’re fighting for your life trying to keep your expression neutral.

Because you already know what’s coming.

It took all of a week after Luka’s trade for the media to start dragging you into it. At first, they tried to be subtle, slipping his name into post-game interviews like you wouldn’t notice. Then they got bolder—ESPN doing full Crash Out Couple: Will They Survive LA? segments, reporters cornering you in tunnels, even random fans asking if you were gonna pull a Brittney Griner and demand a trade to the Sparks just to be with Luka.

As if you’d ever leave New York.

Still, you handled it all like a pro. Gave the usual non-answers—"I support Luka no matter what," "We're both focused on our seasons," "No, I will not be elaborating on what I said about Mark Cuban at baggage claim."

But now? Sitting in front of a packed press conference, cameras rolling, microphones lined up in front of you like weapons of war? You can already tell today’s gonna be the day.

You barely register the first few questions—some fluff about team chemistry, how the offseason is treating you, the usual. You answer just enough to stay professional but keep it short, letting Sabrina and the others do the heavy lifting.

Then, just as you predicted, some reporter in the back clears his throat.

“Now, I know this is a Liberty press conference,” he starts, already trying to soften the blow, “but I have to ask—what are your thoughts on Luka Dončić’s trade to LA?”

There it is.

You feel Sabrina stiffen beside you. Someone exhales quietly, like they just know you’re about to start some shit.

And honestly?

They’re not wrong.

You take a slow breath, sitting up a little straighter. “You wanna know what I think?”

The reporter nods, already looking excited.

You fold your hands on the table, voice steady. “I think it���s the dumbest trade I’ve ever seen.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, the room erupts.

Cameras flash. Journalists start whispering, fingers flying over keyboards. Sabrina visibly bites back a smirk.

But you’re not done.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked.” You lean forward slightly, giving the reporters a pointed look. “You know it was stupid. Luka was the Mavericks. He carried that team, gave them everything, and they just—what? Dump him? Act like he’s replaceable? Like he wasn’t the best thing that franchise has had since Dirk?”

You shake your head, letting out a sharp, humorless laugh.

“They didn’t even warn him,” you continue, voice measured but laced with just enough bite. “Didn’t even have the decency to let him hear it from them first. He found out like everyone else—through the media. After four years.” You glance around, making sure every single person in the room is listening. “You tell me—does that sound like a team that knows what the hell they’re doing?”

Someone near the front stifles a laugh.

The rookie next to you is staring, wide-eyed, like she just realized you’re really like this in real life.

The PR rep off to the side looks like he’s actively considering quitting.

You give the reporters a moment to scramble over each other before adding, “And don’t get it twisted—I’m not mad at the Lakers. If they wanna benefit from Dallas’ stupidity, that’s their business.” You tilt your head. “But let’s not pretend this wasn’t one of the worst front office decisions we’ve seen in a long time.”

Sabrina clears her throat, barely suppressing a smirk. “So… you feel strongly about this.”

You shoot her a look. “Oh, we’re doing sarcasm now?”

She grins, leaning back. “Just making sure.”

A different reporter cuts in, notebook in hand. “Are you saying the Mavericks made a mistake?”

You blink, deadpan. “Do you think they made a mistake?”

He hesitates. “Well—”

“No, go ahead.” You gesture. “Say with your chest.”

He doesn’t respond.

Exactly. At this point, you can practically hear the headlines being written in real time.

Crash Out Couple Strikes Again: Liberty Star Calls Luka Trade ‘Dumbest Ever’ Luka’s Girlfriend Goes Scorched Earth on Mavericks Mark Cuban, Look Away—This One’s Gonna Hurt

You sigh, shaking your head. “Look, all I’m saying is—Luka deserved better. And he’s gonna be fine in LA, don’t get me wrong. He’s already killing it. But let’s not pretend the Mavericks didn’t fumble badly.”

A few reporters nod, some murmuring in agreement.

Then, a woman in the front row speaks up. “So, do you think Luka should be happy in LA? Do you think this trade was ultimately a good thing for him?”

You pause.

Because that’s the real question, isn’t it?

After everything—after the shock, the anger, the adjustment—after all the late-night phone calls, the exhausted rants over FaceTime, the too-silent hotel rooms when he was on the road—do you think he’s happy?

You tap your fingers against the table once. Twice.

Then, finally, you nod.

“I think he’s making the best of it.”

It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no either.

It’s just the truth.

Luka is still Luka—he’s still dropping triple-doubles, still making absurd off-balance threes like he was built for Hollywood. The fans love him, the Lakers are feeding him the ball, and the league is already hyping him up like he’s the second coming of Magic Johnson.

But you know him.

And you know that no matter how well he plays, no matter how many games they win—he’s still carrying that weight. That bitterness. That feeling of being discarded.

So yeah, he’s making the best of it.

But he shouldn’t have had to.

You clear your throat. “Next question.”

The room buzzes, journalists exchanging glances, already gearing up for more.

Sabrina leans over, voice low. “You do realize you just went viral in real-time, right?”

You sigh, grabbing your water bottle. “Good.”

Because if the Mavericks thought they were done hearing about this trade? They were dead wrong.

The press conference wraps up, and the energy in the room is palpable—reporters buzzing with excitement, scribbling down everything you just said like they’re gathering ammunition. You can already feel the headlines forming, but honestly? You don’t care.

You stay composed, answering a couple more questions before Sabrina nudges you, her lips twitching with that knowing smile. “You really went off.”

“Glad I got your approval,” you shoot back, but you’re already scanning the crowd, searching for the exit.

As soon as the conference ends, you slip out the side door, dodging any lingering press. Your phone vibrates in your pocket—likely some good job text from your manager or a PR person who’s already trying to figure out how to spin it.

But then you see the name.

Luka.

You swipe your phone open and quickly scan his message. It’s simple, but you can feel the weight behind it.

Luka 💙: You’re insane, but I love you.

Your heart flutters despite the chaos.

You lean against the wall of the hallway, a soft chuckle escaping your lips as you read it again.

You remember—Luka is still Luka. He’s still your chaotic, brilliant, stubborn, sweet Luka. He’s still the guy who finds a way to smile even when everything around him feels like it’s falling apart. The guy who’s probably on the other side of the country trying to make sense of this new life in LA, but still, somehow, always makes time to text you something that makes your chest ache with warmth.

You bite your lip, your fingers hovering over the keys.

You: You knew what you signed up for when you went out with me 😒

You: I love you, too

You press send before you can second-guess it.

The reply is almost instant:

Luka 💙: I saw the press conference. Glad you’re making them feel stupid. I needed that.

You grin.

You: Good. You deserve to be pissed off. Just wish I could've done it myself.

Luka’s response is quick, but it’s the last part that makes your heart do a little flip.

Luka 💙: I’m still your man. No matter where I am.

You pause for a moment, your thumb resting over your phone screen.

Because, despite everything—the trade, the new city, the looming questions about what comes next—you know Luka’s right. He’s still yours.

You feel a sudden surge of warmth, your chest swelling with a mix of pride and possessiveness. Luka might be living in LA now, but he’s never going to truly belong to anyone else.

Not when he’s yours.

I know, you reply, your words simple but full of everything you feel in this moment. I got you. Always.

And as you hit send, you know that no matter where you are—no matter how much distance gets between you two in the future—Luka’s still going to be your home.

The trade? It might have put a dent in his world. But for you two?

You’re both still crashing out, together, no matter what.

[httpsserene]

mouth like liquor — 𝐝𝐫. 𝟑 daniel ricciardo x fem!black!reader 3.5k words. requested! explicit sexual content. pwp. alcohol. one night stand. car sex. mild exhibitionism. oral sex (m & f receiving). reader has $$$. reader will ruin your life and look hot doing it. inspo from partition by beyoncé.

synopsis: driver, roll up the partition, please.

⌕ join taglist | feedback & requests | upcoming chapters | table of contents ↻

From the moment you strolled by to reach your reserved table, his eyes have been locked on you. You haven’t decided if you want to meet his stare, there hasn’t been an opportunity to appraise if he’d be worth more than a passing thought. 

Your attention is called back to the table by one of your girls, who points out a different man who’s paid for a round of shots. He’s adorable, cute even, younger than you’d usually entertain, sporting a flashy Cuban link chain and cable knit sweater with loose jeans—but his company leaves a lot to be desired. His friends barely look like men, dressed in wrinkled shirts and zippered jeans, flexing their singular bottle of Hennessy for the table on social media. You nod at him once in thanks for the shots and he tips his glass at you, understanding your meaning. He’s the second man who’s paid for your drinks tonight, and the second man you’ve had to politely turn down. The first guy was so unremarkable you can’t recall why you decided he wasn’t worth your time.

You down the lemon drop, humming at the burn as your girls cheer in the background. They decide to make their way to the dance floor and you opt to stay at the table, claiming that you’re going to order another drink before joining them.

They slink off at your excuse and minutes after they’ve disappeared, a daiquiri is brought to you by a bottle girl. Her sickly sweet voice doesn’t disguise the envious glare in her eyes as she informs you that it’s been paid for, tipping her head to point out the man who’s been quietly observing for the entire thirty minutes you’ve been seated at the table. 

In this club, every woman loathes you, and every man is waiting for you to decide who gets to unclothe you. 

You accept the drink, thanking her politely, stirring the daiquiri as you watch her swallow her scoff before walking away. If you were as immature as she is, you would have her fired in the blink of an eye.

You make him wait five minutes longer before turning to lock eyes with him from across the room, bringing the glass to your lips to sip the daiquiri, tilting your head to elongate the length of your neck, exaggerating the bob of your throat as you swallow. Peach Schnapps and passion fruit rum warm your chest. It’s delicious. You don’t stop sipping, maintaining eye contact with the unknown man until it runs dry. Exhaling quietly, you lower the empty glass, fluttering your eyelashes at him as you swipe your tongue across your bottom lip to collect the lingering drops of alcohol.

His mouth parts in incredulity, you assume, and you take advantage of the lapse of his composure to examine him. Your gaze is languid as it drifts from his brunette curls to his full eyebrows and warm brown eyes, to his strong nose, ample lips, and groomed beard, to his broad shoulders and the exposed tanned skin of his collarbone that teases a sliver of what’s certainly a muscled chest and abdomen underneath a black shirt with the first two buttons unfastened. Accessorized with a simple silver chain around his neck and an expensive watch on his wrist, you think you spot a few tattoos underneath the low lighting. Your eyes flicker downward to gauge if his pants show what he’s packing, but the distance between the two of you prevents you from being able to play your favorite (and necessary) guessing game. You huff disappointedly, knowing you're going to have to speak and potentially dance with him to get a closer view or feel, for if he meets your standards.

Ending your inspection, you drag your gaze upward to see a smirk splayed across his lips with an amused shine to his eyes. You shrug as if to say, “Can you blame me?” before smiling widely at him, the white diamond jewels on your canines flashing under the sparse light, creating the facade of sparkling fangs. His smirk fades as he matches your grin, displaying a near-perfect set of white teeth (veneers or a product of braces, you presume) and he raises an eyebrow in query.

Tipping your head toward the dance floor, he nods his agreement. You kindly turn down a few men who invite you to their table on your walk past, making false promises of joining them later in the night. Locating your girls in the mess of dancing bodies, you inform them about your potential bed warmer. A couple of them roll their eyes laughingly, a couple of them smack their teeth, and a couple of them call you a whore—and giggling, you feign vexation, correcting your title of “whore” to “slut.” You don’t do this for money, you do it for fun.

Their judgment doesn’t last any longer than it takes them to remember that their various levels of drunkenness are due to your ability to enchant various men into making sure that none of you spend a single dollar inside this club. They perform a quick check of your outfit and makeup to make sure you’re perfectly put together before allowing you to slip away to ensnare your catch. 

You snake your way through the swaying crowd, taking a few minutes to locate those familiar broad shoulders. As you’re reaching out to place a hand on his back, you meet the eyes of a woman on his other side tugging his hand. Unfazed, you stare cooly, hiding your mirth within as you watch her face pale. She glances between you and the man once, before dropping her hand and stepping away, disappearing into the crowd.

He grins when your hand rests on his pec, his vision tunneling as you step around to press your chest to his, hips swaying to the music blasting from the speakers. You drape your arms over his shoulders and his hands raise to rest on your hips, his own stirring to match your rhythm with ease. 

He leans down to speak in your ear, alcohol-stained breath dancing over your skin and sending a shiver down your spine, “Jealous much?”

Hm, you weren’t expecting an accent. Straightening up, you turn to speak close to his ear as well.

With a short, performative chuckle, you chirp, “Of her? Not a chance. Were you trying to make me jealous?”

“No way,” his laughter is contagious, and you giggle into his bearded cheek without restraint, “I reckon if f I played that game, you wouldn’t waste another second on me.”

“You would be right,” you concede, finding no shame in that, “—Is that an Australian accent, I hear?”

“You would be right,” he parrots your phraseology, “Never met one of my kind before?”

You glance downwards, ogling at the weight pressing at his zipper, and up close, a sizable print stares right back at you. 

You grin predatorily, all sharp teeth and diamonds, teasingly grinding your hips forward, “Mm? No, I’ve met a couple. Can’t say any of them have been quite like you, though.”

“My name is Daniel,” he introduces himself, “I figure you at least need to know my name if we’re leaving together.”

Oh, how sweet of him. You won’t tell him that you never cared to get the names of the last four guys who kept you company. To please him, you give him your name, trailing your lips over the shell of his ear and down his well-muscled neck.

His left hand lowers to palm your ass, and you hum lowly, “My car is waiting out front if we’ve decided to stop pretending like we’re going to dance.”

Daniel’s hand pulls away to grab yours and he leads you to the club exit. Walking outside forty-five minutes after you entered, you point toward the running Mercedes Maybach waiting by the curb. Your driver moves to step out but you halt him with a wave of your hand, wordlessly telling him to stay put. This allows Daniel the chance to play gentlemen, opening the back door for you and making sure you don’t knock your head on the hinge as you sit before he follows you inside.

The door clicks shut and your lips crash together, teeth clacking with little finesse. Impatient, you bury a hand in his curls, tugging forcefully to direct his head in the perfect angle, chuckling breathlessly at the shocked groan that rumbles out of his chest. You deepen the kiss, nipping his bottom lip before sliding your tongue into the fray, licking out the lingering taste of the gin he’s ingested. He pulls you into his lap, hands fitfully roaming around the curves of your body like he can’t pick an area to settle. Offhandedly, you’re pleased to discover that his pretty teeth are not veneers, as you familiarize the shape of his mouth with yours, greedily swallowing his noises whole.

The sound of a throat clearing interrupts your pursuit, and your driver speaks, “Pardon the interruption—where am I heading, ma’am?”

His mouth leaves yours and you frown, sighing disapprovingly as you pull away. Your pout transforms into a tickled smile as the hot flush of the man underneath you deepens from pink to red, his pupils remaining flared with arousal even though his eyes are wide in embarrassment. Your red lipstick has left a faint tint; you want to see if you can turn that into a stain before you part ways.

Fuck. What’s his name? Nathaniel? Samuel? Gabriel? None of those sound right.

Tutting quietly, you start unbuttoning his shirt, “Do me a favor and tell my kind chauffeur where we’re headed.”

The flustered man stumbles through the address of the hotel he’s staying in, not petrified enough to forget his manners as he thanks your driver afterward. 

“Eric,” you call out to your driver, finishing with the buttons of the brunette’s shirt, scratching stiletto nails down his abdomen with one hand while the other traces a fingertip along his nose, “Would you mind rolling up the partition and turning up the music for yourself, please?”

“Of course, ma’am.”

The car pulls away from the curb, starting on the route toward the hotel. You assumed that he was humiliated or ashamed of being overheard or seen, but the notion is dismissed as he pulls you off his lap to rest in the seat, lowering himself to his knees between your legs before the partition has finished rolling up.

He cranes upward to reconnect your lips, hand braced at the nape of your neck to prevent the force of his movement from bashing you into the headrest. You hum, endeared at the mindful handling, savoring the scrape of his beard and mustache against your smooth, dark shin. Over-excitedly, his lips drift to map the sensitive expanse of your neck, pulling a shocked whimper from you at the first tease of teeth and pressure. He’s too eager to linger and continues to explore further, laving his tongue along your clavicle and nipping at your cleavage exposed by the low cut of your blouse.

His hands fist into the sheer fabric, ripping off your top and sending the buttons flying across the backseat. Need flares hungrily at the sensation of his lips suctioning on a patch of skin next to your nipple. Your mobility jolts into action, nails digging into his scalp to jerk his head back, and you assert, “You don’t get to leave marks.”

He doesn’t comprehend, distracted by the biting pain of your hold, hissing through his teeth, “W-what?”

You relax your grip, raking your fingertips through his curls apologetically, “What’s your name again, love?”

A dubious snort leaves him, “Should I be offended that you forgot that quickly? It’s Daniel.”

“Don’t take it personally, Danny,” your smile is shark-like, diamonds twinkling, red lips making it look like you’re coated in blood, “—And, don’t leave marks.”

Too horny to care about the insult of your forgetfulness, he nods to confirm he’s heard your request, pushing the hem of your skirt to bunch around your waist, thumbs digging into your hip bones. He skirts his lips along your inner thighs, breathing heavily over the fabric of your thong, already dampened a shade darker by your arousal. Daniel laves his tongue over your clothed heat, his depraved groan at the faint taste of you is louder than the choked gasp that punched out of your lungs. He tugs the fabric to the side, tucking it in the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis, revealing your beautifully swollen vulva. He licks indulgently at the petals of flesh, nose knocking against your clit, sending a bolt of pleasure spindling up your spine.

His tongue pushes inside, lapping deeply to coax out more of your flavor, the plushness of his mouth brushing against your labia. Daniel’s slurps and heavy breaths against your cunt echo around the back seat; if it didn’t sound like you were dripping wet, anyone overhearing may have assumed this was just a heavy make-out. Instead, your activities are fairly obvious, and your stuttered, debauched whimpers would expose what’s occurring in the car without doubt.

Honks sound from various directions outside, but it’s due to frustration with the stop-and-go traffic on the street. Blacked-out tint and loud R&B have yet to fail you. 

He sucks your clit between his lips harshly, circling his tongue around the swollen bud, and your frame jolts, hips bucking into his face, hand flying down to tangle in his hair, keeping him buried between your thighs, and crying out sharply at the almost overwhelming wave of pleasure. 

“Fuck—just like that,” you whimper, head rolling back. 

Daniel’s smug chuckle dances through your fluttering folds, but he keeps his focus narrowed on intensifying his motions, burying two fingers inside your pussy as he keeps his lips locked around your clit. His digits fuck you forcefully, curling upward and ravaging your spongy walls, slick noises multiplying at the speed he shoves them into you. The friction burn from his facial hair starts to sting and the compounded sensations have you throwing a leg over him, digging the heel of your foot into his shoulder blade to pull him closer.

The knot in your abdomen tightens, thighs straining to close around his head contradicting the movement of your hips rabbiting up into his mouth. His hand leaves your hip to grasp at your knee, keeping you pried open with ease. Your squeals go quiet, back arching, eyes screwed shut, muscles cording with tension, and the rope snaps—violent, white-hot satisfaction crashing over you like an unforgiving stormy sea and spilling over Daniel's tongue, lips, and chin.

His mouth and fingers continue their assault, riding the undulation of your hips with spectacular accuracy as the aftershocks shudder through. You go boneless, falling limp against the leather seat and batting Daniel’s head away, spent. You giggle breathily, bare chest heaving in exertion and you can only think about how you’re going to need to get the car detailed tomorrow. Your lids open hooded, peering down and sneering at the self-satisfied expression on Daniel’s face.

“You must spend a lot of time between a woman’s legs to be that good at it,” you say lightly, a bit of an underhanded compliment. With your lifestyle, who are you to judge?

He shifts stiffly, tattooed hands dropping to adjust his pants, and he snipes, “Or, maybe I just enjoy doing it. And, you’re easy.”

“Did you cum in your pants already?” Your voice sings demeaningly. “Or, do you want me to return the favor and show you which one of us is really easy?”

You swap positions, his legs alluringly spread wide as you situate yourself on the car floor. His smile is goading, buttoned shirt splayed open to reveal the tanned expanse of his toned physique riddled with claw marks from your nails, his tongue out, licking up the lingering trails of your essence and you smack your teeth at the needless display. You pull him out of his pants, keeping your delight at the heavy weight of him stored inward, a smirk quirking the corner of your lips as you notice the precum that’s moistened the head. Your hand wraps around the base to hold him steady and a fresh bead blots out from his slit, “I don’t see you lasting much longer, so tell me when you’re close.”

Not giving him a chance to respond, you lick from base to tip before swallowing down the first few inches, amused at the gasped “Fuck,” he exclaims. Daniel tastes like salt and the musk of man, the weight of him in your mouth quieting an innate need screaming at the base of your skull. You moan, guttural, sliding down until your lips meet your hand, tongue cradling the underside of his dick. 

You draw up slightly, inhaling through your nose, hand moving to rest on his clothed thigh before you slowly suck him down to the hilt, ignoring the urge to choke as he breaches your throat. He curses above you loudly, skull slamming into the headrest as he clumsily brushes the hair out of your face, tugging it back with a tight fist. Your lipstick leaves a ring of red around him and you pull off to press kisses on the throbbing length, admiring how the color of your lipstick begins to blend with the desperate flush of his cock. 

You suckle over him until he’s wet with spit, swallowing the pre that streaks out straight from the source. His abdomen contracts sporadically and you suck him down again, knowing if you continued teasing this would end sooner than prematurely. He bucks up and you mirror the movement, lips sealed tightly around his girth as you bob your head, ignoring your gag reflex.

“Fuck, how do you look so good doing this?” He moans, and you assume it’s rhetorical because your ability to explain how is compromised. 

Your technique is determined, eyes stinging at the constant intrusion as you watch his expressions shudder underneath your unwavering attention. Tears fall from your lash line as you suckle harder, tongue swirling as you struggle to pull him completely inside your mouth. Daniel’s present enough to understand your wants, and assists, using the grip he has in your hair to angle you perfectly, the final few centimeters slipping inside. 

You dig your nails into his thighs to hold him steady, swallowing around him repeatedly to tighten your throat further. Daniel yelps, choking on his own spit as he stutters, “S-shitshitshit—I’m gonna—”

Swiftly, you lean back until just the head remains between your lips, tongue lapping over the most sensitive areas while your hands rejoin to twist harshly around the rest. 

“Fuck,” Daniel grunts roughly, cock kicking. You draw off completely, angling his dick downward and sliding your hands up to wrench his tip, thumb digging into the slit, and then he’s spilling. 

His release streaks across your neck and chest, creamy and thick on your skin, hips thrusting into your tight grasp, whimpering through you wringing out every last drop, brown eyes pried wide open as he sees himself paint you white.  You nurse out the last bead of spend from his tip with a suckle of your lips before guiding his cock to gently rest on his abdomen.

Daniel slumps back with a shaky breath and you grab the remains of your shredded blouse to wipe off his cum. You swallow reflexively, the ache of your throat has your core tingling and your mind whirring. You were too eager, tonight. You should’ve gotten him inside of you before you rendered him useless. If you had known he’d just be good for head, this could’ve been resolved back in the club bathroom, and you wouldn’t be stuck with having to drop him off at his hotel since there’s no point in going up to his room anymore.

A long honk blares from in front of the car and you sigh, choosing to give Daniel another chance as he’s been your best lay in the last six months, “Are you able to get it up again?”

His brow furrows in genuine offense this time, and you raise your hands in apology. You follow his eyeline as he looks down, dumbfounded to see that he’s only softened a bit. 

“That one only took the edge off,” he says, tone confident.

You climb up, seating yourself on his lap. He grabs another piece of your shirt from the seat, cautiously attempting to wipe away the mascara tracks streaked down your cheeks and the smears of red lipstick around your mouth. 

The partition rolls down at your first knock as if the operator was straining to listen, “Eric, we’ll be heading to my home instead, if it’s not too much trouble to change course.”

“It’s no trouble at all, ma’am. We’ll be arriving in twenty minutes.”

He rolls up the divider without you having to ask. 

“Do you need to use the twenty minutes as a break before we arrive at my place?” You question, trying for sincere thoughtfulness this time around.

Daniel doesn’t respond, reaching forward to grasp your cheeks with a firm hand, yanking you into a kiss, unbothered by the flavor of himself in your mouth. If his ability to fuck is on par or better than his head game, and he manages to satiate you two or three more times tonight—it might be incentive enough for you to remember his name come morning.

© httpsserene - do not reupload. photos in header image are from pinterest. divider by @cafekitsune.

[blackpantherismyish]

Slow Burn, Sharp Blade 🍃

Modern!au Elijah “Smoke” Moore X Black!OC Joya Sable

Word Count : 4K

Authors Note : 👀 Hey y’all. While I love my Smoke and Annie, I wanted to bring in this OC to give it a lil twist. If you like this enough, I’ll definitely drop a part two. Yall just have to let me know. And fun fact, that picture of the sky was taken by yours truly ☺️🙂‍↕️ I have a whole gallery full of them so you may see some more in the future. There’s some teasing in here so I wouldn’t say it’s quite smut but it definitely ain’t vanilla either. So enjoy! 😉

The bell above the east Oakland barbershop door jingles like it’s in on the city’s secrets—like it knows something’s about to go down.

Smoke steps inside slow, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light of the barbershop. It smells like clove oil, fresh fade spray, and something sweet—a woman’s perfume laced with warning. Stack told him this was the spot. Said “Trust me, bruh, she got hands like magic. And she don’t scare easy.”

Didn’t mention she was fine as hell too.

She’s behind the second chair, finishing a fade on a boy too young to sit still but smart enough not to move when her fingers lock his chin. Short and thick, her shape’s impossible to miss. Denim hugging hips like they owe her something. Her locs are gathered up, edges slick, gold hoops dancing when she tilts her head and a two toned Cuban that didn’t miss it’s opportunity to shimmer as she moved. There’s a dragon tattoo wrapped around her forearm, and a nameplate necklace that reads: Joya.

“Take a seat. I’ll get to you in ten,” she calls, not looking up.

That voice? Sweet heat with a bite on the end.

Smoke chooses the waiting bench near the back, watching through lowered lids. Stack didn’t just set him up with a sharp cut. He knew damn well she’d spark something. That fire. That attitude. That don’t-fuck-with-me drawl every time she tells the kid to quit twitchin’.

When she finally turns his way, it’s like she feels him watching. Eyes drag over him, from the twist in his short Afro to the scar along his collarbone. Her smirk’s small, but it’s there. Confident.

“You Smoke, right?” she asks, snapping her cape loose and shaking it once before motioning him over. “Stack said you needed someone with a steady hand. That true, or you just tryna get up under my chair and flex?”

He chuckles low, something in his chest waking up.

“I don’t need to flex. You see me.”

She narrows her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “You talk smooth, but can you sit still?”

“I can sit still real well,” he says, settling into the chair. “Especially when the view this good.”

That earns him a soft snort. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a dismissal. She steps in close, tugging the cape around his shoulders with quick fingers, then starts examining his fro and the line of his fade.

“Mmhm,” she hums, mostly to herself. “You got nice hair. Thick. Clean. I’ll keep your part, tighten your taper, touch your beard. But if you flinch, I’m nickin’ you. An’ I don’t wanna hear no lip either.”

Smoke lets his eyes close, voice warm. “Bet.”

But when her fingers start in—when the clippers buzz low and her hands guide his head like she owns every angle of him—his breath gets slow. Her touch is firm. Sure. She smells like peach sugar and something spiced, like she might knock a man out and kiss him after.

“You always this quiet when a woman got blades near your neck?” she teases, close enough for her voice to brush his ear.

“Only when I’m thinkin’ dangerous thoughts.”

Joya pauses, her wrist resting just above his jaw. “You better focus on that lineup, baby. Not that fast tongue of yours.”

Smoke smiles slow. He likes the way she holds a blade—like it’s a promise.

He might’ve come for the cut, but he’s stayin’ for the fire.

The clippers hum against his skin, but it’s her voice that makes his pulse skip.

“You got a lot of heat sittin’ in this chair,” she says, brushing hair off his temple with the back of her hand. “You always run this warm, or you sweatin’ ‘cause I’m touchin’ you an’ you get nervous around pretty ladies?”

Smoke doesn’t even open his eyes.

“I don’t sweat easy. But you? You got hands like you used to fight in a past life.”

Joya chuckles low, the sound syrupy with mischief. “Maybe I did. Or maybe I just learned to handle men who talk slick.”

“Is that right?”

She taps the top of his head twice. “Chin up.”

He obeys, letting her angle him where she wants. Her nails graze his jaw as she guides it, not gentle—but not careless either. Like she’s letting him know this chair is hers, and so is the moment.

“You from around here?” he asks, voice still soft, curious.

“Born and raised. Mama ran a salon, Daddy ran a garage. I cut hair in the morning and fix old schools on Sundays. What about you? You from here or just passin’ through lookin’ for your next conquest?”

He opens his eyes now, catches her reflection in the mirror. “What makes you think I’m lookin’ for one?”

Joya meets his gaze without flinching. “’Cause men like you don’t come into shops like mine unless they got a reason.”

“Maybe I came ‘cause Stack said you were the best.”

“Stack don’t hand out compliments unless he’s tryna set somebody up.”

Smoke tilts his head, grin creeping in. “Maybe he was.”

Joya cocks her brow, lips parting just a little, like she’s trying not to smile but it’s slipping anyway. She moves to the other side of the chair, close enough now that her hip brushes his arm. On purpose.

“You flirt with all your barbers like this?”

“Only the ones with gold hoops and a dragon on their arm.”

She scoffs, but her smirk’s telling. “You think I’m impressed ‘cause you noticed my tattoo?”

“No,” Smoke says, voice lower now. “I think you’re curious why a man like me got quiet the minute you touched me.”

That gives her pause. Just a second.

Then—click. She switches to the trimmer and leans in so close her breath fans his cheek. “Don’t get too comfortable. I still might nick you for runnin’ that mouth.”

“I’d bleed for you,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper.

Joya stills, lips inches from his ear.

Then she pulls back and flicks the trimmer off with a snap.

“Line’s clean. Beard’s tight. You can look now.”

Smoke opens his eyes slow. His reflection stares back—fresh cut, sharper jaw, eyes darker than when he walked in.

Joya removes the cape with a flourish, brushing stray hairs from his shoulders. “That’ll be forty.”

He stands, towering over her, but not looming. Just there. Present. The air between them feels different now—warmer, charged.

He pulls a crisp Benjamin from his pocket and presses it into her palm, letting his fingers drag slow across her skin.

“Keep the change.”

She tucks it into her waistband without breaking eye contact. “Next time you want a touch-up, book ahead.” She motioned her head to the stack of business cards at her station.

“I don’t just take walk-ins.”

Smoke leans down just enough to brush his lips near her ear, voice wrapped in velvet heat.

“I wasn’t walkin’ in, babygirl. I was bein’ sent.”

And with that, he’s gone, the door jingling behind him, leaving Joya standing there with clippers in one hand and a grin she doesn’t bother hiding.

——

The bass inside Velvet Ridge rolls like slow thunder through the floorboards.

It’s a Thursday night, mellow crowd but not dead—just the way Joya likes it. She walks in solo, locs out and wild this time, hugging her waist with a ribbed crop top and black jeans. No clippers tonight. Just gold hoops, lip gloss, and attitude.

She’s halfway through her first drink at the bar when Reese, her longtime friend and part-time bartender, slides over with a lazy grin.

“Well damn. You clean up all right.”

Joya smirks. “Better watch your mouth before I bring the clippers up here and leave you with a crooked line on purpose.”

Reese laughs, wiping a glass. “You only get that spicy when you got an itch.”

“I’m here for music, not men,” she says, sipping slow.

Reese lifts a brow, looking past her shoulder. “Then why you got a fresh whiskey ginger coming your way from tall, dark, and locked-in over by the pool table?”

Joya turns her head.

Smoke.

Leaning against the wall like he’s part of it, pool cue in one hand, untouched drink in the other. Same dark tee, same watch and pinky ring glinting under low light. His eyes are already on her, steady and unbothered, like he expected her to walk in eventually.

Because maybe he did.

Joya huffs through her nose and turns back to the bar, trying to play it cool.

“Stack really out here runnin’ matchmaking services now?” she mutters.

Reese whistles low, nudging the drink toward her. “If that’s Stack’s doing, tell him I owe him dinner. That man is fine and lookin’ at you like he’s picturin’ your ass back in that chair—except this time he the one doin’ the sittin’.”

Joya chokes on her sip. “Reese.”

“I’m just sayin’!”

She glances over her shoulder again. Smoke lifts his glass in a silent toast—no wink, no smile. Just that same quiet heat he carried in the shop. And now it’s pulsing between them again, thicker in the dark.

Reese leans in close, grinning. “Go talk to him before I do.”

Joya rolls her eyes, snatches the drink, and slides off the stool. “Keep the seat warm.”

“I’ll keep it icy in case he melts your ass.”

Joya’s already walking, drink in hand, hips swaying like she means it. Smoke watches every step. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just waits.

When she’s close enough, she takes a long sip and licks her bottom lip. “Sending drinks now? You tryna impress me?”

“No,” Smoke says, voice deep and lazy. “Just thanking you for the cut. And the view.”

She bites back a smile. “Mmhm. You like women who talk back, don’t you?”

“I like women who talk real.”

“Then you better listen close.” She steps into his space, lifting her chin. “If you came here lookin’ for some easy thing, you barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

Smoke leans in just enough for her to feel the heat off his chest. “Nah, I came here hopin’ you’d bark back.”

And just like that, the air around them turns thick again. Charged. Everything unspoken stretching taut between two people who don’t scare easy.

Joya sips again, slow. Then:

“You shoot pool, or just posted up lookin’ pretty?”

Smoke breaks into the smallest smirk. “Rack ‘em.”

Smoke breaks first.

The crack echoes like a warning across the table. Stripes scatter, solids hold tight. He doesn’t say a word—just leans back, pool cue balanced lightly in his hand like it belongs there.

Joya circles the table, eyes on the felt. “Solid,” she declares, tapping the cue ball with the tip of her stick. “Of course. Strong foundation. Like me.”

Smoke watches her the way a wolf watches movement in tall grass—quietly hungry.

She sinks the two ball, easy. Then the five. Walks around him with just enough sway to make sure he notices. She lines up for the four, but the angle’s off, so she stretches forward, hips lifting just slightly, and—

Smoke clears his throat.

Joya grins without looking at him. Got him.

She misses the next shot on purpose.

He steps up, slow. “That move was cheap.”

“You didn’t call no rules,” she says, sauntering over to lean on her stick. “What’s the stakes?”

Smoke circles the table, casual but coiled. “Winner calls it.”

“Oh, you bold,” she says. “What if I ask for something reckless?”

“I’m countin’ on it.”

He sinks three in a row—smooth, patient, no showboating. Just precision and pressure.

When he misses the corner pocket on the eleven, Joya claps her hands once. “And just like that, the throne’s mine again.”

Smoke leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Make your shot, Queen.”

She drops the eight-ball like it owed her something. Stands tall. Sips what’s left of the drink he sent. Then sets the glass down like a statement.

“You owe me now.”

Smoke nods, low and slow. “Say the word.”

Joya steps in close—real close. Her voice drops an octave, sultry and bold. “Winner gets…a nightcap. Your place. But you don’t touch me ‘til I say.”

Smoke’s jaw tightens, something carnal flickering in his eyes.

“That what you want?” he asks, low.

She tilts her head. “That’s what I earned. You got a problem with that?”

He steps into her space, chest brushing her shoulder, his voice like smoke curling up her neck. “I don’t got problems, baby. Just patience.”

Her lip curls into a slow smile.

“Then lead the way.”

Joya’s car hums down the freeway, windows cracked just enough to let the warm California night wrap around her like a silk scarf. Her locs are still coiled from earlier, makeup still fresh, but her pulse? That’s not nearly as calm as the playlist floating through her speakers.

She drums her fingers on the wheel, glancing at the glowing street signs passing by like checkpoints on a map she didn’t plan to follow.

“What the hell am I doing?” she mutters, half-laughing. “Talkin’ slick and now I’m halfway to his place like I don’t got sense.”

She taps her screen, pulls up her group chat.

✨Edge Snatchers Inc✨

Joya, Tish, Kenya, Bri

She hits the voice message button.

Joya:

“Y’all. So. Y’know how Stack’s been pushin’ that one client on me? Smoke? His brother …Yeah, that Smoke—the soft spoken half of SmokeStack twins? Big, broody, quiet, tattooed up like a sin with a story? Anyway… he came through today. Sat in my chair, flirted like he got time to waste, and had the nerve to act unbothered while I was fightin’ for breath. That man don’t talk much, but when he do, it’s low and dangerous like the bassline in a baby-makin’ song.”

Her phone lights up—Tish is typing. Then another voice message comes in:

Tish:

“I told you he had that quiet fine. That ‘write his name on the lease’ fine. You got him in your chair and didn’t melt? Bitch. You stronger than me.”

Kenya:

“Wait, y’all always joked about ‘what if SmokeStack sat in your shop’ and now it’s real?! Tell me you gave him that Joya fade where you put love in the line-up?”

Joya snorts, already recording her reply.

Joya:

“Girl, I gave him the fade and the fire. He sat still like he knew I was sculptin’ royalty. Then tonight—child—ran into him at Velvet Ridge. Sent me a drink like he owned the bar. Didn’t even wink. Just looked.”

The typing bubbles go wild.

Bri:

“So now what? You goin’ home or…?”

Joya exhales through her nose and smiles to herself, tapping the next voice message.

Joya:

“Heading to his place. But I set the rules. I said don’t touch me till I say. And he said ‘I got patience.’ Y’all. He said it like he meant it. I don’t know what this is yet, but I know one thing: that man? He ain’t regular.”

Her phone pings again—heart emojis, devil faces, Kenya yelling “Fumble him and I will ghost you for eternity!”—and it makes her laugh out loud.

But as she turns off the highway and the city lights fade into the quiet of backstreets, something else stirs underneath the teasing. A different kind of hum.

That man sees her. Not just the barber. Not just the smart mouth or the hips or the gold hoops.

He sees the fire. And for once—he’s not trying to tame it. Just… match it.

She parks. Kills the engine. Grabs her lip gloss and dabs it once. Quick breath. One more voice note:

Joya:

“If I’m not at the shop by ten tomorrow… tell Stack when he come in for his line up that it was worth it.”

She slides her phone into her purse and steps out into the night, her heels clicking on the concrete like punctuation to a decision already made.

Smoke’s apartment is nothing like she expected.

No smoke and mirrors. No overdone flex.

Just clean lines. Dark leather. Low lighting. An open bottle of bourbon on the kitchen counter, two glasses, untouched. The scent of something woodsy lingers in the air like it belongs to the bones of the place.

He opens the door, steps aside, and lets her in without a word. Doesn’t crowd her. Doesn’t rush.

Joya walks in like she owns the space anyway. Slow. Confident. A queen inspecting her new throne. She doesn’t speak yet—just shrugs off her jacket, drapes it over a dining chair, and gives him a glance over her shoulder.

“You live like a man who don’t bring company home.”

Smoke closes the door behind her, leans on it for a beat. “I don’t.”

Her brow lifts just a little. “Then I’m your first?”

He nods once. “In more ways than you know.”

She doesn’t ask what he means. Not yet.

Instead, she walks to the center of the living room and turns to face him, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. “Get comfortable. I said this was a nightcap, not a sprint.”

Smoke kicks off his shoes and walks toward her, slow and measured, like he’s syncing with her rhythm on purpose. He stops just shy of touching her.

“You want music?” he asks.

“Mmhm. Something low. Grown.”

He moves to the speaker on the shelf. The playlist starts with a bass-heavy, velvet-laced groove—Snoh Aalegra, maybe. D’Angelo bleeding into the next. Joya doesn’t say a word. Just smiles.

She sinks onto his couch, crossing her legs slow, drink in hand now, which he’d poured without asking—two fingers neat. She raises it in mock toast.

“To men who sit still when told.”

Smoke chuckles low, sits across from her on the other end of the sectional. Legs open. Elbows on knees. That same quiet confidence wrapped around him like armor.

“You keep testin’ my patience,” he says, sipping.

“And you keep passin’.”

Joya watches him over the rim of her glass, letting the silence bloom between them. Letting her presence fill the room. This is what she does best—hold the line.

She’s been around men who try to lead too fast. Who rush into her space like it’s owed. But this man? This man sits in the tension, meets her energy, rises with it.

When she finally leans forward, her voice is smooth and sweet, but there’s iron under the honey. “You really let women call the shots like this?”

Smoke meets her gaze, slow. “Not always. Just the ones who know what to do with the power.”

That earns him her full smile. No games now—just heat and curiosity.

“So what would you do,” she asks, “if I said you can touch me now?”

Smoke doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe heavy. Just leans in, eyes darker than the bourbon in his glass.

“I’d ask where.”

That shouldn’t have landed like it does.

Joya’s breath catches, then releases slow, deliberate. She sets her drink down, stands, and closes the space between them until her knees brush his.

“You ask good questions,” she murmurs, tilting his chin up with a single finger. “Let’s see if your hands give the same respect.”

His fingers slide up her thighs—slow, reverent, like the build-up is better than the prize. He doesn’t grip. Doesn’t move too quickly. He explores.

Joya watches him, her hands still, body poised like royalty.

“You want permission,” she whispers, brushing her lips just shy of his. “You wait for it.”

Smoke nods, voice low and solid. “Every time.”

And that’s when she shifts.

Straddling his lap, her hands on his chest, her mouth finally—finally—meeting his in a kiss that doesn’t ask, doesn’t warn. She tastes like the bourbon he poured and the fire he didn’t know he needed.

He doesn’t take control. Not yet. But when he kisses her back, there’s something in it—heat that mirrors hers, hunger that doesn’t beg but matches. It’s not surrender.

It’s a challenge met.

A game just beginning.

The kiss doesn’t break.

It just… bends.

Slows, curves, folds into something molten.

Joya moves like a woman in no hurry—like the heat between them is best when it simmers. Her hips press down, just enough to make her presence known. Her mouth traces Smoke’s like a secret. And he stays still for her. All that muscle, all that power, waiting under command.

When she finally pulls back, her lip gloss smudged and eyes half-lidded, she speaks like she’s still tasting him.

“Not bad,” she murmurs, brushing her thumb across his jaw. “You kiss like you respect women.”

Smoke’s voice is a gravel drawl, thick and low. “I do.”

Her smile is slow and approving. “Then you’ll have no problem sittin’ right there and lettin’ me enjoy myself.”

She glides off his lap with effortless grace, rising to her full height before him. His eyes track her every motion, intent and devout, like a man absorbing sacred text.

She turns around and walks away from him. Just a few paces. Enough to let her curves sway under the low light. Then she stops, peeks over her shoulder with a knowing little smirk.

“You like watchin’ me?”

Smoke leans back, spreading his legs wider, arms resting on the back of the couch. “You already know.”

She chuckles under her breath and pulls the crop top over her head in one smooth motion. No theatrics, just confidence. Her skin gleams warm and soft in the golden light. Her bra’s a deep burnt orange lace, delicate, and meant to be seen.

She turns around slowly. “I don’t move fast for nobody,” she says. “But I do like to tease.”

Smoke’s jaw flexes. His eyes drink her in. Still—he doesn’t move.

“I’m not tryin’ to speed you up,” he says, voice barely above a growl. “Just grateful for the view.”

Joya walks back toward him, hips fluid, unhurried. She climbs onto his lap again, bare skin warm through her jeans. Her fingers trace the neckline of his shirt, dragging slow.

“You always this good at holdin’ back?” she asks, cocking her head.

Smoke’s hands rest on her thighs, his palms wide and hot but still gentle.

“I only move fast on the field,” he says. “Everywhere else? I like to take my time.”

That earns a low laugh from her, rich like honey. “Careful,” she whispers, brushing her nose against his. “You keep talkin’ like that, I might start believin’ you’re dangerous.”

He lifts his hand, finally, slow—and curls his fingers around the back of her neck. No pressure. Just a hold. A claim. The first real touch with intention.

“I am dangerous,” he says, low and clean. “But not to you.”

Something flickers in her eyes—interest, maybe. Or challenge. She leans in and kisses him again, deeper this time, slower. Her tongue traces his bottom lip like she’s drawing lines only she can cross.

Smoke groans into her mouth, a sound so soft and restrained it makes her thighs clench.

Joya pulls back and whispers, “Take your hoodie off. Slow.”

He obeys.

He shrugs off his hoodie, peeling it over his head like a man shedding a moment, not just clothing. The fabric drops to the floor, forgotten. Tattoos ripple across his chest and arms—ink etched deep into muscle, old warnings and stories carved in black. Her eyes follow every line. She reaches out, tracing one with her finger, circling a flame curling around words she can’t quite read in the low light.

“You always burn this hot?” she asks.

He tilts his head, voice low and rough. “Only when I’m invited.”

She leans in, her mouth brushing his exposed collarbone, then gliding up the side of his neck. Slow, deliberate kisses that stop just shy of giving in. When she speaks, each word skims across his skin like a spark.

“You’ll wait until I say when. And when I do… you better hold on.”

Smoke’s grip on her waist tightens, just enough to promise restraint won’t last long.

Then he smiles—that quiet, dangerous smile that means the fuse has already been lit.

“I’ve been holdin’ back for hours, ma. You tell me when, and I’ll give you everything.”

————-

Taglist: @gtf-o-m-d @spookysanta @michelley-rome @bigjh @anniensmoke3 @hdfen2474 @uzumaki-rebellion @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @killmongerdispussy @theogbadbitch @ccwpidsblog @princesskillmonger @blowmymbackout @theethighpriestess @blktinkerbell @steampunkprincess147 @diamondsinterlude @partylikemajima @theegoldenchild @mhhhhmmmmmmm @coolfoodrunworld-blog @lilchubbs @thebumblebeesworld @mastertia221b @brownskincheyenne @belleofthefloor @c0tt0ncandi @irefusetobeacasualty @cocoxciv-blog @melodyofmbaku @lb-xci

[the-californicationist]

Troubleshooting

For @glitterypirateduck's super fun Oh, Captain! challenge. This is for prompt #8 where our deceptive captain tries to hide a secret from his gunsmith.

She could smell him long before she saw his hulking form stop in front of her office door. The sweet scent of his signature Romeo y Julieta cigars gave him away; a jewel from Villa Clara, Cuba. The tight-rolled tobacco smoldered amber and gold in the dark, its rustic funk and black licorice smoke gently curling out of his parted lips, trapped under his dirty boonie hat.  

When she had been assigned to his team, she’d been dreading the constant relocating and high profile secrecy. It was hard enough to find 5.56 ammo for that mouthy Scot’s Steyr bullpup, much less have it delivered to a black site without a postcode. But, as she let her eyes wander up his mountainous shoulders, tracing the outline of a sharp, scruffy Adam’s apple, watching as his jaw rippled and clenched to bite down on the soft end of his cigar, she admitted to herself that she could deal with a few shipping delays as long as she got to enjoy John Price. Now, just a few weeks into this roughshod operation, she ached to see what lurked under all that gear. 

She cleaned up her station, carefully screwing on the cap to her powder and putting it under the workbench. When he spoke, it was always confident but soft, like a stage whisper, words only she was meant to hear. 

“Smithy,” he took a long drag from his Cuban and pulled the creamy smoke in through his nose, a very casual French inhale, breathing it out and down sharply, purposefully avoiding her face.

He’d never called her by her name, only by his clipped version of her title of Chief Gunsmith. She knew he must be aware of it since he requested her transfer, but she had always been “Smithy” to him. 

“Captain, how are we this evening?” She gazed into his eyes with intent, hoping he would see her desire in them and be pleased. 

“We’re alright,” he took the cigar from his mouth and let it rest between his fingers, smiling down at her as he loomed, his height making her feel small. He removed his hat, placing it on her bench before leaning against the table, his huge hand spreading wide across the stainless surface. He continued,

“You know, this M4 has been giving me a bit of trouble. I cleaned it, but even after a full breakdown, the bolt isn’t sitting flush. Think you could help me get it all the way in?”

She let his quiet rumbling voice wash over her like a wave, lapping at her mind and making her breath catch in her chest. The double entendre was so obvious as to almost be in jest, but his suggestive tone - though subtle - was enough for her to believe in it. 

“Did you use enough oil? A little lubricant goes a long way, Captain, but some parts need more than others. Especially if it was a vigorous cleaning,” she threw him a bone in hopes he would bite it. 

He did, replying with a sly smile,

“Perhaps I went a little rough with her. Think you can take a look?”

He licked his lips, watching as the flush tinted her neck and cheeks, hungry for her attention. She watched him shift his weight, rocking forward towards the bench, flexing his hips. Obviously, she was getting to him. She turned up the heat, pushing her luck,

“Rough is just fine, John, but with the size of the bolt head you’ve got here, you just need to make sure she’s slick enough to take it.”

She smiled sweetly, taking the rifle from him and laying it across the bench. Now that she had turned her attention to the gun, she could only watch him from the corner of her eye. But, she knew she had landed a punch when he had to turn his head away from her and pull at the inside leg of his pants, adjusting. 

Then, as she took apart the barrel from the bolt and its lever, she realized he had been lying to her. He had replaced the trigger assembly before the bolt, effectively causing the problem he was asking her to solve. Price knew this gun better than the back of his own hand, and he had come down to her office with this game, hoping to score. 

Her heart raced when she discovered the error, and she tried her best to maintain a straight face, not wanting him to realize she’d caught him yet. She still wanted to play. 

She rebuilt the weapon, glossing over the false mistake, and pulled the bolt back flush. 

“There,” she sighed, “good as new.”

The ball was clearly in his court and she waited to see what he would do. His voice had dropped into a deep, threatening register, and he was leaning so far over the workbench that she could see his pupils dilate, pushing back the bright blue and revealing the blackness behind it,

“What was the problem, Smithy?”

He began to stalk her around the edge of the table, taking impossibly slow steps toward her side of the bench, eyes fixed on her mouth. She saw his chest rising and falling faster and stronger, lifting his protective vest and causing the lingering smoke between his lips to billow chaotically around his dark beard. She held her ground, turning her body toward his as he walked,

“You made a rookie mistake, Captain Price. One that you’re not capable of making...”

His eyes sparked to life, focusing on hers now, and he knew that he’d been discovered. She continued to dismantle his farce,

“…and I wonder how it can be possible…”

Price rounded the first corner of the table, hanging on her every word. He took his cigar and pulled a long drag.

“...that such an experienced…”

Another step. The leather of his boot creaked as he pressed it down.

“...intelligent…”

Another step. She could smell his cologne now. Vetiver. Musk.

“...diligent soldier…”

He crossed the second corner, letting the smoke fall out of his mouth, pouring like water down his chin and tangling in his beard, holding his breath to let her view the effect. His teeth were clenched together behind his full mouth, and he began to smile in a sinister, pained way. She went on, quieter, her voice betraying her nerves,

“...would somehow forget how to put his own gun back together.”

Price’s cigar had come to an end, and he crushed it out under his boot as he stood in front of her, too close for propriety, just close enough to smell her coconut shampoo. He hummed, playing along, falsifying a sense of wonder and mystery in his tone.

“That is quite the mystery, innit? Must’ve been distracted by…” Price brought his hand up to touch the tip of his gunsmith’s long braid as it lay draped over her shoulder, laying on her breast, “…something important.”

“John,” she whispered, leaning toward him instinctively.

In the half-second between her speaking his name and the silence that came after, he struck like a snake, wrapping the rest of her braid around his fist like a rope, yanking her head back and pulling her to his body, letting their gear and clothes rustle between them, not caring where the vests and belts and buckles twisted and pinched, letting the tension linger. His free hand grabbed her jaw and neck in his wide, open palm, fingers pressing into her skin, warm and callused. 

His voice was so strained and full of his want that it seemed like a growl, rambling in a rushed, fervent monologue,

“You’ve been teasing me again, Smithy. Ever since we got back from that damn operation. You’ve been coming to the gym at night, when I lift, and you wear those fucking shorts and you show off that thick arse, bending over in front of the racks, pulling them up higher so I can how see your wet cunt is soaking right through them,” his hand yanked her head back, making her gasp. He loved that noise,

“Delicious. Your pretty little cunt, ready to eat. Right within my reach. A whole gym, empty, and you pick that spot every damn time. Moving past me in the lockers, letting me smell you, and now I want a taste.” 

She felt the stinging tightness of her scalp as he tugged on her braid, locking her body in place against his, controlling her head, moving it toward his face. He grimaced like he was in agony even though she was the one under his fist. His touch was such a relief. She’d been torturing him for weeks, and she surrendered to him, pliant to his whims, hoping he understood that her lack of resistance was essentially her begging him to forgive her for leaving him starving.

“Alright,” she smiled, still at his mercy, “If you want a taste, you can have one.” She watched as his eyes grew wide with anticipation as she unbuttoned her pants and tugged down the zipper. She bit her lip and shrugged, “On your knees, soldier.”

AO3 Link

[reveluving]

I have another ideaaaa 👀 I imagine Santi and Benny being very flamboyant when it comes to showing their admiration for someone. Imagine Rick bringing lunch to reader’s unexpectedly just to see Santi bringing her flowers and Benny giving her the heart eyes. My poor flag baby might have a stroke just from the scene in front of hiiimmm!!

a/n: Aria, baby. it’s been a long ass time ✋🏼😔 BUT THE FIXATION IS BACK (kinda. largely because I’ve been reading fics after fics of Oscar & Pedro chars. RAAAAAH). so we’re here baby, after 1 ½? 2 years later???? ENJOY

warnings: humour & fluff; poor Rick just wants to love you in peace.

j.k. m.list (series under 'rick flag vs the triple frontier boys'), or check out my full m.list!

Oh, you know Rick’s eyes are TWITCHING. The paper bag in his hand, packed with lunch from your favourite stop, crumpling in his grasp, almost tearing at the top. Not the food though, he’s not trying to ruin his wife’s favourite. 

But he’s chill. Absolutely chill. He swears. 

Benny and Santi just had to stop by the same time he came home from work, both leaning against the white porch railing while you sat prettily on the bench. 

Benny was expressive in whatever he was talking about, likely his last boxing match from the way he was holding the air in a headlock before the three of you shared a laugh. As much of a troublemaker they were, they were your friends, after all. He’d chase them off his property or warn them with a glare any day if it meant cutting off any form of ‘allegiances’ with that horrible past, both yours and his.

Just when you were about to reply to God knows what they asked, you noticed Rick lingering by the mailbox. Your eyes lit up, and it didn’t take the duo any other hints to know that he was home.

“Rick!” You enthusiastically waved at your husband, beckoning him to sit on the bench next to you. Rick couldn’t help but smile back at you, walking over and ignoring the two until he reached the top step of the stairs.

“Boys.” He greeted them, going over to shake Santiago’s hand before Benny’s, flexing his hands as they shook to see if the other would break. None did, as usual, pulling away and somewhat putting the tension on hold in favour of you. Rick took a seat next to you, passing you the bag of food and a soft ‘there y’go, baby’ (but not really, he made sure the two would hear it). 

It took a few seconds, making sure he greeted you with a kiss before stretching his arm to lay on the backrest behind you.

“So, what’s the occasion?”

“The boys just came over to say hi. Gave me these flowers from the flower shop nearby,” You raised the calla lilies that were resting on your lap. Now, Rick was no flower specialist, but he has been to the shop countless times to buy you your own fix. 

And if he remembered correctly, they generally represented beauty.

Well played.

“And Santi was just telling me about this new Cuban restaurant just outside the neighbourhood.” You continued, turning to Santiago with an encouraging smile so he could tell Rick about it.

“Cuban restaurant, huh?” 

Santiago curtly nodded to his curiosity. 

“The best. Might even be your new favourite once you both try it.” He explained, only to glance at the paper bag Rick was holding—a look that was almost… Judgemental? Critical? All of the above? All Rick knew that the man before him was silently scoffing at his choice. 

And, well, Santi wouldn’t exactly deny that claim, either. 

Rick didn’t hide the scoff, only to pair it with a faux smile so you could take it as nothing more than a harmless banter, “Gotta be real good then. ‘Cause this here,” He cocked his head in the paper bag’s direction, “Is my wife’s favourite place. Our favourite place.”

Rick not only had to watch out for the bold claim Santi was making, but he also had to bear in mind the sight of Benny openly looking at you like a lovestruck puppy. The promising boxer didn’t even care about the passive-aggressive argument going on around him. He was just appreciating the beaut in front of him.

(Man’s just doesn’t give a shit atm).

“Hey, I’m not here to burst your bubble,” Santi huffed in amusement, raising his hands in a defensive way, “But I’m not trying to give the pretty girl any mediocre recommendations either. C’mon Flag, you, of all people, should know that we want the best for her.”

“Aw, Santi, you’re too kind.” You were touched and it showed, and Rick couldn’t argue with the statement. Without a doubt, he wants what was best for you, be it food, comfortable clothes, gourmet treats for the fucking neighbourhood cat you adore—anything. 

In the midst of their silent argument, you reached for Rick’s hand, holding his larger ones in between yours, “I’m sure Rick and I will enjoy it,” He mirrored the warm smile as you stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, only to break when you addressed the two, “And if it’s as good as you said it is, we might as well have a get together.”

Oh. 

You were growing concerned of the two’s silence, eyes darting back and forth and almost—almost asking what was wrong until Benny, as if snapped out of his trance, finally, spoke up. 

“Absolutely.” Benny raised his hand in a manner that a believer would in church. 

Abso-fucking-lutely.

˚ · . f i n . · ˚

» gorgeous rose divider by the amazing @firefly-graphics ♡

[mjonthetrack]

collide

Chapter Five: "Two Different Suns"

Jimmy leaned back against the old leather couch in Jey’s living room, arms crossed, eyes heavy-lidded. The TV buzzed with some loud-ass music video — half-naked girls twerking, gold grills flashing. Noise he wasn’t used to anymore.

"You see her around?" Jimmy finally asked, voice low like the words were almost too heavy to say.

Jey looked up from rolling a blunt, pausing with the leaf paper between his fingers. "Who?"

Jimmy didn’t even gotta say her name. Jey already knew.

He sighed, sitting back. "Nah, bro...not in years."

Jimmy’s jaw ticked.

"After you stopped getting visits...Em came 'round for a little bit," Jey said, voice softer than Jimmy expected. "Still dropped off gifts for Ma...still showed love on birthdays, lil shit like that. But after year five? She dipped."

"Why?"

Jey looked down, started licking the blunt slow, thinking hard. Finally said, "Said it hurt too much. Seein' me was like seein' you...and it was fuckin' her up."

Jimmy stared at the ceiling. Silent. Numb.

Fifteen years inside. He thought about her every day. Some nights, it was the only thing that kept him breathing — just remembering the way she used to say his name all sweet and sharp, like she was mad but still loved him.

He didn’t blame her. He couldn't. He knew pain changed people. He just wished he could’ve told her he never stopped being hers, even if the world made her forget.

"You need a fresh start, bruh," Jey said after a beat, clapping Jimmy on the thigh. "Can’t bring old ghosts into new life."

Jimmy huffed a laugh, dry as hell. "Easy for you to say."

Jey stood up, stretched, tattoos flexing on his arms. "Come on. We gettin' you right."

The barber’s chair felt alien under Jimmy’s weight — like he was a tourist in his own damn body.

"You look like you just did a nickel," the barber cracked, snapping the cape around Jimmy’s neck.

"Try fifteen," Jimmy said without looking up.

The whole shop went quiet for a second. Then a round of low "Damn, bro" and respectful nods rippled through the chairs.

Jey grinned wide, flashing his gold fronts. "This my twin. Fresh out. We gettin' him back on king time."

The clippers buzzed to life. Jimmy watched chunks of his overgrown hair fall to the floor, watched his reflection sharpen in the mirror. The man staring back wasn’t the 19-year-old kid who got cuffed and thrown in a backseat.

He was something else now. Harder. Older. Still standing, though.

After the cut, Jey drove them back to the apartment, kicking the door open like they was teenagers again.

He tossed a black duffel bag at Jimmy’s chest.

"What's this?"

"Open it, fool."

Jimmy unzipped it — saw new kicks, raw denim jeans, fresh white tees, a bomber jacket with gold stitching. Clean, sharp. Oakland king style.

At the bottom of the bag, tucked between a stack of crispy folded hundreds, sat a fat Cuban link chain and a Rolex glinting under the weak apartment light.

Jimmy just stared.

"Been savin' for you, bro," Jey said, shrugging like it wasn't a big deal. "Every hustle, every flip...made sure you had somethin' when you touched down."

Jimmy felt something crawl up his throat — pride, grief, love — but he swallowed it down.

"Can't rock that county blues no more," Jey joked, nudging him. "Time to look like money again."

Jimmy grinned for the first real time since breathing free air. "Appreciate you, Jayce."

"Ain't nothin'," Jey said, bumping fists with him. "Now let's get you outside. Let 'em know Big Uso back."

Meanwhile, across town, Emori was pressing a hot comb through a client’s thick roots, the hiss of steam and hair grease filling the shop.

Her hands worked on autopilot, quick, practiced. Each movement precise.

She kept one ear tuned to the gossip floating around — baby daddy drama, somebody’s cousin fighting at a block party, rumors about a new plug setting up shop.

Nothing about Jimmy.

Not that she was looking. Not that she was listening. Not that she still dreamed about him sometimes, waking up tangled in sweat and silence, her heart racing like she was still seventeen.

The dryer buzzed, the phone rang, the music played. Life moved on.

And Emori Carter moved with it.

Stone-faced. Steady. Unbreakable.

Because that's what the hood made you when it stole all the things you couldn't get back.

Chapter Six: "Stack or Starve"

The buzz of the tattoo gun was a steady hum in the back of Jey’s small studio — a legit spot set up in a converted storefront down near 84th, tucked between a smoke shop and an old-ass laundromat.

Jimmy leaned back in the chair, arms relaxed at his sides, face tight as the needle dragged across his skin.

"Quit actin' like you ain't been through worse," Jey teased, sitting steady behind him, the gun dancing over Jimmy's thick forearm, black ink swallowing old faded prison tattoos one by one.

"Ain't about the pain," Jimmy muttered. "It's about you heavy-handed as fuck."

Jey cracked up, the laugh rattling in his chest. "Gotta make sure it stick, Uso."

Jimmy chuckled too, that rare sound pulling out of him unguarded.

He watched the mirror across the room, saw his reflection — saw the new ink crawling up his arm, thick Polynesian tribal pieces, scriptures of faith and survival inked into his chest, a roaring lion stitched over his heart.

The prison tats — the shaky letters, the broken crowns, the marks of hard years — disappeared under the real art.

A fresh canvas.

Fresh everything.

By the end of the week, Jimmy had full sleeves, a covered chest, ink up his neck, his hands, even a few pieces running down his ribs and over his thighs. The man who walked into that shop was gone.

And for the first time in fifteen years, Jimmy was making real money.

$150 for a forearm tat. $300 for custom back pieces. Tips fat enough to make a man dizzy.

He kept his hands clean. Let Jey handle whatever street shit still floated around the edges — he wasn’t stupid. He knew Jey was still flipping small packs here and there.

But Jimmy stayed out of that lane.

Ink and hustle. That was it.

Across the city, Emori was peeling a lace front off a client’s scalp, wiping her hands down with alcohol pads, brain already spinning about the next shipment of shea butter and clip-ins she needed to order.

Same grind, different day.

She locked up the salon around nine, swinging next door to the beauty supply to check receipts, count drawers. Keke had left a note taped to the register: "Short twenty dollars — kid snatched a pack of durags. Sorry, Em."

She sighed, crumpling the note and tossing it.

In the hood, some shit never changed.

As she clicked through the inventory on the computer, her phone lit up. She glanced down.

Montez.

She rolled her eyes so hard she gave herself a headache.

She hit Ignore and went back to her screen.

Ten minutes later, the store bell jingled. She looked up.

Speak of the damn devil.

Montez stood there in a bubble jacket way too big for spring, his Timberlands heavy on the polished floor, a chain swinging over his shirt. Still fine in a dusty, low-budget kind of way.

"Em," he said, flashing a grin he probably thought still worked.

"Store's closed," she said without missing a beat, locking the drawer with a hard click.

"Come on, don’t be like that," he said, walking closer, hands spread like he was innocent. "Been thinkin’ 'bout you."

"That’s too bad," she said dryly, grabbing her keys.

Montez chuckled like he was used to getting curved. "Ain't nobody else compare, Mo. You know that."

She paused, bag slung over her shoulder. Looked him dead in the face.

"Tez...you was never competition for nobody," she said, voice like steel wrapped in velvet. "You was just a chapter. One I barely even read."

He flinched a little, that male ego cracking. "Man...whatever."

She smiled, cold as ice. "Exactly."

She walked past him, flipped the CLOSED sign, locked the door, and never looked back.

Jimmy sat on the curb outside the shop, a sandwich clutched in one hand, a fat wad of cash tucked deep in his pocket. His body ached in the good way — tired, but fed, but free.

The city buzzed around him — cars whipping by, kids popping wheelies on beat-up bikes, girls laughing too loud across the street.

He caught a glimpse of something bright in the corner of his eye — a small crowd of girls ducking into a beauty supply two blocks down.

He thought about Em again. How she used to braid her hair with those little gold beads. How she used to wear bamboo hoops big enough to catch dreams.

Jimmy dragged his eyes back to his sandwich. Took a bite.

Told himself to focus.

Told himself she was just a memory.

But somewhere deep down, he already knew:

You don’t forget your first love.

Especially when she the only real thing you ever had.

Chapter Seven: "Building Kingdoms Outta Concrete"

The sun baked the cracked sidewalks as Jimmy popped the door of the Impala, fresh off the lot — not brand new, but clean, smooth, reliable. Dark gray, shining under the spring sun like a second chance.

He tossed his keys in his palm, chain swinging heavy over his fitted white tee, fresh ink peeking out from under his sleeves.

"Man, look at you," Jey said, sliding into the passenger seat. "Out here lookin' like you never missed a beat."

Jimmy smirked, adjusting the rearview mirror. "Told you. Grown man moves only."

They laughed, that deep brother laugh that only twins knew.

And when they pulled up to their new spot — a duplex on the east side, still the hood, but the kind where lawns got cut and kids rode scooters instead of carrying burners — Jimmy sat back for a second just soaking it in.

Big windows. A tiny patch of backyard. A front door that didn’t creak when you opened it.

He gripped the steering wheel, breathing deep.

Freedom smelled like hot concrete and pine cleaner.

Across the strip, Emori was finalizing the paperwork at the bank, tapping her nails against the counter.

It felt surreal — owning not just her salon, not just her beauty supply, but now the empty brick building at the end of the block.

The deed had her name on it.

Emori Monique Carter.

She didn’t even know what she was gonna put there yet — maybe a braiding academy, maybe a juice bar, maybe a lil daycare for the mamas who needed somewhere safe to leave their babies while they hustled.

All she knew was: she ran that strip now.

From the dusty end near the liquor store all the way down to the newly painted crosswalks.

It was hers.

Blood, tears, sacrifice.

"Congratulations, Miss Carter," the banker smiled, sliding the final paperwork across the desk.

Emori signed it, steady hand, no hesitation.

"Appreciate you," she said, voice cool, even though her heart was pounding like she just scored the winning shot at state.

Later that afternoon, Jimmy parked the Impala outside a new barbershop two blocks away from his old stomping grounds — word on the street was they needed someone to do ink and he was ready to stack even higher.

As he crossed the street, head down, sunglasses on, a small group of women laughed their way past him, shopping bags swinging from their arms.

He didn't look up — too focused on his feet, the sidewalk, the next move.

But if he had...he would've seen her.

Emori, walking with her head high, a slow proud strut, big hoops gleaming, her curls bouncing, a bag from the city recorder’s office clutched in her manicured hand.

She laughed at something Keke said beside her, flashing that smile Jimmy used to dream about.

They passed within ten feet of each other.

Two old souls, two broken hearts, ships in the daylight.

Neither looked up. Neither saw.

But something in the air shifted, like the city itself was holding its breath.

Later that night, Jimmy sat on the back steps of the duplex, a cold beer sweating in his palm, the sky stretched deep and purple overhead.

"You ever wonder...what if?" he asked Jey, voice almost a whisper.

Jey shrugged, flicking ash off his blunt. "Only thing that matter is what is."

Jimmy nodded, quiet.

He wasn’t nineteen anymore. Wasn't dreaming about the future in a backseat with a gun under the seat.

He was thirty-four. Fresh out. Flesh and blood and breath.

And somewhere out there...she was too.

Meanwhile, Emori sat cross-legged on her worn velvet couch, still in her sweats, hair tied up, the new deed resting on the coffee table like a damn trophy.

She sipped cheap wine out of a Mason jar, scrolling through business ideas on her iPad.

Ignoring Montez’s fifth "You up?" text of the night.

The hood didn’t give easy wins.

You had to take them, clutch them tight, and pray they didn’t slip out your fingers.

And Emori Monique Carter?

She wasn’t letting go of a damn thing.

Not this time.

[luxurybyodinparis]

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https://diamond-lovers.com

[ozimagines]

Could you do a dating includes with Enrique Morales, please? Thank you

Yes! Yes! 1000 times yes! Feel like this guy would be a ride lol.

Dating Enrique Morales would include…

Shallow, shallow man, first and foremost.

At first, it’s really only that you’re hot or respect him that turns him on.

You call him Mr. Morales and shake his hand every time you see him. That goes a long way in his books.

He always holds your hand a little longer when he shakes it. Catch him in a good mood and he’ll kiss the top of your hand like Sinatra.

Compliments you often, always shrugging it off with “it’s the truth, right?”

“You do something with your hair? Of course I noticed. Looks nice… I mean it.”❤️‍🔥

Others see his interest in you and immediately back off.

He’s forceful. Not like Keller or O’Reily.

He’s a quiet kind of forceful.

You don’t even know he’s paying attention to you until the earth starts to quake.

He always gets what he wants.

If you’re in Oz, anything you want, it’s yours

If you’re out of Oz, that’ll give him a real chance to flex his power.

Expensive wines, Armani suits, Cuban cigars💰

Dates with him are lavish, too much. Far far too much but you get drunk on it. Not just the amounts of money spent. Just the grandiosity of it all.

That’s only the power of money, baby

Parking fines disappear, discounts in the neighborhood start popping up, and your boss seems down near afraid of you lately😅

It’s like the whole world starts bending around you

You’re not naive enough to think it’s anyone but Enrique.

He’s physically affectionate, but gentlemanly so.

His hand on your knee, your arm on his, dignified pecks in public

He takes you to wine tastings and art museums. It’s a flex to him but you enjoy the activity together all the same.

When it’s your turn to plan a date you suggest a picnic or a movie lol

He’s perplexed but would go

It’s interesting to him that simple things please you like that

Although he HATES the movies; too sticky snd peopley

The chivalry is just as present in the bedroom

You fuck, don’t get me wrong😂

But there’s a dignity to it

Los of neck kissing and heavy breathing

Kind of a guy you ask to choke you and he says “I can’t, babe, I don’t want to hurt you” and you convince him to one time and he throttles your shit like a gorilla on adderall… it’s wonderful but hot damn do you need a minute after

He’s really really sure of himself

So when he tells you he loves you, he’s more just letting you know that’s how things are now.

“Moving forward, is there anything that would make you feel more comfortable?”

“Ricky*, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Now that we’re in love.”

“I- what?!”😳

Think if he dated Gen Z (please don’t do the math on ages man this is a what if) he would pass the vibe check

Like he’d be confused as fuck

But he’d still pass

Nicknames for you: babe, love, hon, (mature, if not a little vanilla lol)

Nicknames for him: Ricky, brown eyes, my man, big guy, (anything that plays into his ego)

The others RESPECT you

Doesn’t matter if they like you or not. Enrique says jump, they say how high end of fucking discussion

You’ve got bodyguards for days (which aren’t unnecessary, he pisses a lot of people off)

You actually make friends with Carlo (fuck off he’s not dead if I can’t hear you)

Chico offers to share his drugs with you which you presume means friendship in his eyes

Carlos goes out of his way to suck up to you

“Lookin’ good today, mami, damn.”

It’s hard to tell when Enrique is being sincere

I think he even has a hard time telling.

But you try to believe him when he says he loves you

He’s more a man of actions

He’ll make you coffee in the morning, exactly how he knows you like it

Save articles he thinks you would read, or topics he thinks you’d enjoy

He knows you have a favorite spoon and fork and even though he thinks it’s dumb as fuck, he always serves those to you.

It’s the remembering things that keep you and he together. He just makes time to remember you.

Doesn’t matter if you’re the most special person in the world. You are to him.

Genuinely think he would brag about you

Talking with the guys and man’s is like

“Did I tell you what y/n did the other day?”

“Y/n actually has a degree in…”

“No, the best chicken piccata hands down is y/n.”

He’s just so proud of you.

He reminds you often that he only likes the best.

“That’s gotta mean something.” He husks🔥

When you get the ring, it looks like it ate all the other rings😂🫣

Gaudy as shit but damn does he love you.

Makes you a mob wife/husband/partner

Think he’s a little too far gone to change his ways

But in the best way Enrique Morales knows how, he loves you.

Bonus: I think he’s a TikTok man. Like I think his FYP is WILD. You’ll get like thirty TikToks a day and when you ask him why he was like idk I thought of you. Saves mostly survival hack TikToks, like how to purify water in a log and how to break duct tape. So fuck him, he worries about you. 🩷

*Think he would go by Ricky as a pet name, mostly because he sees himself as Desi Arnaz on I Love Lucy. The affable, charming Cuban man no one can resist😂

[still-gathering-roses]

7, 17, 26 ? for ask game :3

omg hiiii :3 💛

7. what animal do you look forward to seeing when you visit an aquarium? turtles!! and penguins. and rays! something about rays just feels especially Aquarium to me

17. an anxious compulsion you do everyday? do you want that alphabetically or chronologically LOL. hmm most of my habits are rooted in an anxious compulsion some way or other, but one that sticks out the most i think is i tend to flex my fingers and hands a lot after a particularly sideways social interaction. i'll smile at someone the wrong way and then be walkin down the hall just 🤜🫳🤘🤜🤙🤟🫱🫳

26. how's your spice tolerance? very wimpy i am bad at being latina. then again cuban food isn't especially spicy so maybe i'm not a totally hopeless gringa traitor after all (in other words i can handle a bit of spice but it just detracts from the flavor to me and i prefer my food without it!)

"weirdly specific" ask game

[anotherwvba]

Road to the Women's Circuit pt. 4

In the dimly lit locker room of the WVBA Omni Arena, Niki Binary stood in her boxing gear for the very first time. The atmosphere was electric, even in this secluded space. Her coach, Viktor Von Kaiser, was meticulously taping up her hands, each wrap a layer of assurance. Gabby Jay, a retired fighter and now WVBA official, watched intently, his eyes narrowed behind a thick French accent.

Niki's eyes darted around, as if scanning multiple computer monitors. She was absorbing every word, every gesture from her coach. "Listen, meine kleine Kämpferin," Von Kaiser began, his thick German accent filling the room. "Cutie is agile, graceful, but aggressive. She will try to dictate the pace. Use your analytical skills, anticipate her moves. Your style is unique; use it to disrupt her rhythm."

Niki nodded, her eyes still scanning imaginary screens. "Got it, disrupt her rhythm, anticipate her moves."

Von Kaiser continued, "She will look for an opportunity to use her Cutie Rush, especially when she can draw your guard out of position. Wachsam sein. There is a brief window to counter and stun her when she resets her feet."

"Look for the reset, counter it. Understood," Niki responded, her mind already running simulations.

"And you, when you see an opening, don't hesitate to execute your System Crash. You'll feel it; trust your instincts," Von Kaiser advised.

"I will, coach," Niki assured him.

Von Kaiser finished taping her hands. Gabby Jay stepped forward, inspecting them meticulously before signing the tape with a nod of approval. As he did, Von Kaiser noticed Niki's hands trembling slightly.

"Are you nervous, meine Schülerin?" he asked softly.

Niki sighed, "I can't help but wonder if I'm actually ready for this, for Cutie. This is my first real fight, and it's against someone I respect so much."

Von Kaiser smiled, helping her into her gloves. "Ah, I remember my first fight. My hands were shaking so much, I could barely put on my gloves. But once you step into that ring, something magical happens. You find a strength you never knew you had. Sie sind bereit, Niki. You've worked hard for this."

Niki clenched her fists, feeling the snug fit of her gloves. She pounded them together, testing their weight and balance. Satisfied, she looked up at her coach.

Von Kaiser stood, holding his hands up. "Let's warm up. Jab!"

Niki threw a quick jab, her glove connecting with Von Kaiser's palm.

"Cross!"

Another punch, another connection. They moved through a series of combinations, Von Kaiser dancing around her, testing her defense, her footwork, her speed.

Finally, he called it. "System Crash!"

Niki's eyes narrowed, her body coiling like a spring. In a flash, she executed the move, her glove connecting with a sound that reverberated through the room. It was a punch thrown with not just her body, but her soul.

Von Kaiser smiled, resting his hand on her shoulder. "Du bist bereit, Niki. You are ready."

Niki looked into her coach's eyes, seeing not just the reflection of her own determination but also a glimmer of pride. "Thank you, coach. I won't let you down."

Elsewhere in the WVBA Omni, Cutie Hondo's locker room was a sanctuary of focus and preparation. Dressed to fight, Cutie flexed her gloved hands, feeling the snug fit against her taped wrists.

WVBA Official Hoy Quarlow, a retired fighter and former World Champion, inspected Cutie's gloves and wrist tape. His eyes, framed by years of experience, scrutinized every detail. Finally, he nodded in approval and signed the tape. "Good luck, young warrior," he said in his thick Chinese accent before exiting the room.

Cutie began her warm-up, shadowboxing in the center of the room. Her movements were fluid, each punch and dodge a brushstroke on an invisible canvas. Her coach, Piston Hurricane, watched intently, his eyes never leaving her form.

"How will Niki start the fight?" Hurricane asked, his thick Cuban accent coming through.

Cutie, still shadowboxing, responded, "She's analytical, Coach 'Cane. She'll start cautiously, trying to read my moves."

"How do we approach her style?" Hurricane continued.

Cutie mimicked dodging and weaving as she answered, "Her style is unique, almost like she's solving a puzzle. I need to be unpredictable, keep changing the puzzle."

Hurricane nodded, "Good. Her favored attack?"

"The System Crash," Cutie said, throwing a straight punch into the air. "A straight to the solar plexus. She'll try knock the wind out of me, leave me open."

"How will you counter?"

Cutie demonstrated a quick sidestep and counter-punch as she continued shadowboxing. "I'll need to watch for her wind-up. There's a brief moment where she taunts before the punch. That's my window."

"And if you see her hurt, what will you do?" Hurricane's eyes narrowed, focusing on Cutie's form.

Cutie grinned, "Cutie Rush," she said, demonstrating a flurry of hooks to the body, each as fluid as a painter's stroke, "I'll make sure she doesn't get back up."

Hurricane held out his hand at chin level, "The most important thing in the ring?"

Cutie smiles as she finished the Cutie Rush, her glove meeting Hurricane's hand with her overhand right as she answered, "To have fun, Coach 'Cane. To enjoy every moment. I'm out there with my best friend."

Hurricane smiled warmly as Cutie bounced around, her footwork a dance of agility and grace. But then his expression turned serious. He placed his hands on Cutie's shoulders and looked her in the eyes.

"Mija, I know you've put a lot of pressure on yourself, pero recuerda esto. My legacy is secure. Your brother is making his own name. This fight is about you and Niki taking your place in history. You don't need to worry about anything more than that."

Cutie looked at her coach with reverence, her eyes misty. "Haisha moushiagemasu, 'Cane-sensei," she said, bowing deeply.

Hurricane returned the bow, his eyes meeting hers once more. "Dō itashimashite, Hondo-san. Go out there and have fun, Cutie."

Cutie's eyes sparkled, "I will, Coach. I definitely will."

On opposite side of the arena, two best friends were making themselves ready for battle. Their movements light and measured, their punches crisp and quick, and no trace of anger or malice. Niki Binary and Cutie Hondo... Nicole and Kyoko... were ready to share the stage and fight their hardest. After all, history was waiting.

[khazadspoon]

is it too late to ask for fic prompts? if not, how about "they're at a sketchy bar, some guys start trash-talking bb, kaz starts a fight over it bc he's a little drunk, and bb has to bail kaz out before he gets beat up too badly"?

Sorry it took a while, I was trying to think about how you’d trash talk bb and got muddled. But here! Have a thing. Violence and slight canon period typical homophobia but it’s not the Theme or anything.

———

The room was hazy, smoke lingering in the air like a blanket, music thudding under the low hum of conversations. People gathered at the bar with drinks and laughter, tables had extra chairs pulled up to accommodate friends meeting after long months apart. It was calm and yet there was something almost static in the atmosphere.

He didn’t know if it’s the alcohol or the headache brewing behind his eyes but something headset his heart racing.

Big Boss was almost silent in the corner. His eye drifted lazily over the crowd, occasionally focusing on Kaz when he said something of interest, mentioning possible contracts or weapons trade. MSF was growing and there was always something to do, but every so often they would get out, just the two of them, and wind down somewhere no one would know them. It just happened to be a bad idea one night.

“You’re in my spot.”

A guy, easily six and a half feet tall with arms thick as tree trunks, loomed over them. His accent was thick, not Costa Rican but familiar. Kaz wondered if it was Cuban. He put on his best, friendliest smile.

“Sorry, it was the only table left. We’ll only be an hour, maybe less, then we can-“

“Fuck off, fairy. Get out of my spot.” The man flexed, cracked his knuckles and moved to tug Kaz up.

A hand stopped him, grip light, but Kaz knew it wouldn’t stay that way.

Snake tapped ash from his cigar and calmly spoke. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Oh yeah? And what’re you gonna do about it?”

Kaz felt his pulse pick up. Sweat broke out on his palms, his stomach tightening as Snake rose up from his seat. “Nothing, yet, just take your hand off my friend and leave us be.”

“I don’t think so, shorty. Now take your boyfriend and go find some other place to be before I take your other eye,” the man puffed his chest out, jabbed a finger at Snake’s chest and spat at him.

Kaz saw red.

He lunged, fuelled by anger and cheep whiskey, fist flying into the guy’s jaw before his brain could catch up. Pain flared in his hand as he threw himself forward. He grabbed at the man’s hair, tugging hard and feeling it come out in his hand, thrust his knee up and heard the air rush out of the stranger’s lungs in a wet groan of pain.

He felt a sharp, heavy agony as a punch landed on his cheek. It rattled through him and he thought with a strange calmness that his glasses better not be damaged. The man, still wheezing and clutching his own crotch with one hand, slapped at Kaz’s face and Kaz tasted blood as he hit the wall behind him.

Then, in what seemed like seconds, he saw Big Boss grab the man’s arm, twist it, heard the joint snap out of place as he fell to the floor.

The bar was silent as Big Boss knelt over the prone body and bent to murmur on his ear.

“Right now your arm can still heal and be functional. If I lean on it the right way, you’ll be beating people up one handed for the rest of your life. You’ve got two options: get up and get to a hospital, or try touching him again and never get up again.”

His voice was low, smooth, no hint of anger or loss of control. Kaz swallowed the blood and saliva that had gathered in his mouth and stared with wondering eyes at his Boss. He’d die for this man, by his side or by his hand, and nothing could change that.

There was a pathetic whimper from the floor and the bastard nodded weakly. “Okay, okay I’ll go just don’t kill me!”

Big Boss stood up in a fluid motion and turned his back on the man. “Good. Now get out before I take both of your eyes.”

Kaz watched him scramble to his feet and stagger away, no one moving an inch to help him out of the bar. He wiped blood from his lips and realised he was grinning, though it must have looked more like a snarl. He could still taste blood and it felt… good.

Snake bent down for a moment and quickly wiped something on his shirt.

“Here,” he said softly, handing Kaz his aviators, “I think you dropped these.”

A half-mad chuckle burst from his throat. “Thanks, Boss.”

“C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah…” He followed as Big Boss walked through the stunned crowd, his head thrumming with love and life and pain. He’d had enough to drink, anyway.

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[mjonthetrack]

power

Chapter Twenty: Crab Legs and Trouble

The little crab boil spot off the marina wasn’t fancy—hell, it wasn’t even that clean if you looked too hard—but Chanel loved it like it was a five-star restaurant.

The air smelled like Cajun seasoning, melted butter, and fried catfish. Neon signs buzzed overhead, flickering now and then, but the vibe was easy, the music low and slow, and the energy? Perfect for winding down after a day spent wrangling egos and dodging bullets.

Chanel sat at a booth near the back, tucked away, nursing a massive fruity margarita already half-drunk with condensation dripping down the side. She had her sleeves pushed up, her Rolex catching the light, and her face glowing with the kind of excitement that only a big, messy seafood spread could bring out.

As the waitress approached with her first order—a massive tray piled high with snow crab, spicy corn, sausage, potatoes drowning in garlic butter—Chanel couldn’t help herself.

She did a happy little wiggle in her seat, biting her bottom lip, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

"Oh, it’s about to get ugly," she whispered to herself, already cracking her knuckles like she was about to go to war.

She grabbed her crab cracker, leaned forward—

—and froze.

A shadow slid across her table.

Before she could even curse, a heavy body dropped into the seat across from her, his presence sucking all the easy air right out of the room.

Sefa.

Laid back in a black tee stretched across his wide chest, heavy Cuban link chain gleaming at his throat, wrists flashing with rings and a Rolex that caught every cheap neon light just right.

His eyes? Murderous.

His vibe? Menace.

You could smell the aggravation peeling off him like smoke.

Without a damn word to her, Sefa snatched up a laminated menu with a heavy hand, flicking it open like he was two seconds from tearing it in half.

"Yo," he barked when the waitress nervously wandered by. "Same shit she got. Doubled. And bring another margarita."

Chanel set down her crab cracker carefully, jaw tight, blinking slow like she was trying to process the audacity sitting across from her.

"You fuckin' serious?" she drawled, her voice all honey over razor blades.

Sefa didn't look up, just tossed the menu onto the table with a slap and leaned back, arms stretched across the booth like he had every right in the world to be there.

His lip curled into a half-smirk, half-snarl.

Deadly.

Dangerous.

And not a damn bit sorry.

"You eatin'," he said simply, tilting his head at her feast, his deep voice curling into her bones. "I’m eatin’. Problem?"

Chanel stared at him across the table, at the thick muscles flexing under his tattoos, at the thunderstorm brewing in his dark eyes—and realized one very crucial thing.

This man wasn’t letting her have shit to herself tonight. Not peace. Not food. Not one goddamn second.

She grabbed her margarita, took a slow, long sip, and muttered under her breath, "Oh, I'm about to stab this motherfucker with a crab leg."

And Sefa?

Sefa just smirked wider like he heard her. Like he dared her.

————

Chapter Twenty-One: Hands, Crab Legs, and Empty Threats

The food came out heavy, fast, and loud—two massive spreads of seafood drowning in spicy butter, plumes of steam rising up like a damn offering.

Chanel didn’t waste time. She cracked crab legs like a pro, butter dripping down her fingers, her cheeks starting to glow from the heat of the seasoning and the frozen bite of her margarita. She wasn’t thinking about Sefa. She wasn’t thinking about shit but smashing her food and pretending like he wasn’t sitting across from her, chewing like he had beef with the crab too.

They ate like that—side-eyeing each other, chewing aggressive, not saying a word—until she finally sighed and kicked off her Louboutins under the table with a quiet, "Fuckin’ hell," her toes flexing from the hours she’d spent stomping around the estate like a runway boss.

Before she could reach down to rub the ache herself, a rough, warm hand slid over her ankle.

Chanel jerked a little, blinking down—and there he was. Sefa.

Silent. Focused. Like she wasn’t about to kick him dead in his handsome-ass face.

One massive hand wrapped around her sore foot, thumb dragging a slow, deep stroke across her arch. Her lips parted against her will.

He kept eating with the other hand, tearing through a cluster of snow crab, juice slicking his tattoos, not looking at her even once. Like massaging her was just a chore he was doing while busting down his meal.

Like he owned her space. Her reactions. Her silence.

"You gonna tell me why you all up under my brother?" he muttered low, never missing a bite, his grip on her foot tightening slightly.

Chanel narrowed her eyes, heart hammering, but she played it cool, picking up another leg like she wasn’t ready to stab him in the throat.

She pointed the crab claw straight at his forehead, her voice dripping sugar and threat.

"Touch that nerve again, I swear on my mama, Fatu, I'll put a bullet right in that thick-ass brow."

Sefa’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not amusement. Something darker. Something more dangerous.

He cracked another leg open, letting the meat pop free, still rubbing lazy circles into her arch like he wasn’t on the verge of starting a damn war.

"Yeah?" he rumbled, gaze lifting slow and deadly. "Then I guess you better aim better than you talk."

She leaned in, flashing teeth, her crab claw still pointed between his eyes.

"Motherfucker, I never miss."

Their glares locked. Heat rising. Butter-slick fingers still working their food. His thumb still digging into the softest, most vulnerable parts of her foot like he was claiming territory without ever saying the words.

The waitress came by, blinked at the tension so thick it could’ve clogged an artery, and smartly kept moving.

Neither of them noticed. Neither of them cared.

Because in that little cracked-out seafood dive, across a battlefield of crab shells and margarita glasses, the line between hate and something hotter burned clean away.

————-

Chapter Twenty-Two: Lines We Crossed a Long Time Ago

Sefa kept working her foot over, slow and heavy like he was punishing her for something only he understood, while cracking open crab legs like he was ripping throats out.

Chanel, not one to be outdone, licked the butter off her fingers, leaned over the table, and without even asking, plucked his fresh margarita out from in front of him.

She took a slow, messy sip, smacking her lips exaggeratedly when she finished. "Different flavor," she said, shrugging, licking the salt from the rim of the glass just to spite him.

Sefa’s jaw flexed so hard she thought she heard his teeth grind.

"And," she went on, rolling her eyes and throwing one leg casually over the other, feet still in his lap like she paid rent there, "I can’t help your brother’s attracted to me."

She stabbed a fork into a thick, juicy sausage link, twirling it lazily in the butter before offering it to him, a wicked little grin curving her lips. "What you want me to do, Fatu? Be ugly?" she teased, tilting her head, her voice sweet and mockingly innocent. "Sorry, I can’t do that."

He stared at the sausage like it was an insult, then at her.

Slow.

Heavy.

Dangerous.

Sefa leaned in, mouth brushing just close enough to the offered bite before snapping his teeth at the last second, snatching the sausage off the fork in one mean bite, his eyes burning into hers the whole time.

He chewed slow.

Deliberate.

The heat under the table from her bare legs on his thighs, the butter glistening on her mouth, the way she was playing with him—it all shredded the last bit of patience he had left.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, voice dropping to that lethal, thick rumble that made her spine prickle.

"You think this shit funny, Nel?" "You think it’s a fuckin' game, letting my brother touch on you, look at you, like he got a fuckin' chance?"

Chanel just blinked at him, amused, not moving her legs an inch from his lap, like daring him to do something about it. "You mad 'cause I’m pretty?" she teased, slow and slick. "You mad 'cause your brother likes what you don’t got the balls to ask for?"

That was it.

That was the match tossed into gasoline.

Sefa shoved his chair back with a screech of wood against tile, hands clamping around her ankles—tight but not enough to hurt—as he dragged her closer across the booth, their faces inches apart.

"Keep runnin' that pretty mouth," he muttered, voice low enough only she could hear, "and you gon' find out exactly what I take when I’m tired of waiting."

Chanel grinned, unbothered, even as her pulse thudded against her throat. She leaned in, brushing her butter-slick mouth against his ear, whispering slow like she was spelling out her own threat.

"Boy, you ain’t ready for the kind of trouble I am."

She flicked the tip of her tongue against his earlobe, just to piss him off more, before sliding back into her seat cool and easy, grabbing another crab leg like she hadn’t just set his whole fucking world on fire.

Sefa sat there for a long second, fists clenching on his thighs, breathing heavy like he was trying to remember why exactly he wasn’t dragging her ass out of there to show her exactly how ready he was.

The little crab shack buzzed on around them, oblivious. But inside that booth? War had already been declared.

And neither one of them planned on losing.

————-

Chapter Twenty-Three: Married My Ass

Chanel lazily speared another chunk of sausage, twirling it in the slick butter sauce before lifting it to Sefa’s mouth again like he was some overgrown toddler she was reluctantly babysitting.

"Open up, crybaby," she teased, wiggling the fork.

Sefa glared at her like he wanted to break the damn thing in half, but his mouth parted anyway. Sharp white teeth catching the meat clean off the fork with a snap, his tongue flashing just enough to make it a little dirty.

"Keep runnin' your mouth, Nel," he said thickly, licking butter from his thumb, "you lucky I don’t feed you your damn fork."

Chanel just laughed, tipping her margarita toward him in a little mock-toast before taking another sip.

Meanwhile, Sefa had taken to cracking crab claws with bare hands like a caveman—no cracker needed, just brute strength—pulling the meat free and tossing it onto her plate without ceremony.

"Lazy ass," he muttered, tossing another fat, glistening crab chunk onto her plate.

She snorted, popping the crab in her mouth without hesitation. "Jealous 'cause I got a whole set of functional tools," she said around a mouthful, throwing a wink at him, "and you just built like a demolition derby."

"Built like a—" he started, then cut himself off, growling low in his chest like he was gonna climb across the damn table.

Instead, he cracked another claw, slamming the meat onto her plate a little harder this time.

They kept at it, bickering, throwing shade and seafood, legs tangled up under the table like neither of them noticed—or maybe they both did and just didn't care.

Across the room, a sweet older couple had been watching them for a while—the snark, the laughter, the way Sefa kept lowkey massaging her ankle while cracking her crab legs, the way she kept stuffing food into his mouth like she was daring him to bite her fingers.

Before they left, they stopped at the register, paid the full tab, and scribbled something on the back of a receipt.

The waitress came by as Chanel and Sefa were arguing about whether she could beat him at pool. She laid the receipt down between them with a small smile and a wink.

"From the couple who just left," she said. "They said you two reminded them of themselves when they were young."

Sefa grunted suspiciously but grabbed the receipt, reading aloud:

"'Young love is a beautiful war. Keep fighting for each other. Dinner’s on us. — Mr. and Mrs. Martin'"

For a beat, neither of them said shit.

Then Chanel snorted so hard she almost choked on a shrimp.

"Married?" she cackled, slapping the table. "Boy, married my ass."

Sefa leaned back in the booth, arms stretching out along the backrest, smirking at her like a cat who’d just cornered a mouse. "You sayin' you wouldn’t marry me, Nel?" he rumbled, voice dropping that dangerous octave that made her thighs clench involuntarily.

She wiped her mouth with a napkin, throwing it at his face.

"I’d marry a rusty bullet before I married your mean ass," she said sweetly.

He caught the napkin one-handed without even blinking, that smirk growing meaner.

"Good," he said, slow, deliberate, eyes pinning her to the booth. "I don't do wives. I do mine."

That shut her up for half a second longer than she liked.

Long enough for Sefa to reach across the table, grab another piece of crab meat, and pop it into her stunned mouth, smirking wider when she damn near choked trying to sass back.

Yeah. The Martins weren’t wrong. It was a war.

But it was one nobody was gonna surrender.