#sets i make instead of starting my next work assignment.

[yangjeongin]

HYUNJIN in every BACK DOOR PERFORMANCE: 201010

[darkmatilda]

𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your first solo, undercover mission unexpectedly spirals out of control when a real heist begins at the scene.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x newbaumember!femalereader, robbery, the reader becomes a hostage, is beaten by the attacker (quite severely), killing of hostages, shooting, inspired by s1e9 where spencer saves elle on a train (the plot is very similar but set in a different scenery), spencer's pov, the attackers are definitely not the gentle type, reader is wearing a skirt (her whole outfit is described), glasses reid propaganda

𝐚/𝐧: merry christmas guys <3 fasten your seatbealts and get ready for this rollercoaster.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 14.8 k

"Why do I get the feeling that neither of you is even half as stressed as I am? Actually, scratch that—neither of you is even one-tenth as stressed as me?”

The question left your lips accompanied by a kind of sigh, an attempt to expel the air poisoned with anxiety and replace it with something fresh, clean.

"Because we know you’re going to do brilliantly, sweetheart," Penelope replied without hesitation, sparing you only a fleeting glance as she momentarily tore her eyes away from her computer screen. One of many screens.

Her office was filled with an uncountable number of them, all glowing brightly and lighting up the small, dimly lit space, which was also packed with her colorful accessories—pom-pom-topped pencils and flowerless plants in tiny pots, most adorned with smiling faces or hearts.

"Or rather," Reid interjected, spinning in a circle on his swivel chair, "because we both doubt you’ll even be remotely useful out there." A white box of Chinese takeout rested on his lap.

You shot him a grimace.

"Next time you try to undermine my self-confidence, make sure I’m not holding anything sharp," you warned, pointing one of your chopsticks at him. Yes, less than an hour before your first solo assignment, you were all happily indulging in junk food from the closest restaurant to the office, ignoring the looming possibility of digestive regrets. "Or you’ll lose an eye."

"Aren’t you tired of trying to kill me yet? First, you gave me a concussion…"

"You didn’t get a concussion, Reid. Stop exaggerating…"

"And now, you’re openly admitting that you plan to cause me permanent damage by depriving me of my sense of sight—which, as it is," he said, tapping the frame of his glasses, "is already in less-than-stellar condition."

"You two are just adorable when you argue with each other like an old, bitter married couple," Penelope commented with a small smile on her pink-lipsticked lips.

You first looked at each other, then at her, eyebrows raised, and in a synchronized moment, you both let out a huff. Unfazed, she continued.

"But now we really need to get to work. The exhibit starts in an hour, and you should get there with him. Have you ever used that microphone? It’s the latest model we’re testing, gosh, I’m so excited…"

"You’re adorable when you act like a typical nerd," you shot back, mimicking her little smile and tone of voice.

"A nerd I proudly am! Just like this guy here," she nodded toward Reid, who pouted slightly, looking offended. "You’re surrounded by nerds, sweetheart. Soon enough, you’ll become one too."

"Dear God, forgive me my sins and watch over me…" you whispered, staring at the ceiling.

The mysterious he that Garcia mentioned was named Christopher Allen, and he was surprisingly young for a neurotechnology engineer. He worked on issues surrounding the human brain and developed devices designed to have a broad range of effects on it. But why were you supposed to go with him to some exhibit? Equipped with a spy microphone? And why was it stressing you out so much that for the past ten minutes, you had only been picking at your Chinese takeout instead of eating it?

Well, it's hard to decide where to start explaining from.

You were summoned before Hotch yesterday, who informed you that an opportunity had arisen for you to prove yourself in the field. Alone, undercover, for the first time in your—let’s be honest—tragically short career at the FBI. On top of that, this was meant to test all the new equipment your team had received, the kind that Penelope had been so enthusiastic about. You couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the main reason you’d been assigned this task. Someone had to check the effectiveness of the gear, and at the same time, you, the rookie, needed to gain more experience. Allen’s case was like killing two birds with one stone.

This scientist had worked with the FBI multiple times, and that’s why when danger started looming over him, he was quickly assigned protection. The threat came from threatening letters and even a direct attack at his own home, which fortunately didn’t end in tragedy. Allen was descending into paranoia and was afraid to even attend public events, even ones with full protection, like the tech exhibition—taking place in one of the modest local museums—designed to showcase the latest advancements in neurotechnology and more.

He was probably afraid that during the event, someone would simply rush at him with fists and try to murder him in front of dozens of random technology and brain enthusiasts. Or something like that. Your task was to pretend to be his assistant, never leaving his side and carefully observing the surroundings. And that was it. Nothing too demanding was expected of you, unless things started to go south. However, that seemed highly unlikely, as everyone made it clear to you.

Still, you couldn’t shake the fear—whether justified or not—that something would go wrong. And it would be your fault.

“Reid, clip the microphone on her,” Penelope interrupted your train of thought with the order. “You’ve never used one of these before, have you, sweetheart?”

You nodded in confirmation, watching as Reid set aside his box of Chinese takeout to take the tiny device from her.  He stopped a step in front of you, perched on the edge of one of the desks, his gaze shifting uncertainly between the small black microphone in his hand and you.

“Where… where can I…?” he asked, trailing off as he made a vague gesture with his hand, surprisingly loaded with awkwardness.

“Oh,” you let out a confused sigh, beginning to consider where it might be best to place it. The sleeve? Shouldn’t it be closer to your face to capture even your quietest whispers?

“Okay, I’ve got an idea,” you said, starting to unbutton your white shirt, revealing a significant portion of your neckline. “Here?” you asked.

“Yeah… I think so,” he replied hesitantly but didn’t move.

It wasn’t until a moment later that he swallowed and, with a slow, deliberate motion, reached for a section of your shirt near your cleavage. His actions were careful—almost excessively so—like his top priority was ensuring he didn’t accidentally brush against your skin.

The microphone’s clip was quite small, though, and attaching it to your clothing required him to take another step closer and lower his head near your chest.

Even as your breathing slowed, you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Penelope shaking her head in amused disbelief. 

You preferred to look straight ahead rather than at his fingers, working with such careful focus, though you couldn’t help but let your gaze flicker to them repeatedly. Just for fractions of a second—it was difficult to pull your eyes away once they landed there.

Only when he finished, his hands dropping quickly to his sides as he stepped back, did you realize you’d been holding your breath for quite some time. You became acutely aware of how stifling Penelope’s little office was—how did she even manage in the summer?

"That's not all," the woman on the screen broke the silence, one you hadn't even realized had fallen. "There's also a transmitter you'll need to keep on you somewhere. Securely, so it doesn't fall out. Are you planning to go dressed like that?"

You glanced down at your outfit. A simple black skirt and white shirt—the first thing that came to mind then you learned you'd be posing as an assistant.

"Inappropriate?" you asked, searching for an answer first on Garcia's face, then on Reid's. The latter gave the barest shrug, barely even looking at you.

"You look amazing. Absolutely stunning, darling. I wish I could have an assistant like you," Penelope reassured you. "But in this economy, I can only dream about it. Anyway, my point is, you don't have any pockets. Where are you planning to keep the transmitter and your gun?"

"I was thinking of just tucking it into my skirt. At the back."

"I don’t think that’s the best idea," Reid interjected doubtfully. He hadn’t reclaimed his spot on the swivel chair and stood instead, arms crossed over his chest. The embarrassment you’d managed to put him in (quite adorable, really) was slowly dissipating, leaving only a faint blush on his cheeks. The corner of your mouth twitched when you noticed it. "I mean, it could fall out, or start sticking out, which could lead to questions like why an assistant is walking around with a gun..."

"Okay, I get it," you sighed. You could’ve thought this through a bit better. "Maybe I’ll have time to swing by home and grab, I don’t know, a blazer or something..."

"You won’t," Penelope declared after glancing at the time. "But you can always borrow my jacket."

You looked at the garment draped over the back of her chair—a bright pink leather jacket. You didn’t even bother responding; you simply stared at it, letting the expression on your face do the talking.

"Alright, I admit it, I didn’t think this proposal through. So, it looks like we’ll have to..." She trailed off, her gaze landing on Reid’s figure. Surprised by the attention, he pointed at himself.

You also directed your attention at him. He was wearing a simple brown blazer, which would go well with your unremarkable outfit.

"Take it off," you instructed.

He was silent for a moment, though there was no visible protest on his face—just doubt.

"It’s gonna be too big," he remarked, his hands gently grasping the edges of the jacket as if unsure whether to take it off.

"Apparently, oversized is coming back into fashion."

"Okay, fine," he sighed, removing the jacket. Underneath, he wore a shirt and a black vest, from which a matching tie peeked out. Initially, he seemed hesitant about the idea, but handed it to you with some urgency. "Here you go."

You sent him a brief, grateful smile.

"You’re saving my mission, Reid. I’ll mention you in the report. And I’ll frame your name with a little heart, drawn with one of Penelope’s glitter pens," you declared.

He returned the gesture, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly as he gave a small nod. You noticed his gaze was almost fixed on your face, as if some invisible force were forbidding him to look away, down or sideways.

You didn't think too much about what it meant, you didn't really have time. You put on the blazer, which was indeed a little too long, and hid the transmitter in the inside pocket. You placed the weapon at your hip, concealing it with your clothes. As you were about to leave, you said talk to you later because the two of them were going to communicate with you through the earpiece the entire time. They wished you good luck, and you were just about to leave the desk when Reid, suddenly as if unable to stop himself, said your name one last time.

You looked at him questioningly. Instead of responding, he made an uncertain gesture near his chest. Confused, you looked down.

For the entire time, half of the buttons on your shirt were still undone.

*

You had never met him in person, but you recognized his face from snippets of interviews that occasionally appeared online, or perhaps he had even been on the news a few times. He was in his thirties, give or take five years, hard to tell. His entire persona seemed to be built around the carefree nature of a young eccentric with a sharp mind and an unrestrained tongue, constantly refining his thoughts and conclusions, often controversial, causing an uproar among the public. Without a doubt, he was one of those people often called a genius. Which, not always, was a compliment.

Allen seemed deeply displeased by your presence. He looked… tired. His red hair contrasted with his very pale complexion, as if made of glass, and dark circles rimmed his eyes. He wasn’t shockingly tall, about your height, but with broad shoulders.

"The FBI was supposed to provide me with protection because some psycho is literally trying to kill me, and they send you?" he asked, bitterly, exchanging a brief handshake with you before getting into the car.

You both sat in the back, the driver at the wheel. You were supposed to arrive at the exhibition together. His reaction caught you off guard, his open anger sparking the same feeling in you.

"What's your problem?" you asked. His insulting tone irritated you the most, especially since he hadn’t even had the chance to get to know you.

For a moment, the man sat staring out the window. His body was tense, almost stiff, as if stressed. His elegant attire, with a shirt half-tucked into his pants and too many buttons undone, suggested that he usually dressed more casually.

He let out a heavy sigh, as if furious, then hastily wiped his face with his hand.

"Just..." he began coolly and cautiously, as if holding back some cruel words. "I get the feeling that everyone is downplaying the seriousness of this situation."

"We're all approaching this with the necessary commitment," you replied, though it wasn't entirely true. Allen had every right to fear for his life, but each of you honestly doubted anything would happen to him during this exhibition. If the threat had been real... Hotch probably wouldn't have sent you. "Believe me, we understand the gravity of the situation..."

"Really? Even the letters I've been getting? The content of them?"

You knew about the threats sent by an unknown sender, but you hadn't delved into what exactly they contained. Seeing you hesitate to answer, Allen scoffed.

"You're fucking great at your job, no doubt. So let me fill you in. They come every day. Every fucking day. And I read every single one of them. You know, I've even started seeing a pattern. First, they beg me. Then they threaten to fucking kill me. Smash my face into the ground, beat me to death with a metal rod, rip out my ribs, douse me in gasoline, and set me on fire..." He paused, dramatically scratching his chin. "Oh, almost forgot. They're going to peel the skin off my back. Then there's a day off. No letter comes. The next day, they apologize. I don’t know if this psycho has some extreme split personality or... or... I have no fucking idea. The cops said, get this, it's normal. 'Cause I’m a public figure."

"They brushed it off?" you asked, slightly shaken.

No matter how famous he was, threats were still threats.

He shrugged. He was trying to speak with a voice full of dismissive irony, but it wasn’t working. He stumbled, taking breaks to swallow. Though he had treated you like a complete jerk earlier, you were starting to understand.

“First off, until someone broke into my house and tried to drag me out of bed and take me…God knows where. Probably if I hadn’t had a dog…” he trailed off, glancing back out the window. You’d arrived at the museum, where the exhibition was to be held, but Allen hesitated to get out of the car. “This guy is nuts, whoever he is. I don’t know what to expect from him. He wants to kill me, kidnap me, torture me? Or maybe he’ll just settle for shooting me from a distance like I’m some goddamn Kennedy?”

“That doesn’t really sound like him,” you said in a calming tone. “He tried to kidnap you from your house, why would he suddenly attack you in a public place…”

“My fiancée is pregnant,” he suddenly blurted out.

You blinked, unsure how to respond to the sudden confession.

“Congratulations?”

“For her safety, I sent her very, very far away, somewhere she shouldn’t be in any danger,” he continued, completely ignoring your words. “And though her and the baby’s well-being is my top priority… I also need to take care of myself. I need to make it to their birth…and longer, of course. But that’s why I’m afraid to even go out to the damn store for milk, and that’s why I was so pissed off when I found out they assigned me a woman who, no offense, looks like she wouldn’t know how to hold a gun.”

You instinctively scoffed at his last comment, though it was hard to stay particularly mad at him, knowing everything he was going through. An awkward silence fell between you, heavy and laden, during which the two of you simply stared at each other. It hit you that you were responsible not only for his safety but also for ensuring that someone’s fiancé and future father would make it home.

“We should get going,” you said, nodding toward the museum. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a certain tension at the thought of leaving the car. You shook your head slightly, trying to dispel it. “And just so we’re clear, I do know how to handle a gun—more than you’d think. But for your sake, you better hope we don’t have to put that to the test.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Well then, onward, assistant. Tell me, how much do you know about neurotechnology?"

Well, by the end of this day, you were definitely going to know a lot more. Together with Allen, you crossed the threshold of the museum. Its decor clashed with the theme of the exhibition, but apparently, they hadn’t managed to secure a better location. 

The interior layout was harmonious—rounded arches were supported by symmetrically arranged marble columns, and the dominant shades were gold and royal red.

Your destination was the exhibition hall, circular in shape, where mahogany tables served as display stations for various prototypes in the fields of medicine, neurobiology, and informatics. In other parts of the building, there were tall, arched windows, but this particular room had none. No natural light entered; all illumination was generated by lamps that, to their credit, mimicked the natural diffusion of sunlight quite effectively.

Among the displays were an interactive brain map and various projects still in development but aimed at assisting people with disabilities.

You observed all of this with interest while simultaneously listening to your companion’s impromptu lecture on the human brain (apparently, talking helped him calm down). At the same time, you were closely monitoring the crowd around you.

True multitasking.

The exhibition was open to everyone; no one was checking who entered the venue. Although you counted three security guards in the room—dressed in simple black suits and mostly tasked with ensuring that no one tried to steal anything—there was a subtle air of unease hanging in the atmosphere. If Allen’s suspicions were correct, the person intent on ending his life could be one of these faces. To your surprise, however, he suddenly seemed far less concerned about it than you were.

“You don’t have to follow me around like a shadow,” he said, leaning toward you to make himself heard over the murmur of surrounding conversations. A familiar face with a loud, bright red tie waved at him and began making their way over. “Just don’t take your eyes off me, no matter what. And keep an eye out for anyone suspicious—whatever that means to you. Hey, man!”

He greeted his acquaintance with a friendly handshake. Following his instructions, you took a small step back, deciding to take a short stroll among the exhibits. But after barely two steps, your finger went to the discreet earpiece hidden under your hair.

“Are you there, my lovely nerds?” you asked with a playful smile, knowing they couldn’t see it but imagining their reactions.

“At your service!” Garcia responded enthusiastically, and you could almost picture her saluting on the other end.

“And what about Mr. Smartass? Did he get bored and wander off to study the reproductive habits of ants?”

“I heard that!” he replied, summoned by his new nickname. “Such gratitude for letting you borrow my jacket.”

“Speaking of the jacket,” you continued, “I found a candy in the pocket. How thoughtful of you to leave me a little sweet treat.” You weren’t joking; there really was a candy inside. You inspected the wrapper and frowned. “Marzipan? Ugh. Do you have the taste buds of my grandma?”

"To what I know, I haven't had a taste bud transplant. Especially not from anyone's grandmother," he replied nonchalantly. "And as for those ants..."

"Sorry to interrupt, my darlings, but I have a few questions about the sound quality of these new microphones..."

True to her word, Garcia began asking you how well you could hear them and instructed you to lower your voice to a whisper and then raise it sharply. Some sort of test or whatever. You did it all patiently while staring at the red-haired mop at the station across from you. Allen seemed pretty relaxed now, probably realizing nothing was going to happen to him.

"Okay, now do the sound like a chicken. I mean the noise."

"What?"

"You know, cluck."

"Pen, is this really necessary?"

"Yes, sweetie. I need to check something else. Last thing, I swear. Scout’s honor."

You sighed, looking around at the people nearby. Few were paying attention to you, you were just one face in the crowd. God, for something like this, you could ask for a raise.

"Exactly, honey. Just louder," Garcia asked.

You rolled your eyes and tried again to make the chicken sound. An older couple glanced at you, their eyes wide with horror.

"Alright, enough," you muttered, embarrassed, into the earpiece, quickly moving to a different spot.

And then you heard the pair on the other side literally choking with laughter.

"I fucking hate you guys," you said. "I hate you. Especially you, Penelope. Give me Reid on the mic, from now on I'm only talking to him."

Another burst of laughter from the woman. You clenched your jaw. And as if that weren’t enough…

 "Did you want to hear me, little chick?" Reid asked politely.

“I should’ve gouged your eye out with a chopstick when I had the chance,” you hissed into the phone, a little too loudly, drawing a few curious glances. You were supposed to be watching for suspicious people, but it turned out you were acting the most suspicious of all…

“Did you catch what she said?” Reid addressed Penelope. “I only heard clucking.”

“Ha-ha,” you rolled your eyes.

For fifteen minutes, you had to endure such jokes. You seriously began to worry that they’d never get tired of it, but finally, after a quarter of an hour of psychological torture, they fell silent. You kept a sharp eye on your surroundings.

“By the way,” you began, still a bit offended by the chicken joke. “You guys should regret not being here to see these inventions. Perfect for you, nerds.”

“Well, actually, we can see them,” Reid’s voice came through the earpiece, sounding very clear, clearly taking the whole mic for himself. “Garcia grabbed footage from the cameras inside the room.”

“So you can see me? This whole time?”

 “Yep. And we saw that terrified couple who ran as far away from you as they could as soon as you started clucking like a chicken. Poor souls.”

You ignored the comment and began scanning the room for the cameras. When you found them, you scratched your forehead with your middle finger.

“Can you see this too?”

“I can see how much fun you’re having,” he scoffed. “Are you going to include that in your report?”

“Exactly. Right under your name, framed with a glittery little heart. Any other requests?” Not waiting for his response, you added, “By the way, how do I look in your jacket? Does it fit me well?”

"I think so. I mean, the blazer is incredibly well-tailored. And of good quality. It’s impossible for it to look bad on anyone." He paused for a moment, and his voice grew more serious. "How’s it going? Have you noticed anything suspicious? Still feeling stressed?"

"Not anymore," you admitted, speaking the truth. Even though the exhibition had just started and was supposed to last about another hour, you felt like you had passed some milestone where nothing could go wrong anymore. "But of course, I’m still keeping an eye out. I had a little chat with Allen…"

"I heard," Reid acknowledged. "Very interesting lecture on the human brain, I must admit."

You let out a small laugh.

"I talked to Allen earlier. Still in the car. After what he told me, I don’t think he's a paranoiac. The guy is just really worried about his safety. And not just his.”

A moment of silence fell on both sides.

"Speaking of Allen, he's heading your way," he informed you, likely watching the feed from the cameras. "I guess I'll hear from you later then. I mean, I’ll be hearing you the whole time, just not the other way around. Unless you want me to constantly broadcast about ant reproduction?"

"Sorry, Reid, but I’ll pass. Maybe some other time," you chuckled, noticing the engineer approaching. As he walked, he bumped into a man in the crowd and exchanged a quick apology. You used that moment to add something else, a bit impulsively. "And what about this? Do you see this?"

You pressed the inside of your hand to your lips before unfolding it, sending a kiss toward one of the cameras. Reid was silent as Allen drew closer.

"I see it," he finally admitted, quieter. You regretted not being able to see his expression, it was unusually hard for you to picture it at that particular moment. Was he smiling? "And I like it a lot more than what you showed me earlier."

You turned your back to the camera so he wouldn’t see you smile. It only hit you afterward that he probably saw it anyway, just from a different angle.

"I see you're enjoying the exhibition," Allen said, standing in front of you with his hands in his pockets. He had stopped pretending to be the classy guy and fully embraced his more laid-back side. "So, uh, sorry, but I think I'd rather head out now."

Worried, you discreetly glanced around.

"Did something happen? Did someone stare at you weirdly, do something...?"

He shook his head, a negative gesture.

"Nothing like that. I just saw what I needed to see. Check it off the list, I’m ready to leave..."

After his words, an absolute darkness fell.

Absolute darkness, in the truest sense of the word. The exhibition hall had no windows. When the lights went out, it felt as if someone had tied a cloth tightly over your eyes. Yet, like a fool, you kept looking around, as if moving your head could somehow tear through the blackness enveloping you, freeing you from the growing panic that was slowly flooding your senses.

“Garcia, what’s up with the cameras?” Reid’s voice sounded in your ear. He was confused, not yet frightened. He didn’t know what was happening yet. None of you did.

The people around you, of course, were also surprised by the sudden blackout. A few muffled gasps echoed, one or two squeals, a smattering of curses. But there were no screams, no one tearing at their throats or blindly bolting forward, trampling others in the process. That came later.

Exactly four seconds after the first gunshot rang out.

Before, the world seemed to freeze in place; everyone’s breaths were trapped in their lungs, unwilling to escape, even out of curiosity. Your body lunged forward as if trying to flee, but it quickly dawned on you that there was nowhere to run. Where had the shot come from? Who had fired it? Was someone hurt?

Something—or rather, someone’s hand—clamped painfully around your wrist. Instinctively, you tried to pull free, letting out a sound somewhere between a growl and a garbled cry.

“It’s me,” Allen choked out, his voice trembling. You couldn’t see his silhouette, but you knew the blood had drained from his face. “What the fuck... what the fuck is happen���”

The second shot rang out, closer and sharper than the first. Chaos erupted in the room. Screams, so hysterical they drowned out the voices coming through your earpiece, filled the air. Something struck you hard, sending you stumbling as pain radiated through your shoulder. It was an empty kind of pain—something you felt and yet didn’t. You realized it must have been one of the panicked people charging blindly through the dark.

“Here,” you commanded, your mind snapping briefly into clarity. In your mind’s eye, you pictured the layout of the room before the lights went out. The corner of the hall, the wooden table behind you, where one of the prototypes had been displayed.

You slipped under the table, dragging Allen with you. He groaned as his head hit the underside of the furniture.

You were so utterly disoriented that it felt as though your own name was echoing on a loop inside your head. It took you a moment to realize it wasn’t just your mind playing tricks—it was someone’s voice, growing more familiar with each passing second.

The third gunshot.

Allen choked on his breath, his hand still gripping your wrist so tightly you feared it might snap—yet you didn’t register it as pain, merely as a sensation. The two of you crouched beneath the table, facing each other, teetering on the edge of succumbing to the abyss of panic.

Reid spoke your name again, faintly, as though he were far too close to the microphone. As though leaning in would somehow make you hear him better—make you respond.

“I’m here,” you managed to stammer, the first thing that came to your mind.

"Thank God, I thought..." he sighed, suddenly stopping, as if realizing it wasn't yet time for relief. "Are you... are you hurt?"

"My arm."

You didn't know why those words escaped your lips. Maybe because, although your mind was too occupied with trying to figure out the situation to focus on something like pain, your body couldn’t ignore the fact that it felt it. Against your will, you let out a hiss and finally pulled your hand out of Allen's grip.

"You've been shot? We... we can't see anything, do you have anything to stop the bleeding, maybe use my jacket..."

"I don't know what's happening, we've completely lost access to the camera feed, someone must have turned them all off, just like the power... Reid, immediately notify Hotch, he needs to know something's wrong..."

On the other side, chaos erupted, comparable to the one surrounding you. Penelope was aggressively pressing the keyboard keys, Reid was rushing between a phone conversation with Hotch and throwing random phrases at you like stay where you are or how's your arm?

But was staying put the right decision? Wasn't it just waiting for the person responsible for starting this... massacre to come for you? On the other hand, how were you supposed to escape? In complete darkness? You had a weapon... but what good was it if you couldn't see anything? A sound of resigned sobbing escaped you.

And then, suddenly, right before your eyes, Allen’s red hair materialized, his fingers pressed into his skull as if he wanted to tear it apart himself. You both looked into each other's eyes. Visibility returned.

“We have light,” you said, though it didn’t loosen the grip on your chest.

“What?” Penelope sputtered, confused. “We still can’t see anything, the cameras are still…”

Allen let out a choked cry. You followed his gaze. Just before your hiding spot, a pair of leather shoes stopped.

“Get out,” commanded a male voice. You lifted your head. Above you stood a man with dark facial hair and a submachine gun, looking like an extension of his broad shoulder. You immediately noticed, besides the weapon, he was also carrying a black sports bag slung over his shoulder. Both of you were too disoriented and terrified to follow the order. “I said, fuckin’ get out and against the wall, I won’t repeat myself.”

Like animals herded into a pen, you followed his instructions to the designated spot. The entire crowd inside gathered against one of the blood-red walls of the room, some pressing their backs against it as if that embrace would ensure their safety...

“What’s going on there now?” Reid asked. “We still don’t have a feed... I can hear you breathing,” he blurted out unexpectedly.

You realized that your breath had indeed become heavy and loud. It dawned on you that you hadn’t gone through any extensive training on how to handle a situation like this; you were useless...

“Just...damn it, I know it’s easier for me to say, but try not to panic, okay? Whatever’s going on... panic will only make it worse. You need to focus, please. Can you do that? Breathe? Slowly, like I’m doing now?”

Your hands clenched around the fabric of his jacket, feeling it under your fingers. Closing your eyes, you could almost imagine him standing right in front of you, in this very building, speaking those words. It helped calm you down, at least enough for your mind to stay somewhat communicative...

“Good. Very...very good. Now, can you describe what’s happening over there?”

You knew that every piece of information you passed on would be worth its weight in gold. You tightened your grip on the fabric of Reid's jacket and began scanning your surroundings.

“One shooter. He’s herding us... all of us, against one of the walls and... stuffing prototypes into the bag, every one he can get his hands on,” you reported, describing everything you’d seen. “It looks like a robbery.”

“Just one?” Reid asked. “What were those shots? Someone... got hurt?”

You were about to deny it when your attention was drawn to a bloodstain spreading across the marble floor at the opposite corner of the room. Allen nudged you, pointing to something else—a body lying motionless.

“Guards. He... he killed all the guards,” you recognized them by their uniforms, the words barely escaping your throat. So, he hadn’t hesitated to kill, not one of those inexperienced types with any moral inhibitions. Trying to make sense of everything happening around you, you pressed your hand to your forehead. “But... but how could he see them in this darkness...”

“Night vision,” Allen interrupted suddenly, his previously hunched figure straightening as he realized it.

You found the man busy with the theft and controlling the area. He was quite solidly built, you could compare him to Derek. And, as the engineer had observed, around his neck hung a device for seeing in the dark.

“The police have arrived outside the museum, but they won’t go inside as long as you’re trapped with him. They don’t want anyone to get hurt,” Penelope informed you, then let out a soft, wheezing breath, as if she was trying to calm herself down. “Sweetheart, the whole team is on their way too. From now on, you’re our informant…”

“Is Christopher Allen among you?” A commanding voice suddenly cut through the sheet of panic blanketing the room, drawing everyone’s attention. It belonged to a truly imposing man with a shaved head and a forehead lined with wrinkles that seemed to stem more from exhaustion than age. But by far, the most significant detail about him was the submachine gun he held in his hands.

Two. There were two shooters.

Your focus shifted to the man standing right in front of you, as if delivering some kind of speech. At first, you didn’t even register what he’d asked. He repeated the question quickly and impatiently, and you froze. Not that you’d been particularly active before, but in that moment, all your bodily functions seemed to shut down completely. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at Allen—not even for a fleeting glance.

“Christopher Allen. Biotech engineer. He should be here,” the man continued, scanning the faces in front of him almost desperately, searching for the one he needed. He sounded almost... distraught? That broken expression, teetering on the edge of tears and madness, starkly contrasted with his militaristic physique.

Suddenly, his accomplice appeared, tugging at his arm.

“Jesus, give it a rest. We need to get out of here. The car’s waiting for us, remember?”

He shoved the smaller man with a force befitting his build, sending him staggering backward.

“I’m not leaving until I talk to him!” he declared with furious determination. “Christopher Allen…”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me…”

“Allen…”

His eyes scanned the surroundings until they landed on the two of you. You felt someone lightly wrap their fingers around your forearm, gripping it almost instinctively. It wasn’t a strong or painful hold, but rather one born of genuine fear, seeking protection. Protection that, from the start, had been your responsibility to provide. Yet now, standing face to face with two armed assailants, with lifeless bodies lying in pools of blood in the same room…you felt the crushing weight of an obligation you were physically incapable of fulfilling, creating a storm of chaos within your mind.

Allen must have been fooling himself into thinking he could blend into the crowd and remain unnoticed. Even as everyone’s gaze began to focus on him, urgently and with some unspoken hope, he stubbornly stood still. Or was he simply paralyzed by fear?

For the first time since he was called out, you looked at him. His eyes conveyed one thing: a simple message. It was him. The man who had been sending him threats, the one who had broken into his house. You furrowed your brows, this whole situation was becoming incomprehensible. He cared so much about kidnapping the engineer that he had organized the heist at the exhibition where he was supposed to be?

 “Come here. I need to talk to you, you… you need to do something for me.”

Once again, in your ears, you heard the description of the tortures that were mentioned in the letter.

"You have to do this," you said very softly, almost a whisper. "We can't let him get angry. Do you hear me?"

 It seemed like your words weren’t reaching him at all. You nervously glanced at the gunmen, hoping that the command you had given hadn’t raised any suspicion or made them think you were trying to outsmart them, deceive them in some way. Slowly, but with deep remorse, you loosened Allen’s grip on your forearm. His chest wasn’t rising, as if he weren’t breathing. But then his gaze shifted, not to you, but to the people around you, to the ones standing in fear, waiting for his reaction. Something in his face shifted, then he took a step forward.

“Slowly,” you instructed.

It seemed like the best solution. Unsub knew that the person he was looking for was among you, he had identified him without any difficulty. Allen couldn’t hide or escape, all that was left for him was to comply with the orders, for his own sake and for everyone else's. It was also important that he stalled for time. You hoped that as soon as your team arrived, they’d be able to come up with something. Maybe they were already there, working to make contact with the shooters and free you all, alive and unharmed.

At the same time, someone called your name.

"Report in."

It was Hotch. At the sound of his stoic voice, a fleeting wave of relief washed over you. You even parted your lips to answer when you realized the second gunman was staring at you. The room fell into absolute silence as Allen slowly approached them. You shouldn’t reveal that you were with the FBI or any other agency—that was a basic rule…

 "Listen to me carefully now," the unsub spat, placing one of his massive hands on Allen's shoulder, causing him to almost buckle under the forceful touch. Someone behind you let out a muffled cry. "You need to remove it from me, do you understand?"

"Shit," his partner muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. He was holding a bag with the stolen equipment, constantly glancing toward the exit. You wondered if he had anything to do with the threats sent to Allen. "Shit, we need to get the hell out of here before the cops completely block our escape. We don't have time for your fucking delusions!"

“Remove…?” the baffled engineer repeated, completely thrown off.

“The chip. The one inside me. Right here, on the back of my neck.” The man jabbed a finger at the spot. “Someone has to cut it out of me. You work with brains—you must know how to do it. He’s controlling me, watching my thoughts… I saw an interview with you once. I know you’re the only one who can do this…”

The man’s words devolved into a stream of incoherent rambling. Allen had no idea how to respond, and silence stretched on the other end of the phone. Meanwhile, the second gunman tried once again to persuade his partner to escape, but this only triggered an explosive burst of rage that made everyone around them shrink in fear.

“Shut up, or I’ll blow your head off too!” the man shouted. “I’ve waited too long for this. I don’t give a damn about all that crap you stole. I don’t care if they catch me. He’s going to cut out that chip!”

“What chip?” Allen finally managed to stammer. “I don’t understand…”

“The chip the government implanted in me to control me! That’s why no hospital will remove it—they’re all under government control! Only you can do it!”

“The unsub is delusional, that much is clear,” Reid’s voice suddenly crackled in your earpiece, catching you by surprise. He must have made it from Penelope’s office to the museum—where he joined Hotch and the rest of the team—at an impressive speed. “The reality he’s constructed is starting to blur with actual reality, which makes him extremely dangerous. Just from the tone of his speech, you can tell he’s emotionally unbalanced and on the brink of a breakdown. Unfortunately, this means his actions could be erratic and violent, with a strong tendency toward escalation.”

"What can I do?" you whispered as quietly as possible, taking advantage of the commotion in the center of the room.

"Are you there? Can you speak safely?" he asked, exhaling a breath of trapped air. "I mean... What you can do, first and foremost, is stay cautious. Don’t say or do anything that could provoke him further," he instructed, his tone turning focused and determined to provide you with as much guidance as possible. You nodded almost imperceptibly as you listened, as if he could see you. At some point, your fingers began nervously clutching the fabric of his blazer again, a small, unconscious tic.

"Don’t confront his delusions—or rather, don’t outright deny them. Try not to introduce any new elements either, to avoid deepening his paranoia, alright? That could put you in even greater danger..."

"Above all, try to redirect his anger away from Allen and the other hostages," Hotch cut in. "We’re working on a way to get inside. You just need to buy us some time."

Buy some time, it was easy for him to say, you thought with sudden frustration. What exactly could you do? It was incredibly hard to make any decisions when you were fully aware that their consequences could result in the death of an innocent person—or people.

Allen was still in front of the unsub, gripped tightly by the gun-wielding man, slightly shaking his head from side to side, clearly overwhelmed by the situation.

"But... but how am I supposed to get the chip out, do you really believe the government..."

"He doesn’t have the right tools," you interrupted, taking a step forward to draw the shooters’ attention to you. You raised your hands in a gesture of surrender as soon as you found yourself in the second man’s line of sight. You were scared of the direction Allen was heading in—after all, Reid had told you not to deny his delusions. Though you weren’t sure it was the right approach, you tried to make eye contact with the unsub. You had a feeling that he might only fully understand what you were trying to convey if you did.

Everyone was looking at you now. Nervously, you swallowed before speaking again.

"If you want him to remove the chip from your body... you’ll need at least a scalpel. Well, and if it was implanted by the government... that might not be enough?"

To your surprise, the second attacker spoke up.

"She's right, Erick, we don't have anything like that. Leave him, we need to get out of here... though fuck, it probably doesn't matter anymore, I wonder if the police have already caught our driver..."

You hoped that the team had heard this and started looking for suspicious vehicles in the area. Erick, or rather the unsub, began to stare intensely at you, analyzing what you'd said.

"Keep it up," Reid said. "It looks like you’ve planted some doubt in his mind about his own plan. You can keep going in that direction, just please, please, be careful..."

"Reid," Hotch admonished him.

You took a deep breath, your mind was working so fast that it was starting to go blank. You had to say something more before it consumed you entirely.

"But... but I'm sure that if you had met under different circumstances, outside the museum, he would have been able to extract the chip..."

"No! I've waited too long, I can't stand having this crap under my skin for another minute! He'll take it out now, or he won't leave here!"

Allen's raised hands trembled at those words.

"How can we communicate with the police? Is there a phone here?" he asked his companion.

"Are you fucking out of your mind..."

"They'll bring us the equipment. A scalpel. They won't have a choice, or I'll shoot them all, one by one."

"We should focus on how to get out of here..."

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT THAT!" the unsub roared at him. Fueled by this outburst, he shoved Allen away so forcefully that the man fell to the floor. The startled man took a step back, unable to hide his fear. It was clear who had the final say in this duo. Erick was not only physically larger, most likely more ruthless, but above all, incredibly unpredictable. Without looking at you, he issued an order.

"Everyone sit against the wall, you too." Allen awkwardly got to his feet and almost ran to the indicated spot.

You didn't want to sit, to put yourself in an even more vulnerable position. But when a man with a submachine gun and a completely deranged gleam in his eyes is standing in front of you, you don't have much of a choice. Slowly, you sat down on the floor, surrounded by all these terrified people.

You studied the faces of everyone around you—scientists and random people who had ended up here simply because they were intrigued by the exhibit's theme. And that innocent curiosity had led them into such a hopeless situation, where each breath, drawn into trembling lungs, could prove to be the final one. What terrified you was the fact that the only thing distinguishing you from them was the tiny microphone pinned to your clothes and the earpiece in your ear.

The woman sitting next to you, so close that your elbows were touching, looked as though she was about to faint. Without hesitation, you offered her your hand, which she took with no resistance. In situations like that, the escape from fear was desperately sought wherever it could be found—even among strangers.

“What’s happening in there now?” Hotch asked.

You explained the situation to him as clearly and logically as possible, correcting anything they might have missed due to their lack of actual insight into what was happening inside the museum. The woman beside you looked at you strangely, smudged mascara around her eyes.

“Please don’t worry,” you whispered, making sure none of the attackers could hear you. Though maybe you shouldn’t have, you felt you needed to reveal yourself to her, to help her survive the nightmare she had found herself in. “I’m... a federal agent. I have contact with the team outside, they’re working on how to get us out of here.”

You didn’t know if those words had particularly soothed her fear—just as you spoke them, Allen practically pressed himself against you, trying to whisper something into your ear.

“Give me your gun,” he practically ordered.

You looked at him with your eyebrows raised in shock. No words were needed. Your face clearly expressed one big what?

He looked like one of those people going on and on about a newly invented device they had been working on for years, staying up every night. In his eyes was a comparable crazy but incredibly self-assured gleam.

“I know you have it, but you won’t use it. Because you're scared. And I don’t blame you!” he quickly added, moving slightly away from you. Still, your faces were tilted toward each other in a conspiratorial whisper.

“But listen to me. He cares about me, right? Or rather, he cares that I get the nonexistent chip from him. He won’t hurt me when I get closer, he’s too desperate, in his eyes, I’m his only chance…”

“You must have lost your mind,” you said through clenched teeth. Was he really willing to take such a risk and play the hero when he and his fiancée were expecting a child? “And what about the other guy, huh? Do you think he’ll just stand there calmly when...?”

“Then I’ll shoot him first. I used to go to the shooting range, I was pretty good at it. The other one will be too scared to hurt me, and then I...”

“Absolutely not,” Reid interjected.

You snorted.

“As if I would even consider it…” you muttered. Looking at Allen, you tapped your forehead. “No way. You’re not risking your life on such a stupid plan where everything could go wrong…”

“Do you think I’m asking for your opinion?” he hissed, clutching his head in desperation. “The answer is no. I’m just saying, give me your gun. Where is it?”

As he said this, he grabbed the fabric of your blazer, searching under it for what he so desperately wanted. You tried to catch his hand, but he trapped it in his grip, digging through the layers of your clothes, under your skirt. You jerked your whole body in an attempt to break free.

“Leave me alone, they’ll notice us soon…”

“What’s he doing?” Reid asked sharply. Although he couldn’t see what was happening, his voice was not only confused, but also clearly worried, maybe even angry.

“Just give it to me, what the hell does it hurt…”

His hand, despite your resistance, finally reached the grip of your gun, slightly sliding it out from beneath your skirt. You shot a quick glance toward the attackers, still engrossed in their conversation—or rather, argument. Terrified by the thought that they might notice what Allen was pulling from under your clothing, you instinctively swung at his face, causing his head to snap back with a muffled cry of pain.

“What language do I need to speak for you to understand? What you’re planning is idiotic,” you said, your words flowing together with a surprisingly calm yet furious ease. You struggled to keep your voice low, feeling as though shouting might make him grasp it faster. But that wasn’t an option. “You’d risk not only your life but everyone else’s,” you said, gesturing toward what you now had no choice but to call the hostages. “And no one wants to die because of some brainless idiot with a hero complex.”

After you hit him, Allen backed away to a distance that no longer invaded your personal space. With your breath quickened, you adjusted the position of the gun, suddenly panicked that it might fall out during his attempt to grab it against your will. Despite yourself, a strange feeling overcame you. Out of everyone—of all the people trapped in the museum—you were the only one with even minimal knowledge of what to do in this situation, the only one with outside communication to the police, and, most importantly... a weapon. And yet, with that arsenal at your disposal, you were doing embarrassingly little to improve the situation.

Your jaw tightened at the thought, your fists clutching the fabric of your blazer so hard that your knuckles turned white. It was astonishing how much that small action helped you regain your composure. Not just the feel of the fabric but also... the scent. You could almost imagine you weren’t entirely alone in this. And though you wouldn’t trade places with Reid or anyone else from the team for anything, you couldn’t shake the feeling they would handle this far better than you were.

And speaking of Reid...

"Are you okay?" he asked again, his tone much softer than before.

"I'm fine," you tried to give your voice a casual, almost dismissive tone, though you doubted you fully succeeded in masking the tension. You let out a helpless scoff in an attempt to lighten it. "I mean, fine as much as one can be fine in this situation..."

You trailed off, and he hesitated before replying.

"Hang in there, okay?" he said, so quietly you thought you might have misheard. It made you wonder if it was because he didn’t want anyone else to overhear what he was saying into the mic. If that were the case, was it because he didn’t want anyone accusing him of chatting with you when he should be doing something more important? Or maybe, he just didn’t want this simple yet anxious message to reach unwelcome ears and lose its sense of privacy. You heard him swallow. "We’ll get you all out of there soon. Garcia got the phone number of one of the attackers, the delusional one—his name’s Erick Larson, by the way. If he has it on him..."

As if on cue, the sound of an incoming call rang out. They stopped talking, and the surprised man reached into his pocket.

"What are you going to do? Negotiate?" you asked.

"Hotch is going to talk to him. The main goal is to get the hostages released."

The word hostage sounded so strange to you; you couldn’t connect it to your situation. A hostage didn’t have a gun tucked under their clothing or communicate with an FBI team through an earpiece. Those people, holding each other's hands in fear and huddled on the floor, were the hostages. Not you.

"Can you stay on the line?" the words slipped out before you could stop them. "Just, I don’t know... tell me how it really is with those ants or something." You squeezed your eyes shut as a wave of embarrassment crashed over you. You were acting like a scared child who needed a bedtime story to forget the monster under the bed. "Forget it, that’s stupid. You’ve probably got your hands full. Focus on helping us, on the negotiations."

"I'm still on the line," he reassured you, even before the echo of your last words faded. "And I’ll stay on it the whole time. And since talking to you might help you not lose your mind in there... well, I guess that counts as helping all of you. The information you’ve given us, everything you’ve told us... you’re playing a crucial role in all of this."

"I don’t think so. I could be doing so much more."

"Like what, something that idiot was planning?" he asked, stressing the word idiot. "Please, don’t even think about it. You’re doing exactly what’s needed. You’re not sticking your neck out, you’re staying in contact with us. You’re calming the others down, like that woman. That... that’s heroism, not blindly rushing at two armed men."

Moved by his words, you weakly smiled. You’d forgotten again that he couldn’t see you, or maybe it was just automatic.

"Stop, I’m going to blush. But... but thank you, Reid."

"You don’t need to thank me. Oh, he picked up..."

And indeed, Erik pressed the phone to his ear, probably realizing that it was the police trying to make contact. You fixed your gaze on him.

A completely new stage of the robbery was beginning, one on which everything depended—negotiations.

*

Spencer had never had a particular obsession with control. 

In the vast majority of crisis situations, all he needed was a deep understanding of the causes and course of events. A thorough analysis of what had happened so far, drawing conclusions based on that, and then coming up with possible solutions, each with its pros and cons, which he also had to consider.

It involved emotionally distancing himself from the situation and relying on advice from his trusty friend—logic. And when he was guided by that cold logic, he didn’t feel the need to actively participate in what was happening around him or take any direct control. But in that particular moment—ever since he had heard the first shot coming from inside the museum, shortly after losing access to the cameras—he was almost losing his mind over how little he could do. Powerlessness was the first blow, the fact that her life, and others', depended on a man with probable schizophrenia, driven by dangerous delusions, the second, much stronger one.

As with every hostage situation, a makeshift operations camp was set up outside the building, where all necessary units gathered. Garcia stayed at her post, but he saw no other option but to go there personally. The rest of the team quickly gathered, and Hotch arrived so fast it seemed like he lived just around the corner. After all, there was a member of his team inside, the one he had sent there, never expecting such a turn of events. The two perpetrators, who were working together, seemed to have two completely different goals. One, apparently, was persuaded to go along with a simple robbery and escape. The second, Erick, however, had a different, more complicated desire from the start. He wanted Allen, who was supposed to extract a non-existent chip from his body, allegedly implanted by the government.

Allen. He spoke that name with an incomprehensible bitterness and disdain. He was disgusted by his thoughtlessness, pure stupidity. Though he was familiar with his achievements in the field of neurotechnology, he couldn't call him a scientist, really not anything other than an idiot. And it was all because he had nearly put her and everyone else in danger, because he pressured her so much that she had to defend herself by striking him in the face. He remembered how once they had slept in the same bed, so small that they almost fell off it and were forced to lie literally on top of each other. By accident, he had jabbed her with his elbow in the ribs, and before he could even whisper an apology, she hit him with such force that he lost his breath. He hoped Allen had taken an even harder blow.

He forced himself back to reality, as everyone gathered around Hotch, who was leaning over the phone. The unsub had answered, and the discussion began.

"We'll deliver what you need. All the equipment. But first, you must release the innocent people inside and promise you won't hurt anyone else. Not Allen, or anyone."

They argued, a lot. Of course, they wanted him to let everyone go, which was, realistically, impossible. Eventually, the number sixteen was agreed upon, a little more than half of the people present.

Through the microphone clipped to her clothes, they could hear him pointing at the people who were to be released. The second perpetrator seemed to have completely given in to his paranoid companion, and stopped trying to convince him to escape. He must have realized it was already too late for that.

“You’re the one who’s leaving,” he said, his words very clear, suggesting he was standing very close to her, pointing at her.

Spencer straightened up, a sudden rush of premature relief washing over him. Premature—that was the key word.

“No,” she protested sharply. “No, let her go instead of me. She’s older and not feeling well. I should stay…”

He pressed the microphone to his mouth, trying to talk her out of it.

“Do what they say, resisting might make him angry…”

“No, Reid, she’s right,” Hotch interrupted him. Spencer looked at his boss in surprise, shaking his head in confusion. Instead of explaining his decision to him, Hotch turned to her.

“You have to do everything you can to stay inside. You’re our only source of information, our access to what’s happening in there.”

“Hotch…”

Someone, JJ, placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from protesting further. It dawned on him that they were right, but... it was hard for him to accept. It was true that, as an FBI agent, part of her duty sometimes meant risking her life for the greater good. Still, this decision made his hands ball into fists, and he had to take a deep breath to steady himself. Suddenly, it struck him that if an unfamiliar agent, not a member of the BAU, not his friend, and someone who hadn’t shared a bed with him when his fear of the dark grew stronger, were in the same situation... he would have agreed with Hotch without hesitation.

“I told you to leave, so you leave. There’s gotta be sixteen people, or they won’t bring it to me, goddammit.”

“So let someone else go…” She cut off abruptly, a rustling sound echoing through the air, as if— as if he tugged at her clothes. Spencer almost spoke again but stopped herself. The same thought had crossed Hotch’s face, he saw it. 

“Seriously, this will be better. I... I can help with removing the chip...”

“Allen has to do it.”

“Yes, but…” her voice grew more desperate, trying to come up with something more, an excuse to fulfill her duty.

“Oh, what don’t you understand, you stupid bitch…”

Spencer anticipated the sudden outburst of aggression, he had felt it building for a while. Though the unsub was unpredictable, his anger rose and fell within mere seconds, Spencer knew it was all heading in that direction. So, he squeezed his eyes shut just before the horrible, dull thud rang out, followed by a muffled cry of pain. Then the sound was drowned out by a rush, something like a thud, and he could only guess that she had fallen to the floor.

He didn't open his eyes, but something pricked at his chest. He knew that if he looked at Hotch, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from giving him a big, i told you so. It wasn’t even about being right—he didn’t care about that, not at that moment. What mattered to him was that nothing happened to her, and that was exactly what had just happened.

No one from the team said a word, though Derek turned his gaze away from the speaker, his expression one of discomfort, like someone averting their eyes from an unpleasant scene. Hotch stared at some fixed point ahead, his face unreadable, before leaning into the microphone just as—

“What the hell is this?!” the unsub suddenly screamed. “A gun? Why the hell does she have a gun on her?!”

Reid’s eyes shot open as he nearly dropped to his knees by the microphone, as if somehow that could help. The weapon must have slipped out when she fell, sliding free from where it had been concealed beneath her clothes…

He noticed Elle nervously biting her thumb, her face pale as a sheet. He read the same grim, terrified realization on her face that had already taken root in everyone’s minds. She was burned. Her cover as the assistant was completely blown.

“He can’t find out she’s FBI,” Gideon declared, leaning heavily against the edge of the table. “He’s a paranoid maniac who thinks the government is after him. If he realizes a federal agent has been in there the entire time…”

“Wait!” the second attacker spoke up. He had long since given up and was now quietly following his partner’s orders. “I heard the hostages talking... something about there being someone from the FBI among them, someone who’s in contact with the cops. I thought they were just talking crap, but...”

“How does he know that?” JJ asked, her lips slightly parted in shock.

“She told one of the women,” Spencer blurted out, though it felt like the words came from someone else. Some part of him—still detached from the full realization of what her exposure meant—clung to the fragments of logic not yet consumed by his nerves. “To calm her down... but that woman must have passed it on to someone else.”

“FBI?” the unsub repeated, almost in a daze. “Fucking FBI?”

The sound of something slamming echoed sharply—an explosion of frustration and shock. Every pained whimper, every labored breath she took, reached Spencer with cruel clarity, amplified by that damned new microphone clipped to her chest, capturing every sound in merciless detail.

He wanted to cover his ears, to block it out, but he couldn’t. His lower lip trembled, caught between screaming or vomiting the moment he opened his mouth. 

Covering his ears would have been a selfish gesture, one that would only bring relief to him. She didn’t have that option; all that was left for her was to endure, as he assumed, the next kicks...

He lowered his head, not looking at the others, not wanting to see their equally helpless expressions. And although he hated himself for even thinking about it, he took two steps to move away. To escape from this place, from these sounds. Because he simply couldn’t bear them.

However, he didn’t get far; he staggered as if drunk and had to grab the table tightly to keep from falling. JJ, in some protective impulse that she probably wasn’t even aware of, reached out her hand, wanting to touch his shoulder, but he pushed her away.

“I’m calling him,” Hotch announced, immediately moving into action. “Maybe that’ll stop him…”

“Check if she has a microphone on her. If she’s with the FBI, she could have been spying on us the whole time,” suggested the second attacker, in a strangely satisfied tone. He was probably some sadistic bastard who enjoyed this turn of events.

This caused Erik to stop his attack. He completely ignored the incoming call. She took a breath, inhaling deeply, though it clearly caused her pain.

“She has…”

The unsub’s voice became very clear, he must have located the microphone and then disconnected it from her clothing, carefully watching him.

“We need to go in, we have to do something,” Elle said desperately, but it didn’t stir anyone else. 

Yes, they needed to do something, but... what? Going in meant putting the hostages at risk, and their survival was the priority.

"I knew the government was spying on me," Erick muttered to himself, the microphone had probably slipped from his hand and fallen to the ground. "Not just with the chip, but they also sent that fucking..." He kicked her. "...agent."

"Give it to me," Spencer requested, exhaling with a resigned hiss. He was, of course, referring to the microphone. She still had the earpiece in; she could hear him. He didn’t yet know what he intended to say. Maybe he’d ask her to stay strong? Assure her that it would all be over soon? Would that even count as a lie if he had no real certainty they could take any action to save her? Or was this one of those morally gray situations where a lie was better than the truth?

Without protest, someone handed the microphone to him, practically shoving it into his hands.

But then they lost the connection.

The unsub must have destroyed it, stomping the microphone underfoot.

And before it happened—before the static filled the line—a gunshot rang out.

Spence found himself sitting on a chair. Not that he’d blacked out in the literal sense, but one moment he was standing upright, and the next he was slumped onto the seat—probably the only chair in their makeshift camp across from the museum. It was one of those folding chairs made of black metal and unbelievably uncomfortable. For some reason, their look always reminded him of golf courses in the blazing sun. Sometimes they’d be there… wait, why the hell was he thinking about chairs?

Disoriented, he lifted his gaze. Derek was pacing back and forth, his hands on his head, while Elle and JJ were nowhere in sight. Hotch stood in front of him, turned slightly to the side, eyes fixed on the ground, a phone pressed to his ear. His rolled-up sleeves exposed tense veins on his forearms, his hands clenched into fists.

“You killed a hostage,” Hotch said the moment the attacker picked up. Hearing the words spoken aloud, the gunshot echoed again in Spencer’s mind. He flinched, though he hadn’t the first time it happened for real.

It really happened. This wasn’t some hysterical thought creeping into your mind when someone you care about is late to a meeting and doesn’t pick up their phone, the kind of thought where your brain starts whispering that something terrible must have happened. It wasn’t a dream either, nor a nightmare blending with reality. And it wasn’t some devastating novel, a climactic moment designed to shatter the reader’s heart into pieces.

This

really

happened.

"I’ll remind you of the terms of our agreement," Hotch continued. His tone was usually sharp, leaving no room for argument. But now, having just lost a member of his team and addressing the person responsible for it, his words didn’t just cut—they sliced. Spencer fixed his gaze on him, unable to comprehend how Hotch could remain so composed in the moment. He himself…

“You don’t harm anyone else, and in return, we provide you with the necessary tools. Shooting that innocent person…”

How did it come to this—that the person who, just that morning, ordered Chinese food with him to calm her nerves; who had teasingly told him to clip the microphone onto her, leaving him flustered; whose sweet scent of hair lingered so strongly in his senses that he had to hold his breath just to focus; who, one moment, could make him laugh until tears blurred his vision, and the next, worry so deeply about her that he felt feverish with concern; who listened, truly listened, even when he had grown tired of his own voice; who helped him discover pieces of himself he hadn’t known were there; who revealed, day after day, some new and enchanting fragment of her soul; and whose laughter made him want to capture its melody, bottle it, and keep it for eternity—was now reduced to the cold, detached phrase an innocent person shot dead?

He realized his mind had become entirely consumed with replaying those moments. Thanks to his eidetic memory, each recollection was painfully vivid, yet at the same time—perhaps due to the awareness of what came next—filled with a paralyzing void. Detached from reality, he wasn’t even listening to the ongoing negotiations, only snapping back when the shadow of someone’s figure fell over him.

“Spencer,” Gideon called his name, alternating between looking at him with concern and averting his gaze, as if unable to bear the shattered expression on his face. “Did you hear what Hotch said?”

He couldn’t bring himself to shake his head, though he doubted it was necessary. Rarely did something fail to interest him, especially something Hotch had said, but whatever it was, it had landed firmly in that narrow category. After all, what could Hotch possibly have said? That he’d reached an agreement with the murderer, who would now release eighteen hostages instead of sixteen? Or perhaps, in an act of twisted mercy, he’d declared that once they brought the requested items, the killer would allow one person to go inside and retrieve her body?

He had seen many bodies with gunshot wounds to the head in his life. A vision of her with similar injuries haunted him, so vivid and detailed that he closed his eyes in an attempt to escape it. But the moment he did, the image only grew stronger, searing itself into his mind with unbearable clarity.

"He wants you to go inside pretending to be a surgeon. That’s what the unsub is asking for in exchange for the hostages. Your task would be to fake removing a chip from his body, pulling off one of your magic tricks," Gideon explained matter-of-factly, though his expression betrayed a certain doubt about the plan. He suddenly fell silent, hesitation creeping into his voice. "If you can’t do it… this isn’t an order, kid. No one will blame you if you say no."

“We didn’t know it would be such a terrible mistake,” Gideon said quietly.

“Well, that’s the thing about mistakes,” he scoffed bitterly. “You don’t usually realize you’re making them. But you should be able to predict them, especially when someone’s…” His voice broke, and he looked away, his anger momentarily crumbling into something rawer.

Even though he had lashed out at Gideon, the older man didn’t react with anger. Instead, he stared at Spencer with a calm, almost sorrowful expression. When Spencer stood, he felt the weight of Gideon’s hand resting on his numb shoulder.

“I’ll do it,” he declared after a moment.

There was no fear in his voice, no visible sign of stress. Under different circumstances, he’d likely have been unraveling, nerves fraying at the thought of entering the building with the task of saving her. But now…now all he wanted was to stand face-to-face with the man inside. More specifically, next to his neck. With a scalpel in hand.

There was no time to waste. He practiced his sleight of hand trick—making the chip suddenly appear in his palm—a few times. It had been a while since he’d done it, but even so, it came off flawlessly every time. He clenched the small device tightly in his hand and, before he knew it, found himself standing at the foot of the museum steps.

The doors opened, and the first hostages began to emerge. Their reactions followed the same pattern. First came the shock—the struggle to process that they were truly stepping outside again, alive. Then, as they began to accept it, their terrified, hesitant steps turned into a relieved jog, and their eyes brimmed with tears of gratitude.

Spencer stopped, his gaze fixed on the faces of random strangers as they rushed past. Somewhere, deep down, he held onto a foolish, fleeting hope that she might appear in those doors as well. She didn’t, of course.

But if she had… he thought, his chest tightening at the mere idea. If she had, he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop being thankful. Not necessarily to God, but to everything—every twist of fate—that had brought her back.

He had seen the interior of the building on the camera footage and had managed to memorize it. He knew exactly where to head to meet the unsub. The unsub was standing right in the center of the room. Spencer knew there had to be a second shooter somewhere, but he was afraid to look around. If his gaze happened to land on her, not only would his chip trick fail, but he was also certain he’d never be able to shake the image from his mind. It would embed itself in every cell of his brain, one after the other.

He focused all his attention on him, on Erik. He turned to him trustingly, showing the spot on his neck where he believed the chip was located. Everything about his posture radiated the peak of madness. His voice and expression oscillated between hope, desperation, paranoia, and much more that could be listed.

Spencer tried to concentrate on the chip in his hand, not on the scalpel in his other hand. He knew it would be incredibly foolish, but as he was so close to this man's throat, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He realized that the only thing holding him back was the awareness that the second shooter was likely keeping him in their sights. It was almost certain; he didn’t need to look around to know that. But as soon as the blade touched the man’s skin at the back of his neck, his gaze, against his will, began searching. He looked at the wall where the remaining hostages were gathered, the ones who hadn’t made it into the lucky sixteen. He didn’t find the shooter.

But he found her. If he weren’t wearing his glasses, he might have assumed he’d mistaken her for some other woman. He could only blame his brain and possible hallucinations... but before he could entertain those thoughts, one simple sentence took over his mind.

She was there. Blood dripping from her nose, clothes torn, curled up on the ground among the rest of the hostages, but she was there. She was there, alive.

*

When you stood up for that woman, a brief struggle broke out between you and the unsub. He ordered you to go outside, but the voice in your ear told you to stay inside at all costs. Unsure of what to do, you started mumbling excuses and explanations, leading to an argument... during which he swung his weapon at you, aiming for your face.

As you fell, your weapon—clumsily shoved into your clothing after an argument with Allen—slipped out. And then things escalated rapidly.

Upon learning you were with the FBI, the unsub went into his usual paranoid frenzy. He dropped the microphone he had taken from you, and the heavy kicks of his leather boots landed on your body, on your ribs, on your back. You could barely keep up with protecting yourself, as the blows kept coming faster and faster.

And in that moment, something happened that probably saved your life. But at the same time, it cost another man and his family everything.

Allen sprang at the second attacker, who was almost hypnotized by the injuries being inflicted on you. He seized the moment of distraction, yanking the weapon from his hand and turning it against its owner. You remembered the fleeting look of triumph on his face as he aimed it at Erik. And then, the look of confusion when he was overtaken and the bullets tore through his body.

Somewhere in that moment, your microphone must have been destroyed, leaving you without contact with the team. And without it... you were just like any other hostage. Beaten, forced to stem the blood running from your nose with your blazer. You remembered glancing at it, running your finger over the fabric soaked in crimson, and thinking you'd have to wash it before returning it to Reid. Then, the hopeless realization hit you that maybe you wouldn’t get the chance to do that, and helpless tears filled your eyes for the first time.

It was strange that the unsub decided to spare you. Was it the incoming phone call that distracted him? Or perhaps the death of Allen? Was he the reason for this whole attack? You weren’t sure, maybe both at once. But you managed to return to your spot against the wall, where the other hostages had moved as far away as they could from the two lifeless bodies lying in a pool of blood.

Behind your back, the unsub was arguing with the police, probably Hotch. You weren’t paying attention to their negotiations, instead kneeling beside Allen. Completely staining your clothes, you reached for his hand. His eyes were wide open, his chest... maybe rising slightly, or maybe it was just your perception. In any case, you didn’t grab him to check his pulse, to see if there was anything that could be done to save him. You knew there wasn’t. You took his hand in a gesture of gratitude for everything, filled with sincere and deep compassion, despite everything that had happened between you. Maybe he turned out to be a jerk in that one, crisis situation where it’s normal for people to lose their minds. But what mattered was what kind of man he was in everyday, calm conditions. What kind of friend, fiancé, father he was.

You froze in place, staring at his face, his messy red hair. You snapped back to reality only when you realized the unsub was releasing the hostages. You weren’t part of that group. He didn’t look at you, or Allen, or his dead accomplice, as if you didn’t exist. The people were let out of the building, and then…

You nearly jumped to your feet at the sight of Reid, but the sharp pain in your ribs stopped you. Instead, you stared at him, confused as to why he’d gotten himself into such a messed-up situation alone. No one was with him, and you couldn’t even tell if he was carrying a weapon. Why was he taking such a risk? Couldn’t they have sent someone else?

Although your gaze bored into him, asking without words, he stubbornly avoided looking at you. It took a while, but then it hit you—he’d probably been told to hide the fact that you knew each other. He was pretending to be a surgeon, you realized.

You watched in shock as the unsub dropped his weapon and turned his back to Reid, begging him quietly to remove the chip from his body.

Before Reid touched the scalpel to his neck, he looked straight at you. You couldn’t read the expression on his face, but you knew there was a lot going on. It was a long moment of eye contact, which he broke to get to work. Focused, brow furrowed.

You shook your head in disbelief when he really pulled the tiny device from his body. Wait, so what? It had really been there all along? The unsub wasn’t a paranoid delusional?

At the sight of the chip, Erik staggered with a mix of hysterical joy and relief, and after a moment, he literally collapsed to his knees, burying his face in his hands. His body was shaken by sobs as he muttered his thanks. He was... absolutely harmless. The hostages took advantage of his vulnerability, using the opportunity to silently leave the museum. You found yourself among them, even helping those who, due to shock, struggled to move. How? With your injuries? You had no idea.

You pointed one woman toward the ambulance waiting outside the building, ready to take any injured hostages. Around you, sounds echoed, people were running in all directions. A sense of disconnection and disbelief washed over you, as if you couldn’t quite grasp that it was all over.

You turned around, sensing someone's presence behind you.

The first thing you noticed was that Spencer was still wearing his blue rubber gloves. Strange, but the first thing that came to your mind was to focus on that detail. You even opened your mouth to speak, but stopped when he gently cupped your face in both of his hands. As if you were a fragile relic, he tilted his head slightly from side to side, almost as though he was trying to deny the fact that you were standing before him.

"As if you saw a ghost," you whispered, a faint smile appearing on your face.

Taking advantage of the fact that he was leaning toward you, you pressed your forehead against his. With your eyes still open, you saw his eyelids tremble. When he closed them, you caught sight of that single tear beginning to form beneath them.

*

"Reid," you said, as he and the rest of the team were heading towards the exit. All heads turned in your direction, but you only cared about that one. "Can we talk?"

He opened his mouth, seemingly surprised by the request, but then swallowed and nodded.

"Sure. If... just, sure."

You couldn't help but let out a small laugh. Since your rib injuries were numerous, you had to be taken to the hospital for an X-ray. Your face wasn’t looking too good either. Only a few hours had passed since everything happened, and all your wounds were fresh and painful. After taking a decent amount of painkillers, you felt a bit like you were floating. You were sitting on the hospital bed, your legs resting on the floor as if on a bench. You made space beside you, and although he hesitated for a moment, he sat right next to you, so close your shoulders almost touched.

What you wanted to say, everything you felt, was hard to put into words. So you spent a few minutes in silence, during which you concluded that the simpler, the better.

"Thank you, Reid."

His dark eyes narrowed slightly, and he shook his head dismissively.

"Thank you? For what? I should be thanking you."

You knew this would happen. That he would downplay what he did, and it would be incredibly hard for you to express all the gratitude you felt towards him.

"For what? For everything," you stated briefly. He was preparing a response, but you beat him to it. You even raised a finger decisively, signaling for a moment of silence. You had a lot to say. "Not just for pretending to be a surgeon and getting into that museum. And don't shrug it off like it was a small thing! You saved those people."

"Maybe a little, but…"

"But that's not all. You were… you were with me the whole time. You kept talking to me the entire time…"

"Just like everyone else…"

"Everyone else gave me orders. Told me what to do to survive and what not to do. And of course, I'm incredibly grateful to them—if it weren't for them, I would have probably pissed off that unsub after less than fifteen minutes and we'd all be dead by now."

Reid flinched when you said that. Maybe you should hold off on such words, while the whole situation was still so fresh.

"You... you kept asking how I was feeling, talking to me, just... your voice, the fact that I had you on the other end, it helped me not panic. When, at the very beginning, you asked me to breathe with you..."

You shook your head, holding back the involuntary recollection of that moment, that memory when you were still trapped in that building with two armed men. Helpless and lost, clutching his jacket with all your strength. 

You realized with growing difficulty that you were holding back tears.

Reid had been listening to you quietly the whole time, but suddenly, he lowered his gaze. His hand found yours, hesitated for a moment, then gently grasped it. You immediately squeezed it tightly. Something came to your mind.

"And what did you want to thank me for?" you asked, referring to when he interrupted you the first time.

"It's not... I don't have as much to say as you do," he confessed, circling the topic more than addressing it directly. He still hadn't let go of your hand, and as he thought, his thumb seemed to absentmindedly stroke its surface.

"Wow," you murmured. "I never expected Spencer Reid to say something like that in my presence, but here we are. So?"

He smiled for a moment at your comment. However, that expression quickly gave way to a more serious one, carrying with it the unburied remnants of the horror you had both endured just a few hours ago.

"Just for you being alive," he said. Your brows furrowed slightly when you heard that. It wasn't what you expected. "For a while... when you were still inside, and your mic was destroyed..." With a sigh, he tilted his head back, holding back from returning to that moment. It couldn't have been easy for him, referring to exactly the moment that caused him pain. "We heard a gunshot. Everyone thought it was you.  That's why... that's why I just wanted to thank you for that."

Given that you had absolutely no control over it, those were the strangest thanks anyone had ever given you. But still, they squeezed your heart like no others ever had.

You leaned in to place a kiss on his cheek.

taglist: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony

@heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @beesin03 @misserabella @re1dsb1xch

[sheepispink]

His medic, Your muse

pairings: leon s kennedy x medic!reader (im pretty sure it’s gender neutral)

summary: You’re a medic at the DSO, your first ever patient being Leon. However that was three years ago and you’ve since left for a better life, but Leon’s being doing worse, struggling to survive without you. So, as anyone does, he turns up injured at your doorstep, multiple times.

WC: 4.5k

A/n: i miss him so much, i miss leon so much i want to kiss him

resident evil masterlist

————————————————-

You’ve worked at the DSO for a while, though as one of the medics rather than an agent. The training was tough but you took it well, eventually getting your certification. However, you still have not treated a real patient yet, only assisting or handling miniscule problems. Today you had been told that a bunch of agents had just returned and one would be assigned to you. There wasn’t time to ask questions, even to determine his state, before he’s knocking at your little infirmary in the west wing. He had dealt with his fair share of medics in his training, and they hadn’t been particularly nice. In fact none of the others in the program were particularly friendly either; nearly everyone was tightlipped due to the fact this was supposed to be some top secret government program. When he was ushered towards the infirmary and you approached him, he was expecting a straight forward and relatively quiet checkup, or at best a few stammers seeing as you didn’t look too experienced. This was the least favourite part of his missions; newbie or not, he was sure he’d leave this only feeling more drained than before. “Kennedy, is it? Are there any really bad injuries I should be aware of?”

You do stutter a little, making his lips quirk upwards at his correct prediction. “My hand got stabbed, and I was injected with some.. virus thing, then healed. Anything else shouldnt be too bad.” He reminds himself not to get too hopeful over you— that might just be the only full sentence you say for the next three hours. “V-virus?” You squeak it out, having never heard of an agent getting a virus and then healing from said virus too. Though you were briefed about Umbrella a while back, you didnt realise they made antidotes too. Then again, they didn't want all their people to die out.

You ignore the way his lips rise again at your squeak, instead opening a new syringe and setting up some vials. “Okay, we’ll have to take some blood to test for any abnormalities. Are you scared of needles?”

He blinks at you, stares down at his rolled up sleeve, the needle in your hand and then back to you again, eyebrow raised. “What if I was?”

He wasn't, but he couldn’t fault you for asking; he’s met a lot of people in his life who’ve been afraid, even if they were special service agents or the like.

“Well there’s a different needle I can use, or I can make sure you don't know when I've done it.. or I can make sure you don't see it?” He raises a brow, and shakes his head, about to mumble something about him not being scared of needles. Though, before he can get a sound out, there’s a pinch in his arm and in seconds you have the vial filled up to the top. “Hold onto this.” He finds himself following your orders without hesitation, his hand holding down a small cotton ball you pressed against the incision whilst you grab a piece of medical tape to keep it down. “Perfect, just tell me if that carries on bleeding. Now pass me your hand and I'll rewrap the gauze there.”

He blinks, watching as you delicately take his hand, slowly unwrapping the bandages and watching him for any reaction of pain. It hurts, but it’s nothing he cant handle too badly. You’re slow and careful as you clean the wound, your thumb pressing gently into his uninjured skin in a soothing gesture each time he tenses. “There, all done.” A smile curves on your lips, satisfied by your neat bandages left on his hand. “Thanks..” He starts to sit up right, ready to leave when you speak up again, hands around a small clipboard.

”So, apart from noticeable injuries, what else have you had?” He hasn't expected you to care about anything other than open wounds, considering most nurses wouldn't but you’re watching him expectantly. “Got thrown around a lot, probably some big bruises and cuts—nothing too bad.” Your brows furrow though, and you gesture for him to show you them and so he does. For the next half hour, you carefully check over each mark and particularly large bruise, fingers gentle against his collarbone as you wipe down a cut there. ”Is this it now..?” He currently feels like a mummy from how much gauze and plasters litter his body.

”Injuries-wise, yes.” You chuckle at his impatience, looking up at him again after turning the page to a fresh one. “How are you feeling?”

”What?”

”Y’know, your mental state. Any unusual migraines, brain fog..voices?” He shakes his head slowly and you nod, scribbling down a short note. He hadn’t expected to stay here this long, nor for you to ask things like that, especially since he knew most of the DSO medics were worked to the bone. You take his short answer well, scooting your swivel chair over to the computer. “Alright… just keep applying ointment on those bruises..” You hum whilst tapping away at your keyboard, likely filling in a prescription for a proper jar of ointment for him.

This time he finally stands, grabbing his leather jacket and slipping it on. He does feel a little better— even he can't deny that fact. “You’ll have a debriefing soon right..?” He lets out a small huff in agreement, clearly not looking too happy about being forced back into the job once more and not trying to hide that in the slightest.

“Hmm.. how many hours of medical leave do you want? I can't do a whole day based on your injuries, but I can definitely get you some hours of rest.” He blinks at you—was that not technically lying? As a medic, you had the authority to request a temporary, permanent, or just even a few hours of discharge, but agents who have tried to request it were nearly always denied. After all, the DSO didn't care about their employees, only the work they got done.

”You look tired. It’d do good for your injuries.” You turn back to him, giving him a small shrug before gesturing to the empty medical beds around the small room. There was a curtain to shield each one off from the other, supposed to be used for emergencies or treatments. He thinks about it for a moment, wondering if you’re really being serious about all of this. As he stares back, all he can see is the genuine worry in your eyes and he reluctantly softens his harsh features, nodding. “Okay.. guess I can stay for a bit.”

He’s suddenly very grateful when you keep your gaze to your paperwork as he steps towards a bed in the far corner, draping his jacket on the small table and undoing the remaining gear on his person. His shirt now crumpled on the desk, he slips beneath the soft but thin covers of the bed. Never would he have ever thought he’d accept an offer like this before; when he sneaks a peek back at you, he only sees you tapping away quietly at your computer. It’s an environment he likes, quiet.. peaceful; he soon dozes off, slipping into a deep slumber.

————-

That was three years ago, and since then you’ve been one of the only medics he’s let tend to, and the only he’d speak with outside of the infirmary. Sometimes choosing the medic was out of his control, but the more you were assigned to him, the more he longed for that medic to always be you. He wasn’t the only one though; you were regularly praised by the agents for being one of the most attentive around. Since that day, he’s spent a lot more hours in your infirmary too, whether it was for checkups, small cuts or just a well-needed chat that’d occasionally turn into an excuse to nap. You were one of the few things keeping him sane after every mission, making sure he stayed healthy and well and prescribing him rest whenever you deemed it to be necessary— that was practically always though.

However, just when he started to consider indulging in your presence a little more, you had decided enough was enough. Despite your constant dedication, even you couldn't live through the constant stress of attending to every injured person and witnessing deaths of agents you used to see every day. And so, after saving up enough and finding a job that only required part time, you quit. You know the agents would survive without you; after all, you were just a small spark in the midst of the darkness of the company and it had been slowly snuffing out the light you had left.

For the first few months, Leon pushed past it, especially as more B.O.Ws showed up across the states. With each mission he only drained himself more and more, forced to walk past the empty infirmary with a longing tear in his heart. He couldn't help it; you cared about him more than he would even care about himself, and he cared for you more than his mind could comprehend. So he continued to deny himself, forcing himself through mission after mission until he was riding back on his motorcycle—the pain brutal as he drove through the empty streets. What good was there in calling for help? He’d only be shoved into more work by morning, another hangover, another splitting headache and another wish of everything ending altogether. A cycle he desperately had not wanted to repeat again.

”Uh.. um.. are you free?” He leans against a payphone, knowing it’s two am and feeling so, so bad for the tired yawn that echoed when you had eventually picked up. “What’s wrong Leon..? You don’t sound too good..” He couldn't speak; forced into silence just by your gentle voice speaking out his name. There was no more of that Kennedy nonsense, just him, Leon. “Can I come over..?”

Ten minutes later you opened the door to his weary face, an exhaustion that rung his hair flat and sunk his gaze to the floor. “Oh my—“ You gasp, noticing the stains of red on his shirt and grabbing his wrist without a second thought. Quickly, you have him settled on your couch, his shirt discarded as you tend to a gash near his side, fixing him as you always have. When you’re sure he’s fine, you give him a worried glance before grabbing him a thick duvet, water and painkillers. He sleeps soundly on your couch that night, no nightmares to lurk in the depths of his mind and nothing leaking out the ever present hole that once painted his heart.

After that day, it grew increasingly harder to avoid the urge. How would anyone deny something so perfect when they’ve already been delivered a taste? It was only a ‘once-in-a-few-months’ type of thing. You let him in, even if you haven't heard from him in six weeks and he’s practically bleeding out on your doorstep. That was also the problem— the issue of inconveniencing you. He always dropped in at the worst times, usually when you were all sleepy as you wiped down his gashes with the best concentration you can. What if you were only dealing with him for the sake of it? He couldn't deny the possibility of this being true— the fact of him taking advantage of your kindness. It tore him apart more than the ache that begged for you, pulling him in two directions with no middle ground to save him.

Until a mission comes around, a bad one— a really bad one. The B.O.W lays in the rubble, a sickly acid oozing from its weakened form and it’s clear these are its last breaths now. There’s a plank of metal through its chest, its eyes destroyed by grenades Leon’s hands had dealt. However, instead of relief, he only reciprocated the distress of the bioweapon. A particularly nasty wound had his head dizzy, barely stumbling his way to your porch and knocking weakly at your door. He can barely open his mouth to speak, his eyes weak as you gasp, stilling for a split second before immediately hoisting his arm over your shoulder and ushering him inside. Blood dripped on the hardwood floor as you led him through, this time not to your couch but to your bedroom. It would be easier this way, especially since it was so close to his abdomen and having him laying flat would be great. “I-it’s not that bad..” He can't help but feel bad when you rush around the room like this, grabbing all your first aid things as quickly as possible. Usually he’d come for a patch up— not to save him before he fainted from blood loss.

“It is!“ You squeak out, back at his side and gently pushing his chest down to lay properly on the bed. It’s a matter of seconds before you have his shirt cut open, working quickly to clean the bloody skin before slipping the thread through the needle. He winces painfully as it pokes his skin, his eyebrows scrunching all the while your breaths are hitched nervously.

“Y-you’re gonna kill me..” He complains, with a groan, hoping to lighten the mood even with the current situation— it’s not like he hasn’t tried to rile you up before. It’s his love language, he can't help his nature. Even so, he’s seen you handle worse before, even having wrapped an emergency tourniquet when you got caught up in an ambush. But this, seeing him tremble, scared you— enough for your hands to tremble as you wrap a firm bandage over him. You let out a long breath, eventually rolling your eyes at his remark. “Would you prefer to bleed out all over my favourite duvet?” He lets out a little chuckle as he pushes himself up with wheezed breaths to lean against the pillows you fluffed for him. “I think I already did that part.”

The air is quiet as you clean up his blood, your rag turning a murky red. He watches you from the bed, eyes a little more awake now that the pain has eased a bit. It’s warm, on your bed, your thick duvet draped comfortably over his battered body as you stiffly place his clothes into the washing machine along with yours that had gotten drenched in his crimson. “I wish i could help you.. it doesnt feel right forcing you to clean up after me like this.” He has to cough to clear his throat, voice a little rusty. You blink up at him though, shaking your head gently as you approach the bed with water. “Only you would complain about someone taking care of you when you need it.” It’s accompanied with a half hearted smile, your eyes holding relief for his safe state.

“Hey—I’m trying to be nice. If I could, I would help you.” He mumbles out, clearly noticing the way your hand lingered as you place the water bottle on the table beside where he lays, pulling away after a few moments. “I know Leon, i know.”

He watches you finally clear up everything, before settling at the foot of the bed with your little sketchpad again. He noticed you with it in the rare moments you had free time at the DSO, always focused on it as you scribbled down little things. Once you let him sneak a peek and it was usually landscapes you’d seen when you were on field, or ones that agents described. It was a hobby that started to die out until you quit, choosing to let that be your salvation than to be another happy thing to bury for the sake of work.

“You should get some sleep, you look tired..” You’ve been doing this every time he comes around now, always sitting somewhat near him with that black book in your hands. “Cant, i’m sketchin.” You hum out, shuffling around on the bed to face him as you continue. He raises a brow at that, confused but his hands move back to adjust the pillows behind him.

“You can sketch in the morning you know.”

“Then my subject will move, and it wont look the same.”

Now he’s fully staring at you, the implications of your words not lost on him and he almost shoots to sit up straight if not for the fact of the pain running through his body. “You’ve been drawing me.. every time i come round?”

“Yeah, gotta take note of all your injuries for later.”

He gives you a look, as if calling you out on your lame excuse right then and there. “So you cant just i dont know, write it down? Take a photo?”

This time you roll your eyes up at him and come to sit a little nearer on the bed rather than near his feet. “Well then i couldn’t do this, could i?”

You turn the page around, showing him the sketched version of him who now wears an exaggerated frown as he stares out. You’ve got a knack for drawing him, the way his hair falls slightly over his eyes and even the bridge if his nose— it’s impressive. “I do not frown like that.” You let out a laugh, giggling at his reaction as you turn the sketchbook around again and carry on, all the while his mind is still stuck on the fact that you’ve been drawing him over and over.

“Guess i’m a pretty good reference then, if you’re always drawing me?” He tilts his head towards you and you snicker again, waving him off. “Dont get cocky, you’re alright.”

“Cocky? I bet i’m the only thing you draw. C’mon, rate me out of ten, theres no way i get lower than 9.”

He watches you shuffle closer to him, leaving your sketchbook to the side as you sit right by him on the bed. You begin to narrow your eyes at him, scrutinising his appearance and he’s half tempted to cower beneath your judgement. “You get.. 1 point for your hair, it’s a nice colour, but it is a little messy.” He immediately frowns at you and sits up just a little straighter than before. “I’m an agent, not a model. And I just got a drop kicked by a bioweapon. Cut me some slack.” He huffs out but you only shrug again, eyes moving towards his face instead as you cross your legs. “Hey, you asked for a rating. It’s super duper important in art you know?”

”That’s a load of crap and you know it.”

“Well, you get another point for your eyes; They’re a nice shade of blue. Also another for your nose, it curves nicely.” He raises a brow, wondering how he’s racking up so many points so quickly and he cocks his head. “You flatter me, i’ll be at ten by the time you get to my hands.” He winks cheekily, a proud grin stretching his lips wide. “Not so fast, i never said it was out of ten— 25 is the limit.”

You continue your little game, Leon scoffing as you don’t give him any points for his ‘very strong biceps’ as he says; you can only shrug, just wanting to rile him up till he pouts again. He lets you rate his body though, smirking in a cocky way as you even go as far to compliment his hands but even more so at his muscled torso— he knows you cant resist. “So how many points are we at?” He hums, enjoying the way you’ve slowly gravitated closer to him as you ramble and mumble about his features, something that's probably considered nerdy but plenty cute to watch. “I think having strong calves leaves you at… 22. That’s pretty good.”

Your lips pull wide, grinning at him and expecting him to be just as happy but instead he only gives you a short huff, crossing his arms over his chest. “Only 22? I’m not taking anything less than 24, there must be some redeeming qualities.” You roll your eyes up at him, though keeping a good eye on his torso incase of any tear of the stitches.

“Okay fine, you can get one for your biceps. Happy?”

“Nope.”

You groan, sit up straight and ogle him, eyeing him like you’re the hawk and he’s the prey, squirming beneath you uncomfortably. “Fine. You get one more.”

“Oh? I knew it.”

“You have a very huggable waist.” You giggle, snickering as you playfully plant your hands on his hips, watching something flicker through his eyes before they grow just as mischievous. “Oh? Wanna test that out?” It was a joke, or maybe it wasn't, but you didn't mind and he sure as hell didn't either. It’s stupid, and messy, the way he pulls you in for a hug and your arms are as tight as they can be around him, cheek squished against his chest.

“I was right.”

That laugh of yours is enough to make him crumble, make him want to spill every thought inside his head. The nights he wishes he was enough of a man for you, the nights he wishes he had the courage to be the one to comfort you when you quit your job, or even the day he heard someone else soothe you when you cried over another patient.

He snaps out of his thoughts, and returns the hug, his fingers lightly tickling your sides to make you squirm and scramble back, giggling all the way. “Sooo, that’s gotta be like 25 now right?”

“Nope still 24.” He groans again, and if he’s being honest he is exhausted right now, but he’d let himself bleed out tonight if it meant seeing you laugh like that again. He’s sick of sitting back and waiting for this, waiting for you to see through him, waiting for every time he’s injured to look for excuses. “How can i get the last point?” Blue eyes lock onto your face, the wrinkle of your nose and the furrow of your brows as you think, tapping your chin playfully. He knows you’re tired too, the weight in your eyes is visible but not as bad as the lack of spark in your last month at the DSO. “You have to earn it.”

Is this his chance? He could tell you all his redeeming qualities. Like how he could hold you with one hand, how his skills were unmatched to others, the feats he’s achieved. Or he could explain his care for you: how he’d protect you from any horror that came your way, how he’d kill anything that came near to harming you, how he’d quell any worry that neared your head– that he’d die for you.

You’re still sitting before him, looking at him with curious eyes as he leans forward, crossing the small distance left between the two of you. His hand reaches up, swallowing the curve of your warm cheeks as he stares at you, properly. Your noses would brush if he went any closer, he could just kiss you right now and he’d have you in the palm of his hand– even more so than he does right now. He wants you, and he wants you to want him.

“I love you,” The words slip out, intentional yet reckless all the same, a promise made that he’s not sure he can keep but he knows he’ll rather die trying than to never feel it. “And.. i’ll do anything you ask of me to prove it to you.”

It’s like slow motion the way your pupils dilate, swirling with an emotion he’s never witnessed in you before and he takes it as a good sign, his thumb gently brushing the skin below your lips. He looks at you, a silent question in his eyes, waiting for a sign of rejection, acceptance or even hesitation. You nod quietly, your hands are awkward, not knowing where to place themselves and it makes him chuckle, loving the way you falter when it comes to him. He leans in, lips pressing against your nose first just to watch the way you blink, a wide grin widening on your face in surprise before he leans in properly, hand tightening around your cheek.

“Do I get the last point now?” He asks, still enamoured by how you’re breathless, more so in shock of his confession than the short lived kiss, though that was captivating all the same. Your hand copies his motion, cupping his cheek as you lean in more fervently, capturing his lips in yours. When you finally break away you’re gasping for air, arms slung around his neck as you stare at his eyes, a pretty shade of blue. “Yeah, you’re a 25 out of 25, Leon. I wouldn't expect anything less from you.”

The reciprocation of the kiss is enough for his heart to go crazy in your palms; his cheeks lift as he grins wider and pulls you in for a proper hug, a soft kiss to your forehead for good measure. “Does this mean i cani come by without the injuries now? Just for the sake of it?”

“You always could, Leon.” You hug him back just as tight, giggling as he squirms at your eyelashes flittering against his neck. Eventually you settle him to lay down properly, with you curled around his being. His arm is weakly around your shoulders, head sunk into the pillows as he lets out a long sigh. You can only listen to the quiet thump of a content heart, your hand tracing shapes on his chest as you tenderly watch his wound, worrying about it tearing.

“Sorry for scaring you.” He murmurs quietly and you can only shake your head tiredly, craning your head up to meet his eyes again. “You’re stuck here for the next three days. Doctors orders.”

He chuckles at that, even more so as your hand reaches upwards, rubbing his jaw gently before scratching at his scalp. He returns the action, rubbing your shoulder gently as your face presses against his muscles. “Alright, alright. I can't deny that now can i?”

Bonus:

It’s his third day here, but also a Friday too. He’s still not fully healed of course, the wound still a little worrying but nothing your heart cant handle. Especially when he’s carefully looked after in your hands—- literally. The morning sun peeks through the gaps in the curtains, making you rise although not fully, still half awake as you glance over. He’s got an arm behind his head, lips parted as he drools a little, and he looks so, so relaxed. The strain of his muscles have slackened, his face looking softer, younger even, as he breathes gently. Most of all, his hand is loose around your back, fingers poking into your waist.

You cant resist, leaning upwards to his sleepy face and pressing a gentle kiss to the curve of his cheek. It’s the first time he’s ever been caught off guard, his brows twitching in confusion and he lets out another small huff, head turning in your direction as if to seek you out. It’s adorable really, and you mourn all the years you two havent been together, havent experienced this before. It’s okay, because you have the rest of eternity for the two of you— doctors orders.

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Sideline Chemistry

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Sports Media!Reader

Fandom: UConn’s women’s basketball

Word Count: ~2.3k

Summary: As a sports media intern, having to interview Paige for a class project and games should be fun right, but she takes it as an opportunity to shamelessly flirt each time.

As far as internships went, I had a pretty good one. Covering UConn sports for SNY as a student journalist meant I got to attend games, interview players, and build a solid portfolio. But it also came with one huge downside—my current assignment.

Interview Paige Bueckers.

For most people, that wouldn’t be a problem. Paige was an easy-going interview subject, known for her charm and humor. But I wasn’t most people. I was also in her friend group, which meant I had to deal with that version of Paige—the one who lived to tease me, held eye contact for way too long, and always found a way to make me flustered.

I’d prepared a professional approach. Keep it short, ask good questions, and don’t let Paige’s antics get to me.

Too bad she had other plans.

By the time I arrived at the UConn practice gym, most of the team had already left. A few players were still getting shots up, but Paige was leaning against the scorer’s table, scrolling through her phone.

She looked up when she heard my footsteps, a slow smile spreading across her face.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite journalist,” she said, slipping her phone into her hoodie pocket.

I sighed, setting up my camera. “Don’t start, Paige.”

“What? I’m just stating facts.” She stepped closer, resting a hand on her hip. “I feel honored. You could’ve interviewed anyone, but you chose me.”

I rolled my eyes, trying to focus on adjusting my tripod. “I had to choose you. It’s an assignment.”

“Mm-hmm.” Paige rocked back on her heels, watching me work. “Admit it, though—you’re kinda excited.”

I huffed a laugh. “Yeah, totally. This is the highlight of my week.”

She smirked. “See? Told you.”

I shook my head, refusing to let her get under my skin. “Can you just stand over there so I can frame the shot?”

Paige moved to the designated spot, but instead of standing normally, she put her hands in her hoodie pockets and tilted her head, eyes locked on me.

“You’re staring,” I muttered, adjusting the camera settings.

“You look cute when you’re focused.”

My fingers fumbled over the buttons, nearly knocking the camera off its mount. Paige’s quiet laugh filled the space between us.

“Paige,” I warned.

“What?” she said, feigning innocence. “I’m just being supportive.”

I took a deep breath, trying to reset my brain. Focus. I hit record and lifted my notepad.

“Alright, let’s start. Name, year, position.”

Paige grinned. “You already know all that.”

“It’s for the recording, genius.”

She huffed dramatically but answered. “Paige Bueckers, red shirt senior, guard.”

I nodded. “So, this season’s been a big one for you. Coming back after injury, new team members, leading the team—what’s been the most rewarding part?”

Paige leaned forward slightly, resting her hands on her knees. “Honestly? Just being back on the court with my teammates. The rehab process was tough, but it made me appreciate the game even more. And, you know…” She flashed me a smirk. “It’s nice having my favorite reporter covering it all.”

I kept my expression neutral. “I’m sure you say that to every reporter.”

“Nah. Just you.”

I clenched my jaw, fighting back a smile. “Next question.”

Paige chuckled, clearly enjoying herself.

I went through a few more, mostly straightforward ones about team chemistry, goals for the season, and her personal growth as a player. And, to her credit, Paige answered them seriously—at least, until the end.

“Last question,” I said, scanning my notes. “What’s something people don’t know about you?”

Paige pretended to think. “Hmm. That I’m a great flirt.”

I blinked at her. “Paige.”

“What? It’s true.” She leaned back, giving me a slow once-over. “Want me to prove it?”

I pointed at the camera. “I will put this in the final cut.”

“Oh, please do,” she said, grinning. “Maybe it’ll finally get you to admit you like me.”

My breath caught in my throat. She wasn’t just playing around anymore—there was something different in the way she said it. Confident. Sure.

The air between us shifted.

I looked at her, really looked, and she met my gaze without hesitation. Her blue eyes held mine, steady and unyielding, a challenge wrapped in warmth.

I swallowed hard. “Paige—”

“Say the word,” she murmured, stepping closer. “And I’ll stop messing with you.”

The way she said it—low, teasing, but undeniably sincere—made my brain short-circuit.

A sharp whistle from the other end of the gym shattered the moment. I jolted back, turning off the camera.

“We’re done,” I said quickly.

Paige chuckled. “For now.”

I spent the next couple of days editing the interview, but no amount of technical work could erase the way Paige had looked at me. It didn’t help that our friend group noticed something was off when we met up for a post-practice dinner.

“You’re quiet,” Azzi noted, sipping her drink.

“Just tired,” I lied, stabbing at my fries.

Paige, sitting way too close beside me, leaned in. “Or you’re thinking about something. Or someone.”

I elbowed her. “Stop.”

Kk, sitting across from me, raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

Paige smirked. “She interviewed me. Got all flustered.”

I groaned. “I was not flustered.”

“Yeah?” Paige tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “So you didn’t almost drop your camera when I complimented you?”

Azzi grinned. “Oh, this is good.”

I shot Paige a glare. “You’re the worst.”

Paige just laughed, draping an arm over the back of my chair. “Nah. I’m your favorite.”

Kk snorted. “Yeah, this is definitely a thing.”

I covered my face with my hands. “Can we change the subject?”

“Fine,” Paige said, nudging my knee under the table. “For now.”

But as the night went on, she stayed close—casual touches, lingering looks, little comments only I could hear.

By the time I left, my heart was pounding.

A week later, my professor praised my interview, and my editor asked if I wanted to do a follow-up feature on Paige.

I hesitated.

Another interview meant more flirting. More of those looks. More of whatever was happening between us.

But before I could think too hard, Paige texted me.

Pb5🙄: So when’s our next interview? Gotta keep my favorite reporter happy.

I stared at my phone, exhaling.

Then, against my better judgment, I replied.

Me: Next home game. Try to behave this time.

Pb5🙄: No promises.

And somehow, I knew she meant it.

The next home game came so quickly, I wasn’t even mentally prepared.

So, when the first half of the game had been intense, UConn leading by only a few points against a tough opponent. Paige had been playing lights-out, and I knew she’d be the one pulled for the halftime interview.

I ran over my questions in my head, reminding myself to stay professional. But when Paige jogged over after the buzzer, sweat on her brow and a grin on her face, I knew I was in trouble.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she said, eyes glinting as she took her spot next to me.

I swallowed hard, forcing a neutral expression. Professional. Focus.

“Paige, great first half from you,” I started, keeping my voice steady. “What’s been working so well for you and the team so far?”

She wiped her forehead with her jersey before answering. “Honestly, just playing together, trusting each other. The energy is great out there.”

A solid, textbook answer. Good. Maybe she’d keep it normal.

I nodded, moving to my next question. “You’ve been on fire, leading the team with 15 points already. What’s your mindset going into the second half?”

Paige tilted her head slightly, her smile just a little too amused. “Stay aggressive. Keep making plays. And, you know—keep impressing my favorite reporter.”

My breath hitched.

I knew she was doing it just enough to be subtle—flirty, but professional enough to avoid getting in trouble. Still, my ears burned.

I cleared my throat. “Right. Well—uh—” I cursed myself for stumbling, but Paige’s smirk only grew.

She lifted an eyebrow, waiting. Daring me.

I quickly recovered. “What adjustments do you think the team needs to make in the second half?”

Paige took pity on me, answering normally. “Just tightening up on defense, getting stops, and taking smart shots. If we do that, we’ll close this game out strong.”

I nodded, feeling my pulse return to normal. “Thanks, Paige. Good luck in the second half.”

She leaned in slightly, voice lower but still audible on the mic. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

I barely held back a reaction as she jogged off, leaving me standing there like an idiot.

And then I heard the announcers laughing.

I turned my head slightly, realizing the game commentators had been watching the whole thing.

One of them chuckled, “I don’t know about you, but I think Paige might have a favorite reporter for real.”

The other commentator joined in. “She’s got the confidence on the court and off it. That was smooth.”

I wanted to die.

The interview wrapped, and the second half started, but my phone was already blowing up.

Fuzzy Fudd: No way you just let that happen on LIVE TV.

Hey Arnold: Paige Bueckers is NOT real.

Icey B: Not sweetheart on a broadcast—BE FR.

Kayla Wayla: girl. GIRL.

Me: you three shouldn’t even be on your phone rn, like listening to coach fudd about the two man pick n roll p and sar been doing all night.

I groaned, clicking send before stuffing my phone in my pocket. I am never living this down.

UConn won. Of course they did. Paige went on a scoring tear in the second half, finishing with 27 points, and the team dominated the fourth quarter.

By the time I finished post-game coverage, I was exhausted—and dreading seeing our friend group.

But Paige had other plans.

As I packed up my things, she walked over, still in her warmups, a towel draped over her shoulders. “Hey.”

I glanced up, wary. “Hey.”

She grinned. “So, since I was on my best behavior tonight—”

I shot her a look. “Best behavior?”

“Okay, decent behavior,” she corrected. “I think I deserve a reward.”

I sighed. “What do you want, Bueckers?”

Paige shifted closer, lowering her voice just enough that it sent a chill down my spine. “Go on a date with me.”

My brain short-circuited. “W-What?”

“You heard me,” she said smoothly, blue eyes locked onto mine. “A real date. No interviews, no sideline reports—just us.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

She smirked. “You thinking about saying no?”

I exhaled sharply, glaring at her. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love it,” she shot back. “So? What do you say?”

I rolled my eyes, but my lips twitched. “Fine. One date.”

Paige grinned like she’d just won the national championship.

“Oh, and don’t think you’re off the hook for movie night tomorrow,” she added, nudging my arm. “Kayla said we’re doing a marathon, and you’re not skipping.”

I groaned. “Paige—”

“See you there, sweetheart.” She winked before jogging off, leaving me stunned for the second time that night.

I should have known I wouldn’t make it through the night without getting clowned for the halftime interview.

Kayla’s apartment was packed when I walked in. UConn’s entire women’s basketball team, plus a few extras like me, Sam and Kariny had claimed every available couch, bean bag, and blanket-covered floor space. The lights were dimmed, popcorn bowls were already half-empty, and The Lion King was paused on the screen.

But the second Paige walked in after me, all hell broke loose.

“Ohhh, look who finally decided to show up,” Ice called out, her smirk way too satisfied.

Caroline flexed dramatically from her seat on the floor. “UConn’s power couple has arrived!”

Azzi, the only one who usually kept it low-key, still shot me a knowing look. “I hope you’re ready for tonight.”

Paige just grinned, completely unbothered. I, however, was already regretting this.

We barely made it to an open spot on the floor before Ice turned to the TV. “Hold up, before we start, let’s go over tonight’s highlights.”

She grabbed her phone, tapped something, and suddenly, my own voice echoed through the dorm.

“Paige, great first half from you…”

I froze.

No. No, no, NO.

“ICE, I SWEAR TO GOD—”

“Oh no, let it play,” Paige interrupted, smirking.

The entire room erupted when we got to the part where Paige smoothly said, “Keep impressing my favorite reporter.”

Aubrey wheezed. Kayla facepalmed. Ice was on the floor.

KK pointed dramatically. “AIN’T NO WAY.”

I wanted to die.

“Okay, fun’s over,” I rushed, reaching for Ice’s phone, but Paige just casually leaned back, enjoying the chaos she created.

Azzi chuckled. “Nah, because the announcers even backed her up—‘I think Paige might have a favorite reporter for real.’”

Allie snorted. “THEY WERE ROOTING FOR HER.”

I groaned, sinking further into my spot on the floor. “This is actual harassment.”

Kayla nudged me. “It’s what you get for flirting on live TV and expecting us to ignore it.”

“I WASN’T FLIRTING.”

The entire room answered in unison: “YOU WERE FLIRTING.”

Paige, the devil herself, finally took pity on me. “Alright, alright, let’s focus on something important—like how I carried us to victory tonight.”

That successfully derailed the conversation, as the team started debating plays from the game.

But Paige?

She leaned in close, her breath warm against my ear. “You were flirting, by the way.”

I turned my head sharply, ready to argue, only to be met with those damn blue eyes already on me.

Paige smirked. Held the eye contact.

I swallowed hard.

This girl was going to be the death of me.

Kayla clapped her hands. “Alright, we’re starting the movie! No more flirting in the corner.”

“We’re not—” I started, but KK cut me off.

“Shhh, let them have their little thing.”

I gave up. Completely.

Paige just threw an arm around my shoulders as the movie started, completely unbothered by the attention.

“Hope you like long movie nights,” she murmured.

I huffed, but I didn’t move away.

I was doomed. So, so doomed.

And, somehow, I didn’t mind one bit.

---

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[golden-ebony]

First Lesson✎ ⋆⑅˚₊

♡ Pairing: Logan Howlett/Fem!Reader

♡ Word Count: 2.3k

♡ Rating: Explicit

♡ Warning/Tags: SMUT, MINORS DNI, p-v sex, slight fingering, desk sex, Logan is a good boy for you

♡ Summary: you give Logan a lesson of silence when you take control in your classroom

♡ Note: this came to me in a vision while at work

Walking around your classroom, you examined your students as they worked in pairs to finish their worksheets. It was Friday, and the kids were uncharacteristically focused. As a reward, you allowed them to begin their homework early since you were able to breeze through your lesson. You peered over your students’ shoulders, most of them finished with their assignment and chose to chat instead. With a few minutes left in the class, you decided to get your kids ready to go.

“Alright, guys,” you bellowed, catching each students’ attention as you made your way to the front of the classroom again, “We only have a few minutes left, and I saw that many of you have already completed your assignment, and correctly!” you jested, receiving some giggles from your students.

“So, like I said earlier, plants are kind of like us, but they’re still different.” As you began, your focus moved to the open classroom door, Logan leaning on the doorframe. You heard some of the kids in the back say hi to him, all of them trained at this point to call him Mr. Logan. He smirked against the frame anyway and started to become a distraction to your students. “They get hungry, too, but how do they eat?”

A few of your students raised their hands, but you couldn’t help but notice Logan talking to your students in the corner, being a further distraction. “Mr. Logan,” you call him instead, catching his attention. “Since you are here, you might as well learn something, too. Can you tell me what plants eat?”

A number of students chuckled. Logan slightly shrugged, “I didn’t know they ate, darling.”

“Well not as much as you do, Mr. Logan,” you quipped, biting the inside of your cheek to stifle your smile. The laugh from your students was boisterous; thanks to Logan, and your own petty behavior, you knew they’d be unfocused for the last few minutes. Whenever Logan decided to bother your class, it felt like an unspoken competition on who could make your students laugh more. In reality, Logan just liked teasing you in front of your students. You used to get very flustered when he started this, but now, you matched his sarcastic wit. “But yes, they do eat.”

His eyes went playfully wide with a wry smile as your class essentially broke out into laughter and conversation. You knew this was his plan. Logan knew your narrowed and targeted eyes, crossed arms, and pout was your way of calling him an asshole in a room full of children. Definitely worth it, in his opinion. 

“We will talk about photosynthesis next week, so I’ll dismiss you guys a little early, alright?” you yelled over your students’ voices. They all quickly began packing up, still chattering. “But Mr. Logan, stay after class,” you said as sternly as you could over the noise of the kids. It was loud enough for your students to voice a number of ooohs. 

You began erasing your white board for the day as the kids began saying bye to both you and Logan. Hearing the scattering of the last set of feet, you next heard Logan close the door ensuring it was also locked.

“Don’t you have a history class that should’ve been ending right now instead of bothering me?” you scorned, looking over your shoulder at your boyfriend, a hint of humor in your voice.

“They’re working on papers,” Logan shrugged, another smirk grew across his lips as he crossed his arms, “I thought I told you that this morning.”

“It’s hard to hear you when your face is buried between my thighs, Lo.”

In hopes of just hearing what his Friday entailed, you asked this morning as you prepared to go get ready for the day in your own room at five in the morning. Logan thought the time would be better served by getting an early morning taste of you. He found a way to do both, but you were soon interrupted.

“Regardless, you look damn good when you teach,” Logan cooed as sauntered over toward you, “Why would I wanna miss that?”

You finished erasing your board before placing the eraser down, “Yeah? Sit down, you might learn something, baby.”

“Oh yeah?” Logan raised an eyebrow at your statement before letting out a chuckle. He walked over to your desk and sat on the edge. “Then go ahead and teach me something. I’m more of a hands-on learner though, sweetheart.”

“Oh, I know,” you slyly muttered as you ran your hands over his taut thighs until they spread enough for you to stand between them. You brought your hands to his chest, massaging his pecs before moving to his shoulders. He let out a small hum, pulling you closer by your waist.“I actually think you could teach me a thing or two, too, Mr. Logan.” 

You could tell he was already mentally undressing you out of your olive dress. The heat between you was palpable. He moved his hands down to give your ass a squeeze under your dress, slightly spreading your cheeks before his hand traveled to the small of your back. The moaned gasp you let out was genuine. “What could I possibly teach the most beautiful and smart woman in the world?”

He was laying it on thick. Probably because neither of you had a lot to address your more intimate needs as of late. His words, no matter how many times he said something like this, made it difficult for you to look at him directly. You momentarily looked away, but Logan was quick to lift up your chin between his two fingers. 

You were forced to reconnect with his darkeden eyes. “Don’t get all shy on me now, baby. Aren’t you supposed to be the teacher here?”

His teasing tone made you stand up straight, taking notice of how your touch was affecting him.“I am…” Both of your hands traveled dangerously close to his groin. Logan let out a frustrated growl as you touch was merely teasing him now. Your hand briefly moved over his hardened groin before moving to his tease thigh, “and you’re not being a good student.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying your delicate touch before opening them to look up at you again. His gaze held a bit of lust as he spoke in a slightly breathless tone, “You’re one to talk, sweetheart..touching me like this in your classroom…”

One of your hands gripped his t-shirt, pulling him closer toward you. Your face was nuzzled into his neck. His hand that was once gripping your chin fell over chest. Your tone was low and sultry as you breathed near his ear, “Thought you were a hands-on learner, hm?”

Logan couldn’t help but shiver slightly from your breath on his ear. His cock was painfully straining against his jeans. From his low growl, you knew he had enough of your teasing. “You’re right,” He hand swiftly moved from your chest between your legs. A gasped moan jumped from your throat when Logan’s rough fingers rubbed over your sensitive folds. “I am a little more hands-on.”

Logan smirked the moment he heard your moan. You nuzzled yourself further into his neck, stating the opportunity to leave a line of hot kisses from his jaw to the collar of his shirt. The damp spot that Logan felt on your panties didn’t do your folds justice. His finger easily slicked through them once he pushed your panties aside.

“You been wet like this all day, baby?” Logan lowly asked. “This wet since I had my taste this morning of ya?”

As your response, your hand palmed his covered cock, creating the friction that Logan desperately needed.

Logan could only let out a low growl of pleasure as you continued to kiss down his neck and palm him. The feeling of your lips against his sensitive skin was driving him insane. He quickly pulled you to his lap so that you were properly straddling him. His other hand grabbed a handful of your ass, giving it a rough squeeze. Your wet core grinded against Logan’s cock, reminding you both how badly you needed this. 

Your hands gripped his muscular back as you leaned back to look at your boyfriend. He was flushed with lust before pulling you into an intense kiss. Drowning in the moment, Logan’s tongue quickly danced with yours as your hips rolled against his. 

Logan wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you firmly against his body. He hummed in satisfaction as his cock rubbed against your core. He could feel how wet you were getting and it only made him want you more. He was practically aching to be inside of you. Your cunt was clenching the air, begging to be filled.

“First lesson,” you muttered against his lips. Your hand went to undo his belt before moving toward his zipper, “keep quiet, baby…”

Logan huffed and groaned as you went for his belt and tried to keep his volume down. You were in a classroom after all. It was Friday, but anyone could be in the hallway. He wanted to make a smartass remark but the only thing he could get out of his mouth was another low growl. 

“Y-yeah, whatever you say, sweetheart.” 

You smirked at the desperation in his voice as you finished undoing his button and zipper. “Promise to be a good boy? Keep quiet for me? Make sure no one catches us?” you whispered against his neck, pulling out his cock. You felt his cock twitch in your hand from your words alone. Your thumb rubbed over the head, smoothing his precum over it. 

Logan was very used to dominating you, throwing you in the exact positions he envisioned. Watching you take control in your own classroom was a new thrill that he didn’t know he’d be so into.

You were clearly waiting for his response, only rubbing the tip of his cock with your thumb as you looked at him with bedroom eyes. “I promise I’ll be good, baby . I’ll be nice and quiet for you.”

You hummed, hearing what you wanted, before moving your own panties aside. You sank onto his cock at an antagonizing speed. Feeling filled to the brim, you groaned against Logan’s shoulder to follow your own advice.

Logan held in a deep moan. Determined to be good for you, he released his moan through a deep sigh. His hands were clinging onto your hips and his shoulders were tensed up from the effort to keep his noises inside as he looked up at you. 

Looking rather pleased with yourself as you warmed his cock for a beat, you slowly started to roll your hips against his. Logan’s eyes could only watch you in a mixture of lust and affection. You looked so absolutely beautiful on his lap. His grip on your hips tightened as you rocked against him. Feeling you clench around him, Logan could only respond with low, labored breaths.

“It’s okay, baby. You’re doing so fucking good. Just like that, Lo. Just like that.” Your hips began picking up their pace. You place your hands on his shoulders to balance yourself. With the desk reinforced to the floor, you could only hear the guttural whine leave Logan’s mouth, a sound you never heard from him before. 

Logan hated how much he loved hearing the words leaving your gorgeous lips. He looked like he was struggling to keep himself under control. He was clenching his teeth tightly and breathing heavily.

You felt a sense of pride as you receive reactions from your boyfriend that you’ve never gotten before. Seeing him desperate and bothered only encouraged you to push him even further. Staying continuously clenched around him as you rode him. Biting your lip, you kept your moans at bay. 

Logan was struggling, “F-fuuck…c’mon, sweetheart, m-making it so damn hard.”

“I know, Lo…just a little longer. I’m so fucking close, baby,” you whined, chasing your high. Keeping one arm wrapped around his neck, your other hand scrapped at his shirt, gathering the material with your nails.

Logan could feel himself getting close as you continued to clench around him. He knew his finish was going to be intense. Hell, your words alone had him breathing heavily and you were doing most of the work as you were practically bouncing on him now.

Logan’s lips moved down to your collarbone, nipping at the tight skin. You bit your lip to contain your own moans as Logan nipped on your skin. It was enough to bring you over the edge, “Oh f-fuck, Logan, Logan, Logan, I’m c-coming, baby.” Your voice was low and whiny as you continued rough movements.

Logan placed a hand on your back to pull you closer, your chest pressed against his.“S-shit, baby! Ah, fuc–” Logan's volume was quickly increasing as he reached his high; you were quick to clasped your hand over his mouth as you both reached your peak.

You continued to fuck Logan through his high until you felt the warm of his cum shoot inside you, beautifully coating your walls. Logan's throaty groan was smothered by your hand, his eyes practically rolling to the back of head as he came down from his climax. You both were seeing stars in your classroom.

Your hand dropped from Logan’s mouth; it was quickly replaced with your lips in a slow, lazy kiss. You felt Logan chuckle against your lips.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” He was still clearly out of breath.

You breathlessly sighed with soft pants, “I-I know…you did great, baby,” you cooed, caressing your bearded cheek in your hand. “I’m surprised we didn’t break the desk,” you teased.

“Hell, you almost broke me,” Logan gruffed as you moved off of him. You used some nearby tissue to clean yourself off.

You laughed as you and Logan both fixed your appearances, “Don’t pretend like you didn’t love my little lesson,” you slyly smiled.

“Like I said,” he muttered, pulling you against his chest when he stood up, “you look damn good when you teach.”

♡ note: i love hearing y'all's thoughts

[delight-angelsbliss]

could I get a Metal x Mobian reader 🥺 it can be any setting or story something romantic

All I wanted was you By paramore

ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▯▯▯

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

Warnings: wasn't proofread and my grammar is trash this can also be read as any gender

Precis: metal sonic and reader sharing a hammock

Notes: Hey!! I'm so glad u went to me for this request and I had major fun making this and deciding what to do<33 I'm thinking of making angst hcs for metal sonic since I've gotten an idea!! We all know metal sonic tries so hard to be an organism anything other than a robot but what if he were using a relationship to act like one? He never really loved you and just used you to feel more animal like instead of smooth and cold metal. Does anyone else just get really tired when warm or hot? It's such a weird thing I have lmao

Metal sonic is a very weird case, a robot, but weirdly humane at the same time? It's like he tries so hard to be an organism while fully knowing he never will be anything other than a robot made to be a clone of sonic the hedgehog

Made by Dr Robotnik Eggman, he stayed so loyal it hurt to watch, watching as metal sonic destroys his non existent body and feelings each day to stay loyal to his creator

After you started working for Dr Eggman you got to meet metal

Your fascination with his behavior and the way he tried to act like a real human animal was evident with everyone

So to satiate that fascination, you got assigned to more missions with metal, but on special mission you were left extremely exhausted, metal sonic not so much due to his metal bones not being able to get tired

You two walked and walked, your shoes crunching the leaves and grass with each step as you two continue walking back

You felt like passing out from exhaustion, your body felt weary and limp, your bones sore and hurting

Feet hurting, shoes almost broken and your body limp from exhaustion, the robot next to you seemed to not be in the same predicament. Metal sonic couldn't get tired, he's a robot after all, but that didn't stop your fascination maybe infatuation for him. As you two walk around in the scolding heat, you spot a palm tree, the tree had enough shade and leaves to cool you down for a bit, but what really interested you was the hammock

Grabbing the robots metal hand, you take him with you to the palm tree, the metal on his hand having become hotter from the time outdoor in the burning sun

You let yourself fall back on the hammock, finally getting a break after a tough day, you prop up your feet against the strings of the hammock, fully stretching your body beforr making space for the robot

"Don't you also wanna rest in the shade? Your body could easily get hot in the sun" You ask, curiosity evident in your tone. It may seem silly, a robot resting, but it's cute and seems nice in your head. Metal sonic slowly walks over, not having a mouth to speak with really had its downsides, as he sits down his weights shifts the hammock a bit to his side

Getting used to the material of the hammock against his iron skin, he slowly lays down next to you

As time goes by, your eyes start feeling heavier, the leaves rustling in the wind lulling you to sleep, the heat didn't do much to help you keep your eyes awake. It's probably fine to go to sleep for a bit?

The robot picks up on your snores, looking to his side he finds you asleep, facing him with your head on his shoulder. Was it really ok for him to let you sleep? He decides against waking you, you've been working hard and deserve a break, he'll treat you to that break

Metal looks back up at the sky, the clouds slowly turning pink as the sun sets down, the sky had a strong orange hue and it was gonna be night when you go back on your way

It's best to sleep here

[hhoneylemon]

two pumps of caramel and vanilla

tim drake x reader

summary: (not proofread) tim was shot a few months ago and is relearning how to work after the bullet damaged his motor neurons. reader feels bad for him and asks how he’s doing. tim feels so guilty that he shares his biggest secret after coffee.

your lips purse as you watch him walk into the coffee shop.

well, more like limp. you aren’t sure how to describe the movements of someone using crutches. especially him. he’s trying to reteach himself how to walk. all because of that day.

the thought still haunts you. watching the tv to hear his speech, the plans you had for after he was done. that never happened.

instead, you fell back into calling and texting tim constantly. it was like the two of you were back in high school. you had only started going on dates again after he confirmed he was able to walk by himself.

you never rushed him. you just wanted him to be better, happy. you raise your hand to wave at him so that he could catch you. the coffee shop was decently crowded, a few college students littered about at different tables.

tim’s face softens as he sees you sitting at one of the tables, making his way over. drinks and pastries are already ordered and set in front of you snd the chair opposite of you. your usual order, one you haven’t touched while waiting for him to arrive. tim’s usual, a chocolate chip muffin and an overly specific coffee. one you have memorized; two pumps of caramel and two pumps of vanilla, four scoops of sugar, eight ice cubes. you knew his distaste for coffee and found his method of dodging it quite funny.

he lowers himself into the seat opposite you, propping his crutches against the table. finally, his gaze meets yours. he smiles.

“hey. have a good morning so far?”

his hand reaches for his coffee, bringing it to his lips. he takes a long sip through the straw, eyes fluttering shut as the sweetness of the drink hits him like a tidal wave.

“yeah, i suppose so. i hit a bit of traffic on my way here, but that meant i could listen to my playlist for longer.”

tim nodded, understanding the feeling. his cup is placed back on the table, his fingers beginning to tap against the wooden tabletop.

“yeah. we should consider going to blüdhaven next time we want to go somewhere.”

he begins unwrapping his muffin, soaking everything in. this was so pleasant. he could relax here with you while have a high sugar meal to kick off his day. he missed this.

“how many months left?”

your eyes flit to his crutches. you feel awful the second you ask. you bite down on your lip and squeeze your eyes shut, groaning.

“shit, i’m sorry. i mean, how do you feel? is it any easier?”

the way your eyes land on his makes guilt bubble in tim’s gut. was he a bad boyfriend? he hadn’t told you the full story, hadn’t revealed himself to you yet. he couldn’t do it in public, either. it’ll have to wait.

he responds by squeezing his eyes shut and sighing like he’s been terribly inconvenienced. you take that wrong, eyes widening in horror.

“tim, i’m sorry. we can talk about anything else, how’s work been recently?”

he holds up a hand, silencing you. his eyes are soft, eyebrows furrowed. 

“no, it’s fine. we can talk about it later. i kinda just wanted to relax with you, alright. tell me about how you’ve been recently.”

you gulp and nod in response. his voice was laced with frustration, though he cards a hand through his hair and takes a small breath. he then takes a bite of his muffin as he listens to you speak.

“well, classes are going well. i have an assignment to finish in english, but then i’m done until the week kicks back up.”

he nods as you ramble away for the rest of your time at the coffee shop. his shoulders are relaxed, eyes almost fond as he watches you talk. the two of you leave, you carrying the coffees so he can effectively limp beside you.

the two of you round a corner, heading towards the nicest park in gotham. the flowers and bushes were still barely hanging on, but it wasn’t littered or infested with mutated bugs like the others.

settling on a park bench, he hums in relief. you feel guilty making him walk everywhere instead of calling an uber. before you can apologize, he turns to smile at you, thanking you and taking his coffee from your hand. he takes a sip.

“it’s surprisingly nice out today.”

he smiles at the sound you make in response. the almost laugh that comes out as a puff of breath through your nose. he thinks for a moment before his face falls serious.

“we need to talk. well, i need to tell you something.”

you turn to look at him, your own face falling serious. you shift to face him better. your head tilts with curiosity.

“yeah?”

he gulps, hand clenching into a fist in his lap. he sighs before looking to the sky. he wishes the ground would swallow him whole.

“i didn’t actually get shot. that was my acquaintance m’gann that was giving the speech.”

your face screws up. eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowing, nose wrinkling.

“what are you talking about?”

he offers a little smile. it reminds you of what he used to be; that loser in high school, the one who would invite you to his parents house to play video games. the guy who would take you skateboarding and then embarrass himself by face planting. the guy who had several notes on his phone ranking different energy drink flavors so you’d never have a bad one. wayne enterprises didn’t ruin him per se, but it really took away the energy he used to have.

“don’t interrupt me, please. let me get this all out in one go.”

tim’s eyes watch you, waiting for you to say something. when you don’t, he begins.

“i’m red robin. i became robin at thirteen. vicki vale, you know the one, suspected i was red robin a few months ago. to throw her off, i staged my getting shot and damaging some motor neurons. i’m perfectly fine. if we go to your apartment, i could walk around without my crutches.”

he pauses, eyes fluttering shut. the sun casts shadows on his cheeks from his eyelashes. your hand finds his. his eyes shoot open.

“is that all?”

his mouth goes dry. you weren’t upset. he swallows around nothing and shakes his head.

“no. i—i didn’t tell you for your safety, you know. i was worried someone would find out we were linked and they’d come after you. i’m telling you because i trust you and i can keep you safer this way. i can give you some gadgets i’ve made to protect you.”

you smile. tim just told you his greatest secret and you’re smiling. he loves you.

“okay.”

“okay?”

your lackluster response has him dumbfounded. just ‘okay’ and no questions? nothing?

“well, it makes sense. you ditch, like, a lot. also the huge bags under your eyes. working all day and then getting to sleep in the coziest bed ever made doesn’t make your eye bags the size of an iceberg.”

you squeeze his hand. he drops his head onto your shoulder and lets a sigh escape him. you lean your head against his in turn.

“you’re really okay with all of this?”

it’s your turn to let out a sigh in response. your eyes close as you gently swirl your coffee cup.

“in all honesty, i’d prefer if my boyfriend wasn’t out every night fighting. that doesn’t mean i have an issue with it. now i know you aren’t a supervillain, at least.”

he snickers in response and closes his eyes. he should’ve remembered how supportive you were. that’s an error on his part.

he’s content sitting in silence with you and sipping at your coffees for the next ten minutes. the two of you people watch as gotham citizens mill about the streets. some small comments are passed between the both of you if you see someone particularly funny.

you finish your coffee a few moments after tim finishes his. he hands you the cup, getting up on his crutches and giving you that smug smile. like this was some secret between the two of you. technically, it was.

you jog to a trashcan to throw the cups away, then jog back to him. before the two of you even leave the park, taking the path back to the street, you’re already striking up a conversation.

“my friends don’t think we’re dating. i was going through the reels you sent me the other day and you said something like ‘this is me and you, pookie.’”

tim shakes his had and laughs. the sound is gentle, like he only wants you to hear.

“apparently pookie is a friends only term. anyway, they tried setting me up with this one guy in my psych class.”

you look at tim. he looks at you. you both burst out laughing. he leans against the railing of the park fence while you grab his shoulders and lean on him. it’s like nothing has changed; even though practically everything has. or maybe truly nothing has changed. he’s been a vigilante your whole relationship. 

oh, yeah. tim regrets not telling you sooner. 

A/N: i need to write more for tim, the loml. he’s such an interesting character, i’m planning on buying a lot more of his comics than i already have to understand him better. he’s very relatable <3

masterlist

[airybcby]

Hello🌝🌝 If it’s okay could I request 🍉 +🍰 with Itoshi Sae for the 'More Than A Married Couple, But Not Lovers' event! Take as much time as you need!!

Thank you if you do this request btw!!!! Also I love your work!!🌝

i'm so sorry that this has taken literal AGES

a sae itoshi watermelon slice...

જ⁀♡⊹｡° if i get too close and i'm not how you hoped

♡ a/n — * cue hozier's yell from northern attitude * for my more than a married couple event! (this event is now closed)

♡ word count — 1.1k

♡ content — sae itoshi x gn! reader, sae itoshi x gn! reader, fake dating, slight pining?, angst (for like one section), probably ooc sae

♡ synopsis — living with sae itoshi was easy at first. no arguments, actually, you hardly spoke. you were doing well by his words "don't fall in love with me" ...until you weren't.

The moment your name was called alongside his, a hush fell over the room.

Sae Itoshi.

Your assigned partner for the Marriage Simulation Project.

Your stomach churned as you turned your head toward him, only to find that he was already looking at you—expression unreadable, sharp teal eyes flickering with something you couldn't quite place.

You weren’t close before this. He was the kind of person who made himself difficult to approach, who only spoke when necessary and rarely let anyone in. You’d seen him from a distance—his effortless talent, his cold confidence, his unwillingness to entertain anything that wasn’t soccer.

And now, for the next twelve weeks, you’d be living together as husband and wife.

Sae’s gaze lingered on you for a moment before he let out a quiet sigh, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he muttered, voice low enough that only you could hear. “This is just an assignment. Don’t make it into something it’s not.”

You bristled at his tone. “I wasn’t planning to.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, like he didn’t quite believe you. Then, in that same detached voice, he added—

“Don’t fall in love with me.”

Something in your chest twisted, but you ignored it, rolling your eyes as you crossed your arms. “As if.”

The words felt easy then, effortless.

But you didn’t know.

You didn’t know how much harder it would be to say that by the time this was over.

Your new reality set in quickly.

Living with Sae was… surprisingly quiet.

He wasn’t messy, nor was he particularly difficult to live with. He didn’t leave his things scattered around or blast music late at night. If anything, he kept mostly to himself—waking up early for practice, coming home late, showering, then scrolling through his phone on the couch before heading to bed.

For the first few days, it felt like you were roommates more than anything else.

Until the first house check.

A group of instructors showed up at your doorstep to evaluate how well you and Sae were settling in. You answered their questions with practiced ease, reciting the basic details of your new married life—who did the chores, how you divided responsibilities, how you got along.

Sae, on the other hand, barely spoke, nodding occasionally or responding with clipped answers.

Then came the unexpected request.

“Since this is a marriage simulation, we want to see some natural affection,” one of the instructors said, a polite but expectant smile on their face. “Even just something small—holding hands, maybe?”

Your breath hitched.

You turned to Sae, half-expecting him to roll his eyes and refuse. But instead, without hesitation, he reached for your hand, his fingers effortlessly slipping through yours.

Your heart stuttered.

He was warm.

His grip was firm, steady.

And the worst part? He didn’t look affected at all.

If anything, he held your hand like it was nothing. Like it didn’t make his pulse quicken the way it did yours.

The instructors smiled in approval. “Good. You two seem to be adjusting well.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to smile back.

But long after they left, Sae didn’t pull away.

The silence between you had started to shift.

It wasn’t that Sae had suddenly become affectionate or talkative—far from it. But the space you shared no longer felt as distant.

Small things changed.

You started cooking dinner for two instead of just for yourself, and Sae never complained. He started leaving your favorite snacks on the counter after grocery runs. You’d drape a blanket over him when he dozed off on the couch, and when you woke up late, your phone would always be plugged in, fully charged.

It wasn’t love.

But it was something.

And that something was dangerous.

It happened so naturally, you didn’t realize it until it was too late.

Movie night. A rare evening where neither of you had obligations.

You started on opposite ends of the couch, a respectable distance apart. But somewhere between the first and second movie, your bodies had unconsciously gravitated toward each other.

Sae, tired from practice, had leaned back against the cushions, and at some point, his head ended up resting against your lap.

You froze.

His arm was draped lazily over his stomach, his breath even and steady. His hair, still slightly damp from his shower, brushed against your skin.

“I can move,” he muttered, voice drowsy.

You swallowed, hands gripping the couch cushions beneath you. “You’re fine.”

His body tensed—just for a moment.

Then, slowly, he relaxed.

Minutes passed. The only sounds in the room were the hum of the TV and the faint, steady rhythm of his breathing.

And then, before you could stop yourself, you reached out—fingers brushing lightly through his hair, tucking a stray strand away from his face.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t say anything.

But his fingers twitched slightly against his stomach, like he was resisting the urge to react.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

But a small part of you—the part that had already begun to fall—knew better.

The simulation was ending in two weeks.

You were supposed to feel relieved, but instead, you felt empty.

You stood on the balcony that night, staring at the city lights, heart heavy with everything you couldn't say.

And then the door slid open.

Sae stepped outside, standing beside you, hands in his pockets.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, quietly—so quietly you almost didn’t hear it—he said,

“I don’t want this to end.”

Your breath hitched.

You turned to him, searching his face, but he was staring straight ahead.

“What?” you whispered.

He clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply. “I told you not to fall in love with me.”

Your chest ached.

“I didn’t,” you lied.

He let out a quiet laugh—a bitter, almost self-deprecating sound.

Then, softly—softer than you’d ever heard him—he said,

“Liar.”

You packed your things and left your shared apartment.

You told yourself it was over. That it was better this way.

But that night, as you stood in your room, your phone buzzed.

A message from Sae.

Come outside.

Your heart pounded as you stepped into the cool night air.

And there he was, hands in his pockets, standing under the streetlight like something out of a dream.

“I changed my mind,” he said, voice steady.

You swallowed. “About what?”

He stepped closer, teal eyes burning into yours.

“About falling in love.”

And just like that, the walls you’d built came crashing down.

Because this wasn’t pretend anymore.

It never had been.

And as he pulled you into his arms, holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear—

You knew, without a doubt, that neither of you ever wanted to let go.

i think i hate this but writing happy stuff for sae is hard :)

i hope you liked it!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[lexosaurus]

Ghost Boy? In my college class? It's More Likely Than You Think

[ao3 link]

Warnings: None Words: 6,031

****

College was crazy. 

Okay?

There was absolutely no reason why college had to be as insane as it was.

Alright, maybe there was a reason. A reason called, "We have four years to make these students professionals in their chosen field, and some even less time than that."

Danny understood. He really, truly did. He knew that to work in his dream job at NASA, he needed to learn not just how to locate the constellations in the night sky, but also about subjects like chemistry, biology, calculus, physics—a lot of physics.

But seriously, when the hell was a guy supposed to sleep?

Last night's problem set only had five questions, theoretically. But it was run by a completely sadistic site that Vlad himself must have designed—that bastard—because while submitting a correct answer seemed to mark one of the five outlined stars in gold, the site also seemed to be more than happy to remove the gold star if he got a problem incorrect. 

Which meant that the theoretical five-questioned assignment ended up taking Danny many, many more questions than that. 

Just when he had thought the hell was over, he realized he still hadn't begun his paper for his mandatory freshman writing class. So then, he got the absolute pleasure of writing an essay about a stupid, Victorian-era play he didn't read regarding the symbolism of a hat as it related to...foreshadowing, or something. 

He didn't read it. He only signed up for this dumb writing seminar because the timing worked better on his schedule. He'd much rather be taking the writing class about horror novels. But unfortunately, that one happened during his mandatory physics course.

When it was all over and he finally caught sight of his pillow, he was pretty sure he’d shed a single tear. Did he remember sinking into the mattress? Closing his eyes, and drifting off?

No. He didn't. 

He was fucking tired.

But apparently, the universe did actually hate him because instead of being roused by his alarm the next morning, he was shaken by his ghost sense.

Oh yeah, apparently Skulker found his dorm.

Joy!

No seriously, fuck that guy. 

What the hell kind of sick weirdo wants to make a rug out of someone else's skin, anyway? Not to mention that Skulker had no conception of what a good time to hunt was, considering he seriously was trying to start chaos at five in the fucking morning.

Again, fuck that guy.

He only just barely had enough time to fly home, shower, hastily read over and submit his essay (he'd long since learned from high school that he couldn't trust himself that late at night to be coherent), and make a mad dash to his favorite bagel spot on the way to class.

However, the bagel guy—he had a name, Danny was almost sure—must have been under the weather today because, for some reason, he could not stop staring at Danny.

The instinct to run his hand over his face to check for post-fight ectoplasm splatters was a learned reaction at this point. But this time, he couldn't feel anything off. His skin was dry. Cold, like usual, but dry.

"Uh..." The bagel guy continued staring at him slack-jawed.

"Do I have something on my face?" 

That seemed to shake the bagel guy out of his stupor. He blinked, his eyes darting around to catch the eye of a few other customers who, for some reason, were giving Danny a really wide berth.

Did he smell or something? Had he forgotten to put his deodorant on?

Oh god, did his parents do something to make national news again? Did the news use a family photo when reporting the story or something? Why was everyone looking at him? Seriously, what the hell was going on today?

The bagel guy locked eyes with Danny once more, briefly, before darting back down to the register and handing Danny his change. "One everything bagel with cream cheese for the, uh—for—coming right up."

"Thanks," Danny said, trying to be as friendly as possible. Jazz always said that he shouldn't judge people for acting strange. That they could be going through something personal.

So, Danny shook it off. Maybe he missed a chunk of ectoplasm on his hair when he was showering. Skulker had nailed his shoulder pretty well. The green, ecto-infused smoothie he'd sipped that morning was working its magic to mend his skin, but who knew? Maybe a little bit of blood was leaking through his shirt. It wouldn't be the first time that happened, anyway.

Or the last.

Amazingly, he did get his bagel. But when the man handed it to Danny, his eyes were almost popping out of his skull. His heavily accented, "Ah, here is one—ah, your—your bagel," sounded especially halted today. 

But no. The big, gruff bagel guy wouldn't have stuttered. He wouldn't have been nervous to pass a bagel to a tired-looking college student either.

Danny must have misheard. 

He darted down the sidewalk. He was going to be late for class. And it was because of his internal panic that he didn't notice the girl with her nose buried in her cell phone at first. Not until she almost crashed into him, looked up, and nearly jumped out of her skin.

"HOLY SHIT!" she yelled, her hands flailing beside her. Her phone flew out from her fingers and clattered on the pavement.

"Sorry!" Danny scooped up her phone from the ground and handed it to her.

She stared at him as if he were completely insane, making no move to take the phone until Danny leaned forward a little closer and pointedly said, "Here."

Whether or not this girl was hungover or still drunk from whatever party she'd been at the night before, Danny did not have time to work around her brain. He was going to be late for class!

"Fuck," she said, eyes still glued on Danny. She did, however, finally reach out and gently take the offered cell phone.

Which was all he needed.

Mission accomplished, he whirled back around intending on continuing his fast-walk-nearly-run pace to the science building, but caught the eye of a biker who seemed to go into a similar trance as the bagel guy and ended up crashing straight into a parked car.

"Oh my god!" Danny darted over to the strewn biker. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine! Stay back!" the man yelled, struggling up and holding his hand out to block Danny from seeing his face.

Was this guy...cowering at him? Like he was some sort of ghost?

No, no. This was silly. Now Danny was just being paranoid.

"Just stay back!"

An oddly phrased demand, and a little biting at that, but the biker did just crash into a parked car because of Danny and that other girl—who was currently holding her phone up at Danny—so he guessed he could forgive this random dude for being a little snappish.

Danny didn't have time to dwell on this stranger anyway, because holy shit his class was starting in ten minutes and if Danny didn't get his ass to the room right now he was going to be screwed.

So with one more apology to the biker, and one more glance to the strange phone-obsessed girl, Danny adjusted the strap of his bag back over his shoulder and took off down the road.

Not literally took off. Though, he really wanted to jet through the air today. He'd had these urges to duck out of sight and fly to class before, but it never felt so compelling as right now. 

Unfortunately, the street was crowded as shit, and in between classes as it was, the building would likely be crowded too. Finding a discreet place to transform would probably take just as long as running to the classroom like his half-life depended on it. And so, the latter option it was.

Somehow, he managed to make it to class with five minutes to spare. Okay, maybe not somehow. Maybe he did risk using his flight to propel him forward a little bit. Could anyone blame him? 

College was crazy. And anyone who thought they saw a guy not quite touching the ground when he walked could have just as easily been sleep-deprived and were almost certainly hallucinating. Humans couldn't fly! Only ghosts could fly, and Danny Fenton was clearly a human college student just running to class.

Gaslight, gatekeep, ghostboss—or whatever the saying was.

Energy was buzzing in Danny’s veins, and he found it a little difficult to stay in his seat. An aftereffect of only barely using his flight powers, he was sure. His body got a taste of being airborne, and now it didn't want to return to the laws of gravity.

Danny could forgive his ghost core for that. Gravity could be very exhausting sometimes. Especially when he was in the middle of a ghost fight and his enemy was hurling him to the ground. But he was in a lecture, and it would look weird if this random college student was hovering over his seat, so Danny forced his butt onto the chair as he dropped his bag beside him.

Whispers fluttered around him, which wasn't too unusual. People often talked in pleading freak-out whispers to their friends after an especially grueling night of homework.

Danny was about to turn to his chemistry lecture buddy and do the same—because seriously, he was going to have nightmares over that damn assignment for weeks—when he realized that his chemistry buddy was not in his usual seat.

And then, a whisper caught the attention of his enhanced eardrum.

"...ghost..."

"...Phantom..."

Ah, that explained it. 

Oh yeah, it was all coming together now.

They must have been talking about the ghost fight from this morning, the one with Skulker. This city wasn't Amity Park, so the students here weren't exactly used to ghost attacks. Of course, the initial fight was probably very exciting for them.

And, well, his parents probably were on the news that morning, but likely only to be interviewed about the attack. Maybe they ended up rambling about ghostly habits and migration patterns or whatever other bullshit theories they’d been churning with recently.

So then, the bagel guy must have recognized Danny as a Fenton, a child of Jack and Maddie, the infamous, kooky ghost experts.

The effects of that realization were delayed, but when they finally hit, he felt like his brain was hit by a semi-truck. Because, shit. He didn't know if he could deal with his bagel guy knowing who he was. He was going to have to find a new bagel spot, wasn't he? 

Danny craned his neck over to the door. The lecture was supposed to be starting, but his chemistry buddy was nowhere to be found.

But then, to his immense relief that he wouldn't have to suffer through this lecture by himself, the door opened to reveal the tall, lanky form of Cameron, his chemistry buddy.

Danny eagerly moved his bag out of the way of Cam's seat, his woes of that fucking assignment hot on his lips, but before he could begin his trauma-dumping session, something strange happened.

Really, really strange.

As Cam began habitually walking over to his seat, he looked up, caught Danny's eye, and froze.

His mouth parted into a perfect 'o,' his eyes widened, and his eyebrows disappeared under his hairline. Then, he backed up, caught the bewildered expression of another student near him, and moved to another aisle.

Danny sat there too stunned to call out to Cam, though the intent was at the precipice of his being. Hurt stabbed his gut, and the social anxiety the A-List had trained his brain for in high school started creeping up his spine.

Did Danny do something wrong? 

Why had Cam moved away?

What did that look to the other kid mean?

He tried to think of a reason why Cam might have suddenly decided that Danny was a weirdo freak that should be avoided, but the only thing he remembered doing between yesterday and today was the two texts he'd sent at eleven last night complaining about the assignment. But surely, everyone had complained, right?

Or was the assignment genuinely effortless for everyone? And Danny was just an idiot who didn't understand some really simple concept, and now Cam had suddenly realized that he'd picked the wrong chemistry buddy to sit next to in class?

That must have been it.

Why else had he moved away?

Danny turned around, looking to the back of the lecture hall. But all he could see was a sea of faces all looking at him.

Okay, honestly, what the fuck was wrong with everyone today?

He whipped out his phone, paranoia striking through his gut like a spear. Maybe he'd accidentally revealed himself during the fight? But he checked Google, searching for Phantom's human identity, but all he got at the top of the search were old Reddit threads theorizing about which historical figure he could have been, and celebrity news sites spouting completely absurd clickbait-type theories about his past.

Is Danny Phantom Napoleon's son?

Could Danny Phantom be Related to George Washington?

New Theory Suggests Danny Phantom is Alexander the Great!

Yeah, like Danny was leading legions of ghosts around Europe anytime soon.

As Danny wracked his brain for what the hell he'd done to deserve the wrath of having his classmates stare at him like he was some sort of weird alien species and everyone was plotting on how to initiate first contact, the side door opened and the professor came darting in the hall with a stack of folders all but falling out of his hands and a muttering of breathy, "sorry, sorry," light on his lips.

The muttering broke out into jilted, uncomfortable laughter, and Danny still couldn't help the feeling that they were laughing at him. 

He tried to brush that off as just the remnants of his high school on him and keep his attention focused on his short, salt-and-pepper-haired professor who looked like he couldn't remember if he was going to a beach party or Burning Man today, and decided to dress for both. 

Yang put the manila folders down on the front table, miraculously without spilling any of the contents inside, set his bag down on the rolling chair beside him, and picked up a piece of chalk to face the board.

He held a hand up and began writing Chemistry 101 — Stoichiometry on the board.

Behind Danny, the snickers grew louder. 

Was there some inside joke that he just wasn't getting? Had his classmates prepared some sort of prank for the teacher today and Danny hadn't read the email? Was it April Fool's Day, even though logic and reasoning told Danny that it was only October?

"Sorry I was late, everyone," Yang began. "Now if you don't mind, I want to begin by going over a few problems from last night's assignment. I noticed a pattern in the problems everyone was getting wrong..."

Someone coughed rather obnoxiously behind him.

Danny felt ice begin to build in his stomach. 

"...so as you can see here, I noticed a lot of people forgot to calculate the used excess of iron to find the amount of excess reactants. Remember, guys, you can't just subtract the bigger and smaller masses in the problem..."

Another obnoxious cough. 

Yang didn't break stride. "...you have to actually convert it to moles and set up your mole ratio, and then convert back to grams. I mentioned this in class but it seemed like too many of you—"

"Professor Yang?" the impatient voice of Brittany, one of his classmates, said from behind.

The class broke out in a fit of whispers and giggles, this time not even trying to hide their restlessness.

"What is it?" Yang turned around, his chalk still hovering on the board.

And then he looked at Danny. His eyes bugged out like a cartoon, sticking out beyond the rims of his glasses. His jaw opened and closed like a fish, and he dropped the chalk on the floor.

Now, the class was roaring with noise.

Danny stared eye-to-eye with the professor for ten seconds or ten minutes. He didn't know which, and it didn't matter anyway, because then Yang's thin lips opened to exclaim a word that may as well have electrocuted him all over again:

"Phantom?" 

Confusion and panic hit Danny like a sledgehammer.

How did Yang know he was Phantom? Had he been revealed? Did everyone know he was Phantom?

And then he heard the whispers. 

"It's really him! It's Phantom!"

"Why is he here?"

"It's Phantom!"

No!

No!

How did everyone know his secret?

Danny had to stop this.

He had over four years of hiding his ghost half from his parents, the world, and most impressively, his parents. Over the years, he'd honed his ability at lying and using his silver tongue to smooth over situations with such practiced ease, he was expecting his Oscar in the mail any day now.

Which is why, like an utter pro, he jumped up from his seat and shouted, "It's a lie, I'm not a ghost!"

The room went silent, and then was launched into a frenzy.

"Phantom!"

"Is he delusional?"

"It's really him! It's Phantom!"

His panic was bordering on hysteria as it stampeded over him, beating his core so furiously that Danny thought it was going to jump through his ribcage.

He stood, his gloved hands held out in front of him as he began his best at pleading with the masses, but before he could grovel too much, Professor Yang's voice sliced through him like a knife, calling out, "Phantom! What are you doing in my class?"

Wait...

Gloved hand?

Danny looked at his hands again. They were gloved.

And glowing.

The relief was so heavy on his shoulders, his back, and every inch of his skin. It was also mortifying.

Because here he was, in his Chemistry 101 class not as Fenton, but as Phantom. 

"Holy shit," Danny muttered. 

What. The. Hell.

No, really.

What the hell?

How was this happening?

Had he really been so tired that he'd forgotten to change out of his Phantom form after Skulker's fight?

No, hang on—had he been walking around in his Phantom form all morning?

How had he not noticed?

Then all the memories came flying back to him at once. The bagel guy acting weird, staring at him like he wasn't sure if he should seriously give a ghost a bagel because "Do ghosts need to eat? Is human food poison?"

And then the girl. She hadn't screamed because she nearly crashed into a stranger, she screamed and threw her phone in the air because she'd nearly crashed into Phantom. And that's why she was recording him after, too. She was recording Phantom, a ghost that wasn't native to this college town.

Danny thought he'd die of cringe-fail right there because that meant she also recorded the biker crashing into a parked car and was probably uploading it to TikTok later. He was sure it would be trending in minutes.

That was, if she hadn't already uploaded it to Tiktok, and it wasn't already trending. His phone suddenly felt heavy in his pocket. 

He looked around at the faces of intrigue and excitement, feebly attempting to squash the anxiety that was currently tap dancing over his skin.  Okay, so his initial attempt at acting hadn't gone so well. That was okay; nobody could be perfect all the time. If he just channeled the inner cool and suave hero that he was, he could totally save the situation.

For sure.

He floated a few feet in the air. His legs felt awkward sprawled out, and he tried to form a ghost-tail, but somehow his sense of self was too strong for that today. No matter, to balance it out, he splayed his arms out wide and began doing jazz hands, saying, "It's me! Danny Phantom! Just here checking your classroom for ghosts!" 

There was a moment of collective pause before his brain caught up with what his mouth said, and then he scrambled, making a big show of ducking around the room to search for...ghosts, or something. He lowered to the floor to check under the auditorium chairs, flew to the front of the room to peek around the tables, and finally went up to the ceiling to glance around the four corners of the room.

Once he felt embarrassed enough, he stopped in the center of the room, puffed out his chest, and said, "Good news, citizens! There are no ghosts in this room!"

Whispers and mutters once again broke out from his classmates, along with a few giggles. In the front of the classroom, Yang's head was craned up to look at him, his expression showing pure bafflement. 

Okay, Danny was bombing this set. He was catching onto the vibe of the room, and had come to this very astute conclusion: there was no saving this. 

Time to abort the mission.

"Well, that will be all! Have a fun class learning about chemistry!" 

And then, without another word, he jetted through the wall and into the hallway of the building, turning invisible immediately. Fortunately, with classes having started several minutes ago, the corridors were mostly empty. Only a few stragglers remained, booking it down the halls and trying to duck inconspicuously into their classrooms. 

Danny cut around a corner of the hall where, thankfully, no one was standing. That didn't stop him from triple-checking over his shoulder (it was just the water fountain, Danny) before he let his ring wash over him.

Then, when he was sure he was human again this time, he ran down the hall and pushed open the auditorium door to his class which, by the looks of things, hadn't calmed down from their encounter yet.

The door hit the wall with a bang—oops, he thought he hadn't pushed so hard—and then every head was turned to him.

"Sorry!" Danny rubbed the back of his neck and gestured vaguely to the clock on the wall. "I lost track of time."

The room was...silent. Incredibly, confoundingly silent. 

That wasn't good.

On instinct, Danny glanced down again to make sure that he was wearing his red hoodie and blue jeans and not his Phantom black and white jumpsuit. He was, in fact, wearing the right clothes. And out of the corners of his eyes, he saw the glint of his black bangs.

So then, what the fuck?

Alright, there was no need to panic. He was human, his classmates were human, they'd just met Phantom, and now Danny was busting in the classroom late. It wouldn't be the first time he was late to class, anyway. Lots of students were late for chemistry! 

With his brain sufficiently pep-talked, he pointed as inconspicuously to his seat as he could and said, "I'll just...take my seat." 

No one responded, so he took that as his cue to begin his walk of shame up the steps of the auditorium aisles to his usual seat near the front, which was still amazingly void of students anywhere near it.

"Phantom?" a voice rang out from the spattering of students around the room.

Danny missed the next step and ate shit on the floor. His bag hit his back heavily, and he could have sworn his shoe nearly flew off his feet. He scrambled to stand, his hand missing the railing only once, before he managed to stand back proud and tall. Sort of. His backpack had slid off one shoulder, and his body was hunched forward and he tried to regain his breath because holy shit, it actually really hurt for his torso to land on the corner of the step.

He rubbed his sternum, sure it was going to bruise, and coughed out, "Uh—what?"

"Phantom!" the voice, now too familiar, repeated. "You're him. Phantom."

Danny glanced up, and dread not only slammed into him with the force of a semi, but also backed up and floored it into his soul again. And again.

Because that voice was none other than his Chem 101 buddy, Cam.

No, Danny was a magnificent actor. He surely could save this one.

What did people always say? Something about the third try being a charm?

He could really use a charm right now. Unfortunately, Murphy seemed keen on watching him suffer instead.

"No—no way! I'm not a ghost! I'm totally human, guys! See?" Danny said with quite a lot of conviction, waving his hands beside his body like some sort of circus display.

It was so conclusive of a performance, that Cam simply laughed. 

Shit. This was not how he wanted today to go at all.

"I can't believe I never put it together before! Did people really buy that in your hometown?" 

"What act? I'm not acting!" Danny insisted.

But his classmates, it seemed, were even less convinced. 

"Seriously, it's so obvious."

"How did no one notice?"

"They're literally the same person it's crazy."

"What? No! No we're not the same person!" Danny insisted, trying not to sound desperate and hopelessly failing. "He's my—uh—twin? Yeah, that. He's my twin."

"He's obviously not," a classmate said.

"He is. He died in the womb," Danny refuted.

"Okay, now you're just being ridiculous."

"Does it sound better or worse if I say that my mother drank ectoplasmic smoothies while she was pregnant and that's why he turned into a ghost?"

"Fenton!" Professor Yang called out.

Danny felt his blood turn so cold they started forming frost in his veins. 

And then, he refused to look down because he was pretty sure ice crystals were glueing his feet to the floor.

In his panic, he'd totally forgotten that this was, in fact, a classroom. With a professor. And not just any professor, his chemistry professor. As in, the guy that had the sole power of crushing all of Danny's dreams of working for NASA via the power of the curve.

Yang took a step back, colliding with the chalkboard behind him and smearing white dust all over his brightly-colored shirt. But he ignored this, instead finding it more pertinent to fold his arms and regard Danny with a look of pure incredulation. "Are you really Phantom?"

"What? No!" Danny said. However, as luck would have it, that gasping answer caused him to inhale the wrong way, and coughs shot up his throat to overtake his body.

And then like the valiant superhero he was, he began having a coughing fit. In front of his classmates.

He knew Sam and Tucker always called him a dork, but this was really unfair.

"You okay, Phantom?" one student asked.

Danny tried to argue, "I'm not Phantom," but unfortunately for him, he hadn't stopped coughing yet.

Taking his silence for a confirmation that he was in fact the elusive ghost known as Phantom, another classmate commented, "I didn't know Phantom breathed."

Not-so-quiet whispers and mutters broke out around the class at once discussing theories of his cardiovascular system.

All while Danny was doubled over, trying desperately to reclaim what little of his dignity was still left. As well as reclaim some of the oxygen that his body seemed more than willing to push away for some reason.

Seriously, was he out of karma yet? 

Okay, Universe, if this is your way getting back at me for reading the Cliffnotes of that book for the essay last night, I get it. Cheating is bad, blah blah blah. I'm very sorry in a deeply remorseful way, so can we please stop ruining my life now?

"...so he wouldn't need to breathe!" A classmate's voice had stepped above the rest.

"That's what I said!"

"Dude, he's literally fallen asleep on my floor once. I'm telling you he needs to breathe."

That voice must have been Cam's.

Danny took a deep breath, regaining control of his lungs. "Wait, guys!"

But it was too late. And, oh god, why were people now giggling over their phones? Had someone taken a video of him earlier? Was he trending online right now?

If this got back to Sam and Tucker, he was never going to live this down. 

"Okay, okay!" Yang's voice rose in volume. "Class, settle down!"

The class went silent.

"Alright, I know we are all curious to know about Fenton's secret double life—"

"I don't have a secret double life!"

"Sure you don't, Phantom," Cam said.

"—But please, we do actually have quite a bit of material to cover today, judging by the very impressive homework scores from last night. And, by the way, class, might I remind you all that my office hours are on Mondays and Wednesdays from two to four. I won't name names, but I'll just say that if you need to make it a point to come for some review, you know who you are."

Was Yang looking at him?

"Regardless, if Fenton is done screwing around with his ghost powers, we do need to get through the material sometime this year."

"But I'm not a ghost!" Danny protested.

"Dude, you're standing in a block of ice," a classmate argued. 

"Holy shit, he froze his legs to the floor!"

Danny felt frost on his cheeks. "The A/C system is broken! Everyone knows that!"

"The ice is glowing." 

"So? A lot of ice glows."

"Fenton, please." Yang had never sounded so disappointed in his life. "I'd expect anyone in this class to know that ice is made of which elements?"

Danny hated where this was going. "Hydrogen and oxygen."

"And please describe the bonds to me."

"The hydrogens have a double bond with the oxygen, and then there's two pairs of electrons leftover."

"What shape?" Yang pressed, pushing his wiry glasses up his nose.

"Bent."

"Good, thank you. So we have two hydrogen and one oxygen in an H20 molecule, yes? And so tell me, would that configuration with those two elements cause anything to glow?"

"Um, no." Danny had the sudden urge to die. "Water does not glow." 

"But, interestingly, ectoplasmic water does glow, correct? Because....?"

They'd touched over ecton science earlier in the semester. "Because ectons are larger and can sit closer to the nucleus which results in atoms fusing and due to the greater amounts of energy they emit, some this excess energy can be seen in our visible spectrum."

Yang smiled and then gestured to the seat devoid of any humans near it that Danny, previously Phantom, had been sitting in at the start of class. "Thank you, Mr. Phantom. Now, if we're all done dillydallying, we have some stoichiometry to go over."

It took Danny more than a second of the awkward silence that followed to realize that oh yeah, his feet were literally frozen in place.

"So..." He glanced around the room, meeting the expectant gazes of his classmates. "Just to be clear, none of you care that I might potentially be..."

A ghost?

Phantom?

Some sort of weird mutant hybrid thing?

"Danny, you're the only one making a big deal out of this," a classmate answered.

Danny guffawed.

"Yeah, it's whatever. You're dead, so what? We're all dead in college. You're not special."

"I have a biology lecture later right after this for my weed-out course and going to that is basically the same thing as dying, I'm pretty sure," Cam joined in.

Danny resisted the urge to smack his forehead with his open palm.

He turned back to Yang. "And if I were maybe the—uh—being that kind of has saved humanity from being invaded by ghosts give or take one or two times, would that maybe get me extra credit on the next test?"

"No."

Well, that was a brutally quick response.

Danny shrugged. "It was worth a shot." He reigned in on his core's fluttering, and the ice began to melt around his feet. 

He tried to ignore the obvious phone flipped his way as he did.

Shit, this was going to be all over social media later. How embarrassing. He could only hope that Tucker wouldn't find it. But who was he kidding? If he checked his phone, he bet he already had about sixteen messages from Tucker laughing at his misfortune.

Once he finished freeing himself from his ecto-ice like some ghost toddler, he began a very graceful and humiliating trek to his seat, complete with multiple instances of him bumping into chairs as he trudged down the row. When he finally reached his seat, it was just his luck that the rusty hinges let out an obnoxious creaking wail as he lowered himself down. He winced, hissing out apologies, but in the silent hall, the sounds of the withered metal were almost too much to bear.

It was for that reason that his entire body refused to unclench until the professor was well underway with his lecture about excess reactants and whatever else they were going to be quizzed on next week.

He tried his best to pay attention and not check his phone for the no doubt endless notifications. He'd already made his presence too obvious in this hall, anyway. Professor Yang would have been thoroughly annoyed if, after everything, Danny decided to spend the remainder of the class on his phone.

Miraculous as it was, he did manage to survive the lecture.  

After class when he finally was able to check his phone, he saw that the world was too focused on the viral posts about Phantom being spotted outside of Amity Park to give any attention to the little itty bitty post of Danny, in human form, frozen to his lecture hall floor.

As it turned out, that post only had two likes—one of them was Tucker—and one comment from a random user reading, "lol why phantom freeze that dweeby kid to the ground???"

Danny didn't resist the urge to facepalm this time, and in fact did it so hard he was surprised he didn't give himself a concussion.

Well.

At least his secret was safe.

****

"You really don't care that I'm Phantom, do you?" Danny asked, looking up from the barely clean dorm room floor that his back was currently stretched out against.

"No?" Cam glanced from his notebook. "Why?"

"Uh, I figured the whole part where I'm a part ghost would have been a little weird?"

Cam's thin brows shot up to his hairline. "You're only a part ghost?"

"Yeah? Why, what did you think?"

"Oh, I just figured you were legit dead or something."

Cam uttered those words with such nonchalance that Danny reacted immediately, shooting up from the floor so hard he accidentally switched into his Phantom form.

"You thought I was dead?" His voice echoed when he spoke, and his ghostly tail wiggled underneath him. 

Cam's pointed look and handwave were explanation enough.

"Okay, you know what? That's fair." Danny swiped his notebook off the floor and forced his adrenaline-spiked body back into human form. "That's actually super fair."

"Yeah I mean, being a ghost is sort of Phantom's whole shtick, anyway."

"Right but like...wait, you didn't even care that you thought I was a fully dead and deceased ghost taking college classes? And you still wanted to do homework with me tonight?"

Cam, once again, only gave a very lazy shrug. "Well, yeah. I just want to pass this class, dude, and we've already established that we should tag-team team this class instead of trying to rawdog it by ourselves."

"I mean...I guess?" Danny blinked at his friend, his mind reeling with astonishment. "You're weird, you know that?"

"Says the ghost-human person or whatever. Now, are we gonna finish this prelab assignment, or are you gonna keep having an existential crisis about your place in the Universe?" 

Danny slid back on the floor, propping his knees up to lay his notebook against. "No, you're right. We need to finish this prelab."

"Thank fucking god."

****

[read more of my stuff here]

[anzulvr]

korosensei does this haunted house thing and makes class e go in it, the reader is really unamused so reader and karma work together to scare the crap out of korosensei

i've seen videos where people hide and reverse the roles in a haunted house instead of being a victim, i think it would be hilarious to see that with a stoic-ish reader and karma

Haunted - Karma x Reader // THIS THING DELETED TWICEE //

- End class had been completely transformed back into an abandoned looking building, much like its original state but with more of a horror factor. Korosensei went all out with Halloween decorations. He'd tried to set a few students up during the last school trip at the abandoned caves he called the "test of courage". It didn't work out, but second times a charm? He'd at least get one couple together this time.

The goal of today's "lecture" was to find a way out of the end class building without breaking any windows. Korosensei mentioned it would test everyone's problem solving abilities as assassins in training. First pair to successfully find the exit through a series of side quests, riddles and puzzles each got two free strikes at Korosensei's tentacles.

The catch? Everyone had a a rope tied around their wrist to a partner. Every move made meant your partner would be right beside you. You got stuck with Karma. You suspected it was not likely by coincidence.

Karma is very cute, but he's also the second worst classmate to be tied to. (First goes to Okajima)

“Karma will you stay still for one minute? You’re bruising my wrist!”

"I'm trying to reach the envelope on the ceiling, will you jump at the right time?"

"There's an easier way to do that."

You yanked the rope on him making him stumble over to you, you brought out a desk together and he was able to use it as a stool.

He opened the envelope and read it to you, "If you found this note go to teachers lounge to look for your next assignment.”

Hint: Keep your eyes out for something four-legged that cannot walk and has a back but no front.

You and Karma headed over to the designated location when you bumped into Rio and Okajima who looked like they wanted to kill one another.

Rios eyes softened when she looked at you. "[Name]! How's your search going?"

"Well we found a-"

Karma put his hand over your mouth before you could tell them about the note. He's not risking his win. "It's going boring, but we do need this room to ourselves, ya mind leaving?"

"Oh you want to be aloneee? Okajima get moving!"

Rio pushed him out the door. "Why couldn't I get stuck with Kanzaki..." "IM THE ONE WHO SHOULD BE COMPLAINING YOU..." Their argument got quieter as they left the area.

You looked back at Karma, "She definitely got the wrong idea."

"Yeah I wouldn't kiss you in this room."

You glared at him, "Solve the riddle before I choke you with the same rope we're tied to."

He mocking stuck his tongue out "Four legs, doesn't walk, it's obviously a chair [Name]! This is too easy."

He turned to get the envelope stuck under one of the chairs.

"Let's read it in the hall, the lights in this room are acting up."

You turned the handle but the door wouldn't budge. You started shaking the door harder hoping it would open. Karma chuckled, then he tried to open it himself and it wasn't so funny anymore.

"Do you think this is apart of the test or are we stuck?" You ask Karma.

He grinned "Change of plans, If Korosensei comes in here I'm going to need you to act possessed."

"I agree we've got to teach him a lesson on not playing Cupid or whatever but how do I do that?"

"Act crazy? Like you normally are but with more enthusiasm and growling."

You snatched the letter from him, "I'll read it."

Instructions: Close the blinds, then hold your partner's hands, chant your names in unison three times... the spirit you summon will lead you to the next step.

Holding Karmas hand while a spirit, Korosensei came to scare you two? It was clear He was trying to get you to cling onto the guy, you could only wonder how many classmates fell for one of his cheap tricks already?

Your question was quickly answered when you heard a girlish scream that sounded eerily like Maehara. Atleast one!

You chanted your names with your hands knitting together the lights completely went off in the room, you braced yourself for what would come.

Korosensei flew into the room and busted the door, you noticed his weird costume as he stood right in-front of you reciting cliche warrior dialogue you could've swore you heard in some movie Karma made you watch a week ago, Sonic Ninja something.

Without missing a beat you twisted your back and hands and started charging backwards towards your teacher, Karma had to crouch weirdly and run at the same time to not drag you down.

Korosensei sped out of the room yelling, about ten seconds later he was back with a set of candles and who knows what else to try to exorcise you.

By that time you and Karma were laughing trying to pick each other back up after you hit yourself on the ground because he stopped running and accidentally yanked you back.

Karma pointed down at Korosensei's wig which fell off when he flew out the class "Was he wearing a powdered wig?!"

Neither of you had noticed Korosensei made it back because of how much you were laughing. Karma ran his one free hand through your hair and face as if to check if you were hurt. It was weirdly gentle for how he usually is. He was casual about it, his confidence made moments like these feel completely natural and comfortable no matter how rare they were.

Maybe the haunted house didn't go exactly how Korosensei intended it to, but this was a sweet enough outcome.

"Nufufufu…"

"Korosenseiii, you ruined the moment!"

Karma laughed softly "That was a moment?"

You headed straight for the door.

"[Name] I'm still tied to you slow down!"

When you refused to listen he tugged back on the rope and wrapped his arms around you.

“Alright, I concede it was a little bit of a moment.”

[dimlylittorch]

these boys yall.. why have 1 when you can have 4😭🙏

My Masterlist🌱

the 141 x chubby!transmasc!sweetheart!volunteer!reader

warnings: mentions of violence, blood, hurt/comfort

you had decided that you wanted to do something more purposeful with your life. Instead of working a retail job during the summers between your college courses, you decided to start volunteering with the Red Cross (or whatever your equivalent would be).

You end up being sent to work at a military base, mainly focused on the care and comfort of the soldiers. you were almost acting how a therapy dog would- you go around and interact with the soldiers sweetly, doing your absolute best to be a ray of sunshine for them.

you kept a clipboard on you at all times, keeping track of every soldiers name, rank, and adding little notes for things you wanted to remember. There were a lot of men here, and keeping track of them all was hard- especially when some didn’t even show their faces.

Always wearing silly little pins on your shirt, one with your pronouns, another that said ‘free hugs’. You liked them and you always felt a little smile creep up over your lips when you felt some of the men reading them.

You quickly became familiar with the task force 141, as they were some of the more highly trained soldiers, easily setting them apart. You had also been assigned to focus on a certain sector of barracks, which just so happened to include their own. Little did you know what it would be like to be a bunny walking into a wolf’s den.

The first person you met was Ghost. You had decided to do a ‘treat day’ once a week, where you went to each barrack and knocked on the door, either handing the soldiers their treat or leaving it by their door. The other three hadn’t answered, but when you get to Ghost’s dorm you heard a huff and the click of the lock.

What you never expected was to see Ghost shirtless in dark gray sweatpants and his mask pulled over his face. He looks down at you with a hard stare, and naturally your eyes flit to his bare chest for a moment before quickly looking up to meet his gaze. You’d seen him in passing, but you’d never spoken.

“You’re Lieutenant Riley, correct?” You smiled up at him, doing your best to act like he wasn’t half naked in front of you.

“Call me Ghost. Wha’ do ya’ want?” He mutters gruffly as he keeps one hand on the door and the other on the door frame.

Smile faltering for just a moment, you quickly reach into the small satchel you had on. “I’m the new volunteer that’s assigned to your dorm sector” you explain as you pull out a little bag of cookies, tied with a ribbon. “I thought I’d do a treat day for you all once a week” you murmur as you offer him the bag.

He stares at it for a few seconds, a little caught off guard. He gently takes it from you, looking at it carefully before looking back at you. “Dogs get treats.” He mutters, though there’s no real bite to his tone.

Your smile quickly widens, a soft chuckle slipping past your lips- which immediately makes his heart stop for a moment. That laugh.. that laugh was something he knew he’d want to hear again. There was nothing soft or sweet on this goddamn base. They couldn’t even hire someone for the night- no way to sneak them in. But then you showed up on his doorstep.

Closing your satchel, you look up at him with a playful smile. “Good boys get treats. I don’t think the species matters.” You grin before you offer a small wave of goodbye, walking down the hallway onto your next stop. He stands frozen in his doorway, watching you as you walk away. You just called him a good boy? Christ almighty.

It was pretty damn obvious what happened next- Ghost told the rest of the boys about you. How soft and sweet you were- how you flirted with him and made it seem like nothing. You were a natural at being kind. Something they weren’t used to.

The second to meet you was Gaz. He was a charmer, and unlike Soap he was actually successful at it. He’d had a whole plan of how he was going to be all suave when he introduced himself to you formally- but that changed pretty quickly.

You had been doing some work right next door to the medical ward when some soldiers returned from a mission gone wrong. Multiple men were injured, and without even thinking you went in to help. You weren’t qualified to work in the medical field whatsoever, but you knew you had to help.

When you ran into the med bay injured soldiers were being brought in one after another. Someone saw your jacket that indicated you were a volunteer and in the midst of the chaos assumed you were working in this ward- meaning you had training. They pointed towards the doors and yelled at you to check for anyone else outside.

You immediately followed orders, running outside and seeing different vehicles parked. Running up to them you checked the backs for anyone else, finding one injured soldier left with his side bleeding heavily. When you look around for help there is no one to help found, everyone within the area inside to help.

It was a good walk to the doors, and you knew the keys weren’t in the truck. You huff, opening the back of the truck and pulling him out, taking a deep breath before helping him down. He can barely walk, and even you know you can’t lift him. You try multiple positions to see if you really could lift him, or help him walk, but he was too weak.

You end up settling on hooking your hands under his shoulders, pulling him the best that you could. It was incredibly difficult, and you felt like your shoulders were going to pull out of place. But in the heat of the moment you tugged as hard as you could, simply worried for his safety.

Gaz had just walked outside to get a breath of fresh air when he heard something, looking off to his left. His eyebrows quickly raised when he saw you practically killing yourself trying to lift and pull a man that was way too heavy for you. He quickly ran over, and seeing how distressed you were and the injured soldier he crouched down, picking the guy up himself.

“Fucking hell- what happened?” He says with a grunt as he starts carrying the man inside.

Taking a shaky breath and wiping your eyes, you follow him, opening the doors for him when you reach the building. “I don’t know” is all you can manage to choke out in the heat of the moment.

Once the injured soldier is settled, you look down and find yourself stained with his blood. When you’d tried to pick him up you must’ve gotten it all over you- god and you left a trail on the floor. Before Gaz can come check on you like he intended to, you disappear into a janitors closet, pulling out a mop as you try to clean up the trail of blood you and the soldier had left.

When Gaz sees you frantically trying to clean up the mess, he walks over and puts his hand on your shoulder. “Hey, hey.. you’re alright.” He says softly, gently taking the mop from your hands. “Someone else will do that. Let’s get you taken care of, hm?” He hums comfortingly as he leads you out of the medical ward and to your dorm area.

You sniff softly as he closes the door behind the two of you, helping you out of your blood soaked vest. “I’m sorry” you whisper faintly. “I just- I was scared I couldn’t help him.”

He gently shushes you, turning on the shower in your small bathroom for you. “You did good, love. The best anyone can expect from you.. it was out of your job description, eh?” He smiles softly. “I’ll go get this cleaned for you, alright? Just worry about calming down, I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

He came back maybe an hour later to you all cozied up in a sweatshirt and sweatpants with fluffy socks, hair wet with an apologetic smile on your lips. Taking the now clean vest from him and setting it aside before gently slipping your arms around his neck, hugging him. “Thank you for being gentle with me” you say softly against his shoulder before you pull away.

He left your room with his cheeks slightly flushed, and already head over heels for you. He thought Ghost must’ve been exaggerating at least a little by saying you were the sweetest thing he’d seen- but Gaz knew he was right.

Meeting Captain John Price himself was a bit of a dream for you. You’d always see him in the halls and you couldn’t deny how attractive he was. Of course, all of the boys were attractive- but there was something special about John, with him being older and his thick beard.. he was just so strong and soft at the same time, always offering you a kind smile when you passed each other in the hallway.

The first time you really spoke to each other was right around Valentine’s Day. You’d been there for a few weeks, but with John being so busy you hardly ever saw him. He heard a lot about you though with how much the boys talked. He knew they were all obsessed- even Soap when he hadn’t even had the chance to speak to you one on one yet.

You’d knocked on the door to his office, and when you heard his gruff voice tell you to come in, you gently opened the door and peaked inside. “Captain Price?” You said softly with a shy smile.

The second he heard your voice he quickly looked up, a smile crossing his face. “What can I do ya for?”

Stepping inside and closing his office door behind you, you hold your clipboard to your chest as you speak. “Well- with Valentine’s Day coming up, I wanted to do something sweet for the men.” You smile softly. “I just wanted to ask if you thought they would prefer flowers or chocolates” you chuckle.

His eyes soften as he hears your words, and he can see what his boys meant now. Christ you were soft. Flowers? Chocolates? Who would even think of giving that to a soldier?

“Flowers.” He says firmly. “Can’t ‘ave my boys getting pudgy on me, can I? Got to keep ‘em on their game.”

Smiling sweetly, you nod before politely excusing yourself. When Valentine’s Day rolled around, all of the boys were surprised to find a red rose taped to their door with a little personalized note for each and every one of them. Imagine how annoyed they were when they realized you had to give them to every soldier and not just them?

And last but not least is Soap himself. While you’d seen his goofy antics from afar, you hardly ever truly spoke. Just passing flirts and teases, brief hallway conversations. You’d only ever seen him in an upbeat mood- never truly upset or angry. The first time you see behind the puppy dog facade is surprising to say the least.

You had heard a crash a few doors down from your dorm, and you immediately rushed up- not bothering to put on your binder or even your shoes. Darting down the hallway to find one of the soldiers in their room throwing things and yelling, clearly having some kind of mental break. When you read the name on the door you rack your brain, trying to remember any information you can. That’s when you recall he has PTSD- and he’s probably having an episode.

You were the first one there and without a care for your own safety you opened his door, speaking as gently as you can as if you were talking to a wounded animal. Soap had been a few hallways down coming back from a mission, fully planning on getting a good nights rest. When he saw people running and heard yelling he immediately went on alert, running towards the source.

When he got to the room he saw a higher up on the phone with medical, but no one was doing anything. When he looked inside, his heart stopped when he saw you- how you were putting yourself in danger. You were a few feet away from the soldier, arms out trying to show you weren’t armed.

“Hey- hey, sweetheart you’re okay” you say as comfortingly as you can, the man clearly confused. “Adam- Adam, right? Honey you have to look at me, okay?”

Soap had seen how badly PTSD episodes could end, and the thought of you being in there put him on edge. Without thinking, a higher up rushed into the room, pushing past Soap. Of course, the sudden movement triggered the soldier, sending him into a panic. Since you were the closest person to him, he grabbed you by the neck and shoved you against the wall, yelling at the other men to get back.

The second Soap saw how he touched you, he immediately ran in and rushed the man, shoving him off of you. Gasping when your throat is released, you start to cough heavily, bruises already starting to form on your skin. Before you know it, Soap is fighting the man, throwing a punch before you can grab him and pull him back. As the medical personnel run in and restrain him, you’re left with your arms tightly around Soap’s torso, his back to your chest.

Shaking from the adrenaline of it all, he quickly turns around and pulls you close into his arms. “Fucking Christ lad- never pull that shite again, alrigh’? Gonna get yerself killed.” He says as his voice starts to calm.

Without a second thought he brought you to his room, examining your throat and making sure there weren’t any cuts or scratches. He can see how you’re still shaking, and he sighs softly before moving back onto his bed, motioning for you to follow.

“Won’t try nothin’, eh? Jus’ gotta stop yer shakin’.” He says quietly. Hesitantly moving onto his bed, he pulls you to rest on your side in between his legs, holding you against his chest. “Ya got a big heart lad.” He says softly. “Gotta keep ya safe, yea? Me an’ tha’ boys will do tha’ from now on.”

me while I’m reading my own writing: ‘this is great and all but when do we fu-‘

[hotasfahrenheit]

i've had some thoughts rattling around my brain about Keen since episode 9 showed us flashbacks of the boys as kids when they were adopted and then a little older when they started their training for real, and this week's episode just added more fuel to the fire.

i think one of the saddest things that the last couple episodes have really exposed that a lot of people might miss because of the other bombshells that have been dropped is the fact that Keen was set up possibly even worse than Fadel and Bison were in this life. they were adopted together, told they were going to be a family, and then Lily manipulated them all into becoming who they are as adults. she lucked out that Bison and Fadel liked each other so much and bonded so strongly to each other, and she used that bond to isolate and control Keen in a completely different way.

Keen's desperate to be in the field like the other two and to be sent on missions; he doesn't have the same set of skills that they do and wasn't able to develop his talents in the same way, and it's clear that Lilly took the natural aptitude of Fadel and Bison and turned that into what they are now, but she chose to push Keen into the behind the scenes aspect of the business. she's also made it clear from the start which set of talents she values more as is clear from the way she glares at Keen when he can't shoot his bottle in the flashback.

Keen isn't given any kind of reassurance or support for missing his shot, or told to try again; Lily answers Bison's questions about why they need to learn to shoot by telling them that they have to learn to protect themselves, then she gives Keen a few more judgey looks, implying it's something she doesn't expect him to be able to do. the next scene in the flashback is her giving Bison and Fadel their first assignment, and by this point Keen has already been relegated to being the paper guy and having an office job.

these kids all lost their parents and are gathered up by Lily at the same time and told they're going to be a family; they look like they're all roughly the same age. we all know how seriously Fadel and Bison take to the brother relationship, but Keen is pushed to the outside of this by Lily and her priorities. i had figured before episode 10 that they had been trained together for a longer period of time and maybe Keen had just not gotten along with them because he was jealous of their talents, but Fadel telling Style that he doesn't really know anything about Keen besides that they were adopted at the same time says to me that Lilly purposefully kept them apart instead of it being their choice.

Fadel saying they don't care about Keen makes me so sad for him. the fact that he only really knows that Keen was adopted at the same time and does other work for Lilly that's not in the field means they don't care because they don't know him at all. they haven't had the chance to bond with him the way that they did with each other. they weren't pushed together with him; they were pushed to each other, and Keen was pushed off on his own to watch them be the favoured children and struggle by himself.

imagine your parents are murdered in front of you, you're scooped up by this woman who says she's going to take care of you and build a family with you and two other boys your age who have been through the same experience, but then you're not as good as the other two boys at the tasks she sets you, plus the two of them deeply connect to each other and fall into a sibling bond and leave you outside of it. that you're kept so separate from them that despite being a "family" for years, they know basically nothing about you, while your shared mother keeps dangling the things you want right outside of your grasp.

she's driven a wedge between the boys so deep that Keen resents Fadel and Bison enough to WANT try to kill them himself, while they don't have any idea that he would even be willing or able to. he's been kept so far out of their notice while their successes and talents have been constantly waved in front of him as well as being consistently put down by Lilly for his mistakes and inadequacies. she's pushed Keen into a corner and made him think that it's Fadel and Bison's fault for putting him there instead of it being a way for her to control him and keep him under her thumb.

Fadel and Bison have given the impression from the first episode that it's the two of them against the world; brothers bonded so tightly together that nothing can shake that. they have a Mother, but really they only have each other. it's the two of them and it always will be. but there were three of them. there were three boys when this started. and they don't care about Keen. he's alone.

i'm really hoping that the current situation snaps Keen the rest of the way out of Lilly's control. he should have already figured out what his future looks like if he really wants out of the family business like he's promised Thanon, because if he's known the entire time that Fadel's last boyfriend got murdered instead of just leaving, he should be fully aware that they face the same fate if he tries to leave Lilly. with that knowledge plus finding out that Lilly killed his parents along with Fadel's and Bison's, hopefully he turns on her and helps the others take her down. her lack of hesitation to send him or other hired hitmen after the two favoured sons should be a pretty clear signal to him about her willingness to off him as well at the drop of a hat.

fingers crossed that Keen and Thanon get to have a happy life far away from Lilly and that he finally gets to have an actual family that doesn't involve manipulation, abuse, and murder.

[lucydixon]

Neighbours pt. 3

Part 3 of what will now be referred to as the Neighbours Miniseries. If you haven't already, check out part 1 + part 2.

Ok, people, this one isn't smut. It's angst and setting the scene for what I have planned for the next part.

Summary: Euronymous sees you with another man, gets pissy about it, and confronts you. Twice.

Euronymous caught sight of you through the store window one afternoon and looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was looking before watching you through the gaps in the display.

His jaw clenched when he saw a man at your side. 

The two of you were talking and laughing, and you looked far too comfortable around him for his taste. 

You were headed towards the stairs to your apartment. 

His jaw clenched. 

A small part of him knew that he had no right to feel any type of way about how you spent your time or who you spent it with, but it was overshadowed by a possessive anger that resonated through his entire body. 

Instead of thinking about why he felt the way he did, Euronymous huffed and headed into the back of the store to stew in his annoyance. 

“Thank you so much for doing this.” You muttered, letting Filip into your apartment “I don’t know anything about this kind of shit and I didn’t have anyone else to ask.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” He smiled, following you inside. “I owe you one anyway for saving the day with that cake last month. Carina would have killed me if the baby hadn’t had a cake on her birthday.” 

“I like baking.” You waved him off, leading the way to the shoddy light switch in your kitchen. “Plus, you’re family. I’ll never say no to baking my favourite niece a cake.”

“Tell me again, what’s wrong with it?” He set his bag of tools down on the ground and flicked it on. 

You both watched the light flicker, followed by a burning smell.

“Never mind.” He grimaced and flicked the switch back into the off position. “I’ll take a look.” 

“Thanks again,” you sighed tiredly, “I’m just going to get some work done in the other room if you’re alright in here?” 

“Yeah,” he muttered, already focused on getting the light switch panel off the wall. “I’m all good. I’ll yell if the house catches fire.”

You chuckled under your breath, heading towards the massive pile of assignments you’d taken on. You’d very clearly opted to write too many articles and needed first drafts for almost all of them before typing out a final version the following day at the office. 

When Filip left an hour later, you shrugged on your coat and walked him out, thanking him one last time before walking in the opposite direction with the intention of getting yourself a bottle of wine.

You lit a cigarette and walked slowly to the liquor store a few streets down, enjoying the warmer-than-usual weather. You loved walking around town at a leisurely pace, taking in all the storefronts and the people milling around, guessing who they were and what their stories were. You'd been too busy to appreciate day-to-day life lately and were looking forward to a moment of peace.

“Big date?” Euronymous’s voice caught you off guard when you made it back to your apartment an hour later. He was leaning up against the outer store wall by the stairs, smoking a cigarette with a scowl on his face.

“Huh?” Your brows pulled together in confusion. You weren’t sure why he was talking to you in the first place. It had been weeks since you’d last fucked. He’d painted your face with cum in your kitchen after fucking you stupid and walked out without a word. 

You hadn’t spoken to or bothered eachother since. 

To be fair, you’d been so overwhelmed with work that you didn’t feel like you had time to breathe. You weren’t sure that you would’ve even noticed if he’d started blaring his music again or pissing on the sidewalk. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d actually paid attention to anything other than the smoke curling up towards the sky while having your morning cigarette.

“With your boyfriend from earlier,” he squinted at you angrily, “Do I need to get tested or something? I didn’t realise you were such a whore.” 

You frowned, clutching the bottle of wine to your chest as if you were afraid he'd snatch it out of your hands. 

“Filip?” You’re eyes widened in realization, followed by a little amused smirk. “That’s my brother in law, fuckhead.”

The flush in his cheeks was light, but you were able to see it before he let some of his hair fall in front of his face in what he hoped had been a casual move.

“Why do you even care?” You cocked your head to the side. “Are you jealous?” 

“No.” He scoffed immediately. “I just don’t want the fucking clap.” 

“Sure.” You bobbed your head tightly, “real nice. The closest I’ve ever been to being a whore was letting you fuck me so if anything, I should be the one getting tested. I bet you’ve got all sorts of groupies hanging off of you and your little band.” 

“I don’t fuck groupies!” Euronymous snapped, clearly offended “We don’t have groupies, I fucking hate groupies. The kind of music we play is supposed to make people want to kill themselves, not fuck us!”

“Oh my god,” You groaned tiredly. “Yeah, you’re real cool, Mr. Metal. Don’t you worry, that’s exactly what it’s doing. Are we done here now that we’ve established that you’re not jealous and neither of us are whores? I’ve had a long fucking day.”

“Whatever.” He scoffed, looking away. 

You had the bottle of wine open before you were even halfway up the stairs and took a good, long gulp before jamming your key in the lock angrily. 

Once the door was shut and you were on the other side of it, you rested your forehead against it and let out a frustrated scream, bouncing it, not too hard, off the wood. 

You’d managed to go weeks, too busy to think about this guy, and now here he was being jealous. You were also pretty sure he’d waited there for you to come back too, which meant he’d been watching you, at least well enough that he’d seen you walk by with Filip a few hours before.  

You hated that you found him being jealous and possessive, regardless of his denial of it, incredibly alluring. 

Had he been thinking about you? 

That night, you downed what was left of the wine and dreamt of fucking him, but not like the other times. 

No. 

This was soft and loving and so, so different from what the two of you had been doing up until that point. 

There was no name-calling, no cursing, or hitting. 

Just the two of you, clinging to eachother, staring into each other’s souls. 

You woke up feeling far too relaxed. 

“Ah, shit.” You sighed to yourself, letting your head fall into your hands, less concerned about the ear-splitting headache than you were about the dream. “What the fuck is wrong with me.”

You came home on the following Friday night to find a man dressed in full metalhead uniform with long hair tied out of his face with a red bandana, sitting on the stairs leading to your front door. 

It was a nice face. 

Pretty with light facial hair and smoldering eyes that were fixated on you the second you rounded the corner. 

The two of you stared at eachother for a moment. 

“You live here?” He asked you, looking genuinely surprised as his eyes scanned you from head to toe. 

“Yeah.” You frowned. “Did you throw a rock through my window or something?”  

“What?” his brows pulled together immediately and a startled laugh slipped past his lips. “No. Why would you ask that?” 

“I dunno,” You shrugged, able to feel your cheeks warming slightly. “Looked like you were waiting for whoever lives at the top of those stairs.”

“I work in the store downstairs. I actually sit out here a lot. I’m surprised that I’ve never seen you before.” He cracked a little smirk. “You’re pretty.” 

“You’re the one who poured coffee on Øystein.” He said after half a minute, when you just blinked at him.

“Øystein?” You frowned 

“Yeah, Euronymous, who owns the store?” 

“Oh.” your eyes widened slightly in realization before a grin stretched across your face. “Yeah. That was me. Twice.” 

“Twice?” He laughed “oh, he kept that shit to himself the second time then.” 

“I probably would too.” You shrugged, looking smug “I warned him.” 

“So, what do you like to do when you’re not pouring coffee on your neighbours?” 

“I-” 

You were cut off by the shops back door slamming open. 

You both watched the shop owner step out onto the sidewalk and immediately start scowling when he caught sight of the two of you together. 

“You said five minutes.” He narrowed his eyes at his bandmate, who just sighed and muttered a goodbye on his way back into the shop. 

“So you’re trying to fuck my friends now?” Euronymous all but snarled at you once the two of you were alone, taking two steps forward to get in your face. 

“Oh, for christ’s sake.” You groaned, looking up at him with clear annoyance. “We were just talking, and you know what? It is none of your goddamn business who I fuck.” 

His upper lip twiched when the corner of yours curled up into a smug smirk. 

“You are jealous.” You jabbed a finger into his chest “just fucking admit it.” 

He leaned into you, planting one hand above your head, against the wall, trapping you in between him and the hard brick. 

You shuddered, but still had that infuriating look of amusement on your face. 

“I thought we’d been over this.” He dipped his head down to mutter into your ear “I’m not fucking groupies, and you’re not fucking Jan.” 

“First of all,” Your voice came out breathy. You were undeniably flustered by the proximity and the warmth of his breath on the side of your neck “You don’t have groupies. That was established and not much else. I never agreed to anything, neither of us did.” 

“Isn’t that right Øystein?” His actual name came out of your mouth and he stiffened. 

God, it sounded so right falling from your lips. 

In a fit of confused rage, he bit down on the side of your neck and sucked at the skin brutally. 

“Ow!” You yelped, shoving him off of you “What the fuck?” 

He just smirked and licked his lips, backing into the store. 

“Fuck you!” you shouted, brushing your fingers over the sore spot he’d left on your neck. 

Confused, annoyed, and a little bit turned on, you rushed up the stairs and threw your bag down on the table, examining the quickly darkening bruise blooming where he’d unexpectedly clamped down with his mouth. 

“Mother fucker!” You cursed under your breath, pinching the bridge of your nose in an effort to slow your ragged breathing and racing heart. 

He’d fucking marked you. 

As if you belonged to him or something. 

That fucking asshole.

Dividers made by @saradika-graphics

[idyllwave]

Endlessly Part 1

Ghost Rider!Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

Back in the past, Jason makes a tough decision. Will he regret it? Most likely, but he couldn't see himself doing it differently. Not when he knows the future.

cw ; grammatical errors , depiction of gore + blood , death , y/n kisses jason on the cheek , etc.

Prologue

“Earth to Jason! You in there?”

Being sent back in time was like waking up from a nap on the couch during the summer, still fully clothed with sweat drenching your back. But instead of sweat and summer heat, he felt a spring breeze against his face and a gentle kiss pressing to his cheek. He blinked a few times before his eyes focused on you. Your eyes held a sort of warmth in them that he hasn’t seen for a long long time.

It was weird seeing you again. It was weird seeing you alive. And yet…

He let you hang off his arm as you both walked onto the school grounds.

That’s right. Devil. Fifteen again. Find what the devil is looking for and make sure it doesn’t get destroyed.

“Yeah- yeah, sorry. I’m here.”

Was he?

He looked at you out of the corner of his eyes. You were a big part of his life outside of being Robin when he was taken in by Bruce Wayne. You didn’t know about his identity as Robin, but you were his girlfriend. And it was fairly easy to keep his identity as the new boy wonder a secret. You both were in high school after all. Neither of you had cars and date nights weren’t really expected as teenagers. Being with made things seem easy. You made it feel like everything was all right.

Until it wasn’t.

He could still remember the day you died. You asked if you and him could have a stupid sleepover, but he didn’t want to despite not having any Robin responsibilities planned for the night. The very next day while your mom was working late at the hospital, your deadbeat of a dad had come back from god knows where and demanded money – money you or your mother didn’t have. The news and the police reports were never released, but everyone knew you were dead by morning. All your mother would reveal to him at the time was that your body was so torn and tattered that an open casket would have been like a horror show.

It didn’t take much pleading from Jason to ask Bruce to help with the funeral.

He knew that he wasn’t sent back here for you, but …

He clenched his eyes shut as you led him into one of the classrooms and towards your assigned seats.

No, he couldn’t change the past. You were gone. And he was here for another reason.

“You don’t seem like it,” you said with a giggle as you raised your hand and gently pushed his hair back, a small part of him already wondering what you will be like in the future. Would you cry during his death like he did at yours? Would you cry when he would come back?

“I am,” he huffed and moved his head away from your hand as he tried to focus on the board. His mouth set in a frown as you giggled again and moved away from him to get your notes and pencils ready for class.

“That reminds me, Jay…”

“Hmm?”

“Friday night…, you doing anything?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well,” you started, glancing gat him from the corner of your eye, “want to have a sleepover? It can be at my place of course, you know, if you want.”

It was like his heart stopped. Maybe even sputter a little. As he looked over at you.

He couldn’t. That would change everything, but…

He thought about the police report he stole. The police photos of the crime scene he riffled through. He remembered your limbs mangled at odd angles, your ribs broken so much that some broke and punctured right through your skin. He remembered your tear stained, bloodied face that started to bruise and swell.

He needed to say. He needed to make some stupid excuse about how his stupidly rich adoptive father won’t let him. He needed to tell you how lame sleepovers are and shut down the whole idea.

He needed to-

“Fine, but you better pick out the best movies and get a lot of popcorn. Or I’m not coming.”

He was making a mistake. However, seeing you smile again was nice.

“It’s a date!”

You sounded enthusiastic as you focused back to the front just as the teacher walked in. Even if Jason was making a mistake, he knew he could handle your father. He has before. Granted, he was Red Hood then and had ran into the man on coincidence one night. But whatever, he could handle him as Robin. Hell, he could even handle him as Jason Todd a.k.a. your boyfriend.

“Won’t this count as our first official date?”

“Hmm, I think we should count it as our second.”

“But we weren’t dating yet when we went to the carnival together,” Jason teased.

“Jason,” you muttered.

“Y/n,” the teacher called, “something you would like to share with the class?”

“No…”

“Then keep quiet back there less you wish to disturb the whole class again.”

You sent a glare towards Jason, but he only smiled in retaliation. Teasing you was as fun as he remembered.

[mya-valentine]

The One That Got Away (Almost)

Synopsis: Gojo Satoru, used to being admired by everyone, becomes obsessed with you, the one person immune to his charm. His efforts to win your attention grow genuine, and he unexpectedly falls for you, realizing that sincerity, not power, wins your heart.

The first time Gojo met you, he was convinced it was a fluke.

You were the new hire at Jujutsu High, assigned to assist with logistics and administration. It wasn’t a flashy role, but one that required intelligence, patience, and an unshakable demeanor—qualities you embodied effortlessly. When you were introduced to the faculty, Gojo, being Gojo, strolled into the room with his usual swagger, sunglasses perched on his nose, a mischievous grin already in place.

“Ah, so you’re the infamous newbie. Welcome to the Gojo Satoru Experience! If you’re lucky, I’ll even let you buy me coffee later.”

You didn’t even glance up from your paperwork.

“Good to meet you, Mr. Gojo,” you said, your voice polite but distant. “Please keep your requests professional.”

There wasn’t even a flicker of reaction on your face. No blush, no stammering, no giggle—nothing. You were like a fortress. Gojo blinked, momentarily thrown off. Most people fawned over him, or at least tried to mask their awe. But you? You treated him like he was just… another coworker.

Naturally, this only made him more interested.

Gojo had never been one to back down from a challenge. The more indifferent you seemed, the more he leaned into his antics. He began showing up in your office unannounced, leaning casually against your desk with his long, lanky frame.

“[Name], I was thinking we should grab lunch. You know, team bonding and all that. My treat!”

“No, thank you. I already brought lunch.”

Undeterred, he’d try again the next day.

“[Name]! I brought you a coffee. Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

“Thanks, but I don’t drink coffee.”

He even started showing off during training sessions, making dramatic displays of his cursed techniques in the courtyard, fully aware you could see from your office window. But every time he glanced toward you, hoping to catch you staring, you were buried in your work, utterly unfazed.

It was infuriating.

“She’s like… a brick wall,” Gojo groaned one evening to Shoko, who was thoroughly amused by his plight.

“Maybe she just doesn’t like arrogant man-children,” Shoko quipped, blowing smoke from her cigarette.

“Not possible. Everyone likes me.”

“Clearly not everyone,” she replied with a smirk.

If subtlety didn’t work, Gojo decided he’d have to crank things up a notch.

He started leaving little gifts on your desk—things he thought you’d appreciate, like rare snacks, handmade trinkets, or even a limited-edition plushie from your favorite series (he’d overheard you mention it to Ijichi). But when you walked into your office and saw the plushie, all you did was sigh and set it aside.

“You’re a hard nut to crack, [Name],” he muttered one day, leaning in dangerously close while you sorted through mission reports.

“Maybe I’m just not interested,” you replied evenly, still not looking up.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. Not interested? That was a first.

But instead of deterring him, it only fueled his determination.

Weeks passed, and Gojo’s antics grew more elaborate. He once conjured a barrier of shimmering infinity around your office, claiming it was to “keep you safe,” though everyone knew it was just an excuse to show off. Another time, he brought you a bouquet of cursed energy-infused flowers that glowed faintly in the dark.

You finally snapped.

“Gojo,” you said sharply, your tone slicing through the air.

"Yes, [Name]?" he replied, visibly perking up like an eager puppy.

“Why are you wasting so much time on me? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

Your words weren’t harsh, but they were firm. For once, Gojo didn’t have a clever retort. He rubbed the back of his neck, a rare flicker of vulnerability crossing his face.

“I guess… I just like being around you,” he admitted. “Even if you act like I’m invisible.”

Your expression softened slightly, though you didn’t let it show. “You’re not invisible, Gojo. You’re just… not as irresistible as you think you are.”

It was the truth, plain and simple. And yet, hearing it made Gojo’s heart race in a way he hadn’t expected.

Gojo’s initial interest in you had been shallow, born of his own ego and curiosity. But as time went on, he began to notice the little things about you—the way you always stayed late to ensure everyone’s paperwork was in order, the quiet wit hidden in your rare remarks, the subtle kindness in the way you treated the students.

One evening, as he watched you from afar, something clicked.

This wasn’t just a game anymore.

It happened on a rainy night. You were walking home when a sudden downpour caught you off guard. Without an umbrella, you resigned yourself to getting soaked—until a familiar figure appeared beside you, holding one over your head.

“Gojo?” you asked, startled.

“What, you think I’d let you walk home in the rain?” he said, grinning.

For once, he wasn’t teasing or showboating. His tone was genuine, his smile softer than usual.

You hesitated before replying, “Thank you.”

The walk was quiet, but comfortable. For the first time, you saw a side of Gojo that wasn’t all bravado. And for the first time, he saw a flicker of warmth in your eyes.

A few weeks later, Gojo found you alone in the school courtyard, staring up at the sky. He approached cautiously, uncharacteristically nervous.

“[Name],” he began, his voice unsteady.

You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“I… I think I like you. For real. And not just because you’re the first person to ever ignore me,” he added quickly. “I like you. The way you are. The way you drive me insane but also keep me grounded.”

You stared at him for a long moment, your expression unreadable.

Finally, you sighed. “You’re exhausting, Gojo.”

The Confession

His face fell slightly.

“But…” You smirked, just a little. “I think I like you too. For real.”

For a moment, Gojo just stood there, stunned. Then, his trademark grin returned, brighter than ever.

“I knew it! You do like me!”

You rolled your eyes, but the faint blush on your cheeks didn’t escape his notice.

From that day forward, Gojo’s antics didn’t stop—they just became less about impressing you and more about making you smile. And, to his surprise, he found himself smiling more too.

Because for once, Gojo Satoru—the strongest sorcerer alive—had found someone who made him feel like just Satoru. And he wouldn’t trade that for the world.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[chiefcatherder]

Future Fics

now that the end for 'cut it out and restart' is somewhere in sight (anywhere from 4 to 7ish chapters, i know what i want to cover just a matter of pacing and exact order) i am considering my goals for future fanfics, i have so many ideas so i need to learn to put them down better, i hope to get in to the habit of trying to write something at least once a week but we will see...

before i get any further and you wonder why the hell i am posting this; i guess i want feed back? which of the ideas excites you most? i am so waffley on what i want to do next a single person's enthusiasm may be what seals the deal for my next project.

I DO have a long fic idea for another dratchrod fic but i would need to re-read MTMTE to make it as convoluted as i hope to (it would be a total AU compered to the original plot that just borrows some large elements form the original to flesh out the story) so that's on the back burner

but in the mean time here is some ideas that i feel i would be able to finish if i put in the time (a lot of my other stuff is half baked or missing a major story arc to make it happen) i imagine whatever i settle on they would be interspersed with shorter fics if i can find the time to do it (￣▽￣)"

if you are a Hot Rod simp like me you will be in for a good time, if not; my condolences

Idea 1: Hot Rod is the younger of Optimus’ two protégés and generally considered the troublemaker of the two. With the Autobot Decepticon war now at full tilt Hot Rod is assigned a position of Captain aboard a fast patrol ship. Will this be the chance he had been hoping for to prove to Optimus that his mentor hadn’t wasted his time or will it be another failure in a long string of disappointments?

alternative summery of this fic would be: a series of unfortunate events. a lot of it deals with Hot Rod's daddy mentor issues, general self doubt, loneliness and learning about who he is, the ship would be g1 characterization of Ultra magnus/Hot Rod, not a slow burn but slow to happen due to when they finally meet in the story

idea 2: 8604 567ROD, Hot Rod to his friends, knows a Vehicon's lot in life is not an easy one so he never thought he would make it to the end of the war and never made any plans for it but now that it’s here what’s a cannon fodder trooper to do?

tfp AU i WILL make you care about vehicons or so help me! the ship would be a friends with benefits (? mostly idk it's complicated) arcee/hot rod and springer if i can wrangle him, decided to go the g1 fusion route instead of MTMTE as a treat ✨

Idea 3: By the time the rescue bots make it to griffin rock they are a reasonably solid team but how did they become one?

this would be a sort of slice of life for emergency rescue team that's learning to work together type of deal , it will give me a chance to use my fascination with industrial disasters 👍 no real ship but maybe hints of heatwave/chase

shorter fic ideas that might happen in between

idea 1: the direction the decepticons have been taking  have left Hot Rod discontent, maybe the autobot side will be more to his taste.  

(this is Hot Rod is a decepticon but switches sides story with a twist that will be revealed relatively early on, the main ship is g1 characterization of Ultra magnus/Hot Rod)

idea 2: another Hot Rod becomes a (field) medic during the war fic

this one would be episodic, i have at least 3 arcs that i would write as separate stories that are in the same AU no real ship for Hot Rod but some background stuff maybe, Ratchet is there, Drift will make an appearance if i make it that far

idea 3: the decepticons love competence and Soundwave is very competent.

the setting is a bit nebulous but it's basically somewhere near the start of the war Megatron and Starscream noticing Soundwave and his skills 👀 nothing happens romantically but there is tension and that it might lead to more is implied, could become episodic if i feel inspired

idea 4: Some time after the end of LL Drift's bounty hunter past unexpectedly caches up to him in a perhaps misguided attempt to keep his husband safe he embarks on a solo adventure to take care of things but there's one crucial point he forgot: Ratchet had been willing to cross the galaxy for him before they were even married and he sure as hell would do it again! But this time he is not alone.

self explanatory ;) Ratchet/Drift/Rodimus end game

feel free to leave feedback, questions, ask for clarifications and so on...