#source: rookie blue

[aecholapis]

[ssa-dado]

Annoyingly Yours - SOS

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, angst though it's more like ♫ LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING ♫ Summary: At 33, Aaron Hotchner prides himself on discipline and control... until you become his deskmate. With quirks that seem to clash against his precision, you’re nothing short of maddening. Even your breathing seems to provoke a visceral reaction in him... surely out of frustration, right? Not out of... attraction?! Warnings: None, just wanted to clarify the story is set in 1998, before Hotch became Unit Chief (Gideon and Rossi were charge instead). Word Count: 4.4k Dado's Corner: Based on this ask sent by the loml @c-losur3. Made a few tweaks because I can. And because I’m evil. Enter Aaron “convinces himself he hates you while secretly nursing a big fat crush” Hotchner. A timeless classic. Hope you like it.

masterlist

“People demand freedom of speech as a compensation for the freedom of thought which they seldom use.” - Søren Kierkegaard

Written in blue gel ink on a neon pink sticky note, it sat smugly atop the pristine case file Hotch had spent hours perfecting the night before.

No signature, no admission of guilt.

Just a bright, audacious square of defiance left to mock him.

In all his years as a profiler, he’d never encountered a case this easy to solve. Hell, he wished his active investigations were even half as simple as this. Because only after approximately half a second of analysis, the profile of the Unsub was crystal clear:

Female. Early 20s. A twisted sense of humor. A fascination with philosophy, particularly the existential, though occasionally dabbling in absurdism. Works in law enforcement - specifically, the BAU. Only writes in blue ink because she needs her words to stand out as much as her personality does. Likely has a compulsive habit of arriving to work early but never early enough to beat him to the office.

And there she was, the Unsub, strolling through the entrance just as the clock struck 6:01.

“Good morning, Hotch,” you said without even glancing in his direction, as if you somehow sensed his irritation wafting across the bullpen.

You were the Unsub.

His polyglot, sarcastic, sticky-note-vandalizing deskmate.

Case closed.

“Why did you leave me this?” he scoffed as his fingers carefully peeled back the neon pink square from the folder.

The glue resisted just enough to be infuriating, threatening to leave a smear on what he privately considered his masterpiece - a report so cleanly written that it might one day serve as the gold standard for FBI rookies.

And now, his file, had been vandalized.

It bore your mark.

“Educational purposes,” you said airily, as you dropped into your chair facing his own, a complete lack of regard for the disruption you caused just by existing in his vicinity.

He despised it.

That your desk had to face his, ensuring that every time he so much as lifted his gaze, he was met with the perpetual source of his unease, was nothing short of torture.

Why couldn’t you be like his last deskmate? That moron at least had the decency to leave him alone unless absolutely necessary.

The most small talk he’d ever inflicted was the occasional, self-congratulatory monologue about whatever barely-legal college girl he’d managed to con into bed last Friday night with the oh-so-irresistible revelation that he was FBI.

At least after spewing his bullshit, the guy would shut up and return to his self-inflicted misery, no doubt haunted by the limitations of his pitifully small brain.

You, instead, were far too smart - too sharp for your own good, really - but still your humor was as broken as his own. You had the same, if not more, level of drive. And for some inexplicable reason, you shared his obsession with arriving early.

It was maddening.

It was his thing - his small act of rebellion against a world that had always expected more from him than he could give.

His hours of solitude before the office filled with noise, before the madness and the demands of others hijacked his peace. Those few precious hours were his escape, his refuge, where he could think, where he could breathe.

But no, you had to show up too. Every damn morning.

“Educational purposes?” He echoed flatly, regretting, for the hundredth time, that he ever encouraged you to speak before his second cup of coffee.

“Yes, Hotch. I’ve never seen you use a sticky note,” you retorted, as if your reasoning were completely rational and not mildly absurd. “So, naturally, I assumed you didn’t know they existed. Thought I’d be kind of me to introduce you to the concept.”

“You’re hilarious,” he deadpanned, the sarcasm sliding off his tongue with a sharpness that matched the ache now forming at his temples. “I know what sticky notes are. I don’t use them because they’re impractical. They always leave glue residue, it’s annoying.”

Since for some reasons he felt the need to emphasize his point, he held up his sacred notebook - a worn, leather-bound treasure he treated like an extension of himself. “That’s why we have these. To take proper notes. Like agents. Not middle schoolers.”

But you didn’t even flinch.

Instead, you leaned back in your chair, the movement slow and casual, yet just enough to make him irrationally nervous that you might tip over. “They don’t leave residue if you close the case fast enough. The glue won’t have time to dry. But I guess if it takes you ages to solve something, that’s not really the sticky note’s fault, is it? Sounds more like a problem with the agent.”

His jaw locked so tightly it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack.

The nerve of you.

He hated how his body betrayed him like this, the faintest tingle at the back of his neck, the way his pulse faltered and then stuttered, because his decision to remain silent didn’t let his voice do the stammering instead.

Oh, he wanted to argue.

Desperately.

To lay out an irrefutable case demonstrating, that the fault lay not in the man who would undoubtedly climb the FBI ranks faster than anyone dared imagine but in the cheap adhesive some factory somewhere had slapped onto your stupid pack of hot pink sticky notes.

And all he wanted, absurdly, was to prove you wrong.

Not just wrong. Spectacularly wrong.

But instead of offering a retort worthy of his reputation, he exhaled sharply, forcing his jaw to unclench.

He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes locking onto yours, narrowing into the kind of look that could silence seasoned agents, suspects, and even Gideon when necessary.

Yet somehow, it had no discernible effect on the 21-year-old profiler sitting across from him - the one who’d been in the BAU for barely three weeks and already seemed impervious to his most withering glares.

As if in response to his futile attempt at dominance, your smirk widened, as though you could hear the unspoken debate raging in his head. Worse, it looked like you were enjoying the fact that you’d managed to rattle him.

And God help him, he felt rattled.

“How many of those sticky notes do you have?” he finally asked.

Your response was almost immediate.

“As many as you need,” you said as you pulled open your top-right drawer – the drawer that had come to symbolize everything he couldn’t categorize about you.

It housed your so-called “essentials”: pencils, a collection of elastic bands you had an infuriating habit of launching at him when the mood struck, and the same six markers in various states of decay - probably relics from your high school days. There was a stapler in there too - one he had to admit, with no small amount of shame, he borrowed from time to time.

But then there were the other items. The ones his categorically organized brain couldn’t quite justify sharing space with stationary essentials.

A box of tea - the kind of black tea with a scent so strong it practically sucker-punched him from across the desk every time you brewed it, chocolate bars that mysteriously appeared and vanished like contraband…

…and, as it turned out, the dreaded sticky notes.

They were hidden beneath the tea box, of course - because why not force him to think about the assault on his nostrils that would begin precisely three hours and twenty-seven minutes from now?

You lifted the box, revealing the fluorescent pink squares of doom, a shade so bright it only made the pain going on in his head since the first moment you opened your mouth today even worse.

“I only have hot pink, though,” you announced, holding the sticky notes up.

“…And?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Am I not allowed to use hot pink? Do you have a problem with that?”

“On the contrary,” you said, your lips curling into that infuriating smirk again. “I’m impressed. I thought you’d whine about a color demasculating your sacred reports.”

He felt his pulse thrum in his ears at that.

He almost - almost - wanted to tell you that you were looking at a man currently wearing pink socks under his neatly pressed slacks. A pair that had, unfortunately, turned pink during his first solo attempt at laundry in college and had somehow managed to stay in his rotation all these years, as a reminder that even the best could make mistakes.

But he didn’t.

Not because he was embarrassed - he wasn’t - but because he knew you’d twist it into something else entirely, another jab, another laugh at his expense.

And the last thing he needed right now was more of this.

Whatever this was.

Instead, he picked up the hot pink sticky notes, tapping them against his palm. “I’ll take them, we’ll see if it’s really the agent’s fault."

By mid-morning, to his reluctant surprise, the sticky notes had become one of his favorite tools - not just for their undeniable practicality but because they gave him the perfect weapon to deliver a dose of your own medicine.

And you deserved it. Absolutely, unequivocally deserved it.

After all, it wasn’t him launching elastic bands at his deskmate with sniper-like precision at ungodly hours, the faint thwack cutting through the quiet bullpen as the band landed squarely in his lap, while he was clearly trying to work. This, from the same person who’d managed to fail their firearm certification twice

It wasn’t him leaning subtly - though not subtly enough - to sneak a peek at his case files because your own workload wasn’t challenging enough to hold your attention. Still too new to the team, you’d only been sent into the field once, a prisoner of the bullpen and endless paperwork. Yet, despite the monotony, you remained undeterred, tirelessly determined to prove your worth at every possible turn.

And it certainly wasn’t him disrupting the flow of the day by asking if his coffee needed refilling when he was clearly already immersed in work, only to return moments later with an extra steaming cup - and a piece of chocolate from that drawer - placing it without a word on his desk like it wasn’t an unnecessary intrusion. Because you were just kind like that.

It wasn’t him rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, the fabric bunching unevenly around his elbows - a motion so predictable it had practically become your tell when you were wrestling with a puzzle more stubborn than the agent that solving it.

Nor was it how your forearms inevitably transformed into impressionist paintings of smudged blue ink, the accidental artwork often bleeding onto the cuffs of your shirt, leaving the unfortunate soul seated across from you utterly derailed from whatever he’d been about to jot down, unable to look away.

It wasn’t him who dressed like that.

Had a brain like that.

A voice like that.

A face like that.

No.

It wasn’t him. It was you. And that was the problem.

Because for all his irritation, for all his carefully constructed disdain, he couldn’t stop noticing. Couldn't stop looking. Couldn't stop… what exactly?

…Right.

Couldn’t stop scribbling down his meticulously crafted revenge, which he would plant squarely on your desk the moment you wandered off to refill your coffee.

“We are all born ignorant, but one must work hard to remain stupid.” – Benjamin Franklin

Thought you might enjoy something to ponder while you’re busy ignoring the typo you made on page 7, line 15 of your report.– A.H.

He placed the sticky note precisely in the center of your desk, ensuring it was impossible to miss. Satisfied, he returned to his seat, feigning an air of indifference as he watched you from the corner of his eye.

It didn’t take long.

He didn’t look up when you arrived, but he heard it - the subtle shift in your breathing, the gasp as your eyes widened. The pages of your report rustled as you flipped through them, and the sharp exhale that followed told him you’d found it.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, more to yourself than him.

Never had a sound been so soothing to his ears.

And yet - he should have known better.

He barely had time to blink before the loud thud of your hand slamming onto his desk jolted him upright. He looked up to find you standing over him, your eyes gleaming with a smugness so infuriating it made him want to wipe it off your face.

His gaze darted down to the sticky note you’d slapped in front of him, and -

Oh.

Hotch stared at it. Then stared some more.

There, in all its crude glory, was what could only be described as a "creative interpretation" of a very specific part of the male anatomy, staring back at him from the bright pink square.

“The proportions are all wrong.” He deadpanned.

And then you, with all your infuriating composure, leaned on his desk.

Close. Too close.

"Oh, I’m sorry, Agent Hotchner," you said, raising a brow. "If you want it anatomically correct, maybe next time you should hand me a reference photo."

His brain short-circuited.

For a horrifying moment, he couldn’t think of a single word, but only at the implication of what you said… you couldn’t mean that… right?!

“Not yours!” you blurted out, your hands flailing in a frantic attempt to erase the moment. “I didn’t mean- I wasn’t asking for- I just-”

"And I certainly wouldn’t-" he cut in, his own voice breaking due to the sudden clumsiness of his own tongue.

But the damage was done.

Your cheeks turned the same vivid shade as the neon pink sticky note still plastered defiantly on his desk. He felt his own face burning, and the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably, like his own body was actively rebelling against him.

Both of you were way too stunned to say anything that wouldn’t somehow make it worse.

Hotch’s mind raced for a way to defuse the situation, but every possible response felt like it would either escalate the embarrassment or reveal… something he wasn’t ready to confront.

And then, mercifully - or perhaps not - your survival instincts kicked in.

“I’ll just… uh… get more coffee,” you muttered, backing away from his desk like it might physically combust if you stayed a moment longer. You turned on your heel, clearly aiming to escape the bullpen as fast as humanly possible. “Do you want some?”

He blinked, thrown off by the question. “Yes, thanks. Black,” he replied automatically, his voice still a little stiff.

As soon as you were out of sight, he allowed himself to crumble. His left hand dragged across his face, fingers pressing against his temples as if they could massage the ridiculousness of it all out of his brain.

Stupid. The whole thing was so stupid.

A slip of the tongue, a misstep, blown completely out of proportion.

And yet, here he was, sitting at his desk, undone by a pink sticky note and a fleeting moment of awkwardness.

With a low, frustrated groan, he let his hand drop, hitting his forehead against the heel of his palm in a futile attempt to snap himself out of it.

Focus. He needed to focus.

He stared down at the open case file in front of him, its neatly typed words mocking him with their clarity.

He knew they were legible - he’d written them himself.

But right now, the letters blurred into meaningless smudges on the page, overridden by a far more vivid image - your face.

Flushed. Wide-eyed. Flustered.

This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.

Just a joke, he reminded himself. Just a stupid, ill-timed joke.

And yet his chest still felt tight, his pulse erratic, like he’d run up the stairs two steps at a time.

His gaze flicked to the sticky note still sitting on the edge of his desk, as bright and offensive as the moment it had first been slapped down in front of him. Without thinking, he grabbed it, crumpling it in his fist.

There. Problem solved. Gone. Out of sight, out of mind.

He could move on.

But then his hand stilled, his grip loosening as he stared at the crumpled ball of paper.

His pulse still raced, his mind still spiraled, and all because of… this.

A rational man would throw it away. Rip it into pieces, toss it into the trash, and let it become a fleeting, forgotten memory.

He should throw it away. He would throw it away. Any second now.

But his hand didn’t move.

Instead, and against every shred of common sense he prided himself on, Hotch smoothed the crumpled edges as best he could and opened his desk drawer, tucking it far into the back, behind a few other things he pretended not to care about but couldn’t quite get rid of.

Hidden away, out of sight.

Safe.

From what? From you? From himself? He didn’t have the answer, and he didn’t dare linger on the questions.

Instead, he closed the drawer with more force than necessary, ignoring the faint tremor in his hand - but even as he turned his attention to the files in front of him, the pink still lingered in his periphery, an afterimage burned into his mind.

Of your flustered face.

Adorable.

So adorable that, over time, that sticky note became far from the only item inhabiting that drawer.

Aaron Hotchner - the very man who had once scoffed at your so-called “miscellaneous essentials” drawer - now secretly had one of his own.

A collection of odd, seemingly random things: items you had given him, thrown at him in moments of boredom, or those ridiculous little tokens you’d started exchanging lately that blurred the line between teasing and genuine thoughtfulness.

Because that’s what deskmates did, right?

They shared. They joked. They exchanged these odd little tokens of camaraderie that somehow made the job less crushing.

Except this felt like something more.

Maybe you were more than deskmates. Maybe even… friends?

And he wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Gideon, had been starting to observe the two of you like he was profiling a particularly complex unsub, his sharp, knowing glances making Hotch feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.

Then there was Rossi, who took an almost perverse delight in making his observations less subtle. "Synergy," he'd say with a pointed smirk, the kind that made Hotch’s jaw tighten. "It’s a rare thing, you know, finding compatibility like this. Magic, really."

They saw something. Something neither of you was ready to admit.

And ominously - no, deliberately - they decided to exploit it.

Because that’s what bosses did.

The BAU was chronically understaffed, perpetually fighting against the outdated perception that profiling was glorified guesswork. The pay wasn’t anything to write home about, either. Most cases were worked from behind desks, saving the budget for the bigger field assignments.

But what the BAU lacked in glamour, it tried to make up for in partnerships - teams so seamlessly synchronized they became the backbone of the unit.

Apparently, you and Hotch had become one of those teams.

What had started as two distinct desks - two well-defined territories with clear boundaries - had slowly morphed into one chaotic shared space.

A 5’x5’ no-man’s-land where it was impossible to tell where your workspace ended, and his began.

Like now.

The oversized map of your current case sprawled across the desk, forcing you both into closer proximity than either of you would normally allow.

You were perched on his side of the desk, tracing potential paths and patterns, completely absorbed in piecing together the unsub’s geographical profile.

He told himself he was focused. Jotting down victim locations. Marking points on the map with  little red magnets.

Totally immersed in the task at hand.

Except he wasn’t.

Because the occasional brush of your arm against his felt electrifying in a way it had no right to be.

Because your voice, low and steady as you murmured your observations, felt less like background noise and more like the only sound in the room.

And yet, this closeness, this seamless partnership, felt natural.

Effortless.

Distracting as hell.

So distracting that by the time he placed the last magnet, he realized he’d miscounted. One victim left, and no magnet to place them.

“Hotch,” you said softly, your eyes scanning the map, “It looks like we might’ve missed a pin for Daniel Hardman.”

How diplomatic of you.

How unnecessarily kind, considering it was entirely his fault.

He’d miscounted the magnets - a mistake caused by a momentary lapse in focus when, mid-count, you casually asked him if he wanted to go watch the first Star Wars prequel with you next year.

It wasn’t just the advance planning that sent his mind reeling - though the thought of you penciling him into your future like that was disarming enough - it was the fact that you remembered he liked Star Wars.

A detail you had no business remembering, and yet, somehow, you did.

“Yes, sorry. There are more in my drawer,” he said, standing quickly to fetch them himself. But before he could stop you, you were already at the drawer, pulling it open.

“It’s the second one-” The words barely left his mouth before he heard the gasp.

“…from the top,” he finished weakly, already knowing what you’d seen.

There they were. Your tokens. In his drawer. Staring right at you.

The gun casing from the bullet you’d proudly handed him after finally earning your firearm certification on your third attempt. You’d declared, almost giddy, that you’d never be a burden to him again, and maybe it was his lessons, you’d added shyly, that had helped you finally overcome it. He wasn’t sure what had struck him more: the pride in your voice or the fact that you’d thought of him at all.

A framed solo photograph of the two of you from that year’s Thanksgiving spent stuck in the bullpen, drowning in case files while Rossi and Gideon insisted on a makeshift dinner with takeout. You hadn’t hesitated for a second, throwing an arm around him for the picture and leaning into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. For you, maybe it had been. For him, it had been anything but.

Every single elastic band you’d launched at him -143, though he’d never admit to counting.

A single stray hair tie - the one you’d used to tie his hair into a ridiculous fountain one day when his fringe had gotten so long it kept falling into his face. He’d left it like that the rest of the day, silently cursing himself for how much he didn’t hate it.

An unopened pack of hot pink sticky notes, the only color he now allowed himself to buy, though he’d never admit why.

And, of course, every sticky note you’d ever left him, arranged in chronological order - except for one.

The “caricature,” the crude drawing that had started his ridiculous collection. That particular sticky note hadn’t stayed long in the drawer. Somehow, it had made its way home with him, “inexplicably” framed and placed on his bedside table.

It now sat next to his alarm clock, the two most irritating objects in his life.

Both constant reminders of things he couldn’t seem to escape - one for its relentless insistence on dragging him out of bed every morning, and the other for how it made him feel every time he looked at it.

And now here you were, looking up from the drawer, eyes wide. “Hotch…”

He tensed, his pulse quickening with each step you took toward him… what were you doing?

Without a word, you opened your drawer—the infamous "essentials" drawer he thought he knew like the back of his hand.

Except this time, its contents had changed.

Because right on top, perched like a cherished keepsake, was a photo he hadn’t known existed.

Another one from that Thanksgiving night.

The one photo taken moments later, when you’d decided, in your infinite ability to wreak havoc, to joke about “capturing a moment” and had wrapped your arms around his head, holding him still as you planted a kiss on his cheek.

His expression in the photo was pure indignation, eyebrows furrowed in protest - though it also captured the deep rouge spreading across his cheeks.

“This one is my favorite,” you said, laughing as you held it up for him to see. “You’re so red in it, it’s hilarious.”

He stared at the photo, feeling the telltale warmth creeping up his neck, threatening to betray him all over again. His ears burned as he managed to mutter, “Never been kissed by a woman before.”

The words hung in the air for a beat too long.

You blinked, your laughter abruptly halting as your mouth fell open in shock. “Wait, seriously? Are you-?”

He sighed, cutting you off before your pity or disbelief could spiral out of control. “I was joking,” he said, voice flat and utterly deadpan. “I’ve been kissed by women. Multiple.”

You burst into laughter again, this time doubling over. “Oh my God! Why did you say it like that? Multiple! Hotch,” you said, gasping for air between giggles, “you’re killing me.”

“No,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he turned back to the map in front of him. “You’re killing me.”

You didn’t hear him, thank God - or if you did, you gave no sign. He wasn’t sure which would have been worse.

A moment later, you were back at his side of the desk, the missing red magnet in your hand. You held it out to him, your smile still warm, still lingering. “For the record,” you said, your voice softer now, “I think it’s kind of sweet. That you framed it, I mean.”

His hand hesitated as he reached for the magnet, his fingers hovering just over yours. Something so simple suddenly felt unbearably complicated.

Delicate.

He couldn’t seem to figure out how to take the magnet without brushing against your skin - not that he didn’t want to.

He just wasn’t sure if he should.

“It’s a good photo,” he said at last, his voice quieter than usual, his eyes flickering up to meet yours briefly before darting back to the map.

Safe. Neutral.

But you didn’t retreat.

If anything, your smile only grew.

“Yes,” you said, voice just as quiet. “It is.”

---

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

[girl-lostconnection]

Little angst to sprinkle, but Helldiver!Reader who are tired.

God, you are so fucking tired. None of this matters, none of this makes any fucking sense at this point.

You climbed the ranks and you did your due and you paid in blood and flesh and chips of your own sanity. You gave and you gave and you gave.

You trained new cadets, explaining the terminals and heavy nests and fortresses. You have been everywhere command allows space jumps to.

Your ship a big menacing thing, a blade forever suspended in the vast cosmic nothing. Weightless and creaking whenever you have to engage orbital thrusters, chief engineer muttering something under their breath. You never ask what. Engineers can have their superstitions.

You can’t afford to have any.

You can’t afford much at all nowadays, prices biting harder than they ever did, missions deadlier.

You have less and less divers with each year — numbers of your branch diminishing quickly. Frankly, you don’t blame them.

Average age of Helldivers is 18 to 22 years old.

Average survival time out in the field — less than half a minute.

Even with all the propaganda and enlistment perks command simply cannot supply new meat to the frontlines. There is simply no more new meat.

Conditions get worse for rookies, their chances of survival dropping through the crust of the earth. At least when you were starting out you still had a med bay.

At least you managed to scramble some manuals for proper ammunition assembling.

You drag yourself onto the ship, steps heavy and tired — there are black spots in your vision, your head is swimming and you are pretty sure you no longer have anything in your stomach.

Bloody stims devour any available energy source to power your body through the life-threatening injuries.

No wonder you are still limping. Your mind doesn’t understand why the leg that got torn off is in place again.

You don’t really notice Price chatting up your chief administrator when you drag yourself in — bloody and tired, limbs so heavy it’s a miracle you are still standing.

But you can’t call it a day, there are three more missions. Then you can rest.

There are black spots swimming in your vision, you are lightheaded and nauseous, stomach aching — it clenches around nothing, trying to dissolve the food that isn’t there anymore.

You whip out the stim you didn’t dispose after the last mission, needle sliding in your thigh with practiced ease. Your body filling with energy, your vision brighter.

You can finally fucking think again.

There is a heavy silence you don’t notice immediately, too high on the endorphins stims bring. Pain free for the next two minutes or so.

“Captain?”, Price is hovering just behind your shoulder, your fingers twitching around the base of your secondary weapon — you are jumpy straight out of the mission. Automatons start looking like people after too long.

Down on Chort-Bay is hell likes of which you haven’t seen before.

You are not looking forward to jumping down there again. But duty calls, right? No one else would do that. No one is on the orbit right now but you.

“Captain”, you hum, eyes flickering to him for a moment. You have to wipe the visor of your helmet to properly see him — one of the diver’s got blown up on a landmine, his blood is still on your armour.

You don’t have time to wash it off. Not if you want to finish mission before you will need to be up for the next order.

“I noticed…the syringe.”, Price starts after prolonged silence, brows furrowing as he watches you. Eyes the softest blue you ever saw. The summer sky.

You remember the one you saw back at home. The time before helldiving now feels like a feeble attempt of your imagination to cushion the fall from the height of your exhaustion. The time before helldiving feels nowadays like a fairytale.

“Didn’t know you were sick”, he continues and you chuckle, typing in your coordinates. It’s cute that he worries about your health, though understandable. You are still alive and therefore a valuable asset to the command.

“Not sick. Just fucking tired out of my mind. We get a shit ton of stims with every resupply. Probably the only thing we get for free”, your laugh is a dry static-y thing, distorted from helmet, coming out of dynamics in your helmet feeling wrong and twisted.

But Price looks at you now like you have three heads and you try to explain. Perhaps SAS don’t get any of these. Though not like they need the thing, they got actual medics ready to stitch them up as needed.

They got off days and luxuries you cannot afford.

God, you might consider marrying on one of these days. Purely for tax benefits.

“Stims are used to patch us up on the go. Don’t have a whole lotta time to waste. We use them sometimes as energisers as well. A tired soldier is a sloppy soldier and a sloppy soldier is a dead one”, you say, brain fog finally lifting, god, this is good.

“Wouldn’t that constitute addiction with how often soldiers use it?”, John is a heavy stare and deep frown in the line of his mouth, his eyes the prettiest summer sky. “Wouldn’t that be dangerous?”

You shrug, checking your gear before getting yourself in the pod and locking your ankles in place.

“Command told us they had scientists test drive the things and they aren’t addictive. Honestly I don’t know much, Captain. You might wanna ask someone with actual degree about the stuff”

You salute him for the road and then the pod slides you down, all ready to go.

Down there hell awaits. Down there torn off limb is the least that could happen.

Down there you could use any help you can get.

Price watches you getting launched down the orbit and turns away, tension coiling in his shoulders.

Price whisks away one of the stim vials, hiding the thing in the pocket and walking away. He will need to have someone check the bloody thing.

There is no way godsend ambrosia that cures torn off limbs and massive bleeding is not addictive.

John remembers the way your whole body buzzed with energy from the moment you pushed it in. Like there was no more pain, no more exhaustion, no more fear.

Like you were high.

And that’s for sure that sloppy soldier is a dead one. But so is the drugged out one. So is you, if his suspension is right.

[pasukiyo]

THE WARMTH OF YOUR HAND

leon kennedy x f!reader word count: 1,473 warnings: angst, mentions of leon's alcohol use, not proofread synopsis: leon doesn't believe in much. but if there's one thing he knows is for certain to be true, it's that he doesn't deserve you.

 Leon doesn’t believe in much. The kind of work he does has stripped him of that ability. He stopped believing in more than just God, he stopped believing in people, in the world, in himself. Leon doesn’t believe in much but if there was one thing he could know for certain to be true, it was that he didn’t deserve her. 

 How could he?

 She sleeps in zen beside him, one arm folded beneath her pillow, the other resting on the small sliver of space on the mattress between them where he dare not touch. She must be dreaming, because Leon can see her eyes rolling beneath their lids. She must be dreaming of something good, because Leon traces the small curve of her lips, a peaceful, subconscious smile he finds himself envious of. 

 Leon cannot remember the last time he, himself, had a good dream. His ability to dream must’ve been stripped away along with his ability to believe long ago, when he learned just how short his luck had run out. Perhaps his inability to dream was why she took him so much by surprise. 

 He’d learned to accept that his life moving forward would always be far from normal long ago. Any dreams he might’ve had prior— whether it was the so-called “American Dream” of white picket fences and a golden retriever in a perfectly trimmed, green front lawn and a litter of kids that look just like him or not— he knew was far beyond his reach now.

 It was why he turned to drink in the first place. He mourned the loss of a life he would never know, mourned the death of his former self: the cop, the rookie, the young adult, the teenager, the boy. It was unlike any other pain he knew— it could not be suppressed with medicine or bandages— so all he knew to do was to make do with what he had: drink. 

 It was a time in his life he wished he could forget. Funny how it works— somehow, he’d lost any sense of the man he was before Raccoon City despite how desperately he tried to cling to the dying embers of his boyhood, whilst simultaneously unable to forget the man he’d temporarily become. Was this some force punishing him? Was this his punishment for being unbelieving? 

 Leon didn’t know, and the more he tried to make sense of his fucked-up life, the more his head would pound, the more he’d feel himself inching closer to the bottle he swore he’d never touch again when he met her. These thoughts of his, these doubts, this disbelief in himself and anything around him, was what made him feel so undeserving of this woman— this woman who was currently bundled beneath sheets and a duvet, lost in dream, so clean, so pure and entirely too good to be true. 

 Sometimes Leon thinks he must not have lost the ability to dream after all, for he cannot stop thinking that all of this is just an illusion, this woman but a mere figment of whatever small part of him that still believed, and he’d wake up to Raccoon City, or Spain, or who fucking knows what. 

 Leon’s molars sink into the inside of his cheek in hopes to dull the ache prodding against the crown of his head and blinks down at her hand, still resting in the space between them. The only source of light in her bedroom is the moonlight peeking through her curtains but it’s enough for him to make out her skin, to make out the lines etched into the tops of her fingers. 

 Her knuckles are not blue, or purple, or calloused, or terribly scarred. Her knuckles are clean and were always soft to the touch— Leon closes his eyes and can feel the phantom of her knuckles dragging along his cheek, over his scars, over the moles he couldn’t quite feel but knew were there. He inhales sharply and opens his eyes, pushing himself into an upright position, exhaling heavily as he drags a palm— a rough, calloused palm— over his face. 

 He peers around the dark, moon-lit room, at his jacket slung messily over the back of her vanity chair, one of his shoes beside her closed bedroom door, the other rolled onto its side beneath her closed wardrobe. He realizes just how out of place he feels and is— and it serves as just another reminder that he doesn’t deserve to be here, he doesn’t deserve her, he doesn’t deserve any of this. 

 He inhales shakily and drops his head, rubbing the crown of his head and his temple with the pads of his thumb and forefinger in an attempt to ease the ache festering there. The bed suddenly feels too warm and makes him feel even more out of place but he can’t bring himself to pull away from it, not when he can feel her feet brushing up against his leg as she squirms in her sleep. 

 His heart begins to pound in his chest. His mind begins to reel. 

 You do not belong here, a slick, oily voice curls around his ears and for a moment, he thinks he must be back in Spain and this is all just some sick form of joke. You are poison, and you are ruining her. You are an imposter, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. You should leave. She does not want you here. You do not deserve her. And you will never deserve her. You do not deserve her, you do not deserve her, you do not deserve her, youdonotdeserveheryoudonotdeserveheryoudonot—

 “Leon?”

 Her voice, thick with sleep but still devastatingly sweet, interrupts the voice in his head and he snaps his eyes back open, searching through the wrinkles in the duvet because he doesn’t know what to do but he knows he cannot look at her. If he looks at her, he won’t ever leave. If he looks at her, he’ll only linger and ruin her further. If he looks at her, he will be her demise. He just knows it. It’s the one thing he believes in. 

 He hears the sheets ruffle and the bed creak as she moves behind him and he suddenly feels something against his elbow. Leon startles and flinches away, and he swears he can hear a faint gasp behind him. His brows knit together and he bows his head, squeezing his lids closed. 

 “What is it?” She asks him, alert, aware something is wrong. Damn her, he thinks. She’s much too intuitive for her own good. 

 When he doesn’t reply, she asks again, daring to inch closer to his side. He can see a few locks of her hair fall into the outskirts of vision and his breath hitches in his throat. It suddenly feels like he can’t breathe and he thinks he might break out into a sweat and he feels so out of place and so undeserving that he thinks he’ll explode. His breathing begins to quicken and his mind begins to spiral and vision begins to blur and he doesn’t know what to do because he can’t move and—

 “Hey,” her voice sounds closer now and he knows she must be because he feels her palm press firm into the center of his chest and his eyes snap back open to find hers already staring back. “Head’s being loud again, hm?”

 Leon’s brow dips and his gaze softens because he knows he cannot win when she looks at him like that, when she speaks to him like that, when she knows him like that when everyone else failed to. He’s suddenly aware of just how hard he’s breathing because his gaze drops to her arm and how it rises with his chest. Her hand is warm against his chest but not so much that it is stifling, and not so less that his bones catch a chill. Her warmth is just right and Leon closes in on himself and lets his head drop to her shoulder, closing his eyes and inhaling, breathing her in. 

 “Oh Leon,” she murmurs against the top of his head, her hand slithering away from his chest to rest warmly on the back of his neck, her other weaving through his tendrils and comfortably tightening around his locks. “Why don’t we lay back down, yeah?”

 Leon doesn’t believe in much. The one thing he knows for certain he can believe in is that he does not deserve her. He doesn’t deserve her speaking to him like this, touching him like this, caring for him like this. But as she eases him back down into the mattress and cradles his head closer to her chest, he begins to ponder something he’d never pondered before: perhaps there is a way to disprove any certain belief. 

a/n: it has been... quite awhile since i last wrote something. admittedly, i haven't even been working on my books (thank you work and college 🫠) but... a lot has happened the past few weeks. a lot of things from lots of different reasons. so i just really wanted to write some comfort :) (of course i had to throw in some angst)

just a side note: i wrote this literally twenty minutes ago so this is not proofread whatsoever 🤩

TAGLIST:

@chaoticevilbakugo

@bxbyyyjocelyn

@luckypurins

@corruptcoder

@glovesandhorror

@angelstargel

@illsksm

@echo1200

@d3adp00ls

@woahhajime

@leonkennedygvrl

@elliewilliamshotwife

@altissia-09

@danigirls-missions

@gorrykookie

@luvrgreyy

@arisksywlkr

[lil-shiro]

More about Shi Wei (Tie Dou) - F1 Academy Shanghai Wild Card driver

Background Born in Baotou, Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region, Shi Wei graduated from the Journalism Department of Ocean University of China. She holds a number of professional licenses, including the National Automobile Racing License B, Helicopter License, Motorboat License, and PADI Rescue Diver. 

In 2018 and started her own business in short video platform, founding Yunshi Media Culture Co. With extreme outdoor sports as the core, she popularized outdoor extreme sports through new media platforms, and gradually accumulated rich experience in racing. She is not an academy driver and started driving when she was already an adult.

From what I've found, she's born in 1997, so ineligible for a full-time F1A seat.

Racing

F4

She made her F4 debut in 2023 during round 2 of the F4 Chinese Championship, joining Vivian Siu as the second woman in the series. She immediately made her mark, scoring a ninth place and two sixth place finishes at Ningbo International Circuit, on her first weekend.

She returned for Round 4 in Zhuhai, where she again scored points in three out of the four races, completing the season with 22 points over just the two rounds, winning the Best Rookie Award.

Shi Wei returned in 2024 for another partial campaign, racing in both the Shanghai rounds. She equalled her best finish with a sixth place at the season opener and returned to the points-paying positions with a ninth place result in Round 4 race 4. She finished 19th out of 45 drivers.

Other racing She also participated in other championships like the Toyota Gazoo Racing GR86 Cup and the China Endurance Championship.

On September 13-15, 2024, Shi Wei won the Challenge Cup at the Shanghai race.

In 2024, she also finished third in the Chinese Formula Grand Prix (CFGP).

Race suit design

Shi Wei designed her suit to incorporate cheongsam elements into the racing suit, embellished with blue and white porcelain patterns.

"I chose Zhou Guanyu's No. 24 for my car number, which is also a kind of inheritance," Shi Wei said‍

By including elements such as auspicious clouds and phoenixes, Shi aims to reflect Chinese femininity and cultural richness while adhering to the competitive requirements of motorsport.

The design team executed four revisions in just three days to achieve a final product that resonates with both heritage and performance.

Shi even humorously noted a desire to incorporate elements from the animated film ‘Ne Zha 2’, indicating her commitment to intertwining pop culture and tradition in her representation.

Sources: 1, 2, 3, 4 Her bilili account

[spa-ghett0]

I once read a oneshot about Sonic finding out that the Resistance didn't keep close contact with Tails during the War, and it was really good, but I feel Sonic wasn't as angry as he should've been. So here's my two cents written from the outsider perspective of the Rookie character.

(This might soon become a whole story, but for now, this is it)

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

After six months of the world mourning Sonic the Hedgehog, the Resistance has finally brought him home.

Not to brag, but I was the one to bust him out. Well, kind of. Other members of the team hacked into the Death Egg’s security system and freed Sonic from his chains. Then, Sonic fought the leader of the Deadly Six (not sure who they are, exactly; fingers crossed we don’t run into them) and during his escape, he found me courageously fighting a few badniks all by myself. He gave me a hand, not that I needed it. From there, I called Knuckles the Echidna, mission leader, on my wrist communicator and led Sonic to freedom.

So it was a team effort, but I was the first person in the world to see Sonic the Hedgehog alive. 

Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I’d find inside the Death Egg. Everyone seemed convinced that Sonic was killed in battle. Even the leaders of the Resistance, supposedly his closest friends. The only person who firmly disbelieved this was a kid named Tails, but he left the HQ long before I showed up. I’ve heard bits and pieces about him, but for the most part, he’s an Off-Limits Topic. Though I know to mind my own business, I always wondered how a little kid could be so important to a cause like this.

In the next room, something slams against the table. “Stop stalling, Knuckles!” Sonic the Hedgehog hisses. “Tell me where he is.”

Knuckles sighs. “He’s probably at his workshop—”

“Probably? You don’t know?”

“I’ve been a little busy, if you hadn’t noticed,” Knuckle snaps.

“Busy.” Sonic scoffs. “That’s not an excuse.”

“We tried to make him stay, but he wanted to leave.”

“I don’t care that he isn’t here. I care that you don’t know where he is! He could be hurt, or worse.”

“Don’t think like that.”

“How can I not? I’ve been locked up for six months, the world has gone to shit, and my little brother is in the middle of it—alone!”

A chill jolts through me. Little brother?

“How long has he been gone?”

Silence.

“I’m losing my patience here, Knux,” Sonic growls.

“Four months.”

More silence. It stretches long enough for me to contemplate glancing inside, just to make sure they’re both still breathing.

Then a blue blur races past me. I don’t have a chance to move before he knocks me into the wall. Once I find my footing, I run after him.

The front door hits something hard when I push it open. Metal scrapes under my feet. Confused, I step over the mess and continue into the street. I don’t see Sonic, but he definitely came out here.

The entire street before me is littered with carnage. Badniks torn in half. Blue and red wires strung out like entrails. Smoke billowing from piles of robots who still twitch and spark, as if they’re in pain. At the center of it all, I finally spot him: the great and legendary Sonic the Hedgehog rips the power source out of a badnik’s chest and crushes it in his hand.

I can’t move. In minutes—seconds, maybe—he did what it takes a squad of Resistance soldiers to accomplish in hours.

Tossing the badnik to the ground, Sonic finally spots me. My stomach turns. I know he’s the One Who Saves the World, the Good Guy, the Hero… But right now, I wonder if it’d be safer to retreat and stay out of his way.

I’ve been locked up for six months, the world has gone to shit, and my little brother is in the middle of it—alone!

“Hey, you’re the one who rescued me from the Death Egg,” Sonic says as he approaches. His sudden calm demeanor is startling.

“Uh y-yeah, that’s me,” I stammer.

“I never thanked you for that. Knuckles said you’re new to the Resistance?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. With more people fighting back, we’ll take back our planet in no time.”

“With you here, we should be able to take him down tomorrow.” I try to laugh as I glance around at the wreckage, but it comes out shaky and awkward.

Sonic’s smile is sharp and not quite friendly. “Sorry to disappoint, but it’ll be a bit longer than that. I’ve got something to take care of, first.”

I nod. “Right. You wanna find your brother.”

Green eyes cut to me. Immediately, I regret everything. 

“Thought I felt someone listening in there,” he mutters.

“I–I wasn’t eavesdropping. I mean, I didn’t mean to—” I wince. “Sorry. I’ve just heard a lot about Tails in the last month, and I… I didn’t know he’s your brother.” 

“That seems to have slipped everyone’s minds.”

“I can help you find him, if you want.”

Sonic snorts. “Thanks, but I think it’d be better if you stay here.”

“Remember when I saved you from the Death Egg while still being new to the Resistance?”

“Remember how scared you were when you stepped outside a minute ago?”

I bristle. “I wasn’t—”

The knowing look he gives me snaps my mouth shut.

“I was just surprised.”

“Right. Surprised that the Hero could be so violent?” Crossing his arms over his chest, Sonic observes his destruction. “Gotta be honest here, I’m not ready to jump back in and save the day. Don’t get me wrong, Eggman’s reign of terror will be ending very soon. That’s a promise. But the only thing I care about right now is finding Tails. So if you’re expecting the Hero, you'll have to wait.”

I frown. Who is Sonic the Hedgehog if not the Hero?

Against my better judgement, I realize I want to find out.

“Well… I kinda wanna meet this infamous Tails.”

He smirks. “He’s definitely worth the trip.”

“Then, what are we waiting for? Any idea where he might be?”

Sonic eyes me. Then his smirk softs into a smile, and he leads the way to Tails’s workshop. I fall into step beside him, trying to ignore the scrape of metal at our feet.

[nanamineedstherapy]

Hollow Worship: It was never about him

Summary: Gojo Satoru was used to being admired. Worshipped, even. That was the natural order of things. But worship isn’t always devotion. Sometimes, it’s possession. Sometimes, it’s something far worse. Trigger Warnings(Contains Spoilers): MDNI, Non-Con. A/N: The people who feel close to someone call them by their first name. Those who don’t—or don’t see themselves as a living being or a human—use surnames. This is my dark little gift to my muses @mullermilkshake & @TheVillagerandtheSea—hope you both enjoy your dose of brain rot. Hehe.

Your POV

Gojo Satoru was used to being admired. Worshipped, even. It came with the territory—being him.

His power? Unmatched.

His looks? Otherworldly.

His charm? Debatable. But that was your problem, not his.

The first time you met him, you were busy existing like a normal, competent jujutsu sorcerer with a stellar track record.

That lasted exactly five seconds.

Because then he walked in, all six-foot-whatever, grinning like an idiot, and your brain just—

Flatlined.

Your eyes dropped.

Not to his ridiculous sunglasses.

Not to his stupid smirk.

Lower.

His chest.

His stupidly big, indecently sculpted, menacingly perky chest.

The fabric of his uniform stretched obscenely across his pecs, and you were stuck staring at them like a sleep paralysis demon locked in combat with intrusive thoughts.

“Uh,” you said, completely forgetting every word you’d ever learned.

Gojo wasn’t surprised when you immediately froze upon meeting him. Awestruck, clearly. Like a rookie catching their first glimpse of true greatness.

His smirk widened. “Oh? Speechless? Must be my overwhelming presence—”

You didn’t respond, still frozen.

Satoru knew what people usually looked at. His blindfold. His jawline. Sometimes his hands (for some weird reason).

But you? You looked like you’d seen God’s greatest creation.

Right there.

On his torso.

It was bizarre.

Your love for Satoru (or Toru, as you lovingly called him in your dreams) didn’t start that day. It had been brewing for years—long before you ever laid eyes on him in real life.

Back when he was just an unattainable god-tier existence on your timeline, you already knew he’d be yours.

Because there was one thing that separated others from you, your special grade technique was a bad match for his.

When someone dared to call him overrated? You were there, bombs locked and loaded.

When a hater tried to say he wasn’t that strong? You had an entire thesis, six sources cited, and a clip of him soloing special grades in 4K.

And when anyone tried to downplay his assets—the sheer, disrespectfully sculpted divinity of his existence—?

Oh, you were feral.

“I wonder if sex eyes replineshes his cum output too and efficiently releases cum to the point where he releases massive cum while releasing almost close to 0 cum. Also, would it look blue? Would it be stronger than normal cum? Lot of questions.”

“How much do you love Gojo?”

“How much water have you drank all your life?”

"Honestly, at this point, if he fucked my Grandma, I’d lick her asshole just to taste his cum.”

The Gojo fandom was a lawless wasteland, and you thrived in it.

You had favorites, of course.

The thirst edits that sent you into a spiral.

The fanart that made you question if you needed to start paying tithes.

The slow-mo clips of him laughing, walking, existing—each one a religious experience in its own right.

And then there was The Video. The one where he cracked his neck before a fight, his uniform stretching just right across his chest.

That was the day you learned true spiritual enlightenment.

“Daddy Gojo needs to be locked in a mating press IMMEDIATELY. I’m tired of this.”

“I will open my mouth and take big bites of your huge breasts. Then I will open my anus behind me and let you impale me with that huge dragon-slaying eagle. Until the flowers fade, until my room becomes sticky, until your semen rushes from behind me toward my esophagus and out of my throat. Until the blood flowing in my veins becomes your semen. Until I howled loudly, which made me very happy.”

It was true love.

Except now you were here.

You had spent years preparing for this moment. Practiced your greeting. Rehearsed a perfectly normal, non-feral introduction. Told yourself you were above the insanity.

Then he walked in.

And your brain just left the building.

It wasn’t just the face. Or the voice. Or the aura that made everyone else in the room seem insignificant by comparison.

No, it was worse.

Because Gojo Satoru in real life?

Was so much more.

---

A few days later, you were on your first mission under Tokyo Jujutsu Tech.

Supposed to be dealing with a curse. A minor one, at that. Easy work for someone of your caliber.

Barely a threat.

But then it happened.

Satoru’s chest bounced when he dodged an attack.

The moment he’d moved, his uniform shifted—just slightly, just enough for the fabric to pull taut, for muscle to flex, for the weight of him to move in a way that was, apparently, devastating to you.

Your brain short-circuited like a Windows XP error.

You stopped mid-step, completely entranced, like a deer staring down an 18-wheeler made of raw pectoral muscle.

You almost died.

Over boobies.

Gojo had saved you, obviously. He yanked you back, put down the curse like it was nothing.

Then he turned to you, expecting at least a little bit of shame.

Instead, you were still looking.

Not at the curse.

Not at the aftermath.

At him.

At something beyond, something in, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

“…Newbie nerves?” he said, tilting his head. “You know, I could give you some pointers—”

Nothing.

No reaction.

Just that same, unblinking, fascinated look.

“Huh,” he frowned.

And, like a curse magnetized to a ten-pack, you kept staring.

---

Gojo’s POV

The first time he met you, he thought you were a normal, competent jujutsu sorcerer. Maybe even impressive.

Then he noticed the staring.

It wasn’t the usual kind—no awe, no fear, no giddy admiration at his reputation.

It was fixed. Heavy.

It took him longer than it should have to realize what you were staring at.

Not his uniform.

His chest.

At first, it was easy to ignore. Gojo was used to people looking at him, analyzing him, wanting something from him.

But this was different.

Your gaze didn’t waver, didn’t break away when caught—it just locked on, paralyzing, suffocating, an unspoken weight pressing against his ribs.

Gojo wasn’t used to feeling watched.

Not like this.

Sure, people stared at him all the time—students, sorcerers, civilians, enemies. Everyone wanted a piece of him, whether it was his power, his reputation, or just the sheer spectacle of his existence.

But your gaze?

Your gaze felt different.

He laughed it off.

Because what else was he supposed to do?

He’d gone to Nanami first.

“She stares at my chest. Constantly,” Gojo said, sitting backward on a chair like the human embodiment of a red flag.

Nanami didn’t look up from his paperwork. “And? I have important matters to handle, Gojo-san.”

“No, but seriously. She stares like—like she’s buffering. It’s like she’s studying them. That’s weird, right?”

Nanami’s pen stilled. He glanced up. “You mean the sorcerer with a higher kill count than you?”

Gojo blinked. “...What?”

“She’s a special grade.”

“Huh—”

“She’s more competent than you.”

Gojo frowned. “Okay, rude, but—”

“You should be grateful she even looks at you.”

“How can you—”

“She has more important things to do than entertain your delusions.”

He tried Ijichi next.

“Ijichi, listen, she stares. A lot. You believe me, right?”

Ijichi sighed, exhausted. “I believe you’re tired and hallucinating, Gojo-san.”

Surely Shoko would believe him, right?

Shoko took a drag of her cigarette and, without looking at him, said, “Sounds like a skill issue.”

No one believed him. No one.

And that’s when Gojo knew: he was alone in this.

That should have been the end of it. But it kept happening.

You were competent, respected, powerful—and yet, Gojo would catch you frozen, staring at him.

Not at his face.

At his chest.

It happened during missions.

It happened in meetings.

It happened when he was simply breathing in the same space as you.

And then, the first incident happened.

It had been a nasty mission.

Multiple special grade curses.

Gojo handled it like always, but the last one caught him off-guard.

Just for a second.

Then the mission went wrong.

Fast.

Gojo got clocked.

Hard enough to black out.

It wasn’t often that he felt truly helpless.

It would be fine; you were there; you’d take care of it.

But when he woke up, there was cold floor pressing against his back.

Did he tear off his clothes in the fight?

But there was warmth too.

Something was off.

Pressure. Softness.

Something was… moving?

His brain caught up at the same time his eyes adjusted.

He tried to sit up, but—oh.

Oh, no.

He looked down.

It was you.

Your face was buried in his bare chest.

Fully.

And—oh God, were you moterboating his chest?

Gojo was a man of many words.

Right now? He had none.

Your hands clutched his uniform pant’s waistband, face buried between his pecs like you were trying to merge with them.

“...The hell?” Gojo rasped.

You froze.

Stared at him, unblinking.

You had been waiting for this.

Didn’t look embarrassed but... devastated?

A long, long pause.

Then:

“...Can I—”

“No.”

“Just one more—”

“Absolutely not.”

You sat back with the heaviest sigh known to man.

Because you were disappointed.

Gojo scrambled away from you, grabbing his uniform coat, almost tripping on his own feet and putting it on hurriedly before teleporting away.

---

Your POV

You loved his chest.

And Gojo Satoru, for all his confidence, was confused by the sheer devastation on your face as he pulled away, as if he’d just denied you your one purpose in life.

Meanwhile, you?

You had been thriving.

You had touched him.

Felt him.

Got a taste—no, an experience—of the divine creation that was his body, and it had been just as glorious as you always imagined.

Better, even.

Your fingers still tingled.

Your face still burned.

Your soul? Ascended.

And he had moaned.

Not a little gasp, not a sharp inhale—he had moaned.

The moment his consciousness had flickered back into reality, before his brain even had the decency to register what was happening, a soft, breathy, utterly wrecked sound had left his lips.

For you.

He could deny it all he wanted. Could try to act like he wasn’t completely gone for you, but you knew the truth.

It was only a matter of time.

And time was something you were ready to bend.

You’d always admired him—Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, the most beautiful man alive, the reason why your entire search history was a carefully curated shrine of edits, thirst posts, and questionable thoughts.

You were the one who lived and breathed Satoru. The one who had a folder on your phone labeled “Toru’s Temple” filled with pictures and clips (taken of him when he wasn’t looking) of him doing the most mundane things—like adjusting his blindfold or his fingers intertwined when he sat waiting for his hot coffee to cool—because even the smallest movement felt religious.

But admiration had limits.

Love didn’t.

And what you felt for him?

It was love.

Because if Satoru told you to jump off a cliff, you’d ask how high?

Because if he ruined your life, you’d apologize for wasting his time.

That’s why, as you watched him stumble out of the infirmary, still slightly dazed, still rattled from your little touch, you knew exactly what you had to do.

Toru baby needed guidance.

Someone to make him understand.

And that someone was you.

You smoothed out your uniform, lips curving into a soft, sweet smile as you watched him head toward the training grounds. The first-years were waiting for him, clueless to the fact that their beloved teacher had just moaned like a two-bit whore under you.

Adorable.

But you weren’t worried.

You had a plan.

All you had to do was wait, when he was just tired enough, just distracted enough—

And then?

You were going to corner him.

And you were going to make him see.

Make him understand that what happened between you wasn’t just a coincidence.

That his body knew what his stubborn little brain was taking time to accept.

That he belonged to you.

And if you had to break him in to make him realize it?

Well.

That was just love, wasn’t it?

---

A few days later - Gojo’s POV

Gojo had always assumed there were limits.

There were things he could stop, things he could overpower, things that no one—no one—could ever do to him.

Because he was the strongest.

Because he had Infinity.

Because he was untouchable.

Because—

Because—

Because he was wrong.

It happened fast.

Too fast.

He saw the shift in your eyes before he even registered that his body was already reacting.

Already activating Infinity.

The barrier was up.

Infinity was absolute.

That’s what Gojo had always known.

A law of physics as natural as breathing. No one—not even a special-grade—should have been able to touch him without permission.

But your fingers wrapped around his wrist anyway.

Like Infinity wasn’t there.

Like he wasn’t there.

He had never seen you use this technique before.

Something that bypassed Infinity like it was nothing.

Not time manipulation, not a Domain Expansion—just something else.

Something made for this.

He had seen cursed techniques used in ways that violated human limits, but never like this.

Never against him.

Never against his body.

Gojo didn’t understand.

Didn’t want to understand.

His breath stuck in his throat. His body locked.

His vision tunneled, and it wasn’t because of a fight, wasn’t because of an opponent stronger than him, wasn’t because he had made a mistake in battle—

No.

This was something worse.

His body wasn’t reacting the way it should have.

His instinct screamed at him—pull away, push back, destroy—

But he couldn’t.

Because his body wasn’t obeying instincts of war anymore.

It was responding to something else. Something he had never prepared for.

Fear.

Not of death.

Not of losing.

But of you.

Your hands touched his chest first, like before.

Then lower.

Lower.

The horror didn’t hit all at once.

It came in waves, in wrongness, in realization.

He had never been touched like this.

Never been unable to stop it.

His body was screaming at him to move, but he couldn’t.

He wasn’t fighting a curse.

He wasn’t facing death.

He was frozen.

He wasn’t the strongest.

Not in this.

Not when it was your weight against him, your voice—his own name slipping out of your mouth in a way that made his stomach churn—

Not when he realized his body was obeying instincts that had nothing to do with power.

He wanted to disappear.

His body was betraying him.

Why?

Why?

His arms twitched—move, move, fucking move—

The world tilted when you shoved him back onto the floor. It wasn’t forceful enough to hurt, but it was enough to make one thing painfully clear—

He wasn’t in control.

You straddled him, your weight pressing down on him like a cage. Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head back, forcing him to look at you.

Your hands slid over his body, exploring, claiming, violating.

Everywhere you touched felt like fire, but not the kind that burned away impurities. This fire was corrosive, eating away at him, leaving behind nothing but ash and shame.

Gojo wanted to die.

His body—his own body—betrayed him.

Heat pooled under his skin, a sick, involuntary reaction that made his stomach churn.

It meant nothing.

It meant nothing.

It meant nothing.

He wanted to laugh.

He wanted to vomit.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Not to him.

The strongest. The untouchable. The undefeated.

That’s what everyone thought.

That’s what he had always thought.

Until now.

Your voice cut through the haze, cooing words that sounded sweet but felt like poison.

Like nothing was wrong.

Like he was a willing participant.

Like he wasn’t lying there, wishing he could sink into the floor, wishing he could dissolve into nothingness, wishing he could sit under water and watch as his skin shredded away layer by layer until there was no trace of you left on him.

Until your touch became a bad dream, a distant memory, and not his reality.

He closed his eyes, desperate to escape, but his Six Eyes betrayed him.

They showed him everything—the way you looked at him, not as a person, but as meat.

As something to be devoured.

His arms refused to move, heavy and useless at his sides.

Was this the freeze response people talked about?

The body’s way of protecting itself when fight or flight wasn’t an option?

He shut his eyelids tighter, as if he could block out the world, block out you, block out the unbearable reality of what was happening.

But he couldn’t.

He could still feel your hands, your weight, your breath.

He could still hear your voice, soft and sickeningly sweet.

He could still see, even with his eyes closed, the way you looked at him—like he was nothing more than an object for your pleasure.

He waited.

Waited for it to end.

But it didn’t.

And all he could do was lie there, trapped in his own body, wishing for it all to be over.

Wishing for the nightmare to end.

Wishing for the strength to fight back.

But it never came.

And so, he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And then—

A crack!!

The weight was gone.

Gojo barely felt himself collapse back on the floor, his body folding in on itself like a marionette with its strings cut.

His body still wasn’t listening.

Then he heard the sounds.

The sickening crunch of bone against bone.

The sharp, wet slap of flesh meeting flesh.

The guttural cries of a fight that wasn’t his to finish.

His body did not move.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t help.

Even as the fight broke out around him, even as voices—familiar, urgent, furious—got lost through the fog in his mind, even as he felt the warm splatter of blood against his skin, he remained still.

Paralyzed.

Helpless.

When the silence finally fell, heavy and suffocating, he felt something solid.

Warm. Safe.

A hand.

“Satoru.”

His whole body shuddered at the sound of his name, at the weight of it, at the way it anchored him back to reality.

Nanami was there.

Gojo’s hands, trembling and weak, gripped Nanami’s coat like it was the only thing keeping him from being swept away.

Nanami was real.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

The world had tilted off its axis, and he knew, deep in his bones, that he would never be able to straighten it again.

So he asked, because he had to.

“You believe me now, right?”

The words clawed their way out of his throat, raw and broken, the weight of them thick enough to drown him.

He was drowning.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, after everything, Kento finally spoke.

“I believed you then, too.”

Soft. Solid. Unshakable.

“She had ears on us. I couldn’t risk tipping her off.”

Gojo’s stomach dropped.

Because that meant—

That meant he had never been alone.

That meant Kento had known.

That meant someone had taken it seriously.

Gojo’s chest collapsed inward, the weight of it crushing him.

Like he had been bracing for something that never came.

Like he had been drowning alone this whole time when, in reality—

Kento had been there.

Had always been there.

His breath broke, a ragged, shuddering thing that tore through him like a storm.

He broke.

The strongest man in the world.

He didn’t let go of Kento.

He couldn’t.

His body still wasn’t listening, still frozen, still trapped in the aftermath of what had happened.

Because it knew.

It finally, finally knew.

And the knowledge was worse than the violation.

The realization that he had never been alone, that someone had seen, that someone had cared enough to take it seriously—it was too much.

Too much to bear.

And so, he clung to Kento, to the solid, unyielding presence of the one person who had believed him, who had been there all along.

Because if he let go, he wasn’t sure he’d survive the fall.

---

She was dead, but Gojo Satoru was afraid.

Of women.

Of touch.

Of himself.

Of what had already been taken from him.

And of what would never come back.

Gojo didn’t talk much anymore.

He laughed when he needed to, the sound hollow and rehearsed, a performance for the sake of those around him.

He joked when expected, the words slipping out like a reflex, but the humor never reached his eyes.

The mask fit perfectly, molded to his face over years of practice, but it was heavier now.

Heavier than Infinity.

Heavier than the weight of the world.

Because beneath it, he was breaking.

He didn’t touch anyone.

Not casually. Not intentionally. Not unless it was absolutely necessary.

And he didn’t let anyone close.

Not physically. Not emotionally.

The space around him became a fortress, walls built from the rubble of what had been done to him.

But the fortress wasn’t impenetrable.

It couldn’t keep out the memories.

The phantom sensations.

The way his body betrayed him, flinching at the slightest brush of a hand, freezing at the sound of footsteps behind him.

He felt it every time someone’s eyes lingered a little too long.

Every time he caught a glimpse of a smile that felt too familiar.

The weight of hands on his chest.

The warmth of breath against his skin.

The disgusting truth of it all.

And no one noticed.

Except for Kento.

The disgusting truth of it all.

And no one noticed.

Except for Kento.

Kento, who didn’t comment when Gojo’s hands shook as he reached for a cup of coffee.

Kento, who didn’t force a conversation when Gojo’s responses dwindled to single syllables or silence.

Kento, who—one day, in an empty hallway, when a female walked a little too close—stepped between them without a word.

It wasn’t just the hallway.

It was the little things.

The way Kento would subtly position himself between Gojo and anyone who got too close during meetings.

The way he would linger in the room after everyone else had left, fiddling with his phone, giving Gojo the space to breathe without the pressure of being watched.

The way he would hand Gojo a file or a pen without letting their fingers brush, a small but deliberate act of consideration.

And then there were the things Gojo didn’t even realize he needed until Kento provided them.

Like the time Gojo froze in the middle of a mission, his body locking up at the sight of a curse that bore an unsettling resemblance to her.

Kento didn’t ask questions.

He didn’t demand an explanation.

He simply stepped in, taking over the fight without a word, giving Gojo the space to retreat without shaming him for something that wasn’t his fault.

Or the time Gojo found himself unable to enter a room—that room, his feet rooted to the ground at the sound of laughter—her laughter, or at least something close enough to make his stomach churn.

Kento didn’t push him.

He didn’t tell him to get over it.

He just stood there, a silent presence at Gojo’s side, until the laughter faded and Gojo could breathe again.

Gojo didn’t thank him.

He couldn’t.

The words stuck in his throat, tangled up with everything else he couldn’t say.

But Kento didn’t seem to expect gratitude or even think of it.

He didn’t seem to expect anything at all.

He was just there.

Steady. Reliable. Unshakable.

Reminding him, even in the darkest corners of his mind, where the memories lingered like shadows, there was a light.

Faint, but there.

Kento didn’t touch Gojo. Didn’t even look at him.

But he was there.

A barrier.

A shield.

Gojo had never needed a shield before.

Now, he couldn’t survive without one.

A/N: The comments in this fic are real comments people have actually made about Gojo on Twitter & Reddit. "How would this actually play out in a realistic setting?" I’ve always had this thought lurking in the back of my mind whenever I read some of the feral, lawless thirst comments people make about Gojo. So I did what any sane person would: I turned it into a horror fic. Also, if you thought Gojo was too OP to be a victim… yeah, so did he. Now, tell me—be honest—what’s the worst Gojo thirst comment you’ve ever seen? 👀 Drop it in the comments. (Or, if this broke you emotionally, just leave a 🍞 emoji so I know you’re still breathing.)

All Works Masterlist

[cindersnows]

all devils break down

(green<qpr>purple)

You beam into the mirror, inspecting your hair one last time. It never seems to stay fully flat, but at least your bedhead is gone!

Your outfit is good too. A nice sweater jacket fitting for the spring breeze, as well as your usual black top and some blue jeans. Nothing that screams "trying too hard". This is supposed to be casual, after all. You did think very hard on the colors, though— you considered a pink sweater due to the comfort the color gave you and how cherry blossom forests are super pink, but then remembered that one experiment the humans had done about pink as a color slowly stressing inmates out. Maybe blue, but then you'd blend in with the sky too much, and you don't really have any good blues that don't clash with your jeans. Orange doesn't really look good on you, as much as you love the color, and yellow makes you look weird and desaturated. Not that being desaturated is bad, of course, but something cooler brings out your complexion more. Ultimately, you went with a pale green, something that would still stand out while also blending with the grass. Plus, Green really likes the color green. Self absorbed much?

So. Yeah. Not overthinking it at all!

You double-check your inventory, and then climb down the ladder, heading for the nearby portal. This is going to be great! With the picture Green sent, it looks like he put a lot of effort into the picnic too, so there's no way the feeling isn't mutual. You just have to trust him!

You should've noticed with when you arrived and found no picnic basket. Honestly, you should've noticed when he invited you for a picnic. It's clearly revenge for the prank you played on him with Red— how did he find out you planned it? Did she tell him? Did it piss him off? You thought the two of you were on good terms, but you suppose he was just keeping up a ruse so that it'd hurt more when he "pranked" you back.

Smart.

The word is bitter on your tongue. It's also hot on your tongue, as well as the flecks of lava that entered your mouth when you screamed. Rookie mistake, honestly. You automatically pull out a bucket of water, one that you usually keep around to stop yourself from getting hurt when you crash-land, and you splash it over the lava, trying to get the source. Nothing; Obsidian forms and the lava quickly drowns out all the water.

The liquid burns at your legs. It's not a slow sort of deterioration as one would expect, but jabs of sharp pain every few seconds, as if you're just being stabbed over and over, and you're not sure whether that's better or worse.

Your health's down to two hearts now. Green's holding up his phone and recording, his back turned to you. Still, you know he can see you.

You hope the camera captures your watery glare. You're sure that's what he wants.

You feel your stomach drop, and for a second there's confusion, before your vision goes black and you're back in your bed. His laughs still echo in your ears.

You've been watching his videos, of course. Eagerly liking each one, although you share your comments with him over text. He's responded with enthusiasm to each one. He'll probably post this shit as a video too, and his stupid mindless fans will flock to compliment him without even thinking.

You don't think you'll send him a message for this next one though.

You want to take some sort of revenge, go to his PC and knock his lights out in front of his friends, or maybe destroy his instruments to spite him. You try to recall that hatred you felt back after you'd first met him and gotten kicked out of the village, the anger that propelled you for months to beat him up in League.

There's nothing, though. Instead of fire, you just feel some cold disappointment. There's a numbness in your chest.

You remain where you respawn. For some reason, it's hard to move. It's hard to do anything other than think, and even then, your thoughts feel a little muffled. Like someone else is thinking them for you. 

But hey. At least it makes it easier for you to think logically? Mango would commend you for this, honestly. You're keeping your temper!

You take a look at the facts.

Number one: You helped Red plan a prank on Green. You thought this was normal for friends, but you guess not. It's not like you're very good and figuring out when your friends will be upset anymore.

Number two: Green got upset about this.

Number three: What if it wasn't about the prank, though? Maybe he was just waiting for an excuse to hurt you?

Number four: Even if he wanted to hurt you, it's okay, because you deserve it. You hurt him first, and then again, and then again. He's allowed to hate you. He's allowed to hurt you. It's not like you're not used to it.

Number five: But didn't he forgive you for that? You told him why you did it. You said sorry. You said you were bad. You wear your horns, a reminder that you messed up. He knows that.

Number six: But did he really forgive you? He never said the words "I forgive you." He said to fight back against King.

Number seven: He never said the words "I forgive you."

Number eight: He just needed you on his side so he could win. He didn't care about how you actually felt.

Number nine: None of your friends actually care about you. They only tolerate you because Green told them to. Green only told them to because he wants you on his side in case he needs anything.

Number ten: Mango doesn't care about you either. They just keep you around because you remind them of their daughter. And even then you fuck that up, running off whenever instead of just staying with them so they can cope with their empty nest syndrome.

Number eleven: But that's King's problem, not yours.

Number twelve: They only keep you around because you're useful.

Number thirteen: You'd be better off without them.

Your hand moves of its own accord, removing your phone from your inventory and clicking it on.

You'd be better off without them.

You block all their contacts. You don't even hesitate. It's laughably easy, honestly, like you've been waiting to do it this whole time.

You'd be better off without them.

You axe down your house without even realising. You take your essentials. You grab a rocket and set it off, barely feeling the heat as you launch into the sky.

You'd be better off without them, and this is going to prove it.

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

First of all, Happy Birthday!!! I adore your writing, the meet cute series is such a fun idea and I read each chapter as soon as I get the notif 😆

I also have to say I love the way you write Kid, he’s a tough character to “get” if you know what I mean 🤣

Now for bday event! If I might request:

Sanji ❤️

SFW

"You make it hard to focus when you’re this close."

Fem!reader

🫶

@jessterofthecourt Thank you so much for the birthday wishes and for your kind words! ❤️ I'm really happy you like my series and my obsession with Kid 🤣 And thank you for requesting Sanji, he really is one of my favs and I only wrote one chapter for him for the meet-cute introduction! I missed him. I hope you enjoy this and thank you again! ❤️

Source for Pic

Focus

Word Count: 1470

Tags: fem!reader; meant to be set in modern world AU; teacher/student moment;

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: You're a rookie chef and the mastering of the julienne cut is making you doubt your worth. Sanji helps.

Tag List: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid

|Masterlist|

“I can never get this right! Ugh, how do you get your julienne slices so even, Sanji? I’m so envious!”

The blond sous-chef next to you chuckles as his fingers move with fluid gestures. His hands make the knife glide easily over the vegetables. It’s as if he isn’t even guiding it, and the object has a life of its own. 

“Well, chérie, it’s easy.” You drop the knife gently next to the cutting board and the butchered chops of carrots and stare at him. There’s a small smile curving his lips upwards. The eye that isn’t hidden behind his bangs is fixed on the job he’s performing, but you feel as if you hold all of his attention.

Sanji has a way of making you feel like that, as if you are the only person in the room or the most important thing happening around him. You have a feeling that even if the world were burning, his eyes would still be on you. 

“Practice.” He finishes with a chuckle at the same time as he sets the vegetable aside and fishes another carrot from the vegetable pile. You raise an eyebrow as your eyes scan the perfectly sliced vegetables on his side, and the pig-lunch scraps on your side. 

A heavy sigh escapes your lips as you bury your face in your hands, hoping to hide your shame, your frustration, and the tiniest bit of doubt creeping in. “I have been practising, Sanji! You know that! But this is all I have to give…” Reaching for the uneven vegetables, you show him the only thing you were able to accomplish: a big pile of nothing. 

Yet he doesn’t make fun of you, nor does he yell at you as some of the other seasoned chefs do when you screw up. He wipes his hands on the rag hanging by his apron and approaches you gently. 

Your breath hitches, and your throat feels tight. He’s intoxicating. Not just his scent - tobacco, spices, and something sweet - but his presence. It’s like he commands the space around you, drawing you into him like a gravitational pull. 

“These are not half-bad.” He selects some of the straighter pieces and sets them aside. Then he takes some of his pieces and places them next to your pile. “See, chérie, they’re not that different.”

“They’re insurmountably different.”

And you show your disbelief by crossing your arms and staring at his face, deadpan. Another chuckle graces you, and now that you’re closer, you notice that there’s a spark in his blue eye whenever he chuckles. It’s beautiful. 

“D’accord. Okay, they’re slightly different.” He raises his hand to his chin and scratches it before staring back at you. “See it like this: these are the ultimate goal.” He points to his slices. “These are the stepping stones to achieve said goal.” He points to the wonky slices and then to the ones that are straighter. “You stepped on this stone, and then this one, and now it’s just another small step to this one! Voilà.”

“It’s not as simple as that, Sanji. I’ve been staying late and practising every day this week, you know that! I should be better by now! Maybe not perfect, but better!” Frustration seeps into your pores, and you slam your palm on the steel surface. “I suck at this. Maybe I should just quit.”

Sanji suddenly becomes very quiet. His eyes take you in, absorbing every bit of discouragement and disappointment showing in your features. “Don’t say that.”

“What? That I should quit?” You bite your lower lip, trying very hard to keep the tears of resentment inside your tear ducts, where they belong. 

“No. Well, that too, but no.” His hand reaches out and he caresses the side of your face, slowly arranging a stray lock of hair. “Don’t say that you suck. Have a little bit more faith in yourself.”

“It’s hard, Sanji.”

“I know, chérie, I know.” His smile is understanding, and you get the feeling that his life story might not have been the easy, breezy, happy, and entitled life you thought he had at first sight. “But I’ll help. Grab the knife.”

It’s hard to take back the knife again, knowing you’re about to fail once more, but you decide that it’s even harder to keep looking at his piercing gaze. So you do as he says, taking a deep breath and making a mental note of giving this just one more shot. Then you can quit with a clean conscience and the satisfaction that you tried and gave it your all. 

As soon as your hand touches the knife, Sanji walks behind you, his figure towering over yours, enveloping you in a dizzying fog. Suddenly, he’s all there is. There’s no kitchen, there are no vegetables, there are no knives. It’s just you, him, and his strong arms protecting you from the world.

Then the illusion shatters, and you’re brought back to reality by a sudden shudder as he presses his chest against your back, his hand grabbing yours, and you have to bite your lip again, almost to the point of drawing blood just to ground yourself in reality. 

“First things first, always check your equipment. A dull knife is a chef’s nightmare.” He turns your hand to check your knife, and you gasp at the gentleness of his touch. His face hovers over your shoulder, breathing down your neck and making all the hairs on your body bristle. “Perfect blade. See? You’re already doing great.”

Focus, focus, focus!

“Now we cut the ends of the carrot to get a stable base to work on.” He guides your other hand, and you do as he told you by holding the carrot and slicing the end. His hand helps you guide the knife, and it glides smoothly, making a perfect cut. Then the other end of the carrot. The thuds of the knife hitting the board are almost in tune with the thrumming of your heart, and you’re positive he can feel it.

“Now let’s slice the carrot evenly into planks, like this.” He commands you. His gentle voice hazes your senses as he guides the knife easily. You’re barely doing anything more than trying to keep your legs from wobbling. “Now we stack the planks like this.” He’s whispering in your ear, and since when have carrots become so sexy?

Focus, damn it! Focus on the damn carrot!

“And we slice into thin strips for the julienne.” Your hands are burning. No, not just your hands, your whole body seems like it came right out of the furnaces of hell itself. You’re scalding! Feverishly hot. And you have no idea how to put out this fire. “See? Do it yourself now.” Your hand moves automatically, but your mind is somewhere else. You have no idea what you’re doing. 

“Chérie?” His words lick your ear and daze your senses. The sensuality of the syllables coming out of his lips makes you crave more. More words, more whispers, more touches… just more! “Are you alright?” Your name coming out of his lips jolts you, and you squeal. 

Fuck.

“I… I… yes… I…” You close your eyes tightly, your hand gripping the knife so hard that the handle almost groans in protest. “It’s just… You make it hard to focus when you’re this close.” You breathe out, embarrassment turning your ears red.

“Oh!” He seems regretful and is about to pull away, but you move the hand that’s not holding the knife and grasp his forearm to keep him in place. It takes every ounce of control in you not to squeal again when your fingers clutch the taut muscles in his arm.

“Don’t.” Don’t what, genius?

“Don’t?” He asks.

“Don’t let go…” Your eyes are still shut tight, and you’re too scared to open them. You don’t want to face him, you don’t want to face the strips of carrot you julienned, you just don’t want to face disappointment.

“I won’t. I promise.” There’s a hint of something else in his voice, something you can’t quite place… affection? Regard? “But you must also do me a favour.”

Anything…

“What is it?”

“Open your eyes for me, chérie.” His voice is like velvet. He’s happy and… pleased? “Look.”

When you finally open your eyes, Sanji is holding the slices of julienne you just cut. They’re nearly perfect. “Are those mine?”

He chuckles again near your ear, and goosebumps prickle your skin. There’s something fluttering in your belly, but you’re not quite ready to acknowledge it yet. 

“They are. And they’re perfect.” Oh… it’s pride. That’s the ‘something else’ in his voice. You turn to him in wonder as he leans closer, his whisper leaving your lips tingling, craving the brush of his. “Perfect, just like you.”

Oh…!

[sapphicandgraphic]

Safe House—Chapter 5

Synopsis: Natasha is a lawyer, and you’re a key witness in one of her cases. Fearing for your safety, she offers her home as a safe house during trial prep. While living there, she and her wife Wanda start to fall for you.

Chapter: 5/10 in which reader gets off on the wrong foot with Nat’s police contact, and a plan is hatched over pastries.

Series Warnings: Non-magical AU, angst, drama, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, protective WandaNat, fem reader, age difference, WLW

Chapter Warnings: Gun, reader grapples with self-loathing

You awoke the next morning with a pit in your stomach. This wasn’t unusual. Most mornings were like this. Dread and anxiety had long been the sun and the moon in your world, constantly orbiting, casting long, inescapable shadows over your waking existence.

You opened your eyes and stared at the ceiling, trying to trace this feeling of unease to its source. It came to you almost instantly: Natasha’s contact at the police force.

Your father had always been chummy with the boys in blue, an organization whose loyalty had a price tag, whose members held no ideology and were eager to align themselves with the highest bidder. Natasha had assured you that her man was different, that he couldn’t be bought.

“We’ll see,” you said.

The intro was set to happen this morning. You got dressed in your usual slouchy jeans and black tank top, then ran your head under the sink faucet in your bathroom. The cold water on the nape of your neck helped clear your mind. You toweled off, slicked your wet hair back, brushed your teeth, then made your way downstairs.

The house was quiet, peaceful. You had just started brewing a pot of coffee when you heard a knock at the front door. You stilled, peeking surreptitiously out the kitchen window. A tall, muscular man with dirty blonde hair was standing on the porch, staring out at the small garden by the driveway. Everything about him—from his hands clasped in front of his hips to the wide-set stance of his legs—screamed cop.

“Subtle,” you breathed, arching an eyebrow.

You could only hope that Nat had warned him about the delicate nature of your situation, that he had enough sense to make sure he wasn’t tailed. The thought of endangering Wanda or Nat was a constant, corrosive fear; one that ate away at your insides a little bit more every day.

Neither woman was downstairs yet, so you padded toward the entryway in bare feet. Then you squared your shoulders and opened the door.

“Y’know, Nat, those raised beds aren’t exactly thriving—“

He turned and stopped mid-sentence, his forehead furrowed in confusion at the sight of you. It would have been comical if you hadn’t noticed the hip holster attached to his belt, and the obvious flicker of mistrust in his gray-blue eyes.

For a beat neither of you spoke, each sizing the other up.

“Steve Rogers,” he said, extending his hand.

You gripped it, introducing yourself. As usual, your last name elicited a negative response. Steve bared his teeth in something like a grimace, quickly withdrawing his hand.

“Don’t worry.” You flashed him your most insincere smile. “It’s not contagious.”

You turned and walked back inside, leaving the door open on its hinges. If he wanted to follow you, he could.

After a few moments you heard his boots in the hall, hesitant and heavy as he approached the kitchen.

“So you’re the famous Captain Rogers?” You said it just to break the silence, which had shifted from awkward to tense.

When you turned back around, Steve was watching you uneasily. He gave you a wide berth, like you were a snake about to strike. You felt the sting of his disgust with a dull kind of surprise. Being here for a few days had spoiled you; you’d already gotten used to being treated like a human. Rookie mistake. Quickly rearranging your face, you slipped back into your usual armor of indifference.

“Does he drink coffee like us mere mortals?” You goaded him, waggling a mug.

“Actually more of a green tea guy,” he said, careful not to turn his back to you.

You snorted. “I’m guessing Nat didn’t tell you I’d be here?”

His eyes flickered around the room, like he was clearing it for threats. It suddenly occurred to you that you might be in for a very unpleasant morning if things continued in this direction.

“Nat just told me she needed help with a case,” he said. “She was being cagey, and now I see why.”

“Oh?” You said with mock confusion, blinking at him slowly. “Why’s that?”

He licked his lips, eyes still scanning the room as if he expected your uncle himself to pop out of the pantry. “Well, whatever she’s mixed up in can’t be good if your family’s involved.”

You smiled bitterly. “You’re not wrong.”

You reached across the knife stand, intending to grab the sugar. Out of the corner of your eye you saw his hand drift to his hip holster, heard the button unclip.

“Don’t get excited, hero.” You wiggled your fingers, indicating that you were unarmed. “I’m just grabbing the sugar.”

“Your father is one of the most dangerous arms dealers in the country,” he said. “Forgive me for wondering how far the apple fell from the tree.“

“Was.” You corrected him without meaning to.

Steve squinted at you impatiently. “What?”

“Was,” you repeated. “He’s dead.”

“Whatever,” Steve growled. “Where’s Natasha? Wanda?”

“Look, there’s no need to be so jumpy. Let’s just take a breath and—“

“Answer the question.” His voice had a hard edge now.

You gritted your teeth in frustration. “They’re upstairs, I guess. Now can I grab the milk or are you going to shoot me?”

“Nat?” He called, raising his voice. “Wanda?”

You both stilled, listening. There was no answer. Fuck.

Steve pulled his weapon in one smooth motion. The next thing you knew, the cool metal of a gun was resting against your chest.

“If you hurt either one of them…”

The insinuation sank its teeth into you, spreading the slow venom of self-loathing.

“I didn’t,” you insisted. “I wouldn’t.”

But Steve either didn’t hear you or didn’t believe you. He gripped you by the collar of your shirt, hauling you away from the counter and pushing you toward the staircase. He called Natasha’s name again. Still no answer. Worry spiked in your gut—not for yourself, but for them. Why weren’t they answering?

He prodded you in the back with the gun. “Ladies first.”

Subscribe to my Patreon to see Wanda and Nat come to reader’s rescue!

[enrosadiraanisaaa]

Underground Alliance

.Chapter One.

Been wanting to write a street racing fanfic with RE2 Leon for the longest time. It is loosely based on the first Fast and the Furious movie while interweaving actual events from street races from my childhood. Hopefully, some car girlies enjoy this, but even if you're not into cars, please enjoy it! It takes place in 1999 when the Racoon City incident has not occurred yet but the events are still happening. Please comment, tell me if you love it or hate it! To those who waited a long ass time or have moved on from RE, I really hope you enjoy this! And yes, I'm still planning on finishing Within Session.

This story is purely written with RE 2 (Remake) Leon in mind. Yes, my puppy dog boy is all the focus in this one.

Takes place in 1999, Racoon City is not in flames yet!

Yes, I'm terrible at uploading fast, but believe me when I will finish this with the other one!

Loosely based on the first Fast and the Furious movie with real life stories mixed in from my childhood.

I have not decided yet on the rating but expect: Car Sex, Betrayal, Penetrative Sex, Manipulation (sorta), Public Sex, Violence... And more to come!

Summary

         After a series of recent hijackings of Umbrella equipment, Leon Kennedy is sent undercover in the street racing scene to find a notorious perpetrator named to be orchestrating these attacks. Leon struggles with his visage as a street racer while upholding his own morals as a police officer. As a young street racer, you aspire to reign and topple the influence of a major corporation that has its clutches on Raccoon City. Yet, plans are thwarted when an ambitious blonde tries to join the ranks of the most skilled racer.

Please enjoy~ Anisssa أَنِيْسَة

The Colors That Mark You

“Speed, power, and pure chaos now dominate the streets of Raccoon City, a surge of street racing along with other rising trends in crime in recent months—Terri Morales with Raccoon 7 News. Sources have reported 5 hijackings of lab equipment from Umbrella Corporations within the last 3 months. Umbrella truckers are now pointing direct blame at street racers. The recent hijacking is costing Umbrella Corporations billions of dollars and threatening the careers of truckers. Raccoon City Police so far, have no comments on the surge of street racing and the unlawful seizure of Umbrella equipment during transportation. On other reports, the mysterious disappearances on Arklay Moun-” 

                  With one click of the TV remote, the screen abruptly becomes black. Every single day, the consumption of the morning news seemed to blend in with his mundane morning routine before work. The surging crime that continues to transpire around Raccoon City was nothing new to Leon. Hell, the recent murders and disappearances that occurred around the Arklay Mountains last summer are what compelled him to join the Racoon Police Department straight from the police academy.  Now, several months passed in a blur since his orientation day in September, and the adjustment in his career has been everything but exciting. Among his colleagues, Leon was regarded as the rookie, an errand boy to the other officers in his division. Nonetheless, the escalating crime pressured Leon to prove his merit.

       His fingers measly slip each button into the slits of his uniform, proceeding to adjust the blue fabric until he became content with his overall presentation. There he stood before his dresser mirror, the same worn blue eyes staring back at him while his lips managed to form a smile. Truth be told, Leon rather remained tucked under the covers to pretend there were no responsibilities that dictated his adult life. Yet, the paychecks were more than necessary to live in this measly town. Nonetheless, Leon convinced his feet to trudge right out the front door of his apartment to depart for work.

         The sight of the city welcomes Leon to the streets filled with trash, and the homeless camping at nearly every corner. Tourists would assume that the recent crime rate may have driven this city downhill, but Raccoon City was always a sore sight for its residents and outsiders. Leon often wondered if the breakup with his ex-girlfriend before moving into the city was worth the nights dowsing in alcohol. In the end, Leon achieved the career within the RPD he so sought. 

              Rock music plays on the radio while Leon manages to traverse his Jeep through morning traffic in the city. Aside from the occasional honks and cut-offs from other cars, he drove to the police station with ease. Inside the station, the lobby was nearly chaotic since the sightings of cannibals roaming the streets and parts of the mountain only escalated. Plethora of sounds from the police radios, telephones, and the chatter amongst officers only blend in an echo in the main hall. Leon had to admit the station was bustling more than usual.

          Yet, there in all her glory was the Goddess statue standing tall upholding a flag in hand to greet him every single day. 

          “Rookie!” 

   That utterance of that nickname prompts Leon to scrunch his nose, however, he whirls his attention to Eliot in the doorway of the West Office. “Lieutenant Branaugh requires your presence,” He sneered, gesturing with the tilt of his head to accompany him into Marvin Branaugh’s office. As Leon strides behind Eliot, the other officers at their desks perk their heads to glance at Leon walking past his desk. Eliot knocks on the open door to alert the lieutenant of their presence. 

        “Kennedy… the person I wanted to see this morning,” Marvin greets him once he notices the messy blend of dirty blonde hair entering his doorway. The aroma of coffee permeated the air of the small office as Leon was directly in front of his desk. 

      “Sir…” Leon addresses him immediately, his voice holding a level of utmost respect.

       “At ease rookie, take a seat,” The lieutenant extends his hand to the chair behind Leon while Eliot closes the door. Now, a certain heat crept in his uniform as the silence weighed in the enclosed office. Leon spurred thought of possible mistakes he could have made, yet none surfaced that would be worthy of reprimand. 

      “I’m sure you are aware of the rise of hijacking of Umbrella equipment in these past few months…” Marvin eyes the rookie, pulling out several files from the filing cabinet, and spreading them on his desk’s surface. 

     “The truckers are in uproar, and Umbrella is threatening to pull out of Raccoon City if nothing is done to cease the hijackings. We do not want a pharmaceutical company taking matters into their own hands….” Marvin warns, slipping out several photos and documents from the files. 

        Leon nodded along with every word, remembering the report from the morning news. “They speculated these hijackings were orchestrated by street racers…”

“That’s precise, rookie…” Marvin trails off, lining out the photos on the desk to allow Leon to view them clearly. “Which is why I am assigning you to this case…”

        Three photos were aligned perfectly beside each other on the desk. With no context, Leon would have been puzzled at the images. Two pictures displayed skid marks on the road obviously from the crime scene, and the third revealed a truck driver sustaining various bruises on his body. What kind of street racers were these? 

        “The truck drivers have described the exact modus operandi of the vehicles involved, three black 2D coupe cars with red underglows: a 1991 Toyota MR2, a 96 Mitsubishi Eclipse GSX, and a Mazda Miata MX-5. And the lab provided the latest skid marks identical from every scene, Toyo brand tires.”

   Marvin flicks his eyes to the rookie while Leon examines the contents of the images to memory. 

       “These are all JDM cars…” Leon finally comments, bringing his blue eyes to Marvin’s face.

       The lieutenant nods at the blonde’s observation, “Which is why we have indication someone from the street racing scene has organized these recent attacks. A name without a face, someone who is referred to as El Jefe…”

    El Jefe.

     “Doesn’t that mean the boss?” Leon questions, curling his pointer finger underneath his chin.

       “Yes… Kennedy, we want you to investigate him undercover in the racing scene. Pinpoint who he is, integrate into his circle and observe his activity… and reveal the identity of this bastard.” Marvin leans back into his chair, carefully lifting the coffee mug to his mouth. After a satisfied slurp, he sets the mug on his desk with a soft thud. 

     This was the ultimate opportunity for Leon to prove merit to his lieutenant and to the whole precinct. A major case of a circle of street racers responsible for the recent hijackings brought down by an undercover rookie resonated as a great headline on the front cover page of Racoon Times. Only a grin formed on Leon’s lips as his fingers ghost over the photo of the bruised truck driver. “How soon can I start this investigation, sir?”

   “How good are your driving skills, rookie?” Marvin inquires, piquing his eyebrow.

   Snickers are heard behind Leon, prompting the blonde officer to whirl his head to Eliot leaning against a tall filing cabinet. He had nearly forgotten Elliot’s presence during this debriefing. Now his fellow officer was finding means to poke fun at him.

     “This rookie may have scored excellent in everything else , but God his driving… He would crash a parked car somehow,” Eliot taunts before laughing and slapping his knee.

     Leon frowned at the officer with a flustered face and Marvin merely rolled his eyes. “That's enough Edwards, this is your partner during this whole operation.” Marvin sips his coffee, flicking his eyes between Eliot and Leon. “Since Leon is a fresh face, he would blend into the scene.”

     This comment from Marvin seemed to cause the older officer to glower, yet it was directed at Leon. “Hey! That's saying I'm old. Pretty boy here is gonna get him snuffed out like a block of cheese to a rat.” Eliot crosses his arms, slumping against the filing cabinet.

     The lieutenant adjusted his throat, ignoring the blatant complaint from his subordinate. His hands then pull out an additional two photos, two different cars. “These were confiscated a while ago from drug dealers. Now they belong to the department. Rookie, you have the first pick of your ride.”  Both cars were exotic, modded, and designed with decals. However, Leon was oblivious to the model and make of the cars. To earn the attention of El Jefe, it was crucial to learn all specs of the car. 

   “Uhh sir, I honestly don’t know what exact cars these are…” Leon trails off before taking one photo from his desk. A black car with GTR in small letters in the front along with Skyline imprinted in bold letters on the back bumper. 

   “Oh, that one? That's a Nissan R34 Skyline, imported illegally from Japan,” Marvin comments, pointing at the picture. 

     Only a tilt of Leon’s head could be noticed by the lieutenant, impelling Marvin to explain details on how a vehicle could be illegal in the states. “Certain car models like the R34 Skyline have a 25 year import rule, meaning the vehicle has to be 25 years old to be eligible to be imported to the US. It was recently passed into legislation, and you can thank the major American automakers for pushing that law into place,” Marvin clarifies, offering a smile to the rookie.

       Leon returns the smile, nodding with an understanding to the situation of the vehicle. But then the idea struck him with the Skyline.”Maybe this is the vehicle to catch the attention of El Jefe since it's so rare…”

     “Not a bad idea, Kennedy. The Skyline will be your vehicle…” Marvin nods in agreement before flicking his eyes to the other officer behind Leon. “Elliot, your vehicle is the Mitsubishi 3000GT. You boys take care of these vehicles. Tracking devices will be installed, so no funny business!”

       Elliot lets out an audible grumble for getting second pick, reaching over to swipe the other photo from Marvin’s desk. His eyes examine the body of the vehicle before peering at Leon’s pick. Another audible huff escaped through his teeth once he realized that Leon had the superior choice.

      On the other hand, a wide smile seemed to be permanently plastered on the rookie’s lips. This was his first major case, and a case that was notorious around the city. He could barely contain his excitement despite his efforts to remain professional around his colleagues. 

        “On Fridays, there are reports of organized street races around the industrial district of Raccoon City. El Jefe is one to not miss opportunities to win money, so Leon, you will attend these street races. Blend with the crowd, and the most important… Do. Not. Blow. Your. Cover,” Marvin emphasis with each syllable, and word. A pang of anxiety forms in Leon’s chest, almost squeezing the air. While he was ecstatic, this mission could go south if he was careless or cocky… Like Eliot.

    Leon assures his lieutenant with a nod,”Yes, sir. This case is important to find out the bastards who assaulted those truck drivers…”

        That assurance leads Marvin to stand from his chair with two driver licenses in his possession. His hand extends one license to Eliot and the other to Leon.

     “These are your new identities! No longer Eliot Edwards or Leon Scott Kennedy but Eliot Smith and Leon Santoro. You boys will forge an identity and stick to it.” Several heavy steps creaked the floorboards and Marvin returned to his seat.”Both of you are dismissed… the cars will be ready by the evening.” 

     Both officers nod to their superior before finally stepping outside the small office, the door softly clicking behind them. They were just assigned with a profound investigation, but not as Leon Kennedy and Eliot Edwards, but as two racers ready to join the ranks of one the most notorious street racers. Leon realized the urgency in apprehending this savage gang, especially for the safety of those truck drivers.

     Elliot huffed beside Leon, clicking his tongue as he leaned over the rookie’s shoulder near his ear. “Don’t fuck this up for both of us, rookie… or we end up missing like some of those S.T.A.R.S members in last July. Hear me?” He mutters low enough for only Leon to hear. 

      Leon’s fist clenched at his sides, staring forward despite the words whispered from behind. The audacity from Eliot…

      Eliot struts away from the rookie to his desk, a cocky smirk plastered on his face when Leon glances at him. Everyone else was oblivious to the exchanged glares between the officers, engrossed with their own stacks of paperwork on their desks. It was no surprise working with Eliot would be provoking, but Leon was determined to solve this case by any means.

        Raccoon City soon was engulfed by the darkness of night once the orange gleam from the sun soon settled down, replaced by the crescent moon in its place. The Skyline was honestly more than he could handle when he arrived at the auto shop where the car was kept. Something that Marvin failed to mention was that the driver’s seat is on the right side instead of the left and the car is a stick shift, not automatic. This was the night street racers crept out onto the desolate streets, no denying that El Jefe was probably already at one of these spots. 

        Eliot’s pick, the Mitsubishi 3000GT, was held at another auto shop in town to deter any suspicion before the partners were to meet up at the races. Pretending to not know that prick was an easy task for Leon, but he honestly desired nothing more than to be the first one to secure the trust from El Jefe. 

          As Leon traversed the Skyline from downtown Racoon City into the industrial district, his chest weighed with heaviness. Between abandoned old factory buildings, a surplus of exotic cars filled the parking lot. Various music from techno to rap blasted from speakers, cliques of people forming around them. Women dawned in mini skirts and tank tops, leaving nothing to the imagination, gyrating their bodies along with the rhythm. Leon had to use one hand to adjust his pants as he stationed the Skyline besides another car.  

     In the distance, he can hear the revs of engines and tires screeching as several cars raced. Once he stepped out from the driver’s seat, eyes were immediately on Leon. The watchers were murmuring amongst themselves, plenty of them snickering. Being a fresh face, they were hyenas scoping out who this new meat was…

      Now Leon braved a cocky smile, knowing he obviously drove in with a rare vehicle, illegal nonetheless. To fit the role of a youngster seeking to street race, he wore a simple windbreaker and jeans with high tops. 

      “Who the fuck invited this cream puff?”

 Leon ignores the blatant insult from the crowd, walking directly to one of the nearby people.

     One Hispanic bald guy with a long graphic tee with sagging pants leaning on his car, the police’s profiling of a thug off the streets. But Leon was here to make friends, no arrest yet. 

     “How long is the line to race El Jefe?” Leon inquires with no hesitation. 

     The guy scoffs, glancing around his surrounding peers with a snarky chuckle. His posse of men and women follow suit in laughter, shaking their heads. “Hey kid, this ain’t no video game. Fuck off,” He iterates, pressing his attention towards his crew.

    Well, that didn’t work, but Leon was not going to surrender to defeat. He pulls out several bands of cash from the pocket of his jacket. “Maybe this would entice him? A few grand…”

    “Please, this shit is monopoly money, but that-” The man points, gesturing to Leon’s R34 parked in the distance, “El Jefe would compete for… but that’s only if you're prepared to lose it tonight, blondie.” 

     How would Leon justify losing a $200 grand car to the man himself, El Jefe, when reporting to his superiors? If El Jefe did not humiliate or kill him, the RPD would surely have him by the badge. 

     “Consider it a race then… I’m not one to back down from a little challenge,” Leon remarks, the smirk never faltering on his lips. Deep down, the rookie knew he was bound to lose this car. 

       As on cue, the crowd suddenly disperse, almost parting like the Red Sea when a silver car slows in the middle of the street. In the distance, the revs of engines cease while everyone is in awe. People then scramble to opposite sides of the car, waiting for someone to climb out.

    “ ¡El Jefe está aquí!” One man announces, and the watchers erupt into a frenzy. 

    Leon waited there with anticipation for the boss himself to step out of his car, but he never did. The guy who Leon approached earlier walks directly to the driver’s side, the tinted window slightly ajar for the man to speak to the person inside. Then the guy directs his pointer finger at Leon in the distance, muttering words that Leon was unable to hear. 

      Leon’s palms sweat as the tension builds, the fate of his career predicted by this moment. Then the window raises up completely before the man stands in front of Leon. 

  “El Jefe wants to know how a kid like you managed to obtain that car…”

     Shit. The words from Marvin echo like a seance, and Leon has to fabricate a whole backstory. ‘…forge an identity and stick to it…’

    “My dad is in the Air Force and imported this car from Okinawa,” Leon spurred without thought and shrugged as if an illegally imported car was no big deal. 

      There were murmurs from across the crowd that observed the interlude exchange of words in anticipation of a race. Yet, Leon’s revelation of the rare vehicle only piqued an eyebrow of the man before he returned to the agape window, enough for him to relay the message. Despite the indistinct chatter, Leon already assumed a deal was being proposed.    

       The man chuckles, peeling away from the car to confront Leon once more. “El Jefe agreed to race… for the pink slip of that R34. Not too late to back out blondie, that’s of course if you’re a pussy…” He taunts, earning the snickers from the observers.

     These remarks tempted Leon to reveal his badge, vexed at the theatrics flaunted in front of everyone. But Leon held his tongue, dismissing the mockery for this one race.

      “I’m not changing my mind, I’m racing El Jefe…” 

          Once those words escape his lips, slurs and hollering heighten as the mob disperses away from El Jefe’s car. With the street cleared of bodies, Leon took the opportunity to scan the car, immediately detecting ‘Supra’ gleaming below the spoiler. If Leon had heard anything about Supras… they were fast as hell.

       His knees wobbled as he strutted to his R34, climbing inside to the driver’s side with a pounding heart. People were already disputing bets, the majority predicting his inevitable fate while a handful held ambition for the new street racer. Leon positions the Skyline alongside the left side of the Supra, halting on the poorly red spray painted line on the pavement. A woman clothed in minimal attire stands between the two cars.

     The roars from the revved engine of the Supra elicited Leon to turn his head at the tinted window, denying him the chance to glimpse the face behind the glass. It strained Leon that he was unable to identify his face. But the sudden movement from the woman standing between the two cars convinced Leon that his priority now was somehow winning this race. A red laced bra dangles from her hand like a flag, Leon now revving the engine of the rare import. In those mere seconds, it became a pissing contest on which engine revs louder. 

     Leon’s hand grips the steering wheel with vice and his other hand settles on the stick shift. ‘I got this…’ Leon mentally assures himself. Without warning, the woman tosses the crimson brassiere into the air, and the Supra instantly takes off. Tires screech, his hand shifting the stick into first gear after his foot presses into the clutch pedal. Poor hand and foot coordination led to a faulty start, stalling out before the R34 could accelerate. Boos resonate from outside his car, utterly humiliating himself before the crowd. 

   “Shit.” 

      Leon exhales through his nose, attempting to shift the gear with precision. It was playing catch-up at this point but this hiccup did not dishearten his spirit.  With a collective breath, his hands shift the gear to 1, finally accelerating the R34 beyond the red line as his ears tune in with the car's RPM. Lo and behold, his front bumper was nearly tailing the back bumper of El Jefe’s Supra.

           As soon as the blue-eyed rookie believed he had an ounce of chance to win this race, the Supra suddenly surged in speed, stranding Leon behind in seconds. Of course El Jefe spared the use of NOS until the last moment. 

     “Dammit! You son of a bitch!” Leon swears as his foot presses the gas pedal within blind panic, failing to change gears. Before his mind can comprehend what occurs, his Skyline janks until completely spinning out on the road. Even when the car ceases in motion, his blue eyes clenched shut and his hands grip the steering wheel. Eventually, his eyes flutter open while his chest heaves along with shaky breaths. Cheers in the distance ensnare the Rookie’s attention, noticing the crowd surrounding the Supra past the finish line.

      He won…

   Leon slumps his head against the steering wheel, the pounding in his ears only intensifying. In his peripheral vision, Leon notices the Supra drift directly beside the R34. Everyone follows suit around the cars, nothing abates their commemoration over El Jefe’s justified victory.

    Despite his defeat, Leon swings open the driver’s door to confront the crowd and hopefully the man himself. After a moment, the Supra’s door widens slightly, a black leather heeled boot peaking on the cold pavement. Then a second heeled boot settles beside the other with a soft click…

       The sight perplexed Leon as he tilted his head, blinking to ensure his eyes were not deceiving him. His lips parted, noticing curves… and breasts? It finally dawned on Leon when a person extended fully out of the car,  your eyes immediately locking on his blue ones with a glare.

        El Jefe is a woman…

[cailinsblog]

Love on Ice

Matt rempe x reader

In the bustling city of Seattle, where the roar of the crowd echoed through the halls of the newly minted Climate Pledge Arena, NHL rookie Matt Rempe, towering at 6'8", prepared for a game that would be etched in his memory forever. Beside him stood his girlfriend, Y/N, her eyes shining with excitement as she watched Matt lace up his skates.

It was a momentous occasion for both of them. Not only was it Matt's first NHL game, but it was also Y/N's first time watching him play live. As they made their way to their seats, Y/N couldn't contain her anticipation, her heart pounding with pride for her talented boyfriend.

The arena buzzed with energy as the game began, the sound of skates cutting through the ice and the clash of sticks filling the air. Y/N watched with bated breath as Matt took to the ice, his imposing presence commanding attention from players and fans alike.

As the game unfolded, Y/N found herself on the edge of her seat, cheering wildly for Matt and his team. With each thunderous check and lightning-fast shot, she felt a swell of admiration for the man she loved, his passion for the game evident in every move he made.

Despite the intensity of the match, Matt's eyes never strayed far from Y/N in the stands. He drew strength from her unwavering support, her presence a source of comfort amidst the chaos of the game.

In the final minutes of the third period, with the score tied and tension mounting, Matt seized his moment. With a burst of speed, he swooped in on the opposing goal, his stick connecting with the puck in a perfect shot that sailed past the goalie and into the net.

The crowd erupted into cheers as Matt's teammates mobbed him on the ice, celebrating his game-winning goal. But amidst the chaos, Matt's gaze found Y/N in the stands, a triumphant smile spreading across his face.

As the final buzzer sounded and the crowd began to disperse, Y/N made her way down to the ice, her heart still racing with adrenaline. Matt met her at the boards, pulling her into a tight embrace.

"You were amazing out there, Matt," Y/N gushed, her eyes shining with pride. "I'm so proud of you."

Matt grinned, his blue eyes sparkling with happiness. "I couldn't have done it without you, Y/N. Having you here meant everything to me."

As they walked hand in hand out of the arena, bathed in the glow of victory, Y/N knew that this was just the beginning of their journey together. Through the wins and losses, highs and lows, they would always be each other's biggest fans, their love a constant source of strength on and off the ice.

[nebula-award]

♆☸ Astrolabe: Chapter 1

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

After a Groundbridge incident during a recon mission on the Nemesis, Arcee, Bulkhead, and Smokescreen find themselves on an uncharted island. No comms, energon, a way off, or memory of how they got there. As the base searches for the squadron, trust provides a catalyst to the stranded Autobots as they move forward and backward in time.

AO3 Link | CH2

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Day One

The piercing ring never left his ears, nor did the sound of wires zapping rhythmically, as he came back online. What followed was a metallic shriek from shifting his legs. Scrap, that tox-en pain never left. Groaning, his optics fluttered open meeting bright rays that dodged the leafy overhang in order to blind his optics. 

Primus, his helm ached. Dragging a heavy hand to his head, Bulkhead grumbled deep enough to shake the dirt beneath him. Dirt…? At the thought, he shot himself up straight and opened his optics wide which sent a heavy weight of pain to his helm. He hissed, burying his head in his dirt covered servos. 

“Sccccrap.” He drew out. 

Slowly, he reopened his optics greeting the green world around him. Canopies of trees shield his vision for miles, and the ground below was dark as chocolate and soft in his digits. He glances up, minding the sun’s rays, to find a giant, Cybertronian-sized hole in the canopy. No, too big for just him… 

“Bulk…head? Oh, sc-c-crap.” 

Bulkhead jumps at the breaking voice behind him. He turns around with great worry as he realizes the source of the frying wires zapping in his audio processor. Paint job hidden by black dirt, Smokescreen lies on his side in a fetal position. His servos clutch his abdomen, doing a terrible job holding the leaking blue energon staining his white finish. Some of the cables on his right leg are disconnected and produce sparks. Despite his attempt to endure the wound, he’s moaning heavily at the sheer pain, vocal processor frying his vocals. 

The wrecker narrowed his optics and lurched over to the wounded. “Scrap, Kid! What happened?” 

The rookie eases himself to the best of his abilities. “Your g-guess is… as go-od as mine…” 

“You mean you remember nothing?”

Smokescreen shakes his head the best he can. He hisses as his leg cables spark. “’ink I’m startin’ to under-erstand what you and Ar-cee meant… by ‘long haul…’” 

Bulkhead chuckles despite the circumstance, searching in his chest cavity for any medical supplies. “You learned just as I did: Arcee is always right…”  

Bulkhead’s optics flashed at her name. An image of the blue two-wheeler in dark lighting-- face-plate illuminated by a red glow-- passes his memory files. 

“Arcee!” He shouts. 

“Ouch!” Smokescreen groans. “Ca-re-reful! My audio processor just… got fully on-line.” 

“Sorry, Kid.” Bulkhead grimaces as he finds a few medical supplies. (How he wished he listened to Ratchet’s advice to resupply…) He leans down, doing his best to patch up Smokescreen’s stomach, but servos meant for construction can only do so much. “I just remembered Arcee was with us before, well, all of this happened. She must be nearby.” 

“Nearby… grh, wh-ere exactly?” 

“I’m… not sure.” Bulkhead frowns. “But, I’m going to try and radio her. Stay still for now, Smoke.” 

“D-don’t have… to-to tell me tw-ice.”

“Arcee?” 

… 

“Arcee?” 

… 

“Arcee, do you copy?” 

Frag… She groans as her comm link scratches in her ears. The voice matches the pounding in her head: persistent and loud. “Arcee? Arcee, please come in.” The voice pleads, and she pities whoever is on the line as much as she pities her headache. 

She refuses to open her optics, bringing her hand weakly to her comm link button. “Present…” 

“Oh, thank Primus, Cee.” 

Her eyebrows furrow at the nickname, quickly opening her optics. “Bulkhead?” Her thoughts fill with concern as she glances around her foreign surroundings: nothing but a fog of green. Her breath hitches, realizing he is nowhere in sight. “Primus, what happened?” She asks-- mostly to herself-- as her servos run against the dirt floor. 

“I’m… not entirely sure. That fall Smokescreen and I completely wiped our memory banks.” 

She sighs, raising herself up onto her pedes. “As long as you two are safe.” 

“...” 

“...Bulk?” 

“Not… Not necessarily.” 

She frowns, “Meaning?” 

“The kid’s bleeding energon badly and his leg is broken. Whatever happened to us certainly wasn’t a normal energon skirmish.” 

Her optics darted to the floor, shaking. She’s quiet for a moment before asking with quivering breath. “Is- is he stable?” 

“To the best of my abilities, but we’re stranded ducks out here, Cee. If we’re going to locate each other, you’re gonna have to come to us. We should be to the Northeast.”

Arcee grimaces as she begins stalking through the forest. She keeps low in the brush, light frame barely making a sound. She unsheathes her blades, cutting through branches and ivy in her path. “Helpful…” She tells him, but a smirk is clear on her face. She can hear his half-hidden chuckle.

“Hard to get a reading out in the middle of nowhere, Cee. We’re gonna look for shelter soon, but I’d advise heading that direction for now.” 

“Alright, stay safe, Bulk.” 

“... You too, Cee.” 

The line goes quiet, leaving Arcee to take in the thick sounds of the jungle. Brushes shook at every cut. Birds chattering high in the trees, hidden from her view. Arcee scowls. Despite the loneliness of her situation-- she cut through more vines-- a chill constantly ran through her spine… 

She steeps lower into the brushes, mindful of the anxious feeling invading her system. The more she traveled, the softer the birds sang… Softer and softer until their songs ceased into a dead stillness-- a waited breath, until a powerful roar of a drill echoed through the jungle. Arcee’s optics flash at the sound, and she stalks closer like a jaguar sneaking past a group of poachers: Decepticons. In the middle of the trees was a small clearing surrounded by drills and cargo loads emitting a bright blue glow. Arcee’s chest heaved watching the small team of vehicons drill into the earth. She ducked low as a troop surveyed the area… 

“Scrap…”

[leonw4nter]

Sharp Teeth and Sandy Woodland

RE2R!Leon x GN!Reader

!! CONTENT WARNING : Graphic description of bones and muscles making unsettling noises. Don't proceed if you're not comfortable with that!

You knew that something was wrong with your fellow Raccoon City survivor Leon Kennedy when he began exhibiting bizarre behaviors shortly after the government discovered both of you, along with a kid named Sherry and a college student around your age range named Claire. He seemed to be more thirsty than usual, his throat and eyes parched more often than not despite the amount of water he consumes daily. The food served at the temporary housing that the government gave you two wasn’t too bad or dry, for you at least. The rookie cop with you, though, disagreed and expressed dislike for certain starchy and grainy dishes.

“What happened to self-proclaimed “Mr. Not A Picky Eater”?,” you jokingly ask after Leon complained about the potatoes making his mouth feel dehydrated. “You were telling me to suck up those bitter herbs but now you can’t even handle potatoes.”

Leon groaned after finishing an entire bottle of water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not sure. I could handle potatoes just fine back then. Probably just adjusting to the temperature differences.”

You nod, taking another forkful of the meal as you watch Leon grimace before shoving another spoonful into his mouth. Swallowing looked a little uncomfortable for him so you assume that he must’ve been coming down with a sore throat or some sort of nasal malady.

“You could use a trip to the doctor, I think you’re going to get a cold.”

“Yeah, probably.”

A day or two after that conversation, Leon came home with a normal check-up result. He asked the doctor if he was coming down with an allergy but after doing the RAST and the skin prick test if he somehow developed allergies during his short stay in Raccoon City, the doctor confirmed that he had no allergies, which concerned both the patient and doctor. He didn’t wish to reveal and explain the sudden speedy growth of body hair and the presence of it in places that it has never grown in before, like the back of his hands and lower back. He kept other bodily changes to himself, not wanting to alert you and bring unwanted attention which would cause some complications with the protection and surveillance that the government placed you two under. Sherry would also somehow be dragged into the mess he’d create if they found out about him and that is the last thing he wanted the 12-year-old to experience; she’d been through enough and officials were being odd regarding her custody.

Months later, you would notice that his blue eyes also reflected back light, like an animal’s eyes; you shot up in the middle of the night, rattled and drenched in sweat after another nightmare. In your dazed state, you reached for a flashlight and the nearest thing that qualified as a weapon at that moment– a bedside clock. Your roommate shot up as well, getting on his feet and on high alert when he heard your screech of terror, ready to defend you and himself from any threat in the dark. You pointed the light source to the source of the thudding noise, the bright beam pointed straight towards the blond’s eyes. Due to the angle of the flashlight relative to your perspective, you easily saw the greenish-yellow orbs glow which you confused for a threat and sent the clock in your hand airborne, aimed towards him. Leon cursed, rubbing his shoulder that was hit as he looked back at you to clear the confusion clouding his mind. You turned the lamp on, trying to make sense of everything that has just happened as you sink to the side of the bed and attempt to level your breathing.

“Are you okay?!” Leon springs into action, forgetting the ache in his shoulder as he walks over to help you try to calm down. “Please tell me what you need, you’re safe now.”

Your gaze averts his eyes, not wanting to relive the fear that overwhelmed you by surprise when they glowed in the dark. You shut them, hanging your head low but still paying attention to Leon’s soothing voice and instructions, counting to 10 and raising your arms over your head as you gradually calmed down.

“Nightmare?” He asked in a soft voice full of concern, pity expressed on his weary features. Many times he had also woken up like this, needing consolation from you while he shook and sobbed in your arms.

You nod, suddenly aware of the sweat you accumulated and Leon’s fever-like temperature. The concern you had shifted, going from trying to regain your bearings to the disquietude for his health.

“Oh my God, Leon, you’re burning! Get in bed, I’m going to try and get your fever down.”

“Fever?” the 21-year-old echoed, fogged. “I’m fine? I don’t have a fever, nothing’s wrong with me. Promise.”

“Please just get in the bed,” you gently pleaded as you helped him get up and walked him to his side, pushing the thoughts regarding his eyes aside.

Not wanting to argue, he follows you and lays down like he’s instructed to do. Taking his dampened sleep shirt off, he chucks it to the side and sits up against the headboard, the solid frame cool against his searing skin. You emerge from the bathroom with cold water in a bowl, a towel drenched inside. Your face is also splashed with water, some hairs sticking to your damp forehead. You walk to his side before wringing the water from the towel then placing the towel on his forehead, checking the time and subtracting by your estimated amount of minutes that has passed since he helped you calm down from the panic attack.

“C’mon, I don’t have a fever,” he carefully reasons, yet he continues to stay still. “I’m always warm, you know that. Don’t worry ‘bout me, I’m strong despite being a rookie ya know.” He throws in that cockiness, smirking to get your worry down.

“You’re not just ‘warm’, you’re burning up. Stop whining, I’m going to sleep beside you so I can monitor your temperature.” You say as you get comfortable beside him, maintaining a respectful distance before you can lazily drape your forearm over your eyes and try to get some sleep again. “Oh, yeah. I’m really sorry about your shoulder, I was terrified and I just did what felt like the most logical thing at the moment.”

He chuckles, clearing his throat before he speaks. “It’s fine, been through worse. Sleep well, we’ll need it.”

Exhaustion claims you, lulling you into another slumber but deep down you know it’s only a matter of time until the images of death and decay flash on your shut eyes then it’s time to wake up with your heart rattling against your rib bones, adrenaline pumped through your veins. Sometime in the middle of the night, your body nears his and coddles against his side where you feel his warmth the most. The feeling of hair brushing against his skin causes his consciousness to toe the line between sleep and waking, vaguely aware of your body near himself. His consciousness crosses the border of sleep and into waking, his lids slowly lifted like the red drapes of movie houses. He takes the towel off of his forehead, carefully placing it back inside the bowl you set on his bedside table. His tired gaze falls on your sleeping form, his person overcome by the feeling to tuck you against his body, huddling up, and resting his head against your chest to hear your heartbeat. The feeling is strong, too strong, and at the realization that he’s trying to quell these bothersome impulses, he whines like a desperate dog.

As quickly as the embarrassing vocalization leaves his lips, he wraps a hand around his own mouth as his cheeks burn pink in shame while he sits up and rethinks every single decision he’s made in life. He looks at you, registering the faint sounds of your breath in sync with the slow rise and fall of your chest as you sleep; he wonders if you’ve always breathed that loud, maybe he should ask tomorrow if you’ve got any difficulty breathing so he can accompany you to the doctor to get it checked. Running his calloused palm down the side of his face, he adjusts himself to properly lay down and try to catch some shut eye before he starts to hear the first bird chirp. He can only hope that you didn’t hear him make that canine noise.

The morning after was definitely awkward, not because of your panic attack but because of you seeing Leon’s eyes reflect light and him thinking that you must’ve heard him whine. Breakfast was silent, save for the clanking of silverware against porcelain and him asking if you’d like some slices of his fruit. Well, your silverware since he opted to use plastic utensils because the silverware left itchy red spots on his large palm. You were trying to piece his eyes glowing together but nothing made sense; only animals have the membrane that causes light to bounce back and the membrane also helps with seeing in the dark. Humans don’t have it and it’s impossible for a human to be having one since we can’t just develop one randomly so Leon’s eyes definitely threw you off. His temperature was still unusually high but he didn’t look or act ill, he ate just fine… as fine as drinking 3 bottles of water in a single hour can get for him. Leon avoided eye contact, ashamed of the fact that you probably see him somewhere near a mutt or a sex-crazed freak who can’t hold his urges back. He can try to convince you but he thinks that he’ll look even more creepy and defensive, making your perception of him worse. The blond decides to wait until you say something about it or a future conversation will lead to this specific topic. In the meantime that you don’t seem ready to speak to him yet, he’ll go to a local grocery store and buy some waxing strips. It’s for them, he’ll say if an agent follows him to the local grocer like he expects one to and wants to know the reason for him buying such a product. He can’t have anyone know that this is for himself, to try and rip out the ridiculous amount of hair growing in the dip of his spine because shaving isn’t doing the job anymore. Maybe even find a nail file to try and blunt the equally speedy growth of his nails so he wouldn’t accidentally scratch himself or you or anyone.

The breaking point came for Leon after three months since the first symptom, a month away from his deployment to a bootcamp to begin his specialized training before being assigned to work under USSTRATCOM. He woke up feeling crusty, his joints sore and achy like he’d ran and ran until the sun took the place of the moon and stars in the sky. He was also coming down with a sore throat– no, not a sore throat but the driest, most dehydrated mouth he’s ever had. He had done nothing all day but locked himself in the empty storage room of your apartment with a bag of different cuts of grilled meat, scarfing them down like he’s never eaten in all 21 years of living. Despite the room having a working bulb, he didn’t want to turn it on because he found it too bright and irritating for his sensitive eyes that were more suited in a dark environment like he’s currently in. With each bite, he felt like he was going crazy and was slowly losing himself, becoming more crazed and desperate to start running barefoot.

You had already given him a weird look after he came back from the store with his food, bolting to the storage room and telling you to not disturb him; you had the feeling that he was feeling a lot more than he was letting on but you let him do what he wanted to do but you were ready to step in if he needed something. He let out a yelp and placed his food back in its container, a hand coming up to rub the spot of his cheek that he accidentally bit. He ran his tongue to soothe the area, tasting a metallic tinge as the muscle made contact with the tiny cut. The wound stung more than it usually did on the occasions that he accidentally bit his cheek so he felt for his teeth if they were truly that sharp to be causing him that much pain; his canines and incisors were pointier than he remembered them to be.

He ran a finger along the edges and poked the pointy tips on the pad of his finger, the edges of his teeth less smooth and more serrated; he knows that this change is recent because he always kept his teeth in good condition and made sure to brush and floss daily, keeping his sugar intake to a limit to prevent cavities. Now that he is not eating, he observed that the gums in the base of his canines were slightly sore but not overly bothersome. His mind is going into overdrive, worried that all these bodily changes were the symptoms of another virus strain’s infection. He wanted to turn himself in to the government so he could stop himself before he lost control of his mind and dared to put you, Sherry, and Claire in harm’s way but he also didn’t want to; he was afraid of what they would do to him, what they would do to you since you’re the one living closest to him. He knows the might of the government, what they wish to do with him if he happens to fall on the side of what they viewed as their enemy. They bombed Raccoon City despite knowing that there could still be survivors who haven’t gotten the chance to get out, what more could they do to a possible lycanthrope under their custody?

“Leon? You okay in there?” your voice comes out from the other side, knocking softly with your ear pressed against the wood of the door. “You haven’t gone out in a while and it's dark out. You’re not locked in there, are you?”

His bones begin to bother him again, aching and draining all his energy. He lays on the floor, taking deep breaths so you wouldn’t hear him growl and yell out of pain.

“‘M fine,” he hisses. “Just… go… I-I’m… fine…”

You barely part your ear from the door when you hear the crackle and pop of bones, eyes widening at how loud and spontaneous the crackling was. A borderline animalistic growl follows suit, now accompanying the nasty cacophony of bones sounding like they were being rearranged and clothes ripping.

“Leon!” you exclaim, palm pounding against the door. “I’m gonna get you out! Hold on!”

You run to your room and open the lowest drawer, taking the storage room key and speeding back to the door that separates Leon from you. To and from your room, the nasty blend of grotesque noises don’t halt and neither does the pained growls, hissing, and whining coming from Leon. Thanking the gods for pitying on you and your roommate, the knob isn’t jammed and easily unlocks with a tilt. You expect a scene of gore to unfold, a deep red adorning the white walls like an abstract painting or pieces of pink flesh that contrasts the brown hardwood floor but you are not greeted by any of those yet the sight before you still made you feel whiplash, your heart pumping fast to push liquid fear into your veins and petrify you on the spot; a large wolf that you estimate to be 6 feet long with light brown eyes stares back at you, its body curled away from yours and is backed into a corner by the wall. The wolf’s fur features a sandy brown foundation with patchy highlights of blond, its coat resembling a sun-dappled forest floor. Drool drips from the side of the beast’s mouth, fangs bared towards you.

Underneath the thick and rich coat, you spot Leon’s coat and pants that have been torn to bits, the fabric indiscernible from its former state as clothing. Too terrified to scream, you simply back off and slap a hand around your mouth, tears obscuring the large wolf in front of you as you try not to think and visualize the worst: Leon in mangled bits inside the canine’s stomach. You turn around and leap atop of furniture, getting your phone to call animal control with a shaky hand. You don’t know how the animal got here and how it ate Leon without making a mess of his flesh and bones despite the snacking it did on your unfortunate friend but you’re desperate to get it out and properly grieve. You turn all light switches you pass by on, trying to blind and irritate the wolf’s vision but it beats you to reaching the room, the beast pouncing on you, and pinning you to the cold hardwood floor as nasty drool drips on your collarbone. You try to kick yourself free and push what felt like a hundred pounds of weight from your legs away, screaming and crying but the wolf doesn’t budge and instead, digs its snout in the right side of your neck and inhales deeply. You truly acknowledge keeping wildlife safe, you really do, but all rational thought escapes you and your brain is focused on surviving so you smack the canine on the side of its head, stunning it for a moment before you crawl to safety.

The discordance of bones cracking, loud whining, and claws scratching the floor once again resumes, freezing you in your spot as you watch the sight a few feet away from your legs. Collapsing on its side, the canine’s body shakes violently as it growls and howls. Bones and muscles reorganizing itself poke lightly through the skin, rippling the fur; inky black pupils constrict into tiny black dots, milky chocolate irises shifting to an amber shade and amber changing to hazel before settling on blue shocks you out of your state of being frozen still, finally reaching your phone and contacting the local animal control to come pick the animal up. After coordinating with officials and telling them about Leon, you share your address and hesitantly hang up the phone. The vile noises finally end, silence coming in to fill the soundless gap before the next disturbance, which prompts you to carefully inch your door open, a tiny gap before fully holding it open.

It takes you more than a few moments to properly comprehend the sight before you, rubbing your eyes, and pinching yourself to check if you’re really awake and all this is reality; it is and now a small flushed welt is on your left forearm. Leon is on the ground, butt-naked, and laying in a pile of patchy brown and blond fur, some of it sticking on his sweaty skin. He’s unconscious and very unusually pale, posed in the same way as the wolf was before you called. As for the wolf, the wolf is gone; it didn’t leave trashed furniture and more scratched tiles in its wake when it saw itself out. It just disappeared… or turned into Leon instead… or was it the other way around? You pick Leon up (with much difficulty), placing him on his bed before covering his lower half with a blanket and wiping the sweat from his body. Deciding to check up on his vitals, you shine a light through his eyes and relief joins in the adrenaline coursing through your system when they dilate under bright light and return back to a normal size when you take the light away. His pulse is still heightened but they’re in the normal range otherwise. He’s still unconscious but you swear you can see atypically sharpened canines poke out from pale pink parted lips; drool appears to be dried from the side of his mouth, going down into his jaw, just like the wolf’s.

Sitting by his bedside, trying to calm down as you drink a glass of water to recollect and try to process what just happened, you remember all of Leon’s peculiar behaviors prior to now and it all makes sense that Leon could be the wolf– a constantly dry throat, increased gusto for meat, reflective eyes, abnormal speed of hair and nail growth, added strength, and dislike for things with silver. You call back the animal control’s number, telling them that everything’s okay now and that you were simply seeing things, apologizing profusely for wasting time and effort. Setting the phone down, you gaze down on Leon and enumerate the things you’re going to tell him once he wakes up: ask him if he’s a lycan and what you can do to help him now that his life’s changed. In the meantime, you wonder how Leon will fare in the military bootcamp a month from now if this is going to be a regular occurrence. If he’s the wolf. If you’ll accept that he’s a werewolf. If they’ll find out that he’s a werewolf.

NOTE - YOOOO YA GIRL IS NOW ENROLLED IN A NEW SCHOOL RAHH!!! I've taken another step towards my dream of becoming a doctor but at the same time, I'm still a long ways to go but we got this yk!! That aside, I decided to write a werewolf!Leon fic because I remember coming across a fluffy werewolf!Leon fic on AO3 and I rlly loved it so I had to contribute smn to the werewolf!Leon works (that aren't smutty, which is super few). Requests are still open so feel free to continue to drop them :)) I wanna write something angsty next but then I have another fluffy fic idea in my head so the angst will have to wait >:) Anyways, that's it and thank you for reading my fic!!!!!!!!!!! I <333333333333 UUUUUUUUU AND HAPPY PRIDE TO MY QUEER READERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The star dividers are from @saradika , the images are made by me (sourced from Pinterest).

[bwat5-blog]

Caitlyn and Jinx

**Spoilers for all of Arcane**

The use of parallels in Arcane is no secret. Many people much smarter and more eloquent than I have covered this top in great detail. I myself have briefly touched on some examples across various posts. But I love talking to yall and hearing your thoughts on this story and these characters so I'm gonna take a crack at a few of these. As always I greatly appreciate anyone taking the time to read my blathering, let alone respond.

Starting absolutely surface level: they both have blue hair, and they both have a serious talent for marksmanship.

But as we get to know them more, is much more than that. They are both quick, clever minded, and stubborn to a fault. Like being a rookie enforcer who is repeatedly disobeying orders to root out crime in the under city, or being a little girl who refuses to stay away when her family is in danger. And sadly, we watch as the darkness and tragedy of their world takes these clever young women and twists them up until they lose sight of who they are.

I have written in depth about my feelings regarding Silco's part in Powder's becoming Jinx so I will spare you all that again. What I want to discuss is the essential framework of what is transpiring:

* A scared and hurt little girl is isolated and made to feel like the person she was sure she could count on cannot be trusted anymore

* A wise older mentor glides in and fills that hole in her life

* Rather than grieving, being taught to heal and work through the pain in a healthy way, the mentor takes their adopted daughter and weaponizes their pain. Encouraging it. Assuring them that its the only to bring fairness and justice. Sound Familiar?

Please Note: Obviously I am not holding Powder to the same standard as we do Caitlyn in terms of allowing this to start. Powder was a little girl. But, there is SO MUCH MORE to what Caitlyn is going through at this point then some fans are pretending, and rather than subject you all to another deep dive on it I'll try and keep it brief:

* A kind young woman who had grown up in peace and plenty is trying to process her first major loss

* The woman who abducted her, tried to kill her repeatedly, killed many of her peers and killed her mother was in her sights, and the woman she loves and trusted more than anything stopped her

* This is all after the undercity brutally attacks the memorial for her mother, and she had been fighting in the undercity presumably for at least a few weeks before "Vi Betrays her".

So, she is isolated, she is exhausted, she is afraid and she is grieving. So when a literal leader of men and renowned warlord elevates her, telling her they will get justice for her mother, its the only way, Caitlyn is taken in by her.

And here we are, these two women who could not have had different starts in life, have both been taken in and seduced by the harmful ideologies and toxic love of their surrogate parents, who despite caring for them on some level twist Jinx and Caitlyn's pain to their own designs.

This leads them both down their own dark paths that impact everyone around them. Powder slides into the worst version of herself over time. Manic, violent, paranoid and cruel. That little girl who just wanted to help her family seems buried in the dark for good. And on the other side of the coin, we see Caitlyn. A bright and hopeful young woman, transformed into a cold and distant military leader allowing unchecked violence against the down-trodden, and breaking the heart of the woman she loved.

Redemption:

Jinx's redemption comes from many sources. Her reconnecting with Vi, the silencing of Silco's influence, her gaining the respect and admiration of the under city, and of course, Isha. We watch as the fog clears and she starts working her way toward peace in her mind and in her heart.

We get so much less time with during this phase with Caitlyn . This means that we only get a small period of her as "The Commander" before she reunites with vi, and her loyalty is restored. as the show gives us a series of events proving she is still the Caitlyn we know and is trying to atone through action.

But how does it all culminate? In two young women who began their lives on opposite ends of their society, and who brought so much pain into each-others lives, proving that common ground we saw in those lively and clever children . We see Caitlyn's conversation with Jinx and Jinx's final conversation with "Silco" mirroring the lessons that must be learned BY BOTH OF THEM. Silco is telling Jinx the only way the killing ends, is to walk away, to leave the prison of who we consider ourselves to be. Who everyone else considers us to be as well. The discussion is pointed at Jinx in the show but is every bit as poignant for Caitlyn. Where has the pursuit of revenge gotten her? It has almost cost her everything and everyone she loves. The only way this nightmare ends is to let the hate die. To be finished with that violent and wrathful road she was lead down. And just like Jinx, she does. Leaving a stronger, more self-assured version of herself than before.

**Connection To Vi**- Not really the point of this but it's hard to bring up the similarities of the journey these two wonderful characters share and not mention the part Vi plays as well. She is the bridge. Strong, loyal, loving and true, willing to defend Caitlyn to the death but also never going to stop believing in her sister's potential for change. While on many levels it could be said that in their darkest moments Jinx and Caitlyn are the two polar opposites .preventing Vi from leaving her past or trying to force her to exactly that. But by the end of the story Vi is the equalizer that helps move these two women closer to understanding one another

The idea that "nemesis" could have easily been each other had they been born in the others place is not a new concept in fiction. But I love what they did here because it just humanizes them all much and gives the story so much heart and weight. This ended up being kind of rushed so I may come back to it after I do a few more, but I hope you can at least understand what I am saying. Thank you for taking the time. Take Care.

“Greatest thing we can do in life is find the power to forgive.

[alexthebordercollie]

I made this for an Encanto secret santa. Glad my kid enjoyed their gift ^.^ you can read the attached short story below the cut.

︵‿୨ - February 14 1912 - ୧‿︵

The hike up the steep mountainside was more exhausting in the rain. Slogging through the thick sticky mud that grew deeper the higher Bruno climbed. The closer he got to the source of the storm. Bruno spotted Pepa’s ruffled yellow dress peaking out against the murky landscape. The winds whipping the bright fabric about like a flag. Contrasted against the murky shadow the clouds coated across the lush greenery. Washing out all color save for that bright yellow dress. Soggy and miserable as it looked.

 “Can I sit?” Bruno carefully approached the small splash of sorry color sitting alone in the sea of sullen browns, greys, and blues. He pointed innocently to the patch of muddy ground next to his sister.

Pepa looked up at Bruno with the fattest pout. The rain blended with the tears that streamed down flushed red cheeks. Indistinguishable from each other. Green eyes narrowed before looking away. Pepa scooted an inch to the side to make space on her little patch of mud. Bruno sat down beside her. The ground squelching unpleasantly through his trousers. The wind blew Bruno’s hood about but he didn’t bother trying to keep it on his head. There wasn’t much point. He was already soaked clear through to the bone and had been for a while. From up here, the two siblings could watch the wild tears stream down the mountainside and into town. Occasionally a stray neighbor would step outside to brave the storm. They looked like ants. Scurrying wildly about the empty streets to dodge the rain.

“Julieta’s talking to Mamá right now.” Bruno stated awkwardly. Unsure how to make conversation. He knew Pepa didn’t want to talk, but Bruno figured she might feel better if they did. 

He didn’t have much reasoning behind the conjecture. After all, he was the one who caused this storm. Him and his big mouth. His bad luck. Bruno had a habit of making most things worse. He knew Pepa was upset but in her moment of stunned silence, he made the rookie mistake of trying to lighten the mood with a joke. He was stupid. He knew that, but then again… things couldn’t get much worse than they were now. He still wanted to help. Even if he wasn’t very good at it.

“Good for her.” Pepa huffed.

“Mamá’s pretty mad.” Bruno observed. He pulled his poncho over his lap and watched the water collect before wringing it out tightly in his grip. Not that it mattered. He’d stretch it back out again to watch another puddle form.

“Mamá’s always mad.” Pepa spat back in frustration.

“That’s not true.” Bruno countered meekly. Wringing more water out of his poncho. “She’s never mad at Julieta.” 

“At us Bruno!” Pepa snapped. Furrowing her brow in frustration at her brother. 

Bruno said another stupid thing. Of course he did. “Correcto, porque somos los jodidos.” He replied simply. Not sad or resentful. Just a statement of fact. One he knew Pepa was just as self-aware of as he was.

They both knew they were the problem children. Pepa because her emotions always got the better of her and Bruno? Well… what wasn’t wrong with Bruno? He couldn’t exactly explain what the problem was. He couldn’t answer that question if he tried. He just knew he was wrong. Everything he did or said. He was strange. Stupid. Bad luck…

“Ajá.” Pepa sighed in resignation. 

Bruno was just stating the obvious again.

Bruno tucked quietly under his poncho. Wrapping it tight over his knees and resting his chin on the flat surface the tent created. His rat Lupita squirmed up to his collar to poke her head out. The little doe sensed the tension in the air as the deafening silence settled between the two siblings. The storm was loud and raging around them, despite Pepa’s still silence.

“Estoy bien mija.” Bruno soothed to his furry little friend. Petting her sopping wet fur between the ears. He liked talking to his rats like this. When he talked to them he could pretend to be a grown-up. That was always nice. He somehow had a feeling he would never get to be a grown-up for real. He couldn’t explain why. It was just a feeling.

“Puaj, puf, puf, puf, puf, puf!” Pepa suddenly shrieked. Scrambling back away from Bruno. The thick mud staining the little yellow dress that stuck out against the storm. Smothering that little spark of color. “You brought one of your rats?!”

“It’s just Lupita.” Bruno defended. Plucking the small doe from his shoulder and cupping her protectively in his hands. “She’s nice. She was worried about you and wanted to come make sure you were ok.” 

“It’s all soggy and smelly!” Pepa whined. She shuttering and squirming as she leaned as far from Bruno as she could without getting up.

“But she’s so nice.” Bruno protested. Holding up the dripping little doe to show his sister. Showing off Lupita’s bright beady eyes. 

“Ay!” Pepa shrieked as Bruno shoved the rat into her face. Flailing and trying to shove it away. Lupita began to panic and squirm in Bruno’s hands. Attempting to flee Pepa’s shrieking. A bolt of lightning zapped the ground next to Bruno and made him jump. Barely dodging a very painful strike.

“Just hold the rat!” Bruno demanded irritably. 

“I’m not holding that thing!” Pepa yelled back over the howling winds. “It’s gonna bite me!”

Bruno huffed and puffed up his cheeks. He filled his lungs with air and gathered his courage before grabbing Pepa by her arm and forcing Lupita into her hands. “Ahí, ves?” Bruno challenged. Pepa kept squirming but Bruno held her hands clasped over Lupita. The frightened little doe curled up and shook in their hands. “She’s not gonna bite. Just hold her, you’ll feel better.” He insisted.

Pepa anxiously sucked in her lips. Her shoulders bunched up around her neck. Slowly she opened one eye and looked down. She gradually relaxed as she looked at the caged little creature in their hands. Trembling and sweet. Not an ounce of malice in Lupita’s tiny body.

“Feeling better?” Bruno asked softly. Watching Pepa slowly unwind. Bruno’s chest swelled with a sense of pride. He loved his rats. Knew just how sweet they were. How good they felt to hold. Bruno slowly loosened his grip on the girls and guided Pepa’s hands till she was holding Lupita comfortably. The little wet rat continued to shake for a bit before finally looking up at Pepa with wide pleading eyes.

Pepa sniffled and the wind gradually slowed around them. “She’s warm.”  She muttered softly.

“And soft.” Bruno chirped with pride.

Pepa nodded slowly before her puffy red cheeks began to swell. Her eyes welled up as she stared back down at Lupita. Broken wailing sobs escaped her, rattling her delicate frame.

Bruno’s heart lurched up into his throat. Panic setting in with the fresh wave of icy cold downpour that soaked him to the bone. “Oh, oh no, Pepa, don’t cry, I didn’t mean to…” Bruno rushed to try and hold his sister but couldn’t find an opening through the cracks of lighting and harsh winds.

“He said he dumped me 'cause I’m crazy.” Pepa sobbed.

“You’re not crazy!” Bruno scolded sternly. Shouting over the rain. 

Angry tears continued to pour over Pepa’s flushed face. She sucked in a few sharp wheezing breaths before choking out her words. “I feel crazy.” She hugged Lupita to her chest and sobbed into her sopping wet pelt. “No matter how hard I try… It always rains…” 

Pepa’s words dug into Bruno’s chest like a knife. They struck at something, at feelings he didn’t know how to put words yet. He knew Pepa wasn’t the crazy one. She didn’t deserve to feel like that.

“You’re not crazy.” Bruno mumbled as the howling winds died down again. The rain falling straight down like a bucket dumped onto the mountainside. Weighing Pepa’s hair and clothes down like lead. Bruno pulled Pepa close and hugged her. Resting her head on his shoulder. “You’re just a kid.” He told her. “It’s okay to be sad. It’s not your fault.”

Pepa sobbed into her brother’s neck. For a while, it was all she could do. Just sniffle and grieve. Exhausted and sad and broken. “I tried so hard.” She whimpered.

“I know you did.” Bruno replied softly. 

“I was going to be the best novia ever.” Pepa grieved. “We were going to get married someday.”

Bruno winced and tilted his head. “Well… I mean, I knew that wasn’t gonna happen.” He replied.

Pepa shoved him back with one hand. Lupita still perched in the other. “You knew he was going to dump me this whole time and you didn’t say anything?” 

“Oh, no,” Bruno held up his hands in submission. Shrinking back before he risked getting zapped. “I didn’t know what was going to happen I just, like, your baby, in the future, I knew they weren’t his.” Bruno told her. “I don’t know who you’re supposed to marry but I saw your daughter once in a vision.” 

Pepa grew quiet and hugged Lupita again. The tired stressed little rat looked like she was growing impatient with being squished but made no effort to escape her grip. “Could you uhm…” Pepa looked away and tugged at her limp braid with one hand. “Could you see who my husband is? Maybe then I won’t have to waste my time…” 

Bruno quickly shook his head. He immediately knew how that would go. A deep pit in his gut told him if he tried to it would only make life harder for his sister. “I don’t think that’s a good idea Pepa. What if I jinx it? What if I see you with someone terrible and ugly and then you're stuck with him?” Bruno challenged.

Pepa sighed. Her shoulders sagging. “I guess you’re right…” She conceded. She turned away to stare aimlessly back down the muddy slope at the town. Petting Lupita in her lap. “Mamá says real women don’t get their heart broken over stupid little boys.” She pouted softly. 

Mamá was always telling them what it meant to be a grown-up. All the things they had to do and be. None of it sounded very fun. Most of it sounded impossible to Bruno. He wasn’t sure he would ever be a real man. He didn’t know how to be, and seeing the future didn’t make the answers any clearer.

Bruno curled up and hugged his knees. Staring down at the town again. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.” He admitted. Manhood was already hard enough to wrap his head around. He couldn’t begin to figure out being a woman. “I’m pretty sure Mamá thinks I’m a stupid little boy.” He chuckled awkwardly and quacked out of the side of his mouth. “So I guess you better not let me break your heart.” He teased. Turning to look back at his sister. “Then we’ll both be in trouble and I won’t even be able to help cause you’ll be too mad at me.”

Pepa let out a little snort that turned into a laugh. One laugh turned into two, before devolving into more tears again. Her genuine smile a brief flash of light that was quickly snuffed out by a fresh wave of pain. “Dios mío, duele tanto.” She wept. Overwhelmed by a pain Bruno had yet to know.

“Lo siento.” Bruno replied softly. “I don’t know how to make it better.” He looked down at his feet and hugged his knees. His hair clinging to his face and forming thick black curtains over his eyes. He could just see his toes soaking into the mud between the clumps of black. The gentle sound of his sister’s cries just barely audible over the fat lazy raindrops plopping against the ground.

Bruno’s eyes scanned over the mud. Counting the raindrops. Eventually, his gaze landed on a long sturdy branch with a fork at the end. He perked up and squinted at the stick for a moment. A thought occurring to him. Pepa looked up at him curiously as Bruno got up to pick up the stick. He didn’t mind Pepa’s stares. She’d understand in just a moment. Bruno scurried about the slippery hillside and surrounding woods looking for the right sort of branches. It took some searching but he found another similarly forked branch and broke a bit off the end to make them the same length. More sticks, some large fronds that had been knocked from the towering wax palms by the storm.

“What are you doing?” Pepa narrowed her eyes at Bruno skeptically as he approached with his bundle of waterlogged kindling.

“Helping.” Bruno replied simply. 

Bruno dug a couple of holes in the mud on either side of Pepa and wedged his forked branches into them. Drilling them down into the ground and caking the base in mud till it was enough to hold them upright. Another branch draped between the two pillars. Its ends woven into the forks. Once he did so he laid a few other branches he’d stripped of any straggly bits diagonally from the ground to the top branch. He layered palm fronds over the frame he’d created till he’d built a decently solid little lean-to. The walls of packed leaves caught the rain as it fell and offered Pepa a small shelter.

Bruno could feel Pepa’s eyes burning holes into him as he came to sit back down beside her under the palm fronds. “En serio?” She chuckled softly.

Bruno shrugged. “What? I made a shelter. Now you won’t get rained on.” 

Pepa laughed again. A bit more genuine this time. “And? We’re both drenched. What does it matter? We’re still wet.”

“Sí.” Bruno replied simply. “But now we’re a little less wet.” He reasoned. Hugging his knees and listening to the rain hit the leaves and slide off. “I figure that’s still better.”

“Sí, creo que sí.” Pepa replied softly. She flopped sideways, resting her head on Bruno’s shoulder. Lupita looked up at Bruno pleadingly from her perch in Pepa’s hands. Pepa didn’t really know how to hold a rat right but Lupita was doing her best to be patient. Bruno was considering taking his rat back when the next words out of Pepa’s mouth took him by surprise and disrupted his thoughts.

“Gracias Bruno.” Pepa sighed. Closing her eyes and listening to the sound of the rain.

“De nada.” Bruno assured her. Resting his cheek on top of her head.

More Encanto short stories here-

To love for today - Chapter 1 - alexBDcollie - Encanto (2021) [Archive of Our Own]