#team rectangle

[jrueships]

thinking abt how other wide receivers are dressing josh allen in their drip, and it doesn't even match his dopey bull in a China shop gentle cow doe eyes aesthetic... it just doesn't feel Right. it just doesn't feel like. Them. (Diggs/Allen)

[henry-or-something]

time for my annual oc re-draw!! (This is the first time I've posted about this on here)

[doom-dreaming]

53 new mod sets. that oughta be enough

[sugarcherris]

Headcanon: Captain Price’s Pathetic Pillow

Captain price x fem! reader, suggestive theme, 18+, mentions of uterus and cum, and the whole team clowning price.

Everyone thinks Captain John Price is a hardened man of taste—cigars, whiskey, and tactical brilliance.

Cigars? Expensive.

Whiskey? Aged and neat.

Tactics? Lethal.

Beard? National treasure.

And yet… behind closed doors… lies a secret so devastating, so shameful, so soul-flattening…the single most disturbing artifact known to Task Force 141.

His pillow is the saddest object in the entire United Kingdom. Possible Europe. Maybe the entire NATO alliance.

And not just any pillow.

No.

It’s not just flat. It’s deflated. Like it gave up sometime in 80s and never recovered.

This pillow has seen wars, sweat, spit, cigar crumbs, cum, and the weight of an emotionally repressed British forehead night after night. It’s yellowed. It crunches a bit when you press it. There’s one suspicious bullet hole no one asks about.

The first sighting

Gaz stumbled on it once and physically recoiled like it bit him.

“Cap�� what the hell is that?”

“My pillow.”

“…Is it… alive?”

“It’s broken in.”

“IT’S BROKEN DOWN.”

Soap tried to surprise him with a brand-new orthopedic memory foam one. Price took one look at it, gave it one half hearted squeeze it, and muttered

“Too soft. Doesn’t smell like mine.”

Then flopped face-first back onto his tattered parchment of despair.. the war-torn crêpe he calls a pillow with the weight of a thousand suppressed emotions and let out a groan so guttural it summoned ghosts from WWI.

Laswell once compared it to a flattened Yorkshire pudding left out in the rain.

Ghost swears it whispered something to him once. He won’t say what.

That pillow has no bounce. It’s a sock filled with despair.

But he won’t replace it.

Because in his heart, Price believes if his pillow can survive everything it’s been through…

So can he.

You

You tried.

God knows you tried.

But after three nights of waking up with your spine curved like a question mark and your neck sounding like a glow stick every time you turned your head, you snapped. (Somehow all his pillows were deflated flat and soggy. His remarkable pillow is the worse one, the founder, the disease spreader)

Price, meanwhile, is sleeping like some half-naked forest bear—shirtless, sprawled on his war relic of a pillow, beard glinting like wet oak in the moonlight.

“John,” you hiss. “I swear on your beard—if I have to sleep on any more of this limp, moist rectangle one more night, I will summon God Himself to smite this pillow.”

Price rolls over, glowing in the moonlight like a Michelangelo statue who drinks whiskey and shaves with a knife, He shifts lazily, one thick arm draping over your waist, eyes half-lidded with that glint as he murmurs, voice deep and rough like thunder rolling through and just goes.

“Careful, love. That attitude’ll have you face-down ‘n beggin’ before you even touch the sheets.”

Sir. No.

Your uterus shrieked.

Your spine whimpered.

And the pillow—the goddamn pillow grinned.

The Battle Begins

You steal the pillow.

You tossed the pillow in the bin.

It crunched on the way down

You pray over its resting place like a sacrificial offering.

He came home. Sniffed the air once like a bloodhound.

He finds it. In the goddamn trash.

Washes it. Rescues it.

Holds it like a cradled child. Looks you dead in the eye and says,

“This pillow’s older than half the squad. Show some bloody respect.”

He sleeps like a WWII veteran with his hands gently gripping the corners like a parachute cord.

You’re convinced it’s not a pillow.

It’s a coping mechanism.

Eventually everyone started taking action

Soap starts a betting pool. He names it Operation Flat Bastard.

Gaz calls it Flatline. He salutes it sarcastically every time he passes the room.

Ghost adds it to a list of “Top 5 Unholy Objects I’ve Seen.” (It ranks above a haunted mask from Karachi.)

Laswell mails you a care package with six memory foam pillows. No note.

Price tries one of them once—after you begged. The next morning, he stares into space, grumbling:

“Had a vivid dream about paying council taxes. Didn’t like it.”

New plan

You surrender to fate.

But you plan.

One day, when he’s gone again, you’ll hold a funeral.

Full military honors.

You’ll bury Flatline under a crooked rock in the backyard. Light a cigar. Tap the gravestone twice. Whisper, “Rest now, soldier.”

And when he comes home?

He’ll lie down on a new pillow—one you’ve secretly been punching nightly, stomping with boots, smearing it with your cum, and ironing flat to simulate three decades of war.

He’ll grunt once.

Press his face into it. Inhales it.

And murmur:

“…Finally. Feels just right.”

[sportsblr]

So I'm watching the Copa Oro 2023 Haiti v Mexico game rn and its so cool that next to the names they put a rectangle split in two with the colors that the teams are wearing

[mokulule]

While I fail to focus after my night shift have a peek at another of my brain worms

Untitled, I am still waiting for that moment of divine inspiration. Ship: Dead on Main (Danny/Jason)  Fandom: DP x DC 

The only sounds in the Batcave were the bats chittering amongst themselves high above. Bruce rubbed his chin absently as he took in the information displayed on the large screens with narrowed eyes. Something wasn’t adding up. Somebody was lying.

No matter how many times he looked over the information, that was his conclusion. It nagged at him that he didn’t know what, if any, information he could use. He hated being so in the dark. 

A silent notification in the corner of his screen alerted him to a call from the Watchtower. He took it and Superman’s face appeared in a smaller rectangle on the center of the screen. Bruce kept outwardly placid but from behind the cowl nobody would see the way his gaze instantly zeroed in on the massive black eye Superman had acquired, and the general strain around his unhurt eye and mouth. He was worn out. 

“Phantom has been apprehended,” Superman said with a long sigh. It had clearly not been an easy fight. 

“I’ll be there,” Batman said and ended the call. Maybe they’d finally get some real answers. 

He stood and walked towards the zeta tube. Another call came in, this time on the comm in his cowl. 

“Hood,” he greeted.

“Hey, old man. I’m at the location. You were right it’s absolutely crawling with the white suits and their weaponry is not like anything I’ve seen before.”

Bruce felt like a hand squeezed his heart. Hood out of anyone knew his weapons, if he didn’t know them they weren’t on the market. He absolutely hated asking any of his kids to walk into an unknown situation. Unfortunately he didn’t have any other options. 

“Be careful, Hood.”

“Aww, is that worry I detect?”

“Just don’t take unnecessary risks,” Bruce cautioned.

“You wouldn’t have asked me if you didn’t think it was necessary, old man. Don’t worry, I’ll get you your intel.”

Bruce grunted. Jason was right. He wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t think it was important. Didn’t mean he had to like it, nor the fact that Red Hood’s criminal reputation made him perfect for breaking into a government building; even if Hood was seen the Justice League kept plausible deniability. 

Everyone knew Red Hood was a wild card. 

“Check in regularly with Oracle.”

He could practically feel the way Jason rolled his eyes at him.

“Not my first rodeo, B.”

With that the connection cut off. Bruce couldn’t help the bad feeling he had about everything. 

He really hated this stage of an investigation. 

Two months ago the US government contacted the Justice League about a problem. Several bases of a government agency named the GIW had been hit by a malicious creature they called Phantom. The attacks had been gaining in severity and frequency and their measures had so far failed to stop it. 

Since then, a member of the Justice League had arrived too late to five such attacks. They’d stood no chance against Phantom, who’d then disappeared, living up to the name.

To their eyes Phantom was outwardly a humanoid, possibly a meta or alien. The GIW called him a ghost from a different dimension.

They had been at a loss of how exactly to contain such a powerful foe, who not only could go toe to toe with their heavy hitters like Superman, but also disappear by means unknown. This time they’d been prepared. They’d had various team configurations ready to go depending on who was available. 

Something that seemed to have paid off, but Bruce did not like that Clark was injured. Because if Clark was injured…

A zeta tube ride later and he met Superman on the Watchtower. Something that hadn’t been apparent on the call was the sling Superman’s left arm was in. Another visible injury added to the swollen eye. 

“Is everyone alright?” He had to ask.

“Nobody’s permanently hurt.” Clark hurried to assure as they started walking towards the interrogation room, but there was a but. Bruce kept his stare steady until Clark tiredly elaborated: “But nobody got out the fight unscathed. John won’t be walking for a while. J’onn is suffering from psychic backlash. Diana has some broken ribs and scrapes and you can see my own wounds. Everyone is tired, it was a long fight.”

Batman’s lips thinned. At least there had been no casualties. 

Almost as if reading his mind. Superman added quietly. 

“We got there while the base was still standing. Phantom made eye contact with me for a moment, before he unleashed this… sonic attack…” His face turned pained, as he looked for words that came halting. “It was a scream, I can’t describe it, it felt- it felt like I was dying. None of us could get close.”

Superman looked away.

“When it was over the base was gone, eradicated, like the others. There was just a large crater. Who knows how many people were still in there.”

Bruce set a hand on his friend’s shoulder. It was never easy to deal with casualties. 

“The one good thing about it was that the scream seemed to drain quite a bit of energy from him.” Clark barked a laugh, short and hysterical. Bruce knew Clark would have rather faced Phantom at full power if it meant more people had lived. 

“And still it was all we could do to subdue him. We barely won.”

They barely won. Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern and Martian Manhunter, and they barely won. The knowledge sat like a heavy ball in Bruce’s chest. 

Now, maybe they could get intel that wasn’t most reluctantly handed over by a government agency, that didn’t even want to reveal what their alphabet soup name was an abbreviation of. “We had to turn off the ‘Ghost Shield’ to get Phantom inside the base, so we at least know it works, even if for some reason it doesn’t protect the GIW bases,” Superman remarked.  

Bruce hnn’ed to show he’d heard. It was one more discrepancy among many.

Batman entered the observation room with Superman at his back. Wonder Woman was there and he quickly took in her unusually disheveled appearance, she looked tired and uncomfortable, shaken (but whole, safe). He nodded in greeting and she gave him a tight smile in return. He turned to the observation window and felt his breath stick in his throat.

Phantom was- 

The glitchy footage they’d managed to get on earlier encounters couldn’t have prepared him. Bruce felt his jaw clench. Phantom looked young. There was still a hint of baby fat stubbornly clinging to his cheeks. He was short and wiry like Tim but maybe a bit younger than Jason, technically an adult, but to Bruce he still looked painfully young. The overall glowing and the slowly seeping green wound at his hairline didn’t take away just how human he looked. 

Bruce looked at Phantom and saw a kid. Worse, supposedly a dead kid, a ghost, if the most basic of their intel was to be believed, which even that he wasn’t entirely sure of.

A weight was heavy on his shoulders. He had to remind himself that he had found evidence of Phantom throughout history and if a ghost was truly what he was, he was most likely a very old, very powerful spirit, for whom age didn’t matter. It would be a mistake to trust the youthful appearance. 

He was chained to the chair both by wide cuffs at his wrists and ankles so he could only move very little. The cuffs were the best they had when it came to meta power suppression cuffs with some added ghost specific sigils courtesy of Zatanna’s research. She would have liked Constantine to look them over too as that sort of thing was more his area of expertise, but he’d been off on one of his extra-dimensional missions since long before this started and they hadn’t been able to contact him. 

The cuffs kept Phantom here in any case and he didn’t look happy about it. His lips were a flat line and the thick black brows were drawn together over narrowed green eyes. His head was held high (stubbornness? Pride?), chin tilted in a way that showed off a bright green-purple line around his throat, which had it been red and on a human would have looked like rope burn-

Bruce looked to Diana and he suddenly understood part of her discomfort.

“He was about to use another sonic attack, I didn’t see any other way.” Her words were quiet, regretful, but she faced his gaze head on. Bruce nodded. She never would have used the lasso like that under normal circumstances. It was incredibly worrying how much it had taken to subdue him. 

For a moment the three of them just stood there in silence, watching Phantom watch the door.

It was finally time for answers. 

Bruce didn’t make any outward sign that he was about to move, but of course Clark caught on even before he’d moved, stepping aside letting Bruce take point. They went into the interrogation room, Diana staying back to observe and be ready with security measures, they didn’t know for sure would even work.

They entered the room and immediately sharp green eyes locked onto him. There was a quick glance towards Superman, but the eyes quickly focused back on Batman. There was a calculating sort of intelligence behind those eyes. 

That was one question immediately answered, but it was one he could have inferred. It was very hard to believe the claim that this “ghost” was non-sentient, when he specifically targeted the bases of a specific government agency and nothing else. Though of course they could have had something that attracted the ghost, but nobody could look at Phantom and think non sentient. 

Now the question was, why?

Bruce sat down in one of the chairs on the other side of the table from Phantom. Clark had a moment’s pause before he joined them. Bruce pulled out a tablet from underneath his cape and laid it carefully out on the table, turning it on. At this point most people in the room with the Batman would have started getting nervous, but evidently not Phantom. He was still just passively defiant, not to mention he hadn’t yet said a word.

“Phantom, is that your preferred manner of address?” Bruce decided to start out neutral. 

There was a glitter of amusement in green eyes and the barest uptick of his lips, but he remained silent. Bruce could do silence. 

The silence stretched between them until Clark broke it.

“Why do you destroy those bases?”

Phantom glanced to Clark and his earnest question, then back to Bruce, barely raising an eyebrow, like as if to say “really, this the best you can do?” Bruce resisted the urge to sigh. Clark was usually a better foil for him at interrogations, but then most people didn’t choose total silence.

Bruce decided to be frank with him.

“We are trying to understand your motivation. That’s all.” He studied Phantom’s face which had settled into a stony glare. “But first I’d just like to know if it’s alright to call you Phantom and what your pronouns are? We have been using he/him based on your appearance but you might have another preference?”

The glare softened a bit and for a moment Bruce actually thought he’d lured a response out of him, but Phantom just looked away. Incidentally drawing attention to the line at his throat. A sudden thought occurred to him.

“Are you so hurt, that you’re unable to speak?”

Phantom slowly looked back at him. He seemed to actually be contemplating giving some sort of answer.

That’s when his comm clicked on barely audible.

“The GIW has been in contact,” Diana informed him quietly over the comms. Phantom stiffened across from him, his gaze narrowing like a cat - so they could add enhanced hearing to his powers. “They are requesting we hand over Phantom.”

Bruce looked straight at Phantom as he spoke, “They have no jurisdiction in space. I presume you declined?”

“Of course.”

Phantom’s face turned unreadable for a moment. His gaze went from him, to Superman and the opaque glass that hid the observation room. Finally he huffed. 

“Phantom, he/him is fine.” His voice had an echoey quality to it. 

It seemed they were finally going somewhere. 

-

They were not going somewhere. 

Even hours later Phantom kept up his silence. They’d held several breaks. Phantom had been offered food and water but had declined nonverbally. 

They were going in circles, trying the same questions again and again. Prolonged silence didn’t help any either. 

If only J’onn was an option, but he was already suffering from psychic backlash from trying to go into Phantom’s mind during the fight. 

So far the only things Bruce could add to the certain facts were that Phantom was sentient, intelligent and didn’t like the GIW to the point that he would commit mass murder to take them down. 

And Bruce would just really like to know why? Because with the kinds of powers he’d shown off he could have easily killed the members of the Justice League sent to apprehend him. He seemed to have no qualms about killing, yet he’d stayed his hands?

Bruce had hoped that meant Phantom considered them at least somewhat neutral in this conflict. But apparently not neutral enough to talk to. 

Clark had tried and Diana had tried. Nothing helped. 

Bruce was considering his options, when the door opened. 

“B, I need to speak with you.” That was Tim, he looked pale. Something had happened. Bruce got up, Clark following. Bruce decidedly ignored the sudden curiosity from Phantom. They closed the door and walked down the hall. When Bruce felt they were far enough from Phantom he stopped.

“Red Robin, report.”

“We��ve lost contact with Hood.”

Bruce’s heart dropped cold into his stomach. No. It couldn’t be. 

“When?”

“Two hours ago is when he last checked in. He’s since missed several check-ins.” Tim’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. “Could be he’s just not in a position to respond, or they have scramblers in the base.”

It was likely, in fact very likely that was the case with how secretive the GIW were being, but two hours were a long time to miss check-ins. Clark’s hand landed on his shoulder which he only now realized how tense was, but no, now was not the time to relax or calm down. He shrugged Clark’s hand off and stalked back down the hall.

The GIW were mum about any details. There was only one person who could tell them what Jason was facing in that building.

He burst into the interrogation room and slammed his hands on the table. That got Phantom’s attention his eyes widening before narrowing and his lips splitting in a snarl that showed off fangs, but Bruce sneered right back.

“We lost contact with an agent sent to infiltrate a GIW-base, you will tell me what you know about them, or so help me I will make you wish you stayed in that dimension you came from.”

“Batman, please, maybe you should step out-“ Clark began good hand hovering shy of Bruce, but he was interrupted by the bark of laughter coming from Phantom.

And then he laughed and laughed and laughed. 

Bruce punched him. Clark pulled him back. 

Phantom slowly turned his head back to look at them, working his jaw. 

“There we have it after all. Your true colors: attacking a chained up captive.” He wiggled his fingers drawing attention to the wide thick cuffs dwarfing his wrists. His eyes held only cold judgment. “But don’t worry, Batman, your agent has nothing to fear from the GIW unless they are dead.”

Bruce couldn’t help the flinch and he felt Clark do the same. Something in the very air stilled then, making it hard to breathe. 

“You,” Phantom began standing up, right out of the restraints as if they weren’t there, “are going to explain to me what that reaction means…“ He carefully put his hands down on the table and leaned forward in a way that made it very apparent he was holding himself back. He glared holes into Bruce’s skull with blazing green eyes. “Unless you want your agent back in pieces.”

-

Psssst. this is actually the beginning of the fic where this is from (CW: relatively graphic aftermath of vivisection)

So basically Phantom is public enemy number one, or at least top of the US government and GIW's shit list XD Huh, "Wanted: Dead or Alive", might actually be a pretty fun title, what do you guys think?

[thatonesonicfanfictionwriter]

Hihi!! I have a small request idea if you're still taking them.

What if Shadow needed to take off his gloves -maybe they got a tear and needed to be fixed, etc, and the reader gets to admire his paws/ hands/claws (and perhaps the lil experiment number/mark I’ve seen him have in some things)? Can be platonic or romantic!! If romantic... maybe some hand smooches?

“A Show of Trust”

Pairing: Shadow the Hedgehog x Reader

Requested: Yes (by an anon).

Description: Mobians almost never took off their gloves. So when you get the chance to see Shadow’s hands, you aren’t going to take it lightly.

Notes: Eeee fics like these are always so cute! I hope I live up to that expectation with this one, and I hope you enjoy!

(Reader will be gender-neutral, and will be mobian for story purposes.)

(Not proof-read/beta-read.)

– – – – – – – – – – – –

It was a basic day for you; you didn’t have work today and there wasn’t much to do. Though, your partner, Shadow the Hedgehog, was off doing his own thing.

He was probably with Team Dark or racing with Sonic. Or shopping with Amy.

…Actually, you were banking more on the first one.

While you were in the middle of watching Cutthroat Kitchen, you heard the sound of Shadow warping back into the house, causing you to pause your show.

“Hey Shads! Welcome back,” you say, turning around on the couch, away from the TV.

…Only to immediately turn back around.

“I- didn’t realize your gloves were off, sorry,” you mutter.

“…And why is that a big deal?” Shadow asks.

“Well, um- Mobians typically only take off their gloves around the people they deeply trust,” you explain. “And partners, of course.”

“Considering you’re my partner and I trust you, I don’t think it matters if I have my gloves off,” Shadow says.

“You’re…allowing me to see your hands?” you ask.

Shadow steps in front of you, holding out his hands, palm side up.

“Only if I get to see yours as well,” he states.

You immediately take off your gloves and hold his hands by the back, admiring them.

His hands are more like, well, human hands, but he has paw beans and noticeable claws.

Each of his beans are the same color as his hand, except for the big one in the middle, which is pink, and the one on his middle finger, which is red due to his arm stripe reaching up to his middle finger.

“Shadow. Your paw beans are adorable,” you tell him.

“Thank you?” he says.

You kiss the tip of his middle finger, causing his face to tint green slightly, before turning his hands over, now holding his palms.

On the back of his left hand is his symbol, while on the back of his right hand is a different marking. His stripe goes around the back of his hand to make a red-outlined rectangle, the inside of the rectangle reading in red letters, “P.S. 02.”

“P.S. 02?” you question.

“Project Shadow, the second attempt,” Shadow mutters.

“Oh,” you mutter. “Sorry for prying.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “You were just curious.”

You pull his right hand up to your lips and give it a kiss as well, causing the green blush on Shadow’s face to become deeper.

You were starting to wish he would take his gloves off more often with how cute he was.

“Your hands are…much different than I thought they’d be,” Shadow says, holding yours up. “They’re more…paw-like.”

“Is that a compliment?” you ask.

“It is,” Shadow says. “They fit you.”

“Aw, you’re so sweet to me, moonlight,” you tell him.

“Not as sweet as you are to me, sunshine,” Shadow replies with a small smile.

You give him a kiss on the cheek.

You couldn’t be happier to have him in your life.

[bettystonewell]

IF YOU LEAVE

Chapter 2: Left of Center

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester x Reader

In the spring of 1988, Dean meets the girl of his dreams. He just doesn't know it yet. 3.5k words

Tags: Dean as a teenager (he’s a bit of a dirtbag), Bobby trying to parent, language, flirting, 80s & 90s pop culture references

Mood-board by @chevroletdean for #chevroletdean’s 500 😘

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

March, 1997

Being back at Bobby’s is exactly as Dean remembers it. Either the Sioux Falls house is stuck in some time loop or the objects and dust littered throughout the rooms are stuck with glue or something else. Anything’s plausible.

Even the liquor bottles and trash don’t appear to have moved over the last nine years, though he knows that’s not true. He was here two weeks ago when John arranged all this. He saw both men drink from the bottle of Jack still on the kitchen table as they discussed his life and future.

The whole situation bites. Sucks. He should be out there helping find whatever killed his mom, but they say they know better. That he needs an education. And if he doesn’t play house with Sam and Bobby? Then he loses the car, and he’s not losing the car.

It’s extortion. The threat, insulting. Nobody puts Baby in a crusher. 

Besides, John already handed over the keys on his birthday. She’s been in his name ever since. That’s two whole months, give or take, and there’s just gotta be some hoodoo superstition against giving someone something, then taking it back, right?

He pulls her into the carpark, furthest as he can away from all the Civics and Bugs taking up the asphalt. Shifts her into P. Cuts the engine, and that’s when he first hears the trills, grunts and hoots from his soon-to-be peers. 

Just great. This place is a zoo. No wait, zoo animals are better behaved. Hell, he’d prefer a haunted, crazy-house 

There’s the jocks with their green and gold sports-team jackets. The cheerleaders, matching them, but with hot, perky tits, and gloss, not so bad. The dweebs, Sammy’s crowd, and the loner kids paving their own way at the back of the pack, heads down in books and Game Boys. They make the stoners look alive, and, no; you know what, they might actually be alright. He’d rather be playing a bit of Zelda right about now, too. 

Still, he can’t. John threw the last ‘64 he rented in the trash. Luckily, they skipped that town soon after and he didn’t have to pay for the late fees. Like he would’ve. 

With a heavy sigh, his fingers grip the lip of his backpack, dragging it out of the car with him, flinging the weight of his text-books over his shoulder, pulling the muscle.

“Dude, that your ride?” someone asks, but he ignores them, and elbows tucked in at his side, pushes through the horde or hormones and sweat to the office, well away from whoever that was.

It’s best to just get this over with.

“Name?” the admin assistant, Mrs Heady, asks down her rectangle glasses. 

Her name tag says her first name’s Beverly, but they just met and it’s too soon for a first-name basis, and a grin tugs at Dean’s mouth. “Whatever you want it to be, sweetheart,” he says.

He can’t help himself. Not when a group of pretty cheerleaders stand right behind him, giggling and shaking their pom-poms. It’s a crime they’re allowed to wear such short skirts to school, but at least them being up close makes his day somewhat better. 

Luckily, this time, he’s learned something from John. How to conceal his…gun, because the girls giggle louder and it goes straight there.

He turns around and winks at the blonde closest to him. 

She blushes. Turns in turn to her friends and shakes with laughter. Lips glossy and pursed and eyes fixed on him as she whispers something to the girl with the ringlets. He wags his brows at her.

“Hi,” he mouths, but the third girl pushes them to the corner next to some trophies covered in dust, and—

“Son. I need your name.” Mrs Heady snaps him out of his trance with a poke from something he only feels on instinct from his jacket, shifting ‘round his ribs. 

His reflexes are too sharp, though, and now more eyes are on him and the way he holds the ruler she had hidden behind her desk in his hands. Vice-like grip, looking like a prayer over the self defence it’s meant to be.

“Winchester,” he gives, and lets go of the damned thing to hold his arms by his sides. He shrinks into his jacket. Shoulders droop, chin dips. “Dean.” He clears his throat. 

More giggles in the background retrieve his smirk. 

“Dean,” she says, then repeats, again, and again as she flicks through her files only to find his name on top in the end, anyway. “Here we are. Mrs Truman’s homeroom. B - twelve. You’ve got music up first.”

She hands him a timetable. He glances over it. Math, biology, English. Just great. Two months of this. 

He scrunches the paper and shoves it into his backpack so he can round up the ladies. “So,” he takes a couple of steps closer and loops his arm over the girl with the ringlets’ shoulders. “Care to show a guy around the school?”

Dean’s cheek still rings where cheerleader two slapped him. He nurses it in his left hand as he opens the door with his right, stepping into his homeroom with a little more apprehension than he cares to admit. 

It’s musky here. As dusty as the trophies in the office, only full of more kids, all staring at him as he walks over to the teacher, also looking him up and down. 

Okay, it’s not so different. He definitely shrinks a few more inches, and gives himself a once over, checking he’s still wearing his clothes. 

He is. So is the same blonde cheerleader sitting in the front row. Her smile, much sweeter than it was before. Her lashes batting against freckle dusted cheeks as quick as she had to have been to beat him here.

“You must be Winchester,” Mrs Truman says, and Dean brings his attention back to her with a click of his jaw. 

“Yeah.” 

“Transferred from Colorado?”

“That’s what it says.” He wrote it yesterday morning after a sharp smack from Bobby’s hand to his shoulder.  

He knows he deserved it. Sammy was only asking about John, who pissed off the second he dropped them off, leaving him to deal with the paperwork. Both of theirs.

Just as Mrs Heady had done, Truman sees him through her glasses, only she’s looking further up on account of the height difference, even without a desk. Her greying curls shake as she points to the back of the class. “Take your seat Dean.”

He winks at blondie and proceeds down the canyon of desks and the backpacks at their owners’ feet to the sole remaining seat. It creaks as he slings his weight into it. Groans as he stretches his legs out. His sneaker taps the chair in front. Peachy. 

Most eyes revert to the blackboard at the front, but one girl’s gaze lingers longer than the rest. Her brows furrowed in concentration before he raises his at her. 

It’s not flirtatious. More of a ‘what’re you looking at,’ kind of vibe, and really, what is she looking at? He’s got nothing on his face, though he wipes it just to make sure. Palm covering the smirk from her attention, scratching over the stubble on his chin that’s already regrown. His nose tingles under the weight of it, but it means little. 

She would too if she had an audience, yet her stares continue throughout the day like she has none. Done when she thinks he’s not watching. 

He is. He’s just better at hiding it.

She does it during music. Third and fourth period, too. He’d say she’s following him, but of course, she has a schedule of her own. She has to. It’s just a small high school. Doesn’t make it any less constricting. 

His nose tingles constantly. The grape jelly at lunch lingers in his gut along with his gun from the cheerleaders, and still she stares every so often with that same crinkle of her brows. It’s like she’s never seen a dude in a leather jacket before. Never seen a car as cool as his. 

As the week rolls on, though, she blends into the crowd. At least, he doesn’t notice her stares any longer, too busy with his own on cheerleader two. 

Her name is Melinda. Her ringlets, natural. Rack is too. Dean cops a feel when she helps him catch up on his biology between fifth and sixth in the janitor’s closet on the second Wednesday. He pays her back with a hickey on her right shoulder. 

“Mark’s having a party Friday,” she whispers into his ear. Hand grips his arm when he swirls his tongue to soothe the reddened skin.

“Good for him.” His fingers squeeze her, storing away the feel of the muscle bouncing back for future use. 

She scoffs and nudges him off. Said something, too, but Dean’s fixed on the way her lip shines under what little light the bulb overhead is giving. He leans closer in and pulls the bottom one between his own to taste more cherry. Feels the warmth bubble in his gut.

“Dean.” She smacks him this time. It would pinch, but the leather of his jacket softens the blow.

“What?”

“I’m asking if you wanna go with me. It could be fun.”

He wants to roll his eyes, and he almost does, but he knows doing so will stop him from getting any further with this girl, and he’s worked so hard to get her here. Listening to her talk about Leo and some song about Barbies. He forced himself to tune in to the local radio station and all he learned was that some guy, with a voice that sounded like a chain smoker, wanted Barbie to party.

Not him. Nope. The music they all listen to is trash, and he is not going to surround himself with it on a Friday night just to get some action. His hand’ll do just fine with the memories of her tit.

“Or we could hang out. Just me and you.” His lips nip at her again. “Brady Point.”

“Braden,” she says with a whine. and that click girls do when they’re trying to be angry. It’s cute. 

“Yeah.” He swoops back in. 

“But my friends will be there.” 

And this is going nowhere.

Her eyes are as still as the rest of her, holding him as if she’d physically reached in and grabbed them. Neither blinks, but Dean tries to convince her he’s more interesting than a party at Marks. 

Turns out he’s not, and he’s left to his own devices Friday night, lounging ‘round Bobby’s, cleaning his colt.

“Did John give ya a curfew I should know about?” his ‘uncle’ says across from him. Bottle of beer in his hand. 

Just as he did in the janitor’s closet with Melinda, Dean doesn’t blink when he looks back at him. He places the barrel down, reaches for the oil and busies his hands once again. 

It’s not like he wants to be here. He’d still rather be out on the road with John, even though he threatened to take the car. At least he’d be doing something useful with his time. Algebra ain’t going to help him gank no ghost. Don’t get him started on music theory or the essay due Tuesday morning.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” Bobby takes a swig and stands with a loud scrape of his chair over the floor. The floorboards continue to protest as he pads his way to the fridge for another. The creak of the door and the rattle of glass is obvious enough, but what Dean doesn’t expect is to be handed one, too, when he returns. 

“Even Sam’s out with the friends he made.” Bobby glares at him over the bottle, twists the cap and flings it on the table. 

Dean does the same. 

He’s mid sip when Bobby sits back down and asks, “Weren’t you seeing that cheerleader? Melissa?” 

The cold brew goes down the wrong pipe, and his fist whacks the top of his sternum. The thump drowned out by his splutter and wheeze. How the hell does he know that? Unless…Sammy. That’s the last time he picks him up from school. Kid can ride his bike, rain or shine.

He looks up at Bobby, still waiting for him to be done. His beady eyes under his cap and the specks of grey in his beard continue to point at him.��

“What do you want me to say?” Dean dares before another mouthful. Slower this time. Letting the bubbles slide down his throat, keeping his mouth and hands occupied. 

“Nothing. Not my place to give ya advice, either.” He sighs, and Dean just knows there’s a ‘but,’ coming. “You got the chance to have a normal life for a minute. Why not enjoy it?” Bobby leans into the table. There’s a split second of grouch as his face changes and his jaw tightens, humbling his pride. “I hear that Sutton kid’s throwing a party.”

And Dean chokes again. Fucking Sam. He scowls. “You want me to go get drunk with a bunch of other kids? That what you’re saying?” 

“You telling me you’re straight-laced now? Only difference between them kids and me is they’ve got smaller prostates, and don’t need to whiz every—”

“Okay. Fine,” Dean says and gulps some more beer down. Thunks it on the table with finality and stands. He pulls his jacket on and steps over to pick up Baby’s keys from where he left them. 

But, “The hell you’re driving,” stops him in his tracks and he’s heading out the door, keyless and without another word, raising his collar up to protect his neck from the night air. The screen door slams behind him.

Now what? He doesn’t even know where the party is, let alone how he’s going to bust it to this guy’s house without his car. School’s a ten-minute drive from here, and chances are, Mark’s place is further still, and there’s no way he’s walking that far. 

He digs his boots in the dirt. Smushes the grass tufts, scattering the powder, blackened by the sky, and looks around. Cars, whole ones, shells of them, and stars as far as the eye can see surround him. But also under the shed, poking out behind the pole closest to him, the rim of a thin tire catches his eye. 

It’s the same place they used to keep their bike, not Sam’s new one - he stole that - but the one Bobby fixed up all those years ago. 

Of course, he’s grown, but the thing looks tiny. Creaks under his hands when he tugs it out. The bars are rusty and he can feel the coarse, flaky metal against his fingertips. Even the rubber handles have disintegrated. 

Out of its confines, he lifts his leg over and straddles the middle bar. Wheels it back and forth under him. He places his ass on the seat, and, yeah, there’s no way he can ride this thing like this, but if he stands, it’s possible. 

Shaky.

Rickety.

Yet before he knows it, he’s peddling down the path just the same. Gravel flicks up against his jeans, but it’s freeing. That wind in his hair. Breeze on his cheeks. The way his jacket swings behind him like a cape as he leans over the handlebars. The same ones Sammy used to ride on. 

Laughter. Fun. Bat signals. Ninja turtles. His mind goes back to a time when he shared it all with you that one spring. What was he, nine?

Huh. It’s been a while. He wonders what happened to you? Did you skip town? Do you go to school with him now, and he just hasn’t run into you yet? 

Maybe you’re at the party? One of Melinda’s friends, though you would’ve said something if he knew them, and none of their names match yours. Not even the middle name Mary, like your mom. You sure were long winded. Could blow the biggest bubbles in your shakes. 

God, he’s a dweeb. His nostalgia, pulling at his heart strings, buzzing his nose, and steering the bike to the old arcade ‘cause why not. 

Whirs. Dings. Whistles. Like Bobby’s, it hasn’t changed one bit. The jingles made by synthesisers are as familiar as Baby’s rumble. The soundtrack trying to overcome it all hasn’t let up its 80s tunes either, and Dean strides through the tinted doors to the riff of Kenny Loggins’ Danger Zone. He’s pumped.

Nope. Nothing’s changed, alright. 

There’s a musk to the place that he’s never been able to put his finger on, but one that’s popped up throughout his life. It’s a taste. A burn in his nostrils from dust and mould, sweaty palms, and old money that’s spent most of its life being jammed into the pockets of little boys.

Speaking of, he reaches deep into his and pulls out his leather wallet. Flips it open. Stops the just-in-case condom he keeps in there from falling out. He’s prepared, and he’s got plenty of dollar bills ready to change over.

He smooths one out, chuckles at the joke he’s made about rubbing that something else instead, and feeds the edge into the slot. Only has him grinning more. The thrill and rattle of money coming out is alright, too, and the closest to the feel of Vegas he’s gonna get without a fake ID and a broken razor.

Coin laden, he heads for Donkey Kong, the first thing he recognises - if only the sucker knew he wasn’t the main attraction any more. He bites his tongue with his newest coin-slot joke, is relieved for a moment that these things don’t spit out white tickets, and hits start.

It’s like riding the bicycle. All floods back. He even gets to the second level on the first go, but then Mario drops the hammer on himself and then is hit by a barrel. Totally not his fault. Totally, he tries again.

It mightn’t be as advanced as modern, 3D Mario or Zelda, but there’s an addiction for sure. He plays another, and a few more than he’s willing to admit before moving on to the next one. Has a go at all his favourites. Loses to some punk-ass junior on Time Crisis. 

“Real guns don’t work like that,” he spits over Bon Jovi’s ‘Shot Through the Heart’, and heads to the snack bar. Another piece of nostalgia, Red Vines, call his name.

By now it’s getting close to nine. Not late for a guy with no curfew, but late enough that the younger kids are calling it quits, and sweet, zero lines. 

He steps up to the counter, pulls out his wallet again and looks straight into the eyes of the girl with the goofy hat. She’s not wearing it now, though. Hair pulled up off her face and neck. He just recognises the furrowed brow, and his raise in unison. 

Great. “Hey,” he says. Mutters, more like. 

He avoids her stare and concentrates on the candy before him, picking up two packets of the red licorice and a box of Milk Duds. “Can I get a root beer, too?” He smiles out of politeness, but it’s reserved, and lacks its usual charm. He straightens when she continues to stare and startles as much as she does when she realises.

“Ah, sure.” She turns on the soundtrack’s newest changeover, a slow synthetic drumbeat that’s as almost familiar as the way her hairline pulls at her neck below her pink blouse. 

It can’t be. It’s too coincidental. He finds that bike only to think of the girl he once knew, and there she is, just like that? All this talk of hoodoo, but it is the same town, the same arcade?

Nah. Coincidence. That’s all this is. Pure coincidence. These thoughts and memories about the girl he once knew messing with his brain more and more…until she turns around again and he really looks at her. At you.

He looks at you. 

And if this all hasn’t wigged him out already, the guy, swooning over the stereo says something about always being friends someday.

His finger points in your direction and it’s not just for telling you what else he wants to buy. 

You blink. Those eyes. Those brows. 

“You’re—”

“Hi Dean,” you say with a thin smile, and then, as if his recognition fuels you, that confident tone he’s just remembered, the one that once took his juice box, has you adding, “Took you long enough.”

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

Am I running with that one random line Dean made about Zelda, somewhere in the show? You bet I am ✌️

I know I put five chapters down in the Masterlist, but I ended this chapter earlier than intended because it seemed like a better spot than I’d planned, so there might be another yet, time will tell.

Did you know a Dean in high school? Did you date someone like him? I had way too much fun writing him as a horny teenager 😂 let’s see how they get along now 😘

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[giuseppe-yuki]

oh, deer!

george russell x deer shapeshifter!reader

w.c.: 2k

warnings: asshole reporters, cursing, suggestive material

part of my shapeshifting!reader series

summary: the ability to shift into a deer gets you out of some complicated situations

picture credits from pinterest :)

“wake up love, we are here!” george whispers, softly shaking you. 

you open your eyes slowly, and find yourself in the familiar inside of george’s sleek silver mercedes amg c 63 s. next to you, george has already turned his attention to searching in the middle console compartment for his badge, forehead wrinkled in irritation.

blinking the sleep out of your eyes, you grab your chanel clutch and feel inside for the familiar rectangle shape of you and george’s badge. even if your boyfriend was so skilled in driving that he could become one of the world’s top drivers, he definitely still had to work on his organization skills and not leave things lying around. 

you take out the badges from your bag and hand them over to george, sending him a small smile when you see the relief on his face.

“good lord, i don’t know what i would’ve done without you,” he says, giving you a kiss on the cheek. “i nearly had to call toto again to print me a new badge! at this rate, they should probably put a badge printer outside the gate for me when you’re not here,” he joked. 

you laugh aloud. it wasn’t often that you attended george’s races. it wasn’t that you didn’t want to- it was that your job as a lead conservation biologist in one of canada’s biggest national parks, wood buffalo, was really demanding and took up much of your time. this time though, your boss allowed you to take a few days off in order to watch your boyfriend at the canadian grand prix.

“ready to go?” george asks, putting on his team kit jacket. 

you nod, and like the gentleman he is, george hops out of his side of the car and rushes to open the door for you. 

“why thank you, good sir,” you say in a fake posh accent, taking his hand and climbing out of the car. 

the weather in montreal was slightly drizzly, but nothing you weren’t used to working in wood buffalo. you brush a few fat raindrops off of your coat as you walk towards the gated entrance of the paddock, wet gravel crunching under your feet. george reaches for your hand, entwining it with his. he suddenly turns to you. “i just want to thank you again for coming to the grand prix with me,” he says seriously. “i know you’ve been exhausted managing everything thats going on in wood buffalo and i’m so glad you’re spending your off days with me!” 

“aww, georgie!” you say grinning, “no need to thank me! i would willingly spend my break wherever in the world as long as you’re there.” 

by the time you arrived in the garage, the media had been notified of your presence. it wasn’t everyday that george russell’s shy elusive girlfriend showed up in the paddock. why haven’t you shown up at any other of george’s races? did you secretly hate him? were you hooking up with other guys while george was racing in japan? they didn’t even bother researching your background as a conservation biologist before throwing the wildest accusations at you. 

the second george left your side in the garage in order to hop in the car to start fp1, you started noticing media reporters and cameraman sneak into the mercedes motorhome in order to get the “scoop” about your attendance record at george’s races. when you looked at the live feed on the tv screens, you could see your own face staring back at you with a little frown. 

“hey, i’m a reporter for motorsport.com!” an enthusiastic woman exclaims next to you, causing you to jump a bit. “can i–”

before she could finish her sentence, a white samoyed barrels straight in the small gap between you and the pushy reporter. the dog barks at the woman, circles you a few times, and sits in front of your heeled feet, as if guarding you from the other newscasters. 

you whisper a small ‘thank you’ to the samoyed, giving a few pets on its thick white coat. you were pretty sure this was lewis hamilton’s dog, as you always saw it trailing around him in the media pen and around the paddock whenever you rewatched the f1 recaps and interviews when you were stuck in wood buffalo. the dog turns around, winks at you, and pads off towards lewis’ part of the garage. 

what the- you think. i had to be imagining that, because no way a dog just winked at me.

thankfully, the rest of the reporters keep their distance the rest of fp1, and you watch george as he gets a respectable result. you keep your distance as the engineers and strategists fix and put away parts of george’s car when he pulls back in the garage. george himself, sweaty from the multiple laps, pulls off his helmet and ear piece before approaching you. 

“how’d i do?” he says, grinning at you. his eyelashes seem extra long and his lips seem extra kissable right about now. before you can react, lewis shouts from across the garage.

“george, toto wants us in the meeting room in five. there’s an emergency meeting about tire management that he wants us to go over before fp2.” turning to you, lewis looks apologetically. “i’m sorry love, i know you probably wanted to spend some time with george before fp2, but toto was insistent on the meeting. you are welcome to wait in the driver rooms or walk around the paddock in the meantime!” 

you nod understandingly at lewis as george steps forward and wraps you in hug. he places a kiss at the top of your head, and whispers in your ear, “i’ll try and get out as soon as i can.” 

without george, lewis, and lewis’ samoyed, the reporters started to creep up to you again. your tired physical and mental state from the flight from wood buffalo along with the stress from having to talk to the journalists did nothing but piss you off even more. it got to a point where they were chasing you down, with their mics and cameras in hand. you spotted other drivers, but you were too scared to ask them for help, because you barely knew them from the small amount of time that you spent at any of the races.

you had managed to squeeze yourself between two garages at the edge of the property, haas and mercedes, to hide from the reporters, when you finally decided to use your last resort. 

you hurriedly morphed into your deer form right as the reporters found your hiding nook in between the garages. 

“huh?” a man dressed in a tropical button up says, eyeing you suspiciously. “i swear to god she ran in here!” 

a reporter from a different source shrugs. “that’s so weird. i guess we were chasing the poor girl down though. maybe i’ll come back a little later to do a double interview with her and george after fp2.”

the first man nods in agreement. “i guess so. we could possibly take a few shots of this random deer here though. it’ll be good for the nature and wildlife panel we can make for the paddock.” 

you flee from the scene the moment they are gone, and wander around the paddock, gaining attention from many fans. they stop to take a few pictures with you, not that you minded, because at least they were nicer than the reporters. fifteen minutes later, you find yourself by a patch of grass by the track. you spot a few wild rabbits hidden amidst the green blades of grass and approach them slowly. keeping mental notes about the characteristics, you continue to observe their movements. you giggle internally when they glance at you and tilt their heads in a questioning look. your shapeshifting abilities definitely had its perks, especially when it came time to analyze the wildlife. your boss had always wondered how you were able to make such accurate notes about the behaviors of other species. 

unbeknownst to you, f1tv had captured a live feed of the “cool deer by turn 10.” 

“what a magnificent creature!” david croft remarks. “it’s just wonderful seeing the wildlife around canada.”

partly through toto’s rant about how the unpredictable rain is fucking up their entire tire management plan, george has already zoned out. the word “wildlife” booming from the outside speakers is what captures george’s attention as he idly spins a pen around his fingers. perking up, he looks outside the window of the mercedes motorhome. sure enough, he sees you, his girlfriend, plastered on the gigantic screen that usually showcased the live feeds of the drivers during the race. his eyes widen the size of saucers. he could hear crofty comment on how the deer was probably seeking out the wild bunnies in order to make friends. but, from his pov, he could see you still and unmoving, probably analyzing the rabbits and taking mental notes. 

he quickly excuses himself, ignoring the questionable glances from the rest of the engineers and lewis, and rushes out the door towards the track. 

when he nears your area, he lets out clicking sounds with his tongue- three short and two long- a secret code you both had devised when you first started dating. 

you immediately lift your head and come prancing towards him, letting at a little bleat when you see the wide grin splitting his face. 

the meeting is all but forgotten when you both find yourself in george’s drivers room. you are sitting on george’s lap, lips a little bruised and hair messy after sharing a few heated kisses. 

“care to tell me why you were literally on track during my meeting?” he asks teasingly. “lewis did say you should explore the paddock, but not the grass two inches away from the track!”

you roll your eyes, and explain what went down after he left with lewis. his brow furrows more and more as you continue to describe how some reporters chased you down. 

his mood shifts quickly to furious. “i am taking this to the GPDA. this is unacceptable behavior towards anyone, much less my own girlfriend!” 

you place a hand on his chest, calming him down. “it’s okay, georgie. i understand they were just trying to do their job and get content- it’s just that they were a bit harsh, that’s all.” 

he nods, but doesn’t stop looking concerned for you. “you must still be so stressed and tired, love. i can give you a shoulder massage, how about that?” 

“a shoulder massage?” you ask, incredulously, “erm… sure.” you climb out of his lap and sit on the floor, while he places his hands onto your shoulders.

he rolls his thumbs into the sore muscles around your back, loosening them out. continuing up, kneading the tense tendons in the lower part of your neck.

you sigh in contentment, “mmm, that’s so good georgie!” when he brushes past a particularly achy part of your shoulder, you let out a groan. “a little harder,” you murmur, eyes closed in enjoyment.

at the worst time possible, you hear a loud knock on the door of george’s driver room trailer. 

“george, open up the goddamn door!” says someone in a german accent outside. “i literally hear your girlfriend’s voice in there! you better not better not be fucking when you should be in the meeting that you left half an hour ago!”

your eyes widen in surprise. “what the hell, george??? you left the meeting to come see me? why the hell did you do that?” you whisper-yell at him. 

before he can answer, the door slams open. 

toto peers in, only to see slightly sweaty george with messy hair, and a stunned-looking deer in front of him. 

“ermm… what is going on here?” he says, mouth in a frown and arms crossed. “why is the deer from turn 10 in your drivers room, george? are you a disney princess attracting all the wildlife or what?”

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[vxnuslogy]

— unfinished business.

starring: stellaron hunter!sunday x gn!reader + the other stellaron hunters.

premise: on his first mission with the stellaron hunters, sunday hesitates, unable to push through. frustrated, you step in, taking on the task. when danger strikes, Sunday becomes your unexpected savior. the mission succeeds, but sunday is left wondering about your unfinished business in the capital of passion and your mysterious past before you joined the team.

— warnings: slight angst + arguments.

— author's note: another sunday fic to the collection yippie. pic credits to @helen_zzhao. | ~3.4k words.

the capital of passion always looked magnificent at night. here you were with your fellow hunters and your boss - in his cat form - standing above the capital at its highest peak. flashing lights of neon blues, pinks, and yellows obscured the night sky you preferred to look at when the moon was present. you were sitting on one of the ventilations of the building you were all standing on, silver wolf leaning on the railing playing video games, blade in some corner with his sword close to his chest and eyes strained away from the bright lights, and sunday stood awkwardly standing next to you with elio perched in your lap.

“you already know what to do right, mister?” silver wolf suddenly looks up from her game and drops a silver disc right in front of her. a hologram of the city below you showed up and two glowing yellow dots were running away from the blue dots who you assumed were the public security regulation. “we split up and corner the messengers, interrogate said messengers for more information about the supposed discontinued project, and leave before security catches us. ”

silver wolf looked at sunday with a different glint in her eyes. “you can do a simple task like this right?” 

the man beside you crossed his arms together over his chest and gripped them tightly. brows knitting together in contemplation as his mouth opened just to close again. continuous beeping noises that sounded like alarms from the disc made you suddenly stand up. “they’re changing their course. i thought they mostly traveled in the skies? why are they suddenly using the alleyways?”

“we don’t have time.” blade interrupted with a pointed look to sunday. “can you or can you not do it? the clock is ticking.”

you look at sunday worriedly who has still yet to say another word. “i–”

“mister make up your mind, we’re going to lose them!” silver wolf shouted in worry. taking out her phone and quickly punching a few buttons. red rectangles appeared on a holographic map of the city, closing any passages the messenger could take to escape. “we need to go, like right now!”

you looked towards blade who was already getting ready to jump off the rooftop to chase the messengers. his intense gaze never once left sunday’s figure who continued to shrink more into the shadow. 

“i can’t… i’m sorry.” sunday murmured, hand tightening their hold on his arms. you try not to show how your  eyes widened in disbelief but with the way he avoided looking into your eyes, you couldn’t help the bubbling of frustration that started to fester in your chest.

silver wolf was always calm under pressure so it was strange to see her so shaken. “are you kidding me?!” she stomped towards sunday and pointed an accusing finger to sunday. tapping at his chest multiple times to emphasize her frustration. “you said you were ready! we did not just waste weeks worth of our time to train you for this mission only for you to say that you can’t do it?!”

“silvy come on, give him a break.” you tried to but in, keeping your own frustration hidden behind an understanding smile. “this is his first mission; a complete one-eighty of what he’s used to.”

“you’re being too soft on him, [name]!” a timer of 15 minutes suddenly appeared on the map. “we’re here on a mission. we could get caught!”

“silver wolf is right, [name].” you look at the black cat that sat by sunday’s legs. their head turned to look at sunday but the man only looked away in shame, wings covering his face. “you’ve agreed to become a hunter, mr. sunday. and you’ve also agreed to participate in this mission. need i remind you of the consequences when you don’t follow the script?”

elio never truly intimidated you, not when you first joined, on your first mission, or just in general. but with the way he was sizing up sunday with such judgement made the hairs on your arms and neck raise in realization. elio might have been kind to you, but they weren’t so much with others.

you look back to the map and blade, and then the timer that continues to tick. “i’ll go.”

“what?!” silver wolf’s attention was now on you. and so was everyone else's. “no one knows you’re a stellaron hunter! if anyone were to catch a glimpse of you all your hard work will be for nothing!”

“do you really want to risk that, [name]? ” blade asked, pushing you back to where sunday and elio stood. you felt their gaze on you as you stepped forward and pushed past blade. with a single tap on your earpiece a visor appeared in front of your eyes and showed you the map of the city. the same glowing yellow dots.

“[name].” elio warns.

“i’ll take the one in the west, the rest of you take the north.” you heard a collective shout of your name but you already jumped off. 

the city was more jam-packed than you had imagined. though you were in the alleyways of the capital, bags of trash, old mechanical parts, and even trashed prosthetics laid on the ground making it hard to navigate through the already dimmed path.

you kept a close eye on the yellow dot just a few feet in front of you. furrowing your brows in confusion when it suddenly turned around and started charging in your directions. too focused on the map showing on your visor, you fail to notice the glinting piece of metal that was thrown straight at your head. 

something warm encapsulated your body. you suddenly felt an arm wrap around your waist and your head as the figure in a cloak jumped over your body. a grunt left your savior’s lips making you turn around.

“sunday?!” he only gave you a flustered smile as you sat on his lap. 

“hello…” he replied as you quickly stood up and helped him up. checking over your visor just to see that the yellow dot had taken a different route that you predicted. a curse left your lips as you kicked the trash bags in front of you.

“bladie they're coming your way. be careful, they're armed.” you heard a soft roger from the other end as your visor shut off. you look back to sunday who was dusting off his clothes. your brows knit together in confusion. “what are you doing here?”

he looked shocked by your question but quickly masked it. “i’m here to finish my mission.”

“i thought you said you couldn’t do it?” you wonder what kind of expression you were making to suddenly make the ever so composed sunday squirm.

“blade is right.” he takes a step forward and pushes your hair out of your eyes. wincing when his gloved finger suddenly grazed over the scratch you didn’t even know you had. “you’re too soft on me, [name].”

you raise a brow at him. “would you prefer i be a bit sterner then?”

sunday must have taken your words lightly because he only shook his head in amusement with a small smile on his lips. normally you would smile with him but this time a deep frown tugged at your lips. “i’m being serious, sunday.” 

he ceased his silent laughter and looked at your eyes. “because i will be more strict with you if you’re going to continue acting like this in future missions.”

his shoulders tensed when you turned around, back facing him as you started to walk away back to your meeting point. no doubt silver wolf and blade must have caught one of the messengers and brought them back to the rooftop. 

“let’s go back to our meeting point.” you didn’t wait for his reply when you started scaling up the walls of the alleys. clicking your tongue in disgust when you felt the grime stick to your fingers. 

“are you mad?” 

“excuse me?”

the both of you stopped. just a few feet away from you, you catch a glimpse of elio playing with the holograms. signaling you both to return to continue the interrogation. the night is going to be over soon and you’ve spent enough time running around trying to catch a wild goose.

“of course i’m mad!” you looked at him in disbelief as your voice raised in volume. “sunday, we're in a capital that's being run by a government body who doesn't care about privacy. the fact that we haven't been caught yet is a miracle!” you take a deep inhale and pinch the bridge of your nose. “you said you were ready. that you can finally start taking missions. elio prepared you a script and we helped you train for weeks. so i’m sorry if i’m mad that most of our efforts are going down the drain.”

sunday looked away. he almost looked bashful with one arm brushing up the other. “i apologize. i truly thought i was ready. but with the way you’re treating these people, i couldn’t help but think you’ll–”

“kill them?” he winced at your blunt reply. you continued making your way back to the rooftop, not bothering to slow down your pace as sunday followed you from a good distance. “we’re going to interrogate them. this is your first mission, we aren’t going to make you dirty your hands this early.”

sunday stood incredibly still. as if he's only realizing now what he's really gotten himself into. “so you do plan on making me a murderer.”

you scoffed as you pushed back your hair. taking a deep breath, you steadied your voice. “sunday, we’re wanted criminals.” your eyes narrowing down to glare as sunday tried to challenge you. “why do you think everyone has a bounty in the millions? of course we’ve murdered people. that’s our job.”

“this isn’t right.” he argued. 

“well tough shit.” his eyes went wide, mouth opening slightly but closed just as fast. you weren’t one to curse or even raise your voice but tonight you were losing your cool. “sunday, you agreed to join us. of course you’ll have to get your hands dirty later on. you should be grateful elio gave you such an easy mission that doesn’t require that much force.”

“then what about you?” sunday knew he was pushing his limits, but he still continued. “if you’re all criminals then why have i not seen even a single wanted poster of you?”

sunday quickly regretted asking that when a wave of sadness washed over you. lips pressed together into a thin line as your hands curl into fists, knuckles turning white and slightly shaking. the two of you would’ve stood in silence forever if it weren’t for elio playing with the hologram. you quickly teared your gaze away from him and started to walk away in silence.

“we’re trying to do what’s best for you, sunday.” you say softly. “the consequences of the script getting derailed are catastrophic. trust me,” there was a certain edge to your voice when you turned to look at him. the bright lights of the capital casting a faint glow over your figure making the air sunday tried to inhale get lodged in his throat. “i know what kind of cataclysm might fall if you go off script.”

you reached the meeting point roughly 5 minutes later. elio was licking at his paw and meowed when they saw your figure approaching. squatting down to pet their head, you allow them to rub at your legs before clawing at sunday’s pants and climbing to his shoulders. the halovian let out a sound between a squeak and a groan, normally this would rip out a giggle out of you but your eyes remained focused on the man sitting by the ventilation with his arms tied behind his back. the man cracked one eye open and when his gaze fell over you he started scooting backwards.

“I-its… you…” your brows furrow together as sunday came to stand beside you, the same expression on his face.

“do you know him?”

you shake your head. “no, i don’t.”

taking a step forward, the man cowered and shook like a leaf, leaving you and sunday confused. “how are you alive?!” you were about to question him when he quickly followed it up with something you believed you wouldn’t ever hear again. “you’re that doctor from the train! you were supposed to be dead, i saw the explosion and you were caught in it!”

a lodge appeared in your throat. no sound left your lips when you squatted down to the man’s height to question. suddenly, sunday’s gold eyes felt too heavy and questioning even though you couldn’t see them. you curl your hand into a fist and let out a shaky sigh. closing your eyes to calm the drumming in your ears and heart. this was not the time to look back on the accident that happened amber eras ago.

“oh triple-faced soul,” you hear sunday approach from behind. “please sear his tongue and palms with a hot iron,” the air suddenly turned warm as a gloved hand wrapped around your arm pulling you up and tugging you to his side.“so that he will not be able to fabricate lies and make false vows.”

elio jumped into your arms, tapping a paw at your chin making you look up at sunday with worried eyes. “this will be faster.” he said, waiting for you to ask the question you had prepared beforehand.

taking a deep breath, you take out your phone and give it to sunday. he nodded at you, a hand came to the small of your back to steady you. your mind swam with questions on how this man knew about the explosion, you were very sure that no one was there to see it. “come to my office after the mission.” elio spoke softly, breaking you out of your nightmares.

“question: what do you know of the windborne project?” sunday questions, his golden stare narrowed dangerously at the man’s figure.

“it’s a discontinued project,” the man gulped before continuing. “there were too many errors and too few researchers. the blueprints were leaked by an old messenger and not long after, the others were captured by the public security regulation.”

“do you know who leaked the blueprint? what about the original creator?”

“we don’t know! everyone assumed that a rat had gotten in through some means and leaked it.”

“do you possess the blueprint of the windborne project?”

the man hesitated. he started taking sharp inhales and let out shaky exhales. hands started shaking in his restraints as sunday took a step forward and kneeled to the man’s level. golden eyes not once faltering.

“i will ask you again, do you possess the blueprint of the windborne project?”

“y-yes!” the man cried out. “it’s in my bag, you can have it, so please, spare me..” 

you let go of elio gently and made your way to the stray bag in one of the corners. zipping it open you pull out a gray cylinder and wouldn’t you know, the words “windborne” were written in white marker. taking off the lid and sliding out the paper, you open it and let out a hum.

“continue with the interrogation,” you tell sunday, taking out a pen from your pocket and started writing on the blueprint. circling and crossing out words like the materials needed, the measurements and instructions on how its supposed to be used.

“where can we find the holo-wings?” you felt sunday’s eyes flicker over to you but you pay it no mind.

“the tech labs in arcadia research department. they’ve been manufacturing them in secret and selling them in the underground markets.”

you hum and write more stuff down. “ask him about the nano-actuators.”

“and what about the nano-actuators? where can we get them?”

“cybernetic shops. their found all across the capital.”

“cybernetic shops…” you mutter after circling another portion of the words on the blueprint. after a few more notes, you roll up the blueprint and put it back in its cylinder. “you can let him go now, we’re done here.”

sunday stood up and dusted his pants, letting go of the man from his trance. a shiver went up your spine when he looked at you, the remnants of the order’s power swimming in them before they all vanished when he blinked. you follow his gaze towards the cylinder in your hand but made no move to question it.

“i told you everything i know, so please let me go…!” the man cried out with tears in his eyes.

“not yet,” you reply with a monotone voice. “my other friends still want something from you.”

his eyes widened and continued to thrash in his restraints. you only shake your head and pull out your phone to text silver wolf and blade for any updates. “are you really a nameless?” the man beside asked with so much gentleness. your initial frustration washed away completely you began to wonder if he was using his powers on you. but when you looked at his eyes, you saw nothing but sincere concern.

“was, sunday.” you look away from him and look over to the horizon, the sun is rising. 

“is it connected to the explosion the man said?” he asks, voice laced with concern and curiosity.

you press your lips together, looking down at the cylinder container in your hands. “it’s all in the past now. irrelevant pieces of information.” elio meows at you both and starts walking to where the stairs are. “this is a story better left unfinished, sunday. so please don’t try to see how it ends.”

the trip back home was quiet and awkward. you sat in the passenger seat this time while silver wolf and sunday sat in the back. every so often, sunday’s eyes would flick over to you. silently looking out the window, the cylinder in your lap as you drummed a beat on it to try and distract yourself from the fatigue of last night’s mission.

an elbow to his side made him wince slightly. he turned to glare at the girl beside him who showed her phone. sunday squinted his eyes in confusion when he read the message silver wolf sent to him.

favorite?

“we’re here.” blade’s voice cut through the quiet and still atmosphere. both sunday and silver wolf looked up from their phones just in time to see you leave the car with elio in tow. 

when everyone entered the building, you put the cylinder on one of the couches and greet firefly and kafka in the kitchen. briefly excusing yourself from the two and following elio down a corridor he’s never gone through before. 

sunday’s eyes never once left your figure even after you disappeared into a room with destiny’s slave. mind swimming with more questions about your past and yourself in general. he pondered on what silver wolf meant when you were elio’s favorite. not to mention the sudden info dump on you being an old nameless from the astral express. 

who exactly are you, [name]?

© vxnuslogy 2024. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works.

[women-in-ssports]

Sidelines and Spotlights

In this high school AU, Azzi, the star soccer player, and Paige, the standout on the basketball team, have always existed in separate worlds—until a teammate’s crush sparks an unexpected deal. If the soccer team shows up to support basketball, the favor must be returned. What starts as a simple agreement quickly turns into something more as Paige and Azzi find themselves drawn together in ways neither expected. But with growing tensions on and off the court, they’ll have to decide if their connection is just part of the game—or something worth fighting for.

Chapter 2 | Friday Night Lights

3k ish wrds

Sliding into the passenger seat of Caroline’s car, Azzi was still buzzing from everything that had just happened. What had started as a casual decision to attend a basketball game—mostly because KK and Gabe had asked—had somehow ended with not one, but two girls blatantly flirting with her. And now, on top of all that, there were going to be even more people at the soccer game tomorrow. She could hardly wrap her head around it.

Her thoughts were cut off as Caroline turned the key, and the radio blasted to life. “Sorry,” Caroline muttered, quickly reaching for the knob to turn down the volume. Azzi barely registered it before she felt Caroline’s gaze on her.

“So,” Caroline started, a teasing lilt in her voice, “how exactly did you walk out of that game with two girlfriends?”

Azzi groaned, leaning her head back against the seat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Care.”

Caroline scoffed. “Az, come on. Piper was practically batting her eyelashes at you, and Paige—” she smirked, “—Paige was ready to stake her claim mid-game.”

Azzi shook her head. “They were just being nice,” she insisted. “And Paige—she’s just… well, she has school spirit. Being a good team captain, supporting our team.”

Caroline snorted. “Yeah. Sure.”

⸻

Paige had been nervous all day, second-guessing her plan for the game. The basketball team had decided to make posters for the soccer team, and naturally, she had chosen to make one for Azzi. But that wasn’t all—she had also come up with the idea to make a shirt with a giant “35” on it, something she could pull over her hoodie since it would be cold at the game. The only problem? Paige was much better at sports than arts and crafts.

That’s where Kayla came in. Since she was in art class, Paige had enlisted her help. Paige had tried to contribute, but after the third time she used too much glue and cut the “3” so poorly that it looked more like an open rectangle with a small line, Kayla had all but banned her from helping.

Kayla swatted Paige’s hand away again. “Stop it! You’re going to ruin it.”

“It just has to be visible from far away—it’s a soccer game,” Paige argued.

Kayla rolled her eyes. “I know how soccer games work, Paige. Unlike you, I’ve actually been going to them this year.”

She had a point. Kayla had made friends across different sports teams and always made an effort to support them.

Paige groaned.

“Why are you so jittery about this shirt anyway?” Kayla pressed.

“I’m not,” Paige said quickly, avoiding eye contact.

“Sure,” Kayla said, smirking. “Whatever you say.”

Paige huffed but gave in. “Fine. Just finish it and give it to KK after our math class, okay?”

“Got it.”

Paige mumbled a quick “thanks” before leaving the art room.

Finally, with Paige out of her hair, Kayla could focus on salvaging whatever mess she had made of the number 35.

Azzi was barely making it through her classes, her mind completely preoccupied with the game that night. As soon as the bell for seventh period rang, she started heading toward the exit—only to hear Caroline call out her name from down the hall.

“Azzi! Wait up!”

Azzi turned just as Caroline caught up to her. “Wanna grab some food?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Azzi said, grateful for the distraction.

Since they had a game that night, Coach Pinoe had let the team out early during 7th period, giving them the perfect excuse to relax before the big match.

Back at Caroline’s house, Azzi, Trinity, and Mal sat around the dinner table as the smell of home-cooked food filled the air. Caroline’s mom walked over, setting plates in front of them with a warm smile.

“Thank you, Mrs. Ducharme!” the girls chimed in unison.

“Of course, girls,” she replied. “Can’t wait to see y’all win tonight!”

Azzi grinned, the pre-game nerves settling just a little. She was ready.

As the team made their way to the sideline to begin warm-ups, Casey’s eyes instinctively drifted toward the bleachers.

“What is she doing here?” Addy mumbled behind her, voice laced with suspicion.

Casey exhaled, shifting uncomfortably. “I honestly don’t know,” she admitted, throwing Addy an apologetic glance.

“Sure you don’t,” Addy muttered, rolling her eyes before turning away to join another line.

Despite herself, Casey stole another glance toward the stands. And there she was—dressed casually in athletic gear, her hair pulled back in a low, messy blonde bun that somehow still looked effortless.

Something stirred deep in Casey’s chest. Was it regret? Or something else entirely?

She wasn’t sure.

What she did know was that her ex never came to a game when they were together. So why now? Why tonight?

On the other end of the field, Azzi led her line through stretches, laser-focused on the game ahead. She was so locked in that she completely missed how packed the bleachers had become—not just with the usual crowd, or the basketball team but others.

Rose was right. Where the girls’ basketball team went, others were sure to follow.

Caroline nudged Trinity, nodding toward the stands. “Look at Aubrey,” she whispered.

Trinity followed her gaze and immediately felt heat rise to her cheeks. There, bundled up against the freezing air, was Aubrey—waving a “Trin for the Win” poster back and forth like her life depended on it.

Trinity blushed and gave a small wave in return.

“Well, that’s cute,” Azzi teased, leaning toward Caroline as they worked through their static stretches.

“If you think that’s cute,” Caroline smirked, “look what blondie did for you.”

Trying to play it cool, Azzi took a quick glance toward the crowd, searching for the blonde. She didn’t have to look far.

There, front and center, Paige stood proudly in an oversized shirt pulled over her hoodie with a bold #35 printed across the front. But what really got Azzi was the sign she held high above her head, scrawled in big, unmistakable letters:

“Fudd Around and Find Out.”

Azzi couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up.

KK sat down beside Paige, nudging her softly. “Do you see her?” she asked, her tone laced with warning.

“Yeah,” Paige murmured, her eyes locked on the field. “She looks great,” she added, almost to herself.

KK nudged her again, more insistently this time. “No—her,” she said, tilting her head toward the opposing team.

Paige followed her gaze, and when her eyes landed on Casey, she froze.

Nika, overhearing the conversation, leaned in. “I didn’t know she went to that school?”

“She moved,” Paige said flatly, still staring.

“I see why,” Nika muttered under her breath.

On the field, warm-ups were wrapping up, and the team had started their first footwork drills. As Addy jogged over to find a partner, she hesitated before turning to Casey.

“Sorry,” Addy said quietly as Casey tossed her the ball. She hit it back, watching Casey’s expression carefully.

“I really don’t know why she’s here,” Casey muttered.

“You swear you haven’t talked to her?” Addy asked.

“No, I haven’t,” Casey said quickly—though if she were being honest, she’d thought about it. More than once.

Addy sighed. “I don’t even know why you’re so upset. I’m dating you, aren’t I?” Casey shot back, a little sharper than intended.

Addy exhaled, clearly tired of the conversation. “Yeah.”

“Then?” Casey challenged, eyes narrowing.

Addy didn’t have an answer. Instead, she just mumbled, “Sorry,” and focused back on the drill, though the tension between them lingered.

“Did you know she moved to this school?” Nika asked.

“Nope,” Paige replied. “But it makes sense.”

Her gaze drifted toward Addy.

The intensity of their conversation didn’t last long as Aubrey jumped up from her seat, yelling, “Come on, let’s go, Panthers!” The entire student section behind them erupted into cheers.

As the pregame clock ticked down, the crowd settled into their seats.

The game had been a battle, just as it always was against Saint Ambrose. But tonight, something felt different to Azzi. She couldn’t quite place it, but one of the opposing players—#23—seemed determined to make her night miserable. No matter where Azzi moved, she was right there, bodying her off the ball, clipping her heels, and committing just enough fouls to frustrate her without drawing too much attention from the ref.

With fifteen minutes left in the first half, Saint Ambrose finally broke through. A missed switch from Rose left their #12 with a breakaway down the left flank. As Azzi scrambled to close the gap, #3 cut inside at the top of the 18 and, with a quick touch, sent a shot skimming just under Caroline’s outstretched arm. The ball hit the back of the net, and the away crowd erupted.

Azzi clenched her fists, biting the inside of her cheek. She hated this feeling—knowing they had been just a second too slow, just a step behind. As she jogged back to the center circle, she caught sight of Paige in the stands. Their eyes met, just for a second, and something in Paige’s expression—frustration? Determination?—sent a jolt through her.

At halftime, Coach Pinoe wasn’t subtle about her disappointment. She urged them to tighten up the midfield, move the ball quicker, and finish their chances. And when they stepped back onto the field for the second half, the shift was immediate. The team was sharper, more aggressive.

Then, after a well-placed punt from Caroline and a perfectly timed flick from Azzi, Trinity broke free of the defensive line. She took one touch past the last defender and slotted the ball just past the keeper’s right hand.

Azzi sprinted toward Trinity, leaping into her arms as pure adrenaline rushed through her. “Thank you for the assist!” she breathed, catching her with ease.

“Anything for you,” Azzi teased, adding a playful wink.

Rose jogged up beside them, smirking. “Careful, Az,” she said, tilting her head toward the stands. “Looks like you’ve got some competition.”

Following Rose’s gaze, Azzi spotted Aubrey in the crowd, practically bouncing with excitement, waving her sign in the air. The three girls burst into laughter as Trinity pointed toward the stands, just in time to see Aubrey send a heart gesture their way.

As the final minutes of regulation ticked away, the game became a war of attrition. Azzi, playing as the 8, was everywhere—breaking up plays, pushing the attack, and controlling the midfield.

And then it happened.

Azzi took her first touch into the box, heart pounding—only for #23 to come barreling in, reckless and late. Before Azzi could react, she felt her feet swept out from under her.

The whistle blew, sharp and immediate. The stadium erupted.

Paige saw everything. She didn’t yell, didn’t move—she just sat there, jaw clenched, staring at the field. Her heart pounded. What the hell was Casey doing?

Azzi lay on the ground, struggling to catch her breath. Before she could fully process what had happened, a sharp shove caught her attention.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” #3 snapped, pushing #23 back before immediately crouching down to help Azzi up.

Casey stood frozen, eyes flicking toward the stands. Paige. She saw her. She saw all of it.

The ref reached into his pocket. Red. Casey didn’t argue. She just turned and walked off the field, jaw tight.

Azzi, still dazed, accepted Caroline’s hand as she reached for her. “That was… weird.”

“What was?” Caroline asked, glancing between Azzi and the scene unfolding in front of them.

Azzi shook her head. “All of it.”

Shaking off the pain, she stepped up to the penalty spot. One deep breath, then a perfectly placed strike to the bottom right corner.

Goal.

The crowd exploded. Azzi sprinted toward her teammates, arms outstretched, her name echoing through the stands.

2-1. Game over.

And in the stands, Paige exhaled, heart still racing.

“That was great, ladies!” Coach Pinoe called out as the team gathered around for their post-game huddle. “Caroline, way to be a brick wall in goal! And Trin, Azzi—clutch goals. You two saved us tonight.”

The girls grinned, exchanging exhausted but triumphant glances as Coach continued. “Now, go celebrate with your families and friends. I’ll see you all at school on Monday. Let’s break!”

“One, two, three—Panthers!” they shouted in unison before jogging toward the benches.

Azzi shifted slightly, instinctively looking toward the stands where her family usually waited. But they were out of town for her brother’s tournament, and with her staying at Caroline’s for the weekend, she followed alongside her instead.

As they crossed the field, Azzi’s mind drifted—not just toward the game but to Paige. She caught a glimpse of her lingering near the stands, but before she could process it, Mrs. Ducharme’s warm voice pulled her back.

“You ladies did great!” Mrs. Ducharme said, wrapping both girls in a hug. She pulled back slightly, her gaze landing on Azzi. “Are you okay? That was a hard hit out there.”

Azzi shrugged, offering a small smile. “Just soccer,” she said lightly. “Took a big hit, but I’m good now.”

Mrs. Ducharme studied her for a moment before stepping back. “Alright, be home by 12:30, okay?”

Azzi and Caroline froze, exchanging a look—an entire conversation passing between them in silence. 12:30? Mrs. Ducharme never let them stay out this late.

Before she could change her mind, Caroline quickly replied, “Thanks, Mom!”

With one last quick hug, the two jogged over to the remaining crowd near the student section. Most of the stands had cleared out, only a few stragglers left—including the basketball team, still hanging around.

As they made their way closer to the crowd, Paige was the first to reach them. Her eyes, laced with concern, flickered toward Azzi. She hesitated, unsure if she should ask the question lingering on her mind— Was Azzi okay? The hit had been brutal, and worst of all, Paige knew it was her fault.

As they reached the crowd, Paige was the first to step forward, her eyes flickering with concern. She hesitated for only a second before reaching out, pulling Caroline into a quick hug before turning to Azzi.

“Hey, you good after that hit?” Paige asked, her voice careful but casual.

Azzi shrugged, offering an easy smile. “Yeah, nothing I couldn’t handle. I’m just glad we won.”

“Me too,” Trinity chimed in, appearing beside them with Aubrey’s arm draped lazily over her shoulders.

“Speaking of the game,” Aubrey said, turning her attention to Caroline, “you were incredible out there.”

Caroline laughed softly. “Thanks,” she replied.

As the conversation continued, shifting between plays and highlights from the game, KK and Nika made their way over. Without warning, KK pulled Azzi into an excited hug, practically bouncing as she congratulated her.

Just then, KK’s phone buzzed with an incoming message from Gabe. She glanced down at the screen and smirked. “Looks like there’s gonna be a party tonight.”

Paige perked up, looking over at her. “Cool, I’m down.”

Aubrey turned to Trinity. “You all coming?”

Trinity, ever the tease, responded nonchalantly, “We might go after dinner with the team.”

Rose snorted, shaking her head. They all knew Trinity was just playing hard to get.

“Cool,” KK said, nodding. “I’ll text you the address, Azzi.” With that, she spun on her heel and headed toward the parking lot.

As the soccer girls grabbed their bags and started moving toward the locker room, Paige reached out, gently catching Azzi’s hand and stopping her in her tracks.

“If you end up coming to the party—or want to—let me know. I could come get you.” Paige’s voice was steady, but there was something behind her eyes, something lingering.

Azzi tilted her head slightly, looking up through her lashes. She could have just said yes, could have given a simple answer. But where was the fun in that?

“I don’t have your number, Paige,” she said instead, letting the words hang between them. “And I’m staying with Caroline this weekend, so we have her car.”

Paige blinked, momentarily thrown off, but quickly recovered. “Well,” she said, stepping forward just enough to close the space between them, “as for you staying with Caroline, I have a big enough car for both of you. And as for the number…” She pulled out her phone, holding it out toward Azzi. “We can fix that right now. If you want to give me yours.”

Azzi hesitated for just a second, meeting Paige’s eyes—but she didn’t take the phone. Instead, she smirked, stepping back.

“I’ll see you at the party, Paige,” she said, turning on her heel toward the locker room. Then, just as she disappeared from view, she threw a teasing “Maybe” over her shoulder.

Paige let out a slow breath, bringing her phone back to her side. She should have been annoyed, maybe even frustrated. But instead, a smile crept onto her face as she watched Azzi walk away.

As Caroline reversed her packed car out of the parking lot, the conversation inside was a mix of indecision and excitement.

“We should go to the party,” Mal suggested from the backseat.

“I don’t know…” Trinity countered, her voice uncertain.

“Trin, you know you want to go,” Caroline teased, shooting her a knowing look.

Trinity sighed. “I do, but… I don’t know.”

Azzi was just about to add her opinion when something outside the window caught her eye—a familiar blonde bun standing just outside the gate. Paige.

But that wasn’t what made her pause. It was the girl standing next to Paige.

#23.

They didn’t look exactly cozy, but they definitely knew each other. Before Azzi could process it, the girl leaned in, resting her head briefly on Paige’s shoulder. Paige didn’t hesitate—she wrapped her arms around her in a hug before stepping back, her expression unreadable.

Azzi’s gaze flicked to the side, catching Nika and KK lingering nearby, watching the interaction just as she was. Paige said something to the girl before turning to walk off with them, disappearing into the night.

Azzi exhaled, her grip tightening slightly on her seatbelt. Maybe she should have taken Paige’s number after all.

[angry-kid-with-no-money]

Back on my "the monsters and social media if aftg was set in the present day" bullshit

Yes I have an exam tomorrow, we're ignoring that

Kevin maintains a professional twitter and instagram profile. He keeps the apps on his phone logged out and has to sign in each time he posts and then immediately signs back out. He has no interest in knowing what's going on over there, he was very upset when ig switched to the rectangle shapes and started doing the reels thing. He has a personal Facebook and the notifs are On

Aaron has only WhatsApp for a very long time. Initially he was a vine and MySpace kid but both those died. I imagine he went through various other blog forums and posted shit photos and shitter poetry but idk what you lot were using in ye oldy times. He briefly used tiktok when it was musical.ly but it scared him and he refused to go back. He has a tumblr account but refuses to download the app and only uses it on the Web version. Katelyn forcefully created a Snapchat for him so he could be added to various groupchats for their classes, he keeps it on mute.

Nicky, I think, has a healthy relationship with his screen time. He has accounts for the majority of social medias he just doesnt doomscroll constantly unless hes really in yhe feels. He understands the references ppl make but will sometimes butcher them on purpose because the reactions bring him such joy

Andrew is iPad kid extraordinaire. He knows every single peace of obscure Internet lore and he will whip it out to prove he knows more about your stupid dumb references than you do. He can hold a conversation in almost entirely brain rot terms

Neil has zero social medias on his phone at all. It's literally just the text app and the internet app which is always on incognito. He deletes every other app that came preinstalled that it let's you delete. He does start to enjoy taking and keeping photos of his team

[bonesvoid]

THE BIRTH OF THE CELESTIAL REALM — A VIKTOR X PLUS-SIZED!READER SMUT FIC

word count: 5k

contains the following: nsfw (duh), unbalanced power dynamics (viktor’s technically your superior, even though you’re jayce’s personal assistant), one-off mention of breast milk (relating to the painting viktor sees in the art museum), some brief fatphobia, praise, mild degradation (the use of the word ‘slut’), wardrobe malfunction, viktor pops a boner, somewhat public sex (you and viktor are in a bathroom), primal!viktor go brrrr (horny takes over and he fucks the shit out of you), make out session, clothes get ripped off, titty sucking, dom!viktor, sub!reader, reader is fem but you can ignore the pronouns if need be, blowjob, deepthroating, facefucking, facesitting, pussy eating champ!viktor, czech terms of endearment, viktor got that casanova in him, minor breath play?, too many uses of pussy/cunt/dick/cunt but you’ll never catch author using ‘manhood’ or ‘puss’ as replacements, doggy style, unprotected sex, breeding kink, creampie, and a surprise post-credit scene at the end ;3

summary: viktor was never a fan of art. however, he decides to give it a shot after failing to solve a series of seemingly impossible equations by visiting the grand museum of art in piltover… only for a glimpse of a particular painting among the piltovian renaissance art pieces to leave him frazzled and confusingly aroused. it doesn’t help that you, jayce’s personal assistant and newest member to the hextech team, are a perfect match to the beauty depicted.

a/n: strap the fuck it, lads laddies and lassos… we’re taking a trip to viktor pound town (please reblog or comment if you can, this is my magus opus)

The Grand Museum of Art, one of Piltover’s premiere museums, was stationed directly outside Jayce Talis and Viktor’s laboratory. One would think that Viktor had no interest in art, too engrossed in making scientific discoveries to entertain such often trivial subjects. Yet, unbeknownst to many, Viktor frequented that museum on days his mind was muddled with unsolvable equations and failed prototypes launches. What better remedy was there for stuck-in-the-mud science than immersing oneself in the wonders of art?

However, the first time the inventor visited the museum, he worried that he made a mistake. Modern paintings and sculptures littered the front half of the museum; in Viktor’s eyes, they were sorry excuses for art. What was so thought provoking about a banana taped to the ceiling?

“Not a fan of the modern pieces?” a nearby museum employee asked Viktor. The Zaunite tore his gaze from a painting on various black and blue rectangles to answer the employee, “I, eh.. I’m afraid that I’m not.”

“We have a lot better pieces towards the back of the museum,” the employee gestured towards the hallway behind them, “I recommend the section on the Piltovian Renaissance, let me show you,” with a silent nod, Viktor followed the employee towards the recommended section, the end tip of his crutch thumping softly against the museum’s marble floors.

Viktor scanned the various art pieces they passed by. Some were interesting with their use of medium or color while others left a sour impression with their lack of depth. It wasn’t long until they reached the far back portion of the museum, a golden plaque highlighting the words ‘Piltovian Renaissance’ in delicate script by the entrance to the next section. The employee gave Viktor a smile, “I hope you enjoy!” and skittered off to help another patron.

“Piltovian Renassiance,” the inventor mumbled while he adjusted his hold on his crutch. He vaguely encountered the term during his early academy days when he had to take a mandatory art class. Viktor didn’t remember much about it, other than how monotonous and uninterested the professor of that class was, “Let’s see what you have to offer.”

The section reflected the earlier days of the museum, the flooring and walls relics of the past with their aged appearances. A few other patrons perused about the floor, as Viktor strolled up to the first painting by the section’s entrance. The painting was broken into three vertical columns with the largest column showcasing a variety of green and blue hues, people and animals alike scattered about what Viktor could only assume to be Runeterra. His eyes darted to the column left of the largest, much more vibrant and simplistic in its design with only a few people and animals present. He then turned his attention to the rightmost column, the greens and blues replaced by dark colors and the imagery was nothing but suffering and damnation upon its subjects.

“A fan of Bosch, aren’t you?” the jubilant voice of an older woman greeted Viktor. A woman with greying hair and designer clothes waltzed up next to him, a small unfortunate-looking dog shaking in her open purse, “An excellent choice to admire, indeed! What might your view on it be, young man?”

“Eh,” the Zaunite was by no means an art critic nor did he consider himself to be an art enjoyer yet, “It’s, uhm… very vibrant,” he eyed the painting once more, “I like the use of symmetry.”

Despite his lackluster response, the female patron was delighted to hear his views, “As do I! I must say that Hieronymus Bosch’s The Garden of Runeterran Delights is one of his more prudish yet thought-provoking pieces. Many critics believe this piece to be a depiction of our choices in the afterlife, one vibrant and peaceful and the other dark and violent,” she let out a boisterous laugh and her poor dog yelped in response, “Reminds you of the division between Piltover and the Undercity, does it not?”

Viktor bit his bottom lip, “I suppose so,” That’s enough, go away now, you unsightly- “It’s an interesting piece,” Don’t rip her head off with your crutch.

“Indeed!” the woman chirped, “Well, you enjoy your time here, dear. Have a splendid day,” and walked off to go bother someone else. Viktor prayed to Janna for the freedom of that dog trapped in their owners’ clutches.

Viktor tried his best to keep an open but not science heavy mind towards the art, as he shuffled to and from various paintings and sculptures. The works presented in the Piltovian Renaissance collection were much more appealing to the eye than the sorry excuses for art the modern collection had to offer. After examining a sculpture of a Yordle—the inventor swore that the Yordle depicted looked identical to Professor Hemingdinger—shaking hands with a taller person, Viktor searched for a bench and sat down on the closest one, resting his weary body upon it. He laid his crutch next to him and rubbed his eyes, exhaustion evident with his under bags heavier than yesterday. The patrons in front of the bench dissipated a moment or two after Viktor took his seat and showcased a new art piece he hadn’t yet seen.

A painting, just like the many previous ones Viktor saw that day. Its background showcased a night sky full of gorgeous constellations and fluffy clouds. A pondering man sat behind a golden chariot carted by a pair of geese, his skin tan and the lower half of his body covered by blue fabric. Certainly more detailed than the other paintings, Viktor mused to himself, as he savored each component of the painting. He made contact with the subject of the piece and suddenly choked on his own spit, stifling back his coughs.

The subject of the painting featured a woman—a naked woman—adoring a long white veil and golden jewelry. Only her pussy—no, pussy was too crude for this masterpiece—her womanhood and one of her legs were covered by flowing red fabric. Viktor’s gaze locked in an oddity she saw around the woman’s breasts, her hand squeezing one and shooting— Oh my Gods, is THAT breast milk?

Sure enough, it was indeed breast milk, a stream of it being squeezed out from the woman’s breast. The chubby baby who sat upon her clothed thigh reached its hand out to the woman’s breast. His face growing redder by the minute, Viktor quickly glanced at the plaque behind the painting, The Birth of the Celestial Realm by Peter Paul Rubens, and made a swift retreat from the Piltovian Renaissance section of the museum.

Viktor’s mind was filled with nothing but scandalous thoughts, as he walked back to the lab. With each attempt to get back on track with a new equation or problem to solve, it always ended in Viktor visualizing the woman in that painting. By the time he returned to the lab, pink had overtaken the inventor’s usual pale face, enough so that—when Viktor returned to his workstation next to Jayce—his partner commented on it, “Hey Viktor, why are you so pink?”

“It’s cold outside.”

“It’s April.”

“I’m operating under worse bodily conditions than you, so zip it.”

“Okay, okay!”

Viktor let out a low ‘tsk’ and zoned back in on his work, as he examined the leftover blueprints for the next phase of Hextech works. A nose hair trimmer? Is Jayce— “Mr. Talis!” a voice akin to honeysuckles and lavender caught Viktor’s attention. Besides Jayce’s workstation, you, Jayce’s personal assistant, approached with a dossier in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other.

Since Viktor and Jayce had engineered so many improvements and inventions for Piltover, the Council rewarded them with a budgetary increase and money set aside to hire an additional staff member so each inventor could have a personal assistant. Viktor wasn’t confident that the new assistant could get his schedule and needs as right as Sky did, so Jayce offered to take on whoever was hired.

You were a recent graduate from the Academy, five or so years junior to the likes of Viktor and Jayce, and hailed from one of the less-known Houses in Piltover, responsible for overseeing Piltover’s fishing sector. Your name would come up a few times in conversation whenever Jayce forced Viktor to attend a gala or “charity event” held by the Council. You were praised for your intellect, strive for justice, and respect, but more off than not, the members of the upper Piltovian crust were more than willing to speak ill of your name.

Such a plump girl, don’t you think? I fear that she may never find a husband.

Oh, yes, I’m afraid that I must agree. Perhaps, we can convince her mother to lighten up on her portions.

Did you hear that she has to get her dressed altered by a beauty parlor in the Undercity?!

What, really? What a scandal!

Eventually, he would see the owner of that name—you, better dressed than the gossiping women who thought feathers were in fashion—come around and the nobles would plaster on fake smiles and hearty laughs until you moved to a different part of the ballroom.

The Piltovian Houses’ obsession with your appearance was maddening. Upon the few times he interacted with you prior to your arrival as Jayce’s assistant, he could see your strength, your determination, and your passion. The way you spoke about the Undercity was always respectful, correctly referring to it as Zaun and mentioning on occasion how you were convincing your father to partner with Zaun’s fishing businesses to advance equality and equity between the two cities. Compared to the snobbish Piltovians, Zaunites valued fatness; being fat meant you had food, it meant you were strong enough to stand your ground.

Although Viktor wasn’t too key on physical attitudes dominating how relationships were structured, he wasn’t afraid to admit that you were pretty. Your personality and your ambitions accentuated your beauty, but Viktor also found your face to be just as gorgeous. The way you smiled, the spark in your eyes, how your cheeks resembled fresh apples, highlighted the overall appeal of your face. Yet, given the wedge between you two’s stations and the professional boundaries in place, Viktor didn’t think of you more than a kind and pretty coworker of his, someone who would get coffee with or chat about subjects of fancy like physics. Nothing more, nothing less, he was your superior and that was it.

Unfortunately, all of that was thrown out the window today.

Viktor mimicked some tinkering on a miscellaneous project, his eyes fixated on whatever interaction was occurring between you and Jayce. You handed your superior the dossier and informed him of the new projects that the Council was interested in. Jayce flipped through the papers and shook his head, mumbling something about the stupidity of Councilor Salo’s suggestions.

“I also got your coffee, courtesy of Madam Lincove at the café!” you held out the cup of coffee for Jayce to take, “Thank you,” he reached for the cup, fingers barely grazing it, when it suddenly slipped from both of your hands, “Shit!” Jayce successfully caught the cup of coffee before it hit the floor, but not at the expense of casualties.

The sound of a splash, followed by a yelp of pain, echoed throughout the lab. Instead of the floor, most of the coffee landed on your red blouse, darkening the fabric in its wake. Viktor jumped to his feet, which was a bad idea because he nearly fell, when you ran out of the lab and dashed through the hallway. Without a word to Jayce, the inventor left the lab and onto the path you took.

Viktor heard a series of curses coming from the bathroom. There you are. He knocked on the door and called out to you, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes!” you yelled back, “Everything is- oh, fuck!” Without a second thought, Viktor twisted the door knob, you forgot to lock it, and the door swung open, “Are you okay?!” he shouted, his expression frazzled.

You stood frozen in front of the bathroom mirror, a bundle of paper towels in your hands. Lowering your hands, the problem was revealed.

The top buttons of your blouse popped off, exposing your bra and cleavage. A simple black bra held your breasts together. Viktor couldn’t help but stare, eyes as big as saucers, “Oh. I, eh-” he stammered, unable to break his gaze. Instinctively, you dropped the paper towels and covered your chest, “Pl- Please don’t stare!”

“I’m so sorry,” the inventor apologized. A million thoughts raced around his mine, as Viktor attempted to regain his composure. You turned your back to him and mumbled something about needing a sewing kit. Viktor’s attention landed on your ass, the curve and plumpness highlighted by your pencil skirt. His pulse quickened and his palms began to sweat. What am I, a teenage boy seeing a girl for the first time?! Viktor scolded himself.

“Viktor,” you faced the Zaunite once more, hands still concealing your large chest, “Viktor, why do you-” you swallowed a good amount of spit, your eyes fixated on Viktor’s… lower half? “Viktor, why do you have a hard on?”

“What?” Viktor peered down at his trousers. Sure enough, he pitched a tent, his boner on full display. Like you with your chest, he covered his hands to hide his erection, “Oh my Gods, I’m so fucking sorry,” How unprofessional, how lewd, how inappropriate, how—

The Birth of the Celestial Realm appeared in Viktor’s head at the worst possible moment. He thought of the woman in the painting; he thought of how mesmerizing her fat rolls and thighs, how full and large her breasts were, how she posed in such a delightful manner. Viktor stifled back a moan and his cheeks reddened, as his cock strained against his suddenly suffocating trousers.

“Viktor,” the way his name rolled off your tongue sent shivers down his artificial spine, “Why are you looking at me like that?” you inquired, your eyes resembling that of an innocent doe.

“Like- Like what?” Viktor asked, walking over to the sink and using it as a shield for his obvious arousal. You frowned, “Like you wanna devour me whole.”

Something primal clicked in Viktor’s mind at your comment. Slowly, he stepped to the side of the sink and walked towards you, setting his crutch against the bathroom wall. You tilted your head, “Viktor? Whatcha doing?” Gods, you were pure as snow.

Viktor suddenly gripped your sides and squeezed hard, a yelp of shock escaping your red painted lips, “Viktor!” you exclaimed, “What has gotten into you?!”

“I’m sorry,” he apologized again, his accent thick. You clenched your thighs together at the sound. Viktor’s accent never failed to make your heart skip a beat. In all honesty, you had a bit of a crush on the Zaunite. You admired his work ethic, determination, and resilience, as well as his sharp facial features and hands. Yet, he was your superior, it would be wrong to engage in such a—

Viktor smashed his lips against yours, nearly knocking his crooked teeth into your mouth. You moaned at how deep and lustful his kissing was, as you wrapped your arms around Viktor’s waist as a means to secure him. While the two of you kissed like horny teens ready for their first time, you stepped backwards and backwards until your back was pressed up against the wall.

For a moment, Viktor broke the kiss, “I can’t help myself,” he confessed. His hands moved from your chubby sides to your breasts. With astonishing strength, Viktor tore your blouse open, the remaining buttons flying off and hitting the floor. You gasped, “Oh my Gods,” you never knew that Viktor had such upper body strength.

Viktor pulled you off the wall and, in one swift motion, unhooked your bra. He tossed it on the floor and groped at your chest, his hands a bit too small to fully cover them. Viktor groaned, as he marveled at your chest, almost salivating at the sight. The Birth of the Celestial Realm flashed through his mind again and Viktor pressed his forehead against yours, “I need you,” he whispered, “I need you.”

“Viktor…” you whispered back, your breath tickling the Zaunite’s ear, “Make me yours.”

The honey amber in Viktor’s eyes darkened at your command. Grabbing his crutch, he dragged you off to the unoccupied bathroom and slammed the door shut. Viktor plopped his ass down on the toilet as a makeshift chair and gripped your breasts, “I’ll make you mine,” he jerked one breast towards his face and latched onto the nipple, sucking hard and without shame. You whimpered and moved closer, both breasts squashed against Viktor’s face, “Oh, sweet boy, you’re sucking me so good!” you cried out. Viktor’s mouth vibrated against your sensitive nipple in response, earning another moan from you.

Gods, your skin is so supple and tender, Viktor thought to himself, as his hand reached towards your other breast and clenched it. You panted and moaned shamelessly, as Viktor assaulted your chest with playful grasps and hickeys galore. Your mind was hazy with arousal and desperation. This was a true come dream, something you never pictured happening. The two of you crossed a line that you could never backtrack from.

“Viktor…!” you whined, pushing him off your breasts, “I want you, I wanna please you,” you got on your knees, your thick thighs pressed together, “Please, please let me pleasure you, please.”

“How can I say no to such an angel?” the scientist purred. He hopped off the toilet seat and laid down on the bathroom tiles, he would need to sanitize his clothes at a later time, “Suck my cock, slut,” Oh, that was bold.

You wasted no time in unbuttoning Viktor’s trousers and pulling down his boxers. Staring at Viktor’s pretty cock, you admired its appearance. Pale, slightly vein, a bit thick, and definitely long. Guess it’s true that the tall skinny guys have massive cocks. Your mouth watered at the sight and you leaned forward to give the mushroom tip a gentle kiss.

Viktor moaned under his breath and his dick twitched in satisfaction. You giggled, “You’re so cute,” before lowering your mouth onto his cock. Viktor grunted loudly, panting hard as you took more and more inches in your mouth. You looked divine, you looked ethereal, as you sucked him off. Spit spilled down your lips while your head bobbed with the motions of the blowjobs. You swore you went cross-eyed from the sensation of Viktor’s sweet dick in your mouth. The scent of his cologne, an intoxicating mix of vanilla and bourbon, was enough to water down your mind with pure filth.

While you continued to slurp and drink up the inventor’s essence, you adjusted your position and hitched your ass up, spreading your legs open. One of your hands teased your clothed cunt, rubbing your fingers against your panties. In your new position, you were able to take more of Viktor in your mouth, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat.

You felt a pair of bony hands grip at your hair before you were pulled off Viktor’s cock, “Oh, are we-” you tried to ask if he needed a break, only to have your lips slammed back down on his dick. Viktor fucked your face without remorse, a crescendo of moans and groans filling the bathroom while you fought the instinct to gag. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me! your mind chanted like a prayer.

Viktor let out one last grunt and climaxed, shooting a thick rope of cum down your throat. Once finished, he pulled you off his cock and you coughed, some cum leaking out of your mouth. Momma didn’t raise no spitter, you happily took whatever cum the inventor had to offer. Viktor’s hands cupped your face, thumbs caressing your apple-y cheeks, “Oh, kokoušek, you did amazing.”

“Thanks!” your voice was raspy, your throat properly fucked, “Anything for you, Viktor,” the Zaunite graced you with a smile and your body shivered with excitement. He has a great smile. “Lay down,” he instructed you. Like the obedient bitch you were, you did as commanded, switching positions with Viktor and resting your back on the floor, “It’s time that I return the favor,” he mewled, lifting up your skirt and hooking his fingers around the waistband of your tights. Viktor tugged down and removed your tights, taking a moment to admire your strong thighs and the stretch marks he could on your lower stomach, “Simply divine,” he cooed before taking off your skirt, leaving you almost completely naked, minus your lacy cherry panties.

“Oh!” you reached your hands down in an effort to cover yourself up, a force of habit, only to have your hands pinned to the floor, Viktor’s body hovering above you, “No.”

The power from the simple ‘no’ went straight to your cunt, staining your panties with wetness, “Don’t hide from me,” he purred, hot breath tickling your face, “You’re sexy,” he kissed your forehead.

“You’re talented,” he kissed your nose.

“You’re beautiful,” a kiss on your cheek.

“You’re intelligent,” a kiss on the other cheek.

“You’re brilliant,” a kiss to your lips, the longest out of all the kisses, as he lingered. You ran your fingers through his dark waves, combing any knots out and twirling a few strands. Viktor let out a laugh, vibrating against your lips, and pulled himself away, “You’re radiant,” he murmured, “A work of art.”

“As are you,” you gave the scientist a peck on the nose, “Like one of those sculptures from the Piltovian Renaissance.”

Viktor nearly choked on his own saliva, much to your concern, “Are you okay?” you asked with a frown. He nodded, “Yes, yes. It was just surprising to hear so, given that I visited that section in the Grand Museum of Art earlier today.”

“Oh, what a coincidence,” you offered Viktor an innocent, oblivious smile. Gods, you were going to be the death of him, but Viktor much preferred to die at your hands than at his illness, “Oh, drahoušku, indulge me for a moment,” to which you replied, “Anything for you.”

“Sit on my face.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sit on my face, so I can eat you out.”

“Won’t I suffocate you if I do?”

“Out of all the ways I could die, I rather go out while devouring your warm, wet cunt.”

You blinked rapidly, his words somewhat crude but made your pussy flutter, “Okay then,” you sat back up and Viktor laid back down, planting your thighs between his face like ear muffs, “Are you sure-” you had no time to ask for confirmation when Viktor roughly slammed your cunt against his whole face, hooked nose bumping into your swollen clit while he lapped at your juices like a starved man. You tried so desperately to hold back your moans and cries of pleasure, but succumbed to the frenzy of it all when Viktor dug his nails into your plush thighs as a sign to sing like the siren you were.

“Oh, Vik- Viktor, fuck!” you exclaimed, as the Zaunite greedily ate you out, “Feels so good, so good!” Viktor shifted from your folds to your clit, giving it a harsh suck to test the waters. After hearing your unadulterated whines of ecstasy, Viktor latched on hard to your clit and suckled on it, your juices coating his chin. You thrust your hips, as you rode Viktor’s face without a care in the world. As for Viktor, being suffocated by your cunt was simply marvelous, his eyes rolling in the back of his head from the depleting oxygen. With each thrust, you gained more and more pleasure from the motion and the sucking and the—

You let out a sudden mewl, the knot in your tummy breaking and unleashing an intense orgasm. Your climax drenched Viktor’s whole face in pussy juice, as your clit pulsated inside his mouth. Viktor pulled off from your cunt and moved you towards his neck, content with having your thighs between his ears, “You taste like ambrosia,” Viktor panted, chin and mouth shining with your slick. Who knew that he had a way with words?

“So glad,” you rubbed your eyes and blinked a few times in an effort to recenter your surroundings, “So, so, so nice,” you began collecting your messy clothes when Viktor placed a hand on your ass, “We’re not done yet.”

“We’re not?” you asked with curiosity. Viktor touched his forehead to yours before giving you a peck on the lips, “Not until I feel you inside me.”

You quaked at his answer, so matter-of-fact and domineering. Viktor gave your ass a solid slap, smiling at how it jiggled upon contact, “On your hands and knees, ass up.”

“What about your leg?” you questioned him. Viktor waved you off with some reassurance, “You’re worth it, I’ll just take extra pain medicine later,” he discarded his remaining clothes, joining you in full nude glory. You positioned yourself the way he requested, hands and knees on the cold bathroom floor. Viktor groped at your ass and placed hot kisses from your neck all the way to the dimples near your butt, “Addictive,” he muttered, “You’re driving me mad.”

“Have your way with me,” you cooed to the Zaunite, “I’m all yours.”

It took everything in Viktor’s power not to shove his fat cock right into your pussy, “I’ll go in slow and just give me the okay when to move,” you gave him a thumbs up in reply. Something smooth—the tip of Viktor’s dick—touched your entrance and your toes curled in anticipation. Slowly, Viktor inserted himself inside you and, as gently as he could, slid the entirety of his length in one inch at a time. You groaned at the sensation, you never felt so full before, “Fuck… okay, I’m ready.”

Viktor gripped your sides, as he moved in and out of your cunt at a careful pace. His tip lightly kissed your cervix with each soft thrust, your body submitting itself to the handsome man behind you. Yet, you wanted more and you were patient, “Viktor, please! Faster and deeper, I wanna be fucked!” you whined, “I wanna be claimed by you!”

Adrenaline spiked inside of Viktor, as he pulled all the way out of you before mercilessly slamming his entire length back inside. You yelped like a wounded puppy, but any pain morphed into intense pleasure, as Viktor pounded your pussy like a madman. He huffed and puffed while his pelvis smacked against your ass, his mind clouded with an urge so deeply instilled in every human being.

The need to breed.

“Fuck!” he grunted, his grasp on your sides tightening, “I can’t believe I’m fucking my beautiful junior. I bet you never thought this moment would happen, huh?” his cock abused your cervix with each thrust, “I didn’t think so either, but fuck, you unlocked something in me that I didn’t know existed,” your superior lowered one hand from your hip and onto one of your breasts.

“I want you, I need you, I need to fill up your pretty cunt with my seed-” The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed off the bathroom walls.

“I have to make that tummy of yours all round and taut-” Your head bobbed to the rhythm of Viktor’s thrusts.

“You want that, don’t you? To have my kid, right? Oh, I think you would be an amazing mother-” each smack from Viktor into your cunt forced a moan out of you.

“Can I cum inside you? Please?” Viktor sounded so needy and pathetic, hungry to satisfy his urges, “Gods, please say yes, I need it, please!” he begged.

“You can!” you sobbed, tears of rapture rolling down your fat cheeks, “Knock me up, sir! I need it, too!”

With one last guttural moan, Viktor emptied his load inside you, coating it in hot sticky seed. You clenched down on his cock and milked every last drop out, much to Viktor’s delight. Soon, he finished up inside of you and pulled out, some of the white creamy liquid pouring out of your fucked out pussy. Viktor shoved his fingers inside and you let out a wanton gasp, “I can’t allow any to leak out,” he rasped. You tilted your hips up to prevent any more cum from spilling out, relishing in the feeling of a cum-filled pussy.

Once satisfied, Viktor removed his fingers from your cunt and wiped any cum on his thigh. You collapsed down on the bathroom floor and flipped yourself onto your back, utterly shattered from such intense sex. Viktor joined you on the floor and latched his spindly body onto yours, partaking in your soft warmth. You returned the Zaunite display of affection to Viktor, touching your forehead briefly against his, “That was… just… wow,” there were no words in the English language that could properly describe how incredible you felt.

Viktor snuggled closer into you, “Wow, indeed,” he sighed aloud, “We must do this again in the future.”

“Oh, yeah?” you couldn’t help but grin, “Not a one-time thing, huh?”

“Not after I got a slice of the heavens from you.”

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

Outside the bathroom, a familiar muscular man stood guard, shooting passerbys a sheepish look whenever their eyes perked up at the sound of the moans and such from inside the bathroom. Jayce held a spare sweater in his hands, he had run to assist you after Viktor. It was the gentleman’s thing to do, he did spill coffee on you and ruin your blouse.

Instead, the sweater acted as a makeshift barrier to hide his boner, too large to be concealed by hands alone, as Jayce unfortunately overheard the entire exchange between you and Viktor.

Guess me and V do have the same type, maybe I’ll get a chance in the future.

[hotchscoffeecup]

for her, i’d endure

pairing: emily prentiss x reader

rating: t

word count: 7.6k

genre: angst, hurt/comfort

warnings: torture, descriptions of blood/injuries, drugs

summary: When you and Emily are kidnapped by The Chameleon, an elusive unsub that team had been tracking for years, you’re forced to watch her endure torture at his hands. In the hospital, you reel from your own injuries and the guilt of not being able to stop anything from happening to her. Angst and hurt/comfort with a happy end.

It’s hard to keep them open from the pain it causes you to try. You can’t help the slow drowsy blinking that follows. If they’re closed it doesn’t hurt as bad. Maybe this is a dream. Yeah, a dream. Just close your eyes and go to sleep, you tell yourself. You’ll feel fine in the morning.

Someone harshly whispers your name. You stir, but ignore it. Closing your eyes, you murmur something that isn’t quite a response, and try to welcome the darkness to take over. You just want to sleep whatever this is off…you try to at least. The harsh rasping whisper returns. There’s your name two, three times.

“Huh?” is all you can muster as you crack your eyes open once more. There’s a fluorescent light somewhere to your left, casting strange shadows over your field of vision. Your eyes burn. You want to close them again.

“Yes, that’s it!” cries the whisperer, “stay with me!” There’s an urgency in their voice, and as you take a few measured breaths, you gain more and more control over your senses. “Are you hurt?”

Emily. That’s Emily’s voice.

“My head,” you complain about the throbbing in your temples. “I think I hit my head.” You move to touch the side of your skull to assess the damage when your wrists don’t follow through with the command from your brain.

“What the—” There’s a sudden clarity that takes over as you hear the clatter of metal against metal. Your wrists are bound behind your back. You kick your legs out, or at least you try to. They’re bound too with zip ties to the legs of a metal chair that’s bolted to the floor.

“Don’t panic.”

“Emily?”

Fingers brush against yours from behind your back and you cling to them, though it’s awkward as you try to reach them. You’d know the feel of her hands anywhere. He’s got you and her back to back.

“I’m here,” she says soothingly, despite the edge in her voice.

“What happened?” you ask as your field of vision begins to clear and the picture of where you’re being held begins to form. It's dark save the fluorescent light you noticed earlier. There’s a few panels in the ceiling still flickering to life, though most are dark. Wires and cables hang haphazardly from the ceiling and water drips from a cracked pipe that stretches over the width of the room. The floor beneath your feet is concrete. You can’t see a door and the only windows are two small rectangles high near the ceiling. You’re underground. “Where are we?”

“The Chameleon,” Emily says after a short while.

Your heart skips a beat and you have to take a few measured breaths to keep the panic from creeping in. “You’re sure?”

The Chameleon, nicknamed such by the local media, is a serial killer that you and the team had been chasing across the East Coast for the last two years.You and the team didn’t care much for these nicknames as they often sensationalize the killer and detract from the victims, but it the name was fitting due to his nature to blend in to every environment he’s been a part of. This is largely due to how he is able to gain his victims' trust. Some of his known ruses include posing as law enforcement, a member of the clergy, other first responders, caretaker for a “lost” elderly patient, and more. He’d feign a scenario that caused the victims to unlock their doors, stop their cars, or otherwise pull their focus under the guise of safety. Once their guard was down, that was all he needed to ensnare them in his trap. Victims were initially blitz attacked, as evident by the bruising to their heads and faces, but as he evolved he began to dose them with heavy sedatives before taking them to a secondary location where he’d hold them for twenty four hours. During this time, he tortured his victims indiscriminately; sometimes cutting, sometimes burning, sometimes removing pieces of them or utilizing a combination of all three before ultimately succumbing to his need to kill. He favored a knife, often slitting the throats of his victims once he’d grown tired of playing with them. Despite his ability to blend in and kidnap his victims undetected, everything else originally pointed to someone just starting out, unsure of their preferences. However, this unsub evolved quickly. Victimology stopped differing and he’d settled on a pattern for women in their thirties, dark features, and often in roles that provided some sort of power. Though methods of torture varied, the rotation or combination of torture implicated states similar enough to create a pattern. He stuck to the routine, though. One woman every three months for the last two years. That was until recently. Now, a woman had been going missing weekly, suggesting a major deviation. Something had changed for this unsub, increasing his need to kill quicker and more often. Emily fits the victimology, but taking you too? It didn’t make sense? He’d never taken in pairs before.

“Fuck,” you mutter. You pull at the cuffs around your wrists, but they’re clamped too tightly. They don’t budge. “How long was I out?” you ask.

“Hours,” Emily responds. She sounds tired. “I don’t know how many.”

You blindly reach for her fingers again, this time with your other hand. When you brush against them, they’re slick with something.

“Emily?” you ask, concern edging into your voice. “What’s he done to you?”

“Cutting,” Emily answers clinically. “Left arm, chest, and right leg. They’re superficial.”

Red clouds your vision knowing he’d hurt the woman you love, and that you’d not been conscious enough to at least try to do anything about it. When you get your hands around this bastard’s neck…you yank hard against your restraints and hiss when all it does is cause the metal to dig deeper into your wrists.

“Baby, stop,” Emily whispers, keeping her voice low in case The Chameleon can hear. “We’ve been closing in on this guy. We just have to hope the team recognizes we’re gone before…” her voice trails off as a door opens.

Your heart stops and then starts, it’s usually steady beat now pumping erratically against your chest. You remind yourself to breathe, to take measured breaths to slow your heart and fight off the instinct to panic. The body’s natural inclination for self-preservation is astounding, but you couldn’t just think about yourself right now. You needed to be alert and look for anyway to wriggle into this guy’s psyche, anything to keep him from hurting Emily any further.

There’s a metallic clank as whatever door that’s out of your eye line slams shut. Heavy footsteps echo in the space and you count. Twenty four. There’s twenty four steps. You can’t fight the way your body tenses as a silhouette begins to emerge from the shadows. As the figure comes into focus, your eyes widen in surprise.

“Surprised to see me?” the man says, a twisted smile curving on his

“You know him?” Emily asks as she attempts to crane her neck to look at him.

You take in the man before you: white, mid-30s, average build, dark curly hair, and blue eyes wild with evil intent. You don’t know his name, but you've seen him before. You all had. Your mind flashes to each body dump where the team had investigated and gathered initial evidence to further flesh out the profile. You close your eyes and let your mind’s eye expand your field of vision to include the gathering crowd of onlookers. As you mentally guide yourself through each crime scene, you can clearly see him.

“You were there the whole time,” you say with a surprisingly level of calm as you open your eyes and meet his gaze directly.

He extends his arms to either side, a look-at-all-i-have-accomplished gesture, though there’s no audience save the two of you to take in his performance. “What can I say?” he says. “The media named me for my ability to blend in anywhere I go. I like the nickname, I do.” He points his finger at you as he begins to circle around you and Emily like you’re an injured seal in shark infested waters. “Though you profilers don’t like when these major news outlets do that. It sensationalizes the killer while taking away from victims.” He stops in front of you and bends at the waist to look you in the eye. You muster as much contempt into your gaze as possible.

“Good,” he snarls. “Those sluts aren’t worth remembering anyway. Any thoughts on that, agent?”

You nod. “Yeah, actually, I think I’m pretty tired of listening to you whine about your mommy issues.” A fire ignites in his eyes as you say this. You smirk. “Ooo, that did something. Did that strike a nerve?”

His lip curls as he takes a shuddering breath.

“I think I did, didn’t I?”

His knuckles collide with your face and there’s an explosion of stars behind your eyes as you feel your lip split in two. Emily calls your name and curses the unsub’s. There’s a buzzing in your ears as you blink the fog away. You sit up as best as you can and spit blood onto the floor. If his attention is on you, it’s not on Emily.

“Is that the best you can do?” you say, leveling your gaze back on The Chameleon. “You had to hit me from behind the first time. Are you scared to face a woman head on? Too much of a coward to face them? Or are you just too weak?” You incline your head toward your lap. “After all, you’ve got us tied up. Untie me and we’ll see just how well you do one on one.”

The Chameleon seethes, nostrils flaring as his rage blossoms. “You know nothing!” he bites.

“We know, everything.” You answer. He may not have been on the team’s radar, but you’ve seen this type before; a man that’s been forced into a submissive role and emasculated his entire life finally snaps and turns the tables on innocent women to make up for the lack of care he missed out on from a mother figure his entire life. He blames them because he can’t take his anger out on the person he wants to most. Mommy.

“Do you?” he sneers and you don’t flinch away from his hot breath on your neck.

“You’re easier to read than a children’s nursery rhyme,” you taunt.

The Chameleon snarls and this time his knuckles collide with the center of your face and there’s a sickening crunch. Blood pours from your broken nose onto the front of your shirt.

“Enough!” Emily shouts. “She’s not the one you want.”

You blink through the haze and blaring pain. Emily’s name is garbled as you try to say it, but there’s too much blood in your mouth. Just like the flickering gaze of a reptile, his eyes shift instantly to her. The desire that alights his face makes you want to throw up. She’s the one that fits the victimology. She’s the surrogate, the object of desire in his twisted fantasy.

“I think,” he says slowly, and you’re surprised you don’t see a serpentine tongue flicker between his lips. “That this next part will be more fun with an audience.”

Your vision shifts in and out of focus as you follow his movements. He shuffles just out of view of your peripheral vision and trying to force your eyes to see farther than they can exacerbates the splitting pain in your skull and face. Everything throbs. You can hardly see straight.

He returns with a syringe in hand. He holds it up for you to see. “Maybe I am weak,” he says bitterly. “But I’m the one in control and there’s nothing you can do about it.” He pushes the syringe into your arm and a slow, metallic heat creeps through your veins. Your limbs quickly grow heavy and your senses begin to dull.

Behind you, Emily pulls at her restraints. “Hey! What are you giving her? Leave her alone. You don’t want her, you want me.”

A choked laugh escapes the unsub as he cuts the zip ties at your ankles. You want to kick out at him and knock that smug look off of his face but the signals from your brain are cut off. Your body won’t follow the command your mind is ordering due to the drugs scrambling your system. Your eyelids are heavy. You want to close them. The unsub recognizes this and slaps at your face. “No, no. You can’t close your eyes, now. You’ve got a show to watch.” His lips twist into a sickeningly delighted smile. He slips a key from his pocket and undoes both sets of cuffs keeping you bound to the chair. You slump forward against him and he catches your weight easily. He wraps his arms around your waist and grunts as he hoists you over his shoulder. There’s static coursing through your limbs and despite every wish and desire to lift even a finger, your limbs don’t cooperate.

You slide off of him like rain down a windowpane, though instead of coming to a gentle stop you hit the ground like a stone thrown into a pond; all of your weight crashing down. Your head rattles against the wall and stars explode across your vision once more.

Emily calls your name and you try to focus on that. You blink and her form comes into focus. She’s bound in the same manner that you were in a chair exactly like yours. There’s blood staining her clothes, her blouse cut to ribbons and her pant leg tattered from where he slit it open with a knife; the same knife he used to cut into skin. Blood drips onto the floor.

She smiles at you and her gaze is so tender as her eyes meet yours. “Whatever he does to me, it is not your fault.” She’s soothing you. She’s about to endure more torture and she’s trying to comfort you.

You want to speak, to tell her you’re sorry, that you love her. You want to stand, to untie her and take her to safety. Most of all you want to put that unsub in the ground. A single tear leaks from your eye as The Chameleon wheels a tray table near Emily. The soft eyes she reserved for you steel upon seeing him.

He picks up a scalpel, his fingers gentle as he curls them around it; a stark contrast to the violence he inflicts with it. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Emily licks her lips and raises her chin to look him in the eye, defiant in the face of danger. “I’ve already come back from the dead once before. At least if you’re successful, I know whose ass I’m haunting first.” She narrows her brown eyes to slits. “Come on, lizard boy. Let’s dance.”

•

Tears leak down your cheeks as you’re forced to watch what he does to her. She continues to taunt him, but her voice has grown weak. She’s losing too much blood.

“I wonder,” Emily says, her breathing labored. She lifts her gaze to meet the unsub’s. “You love that knife.” She inclines her chin toward the blade in his hand and his fingers twitch. “Tell me, is it because you can’t get up? Are our mommy issues too severe?”

A wild scream tears from his throat as he backhands her. A sharp grunt of pain leaves her lips but no scream. She sheds no tears for him. She’ll show no fear to him and allow him to feed off of her emotions like he did with his other victims, but he knows she must be feeling the weight of the torture, of the exhaustion settling in.

Her voice is tired, but her words are dagger tipped. “You’re not a man,” she spits blood on the ground, her teeth stained with it as she bares them at him. “You’re just a coward, a little boy missing mommy’s hand to guide him through your pathetic, wayward life.” Each word is sharp and articulated, a needle digging a little deeper and deeper into his flesh with each cutting syllable.

“Enough!” he bellows, spittle flying from his mouth as he lifts his arm. In one swift downward motion, he plunges the scalpel into her thigh.

She screams, her voice ragged and raw. A panicked sound bubbles in your throat, but the drugs overpower your ability to call out to her. Your fingers twitch as you try to summon any amount of strength to them, but to no avail. You can’t move them anymore that. You try to wiggle your toes and only feel a tinge of movement from them. Tears leak down your cheeks and drip off of your chin. The tear stains left behind are cold overtop of the dried blood smeared across your face from your broken nose, still throbbing with pain.

Emily sits hunched over, her shoulders heave with shuddering breaths. She’s breathing. She’s alive. She’s alive. She’s alive. The thought plays on repeat in your mind. If she dies, there is no place this slimy, spineless creature can hide where you wouldn’t be able to find him.

A strangled moan rumbles from behind your lips as The Chameleon approaches Emily. There’s a smirk on his lips as he brushes his fingers along her jawline. Just as quickly as the smirk appears, it dissipates as he shoves her face away from him, disgust twisting his features.

“I think I’ve had enough of you,” he grits through clenched teeth. “You’re all the same. There is no place for women like you. I’m doing the world a favor by getting rid of you.” He picks up another knife off the tray table and moves to stand behind Emily, knife poised beneath her throat. His shifting eyes fall on you and his smile returns. “I hope you’ve enjoyed the show.”

You feel your brow pinch as a wash of emotion floods through you. Your hand twitches and you manage to ball it into a fist, but you can’t force much more than that.

“Emi—” your tongue lolls inside your mouth and you can’t get her name out but it’s enough to get her attention. Her wavering brown eyes fall on yours and you hope she can feel your full apology and profession of love in your eyes as you await the inevitable.

“I love you,” she mouths and a sob shudders free from your own.

A single gunshot cracks through the air like a whip.

As the unsub slumps to the ground, Derek’s hulking frame comes into view. “He’s down!” He calls as he holsters his weapon and rushes to Emily. His hand moves to the knife in her leg.

“Don’t!” Emily warns. “Let the medics handle it. The keys to the cuffs are in his pocket.”

As Derek squats beside the unsub Hotch and Spencer clamber down the stairs, spilling into the room.

“We need medics,” Derek says to them, eyes filled with concern. “We need them now.”

“Copy that,” Spencer states as he presses against his earpiece and relays the information.

Hotch holsters his gun and rushes to your side. Crouching down, his hands smooth your hair back from your face to inspect the damage.

“Can you hear me?” he says. You blink heavily as his face comes in and out of focus. He repeats the question and says your name. He’s asking you to talk to him, but you can’t.

“He injected her with something,” Emily says weakly as Derek works to uncuff her. “A sedative or a paralytic, I don’t know. She can’t move. She can’t, she can’t—” Emily’s eyes flutter and roll back in her head. Your eyes widen as she slumps forward. Derek catches her before she can face plant the concrete and risk dislodging the scalpel sticking out of her thigh before the medics can do their job to ensure she’s not at risk of bleeding out, if she wasn’t already.

Your hand twitches, fingers jerking against your palm as a sound of desperation eeks past your still lips. Hotch presses his hand into yours and squeezes. His hard eyes meet yours and there’s pain and understanding in them. He’s born witness to seeing the love of his life killed by an unsub. It was something he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. He had to hope that Emily would survive what she’d endured here tonight. He squeezes all of that hope into your palm as the medics crash down the steps, backboards and kits at the ready.

“She’ll be okay,” Hotch promises, though there’s a hint of doubt on the edge of his words. “You’ll be okay.”

As the medics make way and his hand slips free from yours, you can only hope and pray that what he says is true.

•

A gentle beeping is the first thing you hear as your senses slowly creep back to life. The sound is soft, but each punctuated tone sends a pulse of pain to the space behind your eyes.

Your eyes crack open and you squeeze them shut again as the bright white of the fluorescent lighting blinds you.

“Shit,” you hiss. Your voice is hoarse.

“Hey, you!” greets a female voice. Penelope’s voice.

“Too bright,” you grumble.

“Oh! Hold on!” Her heels click against the tile of the hospital floor, a switch flicks, and the light behind your eyelids darkens. You feel the relief immediately though the bruising around your eyes and throbbing pain reverberating through your nose and cheeks starts to overwhelm your senses as you become more alert.

You crack one eye and Penelope’s bright face comes into view. Her pink cat eared headband matches her glasses frames and lipstick. Her smile reaches her eyes and that only just eases some of the anxiety that floods your system, the only other thing you’re able to feel besides the pain. If Emily was dead, Penelope wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye right now.

“I need to see her,” you say, sitting up and immediately regretting it. The room spins and your hand flies to your head, fingers pressed against your temple in a poor attempt to stop the whirling sensation.

“Sweetie, oh my God, don’t—” she stands up and crosses the room, but you’re already pushing the sheets back.

You curse as you rip the IV from your arm, the tape holding it in place ripping out the hairs on your arm. Garcia tries to take hold of your hands, but you bury them inside the folds of the hospital gown as your fingers feel for the numerous electrodes tacked to your chest. Hooking the tips of your fingers around the wire once you find a place to bunch them together, one swift tug is all it takes to dislodge them. The machine beside the bed flat lines as it no longer receives your heart rate.

“Honey please don’t make me—” Her face scrunches as you move to stand. She sticks her arms out to block you from doing so “Oh, you’re going to make me, ok— Derek! Hotch!”

Her shouts are like a drill through your skull. You blink and black spots your vision as it blurs. The pain in your face is so intense, but you have to push through it. If Emily could endure what she did, you can push through this to get to wherever the hell they were keeping her in this goddamn hospital.

Hotch and Derek burst into the room, eyes frantic and scanning the scene. Morgan swiftly cuts through the space, swerving in front of Penelope and taking you by the arms. Garcia may have hesitated to stop you in your tracks but Derek has no reservations whatsoever.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asks sternly.

Two nurses rush into the room and Hotch placates them with a gesture implying things are under control . He says something to them in a low voice and they glance your way once before nodding and leaving the space.

“I need to see her,” you say as you push against Derek, but in your current state you may as well be trying to push the Leaning Tower of Pisa upright.

His grip around your wrists is firm, but gentle; his hands placed just above the bandages from where the cuffs had bitten into your skin.

“She’s not awake yet,” Derek says. His features soften as he looks into your panic filled eyes. “She’s stable. She’ll be okay, and I promise you that the minute she wakes up I will take you to see her.”

“But Derek—”

He clicks his tongue. “No buts. You’re no use to her if you’re not well. You nearly overdosed on the drugs that man gave you. He broke your nose so badly, they had to re-break it to set it correctly. You have a concussion. Are you hearing me? You need to get your ass back in that bed.”

“Honey, listen to him.” Garcia adds, her voice equal parts soothing and concerned. “You can barely stand.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as hot tears well in your eyes. They slip down your cheeks and seep into the medical tape plastered to your face and nose. You draw in a shuddering breath as Derek guides you back into the bed. He presses a warm hand to your shoulder before stepping back and putting an arm around Garcia.

“Come on, mama, let’s go get a coffee while the nurses get her hooked back in.”

Penelope’s mouth drops into an o-shape as if she’s about to protest.

“I’ll stay with her,” Hotch assures her. “Go. I’ll call if anything changes.” That comforts her enough to let Derek steer her out of the room and into the hallway.

As the sound of their footsteps fade away, Hotch exhales a heavy sigh. The heels of his loafers click against the tile as he crosses the room and takes the chair Penelope had been occupying at your bedside.

“How are you feeling?” he asks as he reaches over and presses the call button to summon the nurses.

“Like someone cracked me in the face with a sledgehammer.”

A hint of a smile passes over your supervisor’s lips and a ghost of a laugh passes your own. You wince as the motion sends a new wave of pain rippling throughout your face.

“How bad is it?” you ask.

“The doctors say it should heal fine. They’re baffled that the break didn’t do any damage to your septum. The bruising will take time but you won’t need surgery so—”

You lift your eyes to meet his. “Not me, Hotch.”

His lips press into a firm line. “She lost a lot of blood,” he says after a moment. “In total, he cut her about fifteen times before stabbing her. She was right to tell Morgan not to pull the scalpel out. It was dangerously close to her femoral artery. The unsub was either incredibly calculated in avoiding it or it was dumb luck that saved her.”

Your brow pinches as his words sink in. “What was his name?”

Hotch’s chin dips in response to your question. “Carson Peters. He was a Vet Tech on the perimeter of the geographic profile. We never even interviewed him.”

“The whole time we never knew his name,” you breathe.

“If I know Emily, I’m sure she came up with a few,” Hotch remarks, trying to lighten the mood.

Your lips twitch, but a smile doesn’t take shape. There is an entire slew of names you’d wanted to hurl at the unsub, to say anything that would have taken his attention off of Emily for even a second but you couldn’t because of the drugs he’d pumped into you. You squeeze your eyes shut as an image of him cutting Emily flashes through your mind.

Hotch says your name. You hear the deep tenor of his voice, but it’s as though you’re underwater. Emily’s cries of anguish echo in your ears.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper as a tear leaks from the corner of your eyes. “Emily, I’m sorry.”

A firm hand slips into yours and you gasp, flinching from the contact. The image distorts and vanishes. You open your eyes and take a deep breath, dropping your gaze onto the hand in yours. You lift your eyes to meet Hotch’s hard stare. His fingers squeeze around yours and he nods.

“You’re safe,” he assures you. “Carson Peters is dead. He can’t hurt you, Emily, or anyone else ever again.”

Your fingers twitch around his as you blink back the onslaught of tears that want to pour out of you. “I couldn’t do anything.”

Hotch’s features soften. “I know.”

“I couldn’t stop him.”

“There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

You swallow the growing lump in your throat. Hotch squeezes your hand again, intentionally doing so to keep your mind from wandering. He’s keeping you grounded.

Your voice cracks when you speak. “I felt so helpless.”

“I know,” Hotch states as he levels his gaze on hours. His brown eyes waver as he speaks. “Witnessing a loved one’s abuse and not being able to do anything about it is a torture all its own. In our positions we have the authority to do something about it and in most cases, we can. When we can’t,” he pauses and takes a deep breath. “It’s natural to play it over and over again, to wonder where you went wrong, to think that somewhere along the line you could’ve done something, anything, to change the outcome.” His brow lifts toward his hairline. “We will kill ourselves ruminating on the what ifs and what could have beens.”

We. He’s not just talking about you anymore. He’s talking about his past when the unsub George Foyet killed his wife, Haley. You’d joined the team several years after her murder, but you’d been briefed fully on the case. It was well known to everyone in the BAU.

It’s your turn to squeeze his hand and you realize how out of the ordinary this exchange is. You’re as close to Hotch as anyone else on the team, but he’s not usually the touchy-feely type; the occasional half hug or handshake sure, but this level of vulnerability is uncommon.

A nurse walks into the room and Hotch stands to greet her. He shakes her hand and introduces himself formally; name, rank, and title. Establishing credibility for what, you wonder. He speaks in low tones and after a moment the nurse looks at you before looking back at him. She nods her head and he thanks her before she exits the room.

“What was that about?” you ask.

“A favor,” he answers as the nurse guides a wheelchair into the room.

“Five minutes,” the nurse says, aiming a pointed look at Hotch.

“Understood.”

The nurse leaves and Hotch pushes the chair up to the edge of the bed. He slips a hand behind your back to help stabilize you as he extends his other hand for you to grab hold of.

“Where are we going?” you ask as you take the proffered hand. You groan as you sit up and your head spins. You swear you can feel every bone in your face throbbing as pain threatens to split you in two.

“To see Emily.”

Your heart swells. You look at Hotch, eyes widening. “I thought—”

“I told the nurse you’d stay put and allow them to do their jobs and help you if you were allowed to see her. Hence, the five minutes.”

“Five minutes,” you repeat, nodding your head.

Hotch smiles reassuringly. “Five minutes.”

Slowly, Hotch assists with the transition from bed to chair. The shift exhausts you and it sinks in just how weak you are. However, the prospect of seeing Emily keeps you alert enough to push through.

The trip to Emily’s hospital room is short. She’s two right turns and one long hallway away from yours. The door to her room is cracked when you arrive and JJ opens it as Hotch reaches for the door.

“Sweetie!” JJ smiles brightly at you, though her eyes are tired. She leans down to pull you in a gentle hug, minding your face as she does so.

Her eyes flit between you and Hotch. “She’s in and out of consciousness. They’ve got her on some pretty strong painkillers, but she’s going to be alright.”

“Are you ready?” Hotch asks.

Your heart hammers in your ears, but you nod your head and whisper, “Yes.”

JJ steps out of the way so Hotch can wheel you inside the room. You raise your chin to peer over the threshold and whimper upon seeing Emily, hand moving to cover your trembling lips. She lies still beneath the sheets, which are pulled up over her lap. Her arms sit atop the sheet, her left arm bandaged from above the elbow to her wrist. Bandages peek out from beneath her hospital gown. An oxygen cannula is fitted under her nose and butterfly bandages hold close the split in her eyebrow. Hotch puts the brake in place after wheeling you right up to her bedside. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder. “JJ and I will be right outside. Five minutes,” he says.

Your eyes don’t leave Emily. “I understand.”

When the door clicks shut you let the floodgates open. You take Emily’s hand in yours, minding the IV jutting out from it, and cradle it to your cheek. “I’m so sorry,” you sob. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t do anything to stop what he was doing to you.”

You blink away the stars that dot your vision as each sob sends an intense wave of pain through the break in your nose and bruising under your eyes.

Emily’s thumb sweeps slowly across your cheek. You take a shuddering breath and swallow your tears as you turn your attention to her. Her eyes crack open and a small smile ghosts her lips.

You gasp and choke back a sob. The smile that splits your face sends a burst of pain through your bones, but you don’t care. It doesn’t matter. You’d feel this pain and all that she endured to see her warm, brown eyes on yours like they are now. Her smile, despite the pain meds dulling her senses, reaches her eyes and they’re so bright. As you look into them, for a moment you’re no longer in the hospital. You’re on a bench overlooking the Potomac and the sun is setting; its golden rays falling over Emily’s face and her eyes changed from brown to liquid gold. It was then you knew you’d never love looking into someone’s eyes as much as you loved looking into hers, that you’d never love anyone as much as you loved her.

You blink once and you’re back in the hospital. “I’m so sorry,” you blubber and clutch her hand to your chest. “Baby, I’m so sorry.”

Her voice is hoarse when she speaks, but the way she says your name is as soothing as ever. She shushes you and presses her fingers into your skin as she grips your hand. “Shh, baby, honey, look at me.”

You swallow and try your best to still your quivering lip as you raise your eyes to hers. Hers are focused as she looks at you. Her perfectly manicured eyebrows arch toward her hairline as she inclines her head toward you. “There is nothing that you could’ve done that would’ve prevented this, and that is okay.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head in refusal.

“Hey,” Emily says, pulling you back in. “Look at me.”

You sniff and take a deep breath as you open your eyes. “If anything,” she adds. “Your being there saved my life. He drew out the torture because he had an audience. If you hadn’t been there, there’s a chance he would’ve killed me before the team got to him. Do you understand?”

Your gut response tells you that she’s right, and you have to fight the part of your brain that’s telling you otherwise.

Her hand slips out of yours and reaches to cup your face, keeping her palm along your jawline to avoid your injuries.

She smiles and gestures to herself with her other hand. “Most of this is superficial anyway. The knife he jammed into my thigh will scar and take a while to heal, but that’s the worst that was done to me. I was,” she presses her lips together as tears glisten in her eyes. “I was so worried about you.”

Something between a laugh and a sob escapes your lips. “We make quite a pair, don’t we?”

Emily laughs in turn, the sound enough to make your heart swell three times over. “At least we’ll be able to spend our recovery together,” she says hopefully.

You smirk and tilt your head, considering. “My place or yours?”

Just then the door creaks open and Hotch steps inside. He smiles. “Sorry to cut the reunion short, but if I don’t get you back, I think the charge nurse will have my gun and badge.”

You all share a laugh. As he fixes the brake on the wheelchair, Emily tugs your hand toward her mouth and places a soft kiss to the backs of your knuckles. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

You smile and nod as the tight feeling in your chest from before ebbs away. “Okay.”

As Hotch exits the room with you in tow, JJ hands you two cups of coffee. “For you and your watchdog,” she says with a nod towards Hotch.

You thank her and as Hotch pushes you back towards your room, you finally feel like things will be okay.

•

Two weeks later, you’re still on medical leave, but you feel as though you're getting back to normal. You’d been released from the hospital first and a few days later, Emily. Her apartment was bigger, so you’d gone to yours and with help from Penelope packed a bag. It was easier for you two to be in the same place knowing how often the team would be checking in.

Garcia had stayed over with you, helping you keep track of the medications the doctors had prescribed. She helped take care of Sergio too. The little guy had been all too happy to see you, weaving in between your legs and rubbing his furry head against your calves. When Emily returned home a few days later he couldn’t stop meowing. When she rested, he’d fall asleep beside her or curled up in her lap.

Just as expected, members of the team had been through in pairs, on their own, or as a whole. Penelope stopped in daily with coffees and pastries from the shop next to Emily’s building. Derek came by every other day, occasionally with Savannah when her work schedule allowed. She’d checked Emily’s wounds a few times from your insisting as you were worried about infection. Savannah assured you each time that Emily was and would continue to be fine so long as she kept up with changing her bandages and taking the antibiotics she’d been prescribed. Hotch had only visited once, which was unnecessary but still so kind of him. You knew he often stayed late working to ensure everyone else could go home on time. He did this all while balancing his responsibility as a father and the fact that he sacrificed a little bit more of his personal time just to check in on you two meant so much. Rossi had sent homemade Italian with Penelope or Derek. This week you’d been given enough carbonara to feed an army.

You’re fixing two bowls now for you and Emily, a late dinner as you’d both fallen asleep around 3pm and napped until 7pm no thanks to the pain medicines that kept you two on relatively similar sleep schedules. You shred some parmesan and sprinkle it over the top before sticking a fork into each.

“I’ve got dinner!” you call as you make your way back to the bedroom.

“Thank god, I’m starving.” You push open the door with your hip and place the bowls on Emily’s bedside table.

You lean down and kiss her, wincing slightly. The bruising around your eyes and cheekbones has gone down dramatically, but your nose was still bound and held in place by a splint and medical tape. The doctors say in about a week or so, it should be healed completely but to still exercise caution with day to day activities.

Emily rests on top of the covers. Her hair is up and out of her face in a loose ponytail, pieces of which had fallen out while sleeping and now stick to and around her face in various places. You try your best to smooth them down before cupping her chin in your hand. You smile and stroke your fingers along the smooth skin of her jaw before dropping your hands to pull the throw blanket down off of her waist, exposing her legs, bare except for the plaid pajama shorts she wears and bandages wrapped around her thigh.

She shivers in response to the air against her legs. “Sheesh, give a girl some warning!” she protests and you throw her a cheeky grin.

You open the bedside drawer and retrieve the supplies to clean and dress her wound. “We should finish the rest of that movie,” you suggest as you climb onto the bed to kneel beside her. Using a small pair of scissors, you carefully snip away the bandages to reveal the square gauze pad covering the wound. “I want to know how it ends and we keep falling asleep.”

Emily snorts. “That’ll happen when we both take narcotics before bed thinking we’ll make it to the end.”

“Yeah, but,” you remove the gauze and inspect the incision, searching for any signs of infection around the twelve carefully placed stitches. As you squeeze a bit of the antibacterial ointment onto your finger and gently rub it over the spiky black threads of the sutures, you can’t help but think of how much it resembles the caterpillars that used to invade the trees in your backyard as a kid, a story Emily did not care for your retelling when you first did this. “It shouldn’t be so hard to make it through a two hour movie.”

“I still can’t believe you’ve never seen The Parent Trap,” Emily says, bristling as your fingers rub over a particularly sensitive area.

You apologize as you lay a fresh gauze pad over the wound. Your fingers move quickly as you unroll and wind a new roll of bandages to keep the gauze in place. When you finish, you wipe your hands off and gently massage the skin around her thigh knowing it helps to stimulate blood flow to the area.

Emily moans in response to the treatment. Her head lolls to the side and she peeks at you from behind long lashes. “I can’t wait to show you how grateful I am for your incredible nursing skills.”

You arch a brow at her as a smile quirks at the corner of your mouth. “Down girl,” you tease playfully.

Emily bends her opposite leg, raising her heel to curve around your body. She pokes her toes up under your tee shirt and your back stiffens as they touch your skin. You reach behind your back and grab her by the ankle, chastising her as you laugh and place it back on the mattress. “Emily!”

“What??” she asks, laughter tumbling from her full lips.

“We’ve not been cleared yet for that!”

She pouts in response and you clamber over her, carefully, so as not to disturb the injuries of her leg. You straddle her waist and lean down to place a soft kiss along the curve of her jaw. “Trust me, I want to get back to that as much as you do.” Your eyes drop to the swell of her breasts, her nipples poking through the thin fabric of her camisole. “But you and I both know neither one of us are capable of having gentle sex, and I don’t think our doctors would be happy if we did anything to make this take any longer than it already is.”

Emily groans in frustration. “Stupid doctors and their stupid orders.”

You laugh as you lean down to grab your dinners off her nightstand. Carefully, you lift your leg and roll over her body to your side of the bed; passing Emily her bowl as you do so. You reach down and pull the throw blanket up over both of you as you snuggle into the uninjured half of her body. She turns and places a kiss on your temple as she grabs the remote and clicks on the tv.

As she twirls pasta around on her fork, she turns to you and smiles. “I’m glad you’re here with me,” she says, eyes twinkling.

You smile in turn. “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be than with you here, right now, at this moment in time.”

“I love you,” she says.

“Not as much as I love you,” you answer.

“Impossible,” Emily promises.

[seravphs]

sick in the head

Gojo and Geto try marriage counseling because the therapist is hot.

wc — 1.5k

tags — obviously this is not how therapy actually works, imagine clocking into work and these two supervillains show up I’d quit

“You need serious help,” Shoko says, somewhat kindly as she observes Gojo on the phone with his favorite criminal. He’s just started his twenty minute break from tracking his residuals all over the world, trying to minimize the harm he’s causing without actually being willing to kill him. 

She’s either joking or completely serious. It’s hard to tell with Shoko. Maybe a little bit of both? 

“Huh?” Gojo says, a little peeved she’s taking his attention away from Geto. 

“I said, you need serious help. The professional kind. I looked up a therapist for you.”

Gojo’s expression clears with understanding - then annoyance. “I told you I didn’t need a shrink. Nothing wrong with my brain, anyway.” 

Shoko loves her friends, she really does, but sometimes she walks a fine line between healing and the opposite of healing.

“Just try it,” she says. She’s smarter than to try and rationalize with him. “It’s a couple’s counselor. Maybe you could see Suguru more if you sell him on it.” 

Hook, line, sinker. It was so easy to get them to cooperate when it came to each other. They were so convinced that they were unreadable to anyone but themselves, but they always forgot Shoko had been there too. All three years she had been on the outside looking in, watching the glances they cast at each other. Sometimes, she felt like she understood them more than they understood each other. 

She had always been there, silently watching. Just because they didn’t realize it didn’t mean her presence was negligible. She loved them anyway, despite knowing she was a third, and thirds were always the leftovers tacked onto a pair. 

That was how love worked. It didn’t really matter whether or not Gojo would Geto over her, or vice versa. They were her friends. She’d watch out for them. 

“Here,” she says, handing Gojo a business card. “She’s a friend, so be nice, okay?”

Gojo whistled at the picture on the clean, embossed cardstock. “I can be better than nice.” 

Shoko squints at him. “You’re disgusting. You’re going to meet her with your boyfriend.”

“Yeah, and?” He smiled wolfishly, with teeth. “I know Suguru’s type.” 

Geto Suguru was in the middle of taking a bath when his best friend and mortal enemy appeared next to him, right when he blinked. Most people would’ve screamed. Geto was not most people. Most people were not that close to Gojo Satoru. 

“I’m showering,” he said mildly. “Get out or pass me the soap.” 

Gojo does neither of these things, because when has Gojo ever listened to anyone. “Look at this,” he said, flapping a tiny rectangle of paper on his face. 

Geto sighed and lifted pruney fingers to the offending object. It had been a long day of scamming non-sorcerers and wreaking general havoc, but of course Gojo couldn’t let him rest, on top of working overtime to undo his work. He only let the bitterness of going up against a natural prodigy consume for a moment before he remembered where he was. 

The epsom salts had been a gift from Mimiko and Nanako. No matter how irritated he was, they worked magic. His muscles could never stay tense while he soaked in the perfumed water, and he relaxed into the tub again. 

The card was nicely made. It was clearly expensive, crisp black ink of thick white paper. What caught his eye, however, was the portrait on the front. The smile was sweet, sincere. He checked the business card again. A marriage counselor - that made sense. 

“Why are you showing me this?” Geto frowned. “Is this a proposal? I’m not accepting this. You can do better.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gojo says. “Isn’t she hot?”

Geto hums in agreement. “Yeah. Nice smile.” 

“Should we…?”

“I don’t have time for games, Satoru.” 

“Think about it,” he says. “It can be like the good old days. You and me, the dream team. When we worked together, no one ever said no to us.”

“She’s a marriage counselor. You shouldn’t be playing these types of games with her.”

“Don’t act like you’re such a goody two shoes,” Gojo said, rolling his eyes. “It’s just me. Drop the theatrics.”

Geto let a smile tug at his lips, feeling strangely pleased that he saw through him so easily. “Say I agree. Then what?”

They hadn’t worn suits in a long time, but Gojo insisted. He wanted to make a good impression and-

“Ladies love a man in a suit,” he said, unbuttoning his top two buttons. 

“Slut,” Geto said lovingly. He leaned over to press a light kiss to the collarbones that now peeked out of the gape of his shirt. 

Gojo flushed, the tips of his ears turning a pale pink. Geto reached up to tug lovingly at them, and then smooth down stray pale hairs. He was more relaxed than Gojo was about the situation, but he still wanted to look nice. 

It had been years since they had done this. There was a part of him that wanted to prove that he still had it. 

Gojo strode into the office like he owned. Geto followed after, trying his best to remember what it was like to look apologetic. There wasn’t much he was sorry for, nowadays. 

You look up, startled. Your patients were sometimes early, but never this early. It was almost enough to make you worry that you’d gotten the time wrong, but you were meticulous with new patients. They had picked a good time - you didn’t have any patients scheduled before them, otherwise you’d have to kick them out immediately. As it was, you were still considering it. 

“Mr. Gojo? Mr. Geto?”

The one with white hair shivered a little. A strange expression crossed his face, almost delighted, if there was anything to be delighted about while sitting on the opposite of a marriage counselor’s desk with your significant other. 

“Suguru is fine,” the dark haired one said. 

“Call me Satoru,” the one with white hair agreed. 

Suguru and Satoru. Even their names fit well together. You tried not to judge anything until you got the fuller picture, but you always tried to be optimistic unless you had reason to believe otherwise. People came to you to save their marriages after all. You hoped you could do the same for these two. 

Satoru sits down in the armchair across from you. He’s the showy one, with that bone white hair and piercing blue eyes. Accordingly, he picks the emerald green velvet, as brilliant as a peacock’s feathers. 

Suguru chooses the left hand chair, a little less eye grabbing. It’s a cool dove grey, the fabric soft to the touch. 

Sitting like this, they look good together. They seem comfortable too, coming in together smiling and laughing. You wonder what they’re here for. 

“There’s still twenty minutes until the session starts,” you tell them. 

“Oh, I know,” Satoru says. “But I thought it would be nice to get to know the woman that’s going to be picking apart our brains. Look, I even brought a peace offering.” 

He presses a box of expensive sweets in your direction. 

“I can’t accept gifts,” you tell him regretfully. “And I won’t be doing anything of the sort to your brains.” 

“I went through all this trouble to get them though!”

“Satoru, don’t be a baby,” Suguru says. “She clearly said no. I told you so, anyway. It’s not my fault you can’t listen.” 

Satoru bristles. “Oh yeah? Why don’t we-“

“Please don’t fight,” you cut in. “I can’t take gifts these expensive, but once we get to know each other better, it’s okay to be more comfortable with me. Is that alright?”

“Fine, fine,” Satoru says with an easy going smile, pleased as if he hadn’t been irate just seconds earlier. 

Suguru’s anger takes a moment to dispel, but the clouds clear from his face nearly as quickly. Scary. It seems like you have your work cut out for you. 

You can already tell they’re the kind of people that’ll be hard to direct, so you accept the extra twenty minutes they’ll get out of you. Satoru seems like a Karen, and you’re not in the mood to deal with a back and forth right now. You’ll just lock your doors next time and let them in when you’re ready. 

Against your will, you find yourself drawn into conversation with them. Satoru and Suguru play off each other so seamlessly it almost feels like they’re working as a team to disarm you, to make you feel at ease smiling and laughing along with them, but that can’t be true. They’re here for marriage counseling - surely they can’t be such a cohesive unit. 

The alarm rings. You sit straight up, startled, and try to ignore the way Satoru laughs like he thinks you’re the cutest thing in the world. 

This is going to be a long session. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mad Season 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, social anxiety, chronic illness, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Bucky Barnes, Peter Parker

Summary: a class project gets messy. (short!reader)

Note: happy weekend.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“Hey, how’d you get in?” Peter rushes in, a tray of drinks in hand. 

You pop up on the stool, broken from your trance. Uncertain what else to do, you spent much of your time trying to distract yourself with his schematics. You twist to face him. 

“Um, Bucky,” you answer and cringe at home dumb you sound. “He helped.” 

“Bucky? Helpful?” He nears and puts the cardboard tray on the table, “I guess he can be.” He picks at the edge of the tray, “I got you a blueberry matcha. The place I hit didn’t have strawberry in season anymore.” 

“Oh, sounds... interesting, but you--” 

“Didn’t have to. I know, you always say so but I felt bad for being so late. I told may to get an airtag for her wallet. She can be so--” he stops himself and chuckles. “It’s whatever. She’s got a lot going on.” 

“Mhm,” you accept the cup he offers. “I was just looking over the plans. I think we could probably just go with yours. Makes more sense.” 

“What? Oh, no way,” he takes his iced whatever. It just looks like layers of sugar and cream. “I think we could easily bring together both. Take some of your features and mine. I don’t want to take over.” 

“Yeah, but...” 

“But nothing. Really. It’s a team project, not my project,” he insists as he hops up on the stool next to you, “so,” he swipes his hand in the air and a holographic screen appears. You flinch. “Let’s compare and redraw.” 

You gape as another floating rectangle appears before him. No wonder his look so much better than your Paint hack job. You want to sink down and disappear. You always figured you’re not interesting enough to be his friend but now you’re certain you might be too stupid and poor for him too. 

“So, I’m going to get logged in...” he mutters. 

“Um, Peter?” You murmur, “are you sure you wanna be my partner?” 

“Why... wouldn’t I?” He hovers his hand before the screen as he looks at you. 

“I dunno. I don’t... I don’t have much to offer. Not a lab, not all these cool computers...” 

“Oh this? No, it’s not—it's not a big deal. Dude, I'm so lucky Mr. Stark is letting me use this. I’m not ignorant, you know? I just thought it would be easier. I don’t think your roommates like me much and mine are so loud.” he explains as he lowers his arm, crossing both over the table as he leans on it. “Do you not want to be my partner?” 

“Nnnooo,” you drag the word out. “No, I do, but I want to contribute to and I don’t know how to use any of this.” 

“That’s cool. I’ll show you.” 

“Um, okay,” you nibble your lip sheepishly. “I guess...” 

“Did you try the tea? Is it good?” He changes the subject. He does that a lot. Pivots around before you can finish your thoughts. 

“Not yet,” you look down at the bright pink lid, “where did you get this?” 

“Some place called Berry? I don’t know. Everything was bright. You’d hate it,” he laughs again. “Oh,” he snaps his fingers as you blow into the lid cautiously. “Before I forget, I’m having a party. I know it’s not really your thing but it’s ‘my turn’,” he makes quotations with his fingers, “and I don’t really wanna but I also thought I'd invite you in case you wanted to not be there with me, too.” 

Your blink in surprise, “a party?” 

“I know, too much. Well, I didn’t wanna leave you out.” 

“Mmm,” you drone nervously. It is really nice of him to think of you and after everything else, you hate to say no. “No one ever invited me to a party.” 

“No?” His brow furrows, “really?” 

You shake your head, “I’ll come. Yeah. I’ll try. You know, it’s college and ...” you take a sip and clear your throat, “should I bring a dessert?” 

He laughs and gives you a playful grudge, “wow, I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone ask me that except my aunt’s friends. Nope, you can just come as you are. You can always bring some drinks for yourself but I’ll have more than enough to share.” 

“Oh, okay,” you nod. 

“The tea good?” He asks again. 

“Yeah, sweet,” you put the cup down. 

“Awesome!” He grins. “I really didn’t think you’d come. I’m so excited.” 

“Really?” You ask. 

“Well, duh. You’re so fucking cool. Like all my other friends, they try so hard. It’s all ‘let’s go do shots’ or ‘watch me do this dumb shit’. You don’t even try, you’re just you. It’s like people don’t realize they can just be nice and be cool for just that.” 

“I... yeah,” you don’t know what to say.  

It’s like he’s calling you boring but not. You know you are and you don’t mind but you can’t ever remember when you just felt like everyone else. Where you weren’t the odd one out. Despite trying to include you, Peter still manages to push you to the edges. 

You wince as you notice how he stares at you. You fidget and pick at the button on the front of your corduroy skirt. His eyes flick down to the nervous movement. 

“I like that,” he reaches to touch the ridged fabric, “blue. Oh, thick.” 

Your leg twitches in surprise, “uh, yeah... found it at the student thrift shop.” 

“Really?” His fingers brush over the hem and touch your coloured tights. They linger for a moment before he pulls away. “Cute. I’ve never been there.” 

“It’s not bad...” you cross your legs as you knee tingles from his touch. That was strange. 

“Well, anyway,” he waggles his fingers as he turns back to the table, “uh, where was I?” He squints at the screens and taps in the air. He pauses and looks at you. “Here, I’ll show you how it work, alright?”  

He reaches over again and you brace yourself. He grabs the underside of the stool seat and drags you closer. He it so easily, you gasp. He’s a lot stronger than he looks. He slides his hand around so his arm is diagonal around your back. 

“Right, so...” his shoulder presses to you as he points with his other arm, “you can just use your finger. I’ll have to add your prints to the program. Put your hands up.” 

You obey as he stays close. You’re overly away of it. The way he’s pressed to you. He doesn’t seem to notice at all. You try not to think of it and focus on his instructions. The project. That’s why you’re here.