#WOOF thank u for this jazz

[aimfor-theheart]

hey i'm back, have you talked about ex gf pit!fighter vi...just curious...you know...for a friend...

jazz i can't tell you the psychic damage i took from this ask. looking at it with mine own two eyes. i thought about it all night. i haven't talked about her yet but I WILL NOW !

ex gf pitfighter!vi who never really moves on from you. and she doesn't expect you to move on from her, either. worse than that, she doesn't let you move on from her. she checks up on you still, hangs around you like a stray dog, always on your heels somehow.

ex gf pitfighter!vi who "accidentally" manages to scare off anyone who may be interested in you at the bars or at the fights. she swears it's not her fault that people are too pussy to approach you (never mind that she's been mean-mugging them for the better part of the night). and if you do try to point out that she's been guarding you all night, she just shrugs and claims that if they were worth it, they'd grow a pair and approach anyways.

ex gf pitfighter!vi who still takes care of everything for you. who is still, unfortunately, the one you call when you need help with anything around your little flat or need someone to come pick you up from a night out of drinking. she always dutifully walks you home, let's you drunkenly chatter to her, and keeps her hands tucked respectfully in her pockets to try and crush the urges she has to reach out and snag you around the waist—or throw you over her shoulder, like she used to when you were dating and you got a little too drunk. regardless, you call for vi whenever you're in trouble, because you know she'll always be there for you.

ex gf pitfighter!vi who has a horrible possessive streak with you. one of her opponents tries to goad her about the fact that you're single now and she just—loses it for a few moments. like a bad dog, she attacks and doesn't let go. they call the round quickly but she doesn't let up, like she doesn't even hear them.

they have to pull her off the guy, still snarling, anger still vicious and hot and thrumming in her veins.

ex gf pitfigher!vi who sees you after the fight, knuckles all split and perhaps still a little wound up. you can tell something's wrong, sense it in the air, in the bunching of her shoulders.

"what the hell happened out there?" you ask her, leaning against the doorway of the med bay they have backstage of the fighting pit.

he said something about you, and i just saw red, she thinks. your name barely formed on his lips, and i just lost it. i hate the idea of anyone even looking at you like that. i hate the idea that i'm not yours anymore.

instead she bites out, "i don't know—adrenaline, or something."

"vi—" you say, "that wasn't just adrenaline. what's going on?"

and like a bad dog, she snaps, "what the hell do you even care?"

you look stricken when she says it, and she immediately regrets it, deflates a little.

"i'm not allowed to care about you anymore?" you ask.

"we're supposed to be broken up, sweetheart." she scoffs, finally moving to find the wrap in order to bandage up her bloody knuckles. you drift further into the room, passing the threshold of the doorway, and into her space. you take the gauze from her hands before she can begin to do it.

(you always used to bandage her up after her fights.)

"you don't really act like it." you retort gently, urging her to sit again and she goes easily. sits and lets you approach her. spreads her legs a little and though you drift nearer, you keep your distance. still, you take one of her hands in yours. palm to palm for a moment. she fights the urge to bear down on your hand, to close her hand around yours and pull you to her. pull you into her lap—

"how am i supposed to act?" she asks, leaning back a little to look up at you and—it's a good view, looking up at you like this. always has been.

carefully, you begin wrapping her hand with the gauze. your fingers are nimble, deft.

"you could stop calling me 'sweetheart', for starters." you say and she feels your fingers over the back of her hand, then back under her palm as you wind and wind the bandage around her. there's a ghost of a sad smile on your lips when she finds your face, when she watches your expression.

"you want me to stop?" she asks.

your face twists up a little; several emotions flicker across your face and you've always been so expressive. so open—her little crybaby, her emotional storm of a girl. in the end, the emotion that settles onto your face is some sort of regret or sadness. raw.

you tie off the gauze on one of her hands. you fiddle with the roll of it.

"no." you finally admit, lifting your eyes from your narrow focus on her hand to find hers.

your gaze clashes with hers.

heat sears through vi. an aching burns inside her chest, heart on fire.

ex gf pitfighter!vi who says fuck everything, and reaches out with her free hand to settle on your waist. who urges you closer to her. tugs a little and suddenly pulls you into her lap, makes room for you there with the flex of her hips.

the gauze slips from your hands and unravels across the floor.

"vi—" you warn, but it sounds just shy of desperate. her heart sings.

here you are, her baby, wanting for her so bad. trying to be so brave and strong and independent.

vi exhales, wrangling you into her arms, quelling your minor fussing with a little coo. she leans in a little, and says;

"tell me to stop."

you go still in her arms. caught. your breath hitches.

"this is a bad idea." you manage to get out.

"you want me to stop?" she murmurs, her now bandaged hand coming up to cradle your jaw, the nape of your neck. her thumb skims your bottom lip, your chin. she dips closer, nose nudging yours.

"tell me to stop, sweetheart."

a heartbeat. a breath later—

you shake your head, just fractionally, and mewl, "don't stop."

and who has vi ever been to deny you?

ex gf pitfighter!vi who doesn't stay your ex for very long ever. who always manages to pull you back in, hands all over you in the middle of the night, at the bars, after bad fights. who makes you furious, but also makes up for it tenfold.

ex gf pitfighter!vi who, like a bad dog, is always on your heels, who can't quite let you go when she's got you.

[goldenlaquer]

AHHHHHHH OPEN REQUESTs FOR R6 AND COD ?? BABE U ARE THE HERO WE NEED BUT DON'T DESERVE !! Smooching ur sad face... bratty teasing pining reader with Mute, maybe? I heard his exhale in his trailer and AJWOOWKSJJAK WOOF WOOF i will tug his clothes steal his ammo tie his shoelaces GRRFFFF he gives me grief by existing and i wamt to give him some back. Ummm hcs obvsly those are great. Sfw would be aweeeesome ♡ thank u for your seggsy writimg always

MAH FIRST R6S REQUEST!!!! Thank you so much for coming to the call and fueling this madness!!! I shall make him suffer 🫡

Mark "Mute" Chandar Headcanons:

He fascinates you.

His every measured exhale under that impersonal gas mask. The restrained grace of his gloved hands by his sides. The controlled turn of his head. The absolute stillness of his presence. People say he's too quiet, and you suppose he is, but you think quiet is not quite the right word to describe Mute. No, "quiet" sounds more fitting for a shy, diminutive man. Mute is not shy or diminutive, quite the opposite. He's... imposing. Yes, imposing. He fills the space with his silence, and when he speaks, with his curt words (and you've heard him talk, that commanding drawl that is his Yorkshire tongue), with his austere build, and with the efficient prowl of his body over the playing field. It captures your eyes and ensnares your attention, makes you wonder where he gets that stoic composure from. And makes you wonder then, how you can break it.

He hates you.

Or at the very least, he dislikes you, because hate is a strong word that requires time and energy—you don't think someone like Mute would bother giving time and energy into someone he deems a waste of it. He hasn't expended himself into saying as much, but it doesn’t take even a genius to guess, how he must see you.

That babbling ninny. That scurrying busybody. That gravel in his boot.

All unflattering sobriquets of yourself— but hey, you take full responsibility for it. After all, you've got no one but yourself to blame for wrapping up in a terrible mischief with him, especially with how quick you come to realize that he isn't as stone as he appears.

What is a barrier to others is a mere suggestion to you. His guarded silence is a perfect opportunity you've taken yourself to fill with chatter that you're sure grates his nerves. Cheery greetings that are unreciprocated, questions that are ignored and questions that receive one word answers that you treasure and mull over and over in your head like a smitten idiot.

(Whatcha doin? No. What's your favorite color? No. You like jazz? No. Can I see you without your mask? No.)

You breathe in temerity and breathe out obstinacy. Audacity kindles every fiber of your being, and Mute with his frosty ire is the fuel that keeps it burning. You reach out with fluttery fingers and, like a seeking child, tug at his straps and pockets for attention that he refuses to give. You poke his sides and scritch the underside his mask like you would a cat, and you are reminded of the delicate bones in your finger when he grabs it and gives a warning squeeze.

It doesn't work, but make it worse. Your offenses grow bolder still. You camp out under chairs and tables so you can tie together his shoelaces and yell boo! to his unaffected countenance. And he fishes you out and puts you back on your ass so you can go ahead and lace his boots back properly again. You steal a gun from a holster and empty out its bullets into your shirt, offering a generous exchange: one kiss per bullet.

and you pout as he fists the front of your clothes, and shakes you, metal falling off you like candy from a piñata.

You fill in some of his blanks with what you hear from others, snippets of the snippets. That he's a genius, a child prodigy of some sort. University at 14. Operator at 25. Impressive.

"You a nerd, Mute?" You have to ask, toeing the line between bravery and plain stupidity, wanting to push him into something beyond pale of his stoic irritation. And you think you come so close to that, your breath held as his head slowly turns to you. And you can sense it, the simmering red that lies under his skin— but only after a stretch of strained silence, Mute dismisses your existence all together by turning his head back away.

This is a risky and nonsensical game that you’ve initiated, one that he wants no damn part of, and one that you’re determined to see to an end.

Like a stray, you follow him around so much, one quick step behind his long, impatient strides, that Smoke jokes that Mute has picked himself up a little miss poppet of a shadow.

You enjoy this. You think that you can do this forever. Bug him until he snaps and, and kills you or whatever. Or until, one day, the front of your shirt is grabbed and you're suddenly hauled up to the height of six foot one, until you can see nothing beyond your moon eyes blinking in reflection of his dark lenses.

Piss. Off.

His low, harsh voice forms each growled word with punctured vehemence.

Oh, you've done it now. This is too much. This. The wide expanse of his armored chest flattening against your much smaller and softer form, pushing deeper into you with each heavy, angered breath, filling your ears with no room for quarter. Like this, he is not quiet. Like this, he is not stiff. No, he's alive, full of furnace heat and motion, and very much pissed off.

He means to scare you off like this, to use his height and menacing anonymity to cow you into submission, into leaving him alone.

But this is what you want. All that you have craved for and more. Everything you've worked towards built on the hope of seeing just one sliver of this scene.

So instead of cowering away, you all but arch forward into his grip, into his chest, your excited pants picking up to sync with his. And in the mirror of his mask, you see how your lips slightly part, the roundness of your shiny eyes. In that moment, you see yourself exactly as how he must see you. Just how— adoring, you look.

He stiffens— in rage? in disgust? you don't know, you don't care youdon'tcare– and his grip tightens in your shirt, your collar definitely ruined beyond repair. You hear your quivering breath pick up and feel the pulse in your throat throb as you are dragged further into him until there is only a gap the width of a piece of paper separating your trembling mouth from kissing 'X'.

(and if you let out a whimper here; what would happen?)

Apparently, a fuckin’ hell in the form of a tempestuous snarl ground out through gritted teeth is what you get.

and you are unceremoniously thrust back to Earth, your shirt’s neckline gaping horribly around your throat. Left behind to dazedly watch with a pleased smile at the retreat of his broad back and the string of colorful choice words he leaves in his wake.

You: 1. Mute: 0.