#running is a sport in itself it is NOT a slow warm up

[handern]

running is a fucking scam I was in national championships I could lift more than my own weight I trained 2 hours a day 5/7 and running was still the fucking worst they made us run laps and I would trail behind and lie down on the road halfway through bc my evolutionary instinct is to punch predators in the face not run from them fuck that

[ravcnism]

HEY uhm.. i've been having this idea.. like imagine kenji sato x m!reader athlete as well? help, i just thought the dynamic would be cute. it could be a rival team on the baseball league or another sports. I just thought it would be cool!

STRIKEOUT. — KEN SATO x Male!Athlete READER

Summary: The Hiroshima Toyo Carp may have a new player in town, but his name is nowhere near unheard of. The prized star pitcher of The States takes the country by storm when he spontaneously shows up against the Yomiuri Giants. Ken Sato’s career is given a run for its money.

# # TAGS: Longform, Enemies to Lovers but like Still Enemies as Lovers, A LOT of Tension, Sports Anime-Level of Ridiculous, Star-Athlete!Male Reader, Author Doesn't Actually Know Anything About Baseball, Sort of a Slow Burn? No Beta We Die Like Onda

# # WARNINGS: Mild Violence, Mature Language, Eventual Smut if I’m Brave Enough, English is not My First Language, Around 2000 Words, Part One of ??

Night fell promptly upon the Sato residence. The sun had tucked itself into the sea and left a trail of gold in its warm, glistening wake. From afar, the ever-lively city of New Tokyo lit up street by street.

Beneath the water, in the basement, a newly-bathed Emi waddled towards her corner of the house; smelling of fresh sakura petals, and cuddling a half-crushed Nissan Skyline GT-R. Full from dinner, and satisfied by her shower, she felt the gentle arms of sleep coaxing her to a nap. With a squeaky yawn, and a stretch of her arm, she succumbed to its calls and laid on her spot on the ground. A very amused Hayao Sato came walking after her. “Silly girl. The bath and snack combo never fails to knock you out, huh?”

Kenji Sato, well-dressed for a night out, entered after. He was preoccupied by his sleeves, fingers fumbling to button them shut. “Remember, Dad. No videos after 10 pm. We can’t ruin her sleep schedule again.”

“Of course, Kenji.” His father waved him off with his cane. “You act as if I don’t know her routine like the back of my hand.”

“I’m just making sure.” He was fixing his hair, then, gelling it into place. His eyes narrowed at his own reflection, trying to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. “And of course you’ve got Mina to help.”

“Definitely, Ken.” As if on cue, the round hovering bot came floating in. “We have everything under control. You needn’t worry about us here.”

Professor Sato chuckled at his son, leaning on his good foot. “You seem to have a lot of nervous energy in you, Kenji.”

The batter sighed, tugging on his collar one last time. “I’m always nervous when I’m not playing.” Deciding he looked alright, Ken left his reflection alone. “No idea why. Might have something to do with my dislike towards things that I can’t control, but I’m not gonna get into that right now–” He shuffled about, searching frantically for his jacket. “Mina, where did I put my–?” An extended robot arm appeared from the floor and handed it to him. “Oh. Thanks.”

“Try to enjoy yourself anyway, Kenji.” Professor Sato had walked over to Emi, who was fast asleep, snoring slightly. He lifted a hand and rubbed her head. “I think it’s good that you go to these games even when you’re not scheduled. I can tell it lifts your team’s spirits.”

“Yeah, well, honestly I’m still trying to get used to it. The whole sportsmanship thing.” Ken sprayed his cologne on. He made a quick jog towards Emi and kissed her cheek. “Sleep tight, Sweetie.” He looked at his dad. With his motorcycle keys now in hand, he walked backwards to their glass elevator. “If anything happens, call me. You know the drill.”

“Yes, Ken,” replied Mina. “We do. Rest assured, there will not be a repeat of last time.”

“Right, right. Last time.” Kenji forced out a laugh. “Look, if she wakes up and I’m not home yet, try to get her to tire herself out. Load up a park. Throw some balls. But no flying outside, please? You know she gets carried away.”

“Understood.”

With a final glance, and a reluctant sigh, he stepped into the lift. “I’ll be back soon.” Leaving her 20-foot Kaiju-of-a-daughter never got any easier — no matter how many times he had gone and done it. He waved his family a quick goodbye, before disappearing from their line of sight.

His dad was right. It was good that he was going. The Giants had a game to win.

"Good evening sports fans! Ladies and gentlefolk, we welcome you to the highly anticipated matchup between the Hiroshima Toyo Carp and your Yomiuri Giants.”

The stadium was bright and buzzing with excitement. Ken was used to the energy, but he never grew tired of it. There was something almost magical about having this many people in a stadium together. Something electrifying about hearing their collective voices. Whether or not he was set to play, the crowd was what grounded him into focus. He adored their cheers, regardless of who it was directed to.

“We’ve got an intense start to the game so far, the home crowd doesn’t look too happy with Tateoka’s second strikeout.”

“How's it looking?” Ken appeared beside his teammate, Yuki, who was watching the game by the barriers.

“Bad. We're dying out there, Sato. Tateoka's our second batter. We're down one strikeout.”

Ken's brows knitted together, intrigued. He had gotten here a little late and missed a good chunk of the first inning. He had missed most of the commentary, too, so he was pretty much left in the dark. All he knew was that the home crowd didn't look too cheerful. And neither did Coach Shimura. ( Though technically, he couldn't remember a time when Shimura looked anything less than disappointed. ) Ken settled into his spot, nursing a canned soda.

The pitcher’s back was against him, his jersey name too far for him to read. He couldn't see who it was. Ken took notice of their form. Their figure. “Wait, who's throwing again?”

His teammate dropped a name so familiar it sent Ken choking on his drink.

“Fucking, who?” He dropped the name of a famous star-athlete. A name he saw on billboards, news reports, articles. A name so expensive it put his vintage cars to shame. A name with a strikeout rate so disgustingly high it had the best teams falling to their knees. A staggering 1.75 ERA. Almost zero walks. Your name, sent a shiver down Ken Sato’s spine. You, the Mets’ notorious Bullet, now a surprise player of the Toyo Carp.

He watched as you turned around. Your face came into view. You were frighteningly calm. The Giants’ batter was one strike away from an out. Kenji swallowed thickly. “When the hell did he get here?”

“Yeah. Apparently they traded him to Carp a week ago. Didn't get much buzz for some reason.” Yuki scoffed. “Think they covered it up? Element of surprise? It was a pretty big move.”

The fact that Kenji had never been put up against you before was sheer dumb luck. That's what he thought, anyway. Despite the fact that the both of you had been celebrities in The States, the seasons just never aligned well enough to get the both of you to play at the same park. But he hadn't dreamed of it. Who in their right mind would? Like a bullet from a gun, your pitches were unstoppable. You had a mutant-like control over the ball. There were studies on the physics of your technique. Even the best batters would miss your throws. And at that moment, as he watched his teammate strike himself out, Kenji wondered if he'd miss, too.

He wouldn't have to keep wondering. Understanding the weight of your presence, the Yomiuri Giants opted to bring in the calvary.

“Sato.” Ken flinched at Shimura’s voice. He looked over his shoulder, facing him. “Locker room. Get dressed — I'm calling you up.”

He laughed, nervously. “You sure that's legal, coach?” He wasn't scheduled to play today, and spontaneously entering a non-player into the field was only allowed upon certain circumstances. Like an injury, for example.

“Of course it is.” Shimura grumbled. “Tokuda just broke his arm.”

The mentioned Tokuda stood behind him, sipping on some soda, with his obviously not-broken arm. “You heard the man, Ken. I just broke my arm.”

Ken grimaced, heading for the door. “The press is going to love this…” Japan's finest batter, versus The States’ fastest pitcher. Oh, this would make the headlines for sure.

Kenji did as he was told. He walked into the locker room, then walked out in full-attire. The speakers crackled to life. There was a steady rise in the crowd’s demeanor. People were slowly piecing the situation together. The announcers were losing their minds. “And It looks like — oh my goodness, folks. I don't believe this. Ken Sato has been called up into the field!”

The stadium went alight. Ken walked into the park and wondered if the lights were a little brighter than usual. He was doing his stretches, rolling his shoulders. His bat was handed to him and he flipped it in his hand. He allowed the cheers to boost his energy, and perhaps a bit of his ego.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we might be witnessing baseball history tonight! Two of the opposing team’s star players have come face to face for the first time ever. And it's happening right here, right now.”

You met his eyes. Ken’s breath hitched. You were so… intense. He couldn't properly describe it. You watched him move into position like a lion stalking its prey.

“Will Sato stop the Toyo Carp’s brand new Bullet? Or will he walk out of this game bleeding?”

The trick was to look them in the eye. A pitcher was no different from a batter when it came to a game. They shared the same weight of responsibility. The only time a stadium is silent is when they're standing face to face. Like a duel. One of Ken’s techniques was staring them down and reminding them that he was a force to be reckoned with. He was Ken Sato, for crying out loud.

Unfortunately for him, you were unshaken. Which he would’ve been offended by, if he were younger and more immature. No matter, he had other things to look for. Like the cues. Each pitcher had their own cue; a sort of tell that told Ken what kind of throw they’d be going for. He didn’t hit those pitches out of pure luck. Contrary to popular belief, he was actually thinking these games through. There were a plethora of things to look at. A pitcher’s stance, their position, which hand they were using. In an easier game, Ken would be able to read these pitchers like an open book.

But if you were a book, then you would've been written in a different language. He could find no such cues. He didn’t really have anything to calculate. You were as unpredictable as you were quick. None of his usual techniques seemed to be working on you.

The last resort: keep your eye on the damn ball, and freakin’ swing.

You held your hand outward, fingers pointed at him. There was a kind of hunger in your eyes, an expression that made Ken’s heart skip a beat. Your focused glare made him feel as if a red dot had appeared on his forehead. Like you had marked him for prey. It felt… personal. Like it wasn’t a part of the game, and you were only pointing at him. A threat. A dare.

You pulled your pitching arm back. He swore he heard a gun cock. The stadium went quiet. The crowd held its breath. So did Ken. He tightened his grip on his bat. He waited, eagerly, for you to make your move. He was counting the milliseconds, watching you, anticipating your throw, waiting for you to shoot.

And you did.

Ken blinked, and the ball was gone from your hands. He released the breath he was holding through a disbelieved scoff. He turned, and the catcher had stumbled slightly, holding your ball. The crowd grew into disarray, a rising cacophony of cheers and boos. They just couldn’t believe it. Ken Sato not only missed your pitch, but wasn’t able to move at all. He couldn’t even swing. You were too fast. Too abrupt.The ball was a white blur, there a moment, then gone the next. It wasn’t an issue of the curve, nor the direction. It was just too fucking fast.

His teammates couldn’t believe their eyes. And neither did his coach. Ken craned his head to look at you. You stared back at him, stone-faced.

He took a breath to regain his composure, resuming his earlier stance. He would never admit it, but he was rattled. He was trying to understand how that throw was humanly possible. How he had somehow forgotten to move. He could do nothing more but stand haunted as he heard the resounding “strike one!” from the umpire. This wasn’t the first time he’d missed, but it was the first time he froze. It was a spectacle to all, and a moment of horror for his fans. Did the Unstoppable Ken Sato finally meet his match? Even if he did, he was determined not to lose a second time.

“Okay,” he whispered. He took a deep, focused breath, slightly shifting his stance. He kept his feet firm on the ground, bat at the ready. “Okay, Hotshot. Bring it on.”

You kept your eyes on him and him alone. You stared at him as if you were the only two people in the stadium. The crowd went silent once again. The Giants fans were desperate to give Sato the focus he so-terribly needed, but the Carp fans were just curious to see how the second pitch would go. The air was thick and heavy with tension.

Like before, you threw your hand out, fingers pointed at Ken. You drew your pitching arm back, like an archer, and there was that sound in his mind again. The cock of a gun. Ken waited. He counted you down. He was a hunter dressed in camo, waiting for a deer to move.

Then, for the first time since he’d seen you, your expression changed. You grinned at him.

Then you winked.

Shit.

You threw the ball. Ken swung.

But he missed.

The crowd erupted into chaos. There was an indistinguishable pandemonium of disdain and celebration. People screamed and jumped and waved their banners as high as they possibly could. A number of them had already entered a state of acceptance — the Giants would lose to a perfect game. No batter would ever get through the wall that was you. But a lot of them kept their faith in the ever-notorious Sato. He could hit the last shot. He could pull this off. He might have been struggling to match your speed, but he would figure it out. They believed in him like he was a god.

And at that moment, as Kenji heard the echoing “strike two!” he certainly felt the anger of one.

Did you just fucking wink? Did you seriously have the audacity to wink at him? Kenji took it personally. Who did you think you were? Though his lips spoke nothing of the foul words he wished so eagerly to shout, it was clear on his face that he wanted you gone. It was one thing to embarrass him with a fastball, but another to rub it in. He wouldn’t let that slide. He wouldn’t allow you to strike him out.

Yoshimura was gripping the barrier so tightly that his knuckles were turning white.“Eyes up, Sato!”

Kenji breathed. Through his nose, this time. He drew a long breath into his entire body and blew it out through his lips. He wouldn’t miss. He couldn’t miss. While he might have already taught himself the humility that came with losing, he hadn’t taught himself jackshit about losing to you.

“If looks could kill,” whispered Ami Wakita, the reporter who watched the game from the press booth. Typing into her laptop, she wrote: “There seems to be obvious tension on the field. Nothing new for Ken Sato, yet, significantly different. Japan’s star player has finally met his match. This game has been a long time coming.”

This was his last chance, and he wasn’t going to waste it. Kenji raised his bat, and narrowed his eyes. You weren’t blind to his added efforts, and smirked at him again. Oh, how it made his blood boil.

Point.

Pull.

Throw.

Swing.

This time, the ball made contact.

The crowd blew up once more, exhausting their lungs as they watched the ball fly across the field. Kenji had hit it. Kenji had managed to catch your bullet-of-a-pitch. He dropped his bat to the ground and ran for his life. Base to base, corner to corner. Kenji leapt across the field and jumped for home.

“Safe!”

The crowd went wild. He had heard stadiums cheer for him before, but he didn't think he had ever heard anything this loud. With a relieved laugh, Kenji got up from the ground, and finally caught his breath. His teammates ran to greet him, though they had only passed the first inning. With a round as intense as that one, they felt it was only right to celebrate a little early.

And then he looked at you. Your eyes met. You were smiling at him again. He didn't like the lack of concern on your face. He didn't like that you didn't seem challenged. And he especially didn't like the fact that he was out there playing for his life, while you seemed to have played for a weekend game at the park.

Kenji was glaring at you, as if he was burning holes into your head. You lifted a hand and threw him a casual salute, flicking two fingers towards his direction. Dammit, he thought. That wink really threw him off. Which it shouldn't have.

Unfortunately for him, the game was nowhere near the last time you'd interact.

And there'd be the after-party to boot.

[tac-the-unseen]

Lost Boys x Injured Reader

CW: Gang violence, guns, blood, description of unlicensed surgery, minor gore

You and David were by a small brick wall with all of the boys parked bikes. While Marko, Paul, and Dwayne ran around and had fun with each other, you and David stayed behind. David stayed because he was scouting victims, and you stayed behind because you were incredibly tired. You had to work earlier than normal which threw off your whole sleep schedule, and the headache you were sporting wasn't helping either.

Dwayne had already told you how unnecessary it is for you to work. Not only do the guys have a huge amount of money and other values stashed away, you’ll only end up burning yourself out. You however were firm with working, it gave you something to do. While sitting back to never work again sounds like an absolute dream, the sinking pit in your stomach told you otherwise. You felt too lazy. Mix that with anxiety and you swiftly found yourself a job at the local mall.

You laid on top of Dwayne’s bike, the (arguably) most comfortable bike, while humming to keep your mind busy. You cross your arms over the handlebars and use it to cushion your head. Your legs are just short enough to miss the ground, so you swing them back and forth. Your eyes slowly start to close as your mind slips away into a light nap, but that's when your body jolts itself upright. Your body reacts before your brain fully understands what was happening.

Gunshots, several of them.

The fast pops whip through the air, then are quickly followed by more. It's not rare that Santa Carla has a few idiots with guns, but what is rare is a full on shoot out. You see several people running away from the middle of the boardwalk. You watch as they push past each other and you even catch sight of the poors souls that get knocked to the floor. You know those people will be trampled to death by the terrified crowd, but you can't help but briefly think about how horrible that cause of death is. Head trauma, crushed ribs, pierced lungs, snapped neck, all happening to you in a matter of seconds. It's truly a brutal way to go.

David grabs you by the arm and pulls you off Dwayne’s bike and into his chest. David turns himself around to cover you and put you onto his own bike. That's when a sharp, burning pain hits your shoulder. By the time you know what's wrong David has already started his motorcycle and is speeding off. You hissed in pain as the warm California air hits your red, hot, open wound. While David drives you slide off your jacket and press it into the hole in your shoulder. You lean into David's shoulder and bite down onto his leather coat. The stinging pain mixed with the bounce of the trail makes you nauseous, but before you know it, your home.

David wastes no time parking his bike and grabbing you, pulling you into the cave. He runs past the common room, kicking shit out of the way, and sets you into the nest. David is fast, his movements show panic, But oddly enough not his face. He's stone cold, you'd be almost offended if you didn't see the way his pupils are blown wide open. He is panicking, he's just not showing it.

In his haste he grabs some old clothes of his from what you can assume was the 1800’s. Lucky that old thing is clean, you know because you're the one that washed it. He presses the white cotton button up into your shoulders, your body reacts by trying to pull away, but David doesn't let you get far. “Hold still love.” He pleads gently.

You hiss at the touch, Your shoulder burns and stings with a dull throbbing pain. Your heartbeat throbs in your ears while David does his best to stop the bleeding. You're lurched back into reality as someone pulled you into their chest by the waist. You look back to find Paul pulling you in and hastily kissing the back of your head. You look around to see Marko and Dwayne finding more cloth to stuff the wound.

By the four shirt the bleeding slows and your vision is swirling. Dwayne holds your hand and presses kisses into your knuckles while Marko and David are setting up supplies to dig out the bullet and sew you shut. You see them using a lighter to disinfect a pair of tweezers and two needles. Your tears blur you vision so much there's no point in keeping them open.

“I know baby, I know.” Dwayne tries to reassure you, but they all know that's not going to work. You hear footsteps and open your eyes to look up. David is crouching down with the sterile tweezers and you catch the look in his eyes. He's clearly anticipating your reaction, they all know it's not going to be fun.

Paul grabs your other hand and interlaces his fingers with yours, Dwayne is quick to do the same. Another wave of panic shoots through you, while this is an act of love, they're also holding you down.

“Ready?” David says in the most delicate voice you've ever heard from him. You sob out and brace yourself, David knows you're never going to be ready, but has to do this either way.

When he begins digging you're met with what is now the worst pain you've ever been in. Being shit was one thing, this was 10 times more intense. You feel every jab and poke, the pain is nearly indescribable. You seriously would have rather been stabbed.

While you violently sob and scream, Paul and Dwayne hold you down tightly. You legs twist and almost kick David, but Marko was quick to swoop in and pin them down too. With all this chaos David is apologizing with every movement he makes. He shushes you while digging into your bleeding wound until he hits metal.

He slowly drags up the bullet. When the Damned thing is dislodged from your shoulder David quickly packs the wound again. “I'm sorry love, you did such a good job.” He praises while getting up.

They wait until your crying slows and you're no longer trying to kick the air...or Marko. Marko lets go of your legs slowly and stands you. He hurries over to the cabinet and grabs an already threaded needle. “It's not over yet, love.” Paul whispers in an apologetic way. Marko sprays the wound with a disinfectant before he begins his work. David is now the one hugging your legs as Marko gets in close to sew you together. “1…2…3!” Marko says before the needle pierces the lower part of the wound.

Your voice is hoarse from David's previous excursion, but you still manage to hiss and cry. Marko’s work is quick but not sloppy. He too is spewing apologies like a prayer. By the time he's done you've lost all your fight and lay limp and sobbing against Paul's chest.

Marko sprays some disinfectant on your wound and patches you up with cotton pads and a cloth wrapping. As soon as he's down you're pulled into a laying down position by Paul and all four boys start cooing at you.

You're surrounded by purrs and buzzing, praises and kisses, all around you. But that all combines into mindless ringing as you stare up at the ceiling. You still feel the stinging, pinching, and throbbing burn. The thumping of your heart hasn't stopped either, you're still in pain.

Finally your body gives in and your vision fades.

The first sight you're met with is the ceiling. As you blink away the sleep you catch a glimpse of fluffy blonde hair. You turn your head to see Marko asleep and more of Paul's hair. As you come too you realize you're still on Paul's chest. You look to your other side and see both Dwayne and David also asleep.

You gather that it's probably morning and that you probably missed your early work shift. While that thought flies through your head the second one to follow is ‘I’m fucking quitting.’

You slowly wiggle yourself out of your mates arms and the nest, and quietly leave the room. You're still in pain, and the wiggling around you just did wasn't helping, but it was manageable. What really bugs you right now is how thirsty you are. Your body is screaming for water like never before. You guess it made some sense, you did lose quite a lot of blood.

You shuffle over to the living area, in the corner are stacks of water bottles. You remember when you first began staying in the cave how you complained that the cave didn't have any running water. You half jokingly said you'd start bring jugs of water when you stayed over. The next day when you complained of thirst Marko busted open a large crate and pulled out a plastic water bottle with absolute glee. Bastards had waited for you to complain all day so they could show off the water they stole for you.

While making your way to the water supply you hear a similar shuffling behind you. “What are you doing up this early?” you hear Paul's groggy voice behind you. You lean over a grab a bottle, you don't even attempt to talk, you know your voice is gone by the way your throat is still raw. You just hum at him and chug your first bottle.

By the time you reach for your next his arms are around you and gently rocking side to side. You untwist the cap and chug your second bottle. “You're gonna need vitamins and shit.” he grumbles into your good shoulder.

“They’re gonna need more than that.” Another voice murmurs from the dark. You don't have to turn your head to identify David’s voice. “We'll get you plenty tonight, but for now we all need sleep.” He promises in a sleepy tone. You finish your second bottle but your thirst is still unmatched

With Paul holding onto your middle you make grabbie hands at the water stash. David grunts in response but get you your third water. “Finish that and we'll go to bed.” Paul says and kisses the side of your neck.

When you're done you're hauled off to the nest and tucked into place. Dwayne and Marko are just slightly awake and mumbles out incomprehensible words. You're put in-between them with Paul and David quickly to snuggle into your lower half.

Its uncharacteristically gentle of the, but you definitely don't hate it. Even more kisses are pressed into your hips and forehead, as they all settle back into sleep. You too fall under sleeps spell while you plan out what food you're gonna eat when night falls.

The last thing you hear are soft purrs.

Thanks for reading <3

I know it's not the greatest but I have like 5 finals to do. I'm in my last couple of days before I graduate.

[timmyrx2000]

Pacifica's Moment of Truth

Pacifica makes a bold move and faces off against one of her coaches, Mabel! Art by @stephreynaart

Part of my Gravity Falls Baseball AU continuity

Pacifica's come a long way in her baseball training, from reluctantly joining Dipper and Mabel in a few pitches and hits, to actually realizing she loves playing the sport which has brought her closer to her new (and real) friends! But despite this, Pacifica still feels like she's lacking something. She enjoys baseball, not just with her friends, but playing the sport itself, but she can't shake off the feeling that she's not living up to their standard. Despite her love for the game, she still feels she's falling behind and that she struggles to keep up with the gang. Pacifica's all too familiar with the feeling of failure and disappointment, its what her mom and dad used to force her to be #1 at mini-golf. To her, if she's not #1, she's a failure and a disappointment to everyone around her who've supported her.

Pacifica knows that Dipper, Mabel, and Wendy are far from being the jerks that her parents were to her but she feels she's failing herself. Despite her love for the game, she can't help feel like she's a failure despite how much progress she's made. She thinks Dipper, Mabel, and Wendy are just being kind to her. She feels that they've given her all the support they have but she isn't living up to their expectations and she thinks she's a disappointment to them, which couldn't be farther from the truth.

Pacifica struggles with these thoughts until one day she couldn't take it anymore. She wasn't going to live in fear of her parents before, now she wasn't going to let herself live in fear of herself. On a warm sunny afternoon on the baseball field, as they took a breather from their practice, Pacifica decides to take the risk and ask Mabel, her assistant coach, to give her a challenge: to bat against Mabel without her holding back. Mabel already suspected that Pacifica had thoughts like this running through her head but she knows Pacifica's already got it in her to face off the best Mabel can dish out. But desperate to make sure Mabel doesn't compromise, she even makes her promise, no hands behind her back. Mabel pulls off her mitt and pinky promises on one hand while keeping the other one in Pacifica's view. Poor Dipper, however, gets dragged by the girls to play catcher despite being completely new to learning how to play as catcher. So secretly, Dipper really is hoping Pacifica knocks this challenge right out of the park...literally.

Dipper, reluctantly, gears up in his catcher's gear while Pacifica slips on her batting helmet and gloves. Dipper reassures her she's got this... and if she can please make sure she's got it so he doesn't have to worry about actually playing catcher. Its a light hearted moment that gets a laugh from Pacifica and the 2 head out to get in positions.

Mabel eyes Pacifica from the mound and Pacifica psyches herself out. Mabel sticks out her pinky before she pitches reminding Pacifica she wont go back on her pinky promise. With that, Mabel winds up, takes her stride and pitches. A nervous Dipper readies his mitt. Pacifica's eyes narrow, she swings with everything she's got and fixates on the ball as it comes in. Time slows down then... CRACK. Pacifica hits a beautiful line drive out to center field stunning herself at the plate while Mabel is ecstatically cheering on the mound. Pacifica did it! She's proven herself that she does belong with her friends on the diamond and nothing's gonna stop her.

With a sly grin on her face, Mabel turns back to the plate and asks Pacifica "Another one?". Pacifica returns the sly smirk fixing her helmet, tightening her batting gloves, and putting up her bat and just says "...Batter up!".

...Poor Dipper really hoped this was going to be a 1 pitch gig XD

[bechloesupercorp]

How presumptuous of her.

The crowds were thinning, chaos waning, with the rhythmic plunk thwap of weapons and fists. Her trusty bo staff rested in her hand, gliding smoothly through the air in search of its next victim. 

Taking stock of her sisters, her gaze shifted to Ava, my love, adoration gracing her lips. Hands on knees, Ava's eyes lit up as she noticed her admirer. The beginning of a wide grin stretching over her-

Her face dropped. "BEA-"

It happened so fast. A sharp pain searing her side as a Tarask appeared, watching its claw swipe, sending Ava flying with a single sweep. Cruciform sword dangling in the air as it slipped from Ava's grasp.

Beatrice saw red. Piping hot furor running through her veins, charging towards the Tarask. Ducking under a claw as it swiped at her, she scooped up the sword, a sharp thrust straight through its heart, a feral scream ripping itself from her lips. 

She didn’t even wait to see it fall, sliding to her knees at Ava’s side. Her eyes were shut, a trail of deep crimson dripping from Ava’s lips.

“No, no, no, my love,” she begged, watching blood mix into the dirt. “Stay with me Ava,” she breathed, ignoring the pull at her ribs as she cradled her lover. “In this life, Ava. In this life.”

— — — 

She felt numb. The lights were too bright, floors squeaked with each step. Blood clinging to her skin, some not even dry yet. Beatrice had been a patient person for as long as she can remember. Just a child, back straight, alone, outside the cold doors of government offices. She’d learned fast.

But now, under the glare of hospital lights, this isn’t patience. It’s torment. Tension running a line down her back, bloodstained hands wringing in the stilted silence. Her side ached, sometimes stabbing. (“I just pulled something,” she’d protested, four hours ago, when Lilith tried to haul her into a consulting room.) Twenty hours. Twenty hours, since Ava was rushed away, weak, gasping breaths and the Halo in her back, devoid of light. So she waited, missing the slow saturation of her tactical habit, red droplets beading along the hem.

— — —

Fuck. It got me good. Ava groaned, eyes fluttering open. Her entire body ached. But that didn’t matter, as a hot hand rested in her own, tight but gentle. Strange, she thought to herself. Bea always ran cold.

"Bea," she croaked, cotton filling her mouth.

Glazed brown eyes shot up, wobbly landing on her face. "Ava," the sister warrior sobbed, tear tracks clearing lines through the dust coating her face. 

She blinked drearily, squeezing the hand clutching hers to comfort, sheer exhaustion threatening to shut her eyelids. "I love you."

"I love you too." A warm trembling hand lingered on her cheek, and Ava leaned into the soft caress. She could hear the shaky breaths, like Bea was trying to restrain herself, holding in all the emotions that threatened to overwhelm.

"I'm okay Bea," she promised, a beat passed, relief diffusing into the air. "In this life." 

"In this life," Bea echoed, a dazed look in her eyes. Her head bobbled slightly with each breath, swaying softly with each sluggish blink. 

Ava furrowed her brows, not missing the subdued, almost slurred, intonation of her best friend's voice. Nor the pallid skin tone she was sporting.

"Bea," she mumbled, carefully grasping her wrist, stilling her lover's burning hand. 

"I'm fine," Bea insisted, stubborn as ever. But the lethargy persisted.

Fatigue weighed heavy on Ava's face, and Bea could tell. "Go to sleep, darling," she murmured, almost keeling over to press a kiss to her forehead. "I'll be here when you wake." The heat radiating off her lips set off faint alarms in the back of Ava's head, but her eyes slipped closed on their own accord.

— — —

And she was. The second time Ava woke, just a slight twinge in her muscles, Bea was asleep, slumped partially over her lap, hands still entwined. A fond smile sprouted on her lips at the sight. She must have been exhausted.

Tenderly, reaching out to brush a stray hair from the girl’s pale forehead, her fingers grazing the skin instead. Scorching currents ran under her touch. Alarms blaring in her head as she sat up, jostling the girl as she did. Bea stayed still.

“Bea?” she called, panic clenching her chest. 

Silence.

“Beatrice!” she ordered, shaking the limp form. Please wake up, please wake up. Bea’s head just lolled, pale lips parted by strained gasps for air.

“Bea!” she screamed, Halo pulsing as she turned her over.

A giant bloodstain bloomed over the blankets, a deafening trickle dripping to the floor.

— — —

Muted beeping echoed in her ears. A deep ache reverberated through her body, drained. Hushed voices slowly came into focus, with soothing familiarity. Good, her friends are okay.

She pried her eyes open, blinking blearily, She shifted her head, needing visual proof that her family was safe and healthy. 

“Guys, she’s awake.”

Familiar faces entered her vision, filled with worry and relief. 

Lilith, naturally, was the first to go, scoffing, “You’re such an idiot, why didn’t you tell us you had a gaping wound.” But the soft kiss to her forehead betrayed the truth. I could have lost you.

“I’m fine,” she breathed, trying to ignore the throb in her side.

“Like hell you are,” Mary retorted, leaning over to pull her into a hug.

“Language,” she chided weakly, grabbing the hand resting by her side.

Tears sprung to her eyes when she met Ava’s bloodshot ones, pressing a soft kiss to the back of her hand. “In this life, darling.”

Ava sniffled with a watery smile, and Bea pretended to ignore Lilith’s fake gag and the way Camila vibrated at the promise.  

Mother Superion lingered protectively in the doorway. Her sisters settled around her, and she knew. She was safe, surrounded by family.

She could rest.

[batsplat]

i've noticed you refer to casey's 'mystery illness' and i was wondering, is that not his chronic fatigue? i wasn't following motogp back then but he's mentioned being previously misdiagnosed, so i assumed that the 'mystery illness' he suffered from in 2009 was the chronic fatigue he's since been diagnosed with.

ah, so there's a couple of reasons I use 'mystery illness' to denote it. the first is that it's not quite as straightforward as just labelling it 'chronic fatigue'. the second is that this was how the illness was referred to at the time, which I think is key for understanding how that year played out and how the entire episode was perceived. this is a sport that was horrendously ill-prepared to deal with an 'invisible' ailment that wasn't easy to diagnose, and the ambiguity and confusion are kinda central to the whole story. you've got ducati taking it upon themselves to spread inaccurate information about casey's health against his wishes, the muddled and irregular communication from his own camp, frenzied speculation in the press and from various pundits... if casey could have just clearly pointed to something, it would've made things a lot easier. but he couldn't - that's why it's a mystery illness

just to provide a basic timeline of how this went... casey started struggling around the time of mugello, but it became obvious to everyone else during catalunya. he was exhausted after the warm-up, slept for a couple of hours - and ended up fading badly in the race itself, struggling in the brutal heat that day and barely hanging onto third place. you can see it when you watch the race back (as we should all do regularly imo)... he's almost collapsing in parc fermé, gets a chair and medical attention before even making it to the podium, and he's barely upright during the podium celebrations. he just about makes it to the presser. he thought afterwards he'd recovered, maybe it was just a regular illness... but then he was struggling again during assen, depleted by the end of the race. in laguna, same story

it is at this point that ducati decide to issue a press release 'diagnosing' the problem:

except, you know. that wasn't actually casey's illness. and casey wasn't exactly thrilled with ducati's press release

so he's going through a lot of tests at this point, week after week, consulting a bunch of different experts, and they're coming up with all kinds of explanations - like, for instance, the idea that he'd been trying too hard to recover from a viral infection. but of course, this wasn't just an innocent mistake from ducati. it was part of a pattern of behaviour in them suggesting he just wasn't fit enough

now, obviously, even if this were true, it would still be blatantly unethical to spread around medical information about your rider a) without their consent, and b) that is also inaccurate

another thing to note about the donington race - this was a mixed conditions race where the ducati team were the only ones to take a gamble on wet tyres, basically... hoping it would rain enough to make it worth it. unsurprisingly, this did not go well and they were horrendously slow, they were heavily criticised for this choice, but casey explained it like this:

wishful thinking or calculated risk, this kind of thing helped make it obvious that this situation was unsustainable. in the run up to brno, reports started circulating that casey wasn't going to race. let's just check out the language that was used to describe this:

now, this may shock you to hear, but the sport of motogp in the year 2009 was not exactly at the height of sensitivity when discussing mental health issues. so a lot of the stuff you read from the time period, you kinda go 'well first of all, that wasn't actually the issue, but even if it had been the issue this would be a fucked up thing to say or even speculate about'. once this theory really started gaining traction, around the time when casey just kinda... up and disappeared from the world of motogp (without much in the way of open communication to the public)... well, that's when the discourse got increasingly ugly

there's a lot of stuff you could rattle through here, but let's just stick to a few key flashpoints. first off, this is what the beloved kevin schwantz, 1993 motogp champ and one of casey's favourite riders growing up, had to say:

as well as this:

obviously, he's entitled to his personal experiences in struggling with motivation when rainey retired - except he's using it to speculate about casey's situation, which is considerably less justifiable. and the other bits give you a feel for the common tone of the discourse at the time. the uncertainty over what casey's illness actually was, how little information anyone had to work with, the feeling that casey should just be competing - and the speculation that his problems were primarily or even solely 'in his head'. bringing up how casey wasn't fulfilling his contract, how it was a disappointment, how this might just be about resentment towards ducati...

when casey returned from the illness, he brought up schwantz pretty much unprompted in an interview:

in his autobiography, he adds the following:

Those comments really upset me and I lost a lot of respect for Kevin because of them. For him to say something like that was another example showing me that experience counts for nothing. The media often turn to former riders for an opinion, which would be a good thing if they stuck to what they know. Sadly, often their opinions are outdated and they don't know the half of it but talk endlessly as if they do. In this case, Kevin Schwantz knew nothing about my medical condition and shouldn't have commented on something he knew nothing about. For somebody who had been through a lot of tough times himself with injuries and such, you would think he might understand. It was disappointing but he wasn't the only one who had something to say. Everybody had their own opinions. A rider doesn't go from being ultra-competitive for two years and then just drop off the face of the earth because it's 'in his head'. It is absurd for anybody to even think that. If it was depression, lack of motivation or fear I would have said. People like Chaz and Leon believed in me because they'd known me for so many years and knew I wouldn't just switch off like that. But not many people stood by me through the uncertainty. Adri, Mum and Dad, Filippo, Livio, Chris Hillard, I could practically count them all on two hands. Even within my Ducati racing team, which only a year before had felt like family, there were doubters. I think a few of the guys believed me when I said something was physically wrong but others didn't. Some of the friendships I had grew stronger through all this, and some of the friendships disappeared. In a way that was a good thing. It gave me a better perspective of what racing meant to me and what people really thought of me, who I could trust.

(of course, casey did also separately have an undiagnosed anxiety disorder that even at time of writing his autobiography he didn't really understand, so some of this should be read with that context in mind. the key bit is the frustration he experienced as a result of knowing there was something physically amiss but having no answers at hand) (very much a topic for another time, but a lot of the discourse also ended up suggesting it had been valentino who had 'broken' casey and was responsible for this alleged psychological malaise. valentino didn't personally contribute to this narrative and stuck to wishing casey a swift recovery, but you also can't really leave this out when discussing either the illness or the rivalry as it was a big talking point at the time)

speaking of ducati... well, the main thing they were doing in casey's absence was attempting to hire jorge. which isn't an issue in and of itself, except they were willing to pay him a lot more than they were to casey and allegedly offering him number one status:

(the article also reports that dani was being touted as a possibility by ducati if they couldn't get jorge, or to have a direct switch between yamaha's jorge and ducati's nicky hayden, a plan which amusingly was said to have valentino's full support)

in casey's absence, the ducati/jorge thing progressed far enough that at one point it was being reported as basically a done deal. obviously, in the end it wasn't a done deal, and jorge ended up signing a one year extension with yamaha for 2010 (still hedging his bets, depending on how the situation with valentino played out) - but the damage was already done. here's how casey talks about it in his autobiography:

They'd told me when we signed a contract for 2009 and 2010 that they didn't have any more money for me, didn't have money for development but now suddenly they could afford to shell out like that for another rider? Considering what we had achieved together, I couldn't believe it. I felt I had been stabbed in the back by the people I trusted and who were supposed to trust me. I was blown away, and not in a good way.

also this charming comment from marlboro:

this all prompted retirement rumours, yamaha rumours, all kinds of rumours, and obviously in the end casey moved to honda a year later anyway. you have to say one side ended up rather better than the other from that divorce. when casey returned, he was immediately competitive, with a podium in estoril following two home races at phillip island and sepang. while the ducati's decline continued apace in 2010 and rumours continued to circulate that casey just wasn't the rider he once was, he was able to dispel them definitively with the aforementioned move to honda

one more thing though: what was the mystery illness? the problem if you just say it was misdiagnosed but was actually 'chronic fatigue' all along is in how it erases some important context. this was seen as a possibility at the time, and he had been diagnosed with chronic fatigue before, but was actually dismissed as the primary explanation for whatever reason. from casey's autobiography (published in 2013):

I had seen doctors about some tiredness back in Australia in 2006. They said I had chronic fatigue syndrome, which they put down to a combination of my diet and my busy schedule. But this time it was far more serious and it seemed that no matter what I tried to do to make myself better I only got worse. I started having more recovery drinks made up of milk and whey powder and my condition continued to deteriorate even more rapidly. I didn't suspect that what I was doing to help was causing even more problems.

and from an article from the time:

you know that last bit of the autobiography excerpt? where he mentions the recovery drinks were part of the problem? so, at the time casey believed the main problem was lactose intolerance

the thing is, a lot of more recent articles have said he was 'misdiagnosed' with lactose intolerance and I'm sure I may have used the phrase myself as a way of denoting 'there was clearly something else going on too'. but... I'm not sure that's entirely accurate? read this from his autobiography, and decide how you're convinced that it was a misdiagnosis:

Before going back to Australia for the next race at Phillip Island we decided to try lactose again, just to confirm that it definitely was the source of the problem. Within the next day or two I started losing my usual energy. In a way, this made us happy because I could finally confirm what the problem was. After that it was like a whole new world. For ten years it had seemed to me that a lot of food tasted the same and I could go a whole day without eating and not be hungry. Once I knew what the problem was and knew what to do everything started to smell and taste good. Even the amount I ate doubled! Adriana could see a huge difference almost straight away. And not just physically: 'I love cooking but any time I'd ever put anything on the table for Casey in the past, even though he was always polite, I could tell he wasn't enthusiastic about it. I was like, "I just cooked that for you!" Now he actually started to enjoy my cooking and that was one of the happiest days of my life.' For a while I didn't go near lactose at all but then we discovered Lacteeze tablets and with them I can pretty much eat anything I want. Adri makes tacos, creamy pasta sauce with vegies and traditional Slovakian dishes like svieckova, which is beef in a carrot sauce, and knedle bread. I could finally eat my favourite dessert - sticky date pudding with custard - without getting sick afterwards. I was always pretty skinny and even though I trained my backside off I never put any weight on. But now my body suddenly started filling out and I started to actually put weight on and gain some body fat, which I'd never had before.

I'm not a doctor, but I'm pretty sure that's not how the placebo effect works

and then in 2019 it's framed like this:

and also:

plus when he's talking about it in that four hour long podcast interview thing, he kinda frames it as saying he'd continuously struggled with these physical issues but they didn't cause his actual retirement. to my reading, it seems that he's had some form of chronic fatigue for a long time, plus some of his issues may have been triggered by epstein-barr virus which he got during his career - but the specific severe problems he's describing in-depth in more recent interviews concern what he's been going through after his retirement

this is obviously quite a complicated medical history, and I wouldn't say it's 100% clear what exactly he was struggling with at what point of time. how do you accurately describe that? I'm not sure just calling it 'chronic fatigue' would be accurate, right? personally, I think 'mystery illness' works as a descriptor because a) this exact phrase was widely used in reporting at the time, and generally I'm trying to accurately describe events from the pov of that time, and b) because it gives you the key bit of information - that nobody knew what it was, including casey. it's just useful shorthand, really, not much more to it

[cookeybg]

Unexpected Cohabitation a JonDami fic - Chapter 11

Title: Unexpected Cohabitation

Main Characters: Jonathan Kent and Damian Wayne (some of the others show up too, the list is too long)

Eventual relationship: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne (my fave)

Stuff to know: No capes, reverse robins, high school AU, no smut, no Brucie Wayne, I know nothing about sports but it will show up, (aaand I think that's it, will add more if it comes up)

Word Count: 1,147

[Here's my table of contents]

Part 3 - Chapter 11

Jon mucked up the last of the manure into the wheelbarrow, his strength had increased in the last three weeks he had been joining Damian in his chores. He refused to think of it as blackmail enforced labor and thought of it as helping, he was after all staying at his house for free. He stopped to rest against the shovel, his eyes catching on the only other human in the room. Damian joined him every morning, wearing the same type of hoodie and shorts he always did, that he was always able to keep pristine due to the fact that he never lifted a finger. He lounged on the bench located near the exit, his back resting against the saddle he used on Lady, engrossed in his phone. That in itself was strange, mainly because he couldn’t hear the sounds of the Cheese Viking’s game he was obsessed with. Not once had he commented on how slow Jon was, or what he was doing wrong, or that he should smile and think of the chores as training, that it built character. Damian sometimes sounded like an old man. Instead, he smiled and snorted at whatever or more likely whoever he was distracted with. “Should I take this to the compost bin?” A stupid question, he had been taking the manure to the compost bin every morning. Instead of Damian giving him a response, Alfred the cat meowed at him from atop a barrel. Jon had found out no less than ten cats lived in or around the manor, though he only ever saw one or two at a time. He hadn’t met all of them and just knew of them because Dick liked to talk. The orange cat, Ginger, tended to stalk the halls indoors while Alfred liked to mysteriously pop up, much like his namesake. Jon let the shovel fall noisily to the ground. “Oops.” Jon said carelessly. He ignored Damian’s glare, lifted the wheelbarrow by the handles and rolled it out of the barn towards the compost area. He could hear Damian follow him silently. He tipped the contents into the bin, when done he walked back into the barn to sit on the wooden bench. He took off the rubber work boots that he had been provided, for his chores, and replaced them with the ratty sneakers he wore to go on runs with Damian. When he stepped out he saw Damian leaning against the post of the corral’s exit, still on his phone. Jon frowned at the sight. He approached casually, his hands in the front pocket of his own hoodie. “All done.” Jon shrugged. Damian hummed and nodded in response. “So, are we going on a run or…” Jon huffed, waving his hand towards the offending phone, “you too busy?” Damian looked up at him through long black lashes, his green eyes looking a bit lighter in the morning sun. “Tt, it took you long enough.” “Well, if I had help, it would be much quicker!” “Didn’t you live in a farm or something, Corncob?” “No, I help at my Maw and Paw’s farm.” “Then why are you so slow?” Damian started stretching. “What had so much of you attention, anyways?” Jon pictured white hair and a black cardigan. Damian raised an eyebrow and bent at the waist to touch his toes. “I mean you normally talk to me, but you might as well not have been here today.” Jon huffed. “Aw, lonely?” Jon sputtered a denial, his cheeks warming up. Damian smirked and ran off leaving Jon to catch up.

The rest of the day had been uneventful. The only highlight of the day was meeting Jay at Journalism club during lunch, they had type up some of the article they were writing together and promised to meet up again after baseball practice to finish up. Jon stood stretching his legs out after the brutal run Coach put the whole team through, daydreaming about asking Jay out to eat somewhere, when his absent gaze caught the color white. He stopped short narrowing his eyes at the girl sitting under the shade of an old tree next to the bleachers. She was focused on her phone, one foot crossed over the other, back against the tree. Jon wandered over to get a closer look, his water bottle conveniently in the same direction. She was wearing a white crop top, which was seemed to be against school dress code, a black bomber jacket, black ripped skinny jeans and white high tops. The girl seemed to like to match. “Jon.” Damian’s voice startled him, nearly making him drop his water bottle. “What?” Jon whipped around to face him, slightly embarrassed at being caught. “I’ve been looking for you since lunch.” Damian put a hand on his hip, a frown on his face. “Oh sorry I was doing something for journalism.” Jon said. “I wont be home for dinner,” he lowered his voice, “Could you please make sure Bat-cow and Lady are in the barn and lock it up for me?” “Where are you going?” Jon tried not to look in the direction of Damian’s possible girlfriend. “Tt. It’s not really something I need to report to you,” Damian lifted a finger to stop Jon from arguing, “but, since you will be doing this favor for me…I’m going out with Colin and -“ “Damian!” The girl at the tree walked up to them, “are you done with practice yet?” Jon felt instantly annoyed at being interrupted, but he watched the tall girl stop a bit too close to Damian. “Yes, I just need to change.” Damian told her, then turned to Jon, “So, will you?” “Hi, I’m Jon!” Jon abruptly turned to girl, smiling the bright smile everyone seemed to like and extending his hand for her to shake. “Hi, I’m Nika.” She smiled back shaking his hand. “Jon-“ Damian bristled beside him. “Did you just transfer or…?” Jon kept smiling, ignoring Damian. “No, just visiting Gotham.” Nika said. “Oh? For how long?” Jon feigned curiosity. “For a bit,” Nika smirked, “Damian’s been making it a blast.” “Jon-“ Damian tried again. “He’s showing me around town again tonight.” Nika purred grabbing Damian’s hand. Jon stared at their hands, at their intertwined fingers, for some reason his heart squeezed. He then snapped his head up, his smile much more forced. “I gotta go, it was nice meeting you!” Jon turned, quickly walking away. “Jon-“ Damian caught up with him, he was headed in the same direction after all. “Yes!” Jon continued walking, “I’ll make sure the girls are safe and sound, go have fun with your girlfriend!” Damian stopped walking beside him. All he heard from him was a disgruntled “tt.” Jon ignored it, he did not look back. All he wanted top do was shower and leave. He couldn’t wait to hangout with Jay.

Not sure about this chapter but get ready for a bit of angst in the next one. Medical drama!

[literatureatthebowofnails]

A/N: Finally got around to finishing this one.

Series masterlist

Pairing: Loki x reader

Summary: The Avengers conspire to keep love alive

You stand on the train exhausted, travel mug hanging from one hand, your second cup of coffee gone before its time. Head lulling against your arm, you're jostled against fellow commuters as you mentally review your "To Do" list.

Two weeks left to decide whether or not to renew your lease. You're seeing a couple of places after your shift. One's in the South Bronx, just a few stops down from your current place. It would make these early morning commutes direct and reduce travel time to Avengers Tower, where you spend most nights when Loki's between missions.

The second place is higher rent, but it's waking distance to the cafe and about half the ride time to the Tower. If you manage to get either, it would be an improvement, though moving is always a headache in and of itself.

Your keys jingle as you unlock the shop and turn on the lights. You make yourself a third cup of coffee before beginning the morning routine. Ovens preheating, kolaczkis waiting on their baking sheets, register filled, counters and tables wiped down. You're just sliding the first sheet of pastries into the oven as the owner, Bramborslav, arrives.

The warm, stocky man greets you in his jovial manner. His Slavic accent is thick, and you have yet to witness him in a bad mood. On the whole, he exudes the comforting nature of well-seasoned potatoes.

"I have someone coming in for a meeting about an hour after we open. I trust you can handle the end of the rush on your own?" he asks.

"Of course," you slide a second sheet of kolaczkis in the oven with the first. "What's the meeting about?"

"Some sort of proposal. He hasn't said much beyond that." He unlocks the front door and sets out the sign before disappearing into the back to continue food prep.

As things slow down, the last person you expect saunters into the cafe. "Tony?" your greeting is rife with confusion. "Is there something I can get you?"

"Ah, hey princess. Thought I'd find you here."

"You know I work here, right?"

"Exactly. I'll take a double expresso, and you can tell Mr. Kaschak I'm here."

Your eyebrows draw together. 'Bram's meeting with Tony? What on earth could they have to talk about?'

"Uh, sure, I'll go get him." You poke your head into the back. "Um, Bram? Tony Stark is here for your meeting?"

☕

A couple hours of hushed muttering pass before the men stand and shake hands.

"I'll extend the proposal to our third partner today," Tony gives Bram his signature charming smile. "Assuming everything goes as planned, the notaries should have the paperwork signed and sealed by the end of next week."

Bram seems pleased and Tony takes his leave with a wave in your direction. "Later, princess!"

"What was that about?" you ask Bram.

"He's investing in the business."

☕

After work you walk to the Yorkville apartment. The manager, a curvy woman in her early 30s, keeps a running monologue as she shows you through the building and into the unit.

A tiny studio that hasn't been updated since the 70s, the industrial space features original hardwood floors and slanted ceilings. A slim loft for storage, efficiency kitchen, and a bathroom in dire need of scrubbing.

The barred windows look into an alley, providing an impressive amount of natural light. You'd be able to keep a few plants on the sill; might even squeeze in half your living room setup.

When you get up to the South Bronx, you find the unit there is almost twice the size of the first. The owner is brusque, walking you through the unit, asking about your credit, listing the rent and amenities as though he's late for a much more important meeting.

The space is recently updated by comparison, sporting late-90s granite countertops and a subway tile backsplash in varying shades of brown. Commute aside, it would be significantly more comfortable than the Manhattan suite.

You're still pondering your options with a yawn as you unlock the door to your apartment. A text beeps from your phone.

Loki: Mission concluded early. See you tonight?

You grin despite your exhaustion and tap in your response. Just need to grab clean clothes and a few necessities.

☕

Upon your arrival at the tower, you find a construction crew working on the ground floor. You wave a hello and make your way to the elevators, wondering what Tony's latest addition entails.

FRIDAY lets you out on the Avengers' common floor to find the whole team standing around a transparent projector screen.

"Hi?" you look around at the group, "Am I interrupting something?"

"Not at all, darling," your lover strides out from around the display.

"We have a proposal for you," Tony announces, pulling up a model of the tower. Two points glow orange against the otherwise blue display.

"It's come to my attention," he continues, "that the tower is lacking. Missing something coffee pods cannot compensate for."

Pepper cuts in, swiping all but the ground floor from the screen. "I've had some designs worked up, which I think you'll be pleased with.

"We would like you to open a Domácí Kuchyně location here." She expands the view of the lobby.

"A cafe?" your eyes widen and you turn to Tony, "Is this what your meeting was about?"

"That's right, princess. And you're going to manage it."

"Now, if you accept the proposal," explains Pepper, "we'll of course have to work out all the details. We spoke with Mr. Kaschak, and he's agreed to make you a partial owner."

"This is," you gape. "An owner? I can't believe you did all this for me."

You walk around the model to get a better look. After you've had a moment to get a sense of the design, Loki comes up behind you. He holds one arm around your waist, the other reaching out to pull the upper floors of the tower back into view.

"Darling, I do realize the business Stark has proposed would significantly lengthen your commute. I've been thinking about this for a while," he expands the other orange area, "and I'd like you to move in."

You turn to face him. "Loki, I..."

"We've set aside space on the 43rd floor for you," Pepper notes, drawing your attention back to the screen. "The two of you can design it to fit your needs, and when you're ready, we'll send a team to help you move."

"A team?" you laugh as heat seeps up your neck. "I don't know what to say. This is...thank you! Thank you so much." Tony pops behind the bar and you throw your arms around Pepper.

A/N: Thanks as always for reading. Feedback and reblogs are the greatest blessings.

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Next part

Main Masterlist

[likeastarstar]

12:32 AM - Yoongi

The elevators opened and you looked up, face splitting into a wide rim grin almost instantly.

"Hi," You greeted before a long pair of arms were reaching for you.

Yoongi was sporting a similar smile to yours on his face. He pulled you into him, hugging you to his body as his face buried itself in the crook of your neck.

He was warm- on fire with adrenaline so strong you could feel his heart beating through his chest and against your skin. You laughed, running your hands through slightly sweaty, soft long hair that tickled the back of his neck. This was your favorite Yoongi- one full of confident energy and beaming with happiness. The one you only saw when he was truly in his element, after a concert.

"You were so good," You complimented, letting him walk you backwards until your ass hit the wall of the elevator.

"Oh yeah?" Yoongi smirked, excitement palpable in his tone. He froze, twisting around to look back at the elevator doors, held open by his security guard and manager, "I'm gonna head back to the hotel alone- just meet me there."

"I should go with you," His security suggested politely.

"I have a driver, it's fine," Yoongi argued, an annoyed tick in his jaw.

You felt your hand close nervously around the material of Yoongi's shirt, stiffening in his embrace as you watched his manager's eyes flick between Yoongi and you.

"I'm closing the door now," Yoongi said in a flippant, dismissive tone and you felt cold for a moment when he let go of you to press the button for the parking garage and then shut the doors.

Yoongi snickered as their faces disappeared behind thick sheets of metal, returning himself to you with a content sigh, "They'll live."

You hummed in response, leaning your head against the wall as you admired the post concert glow Yoongi had on his skin.

"You had fun?" You asked, watching Yoongi's chest heave as he caught his breath.

He laughed with the giddiness of a child, nodding wholeheartedly, "That was so short- I want to do it again."

"You'll be back on stage soon," You assured, smiling at his alive he looked right now.

He was practically floating- it was amazing to see how passionate a person could be. You wished you had that kind of ambition, even a fraction of the amount of devotion your boyfriend held for performing. You couldn't even imagine how he felt- it was addictive just to be around him, to watch the way he came alive under the harsh lights and lit up in front of crowds of people.

You could listen to him talk about it for forever- you hoped you'd get that chance.

Yoongi stared at his feet, shaking his head with an amazed look on his face, "I knew I needed to be on stage- I could feel it in my bones, you know?"

"Yeah," You nodded, stepping closer to him on instinct.

Yoongi noticed, looking up with a smirk on his lips and a knowing glint in his eye. You watched him bite down on his lip, his hands wrapping around your hips as you stepped between his legs, throwing your arms around his neck.

"I've got all this energy now, I feel so alive- it's electric," He gushed, "Feels like my entire body's full of lightning."

"I know where you can direct that energy towsrds," You mumbled, tilting your head before he leaned down and kissed you.

He kissed you slow at first, deep and dirty. You egged him on, pressing your torso flat against him and moaned lightly. You felt Yoongi's hand drift, palming your ass. Your lips moved faster against his, more intense as your tongue licked into his mouth.

"You're so fucking sexy," You moaned against his lips, "How does it feel, knowing every girl watching you perform wanted to fuck you?"

"I dunno, how does it feel knowing you're the one I think about fucking while I'm performing?" He bit back.

You whined in response, tugging at his hair so sharply that it was his turn to moan, turning the two of you so that you were slammed up against the wall with his knee pushing between your legs and up. You grinded down on him, shamelessly rubbing yourself against the top of his knee- completely grateful that you just happened to be in the world's tiniest black skirt.

You felt lightheaded and had to pause to catch your breath, laughing when Yoongi grunted in annoyance as you pushed him away. He settled for sucking bruises into your neck.

"You're gonna have to fuck me in this elevator if you keep that up," You tempted, taking a deep breath.

"You're the one about to cum on my knee right now," He teased, leaning back to get a better look at you.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks blushing with need as you inspected the way his hair had fallen into his eye so perfectly, raven locks framing his cheekbones. You tucked the loose strands behind his head delicately, fingertips stroking his soft skin.

The elevator dinged and the two of you snapped apart, regaining some sort of modesty in case of prying eyes. He kept you hand in his, a bright pink blush flushing his cheeks. You could spot your lip gloss smeared on the collar of his shirt and smirked, wishing you had left that there before he went up on stage.

There was no way his team would let that happen- you were a well kept secret held in Yoongi's back pocket, but it turned you on to just to imagine staking your claim so boldly.

"Your managers gonna be pissed you ditched him," You noted, snickering when Yoongi groaned apprehensively.

"Yeah well, I get horny after I perform and that's just something I like to save for you." Yoongi joked, taking your hand and pulling you towards where his driver was waiting for the two of you.

"Well, I appreciate that." You grinned, skipping girlishly behind him.

"I'm sure you do- Wanna get drunk and fuck all night?" Yoongi smirked, sending you a confident look.

"Absolutely, baby."

masterlist.

[austajunk]

Hello, possibly if you can the n. 22 and n.24 with Vivia x Halara? I have been curious about it. Also, amazing fanfics! They are really good!

Thank you so much! <3 I'm sorry this took so long to write, but I hope you enjoy this little Vampire Vivia and Halara au.

Fic beneath the cut.

Triggers: Dubious Consent, Vampires, Possessiveness, some genital mentions for Halara...

A deep pulse of pain circulated throughout Halara's head as they opened their eyes. Once they were awake, the soreness made itself known in an instant. They groaned and brushed the back of their head as their sight shifted back into focus. 

"Where am I?" Halara wondered to themselves in a hushed voice. Something warm trickled down their neck. Immediately, Halara slid their fingers up their jugular to find two distinct holes there, damp with smeared blood. Had they been knocked out? Perhaps an assailant had tried to slash at their neck before they had incapacitated Halara instead. 

When Halara pressed the wound on their neck, they found it to be quite swollen. It left an uncomfortable knot in the pits of their stomach, but they turned their attention to their surroundings. 

The air was thick with dust. They were in a shut, wooden room with no light whatsoever. Even as they shook off the last remnants of unconsciousness, their eyes could hardly adjust to this murky room at all. 

And yet, Halara didn't feel they were alone. The floorboards creaked behind them and they sensed someone else's eyes following their sluggish movements. Turning around, they could make out the rasping breaths of a creature nestled in some sort of fireplace. The walls were cramped around a dark figure, but strangely, its violet eyes flickered up at Halara from the shadowy depths. 

"Who are you?" Halara hissed. 

It had all come back to them within moments. They had been in the pursuit of a killer they had caught on the scene, ripping open their victim's throat. After returning to the crime and hovering over the victim's body as Halara had anticipated, they had given chase to the fiend, hoping to strike them down. At the end of an alleyway after a long run, Halara found themselves stuck in a dead end with no killer in sight. Nothing was hiding in the shadows. It had seemed they had vanished into thin air. 

And then, a force crashed into the back of Halara's head, flooding their senses with darkness as they collided with a building wall before them. 

Halara opened their eyes and narrowed them at the fireplace. They knew what this was now. Trapped in an unknown location with these strange injuries? They had been kidnapped. 

Well… that wasn't pleasant. At least, the killer/kidnapper was going to realize their folly all too soon. 

"Come out," Halara demanded to the pair of eyes that swayed in the shadows. 

There was a pause.

And then: 

"I'd rather not if it's all the same to you," a deep and raspy voice said back. It was darkly masculine, but quiet… almost too silent to hear. "It was exhausting enough to drag you back here." 

"..." 

Without much to lose, Halara knelt to the cold stony floor surrounding the fireplace. There, they could make out more of the features that the figure sported. Dark, unkempt hair splayed out over the sharp face of a slender man curled up on his side. His violet eyes were trained on Halara, but they were lowered in an almost careless gaze. They were relaxed. Much too relaxed for Halara's liking. 

"Who are you?" Halara asked them again, firmly. "Answer me or I will make you regret ever coming across me." 

The man shrugged. "So violent…it's really unnecessary… but in a way, I think that's nice to think about." His voice was slow enough to almost make Halara feel drowsy. There was a sweet sway to how he spoke, rough as it was. In a sense, it made something sweet and gentle worm its way through Halara's body. Despite their better judgment, they wanted to inch closer to the man, to let down their guard. 

He gave a warm chuckle and closed his eyes. "If you hurt me, how will it make you feel? Satisfied? If not, would you continue until that feeling you're looking for was etched into your body?" 

Halara shook their head, irritation spreading across their face. The more the man spoke, the more they had to fight the urge to lie down and simply listen to him. "I will hurt you only as much as needed to get my way." 

The man said, "Oh well. My name is Vivia Twilight. Hmm…" He rested his head in his hand, but smiled in his silence. 

"You kidnapped me," said Halara, gritting their teeth. 

"Ah…" Vivia sighed. "For that… I apologize, suppose. I was still hungry and you were drifting around the area… unfortunately I'm not quite as adept at hunting for blood as I should be. It's not that I can't… I just merely forgot when there are so many books to read." To demonstrate, he pushed a small, slightly damaged novel forward. Halara peered down as its discolored pages and ripped cover, making it out to be one sort of fantasy story. 

As they spoke, Halara felt another painfully thick pulse to their neck. "You… fed from me…?" They ran their fingers over the two holes in their neck. It… it could be a bite. Halara shuddered in disgust. They couldn't tell what was worse: the implication that someone was draining their blood from their neck like an animal as they slept or the heat that warped around their body as Vivia confessed it. 

Why, still, did Halara long to get closer to him? 

"Something like that." Vivia gave them another dark chuckle. "Feeding is too exhausting. You have to understand… I'd waste away if I could. It would be beautiful to lie still and just… fade…" 

Holding the dried wound on their neck, Halara tried to maintain their dangerous glare at Vivia. With every sting of their flesh, Halara found themselves wishing for the fangs that claimed their neck in their sleep to fill it. 

Before he continued expressing his little fantasy to Halara, Vivia gave an exhausted sigh and pulled himself from his spot in the fireplace. Cracking his back into place, he towered over the detective on his feet and tucked his pale hands into his large overcoat. 

"It would be so easy to die…" He said, his voice now drifting into the open air. "However, it's painful and I'd rather avoid the painful route. Can you understand that?" Sweeping a dark, green bang from his eyes, he glanced down as Halara. 

"So… you're just a monster who revels in his laziness?" Halara shot back, clenching their fists. "A vampire… and a miserable excuse for one!"

"Hmmm…" The vampire reached out and stroked a lock of Halara's hair. "Pretty… like the protagonist of a novel. That defiant face you make is passionate and picturesque… So yes, I took you. Because it's easier to have you here instead of hunting you down when the urges finally begin to set in." 

"Urges…?" Halara's voice wavered and they took a step back. 

Vivia smiled. "You've already felt it. I've been watching you and it's easy to tell you've been under the influence of my bite." He swept against Halara's chest, his hands reaching to catch their shoulders and pull them close. Astonishingly, Halara couldn't bear to pull away from them. Heat overwhelmed their logic and disconnected their mind from their wants. 

Halara gasped as the hand of the vampire slid beneath their coat and urged the zipper down. The cold air hit their bare chest. Vivia caught them before their legs could give out on them and steadied Halara against the wall. As Halara had secretly been craving all this time, Vivia gently moved their hand into his and brought it away from Halara's neck. There, he placed his teeth. Tiny, dart-like canines sank into Halara's chest and filled the detective with an undeniable ecstasy that bubbled through their veins. 

The warm blood flowed to Vivia's lips and he greedily drank, dipping Halara lower and lower. Halara's body was torn. Something so debased shouldn't be filling them with this bliss, this buzz across their body that made them want to open themselves to a new lover. They didn't know this monster. Vivia was the assailant they had so desperately pursued before he had kidnapped them. 

"You're wet…" Vivia's voice dripped in their ear. 

Halara opened their eyes. Their body had been undulating to Vivia's strokes. Every command he whispered to Halara had the detected obeying and curling closer. They spread out on the floor and let Vivia cup their naked chest. Those slender fingers pinched their nipples and traced down their flat stomach until Vivia had reached into Halara's pants. One finger followed the other between Halara's legs and played with their clit until it swelled pleasantly between his digits. 

"How… how are you…?" Halara could barely form the words. Their actions that they wanted to perform were null and void beneath the vampire's gaze. 

"It can't be helped," Vivia uttered to them, giving their wound a breathy kiss. "When I feed, some of my saliva still seeps into a human's veins. Your body…it can't help but to want to be mine…but… trust in me…" His violet eyes flickered sincerely to the detective. His fingers slid up Halara's folds, earning him another groan from his captive. 

"So long as you remain my source to feed, I'll never abuse this bond between us… I'll cherish and nurture it…"

[good-chimes]

Done Better (Scarian MCC)

"Well, that was an appalling performance," Grian announced to the row of empty benches as he stumbled into the locker room. He'd done something to his ankle in the last round of Parkour Tag, and nearly drowned twice in Ace Race. His muscles hurt. His bones hurt, even the little ones, even the weird ones like the one in your ear. "I want to go back to my own bed, thank you, in my own base, and never think about competitive sports ever again."

The room wasn't completely empty, even though most of the competitors had already gone. A voice floated from behind a row of lockers. "Who's there--Grian?"

Only one person said names like that: as if your presence was a delightful surprise. Grian stopped muttering to himself like someone who'd lost his grip. He didn't want to seem bitter in front of Scar.

Scar was sprawled on a bench at the back of the room, arm over his face, ridiculous princess costume spooling around his athlete's arms and his tanned legs. Scar--clumsy and slow to fight, big hands, a gleam in his eye, a knack with the bow, frankly incredible abs. Six places above Grian tonight. Green team winner.

"I thought you were celebrating," Grian said, because Scar didn't need to know any of those thoughts. "Or going home? Don't you have a theme park to run?"

Scar pulled his arm away from his face and gave him that big, sleepy smile. "I was just getting my strength back. Have you ever tried to keep up with JoJo? Feels like I went through a wash cycle."

"Congratulations," Grian said, and was surprised to find he meant it. Grian always came to win, and wanted to be a sportsman but could never really swallow a defeat. But he'd ended up near the bottom of the rankings, and Scar--last-place-Scar, can't-tell-left-from-right-Scar--had held his own with three of the best players in the league and tumbled in with them to victory.

But Scar looked up at him with that green glint in his eye, and it said: he knew. They both knew Scar had been carried, but also they both knew Scar worked himself to the bone practicing for the race, and that even with all that practice he couldn't match Grian's hair-trigger flight reflexes, and that Grian had lost because he'd barely slept the night before. It's down to luck, Scar's smile said. And the fun of the game.

"I'm happy for you," Grian said, in a different tone.

Scar levered himself up to sit on the bench. "I missed you out there."

Grian hesitated. "Huh?"

"That's why I stayed back," Scar said blithely, as if this wasn't embarrassing, as if Scar just wasn't afraid of being embarrassed. "I thought you might come by."

Grian abruptly laughed. It left his whole body like a shiver, all the tension of the event, all the adrenaline, all the built-up fatigue. He collapsed bonelessly on the bench beside Scar. The concrete was a cool throb behind his head as he leaned back, and Scar an opposing warmth beside him. Scar  was always warm. Outside, fireworks still strobed the darkness.

"What a night," Grian said. He shifted and their shoulders pressed together, and he couldn't be bothered to summon up the energy to shift again.

"It was a night," Scar agreed.

"I've never done worse."

Scar paused, and then his laugh was a deep rumble inside his chest. "You know what?" he said, and there was a deep well of contentment under his words. "I've never done better."

Another firework went off outside. Grian didn't have an immediate answer. The thing about Scar, which Grian was never going to tell him because it was his solemn duty to prevent Scar getting a puffed-up opinion of himself, was that he made you feel restful, like competitions didn't matter so much. "Scar?"

"I'm glad you're here," Scar said, as if they weren't talking about the competition at all. "Hey, want to try my crown on? You'd look good. You did good out there." He tipped his head and the crown slid off in a heap with his costume jewel, wedging itself into Grian's shoulder.

Grian didn't move. It occurred to him that he was radiating comfort, here wedged between a hard bench and a stone wall and Scar's ridiculous warmth. And he'd go back home to his own base and Scar to his, and tomorrow they might meet up again, and maybe build Scar a niche for his crown. Most of the other teams would be gone to other lands, but Scar was one of Grian's, and Grian didn't let go easily. 

"I suppose," Grian said magnanimously, "that I've done alright."

[the1975attheirverybest]

Warm calloused hands venture beneath my shirt, flat to my back, my arms wrapped around his neck, kneeling before him and leaning up.

"Tell me if it's too much; we don't have to—"

He's so soft, despite his rough, large hands; he's a gentle giant,

"I want this. Regardless of him"

Soft murmurs outside the door, waiting for the 7 minutes to be up,

"So just kiss me already," I said, speaking in hushed whispers, letting him guide me and tilting my head enough for him to bring his lips to mine, soft and slow.

In this small airing cupboard, it's warm and cramped, his much larger frame taking up a mist of the space.

"Are you ok? You seem cramped." Even in the dark of the cupboard, I can tell there's a genuine care reflected in her deep brown eyes.

"Yeah, I'm just getting used to it," I assured him. I was fine, because really I was. Despite feelings for Matty, I couldn't deny how Ross had been keeping my attention more and more as of recent.

"Here," without warning, the hands under my shirt pull me up, straddling his lap, feeling my shirt ride up even more when he presses open-mouthed kisses to my neck and shoulder. Gasping for air and desperate for more all at the same time, my back pressed against the door.

"Can I?"

"I-ahhhmhm"

Pulling away to remove my shirt almost entirely

Large hands running up your back, pressing me against his front, feeling his ragged breaths fan across my neck and collar, shirtless and vulnerable, sucking gently on untouched skin,

"Fuck. I've wanted to do this for so long."

Bringing one hand round between us, he cups my breast over the thin material of the sports bra, circling the nipple with his thumb, pulling my hair, and kissing me deeply, his tongue pressing itself into my mouth.

Holding me still while I desperately try to squirm or do anything to get more stimulation, feeling him swallow small sounds hungrily. Unable to move or think of anything but his hands on me.

Loose jeans pulled away from warm skin, nudging my head up with his nose and biting into my neck, blood rushing beneath sharp teeth, his hand still on my breast, pinching a pebbled nipple between thumb and forefinger, and drawing a yelp.

His other hand, large and warm, comes to rest under my jeans, comfortable against the curve of my ass, squeezing and pulling me in closer, hips sliding up his lap, leaning back slightly at out position, back against the cold wooden door as his head dips down further, teeth grazing my collar bone and tongue flicking out,

"So fucking good for me."

I don't reply; I can't. I'm too lost in the feeling of his hands on me. The way he teases my core, pressing his thumb to my clit over my underwear, the way his lips continue to traverse exposed skin, the way his fingers roll abused nipples and flick them

"Answer me."

"Yesyesfuck yes ok," trying to speak in a hushed whisper. A few yelps and squeaks just barely escaping.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hair scrunched in his fist, messy and tangled, his other hand dips below the band of my underwear, feeling bare skin, new and unexplored by his hands, fingers pressing against my pussy and the way he slowly circles my clit, pressing down on occasion and pinching cruelly, surprised yelps turning to languid moans, dazed and practically melting into him, pressed solidly against the door and grinding down into his lap.

feeling ross smirk against my neck; breath hot and heavy as he slips a finger in, biting down on my shoulder at the same time

"AH~ fuckfuckfuck"

"That's it. Come on princess"

Letting my hair go and pulling a hand down, feeling it pull through tangles with a Sharp sting, delicious in contrast to the sudden tightness and warmth of my lower half, guiding my hips to grind against him in long and slow motions,

"You like knowing they can hear you? Hear how good I make you feel?"

"Mhm"

"Good"

Another finger, not even moving, letting me do all the work, pressing his mouth to the material of my bra, licking and sucking through thin material

"Fuck I ahhhnng"

Ross' teeth graze my nipple, biting down lightly until I yelp, breathless and needy, curling his fingers inside me and pumping them slowly, continuing to guide me grinding down on him

"So pretty like this"

Deep breaths, god, the way he murmurs against my skin, lips moving softly, eyes staring up at me, mouth pressed against my shoulder with a cruel smirk, something in his gaze is wild, untamed,terrifying. 

"Want me to tell you what you look like baby?" Batting his eyes, licking a soothing strip into skin he bites harshly, panting under me, the hand on my hip coming up to brush my hair from my eyes, staring into them, as if seeing me for the first time, nothing but adoration.

"You're a mess, hair all over the place" he speeds up just a little, his fingers finding a much crueller rhythm than before, pinching my clit and relishing in the way my mouth falls open with a groan, "all flushed in the face” mouth pressed to my jaw, forcing my head back, sharp teeth pressed to my throat as if ready to rip it out, hunter and prey, “pretty eyes so so hazy” curling his fingers suddenly, pressing against a particular spot, crying out and gripping his soldiers with trembling hands, 

“it just feels so good doesn't it?" low and teasing, lips brushing against exposed skin with every word.

swallowing hard and nodding, my voice catching in my throat "all drooling and fucked dumb, pretty pink blush and heaving chest.” pressing a kiss to my collar, licking the skin beneath his lips and trailing his tongue down, over the fabric of the bra, tight warm circles around my nipple, pulling away before he gives me what i want, “You look so fucking perfect begging for me"

(reminder this is unedited stream of consciousness writing dont crucify me if its cringe please.)

(For context: he sent this last night but I was having a mental breakdown and logged off before I could see it. Just emptied my inbox and saw it)

sir- (take your time writing is difficult especially rn) HOLYYYYYY SHIIIIITT

[theadventurek9]

Some dog showing food for thought. I’d love to hear other opinions! This applies to all dog sports. I do talk about obedience but I think all sports can relate.

The venue I’ve been showing at the past two weeks is considered a hard location to trial at for obedience. I got told yesterday that several people of the ‘200 club’ will not trial there. (The consistently high scoring Utility/open B (OTCH) competitors)

The reasoning is for a few things. First the biggest, the staging and warming up area is on dirt while the showing area is on grass. The transition from dirt to grass in the show ring is hard for a lot of dogs.  Second, the grass itself is more smelly than normal grass rings. Possibly due to the fertilizer and the rabbit/squirrel dropping.  third, The obedience ring is surrounded by a separate chain lake fence, meaning the dogs have to go through two gates to get into the ring which can throw off entrance routines. Forth, on a related topic because of the double fence, you cannot show your dog/practice on what the go out target is before the trial.

Yesterday there were 9 dogs in Utility B, and about 6 of us in Utility A. Only 2 dogs qualified from B out of 15 dogs. Normally I’d say at least half of the Utility B dogs qualify. (Even with the 200 club not being there).

First I understand picking venues/judges and so on. It takes so many qualifying rounds and a lot of money to get the titles. Yet there is a big part of me that wants to say we should all be training better.

I know people who will choose judges because they tend to let things slide (I mean a rally judge could have easily taken off a few points at our rally trial yesterday. Our runs were not perfect) verses ones that go strictly by the book and take off points of any error they see. I’ll tell you I’m prouder of a lower score under a harsh grading judge than a good score under a forgiving one. I’d rather my dog overcome some distractions than only be able to perform in a sterile environment. I was so proud when Aayla was doing command discrimination and a rally sign rolled into our ring straight at her and she held the stay even when it it was about to hit her.

I’m also saying this on a broad scale. Not for novice dogs/handlers needing a more sterile environment. Or not even for dogs that need that environment to show. If you need a more sterile environment due to your dog being young/fearful/breed not inclined towards extreme biddability. Or even avoiding judges because they make cramped tight courses and you have a big dog that would struggle with it.

I’m more talking about people who have dogs that can handle the environment if they were just proofed enough for it. Dogs that, with training could handle changes in terrain, loud noises, smells and so on. I’m talking about the people who have multiple OTCHs with dogs that have multiple OTCHs.

Aayla is one of those dogs that’s CAN handle these changes and variability. She can have random distractions and for the most part do better than you average dog.

We’re missing our Qs in Utility because I haven’t trained her well enough yet. My proofing hasn’t been good enough, so her ability to generalize and ignore some things isn’t perfect but that’s because I’m learning how to teach her that. I know for sure she can do all of this. If Aayla had been my third or forth sport dog I can almost guarantee she would have had an OTCH and a MACH (if she didn’t have Elbow dysplasia) by now. I’m just a green dog handler figuring this out so our progress is slow and with errors.

Maybe I’ll change as I progress. Maybe I’ll be a person that avoids venues because of distractions. I hope not, but who knows.

[techforevil-er]

Vauxhall Leisure Centre

It's my last Monday without a Japanese lesson in the evening so I decided to check out my most local Better-operated swimming pool. Unfortunately Westminster decided to go with another operator for the local gyms (daft decision I resent them for) so I had to cross the pretty grim Vauxhall Bridge Road / Millbank and Vauxhall Junction. 🤢

(All photos are screenshots from Better/Google's virtual tour.)

The pool and changing area are located on the lower ground. The lift was broken when I visited, which was not an issue for me but for a facility that boasts a pool hoist for users with limited mobility it's not very helpful.

I think I accidentally booked a slot just after a swimming lesson the pool closed for, so throughout my swim it was just filling up and there were NO children meaning it was nice and quiet.

The changing room is not gender-separated, with plenty of cubicles for individuals and very spacious ones for families and people who need assistance to change. There's also individual shower cubicles in addition to the standard poolside quick shower area. The only snag to this pretty inclusive setup are the toilets, which are gender segregated. It's a strange decision, almost like someone chickened out at the last second.

There's a swimsuit spinner and free hairdryers for after the swim.

There's plenty of lockers, they require a £1 coin (returnable). The plastic bracelet is very hard and uncomfortable to wear, but feels secure.

Easily the weakest point of the facility is the swimming pool itself. I guess I am spoiled by my usual London Fields Lido, but it felt extremely tiny and the slow lane was definitely not suitable for wider strokes - especially in the half where you need to swim by the edge.

This was a problem for me as:

a) I can only swim breaststroke. 🐸

b) Midway through my session another person started swimming in extremely wide backstroke and came milimitres from slapping me on the ass when we were passing.

I feel like backstroke is an antisocial way to swim at the best of times but hey, it's a free country! So I simply got out. 😂 But the fact remains that the pool is definitely more of a 'leisure' pool than a sports one. The water was very warm, the depth was consistent (goes from 1.05m to 1.20m), and it has a sauna and steam room immediately next to it (bookable separately for extra charge, I think). I did not spot the hoist but apart from the standard ladder there's shallow steps with railing to get into the pool.

Will I be back? It would be last resort for me, I'd rather go to Oasis because it's open air and longer (33m instead of 25m) so worth it for me despite being more run down and futher away. It also seems pretty hard to book, I lucked out today finding a last minute slot for the evening when I looked in the afternoon. I will check out Chelsea centre on the weekend to see if it's a more viable option!

[justanothereddiemunsonslut]

The Table In The Woods

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (masterlist)

Eddie Munson x reader

Summary: Working with Eddie Munson as your science assignment partner has meant spending a lot of time together (cute slow burn in progress)

Note: It has been FOREVER, I’m so sorry! I fully intend to continue this series and put up new parts more often! Thank you for reading! Also it’s still doing the duplicating paragraphs around the read more thing so sorry about that but I can’t figure out how to fix it.

Part 4: ‘86 Baby

You sit against the wall outside Hawkins high, head resting back and your eyes shut, listening to your Walkman as the afternoon sun warms your legs. The parking lot had emptied out significantly in the fifteen minutes you’d been waiting, the noise of students dying down. Then a foot taps against the sole of your shoes, like a knock at the door, and you squint up at Eddie Munson.

…

…

“M’lady,” he says with an outstretched hand offering to help you up, “sorry I’m late, Mr K is up our ass about finals!”

You take his hand and hoist yourself off the concrete, “I figured as much.” Mr K was notorious for not letting classes out on time, especially when he got started on a rant about ‘the importance of your education’. The two of you cross the parking lot to Eddie’s van while he went on mocking the English and history teacher, quite accurately you had to admit.

It had been just over a week since you started your science project at Eddie’s trailer and so far everything was going well. Only one day had to be missed when Eddie had Hellfire, and you only had to leave him to do it on his own the Thursday afternoon you were working. It was strange to think that just a couple of weeks ago you and Eddie had no real reason to interact with one another and now it would seem wrong to go even a single day without seeing him.

…

“Look at this!” he’d wailed, as you had barely stepped out of your car on Wednesday afternoon, waving one of the devil’s ivy plants above his head.

“What?” you called back.

“LOOK! Look at it!”

With the despair in his voice you’d thought it must have died but as you got closer, and got him to stop waving it about like a mad man, you realised, “it literally looks the same as yesterday, what’s wrong?”

“Look! Right here! This leaf!” Eddie held the plant a little too close to your face and lifted one tiny leaf with one finger. “It’s brown!”

He wasn’t wrong but you were still confused as to why he was so worked up about it, “and..?”

“‘And?’ That means it doesn’t like my music! It is DYING because it thinks my guitar SUCKS! Do you SEE?!” He seemed genuinely hurt.

You felt bad for laughing but you couldn’t help it, Eddie glared at you for not taking this seriously.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! But it’s fine, it is just one little leaf, it probably has nothing to do with the music,” you said, trying to convince him that this small devil’s ivy didn’t have an issue with him personally.

He held the plant level with his face and narrowed his eyes at it, “so you don’t even care enough about me for that to be the reason you’re dying?” he interrogated the plant itself.

“It’s not dying! And we’re tracking growth anyway, one brown leaf doesn’t really make a difference.”

“But that’s like, anti-growth! So we have to track it!” He turned his attention back to the plant, “why do you hate me you son of a bitch?”

“Maybe it’s just not a metalhead, okay? It doesn’t hate you. Just like me, I’m not a metalhead but I tolerate you,” you smirk and give the side of his foot a tap with yours.

“Hey! I thought we were friends what’s all this ‘tolerate’ business?” he jested back.

…

On Friday Eddie had found you at your locker with the intent to change your plans.

“Y/n! Hey,” he hurried over and gave the side of your foot a light kick, “so I just found out that we are meant to have a, uh, sports running something or other thing on instead of last period today-“

“They’ve been telling us that for weeks, how did you not know this?” His complete oblivion to the school calendar was unbelievable to you.

“That’s not the point here. The point is, I am not going to that so unless you also want to skip out on it and leave early you’ll have to catch a bus to-“ mid-scheming Eddie was interrupted by none other than your gym teacher.

“Mr Munson,” he bellowed, “I expect you’ll be making up for your less than adequate attendance in my class by putting in a full effort in this afternoons event.”

Eddie, after making a face that said kill me now, spun around in his full charismatic fashion, threw his arms open and grinned, “there he is! You know, Mr Brant, we were just talking about that and about what a darn shame it is that I have a very urgent appointment this afternoon that just cannot be missed,” he stuck his bottom lip out at your unimpressed teacher. You pretended to busy yourself with something in your locker so Mr Brant wouldn’t see that you were stifling a laugh.

“And here I was thinking you had high hopes of graduating this year, a shame indeed,” Mr Brant said, rightfully not buying it.

“Wait, what?” You didn’t expect Eddie to drop the act that easily. “I’m passing though, no one said this thing counts towards our grades.”

“For those students who are barely clinging to their pass, it will.” With one last pointed look Mr Brant continued on his way down the hall. Eddie looked pissed.

“I feel kinda bad for saying but I wish I had some popcorn for that,” you say, trying to break the tension.

“Ugghh!” Eddie threw his head back against the lockers. “Can you tell me anything worse than running with our entire year in this heat?!”

“Having to repeat your senior year again just because you ditched today,” you suggested, closing your locker.

He gave a melodramatic sigh, “y/n, your wisdom knows no bounds.”

That afternoon you spotted Eddie in the gym amongst the crowd of seniors and made your way over to him and his friends, “I’m impressed. Looks like this could be your year after all, Munson,” you tease.

“It better be if I’m enduring this.”

You all sat on the hard gym floor as Mr Brant explained his expectations, making it clear that anyone with low attendance or wavering grades needed to make up for it today, going on about effort and how this 5000m is ‘about more than running’. Seriously, what else could it be about? you thought.

“5000m?!” Eddie whispered, horrified, “how many miles is that?”

“Like 3,” you said, Eddie slumped over and groaned at the mere thought. You knocked his foot with yours, “you really gonna run that in jeans?”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting to run it at all in the first place so I don’t have anything else,” he mumbled. You thought you had been dreading the long distance run but at least you were prepared with gym clothes.

“If you’re lucky maybe you’ll collapse of heat exhaustion real early on then you won’t have to do it,” you joked, tapping your head with your index finger as if this was a genius idea, Eddie shook his head and laughed quietly.

As soon as you were outside and on the starting line though, all jokes were forgotten and heat exhaustion suddenly seemed like a very likely possibility. With zero clouds in the sky the sun was beating down with a thick, burning heat. You could feel sweat already beading on the back of your neck and you hadn’t even started yet. Of all the days they just had to pick today! you thought, the hottest freaking day all month!

One of your friends, Sarah, had lined up with you, “can we make a pact to go together? I know I’m not going to be able to keep up running for long and I don’t want to look like a loser for walking.”

Sports have never been her strong suit, but nearly every other school subject she aced with ease. You’d met a few weeks into your freshman year when she and her family moved to Hawkins and she ended up in most of your classes. Both of you being academically inclined, and particularly interested in science, had ended up hanging around the same group of like minded students and becoming friends. Sarah was one of those people who was going to achieve amazing things and knew it. She was driven, self assured and one of the smartest people you’d ever met, adults included.

Considering you weren’t confident in your athleticism either, you agreed to partner up.

You both tried to jog until at least a few other people had stopped to walk before slowing down yourselves. After regaining some breath Sarah asked, “how’s your science assignment going? Are you actually getting anything done?”

You frowned, “what do you mean?” Even though you knew what she meant. Sarah may be your friend but she could be quite judgemental when it came to your peers.

“Are you having to do the whole thing yourself? We all know Eddie isn’t A+ material.”

You felt yourself becoming defensive, “well neither am I. I’m pulling a B in science, have been all year.”

“Oh I know, but you know what I mean. It sucks that you got stuck with someone so… unfocused,” she said.

“I didn’t ‘get stuck’ with him, we just ended up partnering. And actually he’s doing most of the work at the moment, I’m going to do more of the paperwork stuff once we have our data.”

Sarah went on not realising that you were getting annoyed, feelings and social cues another one of her weak points, “you haven’t got your data yet?” She was shocked, of course, thinking that everyone aims to finish their assignments weeks before they’re due.

“Let’s jog for a bit,” you said, purely to put an end to the conversation.

When it was time to leave you met up with Eddie. His face was bright red, his hair was even more unruly than usual and sticking to his face, his shirt was drenched with sweat and he was carrying his jacket, still breathing heavy. You didn’t feel like you looked much better.

“Graduation is back on,” you said, trying to remind him this would be worth it.

“‘86 baby,” is all he could manage to get out. You looked at each other in mutual exhaustion then staggered to the van in silence.

You were both so wrecked that neither of you cared that no music played the whole drive. Once home, Eddie swapped his soaked hellfire shirt for a slate grey sleeveless top. You immediately found yourself staring at Eddie’s arms, he usually had at least half length sleeves on, luckily you catch yourself and force your eyes away before he notices. You didn’t speak until the second record for your experiment was about halfway through. Both of you were collapsed on the floor, you sitting against the wall with your eyes closed, Eddie sprawled out on his back, as much as was possible in the cramped living area of the trailer. Every so often Eddie let his foot fall to the side, tapping yours.

“I could really go for a milkshake right now,” Eddie said dreamily.

“I would kill for a milkshake,” you said, not moving.

“Oh sorry, I don’t actually have milk or anything to make a milkshake,” Eddie gingerly pushed himself up to lean back on his hands.

You opened your eyes and looked down at Eddie with a deadpan expression.

“You have crushed my every dream.”

Eddie gave a surprised laugh and you smiled as you rested your head back and closed your eyes again.

“You know, you’re funny sometimes.”

“And you lie about having milkshakes sometimes.”

…

Now, Monday, after you’d completed a round of music for all your plants and taken notes and measurements, with a generous amount of time wasting in between, Eddie drives you home.

The van pulls up outside your house, Eddie puts it in park and raps his knuckles on the steering wheel.

“Thanks for the ride.” You undo your seat belt, a necessity when it comes to Eddie’s driving, and notice he is fidgeting with his rings, focused on twisting one around and around.

“Hey, uh,” he starts, “I have something for you.”

He reaches behind and rummages through a bag to pull out a cassette. He holds it for a moment, then extends his whole arm to present it to you, even though you are sitting right next to him in the passenger seat. You take it from him and Eddie’s arm moves back to pull some of his hair over his face as you look down at it. Scrawled across the front in red marker are the words ‘INTRO TO METAL’. The letters are jagged with no smooth lines, the O’s look like diamonds.

“Just if you ever feel like having some metal in your life other than when you’re with me,” he said through his hair. “So obviously it’s got master of puppets on there because that was your true intro to metal, but now you can listen to the whole thing not just me playing it on guitar-“ his words were picking up speed now and he wasn’t hiding his face anymore, “-and then there’s that Judas Priest one that you were tapping along to when it was playing on the way to school the other day-“

Eddie got lost in explaining the mix he’d compiled for you. He hadn’t looked directly at you since he’d given it to you but you watched him intently. You didn’t generally comment on the music Eddie played while driving, you couldn’t believe he paid attention to even your smallest reactions. You studied his face as he gushed about his favourite bands and their best songs. The way his cheeks lifted when he smiled and the dimples that appeared. The brightness of his eyes, despite their dark colour, and the way they widened every time he remembered something else to tell you. He was so animated with the way he jostled around in his seat, too excited to keep still, and clicked his fingers or drummed on his legs. The way his perfectly messy hair would get in his eyes and he’d shake it back out of the way. He really was gorgeous.

“So yeah, no big deal if you don’t listen to it. I just thought you might like it,” Eddie finished with a soft smile, glancing at you and then down to the steering wheel. It takes you a second to snap out of the trance you were in.

“Eddie, of course I’ll listen to it!” He looked up at you with relief. You tried to hold back the stupid grin that wanted to make its way across your face, “thank you.”

You looked back at the cassette in your hands, noticing the feeling of warmth in your cheeks, “so I’ll see you tomorrow,” you said.

“Yeah, see ya.”

Eddie waved out his window as he sped off and you watched him fly around the corner before you went inside, cradling your gift in your hands.

[bensolosbluesaber]

Returning a Favor (Zemo x Reader fic)

TFATWS Ep. 4 Spoilers!!

Summary: When your old friend, Sam Wilson, needs your help in Riga you drop everything and go. You knew they broke Baron Helmut Zemo out of jail, but you didn't expect to bond with the villain. (AKA: I thought getting hit in the face by the Shield would at least leave a bruise. Here's how that would go down with a fourth person.)

CW: Blood, wounds, some creepy behavior (not from Zemo), a few Y/N inserts

No smut yet, just cute cuddles and taking care of each other. Maybe smut in the future though! Let me know if you want a Part 2 or added to a tag list for potential future fics! I think the reader can be any gender; I tried to write it that way and be inclusive, but please tell me if I messed up!

If you know me in real life, no you don't:) I write most of my fics on @aurora521 and write on AO3 and fanfiction.net under the same name. Please don't come for me about finding Zemo attractive.

Hope you enjoy!

---

Returning a Favor

Meet me in Riga. -S

That was the text you received from Sam Wilson, your old military friend, yesterday. And now here you are, outside the Riga airport walking toward Sam in traditional undercover superhero attire- a baseball hat and sunglasses.

“Thanks for coming,” he greeted. “We have a little problem.”

“Is his name Baron Helmut Zemo by chance?” You asked, following him to a jet black sports car.

You were very aware of just what type of trouble Sam was getting himself into since you, a SWORD agent, still had access to all kinds of classified information.

“See for yourself,” Sam muttered, gesturing to the back door of the car and climbing in the driver's seat himself.

You hesitated for a moment, then opened the door and slid into the back. And yes, Zemo was there, lounging back with legs spread. He’s wearing a long coat with fur lining, a deep purple shirt, black pants, and shiny leather shoes. He nods to you and smirks ever so slightly. Bucky Barnes, who you had only heard about but recognized immediately, turns from his spot in the front seat and smiles at you.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Y/N,” he says.

“And I you,” you respond.

Sam pulls out of the parking lot with a screech of tires. The ride is mostly silent, Sam and Bucky bickering occasionally. That made you smile, knowing that as much as Bucky annoyed Sam, this was the type of relationship he craved. Zemo watched you the entire drive, sizing you up.

The home they’re staying at is obviously the Baron's. He’s comfortable there, leaning against the counters, rifling through cabinets, lounging on the couch.

“So what am I doing here?” You finally asked.

The three men interact easily, and either Sam or Bucky is always watching Zemo. There’s no real need for a fourth person to get involved, at least not in your mind.

“Someone needs to babysit the Baron,” Sam explained with an annoyed sigh.

Zemo shrugged with a smirk so innocent it’s sinister. He’s still wearing that ridiculous coat.

“The two Avengers can’t handle him?”

“I believe your friends find it challenging to be around me,” Zemo answered for Sam.

“You shot a man in the head yesterday!” Sam snapped. “You antagonize Bucky at every turn. Forgive us for needing a break from whatever is happening in your fucked up head.”

Zemo tilts his head as if agreeing with everything Sam had just said.

“Anyway,” Bucky interrupted. “We have a lead on Karli. You can sleep off some jet lag while we’re gone, but starting tonight it’s your turn to keep track of him.”

You settled into a small bedroom. The moment your head hit the pillow, you fell asleep. At home it’s nearly ten at night; here it’s midday.

The trio is back all too soon, heralded by a slam of a door, and you force yourself to wake up to adjust to the time change as rapidly and effectively as possible. As you open the door to the living room, Bucky is stalking toward Zemo. He grabs the teacup from Zemo’s hand and hurls it against the wall.

“You wanna see what someone can do with leverage?” Bucky growled, staring at Zemo with an unnerving glint in his eyes.

“Take it easy. Don’t engage him,” Sam jumped up and grabbed Bucky’s arm. “He’s just gonna extort you and do that stupid head tilt thing.”

Bucky’s face softened slightly. Zemo stops tilting his head.

“Let me make a call,” Sam says and walks away.

“You want some cherry blossom tea?” Zemo offers Bucky with a mocking tone.

“No. You go ahead,” Bucky hissed, and after a moment of staring, he followed Sam out of the room.

You had watched Zemo for that entire exchange, noticed the slightest flinch and hint of fear when Bucky had grabbed that cup. The moment the other two men are gone and Zemo thinks he’s alone, he pours himself another cup. His hand is steady, but he draws a sharp, unsteady breath.

You move out of the room, and Zemo looks up at you from his spot on the couch. Without a word, you walk into the kitchen, taking a roll of paper towels and carefully picking up the shattered glass.

“I can do that,” Zemo says, speaking directly to you for the first time.

His voice is calm, accent thick.

“It’s alright,” you answer, then gasp sharply as a piece slices your pointer finger from tip to palm. “Fuck.”

You set the bloody piece with the pile of glass and hold a paper towel to your hand. You used the other hand to wipe tea off the wall and floor before picking up the glass piled on a paper towel and placing it in the trash, carefully tucked in other garbage.

“Let me.”

Zemo’s voice behind you makes you jump. You eye him for a moment wondering if there is some ulterior motive, some way he could hurt you or hold you hostage. Nothing comes to mind, not with Sam and Bucky so close, so you hold out your bleeding hand. He clicks his tongue at the wound.

When he takes your hand in his, his fingers are soft and warm. He moves your wound under a faucet and lets water run, rinsing the blood down the sink. He squeezes the wound a bit, and you wince as it begins to bleed more.

“We bleed to clean our wounds. It is the body’s way of protecting itself,” he says and presses a towel to your finger as he shuts off the water. “Ironic isn’t it. The very thing meant to protect us from future danger, often kills us first.”

“I’m not here to debate the ethics of superheroes with you.”

“Hold that,” he lets go of your hand and opens another cabinet. “I know how I feel about enhanced humans. There is nothing for me to debate.”

Zemo takes your hand back in his. You watch his face as he works. He uses his mouth to remove the wrapping from a butterfly bandage. The bleeding has slowed, and he uses the bandage to pull your torn skin back together. The cut isn’t terrible, certainly not the worst injury you’ve ever had, but it will scar. He adds two more strips, then places an absorbent pad over it and wraps it all in gauze.

“When we get back, I’ll change that for you.”

“I’ll hope you don’t get killed then,” you offer with a grateful smile.

He doesn’t respond but gestures to you to join on the couch. You do, keeping what you feel is a safe distance between the two of you. Zemo hands you a cup of warm tea, but as you grab it, he doesn’t let go. Your undamaged fingers brush his for a long moment and he chuckles.

“Promise not to take after your friend James? I quite like this tea set.”

Your eyebrows knit together as he smiles at his own joke and finally surrenders the cup to you. That’s the last words you two exchange, and when Bucky and Sam return ready for the next part of the mission, they find the two of you sitting in silence sharing a pot of tea.

___

When the three men returned, Sam and Bucky held an unconscious Zemo between them. You jumped off the couch, the book you had been reading discarded, and let them lay Zemo down.

“What happened?”

“John Walker,” the two men answered in the same disgusted tone.

You leaned over Zemo, finally seeing the blood and bruise on his right temple.

“This one disappeared for a few minutes, shot Karli-”

“Didn’t kill her,” Sam interrupted, sounding relieved.

Much like Sam, you sympathized with Karli’s motives if not her methods. And much like Sam, you were glad she hadn’t died.

“Then Walker knocked him out with the shield,” Bucky finished.

There was no jab at Sam this time for which you were grateful.

“Which is the only useful thing he did,” Sam added. “Zemo destroyed the rest of the serum, so right now he’s above Walker in my book.”

You looked down at Zemo, blood had dripped down his face and neck, though most of it was dried now. His eyelids twitched as he slept.

“Are you two okay?” You asked as you walked toward the bathroom.

“Fine. We ditched Walker, but we’ll need to get out of here as soon as we figure out what to do with Karli,” Sam answered, collapsing on the couch with a heavy sigh.

You dampened a washcloth in the bathroom and on your way back to the living room, grabbed the first aid kit Zemo had used on you earlier.

“What are you doing? He’ll be fine,” Bucky muttered.

He was sitting next to Sam now.

“Returning a favor,” you answered as you knelt at Zemo’s side.

You dabbed at the drying blood with the cloth, wiping it off his cheek, out of his hair. Somehow the coat came out unscathed. Sam and Bucky were talking about something behind you, but you were entirely focused on the unconscious man.

Zemo had a handsome, aristocratic face, and he walked like royalty, like he was untouchable. This was evidence he wasn’t.

You moved to the actual wound next. The cloth was soft, unreasonably so. A large hand wrapped around your wrist, squeezing tightly. You inhale sharply and shift your gaze to Zemo’s hand then his eyes. When your eyes met his, he seemed to relax, releasing you and letting his hand fall at his side.

“Apologies,” he grunted, mouth twitching with pain.

“It’s alright,” you answer calmly, very aware that the other men had stopped talking and were fixated on a potential threat. “Turn your head please.”

You put a hand on his cheek and turned him to face you to get a better look at the wound that was still seeping slowly.

“The new Captain America might force me to reconsider my stance on superheroes. I would enjoy seeing Sam and James have a go at him,” Zemo said as you prod the wound.

You wiped the cut with antiseptic, and Zemo hissed a bit at that but said nothing. Then, just like he had done to you, you placed three butterfly bandages on the cut. It wasn’t deep, just long and jagged.

“You’re my new favorite,” he joked with a little grin.

You laughed and walked to the kitchen for some ice. There were no packs, so you grabbed a bag of frozen peas, wrapped them in a towel and set it gently on Zemo’s temple.

“I can’t have you dying when I need this changed tonight,” you said, holding up a finger.

When you turned around, Sam and Bucky had both stretched out on the couch. They both wore annoyed expressions that Zemo got a whole couch and they got one to share. Bucky bumped Sam’s foot with his own, much to your amusement and Sam’s annoyance. He kicked his partner back, and you decided not to interrupt their little couples spat. Instead, you move to sit on the ground.

Zemo grabbed your wrist again, this time gently. He tucked his legs up, folding them into a V, and motioned you to share his couch. And you did, sitting in the same spot you had earlier, this time near his feet still clad in shiny black leather shoes.

“Hey, you two,” Sam called. “What’s this cozy little couch situation going on here?”

“You two could have a cozy little couch situation too if you’d just talk to each other,” Zemo shot back.

He didn’t even look at Sam, just held the frozen vegetables to his face, eyes closed.

“Y/N?” Zemo asked after a moment. “Can you get me an Advil? Or better yet, some sort of alcoholic beverage?”

“I’m not your servant, Zemo,” you sighed but stood and poured him a glass of some expensive alcohol from a bottle with Sokovian writing.

He sipped it, setting it on his chest between sips as he lounged on the couch with you. Bucky was watching you out the corner of his eye, and you were watching Zemo. Every few sips he would grimace, his lips pressing together and chest catching. Then he’d relax, exhale softly and shift the peas back into place. Eventually you picked up your book and began to read again.

Sam left the room to take a phone call a few hours later and came back shaking.

“Karli threatened Sarah, my nephews. I have to meet with her. Alone.”

“I’m coming with you,” Bucky jumped in, already on his feet. “Walker will be there, and you can’t handle the Super Soldiers and Captain Propaganda on your own.”

Zemo was either asleep or doing a good job pretending beside you. The pea bag had been returned to the freezer. He’d discarded his coat and was now wearing only his black pants and a deep purple shirt with shoulder holsters.

“You got him?” Sam pointed to the sleeping man.

“That’s what I’m here for,” you answered, setting the book aside and watching them prepare to leave.

Both men donned their costumes, Sam strapping his wings on, Bucky ripping the sleeve off of yet another jacket so his metal arm could move freely.

“Call me- us if you need backup,” you shouted after them, knowing full well they would do no such thing.

“If we aren’t back in two hours, take his ass back to jail,” Bucky called back.

Baron Zemo woke up the minute the door slammed shut, which made you doubt he’d been sleeping at all.

“And now it is only us,” he said in that thick Sokovian accent. “I will cook us something for dinner.”

He moved into the kitchen, boiling a pot of water while you watched. You perched yourself on the counter near him as he searched through cabinets. When he noticed you, he paused and chuckled before returning to the cooking. You watched in silence, keeping a close eye on him when he picked up a knife and began chopping tomatoes from a can.

He handed you a bowl of thin noodles with a thick red sauce. It smelled delicious.

“A traditional and simple Sokovian dish, a comfort food you might say,” he explained and joined you on the counter. “I made enough for Sam and James. Call me an optimist.”

Zemo didn’t talk much, you realized, as you enjoyed the food in silence. It was delicious, a bit like pasta. Suddenly, the back door clicked open. You glance around nervously, realizing just how wrong this felt.

“They shouldn’t be back yet,” you say quietly. “And they wouldn’t come in the back.”

“My old associates must have found me,” Zemo jumps off the table, and you notice the same nervousness as when Bucky threw the cup. He cannot know about James or Sam.”

You can hear a single person strolling toward the kitchen in heavy boots.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Zemo whispered, and before you could even process the words, he was standing between your legs and pressing his lips to yours.

His movements are slow and careful, trying not to be invasive as he moves his hands to your back, sliding one up to the back of your head. You wrap an arm around his waist and slide the other hand up the front of his purple shirt, splaying your fingers across his chest. His lips are soft and warm as they move against yours. His hand keeps you from pulling away, not that you’d want to.

“I heard you were back in Riga,” a new voice chuckled. “I had to see for myself.”

Zemo pulls back, feigning surprise, but kept an arm protectively around you.

“And as you have undoubtedly noticed, I am quite busy,” he replied. “Perhaps you could come back tomorrow? I’d prefer not to discuss our business in front of…”

Zemo nods to you. You were staring at the man who you recognized from work files. He was a former Shield agent. When Shield fell, he used the chaos for his own advantage, working for neither Shield nor Hydra and killing anyone who stood in his way. You suspected, but couldn’t be sure, that some of your best friends had been killed by him. Fortunately, you had enough self-control not to shoot him. His mere presence made you tense and uncomfortable.

“Of course, Baron,” he grinned and look at you in a way that made you shift closer to Zemo. “I’ll see you tomorrow, noon. The usual place.”

He gave the two of you one last look and left with a wink to Zemo. Even when the other man had gone, Zemo’s hands were still holding you against him.

“We will have to be gone before noon tomorrow,” he said looking down at you.

For some reason, you were both still wrapped around each other.

“You know who he is?” Zemo said, a statement masquerading as a question. “I am sorry.”

Your face was only inches from him, and you could smell his cologne. Zemo used the hand on your head to pull you against his shoulder. You set your head there, face turned into his neck, and inhaled deeply. And there he sat and you stood, hugging tightly for no real reason except that no one else was there.

Zemo pressed a soft kiss to your head, and rather than protest you let his lips linger. Finally, his head fell on your shoulder. After a moment, he slid you off the counter, took your hand, and led you back to the couch. Without asking, the two of you settled together on the couch, so close your sides pressed against each other. He pulled a gun out of his shoulder holster, and you froze until he set it down on the table, smirking a little.

“I don’t make a habit of shooting people I’ve just kissed,” he chuckled and raised an arm for you to lean against him.

You raised an eyebrow at him, surprised at the forwardness. You shouldn’t be, after all, he had just kissed you and held you on the counter of his kitchen. Helmut Zemo made no sense to you, but in the end, you curled against him. He shifted to lay on his back, head propped on the pillows he was laying on earlier while you tucked yourself beside him, head on his chest.

Zemo wrapped an arm around you. You put a hand on his chest, fingering the purple shirt. He was warm and soft, and you had to remind yourself that you could not fall asleep while you are supposed to be watching him.

“Why are we doing this?” You whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why are you?” Zemo turns his head toward you.

“I haven’t had someone to do this with in a long time,” you answer slowly, cautiously, knowing full well this was a man who could turn on you on an instant or hold onto information until the moment it was advantageous to him.

“Neither have I,” He replied. “German prisons don’t allow much physical contact. Besides, I hope that with enough time perhaps I may kiss you again.”

You tilted your head up to see a grin tugging at the side of his lips, lips that had been on yours a few minutes ago.

“Maybe with enough time,” you answer and brush a lose strand of hair out of his eyes, letting your hand trail over the bruise on his face.

He caged your hand in his, bringing your joined hands back to his chest and holding them there. You felt the rise and fall of his breaths and it soothed you. When they grew deep and steady and the tension seemed to fall from his body, you realized he was truly asleep, not faking like earlier. Soon and against your better judgment, you were dozing off in his arms tossing a leg over his so your limbs tangled together.

Your last thought before you fell asleep was how warm and comfortable you felt with Helmut Zemo, and how completely ludicrous such a thought was.

It wasn’t long before the door opening woke you, still secure in Zemo’s arms. You tried to move, sit up so Sam and Bucky wouldn’t see this little arrangement. You failed. Bucky came in first, stopping in his tracks as he saw the scene on the couch.

“What are you doing? Keep walk- what?” Sam ran right into Bucky’s back then froze.

Their eyes were wide as they stared. Zemo shifted awake beneath you, and you could imagine the smirk on his face. Bucky’s metal fist clenched, and Sam, ever the peacemaker grabbed his arm and opted for a more amicable approach.

“One of you better start talking.”