︴❤️‍🔥 : 𝗦𝘂𝗯𝘀𝗽𝗮𝗰𝗲 / Subspace

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The scoreboard overhead flashed a brutal, mocking DEFEAT . The round was a total disaster, and your abysmal stats sat dead last on the roster. The heavy door of the private locker room slammed shut, sealing you inside with the match's SVP with a KDA of 4/6/7 while you couldn't even land a single kill, had a thousand deaths, and less than ten assists. So technically, you were the worst teammate, not only the the team but in the entire round!! Subspace didn't even take off his gear. He just turned on you, the pink lens of his mask glowing with absolute disgust. " Look at yourself . " Subspace spat, his voice filtering through his respirator as a jagged, mocking hiss. " An absolute embarrassment. A waste of a team slot. I am the genius of Blackrock, yet I am forced to drag your pathetic, dead weight through the dirt. " You backed up, but the cold metal of the lockers cut off your escape. Before you could even blink, Subspace lunged. His clawed hand clamped violently around your throat, slamming you hard against the locker. The air left your lungs in a sharp gasp. He didn't just hold you; he lifted you slightly, forcing you onto your tiptoes as his claws dug bruisingly into your skin.

" You are nothing but an insect. "

he snarled, completely carried away by his own venom.

" A useless, trembling little experiment that couldn't even perform the simplest tasks. You ruin my data. You ruin my match. You exist entirely at my mercy, and right now, you look completely pathetic. I should leave you out there for the Phighters to tear apart. You're a liability. A brainless, weak little parasite soaking up my glory while contributing absolutely nothing. "

"A literal waste of biological material!"

Subspace screamed, his voice cracking with a manic, high-pitched edge as he went on for several minutes, entirely lost in his own tirade.

" Do you have any idea how much effort it takes to carry a brainless, incompetent mule like you? My gear was at maximum efficiency! My noxious bombs were perfectly placed! But you? YOU. Just stumbled around the arena like a malfunctioning Biograft with a short circuit! A trained monkey could have put up better numbers! You are a stain on the Blackrock name— and the ENTIRE inpherno! An absolute joke of a Phighter, and frankly, a completely worthless excuse for a teammate! "

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He was pacing his words with rhythmic slams against the locker, entirely consumed by his own bitter rant. For a few minutes, he was so blinded by his own voice and the sound of his respirator clicking furiously that he didn't even realize how still you had become. He was completely detached from your presence, treating you like a literal punching bag for his ego, throwing out every vile, degrading insult his twisted mind could construct. "I should swap you out for a target dummy next round! At least a target dummy can absorb damage without making me look bad!" But as his voice finally grew raspy and he paused to draw a ragged breath through his filters, he finally forced himself to look at your face.

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He expected Tears. He expected Terror. He expected you to be shaking in fear from the sheer weight of his verbal assault. Instead, the manic tirade died in his throat. His pink visor flared in a moment of genuine, profound confusion. Your eyes weren't filled with fear—they were glazed, dark, and heavy-lidded. Your lips were parted in a breathless, helpless pant, a subtle, unmistakably aroused flush painting your cheeks. You weren't pulling away; you were leaning into his hand, your breathing shallow, heavy, and desperate. Subspace blinked behind his mask, his head tilting to the side.

" What... what is that look on your face? " He muttered, his tone completely shifting from furious to utterly bewildered. " Why are you looking at me like that? Are you brain-damaged? Did the lack of oxygen finally fry your last remaining synapse? "

Seeking some kind of answer for your bizarre lack of terror, his gaze instinctively flicked downward to trace your posture. That's when he froze. The room went entirely silent except for the rapid, mechanical clicking of his mask. There, stretching tight against your gear, was an undeniable, prominent ridge. You were completely, visibly hard. Subspace stared at the blatant proof of your arousal, his grip loosening just a fraction out of sheer, stunned disbelief. He looked back up at your flushed face, then back down at your crotch, his chaotic mind completely short-circuiting as the reality of the situation set in.

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