#Give that man a big robot

[yo-yo-yoshiko]

Colored some junky morning warmup comics eehehe... This is Superhero Taisen to me.

The Sentai is here to deal with physically large threats and contribute nothing else.

[clouvu]

Offering to you all some sandy doodles in these trying times

[pennyserenade]

i’m actually so serious about ewan mcgregor’s filmography. no one else is serious enough abt it. there’s so many incredible movies and about 90 of them are underrated or cult classics. star wars is great but it’s almost one of the least interesting things he’s done. there’s trainspotting! there’s moulin rouge! shallow grave! down with love! i love you phillip morris! big fish! perfect sense (devastating movie)! birds of prey!!! not to mention his season of fargo!!! where he plays not one but TWO characters and blows it so far out of the water i was genuinely sobbing by the end of it. like on my knees. good stuff

[florshedworf]

okay ive been thinking about this for a little bit but what sort of dress would thunder wear.

i was thinking perhaps something fancy? like a sleeveless dress or something with some sort of armor? perhaps not something that drags on the floor though

or maybe something a bit more practical? something that isn’t really a dress but you can move more freely/have more protection in (or just generally looks more square/sharp)

[no1ryomafan]

SRW is such a funny thing for me to think about cause it’s like “wow a trpg game that’s been ongoing for decades that really encapsulates how huge and significant mecha is to japan by having every and all mecha been featured in this giant crossover that also has really cool attack animations that replicate the shows they’re from well, with new original content for some shows sprinkled in as well” at first glance then I proceed to be salty by going “oh wait the main show I like in here is only ever used for one iteration which they end up butchering and all the other mechas I’ve liked have shown up maybe once because I’ve liked the ones that had to flop in Japan- also this game caused tags to be unnecessarily filled with crossovers and people acting like they know a series just because it was in SRW thanks I hate it” and this cycle is only a constant because I haven’t actually played a SRW besides 30s demo for a bit 💀

[miryum]

Simon Riley who, when you moved in with him, also had to adjust to your little dog. He loved dogs, as evident by Riley, but your dog was not like Riley. Riley was a war-hardened German Shepard that could sniff out bombs and had survived a bullet wound. Your dog looked like it would pee on the helicopter that was sent to rescue it and bark at the medic before rolling over for belly rubs.

Your dog was all bark and no bite. They were a small, fluffy little thing who you spoiled more than Simon. It took them a while to adjust to Simon, but when they realised that Simon laid heavily on the couch after deployment and was willing to be their personal pillow, your little dog reluctantly accepted him.

As for the dynamic between Riley and your dog, your little pupper was insistent that they were the boss of the house. They barked at Riley when first introduced as Riley just sat there, waiting for it to be over. Soon enough, though, your dog was curled up with Riley, cuddling. That always made you coo and take pictures of the pair, though Simon grumped that he’d rather have you pay attention to him.

Speaking of attention not on Simon, when the hell did your shared bed also become the dogs’ bed? When it was just Simon and Riley, Riley had his own bed and kennel in the living room. And Simon loved you so much. He was so fucking happy when you moved in. Hell, he was happy just to have you in his bed. Waking up with you tucked into his side, protected by him, was something he adored. It was better than heaven. But that heaven was usually interrupted by your scrappy little dog wiggling its way in between you two. He would turn around when you started petting and baby-talking the dog, only to see Riley at the foot of the bed, staring up at him. That’s how both dogs began sleeping in your shared bed.

You adored Riley just as much as you adored your own dog. You loved going on walks with Simon, the dogs on their leashes. Riley was a perfect walker, next to Simon the entire time with such military precision that you doubted the canine even needed a leash. Your dog on the other hand… they weaved all over the path, pausing to sniff and pee every half block. Simon wanted to train your dog like he had trained Riley, but you refused. “Oh, shush. Look at that little face! Perfect already, Si.” Of course, he could never say no to you.

Speaking of Riley’s training, however, Simon could tell that his dog was slowly slipping farther and farther from his strict regimen. With the excessive treats that you slipped Riley, the dog was gaining some chonkiness, just as his owner. As his deployments got further and further apart and his retirement got more and more likely (perhaps because of the ring in his dresser drawer), he allowed himself to stay in bed longer with you rather than getting up to exercise in the wee hours of the morning. You didn’t mind, obviously. You liked the softness that Simon was acquiring and he was always a big man to begin with. Just because his tummy was becoming more squishy didn’t mean that he still couldn’t throw his weight around if someone was bothering you.

Simon, combined with Riley, allowed for ‘scary dog privileges.’ There was a time when a creepy man began following you when Simon was on deployment and you were walking Riley. Your own little dog was getting their hair cut, so it was just you and Riley. You noticed something was wrong when Riley’s ears perked up and his movements got a bit more robotic. You glanced around, knowing Riley’s instincts were never wrong. After seeing the man, you decided to head back towards the edge of the park, where more people were. When the man didn’t give up, though, and got even closer, Riley went full guarddog. He stepped closer to you and turned around to face the man. After a few loud, thundering barks that drew the attention of everyone around, the man scuttled away. Later that month when Simon was back home, both dogs cuddled up to you on the bed, he didn’t know whether to be mad that you didn’t tell him immediately (though he could never get mad at you) or to be proud that Riley protected you so fiercely. Anxiety and fear rushed through Simon, but you calmed him with a small kiss and Riley set his head on Simon’s stomach. Riley definitely earned the scratches behind the ears that he got.

Most dog owners took their dogs out for one last pee before bedtime and Simon was no exception. You always made Simon take the dogs out because you were usually cuddled up in bed or in the blankets all cosy. He never once complained, either tugging on his jacket if it was windy out, or pulling on a hat if it was raining. He would do anything for you, even if it meant braving thick snow that crept into his boots. Riley always went quickly, even though both owner and dog knew that he could withstand the freezing temperatures. Your little idiot, on the other hand, would take their merry time, sniffing and trailing around the yard (which you had asked for when you and Simon moved out of his apartment and into a real house on the outskirts of the city). There were even times when another dog would be walking by and your canine would bark and run after them. Simon was always quick to jog after and scoop the dog up. Once in a while, Riley would give a deep bark as well, as if telling off your dog. Simon would then trudge back into the house, muttering curses under his breath, your dog under his arm.

But, as much as he pretended to hate your dog, there was always a soft spot there. Soon enough, “my girlfriend’s” dog became “my wife’s” dog and then “our” dog.

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤLOVE ME GENTLYㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : Cute Things That They Do When They're In Love.

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

He gets up earlier just to make you coffee —and not just any coffee, the perfect one: oat milk, a swirl of honey, exactly 173 degrees. He’ll place it on your nightstand with a silent kiss to your forehead before disappearing into Bat-mode. You pretend you don’t notice—but you totally do.

Leaves post-it notes when he goes on patrol. They’re hilariously robotic: “Breakfast in fridge. Don’t forget vitamins. Love you. — B.” But he draws a little bat in the corner every time, and you keep every one of them.

He reads bedtime stories to you when you can’t sleep —but it’s always classic literature. Pride and Prejudice. The Great Gatsby. He’ll be half-asleep himself, voice rough and low. One night he mumbles, “Mr. Darcy is weak. I would’ve burned down London for you.” You never let him forget it.

Sleeps with his head on your chest. The man carries Gotham on his back but curls up like a cat when he finally sleeps. His favorite thing? Your heartbeat. He won’t say it out loud, but that’s how he knows he’s home.

He keeps a framed candid photo of you on his Batcomputer. It’s you, mid-laugh, covered in flour, from when you tried to bake together. Tim caught it. Bruce keeps it where no villain will ever find it—but he looks at it before every mission. Every single one.

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

He gives you piggyback rides literally everywhere. Down the street? Piggyback. Grocery store? You’re climbing on. You joke that his back must be destroyed—he grins and says, “Baby, I do flips off rooftops. You weigh like, three clouds.”

Kisses your cheeks 37 times a day. Minimum. Your temple. Your jaw. Your nose. Bonus kisses if you’re mad at him. He’ll follow you around the apartment like a puppy, peppering kisses like, “Still mad? What about now? Now?? NOW???”

He talks in his sleep and it’s always about you. Once he said, “No, she can’t marry Chris Evans, I’m hotter,” and you laughed so hard you woke him up. He whined, “Wait—what did I say?” You just kissed his dumb forehead.

He braids your hair. Like, really well. Like it’s a thing. “Comes with the package,” he claims. He’ll sit behind you on the couch, legs on either side, humming some 80s song while twisting your hair like he’s done it forever.

He fake cries to get cuddles. Full pout, big eyes, “Baaaby… you don’t love me anymore…” until you sigh and pull him into your lap. He melts. Absolute cuddle slut.

— JASON TODD ⋆

He lets you paint his nails. He acts all annoyed, muttering about toxic masculinity, but then he flex and be like, “Damn, I look good.” Also lets you do matching colors.

He makes you playlists with names like ‘If You Ever Leave Me I’ll Die (jk... unless?)’. It’s full of angsty rock and a few disgustingly romantic acoustic songs you know he’d never admit to liking. You tease him. He shrugs. “I’m a man of culture.”

Carries your lip balm in his jacket. He grumbles about it every time: “You have, like, five of these.” But he pulls it out before you even ask, like some sort puppy.

Always comes home with something for you. A book you mentioned once. A weird snack from a gas station. A kitten once. “He was gonna get hit by a car, what was I supposed to do?!”

He gets super possessive when you're sick. No one else is allowed to help. He makes soup (burnt), tucks you in (aggressively), and yells at your fever. “She’s not answering your texts because she’s DYING. BACK OFF.”

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

He draws you in his sketchbook all the time. But never shows you. He’ll be all tsundere about it—“It’s not for display,”—yet the moment you catch a glimpse and say, “Is that me?”, he’s like, “Tt. Obviously.” (It’s always you.)

He feeds the stray animals because you like them. Now Gotham has a growing population of cats, crows, and one raccoon named after you that follows Damian home. “She understands command. Clearly superior.”

He makes you lunch bento boxes. They’re perfectly arranged. Like, Michelin star level. Sometimes they have little food animals. You once teased him about it and he straight-faced replied, “Aesthetics are important.” But his ears were so red.

He picks flowers for you during patrol. Like—he’ll come home at 4AM covered in blood with a perfectly intact wildflower in his hand. “It reminded me of you,” he mutters. “Resilient. Pretty. Sharp if touched incorrectly.”

When he’s injured, he goes to you. Even when Alfred or medical professionals are RIGHT THERE. You could have no medical knowledge and he’ll still stumble in, covered in blood, saying, “I’m fine. Just… hold me for a moment.”

— CASSIAN CAIN ⋆

He only speaks to you. One or two words max. But when he does? It's so soft. You’ll be talking and suddenly hear a tiny: “Pretty.” Or “Sad?” Or “Stay.” He’ll tug your sleeve and rest his head on your shoulder and that’s it. You’ve melted.

He copies everything you do. You tilt your head? He does too. You braid your hair? He stares until you let him try. He mimics you like a curious baby bird, trying to understand the world through your eyes. He loves your laugh and repeats the sound softly under his breath when he’s alone.

He believes everything you say. You once told him ducks are just water chickens and now he will fight Bruce over that fact. “Chicken,” he says seriously, pointing at a duck on patrol. “No, Cass—” Too late. He’s already gone.

When you cry, he cries. He doesn’t understand why it happens—he just feels it. Even if it’s a sad commercial. Suddenly he's sitting next to you, eyes full of tears, holding your hand. “Why?” he asks softly. And it makes you cry harder.

You’re his safe place. You talk, he listens. You sit, he follows. You nap, he curls up at your feet like a puppy. Sometimes he tugs your hoodie sleeve and signs, Home? And he doesn’t mean a building.

— STEPHEN BROWN ⋆

He falls in love with you hard. Like day one. He makes it everyone’s problem. “I think I met my wife,” he says to Barry (M!Barbara). He's like, “You’ve known her for five minutes dude.” Stephen shrugs. “Yeah. I’d die for her.”

He wants to match with you in EVERYTHING. Pajamas. Costumes. Hoodies. He even altered his vigilante suit to match your favorite color. Tim saw and just walked away like he couldn’t handle the secondhand embarrassment.

He builds you blanket forts. Complete with snacks, fairy lights, and a “no sadness allowed” sign. He calls it “The Anti-Depression Fortress.” You both stay up giggling like kids.

He cries when you do nice things. You brought him lunch once and he got misty-eyed. “No one ever packs me food,” he said, voice cracking. You put a sticky note on his sandwich and he framed it. It said, “Eat your damn veggies.”

He accidentally proposes once a week. You’ll say “this soup is amazing,” and he’ll go, “Marry me.” You’ll trip and land in his arms? “That’s a sign. Marriage time.” He’s serious every time. You’ve started keeping a tally.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[sp0o0kylights]

Sometimes I think of a Steve Harrington that is absolutely exhausted by all the horror and bullshit and trying to keep the kids alive through said horror and bullshit, who watches Eddie rock up to him at the beginning of S4 with a dead eyed, flat stare.

"Steeeeve Harrington." Eddie taunts and peacocks and twirls around him, and all Steve wanted was for a couple months to process the trauma, maybe feel safe enough to start thinking about the future instead of stuck in a never ending anxiety loop of what might happen to Dumbass Near-Deatherson, should Steve go to college or move out of Hawkins (bc all the bad nicknames in the world won't erase the fact that Dustin's family, now. They're all family. And when they need help, they go to Steve.) and now he's suffering the unjust ordeal of being haunted by the high school drug dealer.

"His highness has come down from his castle!" Munson will crow, making a show out of Steve picking up the kids like this is a great battle of wits, a scoreboard between them and not like Steve is half dead on his feet, head aching, dreams full of too many teeth. "Quickly hide behind me, he'll try to cut off your heads!"

"Wouldn't he just cut yours off too?" Lucas asked, though the tone was slightly timid, Sinclair unsure if his joke would be well recieved.

(Steve doesn't care if the kid outright insults him. He still recalls the junkyard, the fight with Billy, the blood staining the kid's headband. Lucas lived, therefore, he can be a shit if wants.)

"Mine? Oh, the King wouldn't dare." Munson tosses his head, full of cartoon energy, too big for his body and grin both. "Many have tried you see, but no one had ever succeeded!"

Steve, equally, does not give a single shit that Eddie Munson has decided to play these games with him--until he realizes he's maybe been a little too exhausted and depressed and morose around the kids.

Watches them getting worried over him, whispering urgently and making dramatic gestures and talking to Robin and suddenly, playing a little tug of war over them the way Munson seems to want feels like a good idea. A way to hide all the rough edges, a way to be fine so they can be fine.

"How about you guys skip the dork brigade tonight," Steve taunts back the next time they're all together, standing like the man he used to be, wearing a dead personality. "And we go do something actually fun instead?"

Eddie laughs, lights up, is all too happy to match him tit for tat, and it's so easy to fake this kind of interaction, rolling his eyes and snapping his gum. Steve could match this energy in his sleep, and never once does Munson catch on that Steve's not doing this for him.

That he's not even looking at him half the time, eyes askew, locked on the kids. Seeing them relax as he banters, seeing Dustin glow as he returns to his favorite position, being the center of attention.

So long as they think he's okay, Steve will be okay. If that means putting up with Munson, then so be it.

Its not like he'll catch on.

Eddie doesnt.

(Or rather, he does--but Its months and several deaths later, when they're in the RV, chasing what feels like literal demons, does it dawn on Eddie what Steve is doing.

Has been doing, the whole time.

Steve, sassy, ridiculous, jock- brained Steve makes the mistake of doing it again, using the same trick he had on the kids to convince them he was fine on Eddie. To further convince Eddie that they were fine as a group.

That they'll survive, they'll figure it out, they'll make it.

Loudly bantering with dead eyes, smiling with a mouth robotically locked in. Jokes on jokes on jokes and all of them making the kids take their minds off VecnaHenryOne to screech ineffectively at their babysitter. Winks tossed to the girls, who both roll their eyed at him. A sly look given to Eddie, to include him.

Its then, that Eddie decides to cement his life with Steve's. Because this loyal bastard of a paladin is too good hearted to die, too protective to not try it anyway. The idiot is cutting himself to ribbons to tie them all together and Eddie can't undo the damage but he can grab all the pieces he can, loop them together.

He can make those dead eyes light up again.

And he does.

This time when things are over Steve finds himself unable to pull those little tricks of his. Every time he slides the mask over his face Eddie rips it right back off again.

They fight, a lot, until they start kissing instead and for a while that also, somehow, feels like fighting but Eddie's real good at this. The emotional part, not so much the kissing, but he knows how to draw Steve out. How to break down walls, and annoying his real personality out.

The kissing was just an odd little side benefit.

A thing they don't talk about.

There's a benefit to it, one he doesn't look very hard into, until strangely, one day, Eddie wakes with Steve's head pillowed on his shoulder and comes to the abrupt conclusion that he's screwed.

Or so he thinks--until bright, loving eyes blink awake, and turn on him, and Eddie realizes just how long it's been since they looked dead.

He wonders, vaguely, how long it'll take for Steve to catch on, that this just got serious.

Will laugh at himself when he learns that Steve already knew.

Guess that's what he gets for finally paying attention.)

[blade-liger-4ever]

@gijoe-forever

Just finished G.I. Joe: Renegades for the first time and hoo boy. It's been a long time since I was down this bad for a ship.

Lineart below the cut:

[lockandkeyblade]

First Rule of Ghost Fight Club

Hey look ma, there's a multichapter now!

Several months ago the GiW, flush off the success of having the Anti-Ecto Acts passed– even if they had to hide it beneath several hundred adjustments to agricultural and infrastructure legislation– made a mistake.

Their little campaign of hatred was going well, maybe too well– so why not make it public? Why not grasp for a little more power, incite some torch and pitchforks? There were a dozen roads the stupid bastards could've taken, but they wanted the shortcut. The highway.

They decided that their next campaign against the ghosts would be to release several videos highlighting the utter destruction left in the wake of their fights. Show America there was something worth fighting on their hometurf. Make them angry. Make them vicious.

Jason figures they’d expected some backlash for it. There would've been a PR guy, or ten, or twenty, paid the big bucks just to sit around and consider it all. He'd interrupted enough board room meetings in his youth past life that he's got a pretty damn good idea of what to visualize; a bunch of white guys, forty plus, sitting around and deciding how people they did not know, understand, or give two fucks about were likely to receive this kind of news.

Ghosts were real, and terrible. The slogans were equally as bad, of course. And that wasn't on the PR team- that was on whatever dead-eyed millennial got paid way too little to give a fuck. Grandma can't cook you pies like she used to- she's too busy eating your soul. Little Timmy who fell down the well has taken one too many pointers from Samara Morgan. That kinda shit.

Someone was still gonna care about 'em. Someone was gonna call this inhumane. Someone would look into that Act and realize ghosts; talking, once-living people (some of 'em), had less rights than the average lab rat. Someone would start a protest.

The GiW would've thought about that and prepared for it. They must've felt invincible enough to chance it anyway, because they started uploading their 'documentaries' on the barbarity of ghosts online. Probably stroking their cliché ass moustaches and puffing cheap cigars all the while.

The fuckers would've expected all that. What they didn't expect, when blasting the world with their little softcore snuff vids, was how into it the world became.

Ghost fights? Were fucking badass.

And now the whole world knows it.

Gotham, especially, knows it. Gotham loves it. This was the kind of thing that was made to take over the nightlife of an already unhinged city; sports bars replacing football with the newest renditions of that one robot dude smacking down a couple of buildings, taking bets on what was gonna get him first– Danger Twink, Little Red Flying Hood, Morally Ambiguous Scientists, or The Man.

Proper names for each entity- and every other painfully stereotypical character involved- were hard to come by, initially. Most of those founding videos had the sound swapped out for the screams of children, flat voiceovers of scientists reminding the people that ghosts don't feel, so don't feel for them.

The bars played 'em on mute and blasted their own tunes over the top. Others had their own live MCs to commentate on the action. Robot dude got the name Gadget Goatee, the sweetass punk rock girl was On Fleek. The ghost seemingly addicted to boxes was Box Ghost. Names like that. When camera crews of reputable (and not so reputable) sports channels started sneaking into Amity Park, some names got adjusted. Some didn't.

The day pre-fight interviews began to happen was the day Jason seriously started considering why the Justice League hadn't gotten involved yet, enough to ease that question into conversation with Dickiebird. To sate his curiosity, no other reason. Turns out, Danger Twink had asked them not to. And the Justice League, full of some of the most anal and controlling people Jason has ever had the misfortune to meet, had listened to him. The petition signed by almost the entirety of Amity Park's population had probably helped.

Apparently, the city didn't want or need help. On the fighting front, at least. Nightwing is as in the dark for what, precisely, had been shared about why that was, but it was enough for Batman to raise the requirements for permission to be obtained by any hero wanting to go into Amity Park’s space– and for the rest of the founding members to approve them. 

JL's continued efforts to flatten the GiW and their miserable Anti-Ecto Acts had been cheerfully encouraged. Everything else, though? That was Danger Twink's problem. Or Phantom's joy, if you asked Jason's opinion on the matter. Not that anyone did.

The reality these days was that the government agency, high off their own fumes- as they often were- managed to fuck themselves right out of existence. And the ghosts? The ghost fights?

They were there to stay. Impressively contained within Amity Park with a startling level of confidence and control, all thanks to one girl on a hoverboard and a dead guy.

Place was even considered a chill place to visit, contrary to the continually televised property damage. The fights continued to maintain a level of popularity that was almost feverish, stealing their way into primetime television, spawning a couple dozen streaming services that would inevitably cannibalise themselves.

Oh, Jason could see the appeal of those fights. Hell, if he thought he could get away with it, he’d join ‘em. Sure, most of Gotham was into it for the more obvious reasons. Vicious mauling and extensive infrastructure repair that wasn't their problem, for once. Something new to bet on, some cool people (dead, alive, or never alive in the first place) to throw merchandise around for. The phenomenal amount of simping, the utterly batshit rule 34 that could be found online. A few ghost themed cocktails. All that good shit.

Jason just liked the sound.

He hadn't gotten into the videos until he could hear 'em, the ghosts themselves. It was something he kept to himself, seeing as- hey, no one else was mentioning it. His family was likely to think him insane again, so that was another deterrent. Nah, let folks think Red Hood enjoyed having that shit on in the background for...inspiration. Of the this might happen to the next person who crosses me variety.

But nah. He just, liked the sound.

It was like a secret concert, just for him. Some of those fights might as well be fucking operas. Full on musicals with a bit more green blood to 'em. Every ghost sang in a way Jason couldn't describe. There was a vibrato to it all, otherworldly and entrancing. A resonance that seemed to sink past his skin, right down to his soul.

They sing about obsession. They talk about what matters most to them, the parts of their unlife that are their beating hearts, their drive, their love. Every fight is an illicit fantasy, an almost embarrassing revelation of the people beneath the caricatures– Gotham sees neat fights, and Jason hears souls. 

It was simultaneously off-putting and addictive.

And fuck him sideways, but sometimes? The songs were kind of cute.

Especially the ones for Danger Twink. Most of the songs were for Danger Twink. Phantom, as he kept trying to tell the media, over and over again. The kid barely looked legal, though it was hard to tell when he was, y'know, six feet under. Brat could be 

Bruce's great grandpa several times over, for all he knew.

But he wasn't, if the songs were anything to go by. As far as the ghosts were concerned, this implied to be twenty year-old was, in ghost terms, baby. He was baby.

All the other ghosts knew it. All the other ghosts adored it. A solid fifty percent of the songs Jason could hear, day in, day out, were basically gooshy renditions of look at our small king. Our light. He has grown so much.

That Phantom’s response is usually the equivalent of mom please, you’re embarrassing me, as he makes a crater out of the earth with his opponent? Classic.

In a way, this whole shebang the world was addicted to was just a community trying to rear their child. Their potentially important child, or just important to them. Jason really didn’t know which way it was leaning, and it’s not like he could ask.

Really, he was just content to witness, maybe fantasize, a little, about what kind of songs they’d sing under his fists. What kind of song Phantom might sing, if Jason pinned him into the dirt.

One video changes that.

It’s a new one. Gotham is terribly excited by it; wherever Jason goes, he sees advertisements and hears people talking because– new ghost. New ghost. A new challenger approaches. The bars and the television companies keep any hints of who or what this late entry to the game might be, and it’s smart. Everybody’s talking about it. Fuck, even Tim is talking about it, and that little idiot hates the whole thing. Thinks it’s sickening that any being’s pain could be turned into sport.

Not that he’s wrong, just, y’know. No one’s really being hurt. 

Jason thinks he might also be… a little anticipatory. He’s gotten awfully familiar with the usual roster, their songs something that rattles off in his head throughout the day. He knows– heh. He knows what Phantom sings back to them. Intimately. Has that part memorized, and he’s not ashamed to admit it.

He wants to hear Phantom sing about something new. That’s what’s exciting.

It’s exciting right up until he’s slouched down at a bar, eyes fixed to the screen and the cheers of the crowd around him drowned out by a tune that turns his blood to ice, stirs up something that’s been quiet in him for years, until his eyes flash green.

Because the new ghost doesn’t want to play with Phantom. He wants to own him. Like a dog. With discordant notes that sound like laughter, high pitched and crazed, like a metal pipe slamming into his face, over and over again–

And Phantom is defiant, glorious, powerful.

Afraid.

Jason doesn’t remember getting onto his bike, but as he heads east, he knows exactly where he’s going. Fuck permission, fuck the Justice League, and fuck Phantom for trying to handle that sort of shit on his own.

He doesn’t know how he’s gonna do it, but this Plasmius guy? Is about to learn what it’s like to die. For the second time.

[kitkatscabinet]

Don't feed him he'll come back

simon riley x neighbour! reader

summary: The ghost that lives in your apartment is a solitary man, people tend to stay out of his way, giving him a wide berth. You can't help but think he seems a little bit lonely, cue pestering him with bad jokes and food.

word count: 1.6k

part 2 here

There’s a ghost that lives in your apartment block. Though it feels more accurate to say he’s an occasional visitor. He comes and goes, like a lost spirit, unsure and aimlessly wandering. He slinks silently through the hallways like a wraith in the few instances when he is there. 

The first time you see him is just a glimpse from the corner of your eye, a large hulking shadow standing at the door next to your apartment as you step out from yours. 

Your feet stutter to a stop, the landlord had mentioned a neighbour but in the 3 months you’d lived there you’d never seen him. As if sensing your eyes lingering curiously on his form, deep brown eyes turn to meet yours. You can make out no other details of his face, the black material of his balaclava obscuring most of his features. 

A century could have passed in those few seconds and you doubt you’d have noticed. Despite the weariness in his gaze, you found yourself pulled into the deep pools of those stunning eyes. Like a predator, his gaze never moves from your body, even as you offer him a friendly smile and wave before walking down the hall to continue your day. 

You’d heard the uneasily whispered tales of the Ghost that haunted the apartment next to yours from some of the older tenants, though you’d never put much stock into the idle gossip. His burning gaze bores into your back and follows until the doors of the elevator close and you suppose you should feel intimidated. 

It’s hard to conjure up any such feelings, even with the knowledge of the wariness he elicits in others. It’s hard to fear the hulking figure of the Ghost when he had such sad eyes. 

He hid it well but you recognised the loneliness that lined his shoulders, the bone-deep exhaustion for life that managed to slip through tiny cracks in his self-imposed shield. 

You suppose at that moment that even Ghosts can be haunted. 

Maybe that’s why you found yourself knocking on his door later that evening with the tray of pasta bake. Initially, you’d made a large batch to have a few days left over for yourself. Yet just as you opened your fridge you’d hesitated, mind flashing to the man next door. Did he have any food for himself? There was likely nothing fresh, and he’d seemed too exhausted to pull himself to the grocery store during the brief encounter earlier. 

Donning your Crocs, you’d marched over and knocked on his door before it properly registered that you were in pyjamas. The door swings open and your eyes trail up, the balaclava is gone, replaced with a simple black face mask letting you glimpse blond hair. 

“Sorry if this is a bit intrusive, but I figured you probably didn’t have any food so…” you trailed off, pushing the tray towards him, expectantly waiting for him to grab it. It took a few seconds before he robotically took the tray, probably out of sheer confusion more than anything else. Stepping back before he could return the food you offered one last smile before fleeing to the sanctuary of your apartment. 

Two days later you exit your apartment to an empty and cleaned tray, a small note with a simple ‘thank you’ placed within. 

His name’s Simon, and apart from an introduction and the occasional dish left at his door, you don’t actually interact with him again until nearly a month later. And that had simply been a case of forced proximity a la broken elevator style. 

Simon remained unflappable as ever, and it’s at that moment you decide to try and get a reaction that isn’t stoic silence. 

“A bear walks into a bar and says give me a whiskey and …cola” Brown eyes turned to look at you curiously, brow raised to let you know he was listening. “Why the big pause? Asks the bartender. The bear shrugged. I’m not sure, I was born with them.” 

The joke doesn’t land, silence is the only reward for your comedy genius. “Ok, playing hardball. Alright then… Why did Susan fall off the swings?” Again, there is no answer, but a glance at his relaxed posture indicates he’s listening. “Because she had no arms.” 

No laugh but you blaze ahead. 

���Knock knock.” It takes a few seconds but with a playful glare, he responds quietly and with a tinge of amusement. 

“Who’s there?” It’s not the first time you’ve heard his voice, but it still births a serious case of butterflies in your gut that takes more than a few seconds to fight down and regain your composure. 

“Not Susan.” You can’t stop the peal of your giggles at that one, and while you swear you see the corner of his cheek curve upwards a little it’s not enough for you to be satisfied. 

“I can’t believe it’s come to this, but I guess it’s time for the big guns. You better prepare yourself Riley 'cause I’m done holding back.” You pause for a few seconds to let the anticipation settle. 

“What is… Whitney Houston’s favourite type of coordination?” You take a deep breath before positively belting out, “HAAAAAAAND-EEEEEYE.” Whether it’s the shock from the sudden musical number or the joke itself you’re finally rewarded with a faint chuckle. 

“Aha!” you shout in triumph, a smug grin splitting your face, “I heard that laugh, you can do more scowl!”

The doors suddenly open with a ding and Simon pushes off the wall, but not before rolling his eyes playfully your way. Silence once again descends during the walk to your respective apartments, yet it’s not uncomfortable. Swiping your key card it’s just as you step through the threshold that you hear it, 

“Why did the chicken go the seance? To get to the other side.” Whipping your head around, you are met with the sight of his door closing behind his large frame, but a win is a win and you celebrate mentally over the exchange. 

The next time you leave a dish at his door it comes with a written joke. Sure enough, a few days later you received one back. The months start to blur, and your Ghost comes and goes, but the jokes remain. 

Month three sees you snagging his number, a daily joke sent his way even when he can’t respond. Because as much as Simon Riley tried to hide his hurts from the world, he couldn’t hide them from you. 

You’ve loved a soldier before in your brother, can see the signs and smell the gunsmoke and blood from miles away. Apart from his team, it becomes obvious the man has nobody left, and believes he doesn’t deserve to be cared for.

You’re not foolish enough to think you can be that for him, but you are understanding enough to give him the choice. So you continue to send him jokes, puns, pictures of your cat Bingbong and anything that you think will get him to at least smile.  

Three months turns to six turns to eight. He’s not physically there most of the time but you take every opportunity he is to coax him from the loneliness of his apartment like a stray kitten.

Once-a-week dinners at least. Freely sharing your life’s story without expecting anything in return. One evening you’d plopped your chunky tuxedo cat down on his lap and watched him freeze, hands hovering with wide eyes as he considered the ball of fur making biscuits on his thigh. 

It was cute. He was cute. Even when he whipped around to glare when you took a photo, the corners of his lips downturned and tugged at the scars on his face. His bare face wasn’t necessarily a new sight but it causes your breath to hitch nonetheless. 

Something you think he notices given the way his lips quirked up suddenly in a smirk. Rolling your eyes you huffed before plonking yourself down next to him on the couch. Bingbong doesn’t scramble onto your lap like you expect, instead deciding to remain on his new favourite human, traitor. 

You pay very little attention to the movie even though you’d chosen it, too acutely focused on the large bulk of Simon next to you. Your shoulder rests against his arm, his body heat emanating from beneath his hoodie and absorbing into your skin. 

You’ve never been one to fall asleep during movies, but there’s something about Simon’s presence that soothes you, lulling you into a restful slumber as you slump against his chest. Bingbong meows his discontent as you accidentally squish him, jumping away with a huff, none of which you notice. 

It’s the sun shining straight onto your face through the open blinds that wakes you the next morning, a groan of confusion leaving your lips as you stretch and look around to orient yourself. 

Sitting up, the blanket that you just now realised covered your form fell down to your waist. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes your phone falls to the floor when you stand, the screen flicking on to display the time. 

It’s not until you sleepily stumble into your bedroom, plugging your nearly dead phone in and face-planting onto your pillow that you realise Simon must have tucked you in. The smile that covers your face is so wide it is painful and you fall asleep once more, dreaming of the phantom sensation of his arms wrapped around you.

[lovelyney]

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯DATING THEM !! FONTAINE GUYS⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

CHARACTERS: freminet, lyney, neuvillette, wriothesley.

SCENT: headcanons

WARNINGS: mentions of nsfw on everyone’s but freminet’s.

FLORIST’S NOTE: wow !! took me long enough ☹️ im so sorry for the wait pookies. also how are we liking this new layout for these ?? ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯2023 !! #©LOVELYNEY

꒱₊˚ 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐓 !! 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐁𝐓𝐒

𖠵𝟎𝟎: SWEET BABY BOY FREMINET I LOVE HIM SM.

𖠵𝟎𝟏: As we know, Freminet's quite shy; he doesn't have much experience with romance, but he tries his best !!

𖠵𝟎𝟐: He wouldn’t hear the end of it from Lyney when he first started crushing on you. . . He kept on asking and asking when he was going to confess.

𖠵𝟎𝟑: Doesn’t like going out very much, but if it’s at the expense of your happiness and being with you, he’ll try and push through.

𖠵𝟎𝟒: Bought you a handmade plush of Pers since you always like to cuddle the robotic one while he’s away.

𖠵𝟎𝟓: Loves whenever he sees you wearing his clothes. he’d probably give you his entire closet if he could.

𖠵𝟎𝟔: Has a bunch of pictures of you and him that he keeps hidden in his dressers.

keeps one on him for good luck !!

𖠵𝟎𝟕: I honestly can’t tell if he’d give you a pet name ?? It’d probably be something like “nestling,” “my love,” and “baby/bébé.” (/ Meaning he uses both the English and French ver.)

❝H—Hey bébé. . . If you aren't too busy, would-would you maybe want to accompany me to brother’s magic show tonight ?? I-I could really use your company and I know we haven't been a date in a while. . .❞

𖠵𝟎𝟖: Crafts you all kinds of trickets🫶🫶

𖠵𝟎𝟗: Brings you the prettiest stones and little things that he finds when he goes deep-diving.

𖠵𝟏𝟎: Lyney “adopted” you into the family the moment you and Fremi started dating.

𖠵𝟏𝟏: He cringes whenever Lyney calls him a nickname, but he melts when you do it.

𖠵𝟏𝟐: Isn’t a big fan of PDA (he’ll obvi hold your hand) but in the confines of his room, he’ll cling to you.

𖠵𝟏𝟑: Will sometimes get pouty when you’re cuddled up to Pers and not him.

𖠵𝟏𝟒: Doesn’t get jealous like at all, he’ll just get annoyed and nervous at most.

𖠵𝟏𝟓: Didn’t pay much attention to his appearance initially, but ever since you started lovingly thumbing, kissing, and counting his freckles, it’s become his favorite thing about himself.

𖠵𝟏𝟔: I can imagine him liking his hair played with.

𖠵𝟏𝟕: Silently protective over you, you know ?? Like he’ll squeeze your hand if he senses someone you’re around is dangerous or unnerving. Or if he wants to leave and doesn’t want interrupt your conversation.

𖠵𝟏𝟖: Strangely warm !! He isn’t sure why you enjoy hugging him so much, but never complains, hehe.

𖠵𝟏𝟗: Likes to be both the big and little spoon !! If a day comes where he’s just exceptionally tired, he’ll want to be the little spoon. But if he wants to feel like the bigger person or you need comforting, he’ll be the big spoon.

꒱₊˚ 𝐋𝐘𝐍𝐄𝐘 !! 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐀

𖠵𝟎𝟎: I’M 1000% COMPLETELY NORMAL ABOUT THIS MAN, I PROMISE 🤐🤐🙏🙏

𖠵𝟎𝟏: Lyney, as we know him, is very incredibly playful and can be very charming !! He uses this to his advantage.

𖠵𝟎𝟐: Was obsessed with you before you started dating and is still obsessed with you now 😭

𖠵𝟎𝟑: The complete opposite of Freminet. He will not shut up about you to his siblings. . . (Sometimes he might mention you to “father.”)

𖠵𝟎𝟒: Wants nothing but for you to be safe and protected. (Bonus points if it’s in his arms.)

𖠵𝟎𝟓: Going back to the Knave, Lyney might share the relationship you two have with her but won’t give any explicit details about who you are as a means to protect you.

𖠵𝟎𝟔: “Darling,” “gorgeous,” “lovebug/bug,” “my (love)/mi (amour),” “my sweet,” and “sweetheart/chérie.”

❝Thank you so much for coming to today’s show, my love! It always fills me with so much energy seeing you in the seats, staring up at me. . . I ought to put together a show just for you, hm? How does this Friday sound?❞

𖠵𝟎𝟕: Loves to tease you !!

𖠵𝟎𝟖: Does not like waking up in the mornings, especially when you’re lying in bed with him.

loves to hide his face in your neck whenever he’s lying with you.

𖠵𝟎𝟗: Loves PDA. He cannot give a single fuck if you guys are in public. If anything, he’s proud to show his love for you to everyone.

𖠵𝟏𝟎: Can sometimes be unintentionally flirty with other people without realizing it. Don’t get it twisted, though; he’s incredibly loyal to you.

𖠵𝟏𝟏: Many people (of all genders) find him very charming, and as much as that might sting you, Lyney always finds a way to bring you into the conversation to dismiss their advances.

𖠵𝟏𝟐: Can be a little feisty sometimes. Examples are: biting your lower lip when he’s kissing you, biting your ear and nibbling on your neck in public, and placing his hand dangerously close to your thigh.

𖠵𝟏𝟑: Uses incredibly cheesy pickup lines and one-liners.

𖠵𝟏𝟒: If someone is continuously making advances towards you, then he’ll get jealous.

he’ll walk over to you, put a hand on your waist and act overly affectionate towards you hoping it’ll drive the person away.

𖠵𝟏𝟓: Seems innocent (enough), but if he sees you’re upset by someone’s actions, he’ll flip that fatui switch on immediately just to see you smile again.

sometimes asks Lynette and/or Freminet to comfort you while he’s taking care of the person.

𖠵𝟏𝟔: Surprises you by showing up in the most unexpected places in your house.

𖠵𝟏𝟕: Hates being away from you for long ): That’s the main reason why he hates arguments between you two.

𖠵𝟏𝟖: (↑) Although he lowkey can be petty sometimes. . .

𖠵𝟏𝟗: His hands are really soft !! Sometimes you’ll gently caress them, and he’ll literally melt on the spot.

𖠵𝟐𝟎: Also one who loves to see you in his clothes !! 𖠵𝟐𝟏: Really wants to have matching outfits with you. 🫶

𖠵𝟐𝟐: Loves whenever you dress yourself up !! He just adores seeing all sides of you.

𖠵𝟐𝟑: You have a whole bouquet of rainbow roses from the amount of times he’s randomly pulled one out and gave it to you. . .

꒱₊˚ 𝐍𝐄𝐔𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 !! 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐉𝐔𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓

𖠵𝟎𝟏: The most gentleman to ever gentleman, I believe ?!?!

idk man, it’s something with the dragon guys in Teyvat. . .

𖠵𝟎𝟐: I’d like to believe that when he started liking you, the Melusines caught on, because he seemed to always be lost in thought. . . 🤭

𖠵𝟎𝟑: Despite him being absolutely stunning and incredibly smart, he somehow felt like he didn’t have a chance with you. . .

the Melusines and Furina were not having any of that !! they devised a plan where she talked to you, and they talked to him. it all worked out in the end.

𖠵𝟎𝟒: Being in love with a busy man has its pros and cons, obviously; Neuvillette always tries his best to balance them out. ☹️☹️

𖠵𝟎𝟓: You guys tried to keep your relationship hidden for as long as you could with how Fontaine loves its drama. . .

and when you it got out (guess how), rumors, whispers everything spread like a wildfire. it was incredibly overwhelming for you, and he tried his best to quiet everyone down and comfort you 😞☹️ you can imagine the weather. . .

𖠵𝟎𝟔: (↑) Some people were muttering how you didn’t deserve him or weren’t “pretty enough” for him, which really pissed him off, but he had to remain civil (for the most part, lolz.)

𖠵𝟎𝟕: Your emotions have an incredible impact on him ?!?! If you start crying or if you’re sad, it’ll domino effect onto him. He loves you so much that it physically hurts him to see you distraught.

𖠵𝟎𝟖: All the Melusines adore you !! They absolutely see you as their other parental figure since you guys started dating.

𖠵𝟎𝟗: (↑) MELTS whenever he sees you interacting with kids. . .

𖠵𝟏𝟎: “Cherie/sweetheart,” “honey,” “my (dear/dearest)” and “my (love)/mi amour.”

❝I’m home, mon chéri. . . I must apologize for coming home later than usual—an issue in the case I’m looking into has presented itself and I went to personally deal with it. Hm, what was that, love? Ah, what was the ‘issue?’ Don’t worry about it, my dear. What matters is that it’s been dealt with. Now, have you had dinner yet?❞

𖠵𝟏𝟏: His trust in you runs pretty deep, so he trusts you when others are flirting with you. However, when people aren’t leaving you alone or are masking their interest behind innocent actions, he’ll get pissed.

𖠵𝟏𝟐: God forbid anyone lays their hands on you. . . Neuvillette doesn’t take people hurting you lightly at all.

𖠵𝟏𝟑: (↑) He isn’t a big fan of people touching what’s his in general, but he knows he (unfortunately) can’t have you all to himself. . .

𖠵𝟏𝟒: (↑) Safe to say, he’s quite territorial. . . He is a dragon, after all. They are quite protective over their treasure..

𖠵𝟏𝟓: Wrio likes to bring you up in conversations over tea !!

𖠵𝟏𝟔: This man has always been head over heels for you. Whenever you two are shopping together, he’ll follow you around like a puppy—always insisting that he holds your bags and pays.

𖠵𝟏𝟕: Pretty gentle with you. . . The farthest thing he wants is to hurt you, but sometimes his primal instincts kick in and he can’t help but want to mark what’s his !!

𖠵𝟏𝟖: Spoils the hell out of you. He literally can’t help it. He’ll see something that he’ll think you’ll like or something that reminds him of you and gets it without another thought.

𖠵𝟏𝟗: Really doesn’t like that you can tell his mood based of whether or not it’s raining. . . He hates worrying you.

𖠵𝟐𝟎: Furina loves to ask about you !! She thinks you two are so cute together.

𖠵𝟐𝟏: Loves whenever you visit him in his office while he’s working !! He’ll always try and persuade you to stay with him while he works—coaxing you to sit on his lap and such.

𖠵𝟐𝟐: He’s still relatively new to understanding human emotions, so he really appreciates you being patient and helping him out.

𖠵𝟐𝟑: Whenever you’re mad at him or giving the silent treatment, he’ll just look at you with the most saddest eyes ever. Guarantee heavy downfalls until you two make up 💔

꒱₊˚ 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐘 !! 𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐘

𖠵𝟎𝟎: Literally the almost perfect definition of my type 😭

𖠵𝟎𝟏: He’s smart, cocky, and hot. You’re in for a wild ride with this one 💔👍

𖠵𝟎𝟐: Secretly a deep-rooted hopeless romantic at heart, he just hasn’t had the time to explore that part of him because of his duties in the fortress.

𖠵𝟎𝟑: Like Neuvillette, this man is head over heels for you. It’s just that he’s better at hiding it (most times, anyway.)

𖠵𝟎𝟒: A big teaser !! He loves to get under your skin.

𖠵𝟎𝟓: Can and will protect you at any cost. He loves you so much, it’d kill him inside if something were to happen to you.

𖠵𝟎𝟔: A bit of a sadist, I think. . . He’ll watch you struggle for a bit before actually helping you with something.

𖠵𝟎𝟕: Before you two started dating, Sigewinne kept on insisting he confess to you because of how obvious it was.

Clorinde also gave him shit for it.

𖠵𝟎𝟖: “Baby/babe,” “doll,” “my (darling),” “my (dear),” “my (love/lovely),” “pretty/my boy/girl,” and “sweetheart.”

❝Oh? I wasn’t expecting you to stop by for a visit today, doll—not that I’m complaining, of course. . . Lucky for you, I just finished up all my paperwork for the day, so I’m all yours ~ Wait, what? What do you mean you’re only here to deliver more papers? Please tell me you’re joking, babe. . . Archons sake, please at least stay for tea. I haven’t seen you since this morning.❞

𖠵𝟎𝟗: Roughly smells like freshly brewed tea with a mix of his cologne—it’s a rather comforting smell, actually.

𖠵𝟏𝟎: Hates whenever you’re gone too long above ground. He gets grouchy (more so than usual) whenever he hasn’t seen you for a certain amount of time.

𖠵𝟏𝟏: Surprisingly like a sloth when you two aren’t at work. . . He loves clings to you, doesn’t matter what you’re doing or where you’re at.

𖠵𝟏𝟐: I’d like to think he doesn’t give a shit about what people normally think of him, so he’ll love you on wherever and whenever.

loves to rub his cheeks/stubble against yours despite your whining !! i’m weak

𖠵𝟏𝟑: One of his favorite things about the two of you is your size difference. He finds it adorable his hand can comfortably envelope yours and somehow perfectly fit around your throat. . .

𖠵𝟏𝟒: A waist holder !! He loves to have a hand on your waist one way or another. Whether it be him pressed against you from behind or simply just a hand on your waist while you’re standing next to each other.

𖠵𝟏𝟓: Protective and possessive !! Not too much to the point where it’s toxic, I think. He’s just very territorial, and does not like when people get too close to you. He always denies he doesn’t get jealous, but he isn’t fooling anyone.

he doesn’t want your future to repeat his past, so he tries desperately to protect you from those kinds of people.

𖠵𝟏𝟔: (↑) All for marking you in obvious places if he sees this is a frequent thing. . . He’s far from shy with it, as well.

𖠵𝟏𝟕: Always prepares an extra cup of tea for you just in case you were to stop by his office.

𖠵𝟏𝟖: Nearly suffocates you if you’re in bed facing him—he’ll smoosh your head against his chest so you don’t have a chance to leave.

𖠵𝟏𝟗: People were genuinely shocked when they found he was dating someone !! Some didn’t believe you until Wrio proved them wrong.

𖠵𝟐𝟎: Is a mixture between gentle and rough with you. . . He doesn’t want to accidentally hurt you or you know, break you.

𖠵𝟐𝟏: He claims he’d be fine if you two broke up but in reality, he’d be a complete mess. (Sigewinne knows this without a doubt.)

𖠵𝟐𝟐: (↑) Pouts whenever you spend too much time with her and not enough with him </3 He can be a literal manbaby sometimes.

𖠵𝟐𝟑: Literally doesn’t know what to do with himself whenever you ignore him or give him the silent treatment.

goes to Clorinde for help if he’s really stuck. which may or may not be proven helpful depending on her mood. . .

𖠵𝟐𝟒: Adores whenever you’re resting on top his chest !! He always says that’s where you belong, lol.

𖠵𝟐𝟓: (↑) Also likes it when you rest on his lap when he’s sorting out paperwork. He claims you “give him the energy needed to make it through the day.”

𖠵𝟐𝟔: The one for you if you have a praise kink and the one for you if you have a degrading kink !! Two birds with one stone, amirite ?? kill me

[cerisereids]

𝗜’𝗹𝗹 𝗕𝗲 𝗪𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗬𝗼𝘂 (𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗧𝗮𝗸𝗲)- 𝗦.𝗥.

Pairing- Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

W/C- 6.5k (crazy shit)

Summary- You and Spencer have never gotten along. Yet, you can’t seem to ever take your eyes off each other.

Contains- 18+ MDNI, not super smutty but there is a sex scene (not super detailed) canon typical violence, enemies to lovers, Spencer losing all brain cells over a pretty girl, bitchy!Spencer, reader and Spencer are held captive by unsub, dramatic love confessions, kissing, some icky misogyny directed at reader from unsub but it's quite brief, guns, unsub death, honestly this reads a lot like a regular cm episode but with Spencer being down bad, this low-key turned into smut when I didn't plan on it but c'est la vie

A/N: I can’t find the OP of the divider but it is not mine!! This is a little proofread but not a lot of proofread, I am also thinking about making a part 2 w some actual smutty smut so lmk if you guys like this!

An itch of irritation crawls up your spine, a deep ache settling in your skull as you sit in the BAU conference room. You massage your temples as a rapid, grating voice nestles its way into your ears.

“The fact that this unsub feels comfortable targeted a densely populated area such as D.C. tells us he’s either impulsive or incredibly bold,” he remarks, arms crossed, a pensive look on his face as he studies the map in front of him.

Despite your annoyance, you keep your eyes trained on the profiler as he rattles on. Your eyes narrow just slightly, You’re seated directly across the table from him, and you watch the way he gets lost in the information, almost like it’s in control of him as he frantically circles different locations on the map. Spencer Reid speaks with his entire body, he always has, ever since you started at the BAU one year prior.

“Maybe it’s a comfort zone,” he stands back, leaning his weight on one leg. Your eyes drift down his lanky frame for the briefest moment, lingering on his popped hip. They furiously snap back up to his face once he starts speaking again, cheeks heating up.

“The lines of longitude and latitude at each murder sight are equivalent to the central area of the city,” he mumbles.

“Okay, so we need to know what’s there. Something clearly happened to our unsub that has made him choose these locations,” you cross your arms over your chest, “you really think our unsub measured all of the crime scenes on a map? That shows an incredible amount of organization that I don’t think he has.”

Your tone is a bit defensive, skeptical of his work. To you, profiling is a subjective art. Your best profiling comes from understanding emotions, trauma. Spencer works completely different.

While you do have to recognize his intelligence, the strict logic in which he operates in this job is not something you entirely agree with. He spouts rapid fire facts nearly robotically, like he’s reading straight from a textbook. It drives you batty.

You’re not typically someone who’s thrown off by a different approach. Normally, you accept and encourage a fresh set of eyes while you work. If it wasn’t for what Spencer said your first week…

Plus, you had an early acceptance to Harvard before you decided to go to the academy. His intelligence doesn’t impress you that much.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do. He’s very clearly organized, it fits the profile,” he states, his irritated gaze pointed directly at you.

You stare back brazenly, in a silent competition with the man across from you.

“I’m really just unsure how that helps us right now when central D.C. is so big. How are we going to narrow down his tie to the city?” His eyes narrow to slits at your question.

“She’s got a point,” Hotch succinctly breaks through the tension, and you’re reminded that you’re in a room with the entire team. “Give the information you have to Garcia, have her narrow it down. Afterwards, I want you and Prentiss on victimology in the bullpen,” he says.

You puff your chest slightly, sliding out from your chair to get closer to the evidence board. You feel his eyes burning a hole into your back before he huffs an irritated sigh, exiting the conference room with a harsh slam of the door. You keep your gaze on him through the window as he walks to Penelope’s.

Spencer grumbles under his breath the whole way down to Penelope. Head down, brows furrowed, he barges in there with the map. Without so much as a hello, he posts it on her wall.

“Well, hello to you too, Doctor!” She chastises him as he keeps his gaze on the map, like she’s not even there.

He knows it’s mean, that she deserves more respect than that, his brain is just unable to process anything other than her. She makes him want to explode.

“Sorry,” he grumbles, continuing his previous work on the map.

“Spence, you gotta stop letting her get under your skin like that,” he hears the pity in her voice, which only makes his blood boil hotter.

“Nobody’s under my skin, I’m trying to solve the case,” he’s speaking too quickly, like that’s even possible for him.

“Yeah, okay,” she mumbles sarcastically. She begins picking up what he’s doing on the map, entering coordinates in her computer as he works.

“She just-” his pen clatters to her desk, a knowing smile growing on Penelope’s face as she types. He ignores it. “She has to question everything I do! If she doesn’t trust me, why are we on the same team together. You know?” He huffs a heavy breath.

Penelope turns to him, “Spencer, she trusts you. Hotch wouldn’t have either of you on the team if she didn’t. Just because she has a different approach doesn’t mean she’s undermining you.”

He rolls his eyes, he knows she’s just trying to help. The irritation crawling under his sweater, seeping into his skin, is suffocating. He tugs on his collar so he can breathe.

“Then why does everything she say feel like an attack?” He asks, scratching the back of his head.

“Have you ever thought that maybe you want to impress her?” Penelope asks, and it knocks the wind out of him. “I mean, she’s like, the only person in the world who isn’t totally blown away by your incredible mind. Probably because she’s so smart herself,” she remarks under her breath. He rolls his eyes at that. “Regardless, you want her to agree with you, right? You might just want to impress her.”

Spencer’s face heats up as she raises her brow at him. His gaze immediately drops to his shoes, fidgeting awkwardly before turning back to his map.

“We need to get back to work,” he mutters.

-

To Spencer’s dismay, she stands in his exact line of sight as he’s with Emily, working on victimology. He stands at her desk, and he really should be listening to what Emily is saying. Instead, he has a laser focus on her.

She’s leaning over the conference room table, her back to the window. There’s a slight arch in her back as she pops her hip out. The silky fabric of her black pencil skirt clings to her and Spencer almost forgets why he’s so mad at her all the time.

Emily follows his line of sight and he rolls his eyes, as if she’s the one being ridiculous. The deepest parts of him know it’s not fair, but he’s never done well with his feelings on display. He feels vulnerable, like a raw nerve.

He feels exposed at the low chuckle escaping Emily’s lips. His gaze shoots towards the case file, now in an iron grip in his hands, clearing the awkwardness that has crept up his throat.

“I’m not sure who either of you think you’re fooling,” she nonchalantly mumbles under her breath, viewing her own copy of the case file.

“I’m sorry?” He snaps, his eyes squeezing shut in a long blink, as if he’s trying to unsee her.

“Y’know, if you just talked to her, really got to the bottom of your disagreements, maybe you’d see that you two are a lot more alike than you think,” she raises her brow at him, and it feels as if his heart’s been slashed open, bleeding on display for everyone to see. He always feels this way when someone shines a light on his vulnerability, his natural instinct to run from it. If it’s not there, then he can’t get hurt.

“I’m just trying to catch a killer,” he squeaks, his high pitched voice giving him away almost immediately. Emily playfully rolls her eyes and chuckles once more. His heart rate picks up, cheeks heating to an alarming degree.

The door of the conference opens, then. As if the universe is playing a cruel, practical joke on him, the click of her heels get closer and closer, until her perfume has invaded his senses.

“So, we figured out that our unsub was recently released from a mental institution in the greater D.C. area. Garcia is working on which one, but is there anything in the victimology that points toward abandonment issues? Particularly from a motherly figure?” She rattles off, the sound of her voice like a knife to the chest. It’s sharp, infiltrating every piece of him, stripping him of his defenses even further.

He stares at her, unabashedly. His eyes trail from her pink button up, sleekly tucked into that godforsaken skirt. He studies her as if it’s the first time he’s seen her, memorizing the ways her curves ebb and flow around the fabric.

His heart picks up when she looks back, but he doesn’t look away. Their eye contact is tense, as always. There’s a fire in her eyes that’s always there when they’re in the middle of a case. Her passion burns through, heating him all over.

“I think our unsub is too organized for him to be abandoned,” he replies, “typically when we see people traumatized by abandonment are reckless, but he’s taken the time to clean up after himself, even starting the dishwasher and laundry machine in his victims’ homes.”

“You still think he’s organized?” she asks right back, not missing a beat.

“He loaded the dishwasher and the laundry machine, that’s not organized to you?” His skin crawls as he answers, the usual thrill of her challenge thrumming through him.

“But if you look at these pictures…” she trails, grabbing crime scene photos of the laundry and open dishwasher from her file, “this is not the doing of an organized person. The plates are mixed with cups, there’s bowls where the silverware would be. It’s very evident he just shoved everything in there. Same thing with the laundry, we have socks with jeans. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe it’s a mix of both,” Emily suggests, “a sort of compensating? He was abandoned by his mother so now he’s completing what could be seen as motherly duties.”

“I could definitely see that,” the voice to his right mutters, and he watches as she chews the tip of her pen in concentration.

“We don’t normally see that in male serial killers…” he trails off, trying his best to appear nonchalant as he flips through the case file. The one he’s already memorized front to back.

“There’s a first time for everything,” she says, the slight uptick in her tone barely there, but he catches it. He always does, a telltale sign that he’s gotten under her skin. He seems to live there these days.

He takes her in again, the glint of irritation in her eyes. A hand on her hip, the other resting on a chair near Emily’s desk. Her stance is closed off, shutting him out. Even still, he sees the way her eyes drift toward his direction. Her gaze is facing the floor, but he can tell his shoes are in her line of sight, and a strange surge of pride rushes through his chest. He can’t repress the need for her to notice him, in any capacity.

You feel his eyes the second they hit you. It’s like a sixth sense, knowing exactly when he finds you. It’s become natural, almost instinctual, for his eyes to be on you. You’re no better, though, mirroring him as you watch each other.

He’s thin, sinking into his button up, a pair of slacks hanging low on his hips. You catch the way it pulls taut where it meets his belted waist, the slightest bit of skin peeking through at his hip.

Your heart races at the sight, even more so when your eyes snap back up to his, and you know he caught you. Your body heats all over, every bit of you on fire as his gaze pierces you. The heat spreads internally, acid bubbling in your stomach. It feels as if he sees right through you, looking into the deepest parts.

You shake your head, shedding the feeling of him like a snake. “What have you guys found?” You ask, doing your best to focus on the victimology.

“We think he’s finding these women from their social media accounts. He’s targeting women who post emotionally. The last few posts from each victim were about some hardship or another. Maybe there was a woman in his life who made her emotions his burden,” Emily suggests, and you cut your gaze to her, shaking Spencer out of your system.

Then, you hear it. It’s small. Under his breath. It infuriates you.

“Wonder what that’s like.”

Something inside you snaps, like a rubber band that’s been pulled too tight. It ricochets off your heart, piercing your stomach until you lose control over your response.

“I’m sorry, what is your problem?” It takes all the energy you have left to not absolutely screech. Your snappy tone still calls the attention of the people around you. You feel eyes on the two of you as you pierce him with a cruel gaze. You no longer have the capacity to care.

“My problem?” He retorts, knowing full well what she is talking about.

“You have been at odds with me this entire case. Actually, since I joined the bureau,” You scoff, your insides boiling over. All the frustration of bickering with Spencer for the past three years has finally come to a head. “If you don’t trust me if you don’t like what I have to say, then you need to be a man and do something about it,” the words drip off your tongue like acid.

“Like what?” He bites back, squaring his shoulders toward you, “take it to Hotch? You and I both know where that would get us. Why is it just on me? Because you’re never wrong, right? Our BAU princess is always correct-”

“Enough.”

Hotch’s stern tone cuts through the sarcasm falling from Spencer, and the two of you straighten up in record time.

“The rest of the team is going into the field to finish this case. You two are on paperwork duty until we get back. That’s an order,” he turns to collect the rest of the team, you and Spencer mirroring each other’s shock as you watch them go.

You deflate. The smack of your file hitting Emily’s desk is the only audible sound as you grab a box, hauling it to the conference room. Spencer follows suit, and the two of you begin to work in tense, angry silence.

You study him as he works, long, deft fingers moving in a rapid speed that nearly hypnotizes you. You catch his brown eyes, softer now, still focused as they flit through the endless pile of papers. You massage your heart, as if it’d ease the ever growing ache there.

“Do you remember this case?” Spencer asks softly, and you can’t recall a time he’s spoken to you in such a tone. It makes your heart flutter in a way that scares you, the giddiness warming your skin. You roll your shoulders, hoping it’d release the tension built up in your neck.

You lean a bit towards Spencer, glancing at the file that reads, ‘Plymouth Family.’ You can’t help the smile that spreads your lips, your cheeks bunching up around your eyes.

“Family of four, two girls, all kidnapped, all recovered safely,” you recite softly. You touch the pictures of the young girls, your eyes glassing over. “Four and six…” you whisper shakily, “they were just babies.”

You remember the way they clung to you when you found them in the shed they were kept in. They were dirty, smelly, and shaking. Their arms and legs were wrapped tight around you as you carried them to the medic. You sat with them the whole time the team looked for their parents. You were there when they woke up in the hospital.

“You were amazing on this case,” Spencer says. You feel the warm skin of his arm against yours, and you realize how close you’ve gotten. “You were empathetic, smart…” he trails off, eyes lifting to your face.

Your eyes dart up to meet his. “Thank you,” you mutter softly, your eyes scanning the length of his face.

“You’re welcome,” he replies in the same tone.

“Spencer,” you start, and he knows what you’re going to say before you go any further. His breath hitches, and you continue anyway.

“How did we get here?” You ask, shaking your head incredulously, “We’re two of the smartest minds on the team and we’re stuck here on paperwork duty.”

“I would argue it’s our inability to work together without high levels of conflict,” he responds, sarcasm lacing his tone.

“Yeah, well, you made that bed, now we both have to lie in it, I guess,” you mutter under your breath.

“I’m sorry, how is that so?” He asks.

“Are you serious?” You respond, your blood starting to race through your veins. His brows raise, prompting you to continue. “Do you not remember one of our first conversations after I joined the bureau?”

His brows furrow in confusion. You keep going.

“We were in St. Louis. We were working on the case with that Jack the Ripper copycat. I was so focused on analyzing the unsub’s background, digging into everything I could. You told me that if I value emotion over logic I’m going to get tunnel vision. That I wouldn’t last long if I let myself stray from the facts.” The words still sting, all these years later. You avoid looking at him, turning your back to him so he can’t look at you either.

“We’ve been like this for three years because I told you that you value emotion over logic? I thought that was a known fact,” he states plainly, as he always does when he thinks something is obvious.

“We’ve been like this for three years because you were someone I looked up to. When I was scouted for the unit by Gideon, a big reason why I agreed to join was because I’d get to work with you. The great Dr. Spencer Reid. I read about you, when I was at Harvard. I was amazed. A little jealous, too, but amazed all the same. When you said that, it-it was belittling. Like you didn’t believe in my ability to do the job. I spent everyday since trying to prove you wrong,” you rattle off in one long breath.

Spencer is still as a statue, watching you intently. His eyes are blown wide, his mouth slightly parted.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters lowly. “I’ve always used logic. It’s gotten me where I am. You came in here with a completely different approach, and it worked. Really well. It threw me off, it intimidated me…” he trails off, his cheeks tinting red as his chin drops to his chest.

“Intimidated? By me?” You saunter closer to him, a wicked grin on your face. You plop down on the chair across from him, knees barely knocking.

Spencer’s heart beats faster as she leans closer to him, her knees now slotted between his. The contact makes him dizzy.

The beep of his cell phone jolts him away from her. Spencer fumbles with his phone for a minute, before opening it with a shaky, “Yes, Penelope?”

You can hear her screech over the phone. “You and Miss BAU Princess need to turn on the news. Now.”

His cheeks heat at the nickname. He chokes on his own breath, exhaling sharply before grabbing the remote to the big screen in the conference room.

What he sees makes his stomach drop.

Multiple black SUVs, driving at top speed on the tail of a dirty, beat up grey sedan.

At first, in the pent up anticipation of the moment, he hardly registered her grabbing his hand. Once he did, the feeling of her branded his skin. A white hot sensation that spreads to the tips of his toes all the way to the top of his head. He wraps his fingers around hers and squeezes.

He takes a glance at her, and he wishes he hadn’t. His heart aches at the look of sheer panic on her face. Her furrowed brows, glassy eyes, and parted lips squeeze at his heart from all sides. He pulls her into him, allowing her to take refuge in his chest.

It’s not long after that he hears it, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. It’s the creak of the door. The click of a loaded gun. She must feel his rigidity, because she lifts her head up to look him in the eye.

“What?” She questions, lifting her head from his chest. She feels it too, he can tell. The lingering sense that something’s not right.

“Someone’s here,” he mutters, “stay here,” he moves to arm himself. It’s muscle memory at this point, his body moving of his own accord.

He feels the scoff she emanates deep within him. A small smile forces its way on his lips at the sound.

“Yeah right,” she replies. He feels her behind him, her own gun peeking through his peripheral.

He’s flooded with adrenaline, his blood thrumming in his veins. He moves slowly, tactical steps as he opens the conference room door. He’s met with a sharp pain cracking down on his head, rendering him unconscious.

Your hands are bound behind your back, legs tied together. Your wrists and ankles chafe raw at your resistance. You bite down on the tape plastered over your mouth, desperate to claw your way out. Your heart races, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you try and maneuver through the conference room without being seen.

After Spencer was knocked unconscious, he was dragged out of the conference room. You’re not sure where he is, and the thought renders you dizzy. You attempt to peek out of the window, the bullpen now completely cleared, save for the agents that were caught in the crossfire.

You flinch at the sound of loud, hard footsteps nearing the door. Scrambling back into place, you avoid eye contact as the strange man drags an unconscious Spencer toward you. He props him up next to you, his chin hitting his chest.

Your eyes glass over as you take in the bruise coloring his right eye a deep blue. The split on his pouting, bloody lip is crusting over.

A pair of cold fingers dip under your chin, forcing your head up to look this man in the eye. His hard stare burns into you, but before he can do anything, his phone begins ringing.

“Saved by the bell…” a gruff voice spits out, letting go of your face with a shove.

Your eyes squeeze shut, bracing for contact on the wall behind you. The blow stings for a moment, but you’re able to shake it off when Spencer starts to stir next to you. Your breath hitches as he grumbles, his eyes barely opening.

“Spencer,” you whisper, “what is going on?”

“It looks like a team,” he considers, maneuvering his body to sit up further.

"Where were you?" you hissed back, worry lacing every feature of your face.

"Hotch's office," he grumbles, "I kept...I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. But I spoke to him. He's fixated on the two of us, but he wanted a lot of information about you."

He adjusts, cracking his neck from where it rests against the wall. "Hotch is going to have to hire carpet cleaners when they get back," sarcasm laces his tone, and you can't help but roll your eyes.

"You just got beat within an inch of your life, and you're making jokes?" you scoff affectionately.

"How could you tell?" his voice shifts then, seriousness lacing his tone suddenly.

"How could I tell that you got hit?" you repeat, eyes scanning over his face and body. "You're bruised in multiple spots, a bloody lip, a black eye forming..."

"You're always looking at me. You think I've never noticed?" he mutters, and it steals the breath from your lungs.

"You're always looking at me!" you hiss, no choice but to deflect.

"I know."

It's the last thing that's said before the door opens again. You sit straight up, your back pressed against the wall as the man shuffles in. You immediately clock the gun in his hand, pointed directly at Spencer.

He stalks over to you, gun still pointed in Spencer's direction. His dry, cracked finger hooks under your chin, pulling your head up to face his.

"Do you want to know what he told me in there?" his head jerks back, gesturing towards Hotch's office. He stands up, moving towards Spencer again. "Wanna know what your pathetic, disgusting, deplorable coworker told me when you weren't here?" Each insult is matched with swift kicks to Spencer's stomach and chest. He groans, rolling on his back now as he tries not to succumb to the pain.

Your eyes don't leave him. You're not sure you could pull your gaze away if you tried. You don't have much of a choice, though, as the man yanks your head back to look at him.

"He told me..." the gun comes up under your chin now, holding your head in place once again, "that he has a little crush on you. Isn't that just pitiful?" he laughs sarcastically, shaking his head.

You study the man, recalling all the knowledge you gained about him over the course of this case. He's insecure, probably impotent. He hunts women because he could never get them any other way.

"Guys like us..." he yanks Spencer to sit up by his collar, "we don't get girls like that." He's nearly spitting in Spencer's face, and you know he's slowly dying inside.

"Spencer..." you breathe out, "is it true?" You do your best to appear completely turned off, though you know you never could be. Your brows furrow in disgust as your lips curl downward.

"See, look at her," he's got Spencer's hair in an iron grip, forcing you two to look at each other. "She's disgusted, she doesn't want you. How could you be so stupid?"

"I just got caught up in it," the words spill out of Spencer's mouth, "we spend so much time together, and you're so pretty, so witty, so smart. I just couldn't help but fall in love with you."

Those words knock the air right out of your chest. A crush is one thing, but in love? You shiver, his words unzipping down your spine.

"You see that?" he growls, yanking Spencer's hair even harder, "she doesn't want you."

"He's right," Spencer flinches at your words, and you continue despite the hurt in your heart, "I don't want you, Spencer. Because I want you."

You turn your gaze to the unsub, staring him straight in the eye.

"I just can't resist you. The way you've dominated us..." you breathe out a huffy laugh, "it's undoubtedly one of the most attractive things I have ever seen. Way more attractive than anything he has ever done," you nod towards Spencer as seduction laces each word, though it tastes like poison on your tongue.

You see Spencer in your peripheral. You can barely make out the look in his eye, but you swear you see the faintest tint of insecurity lacing his gaze. The fear that maybe you mean it. Your heart clutches at the thought, and you note to do something about that later.

He lets Spencer go, his attention is now fully on you. He saunters closer, a hand reaching for your tied up ankle. His hands feel like sandpaper on your skin, gritty and unwanted.

"You really think so?" he whispers, his grip now shifting to your bicep. "Then prove it. Come with me."

He yanks you up, helping you move with your tied up limbs. You glance at Spencer briefly before you're led out of the conference room into the bullpen.

It's not long before a gunshot rings out, and you prepare for the blow. You fall to the floor, though, suddenly unsupported by the man propping you up. You turn from your spot on the ground to find Spencer wielding his gun from the conference room, miraculously unbound.

"I had him!" you scoff, rolling your eyes as Spencer undoes your hands and ankles.

"He told me what he wanted you for when he had me in Hotch's office. Believe me, I did you a favor," his brows furrow in what looks like frustration, possessiveness, as he continues to free you from your bounds.

A shiver runs through you again, shaking the disgust at the thought. You let it pass, though, he's dead. He can't hurt you anymore. Once you're free, you fall back into his chest, letting him hold you from behind. Tears slip through your closed eyes as all of the emotions of the past two hours course through every part of your body.

Spencer tightens his hold around you, soothingly rubbing his large palms up and down. Your hand reaches up to the back of his scalp, gently massaging the spot where the man had pulled.

"Are you okay?" you whisper, your faces inches from each other.

"Better now," he replies.

"Me too," you smile.

Before you can manage anything else, Spencer's mouth is on yours. It's a small kiss at first, tentative, unsure. It deepens when you turn to face him, Spencer now resting on his knees. He opens his mouth further as the kiss envelops you both. He's desperate, as if he's trying to swallow you whole. The kiss is all consuming, the corners of your brain turning fuzzy as you let yourself fall further into his arms.

"Anyone wanna tell me why you two are making out next to our dead unsub?" you and Spencer break apart at the intruding voice, like two teenagers caught in bed.

It's just Derek, thankfully. A playful, supportive brow is cocked in Spencer's direction as the poor guy next to you flushes a shade of red you didn't think existed.

"I'm not against it," he says, moving to help you off the floor, "just maybe find a better setting next time."

Your face is on fire, probably just as bad as Spencer's. You see him move out of the corner of your eye, and you grab his hand. You run your thumb over the chafing on his wrist, your heart clutching when he hisses at the sensation.

"Hey, Spence?" you mumble, exhaling a shaky breath as your eyes lock on his red wrist.

"Yeah?" he mutters back, matching your intensity.

"How did you get out of those knots? I tried the whole time he had you, they wouldn't budge." You look up at him now, his big eyes tightening at the edges as a small smile spreads across his lips.

"It was a classic prusik knot. I just had to reverse it and I was out," he states like it's the simplest thing in the world.

"Right. Of course you did," you smile, no teasing in your words, just true affection. Maybe a little bit of shock as well. His mind always has amazed you, even when you were too proud to say it.

You give his hand a squeeze before separating to be checked out by the medics. The rest of your team engulfs the two of you with worried looks and comforting words. As always, you find Spencer in the chaos. As always, he's already looking at you by the time your eyes find him.

Spencer sits on the edge of his couch, a bag of frozen peas resting on his black eye. It never gets easier, the fear and adrenaline of being taken by a psychopath. No matter how hard he tries, he still has to fight that feeling at the end of each day. The feeling that, no matter how hard he tries, how good of a profiler he is, it'll never take away the visceral fear of having your life in someone else's hands.

A knock on his door snaps him out of his spiral, and he silently thanks whoever is here at 8:47 p.m. on a Tuesday. He swings open the door to find the last person he expected to see. Her. She's here, to see him, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Her hair is up, not an ounce of makeup on her face. She's perfect.

"I couldn't sleep," she whispers, and he's now registering the sleep mask that must've never left her forehead the whole way here. As his eyes trail down the rest of her frame, he takes into account the stuffed animal nestled in her right elbow, the fuzzy slippers on her feet.

"Me either," he responds, unable to help the smallest uptick of his lips at the sight of her. She looks so soft, and he has to fight the urge to reach out and grab her. He would never let go.

"Can I come in?" she asks, her eyes wide, and he's not religious, but God. How is he supposed to say no?

He nods simply, moving his body out of the way so she can enter his apartment. She looks around, taking in the intricate rug, the bookshelves lined from floor to ceiling. A bolt of self consciousness strikes him. The fear of her not liking what she sees runs through him for the briefest moment. The fear is gone, though, when she turns to him with a huge smile on her face.

"It's just as I assumed it would be."

He smiles at that, his tummy turning over her imagining what his apartment looks like, over her thinking about him that much in general.

"Are you oka-" He begins his question, but she barrels right through him.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?" It bursts out of her, as though she couldn't control it. He knows exactly what she means, and she knows he knows. He plays dumb anyway.

"Which part?" he croaks. She rolls her eyes, though there's no malice in it.

"When you said you were in love with me. Did you mean it?" Her honesty burns right through him, exposing all of him to her without even trying.

"Yes," he whispers, "I just thought you never liked me. I thought it'd be easier to pretend I didn't like you too."

She smiles, a bit self-deprecating, a lot of adoration. "We need to get better at talking to each other," she remarks. She saunters closer to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Her touch makes him feel like he's on fire, his blood thrumming through his veins right to his heart. It feels like it's burning to a crisp, yet he never wants her to let go.

"I love you, too, Spencer. I think I have since before I even knew you. I was so hurt when you made that comment all those months ago. I was more naive then, took things too personally. I thought that maybe if I just repressed the feelings, they would go away," she says, and his heart grows three sizes at the confession. "Of course I didn't mean what I said, either, I hope you know that."

He nods, feeling even more on display. How could she tell he took that to heart?

"Why do you think I always look at you?" she continues, "I couldn't ever take my eyes off you, even if I was paid to. You're too beautiful."

He blushes something fierce at that. Beautiful is a new one. He's been called a lot of things, nerdy, annoying, genius. But never beautiful. It burns him hotter, a white flash of light spreading through his entire body.

"You're beautiful," he replies, his arms finally coming up to pull her closer, his forehead resting against hers.

"You really think so?" she teases, a cheeky smile spreading her lips.

He nods, "Prettiest woman I've ever seen," it's a whisper, and it's true. No one has ever taken the wind from his sails the way she does.

"Can you kiss me again?" she breathes against his lips, desperation punching through each word.

He grabs her then, his hands coming up to cradle the back of her head as they desperately chase each other's lips. She plants short, staccato kisses all over him. She starts with his lips, kissing him once, twice, three times. She moves to his face, then, trailing her lips and tongue along his jaw, biting lightly behind his ear.

He feels her smile at the noise he emits, a whiny breath of air that would leave him embarrassed with anyone else. With her, though, with the way she's worshiping him, it doesn't even cross his mind.

He pulls her head back as she reaches his cheeks, feeling sorry for making her do all the work. He smashes his lips back into hers, lifting her legs so he can move her to his bed.

She cuddles into the soft mattress the second she's there, her eyes piercing his. He watches the way her gaze rakes down his body, a boost of confidence pumping him up. He takes his shirt off, a swift movement that surprises the both of you.

"Is this okay?" he whispers as he crawls on top of her, settling his long legs between her spread ones.

She nods sweetly, "Of course."

His heart stutters at that. Of course. Those words have the power to knock him off his feet. Her hands drift up to his hips, lightly squeezing the tiny bit of excess body fat there. He kisses her cheek. She rakes her hands up and down his back, nails scratching ever so slightly. He shivers.

It's not long until they're completely tangled in each other, breathy moans escaping her lips as he moves in and out of her. He wants to drink up every noise she makes, every low groan and high pitched whine that escapes her the most enticing elixir.

When they're finished, he's in a state of content and peace that he had never previously imagined possible. Peace and tranquility floats through the room as they take turns glancing at each other. Every time their eyes lock, they burst out giggling like children.

She's glued to him, whining high and long whenever he tries to move. She'd nearly strangled him with her grip when he went to get her a towel. She only relented when he- very thoughtfully, he might add- educated her on the risks of UTIs after sex.

They're laying in a light, airy silence now. One that drowns out the horrors of the day. He recounts the events of the past year, everything from meeting her to where they are now. His mind plays it over like a VCR tape stuck on rewind. He's desperate to find any evidence of her feelings before today, his mind whirring nonstop.

When she shifts in his arms, though, her heavy breathing indicating a deep sleep, it suddenly doesn't matter. He's here now, with the prettiest woman he's ever seen. He's so grateful he never took his eyes off of her.

[voxslays]

KISS ME AGAIN — THE DOCTOR

A/N: Don’t question it, y’all…

Many years ago, when you had once worked for playtime co, you had no idea of the horrific experiments they would conduct on the innocent children. In fact, your job was working with them. You were a counselor, and all you truly wanted was for them to feel safe.

You had only met Dr. Sawyer a handful of times, and even then, you were barely acquainted. You didn’t care for the man, finding him standoffish, snobby, and rude. It wasn’t until the ‘hour of joy’ you had truly learnt what your coworkers had been doing behind the scenes.

One moment, you were a human, the next you were a porcelain doll—one reminiscent of Poppy, but bigger. In all your glory, you stood at about five feet tall. Pretty big for a doll, huh? After the hour of joy, you were left to rot in the factory with the countless other lost souls—no hope to get back to the surface.

But one day, you decided to take a risk. You would go to the lowest level of the factory. What was the worst that could happen? At best, you’d feel a few moments of pain before being put out of your misery. Plus, your glass skin was already starting to crack. It was only a matter of time before you broke anyways.

That was when you met Doctor Sawyer again, only this time, he was a large TV like screen with a mechanical body and one glowing eye. Very different from the last time you saw him. Instead of killing you immediately, Harley lets you live on one condition, you follow his rules.

And that brings you to now. You’re standing next to Harley in his monitor room—the one with all the bright screens and monitors. You’d be lying if you said the light didn’t hurt your eyes sometimes, though. “How much longer do you think the ex-employee will last?” You ask, crossing your arms.

“It couldn’t be too long.” You sigh, desperate to leave the room. Harley was taking much longer than usual—and as if sensing your impatience, his booming robotic voice responds. “Just a moment, my dear.” You roll your eyes. Hadn’t he said that an hour ago?

It was hard to tell time on the factory, but you could easily tell that it had been longer than the moment he had requested. Harley didn’t like it when you disturbed him while he was working, but the way his robotic form hunched over that desk? Too good to miss out on.

You cleverly and quietly stalked your way over to the man, ready to pounce. But instead, you give him a small peck on the side of his screen. The doctor turns to you, as if expecting an explanation. Yet, you simply walk out of the room, unbothered. Whatever punishment awaited you tonight—it was worth it.

[fanfics-i-find-here]

Do I know you?

Jason Todd X Reader

Synopsis: In the aftermath of a brief Kidnapping, Red Hood seems to think your important and wont stop hanging around your apartment.

Or in other terms, Jason got scared you were gonna die and doesn’t want to leave you alone

Notes: Reader is a waitress at a local bookstore/coffee shop that Jason frequents and he has grown very fond of her. They are vague acquaintances And she does not know that Jason is Red Hood. This is literally my first-ever attempt at a fanfic and Jason Todd has been rattling around in my brain. I might attempt to make this like a short series or something. Anyway, I hope it's enjoyed!!

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Masterlist

“I think I have a new favorite stalker,” you say loudly out your open window.

 Keeping your window open in Gotham was probably the worst idea you could ever have but your curiosity got the better of you when started to notice the fleeting red hanging out across the street and occasionally on your fire escape over the past two weeks. At first you were worried considering your recent encounter with Scarecrow as an attempted research rat.

However, the longer the red stayed near the easier it became to recognize. His helmet was shiny, which is what made it so easy to spot him. How that was helpful to a vigilante you didn’t know. Red hood was watching you and you had a feeling it was to make sure you were okay. You had heard of other bats checking on Civilians after traumatic incidents when they could, but every night for two weeks seems a bit excessive and he hasn’t actually talked to you. So what was he doing?

With no response to your jab, you lean out your window and repeat yourself, making a point to stare at the red helmet on the building across the street.

“I said I think I have a new favorite stalker!” You continue to stare him down.

Even in the minimal street lighting you can see his body tense, ready to run.

“Maybe he’d like to chat?” you tilt your head in questioning. You don’t why you asked. You were bad at keeping a regular conversation. If he came over and did, in fact, decide to chat, it might end up a short conversation. 

A clattered thud pulls you from your thoughts and you gaze turns from the opposite roof top to the very large man now standing on your fire escape next to your window. You can’t help but stare at him. 6” something and built like a brick wall. Intimidating even leaning against the building.

Was he this big when he saved me?

“Hi?” is the only response you could muster. The urge to slam the window closed and shut your curtains itches at your finger tips. He stares at you, or at least you assume as much, the helmets white eyes giving away nothing. No wonder people were terrified of Red Hood. You haven’t even done anything wrong and you could wet yourself  right here and now.

“Hi” You don’t know why your shocked to hear the modulated voice. He had talked to when he saved you from Scarecrow but it was still strange to hear. Slightly robotic but definitely a person underneath.

You realize that, maybe, you’ve been staring for too long.

“Tea?” you back away from the window and head for the kitchen expecting him to follow, as well as taking a moment to breath.

You just invited a good/bad vigilante into your home! What is wrong with you?  Your mind is a swirling, anxious debate as you fill your kettle.

“I only have Green tea, I hope you don’t mind.” you yell from the kitchen, unsure if he was even in the apartment.

“Not at all” His voice is close then you anticipated, assuming he stay close to the window.

Instead you turn to find him sitting comfortably at your dining room table, watching you move about the kitchen. He looks out of place in your soft warm toned home. His brown leather jacket the only thing that could blend in. The harsh red bat on his chest sticking out like a sore thumb. Your gaze lingers a moment at the holsters on his thighs, suddenly realizing that if he wanted to do something to you, you were screwed. You turn back to your cabinets and pull out a couple of mugs, pushing away the thoughts. Red Hood was good guy, despite what previous attempts at bad he had in the past. You stand at the counter and stare at your kettle, willing it to heat faster. After a moment, You hear a distorted sigh.

“You wanted to talk?” Red Hood asks

You shrug your shoulders without turning, not entirely prepared for a conversation just yet. Red Hood doesn’t push you. The kettle begins to whistle, and you pour the two mugs, settling tea bags into them. You pick them up and set one in front of red hood, and settle into the seat opposite his, blowing on your tea. You take a sip and promptly burn your tongue, hissing in pain.

“it’s hot”

Your eyes fly up to Red Hood. You choke out a thanks, Having not realized he had taken off his Helmet. You let eye linger across his face, very handsome. A scar on his lips, that rests in a smirk, and another across his cheek. As you eye move up you let out a startled laugh, Another mask keeps his eyes hidden.

“What?” He asks, The smirk on his lips grows.

As your laughing fit slows, you pause to breath.

“You wear two masks.” You pause waiting for him to laugh. All he does is furrow his brows.

“it’s funny” you insist but he doesn’t respond. You settle down again. Well as much as you can considering the man in front of you, staring at your mug, slightly embarrassed

“So I’m your favorite stalker? You got a few?” Red's voice rings out in the silence. It’s rough and deep, like he’d been yelling.

A flush creeps up your face. If you were embarrassed before, you were definitely embarrassed now. It had taken you all day to come up with the throw away comment. You thought It was funny. You also didn’t think you would get this far in your interaction with Red Hood.

“Not really, just the one I hope” you chance a glance at him to find him still unsettlingly staring at you as a he takes a sip of his tea, now cooled. Your mind searches for what else to say.

“That’s good, I wouldn’t want that either” Jason finally breaks eye contact with you, looking around your apartment.

With his stare no longer on you, you take the opportunity to really take him in. Despite the scars on his face, there was kindness there. And despite his intimidating stature, he seemed to pull himself in, like he was afraid to take up space. His forearms exposed through his suit. What a weird design. Not that you were complaining. Overall, Red Hood was hot. You flush at the thought.

“Thank you, by the way” you rush out, “for saving me… it really means a lot”

Jason turns his gaze back to you. You brave up and hold his stare. Suddenly thinking, he looks familiar. You furrow your brows for a moment.

“Do I know you?” You ask before you can stop yourself. You physically cringe and try to back track.

“I mean, obviously I know you, you saved my life and all but I mean like I know your face? Maybe, not that it matters. Course you wouldn’t tell me if I did know your civilian identity because then it wouldn’t be a secret. I just think I know your face but that doesn’t mean that I want you to tell me. And maybe you just have one of those faces…” you continue to ramble some more. Jason watches you carefully and finishes his tea. You pause to breath in your rant and he jumps in.

“Thanks for the tea” he grabs his Helmet, sliding it on before continuing, voice changed, “and your welcome, for saving you.”

You watches as he walks back toward the window, frozen and unsure what to do. As climbs out onto the fire escape you yell out.

“Your welcome and you don’t have to hide outside, you can come in next time.”

He’s gone before even finish the sentence. You sink back in your chair.

What is wrong with you? Why are you so awkward? That was terrible!

You try to push the interaction from your mind as you close the window and go about spot cleaning your apartment. Once done your anxious thoughts return.

This is going to be a long night. You think as you turn into bed.

[itsbenedict]

so in an effort to be slightly less out-of-touch, i went and watched all of Skibidi Toilet the other day. (at present, the whole series is about the length of a feature film, so this wasn't too big a lift.)

what surprised me is just... how totally normal it was. like, it's not at all difficult to describe. people big it up as this incomprehensible thing that's emblematic of a generation gap, but it's. not.

the plot is: there's toilets with human heads in them that go "skibidi dom dom dom yes yes, skibidi dabbadul neef neef". they can move despite a lack of ambulatory appendages. this is wacky and unsettling, but the chief question is: Do They Win In A Fight Against Some Robots With Cameras For Heads?

it's an action movie about a war against an alien invasion. that's it. less than the first thirty seconds of it are anarchic GMod YTP insanity- it develops a plot almost immediately. the plot is paper-thin and conveyed almost entirely without dialogue, existing to set up giant robot fights and zombie apocalypse jumpscares.

who are these factions? why are they fighting? you aren't failing to get it because the kids these days are on some totally different psychic wavelength. the show simply does not give a shit about this question. here are some bad guys! here are some good guys! they're going to do explosions and punches at each other for roughly two minutes until the perspective camera is abruptly destroyed in the crossfire somehow.

it is a remarkably competently-shot action movie. the fight scenes are weighty and satisfying and have lots of exciting little twists and turns as the two sides pull increasingly bigger weapons and gadgets out of their asses. the production gets more elaborate over time, and it's a pretty stellar example of what machinima is capable of. genuinely good at the things it's trying to do.

it does kinda fall down a little later, as it attempts to develop Characters and Deepest Lore after kind of not caring about that for most of its runtime. the decision to have "dialogue" almost exclusively in the form of incomprehensible heavily-filtered backwards speech with no subtitles is probably rewarding for die-hard Skibidi-heads who have the time on their hands to mess with the audio and uncover all the hidden messages, but it means you are not going to understand anything anyone is saying on a normal watch.

the action suffers from this decision a little bit towards the end, as for reasons that completely fail to come across, the toilets appear to have broken into their own factions and start fighting each other and forming various alliances, which disrupts the simplicity of the setup and makes it hard to determine who's winning a fight at any given time. a giant scary toilet man just exploded! was that bad, or good? listen, don't worry about it. all you need to know is that these things are going to keep happening until DaFuqBoom gets bored.

it's like a... 7/10, shallow but enjoyable. easy to see why kids like it. not going to give you any deeper insights into the Kids These Days, but there's worse ways to spend a couple hours.

(the most confusing thing to me is how something this straightforward got a reputation for crossing some sort of rubicon of cultural alienation. did everyone born in the 20th century who talks about this show just watch eighteen seconds of it and give up???)