#I have drawn worse than that... much worse

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 The Girl Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

series masterlist

Summary: If Spencer thought being secretly in love with you was hard, having to avoid you in the hallway was even worse.

Words: 4,8k.

Warnings & Tags: mention of jail. painter!reader. post prison reid. spencer’s pov. lack of communication. the reader has a cat. angst, so much angst. this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I struggled a lot writing this because it's a roller coaster, so sorry in advance.

“How long? It's not a problem to take care of everything, but I'd like to know if you'll be okay or—” Your voice almost cracked for a moment, your eyes still trying to adjust to the sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window. Spencer's sheets were still wrapped around your body, and you felt so connected to them that the thought of getting up while still watching him toss and turn looking for his shoes was too much.

“I don't think more than a day or two, I'll be fine.” He stopped his chaotic steps for a second and stared at you as if to make a promise. He paused, glancing away as if to compose himself before adding, “I have some work in Mexico. It came up last minute, or I’d have told you earlier.” His voice faltered, almost imperceptibly, and the words sounded rehearsed, like he was repeating something he’d practiced.

You frowned slightly, confusion flickering across your face. “Work in Mexico?” you echoed. “Since when do they send you out of the country for cases?”

“It’s not that kind of work,” he said quickly, his tone just a little too smooth, a little too practiced. “It’s…consulting. A conference on forensic advancements, some behavioral workshops—things like that.” He kept his gaze on the floor as he spoke, as if afraid to meet your eyes. “I won’t be gone long.”

You didn’t question him further. Why would you? Spencer wasn’t the type to lie, and the way his brows knit together, the way his voice softened with the promise, “I’ll be back soon,” made you believe him. But something about the way he shifted his weight, the way he avoided looking directly at you, left a faint unease in your chest.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have dinner with you yesterday. And breakfast now. I’ll make it up to you when I get back,” he added, his words tumbling out in a rush, as if trying to fill the silence.

You tightened the sheets around yourself, curling into their warmth, feeling the lingering heat from the side of the bed where he had been only moments before. It felt like he had never really left, the space around you still filled with the faint echo of his presence. Watching him now, his movements a little frantic, his gaze flickering toward the clock every so often, made you feel like he was slipping away too quickly. A part of you, small and selfish, wanted to ask him to stay. To sit back down, to let the world and his trip wait just a little longer.

But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you whispered, barely above a breath, as if afraid to disturb the fragile moment, “Promise?”

Spencer’s gaze softened even further, a tenderness washing over his features as he moved closer to you. His lips curled into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite touch his eyes but was filled with something that made your chest tighten. “Promise,” he replied, his voice firm but gentle, as though sealing a pact between the two of you. He leaned down, his warm breath brushing your forehead before his lips followed, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your skin. The kiss was tender, quiet, and almost reluctant, as though he didn’t want to pull away from this moment either. For a moment, his forehead rested against yours, the space between you vanishing entirely. It felt like the world had narrowed to just this—just the two of you—and all the invisible lines you had drawn between friendship and something more blurred into nothing.

But before you could do something stupid, he pulled back, with his eyes lingering on you, still filled with a softness that made your heart flutter. “Have you seen my shoe?” he asked, his voice playful yet tinged with the usual frustration of his misplaced belongings.

You let out a small laugh, still wrapped in the sheets, the warmth from them mingling with the warmth of the moment. “Oh, you’re a mess, little boy,” you teased, your voice light and affectionate, the fondness for him slipping out in every word.

“Mittens take it again?” Spencer asked, his eyes glinting with playful exasperation. He had grown accustomed to your cat’s antics, and he could hardly be surprised at this point.

You nodded, grinning as you pointed to the underside of the bed. “Ding ding, genius,” you replied, your voice light and teasing as his gaze followed your finger. Sure enough, there it was, tucked under the bed—another casualty of your mischievous cat’s nightly adventures.

He grumbled good-naturedly, but a soft smile tugged at the corner of his lips, as if the chaos of the morning didn't matter when you were here with him and everything felt so domestic. As he bent down to pick up his shoe, you couldn't help but watch, your heart swelling at the sight of the man you were so in love with, even in his messiest moments. There was something about him—something in that moment—that made him feel so good, as if everything else could wait and the obvious fact that he didn't feel the same way about you didn't matter. Anyone outside the room generally didn't matter. For now, it was just the two of you, tangled in sheets and laughter, clinging to a piece of time that was all yours and would be the only thing you'd have left when he was gone.

“She loves you, that’s why she does it…I guess she wants your attention,” you said, your voice trailing off, and the taste of the words felt sour in your mouth. It sounded too much like you were talking about yourself rather than your pet, and the realization hit you like a cold wave. It made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t explain, and you immediately wished you could take the words back. But you didn’t.

He glanced at you, a thoughtful expression crossing his features. “I read something about that,” he said, his voice light, but you could tell he didn’t entirely understand the weight behind your words. It didn’t matter. You were used to it by now.

“You read about everything.” You gave him a small, rueful smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes, the bitterness of the moment creeping into your voice. You were fine with it, you told yourself. Fine with everything.

He glanced at the clock, a quiet sigh escaping him. “I have to go…it’s late,” he said, and you could hear the quiet resignation in his voice. The moment, it seemed, had reached its inevitable end.

“Okay.” The word slipped out of your mouth more dryly than you intended, and you hated the way it sounded. You didn’t want him to leave. You didn’t want the moment to end. But it was already slipping away, and you knew it. “But before you go…come here.”

He hesitated, looking at you with uncertainty in his eyes. But then, slowly, he took a step toward you, his face softening when you reached out to touch his cheek. The moment your fingers brushed against his skin, he shivered, and your heart skipped a beat at the contact.

“Is…is something wrong?” he asked, his voice softer now, as if sensing the shift between you.

“No, I just want to say goodbye properly.” You shifted closer, your heart hammering as you moved toward him, your lips hovering near his. The temptation to close the distance, to kiss him, burned inside you. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

“Take care and come back,” you whispered, the words carrying more weight than you meant. You kissed his forehead gently, your fingers instinctively smoothing his hair down as you did. “Now it’s like you have my blessing,” you added with a faint smile.

He smiled at you, the warmth in his expression a bittersweet thing that made your heart ache. “Thank you, and good luck tomorrow with my godchildren’s.” His voice was soft, but the moment was already passing, slipping away, and with it, the space between you both. He gathered his things, gave you one last lingering look, and then turned toward the door.

You stood there, watching him go, the weight of what you didn’t say crashing down on you. The door clicked shut behind him, and you felt a hollow ache in your chest, a longing you couldn’t quite name.

God, you really wanted kissed him.

God, he really wanted you kissed him.

When Spencer opened his eyes for the first time in a cell and felt a sickening jolt of disorientation. The dirty walls and a rickety bench stared back at him, mocking the comforting image of his organized room and, more painfully, the thought of you. The absence of your laughter, your touch, your presence—everything that had once grounded him—hit him like a freight train. He knew something was wrong.

As the days blurred together and the evidence piled against him, he clung to the belief that this nightmare wasn’t real. Every hearing, every damning piece of evidence that chipped away at his freedom, felt surreal. Even when the judge handed down his sentence, condemning him to months behind bars, the finality of it didn’t register. What shattered him was the moment he filled out his visitation schedule and consciously omitted your name. He hadn’t wanted you to see him like that. He didn’t ask anyone to explain, didn’t try to soften the blow of his absence. That, he thought, was the point of no return—the moment he lost everything.

But Spencer was so wrong. The true breaking point came when he walked out of that hellhole, finally free, and climbed the stairs to his apartment. Each step was a physical ache, the pain in his chest sharper and heavier with every step. His hands trembled as he reached for his keys, the jangling sound unnervingly loud in the empty hallway. His gaze fell on your door, just a few steps away. The familiar sight sent his stomach into knots.

For the first time, he wished you wouldn’t be there.

The thought was alien, unnatural. You had always been there, and he had always wanted you there. When he was too drained to cook, you’d suggest their usual coffee spot, your smile lighting up the grayest of mornings. When his back ached from long nights bent over case files, you’d massage his shoulders, insisting scented candles could fix his bad posture and his bad days. When his mother’s health took a downturn, and he felt his world crumbling, you’d hold him, stroke his back, and promise that everything would be okay. And when his social battery was drained at reunions, you’d step in with your bad jokes or your art facts, making the world feel manageable again.

Now, standing in front of his own door, his fingers clumsy with the lock, all he could hope for was silence. He didn’t know how to face you, didn’t know if he could explain the broken pieces of himself.

His door creaked open, and he was greeted by the familiar scent of the home he had only dreamed of for the last while. It was overwhelming: clean clothes, slightly sweet candles, and something undeniably yours. The apartment was exactly as he remembered it, as if time had stopped the moment he left three months ago and never returned until now. His heart shrank as he took it all in: the blanket you insisted on leaving on the couch, the pile of books you always meant to return to his library but never did, his fish swimming around as if nothing had happened, and even the plants by the window, thriving despite his absence because you had surely watered them without fail.

And then there were the little details, things that told him that you had not moved away from this place, from him. The plate you always left for his cup of coffee, the one you gave him last Christmas, was still on the counter. His favorite cardigan, the one he thought he had misplaced, was folded neatly on the back of the chair and smelled of the baby softener you liked to use. His books were exactly where he had left them, although one of them had a bookmark you had made, a telltale sign that he had read it and was waiting for him to come back to comment on it, as you always did.

But he hadn’t returned.

Not then. And maybe not now at all.

Suddenly, the phone in his pocket rang, its shrill tone slicing through the heavy silence like a sharp reminder of reality. The vibration against his skin startled him, his body tensing as he pulled the device out. His gaze flickered down to the screen, and the name that appeared caused a knot to form in his stomach: JJ. His thumb hovered over the screen, his mind racing, unsure if he was ready for the conversation he knew would follow. But deep down, he knew there was no avoiding her. Jennifer wouldn’t let him slip away unnoticed, and if he didn’t answer, she might show up at his door, demanding answers he wasn’t sure he had.

With a resigned sigh, he swiped the screen and lifted the phone to his ear. “Is everything okay?”

The concern in his own voice surprised him. Maybe it was instinct, or maybe he was just desperate to shift the focus away from himself.

“Everything’s fine,” JJ replied, her voice steady but laced with something deeper. “I just wanted to check in. You’ve been…quiet.”

He exhaled slowly, staring out the window, the city lights stretching before him and the memories cutting deep. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “Just trying to catch up on things. All good here.”

“Okay,” she said softly, and there was a pause—a hesitation that made his pulse quicken. He could almost hear her thinking, weighing her next words. Then she cleared her throat, the sound small but deliberate. “Have you seen…her?”

The question hit him like a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. He turned away from the window abruptly, pacing the length of the apartment as if motion could somehow ease the tension coiling tighter and tighter in his chest. “No,” he said quickly, too quickly. His jaw clenched, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I don’t know if I want to.”

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, and he wasn’t sure if he believed it himself. How could he say that when every thought of you still made his heart ache? When the idea of you haunted him, so vivid and constant it felt like you were in every shadow of his empty apartment?

Jennifer’s sigh crackled over the line, heavy and filled with the weight of unspoken truths. “She’s been asking about you,” she said softly, her voice tinged with that unshakable sadness she tried so hard to hide. “Every time I see her. I think…” She hesitated again, and Spencer could hear her swallow hard, choosing her next words carefully. “I think you owe her an explanation.”

He swallowed saliva and tightened his fingers around the phone. JJ was right, of course. She always had been. But the idea of facing you, of trying to explain everything without drowning in tears, seemed impossible. How could he tell you the truth? How could he look you in the eye and admit that he had spent the last three months in jail, paying for a crime he had not committed? That he had done things that he deeply regretted, that made him sick and a horrible person?

You deserved better. You always had.

You were a blessing to anyone who had you around, and he knew that better than anyone. That's why he recommended you as a babysitter for JJ's kids, that's why he insisted that you come out to the bar with him and the team several times, that's why he told his mother about you, and that's why he gave you unlimited access to every single part of his life and told you things he'd never told anyone else. You were the one he thought of during those long, sleepless nights behind bars when JJ brought drawings from her boys. He imagined you there with them, sitting cross-legged on the floor, helping Henry with his homework or letting Michael pile blocks on your lap. It was silly—heartbreaking, even—but the thought of you, of your warmth and your kindness, had kept him going.

“I have to go…clean some things,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, so desperate to run away from the topic.

“Okay,” JJ replied softly, her voice tinged with sadness. “Tell me if you need anything.”

Before Spencer could find the strength to speak, the line fell silent. The hum of the apartment filled the space around him, oppressive in its quiet, and he stood there, phone still clenched in his hand. The weight of it, the weight of everything, settled deeper into his chest, making it hard to breathe. He stared at the counter as if it could offer him some sort of escape from the quiet agony that had overtaken him. With a long exhale, he dropped the phone, his fingers lingering on it for a second longer than necessary, before pulling away with a heavy sense of finality.

Just as he was about to move, his mind already drowning in the whirlpool of thoughts he was so desperate to escape, a soft, muted thud broke the oppressive stillness of the apartment. The noise was faint, almost imperceptible, but in the suffocating quiet, it reverberated like a crack of thunder. His breath caught, his heart skipping a beat as his body went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head toward the source of the sound, his eyes locking onto the open balcony door.

A sleek black shape emerged from the shadows, moving with a practiced elegance that seemed almost ethereal in the dim light. Mittens.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice breaking on the single syllable, hoarse and unsteady as if even addressing his might shatter the fragile thread of control he was clinging to.

The cat paused for a moment, her head tilting slightly as if considering him, her eyes gleaming in the dim light. Then, without a second thought, she padded over, her steps confident and unhurried, the soft click of her claws against the floor the only sound in the room. She jumped lightly onto the couch, then onto the small table beside him, her movements fluid and practiced. As she reached him, Mittens sniffed his hand delicately, then nuzzled it gently, her warm, soft fur brushing against his fingertips. The familiar rumble of her purring filled the air, a soothing, almost hypnotic sound that cut through the tension and wrapped around him like a blanket.

Spencer let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the quiet of the apartment. He hesitated, his fingers brushing the soft fur of her head, unable to stop himself from reaching out.

Mittens leaned into his touch, her purr intensifying as her little body pressed against his hand, seeking warmth, some affection. She didn't care about the months she hadn't seen him or just heard his name spoken a thousand times by you. To her, he was still Spencer, the same one who had fed her, played with her, and cared for her whenever he could. That was enough. She was very happy.

“You still remember me,” he murmured, a faint, fragile smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It was the first time he’d smiled in what felt like an eternity.

The cat blinked up at him, her green eyes half-lidded with contentment, as if to say, Of course I do.

For a long moment, he just stood there, his hand resting on her soft fur, letting her purring fill the empty spaces inside him. It was such a small thing, her presence, but it reminded him of you—of the life he’d left behind, the warmth he hadn’t realized he’d needed so desperately until now.

But the calm didn’t last, and Spencer’s heart nearly stopped when he heard a soft knock on the door. His gaze snapped up from the cat, who was now lazily sprawled across the arm of the couch, her purring uninterrupted. The knock came again, this time paired with a voice that sent a jolt through his chest.

“Mittens?”

The voice was muffled through the door, but he knew it instantly. It was you.

Another knock followed, gentle but insistent. “Are you here, baby?”

He froze, every muscle in his body tightening as he registered the sound of your voice. You were here, in his apartment—or at least on the threshold of it. The thought was both thrilling and terrifying. He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready to see you again.

The cat, oblivious to the tension that suddenly filled the room, stretched lazily before hopping down from the couch. Her tail flicked behind her as she padded toward the door, her movements casual, as if she belonged here. Her eyes were fixed on you as you stepped through the open door, your figure partially silhouetted by the light from the outside.

“There you are,” you said softly, your voice brimming with relief. The warmth in your tone hit him like a physical blow, and he had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to stifle the sound threatening to escape.

You crouched down to scoop the cat into your arms, your movements gentle and practiced. “You scared me,” you murmured, cradling her against your chest. Your voice softened, carrying that familiar tenderness he’d missed so desperately. “You’ve been running off so much lately.”

Spencer pressed himself against the shadowed wall, willing himself to disappear. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t even look at you for fear his body might betray him. The apartment was dark enough to hide him, but he knew the signs of his presence were everywhere—his phone abandoned on the counter, the faint indentation on the couch, the way the air seemed to shift with the weight of him being there.

You didn’t notice. Your focus was entirely on Mittens as you stroked her soft fur, your touch so gentle it made Spencer ache. “I know you miss him,” you murmured, the words falling from your lips so quietly they almost didn’t reach him. “I do too.”

The confession tore through him like a blade, sharp and unrelenting. His chest tightened, and he bit down hard on his lip, tasting the faint metallic tang of blood. Tears burned in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.

You lingered for a moment, your gaze sweeping over the apartment as if you could feel his presence, even if you didn’t see him. Then, with a soft sigh, you turned back toward the door.

“Let’s go home, baby,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of Mittens’ head before stepping into the night.

The door closed with a quiet click, and Spencer was left alone once more. His knees buckled, and he sank onto the couch, his hand trembling as it pressed against his face. The silence was deafening, a hollow, aching void that swallowed him whole.

Maybe it was for the best. Maybe fate didn’t want you to see him again—at least, not yet.

But then, the next morning, it happened.

You were returning to your apartment, groceries in hand, when you saw him.

He was standing at the end of the hallway with his back to you, as if he was leaving his apartment. As soon as you saw him, your heart skipped a beat and all your rational thoughts vanished. It seemed like an eternity since you had seen him, even though it had only been a few months. Your first instinct was to run to him, throw yourself into his arms, and demand an explanation, but something about his posture made you hesitate. He was stiff, distant, almost sad. His usual warmth was nowhere to be seen. And yet there was something different about him: his long hair, now a bit wilder and more unruly, framed his face in a way you had never seen before. Some curls fell over his eyes, and his beard had grown thicker and darker. The change in his appearance was shocking.

Without thinking, you dropped your groceries at your door and hurried toward him. “Spencer!” you called, your voice trembling with a rush of emotions you had bottled up for months.

He turned slowly, and for a split second, his eyes locked with yours. There was something in his gaze—a flicker of recognition, maybe guilt, but it quickly faded, replaced by a cool distance you had never seen in him before, at least not with you. Before you could stop yourself, you reached out and pulled him into a tight hug. It was instinct, more than anything, to wrap your arms around him like you always used to do. The warmth of his body felt like home, like everything you had missed was right there in your arms. You held on tightly, breathing him in as if this would somehow make up for the absence. You’d been so lonely without him, and this, just holding him again, felt like it would fix everything that has been wrong lately.

But to your surprise, Spencer didn’t move an inch. This time his body was rigid, unyielding, as if he didn’t feel you or want you around. He did not return your hug. He didn’t even seem to acknowledge it or really want it. His arms remained stiff at his sides, and you could feel his breath hitching against your neck, but he didn’t respond. It was like hugging a stranger, someone you once knew but no longer recognized.

“God, I missed you…” You pulled back slightly, looking up at him, trying to gauge his expression, but his face was unreadable. His long hair now brushed against the collar of his shirt, the unruly beard framing his jawline. But his eyes were the only thing that stayed the same—cold and distant, void of the tenderness they once held. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer immediately. The silence hung between you, thick and oppressive, before he finally spoke, his voice flat. “Sorry, I…I don’t think I’m the best person for that right now.”

Your heart sank, the warmth of the hug and reunion evaporating into a hollow chill. “What happened?” you whispered, feeling the pain creep into your voice. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you say anything? I was so worried for you and JJ don’t say so much.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t even look like Spencer, not the one you had known—kind, warm, and always ready to offer comfort. His face was hard, closed off, and distant. He seemed…different, almost cold. “I’m sorry, I needed to get to…work,” he said, his voice clipped and curt. “I didn’t think you’d be awake at this hour.”

You felt a pang of confusion and hurt at his words. “What do you mean? You didn’t want to see me? You haven’t been here in months,” you said, the bitterness creeping into your voice. “You just disappear, and then you show up here, like nothing happened? You sleep here? I came to your apartment last night, and you weren’t there.”

He didn’t react. No apology, no acknowledgment of the pain he’d caused. He just stood there, cold, distant. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words almost sounding like an afterthought. “I had work to do. It’s…complicated.”

“Complicated?” The word tasted bitter on your tongue. “That’s all you’ve got after disappearing for three months?”

Finally, his eyes met yours again, but there was no warmth in them. No tenderness, no familiarity. His gaze was hard, as cold as his words. “I don’t owe you an explanation,” he said sharply, his tone final, cutting through the air like a knife.

It felt like a punch to the gut. The warmth that had once filled your heart whenever Spencer entered a room, the gentle care he had shown you, was now replaced by something colder. It was as if the person you had known—the person who had been your friend, your confidant—had vanished along with the man who used to leave you sweet notes and show up with your favorite food after a rough day.

“You…you don’t owe me anything?” you whispered, your heart breaking with each word.

The silence stretched between you again, suffocating. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “I’m sorry.”

But it was hollow, empty. A formality. Not an apology that meant anything.

And then, just as quickly as he had appeared, he turned, walking away. “I have to go,” he said, his voice softer now, but still detached.

Before you could say anything else, he turned, leaving as quickly as he had appeared. And just like that, he was gone again—leaving you alone with the deafening silence and a heart full of questions.

Just like your worst fear: Spencer was avoiding you in the hallway.

[muletia]

Thinking about Rachet on Synth-En and how openly off the wall insane he'd be about you.

Rather or not this is a timeline where he knows Optimus has eyes for you, I imagine Rachet keeps his more troubling cravings on the down-low. Which all goes out the window as soon as he gets the unstable substance in his system.

You WILL know how attractive he finds you (i can see him practically cat-calling you like a fratboy), and he WILL start fights to both impress you and get the others to leave you alone. He acts like a buck in that way, incredibly eager to butt heads with everyone especially when you're around to see.

For his own sake he better hope you were already publicly together at that point, cause after it wears off there's only so much he can hand wave as being the Synth-En's fault.

Obsessed!synth-en!Ratchet goes so hard, but enduring more than five minutes with him is practically impossible. Not to mention how unbearable, clingy, and horny he becomes when you're alone with him. Every dirty, hidden secret he’s been keeping, every ugly and impure need he has for you, all come spilling out. No filter, and zero intention of hiding them.

Imagine hearing, "How’s it hummin’?" every single time you walk past him (as he leans against a wall with his arms crossed, giving you the most bedroom optics you’ve ever seen from him).

The drawn-out whistles every time you have to bend down for something, or worse, just stretch casually.

Or him throwing the most diabolical, unexpected, and vile line you've ever heard in your life, like: "Hey, sugar tits," and doing it in front of all the bots because synth-en!Ratchet has no concept of shame or subtlety.

And those constant fights, damn You can’t even talk to Optimus about the weather without Ratchet butting in, convinced Optimus is trying to flirt with you. The same goes for everyone else. Bulkhead interacts with you? Ratchet is ready to rip his spark out of his chest. Bumblebee glances your way? Ratchet's already calling him out for a one-on-one in the middle of the base, and you better be there to witness him kicking the young scout’s aft. And yes, after his victory, he’ll demand a reward. And don’t make him laugh with some meek, innocent kiss on the cheek... bro is after that humanussy.

I also think synth-en!Ratchet would have absolutely no problem with PDA and becomes much more impulsive with touch. If he suddenly decides he wants to kiss you, you’re about to have the sloppiest make-out session in history. If he concludes that you’re not giving him enough attention (you just looked somewhere else for like one second) he will immediately scoop you and sit you on his shoulder so you don't have a choice but to interact with him.

You can’t even find a quiet corner to rest, because Ratchet will definitely find you. Anywhere. Don’t even think you can hide from him (a.k.a. function for a moment without being scooped up without warning). He has to be with you 24/7.

Which is why he becomes unbelievably problematic once you leave the base. Just mentioning that you have to go home makes him go feral. The entire team will have to pin him down just to open a ground bridge to your home, though Ratchet will still find a way to slip out. Before you’ve had a moment to relax, you’ll be calling Optimus, because there’s a very sus ambulance parked outside your house. And then that same ambulance will snatch the phone from your hand before you can make the call because Ratchet is feeling romantical...

[universalzones]

"Your concern is understandable Vector, though we must remain as calm as possible given the situation. Cool heads must prevail." Blaze was sure it was easier said then done, though given everything that's happening worrying and panicking will do them little good and could even make the situation worse. The feline would offer to go look, though Rowan did have a point. She was needed her for when they called President Thawne back.

Rowan looked at Espio upon asking to tag along. "I'll be honest, I'm not the best team player, even if I try to be. Besides, you guys were undercover and investigating Clutch, right? That means if they decided to push that The Restoration did anything shady you can easily check them with everything you know. Not to mention it's best not to spread thin again." The lemur figured going solo was best at the moment. "Not to mention traveling the Shadow Void is tricky, and taking the time to explain wouldn't be ideal."

"Thankfully it seems that was the only damage done, though I have no way of actually checking if Jewel was over there when the piece fell. With the servers down no data was stored so all recording data is stored on the camera's themselves." Belle was in the dark, though could only hope that Jewel was safe and okay. Hopefully the beetle was able to take cover and remain safe.

"More power to my niece, though I think I'm good. Besides, speed won't do much in trying to get around a bunch of rubble." Rowan would then whistle, a shadow moving up to the wall and opening a portal to the Shadow Void. "I'll hopefully be back before the call." With that the lemur went over and stepped it as it closed up behind him.

===========================================================

"A piece of the airship fell and fucked shit up, I get it." Surge didn't need such a long and detailed explanation, though at least she knew where Jewel was. The tenrec did remember she still had a comm link to the Diamond Cutters, though should she use it? No, everything was crazy enough, and she should be able to handle this solo.

"Did I fucking stutter? I said get to the infirmary as there's no way you're lifting me in your condition. I may not look that heavy, though my muscles are completely metal so I'm way heavier than I look. Besides, I might have a way to get past all this rubble." Surge would walk over to the rubble, tossing a small piece of lightning which seemed to be drawn into it by something. "There's a ton of metal. If I surf it like I would an electrical grid I should be able to get through." The tenrec was leaving out the danger of if there wasn't any metal to bounce off of she could get stuck if she can't bounce back.

The big croc just felt responsible for Jewel, and having lost her it bothered him. Worse Charmy wasn't answering his phone either, which further worried him. The kid might have been mostly grown up now but, he was still like his own. He cared for that brat no matter how often they argued and fought. Him not picking up in a crisis like this? It wasn't like him and he was overly concerned about him. So maybe he snapped and got the wrong idea but still... he was worried and it showed.

" sorry... I'm just worried bout both of them that's all... "

Espio however approached Rowan as he was preparing to leave. The Shinobi looking rather stern, and focused and a hard one to read. It was well known that Espio saw himself as a sort of protector or guardian and a bit more of a practical sort. Some falsely believed he was dating Vector, though they were close that was not the case.

" Rowan wasn't it? I'd like to go with you, I won't do much good here and i'd rather be in the field. "

Of all the warriors present Espio was probably the most skilled fighter there outside of Blaze. In terms of raw martial skill he might even out perform both Sonic and Blaze. On the one hand he did wish to watch Rowan's back, on the other he had a personal stake in finding Charmy.

" I'd guess when the big wisp pushed back on the air ship some of the plating must have been dislodged. Was anyone in that prison? We might need to send a team to check it over and dig out any survivors..."

" heh ya sure ya don't want a lift? Tangle sure seems to enjoy when i cart her around... she doesn't even vomit anymore! i call that progress! "

==============================================

The Bee buzzed his wings checking his arm and realizing it was just dislocated. He gripped his arm tight as Surge ran up to him and gave her a little look of one moment. Before jammed his shoulder into the building! With a loud POP his shoulder went back into place just like Espio taught him!

" HO!!!! like rainbows and gum drops! "

He finally slid down the wall to just rest a second as Surge pulled up and tugged off his helmet and checked the dent. His short black hair falling down over his face somewhat. he was thankful for his natural tolerance to pain a perk of being a Bee.

" I ain't really to important right now! i as set on a super important mission! big V said to me, keep the Director safe! and i was totally doing that! but ya know she's quicker then she looks... for a beetle! She tells me she wants to make sure the prison is clear in case the worst happens--- and then the sky fell down and hit me on my noggin... "

He held up his helmet with the massive dent in it. Very likely it saved him from being killed, and Vector was always making fun of it!

" I think ... the roof collapsed and... i dunno the rest is fuzzy... but she could be hurt or worse! we gotta tell someone or something... "

The bee stood up and dusted himself off and rolled his still messed up shoulder. Despite his injuries the kid seemed to be made of stern stuff. He was pushing on despite all of it and even smiled as if it were no big deal!

" Na, infirmay can wait! you need a way over that debris right? Well my wings still work... i can get ya over the obstacles! i've had way worse then this just training with uncle espio! so i'll be fine! "

[extinctlesspains]

Hi could you possibly do a reader x yandere sae byeok when r is sick with gender neutral pronouns and could you possibly make this a story if you want to that is I hope you have a good day. ❤❤

A/n: Hi everyone! I just wanted to inform you guys that I won't be posting as much due to my winter break being over💔 I'll still post just not as frequently. I hope you guys understand! I love every single one of you... Have a great day pretties!! ♡♡

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑛𝑖𝑓𝑓𝑙𝑒𝑠 [𝐾. 𝑆𝑎𝑒-𝑏𝑦𝑒𝑜𝑘]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛᴇᴅ: ʏᴇs ᴏʀ ɴᴏ

❃ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ! ᴋᴀɴɢ sᴀᴇ-ʙʏᴇᴏᴋ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

❃ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: ᴅᴀʀᴋ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ

❃ sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: sᴀᴇ-ʙʏᴇᴏᴋ’s ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴇʏᴇs ʙᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘᴏssᴇssɪᴠᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇɴsɪᴛʏ ᴀs sʜᴇ ʟᴇᴀɴᴇᴅ ᴄʟᴏsᴇʀ, ʜᴇʀ ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴛɪɢʜᴛᴇɴɪɴɢ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀs. "ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴍɪɴᴇ," sʜᴇ ᴡʜɪsᴘᴇʀᴇᴅ, ʜᴇʀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴀ ᴄʜɪʟʟɪɴɢ ʙʟᴇɴᴅ ᴏғ ᴛᴇɴᴅᴇʀɴᴇss ᴀɴᴅ ᴏʙsᴇssɪᴏɴ, "ᴀɴᴅ ɪ’ʟʟ ᴅᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛᴇᴠᴇʀ ɪᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇs ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʏᴏᴜ sᴀғᴇ—ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟsᴇ ɢᴇᴛs ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ."

❃ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs: ᴘsʏᴄʜᴏᴛɪᴄ, ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ʙᴇʜᴀᴠɪᴏʀ, ᴘᴏssᴇssɪᴏɴ, ᴏʙsᴇssɪᴏɴ, ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇　

The apartment was dimly lit, the heavy curtains drawn tight to block out the cold winter sunlight. A humid warmth filled the air, the small heater by the bedside humming in quiet monotony. Sae-byeok sat on the edge of the bed, her sharp eyes scanning your flushed, feverish face. You stirred weakly, shivering under layers of blankets that seemed to do little to ward off the chill of your sickness.

She reached out, brushing a damp cloth across your forehead with deliberate care. "Stay still," she ordered, her voice low but firm. "You’re burning up, and I don’t need you making it worse."

You managed a feeble protest, your voice a weak rasp. "I’m fine... Sae-byeok, you don’t have to—"

Her hand tightened around the cloth, and her dark eyes flashed dangerously. "Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that." The intensity in her tone made you freeze. "You think I’m going to let you push me away when you’re like this? Do you think I’d let anyone else care for you?"

The possessiveness in her voice made your stomach twist—not from the fever, but from something more unsettling.

She leaned in closer, her face mere inches from yours. "You don’t understand, do you? You’re everything to me. I’ve lost too much in this world. I won’t lose you too."

Her words were heavy, laced with a desperation that made your heart race despite your weakened state. You tried to shift away, but her hand pressed firmly against your shoulder, keeping you in place.

"Stop squirming," she muttered, her voice softening just a fraction. "You’re sick. You need to rest." She tilted her head, studying you with an unnerving mix of concern and obsession. "I’ll take care of everything. You don’t need to think about anything else. Just focus on getting better... for me."

You swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. Sae-byeok had always been protective, but this was something else entirely.

She stood abruptly, her movements sharp and purposeful. "You haven’t eaten," she said, more to herself than to you. "I’ll make you something."

Before you could protest, she was already in the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans echoing through the small apartment. You tried to sit up, your body protesting with waves of dizziness, but her voice called out before you could swing your legs over the side of the bed.

"Don’t. Move."

Her tone was cold, a command that left no room for argument. You sank back against the pillows, the weight of her presence even in another room pressing down on you.

When she returned, she carried a bowl of steaming soup and a glass of water. She set them on the bedside table and sat down beside you, her gaze unrelenting as she spooned the soup and brought it to your lips.

"Open," she instructed, her voice deceptively calm.

You hesitated, but the look in her eyes made it clear that refusal wasn’t an option. You obeyed, the warmth of the soup sliding down your throat, momentarily easing the ache in your body.

"Good," she murmured, her lips curving into a faint smile. "See? Isn’t it better when you listen to me?"

The way she spoke sent a chill through you, despite the fever burning under your skin. She fed you in silence, her eyes never leaving your face. When you’d eaten enough to satisfy her, she set the bowl aside and reached for your hand, her fingers intertwining with yours.

"I hate seeing you like this," she whispered, her thumb tracing small circles on the back of your hand. "Weak. Vulnerable. It’s not right." Her grip tightened, just enough to make you wince. "You belong to me, and I can’t protect you if you’re like this."

Her words were suffocating, a stark reminder of just how far her devotion went. You tried to pull your hand away, but her grip only tightened further.

"Don’t," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Don’t pull away from me. I’m the only one who can take care of you. No one else matters."

The fever made it hard to think, your mind clouded with exhaustion and the weight of her words. She leaned in again, her free hand brushing against your cheek with a tenderness that felt almost out of place.

"You’re mine," she said, her voice barely audible. "No one else gets to have you. No one else even gets to look at you when you’re like this. Do you understand?"

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of fear and something you couldn’t quite name. She pressed a kiss to your forehead, her lips lingering as if trying to brand you with her presence.

"You’ll get better," she murmured, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. "I’ll make sure of it. And when you do, you’ll see... you don’t need anyone else. Just me."

The weight of her words hung heavy in the room, and as exhaustion pulled you into a restless sleep, her presence remained. Watching. Waiting.

And in the quiet of the apartment, her whispered promise echoed in your fevered dreams.

"I’ll never let you go."

[phacheltheprophetess]

Who Is Being Fake Around You And Sending You Negativity!?!??!?

Piles 1-3 Respectfully

Pile One: This is someone who hides their true feelings towards you very well. They could be younger than you or just a little bit more naive and influenced than you are. They are very protective over themselves and their own energy even though they’re the ones doing the energetic damage to others. This is someone who always seems to be busy and moving around a lot in their own life but still manages to be worried about yours. They’re very committed to their personal image and are very ambitious in personality.

Pile Two: This could be an elderly family member of yours or just someone who thinks they know better than you. This person has control issues and wants to have more influence over your life than they currently do. They may give a helping hand and say it’s in good faith but behind the scenes they’re wishing the worse for you. They want you to continue to be dependent on them for their own selfishness. You having boundaries is a direct threat to this person’s ego. This person feels entitled to your outcomes in life and wants to play a major role in your journey.

Pile Three: This is a romantic interest who acts like they’re passionate for you but they really just want to use you for a status gain. This person could even say they’re in love with you but the whole time they’re intimidated by your influence and potential for growth. They feel they can control you better by having proximity to you and giving you a love offer to make them look good. They see you as superficial arm candy. This person just wants to be able to say they were close to you in this way but they’re not acting genuinely. They want you for appearances sake.

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READINGS ARE ALWAYS TIMELESS WHEN YOU SEE IT IS WHEN YOU WERE MEANT TO SEE IT

Picked up on the collective general energy for this reading. Much like every other pick a pile it had no specific audience in mind. So if you felt drawn to this post it was simply meant for you to see 💕

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[lesausageperson]

new superthings oc for my au!!!

I wanted to make a good villain that would both fit in-universe, but also feel like something new and interesting — and dangerous.

these were my initial ideas. I went in with absolutely no idea of what she would be like, except for that I wanted her to be a girl, and for her design to be surprising in the context of the au. my sister suggested a fur scarf and I thought that was perfect.

these were my next thoughts. I wasn't sure how I would make a living fur scarf, let alone one that had an air of deviousness and malevolence.

upon talking with my friend and my sister about it, we thought that the head-in-mouth approach was best. we also wanted her to have a sort of wine aunt vibe lol.

the one on the right is the one I went with in the end! I thought the more evil look for the fur head made more sense for her, and the mask looked better with a more angular shape.

so, I give you... Conadger!

I realise that my handwriting sucks, so I'll write out her bio here too:

she decided that the other villains weren't doing a good enough job and took matters into her own hands!

smart and sneaky, she perfectly plans her actions and executes with the utmost detail. with her meticulous planning and secretive nature, conadger makes for a formidable enemy.

both the heroes and the villains are her rivals. her plot to take over the heroes' HQ may have fallen flat, but the villains' hideout was a different story. now with a solid base to think out new schemes, will the heroes be able to hold fast — even with the support of the villains on their side?

(end)

I really like how she turned out and I'm excited to mark out how this au will go.

although, I've been told that some of my designs for characters are too scary... I personally don't see it, if I'm honest. this au is supposed to be indulgently edgy and over-the-top, so some of the designs will be a bit unsettling compared to... well... compared to canon. in which the characters look like This.

I might tone a bit of it down though. I may be one of the only fans of superthings on tumblr, but I do have some standards when it comes to my fanmade stuff. low, low standards, but I swear they're there. probably.

anyway! thanks for reading this long-as-all-hell post.

here's the blank version of conadger for all your colouring needs!

[0fbabylon]

Madonna’s attention is drawn at Francis’s pained admission. 

They say they understand her. That their mother wanted them to be a boy — and how much sense that made, that Francis was offensively rammed into an ill-fitting mold from the day they were born. Cursed with the faculty of difference. They had a hard life, and so did she. 

There were differences between them, though. Stark differences. Vast differences. As Jupitor is gaseous as Mars is solid rock. Where she was a hateful wretch of a woman, where Francis attracted the same good things that Madonna would squander. 

They mention Madonna’s grief. Her gaze only hardens. What else was there but to harden and go cold? She’d sooner turn to stone than give herself to the caustic waves that corroded in her chest every time she thought of every single bad thing that had been done to her. 

It made her want to spit nails. But spitting nails was all she ever did. Her life was not the better for it. Maybe it was even worse. 

They say they don’t know what they are. They don’t think they can have children, either.

Her throat locks tight. Vicious. Like a fist. Dark head presses against the back of the arm chair.

“You’re Francis Highmore. That means more.” She says with a low turn in her voice, words slurred from the liquor. Madonna’s looking out the window again. Her fingers are working at the cork of the bottle. 

“Pregnancies are liabilities regardless.” The pitch of her voice drops. She uncorks the bottle with a small sigh, resting her heavy head against her shoulder. 

“I know one thing. It won’t happen to me again. That — miracle.” The low sound of her voice is burning with resentment. “I don’t care what I have to do. I’ll make sure of it.”

Francis winces at that, the words landing strangely in a way that they hadn’t braced for. “Feeling like a woman after all.” It scrapes against something raw inside them, a quiet, persistent ache they rarely let surface. Their jaw tightens, but they don’t respond right away. What could they even say to that? The words twist into their ribs like a blade, pulling out a mess of shame, confusion, and resentment they’ve carried for too long.

They glance down at their hands, studying them as if they might find answers in the lines of their palms. But all they see is inadequacy—a body that doesn’t belong, that never felt whole or coherent. But maybe they just simply understood Madonna's perspective in those ways. That feeling of having a body but it feeling like the wrong one. A body that doesn’t know where it fits in the world, that shifts between too much and not enough. Intersex. Strange. Damned.

Not a full person, their thoughts are unbidden and cruel. Francis straightens up, arms crossing tightly over their chest to shield themselves from their own deafening emotions.

"I know what you mean," They say, their voice quiet. They can’t meet her eyes. Instead, they look past her, momentarily disillusioned. The mere mention of her "cruelty" doesn't mark them much. In a lot of ways, Francis was jaded by other's actions put upon them. For a long time, they felt nothing but spiraling bitterness. Crazed over the ways in which the cult had shaped them, created them. And even more than that, the ways in which they were no longer human but instead an object in the face of it. “My mother wanted me to be a boy, I think. To name me like a boy, to gesture to me like a boy. To have sons and not have daughters might have been a blessing to her. Considering what you've been through it would make sense. Considering what she had been through, the damned woman, it makes sense..." They didn't have any love thinking about their mother. She was a horrible memory.

"I don't know what I am, though." And that was the truth. They were genetically different. They were born to be different.

"I don't think I can have children."

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Assisting Acquaintance Acquired.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[unopenablebox]

ugh this is so pathetic and embarrassing but. it might be helpful to me if people would tag horror movie content with 'horror' or 'horror movie' or 'horror film' or something. because unfortunately seeing a still image of a horror movie monster or body horror scene, or a gif of the guy from saw swinging a bloody hand down to implicitly cut off his offscreen leg or whatever even though onscreen he's just swinging his arm, or even just an overly zippy horror movie poster or overly descriptive sentence about the content of a horror movie, does in fact often cause me to get so stressed out and compulsively miserable that i cry

[ETA: sufficiently non-explicit/non-tone-preserving joke content, like the Thursday the 12th meme that has a picture of jason in the store, is fine. my line is weird and hard to articulate but "does this preserve the tone of the horror movie or is it ridiculous/an obvious joke" is a reasonable way to delineate things i might benefit from tagging vs things that won't bother me.

also like. i made it sound very bad but it's not actually such a huge deal for things that aren't "this is literally a gif of a horror movie" so if you would like to make the question you ask yourself "is this literally a gif of a horror movie" you will already be solving most of my problems]

[arttsuka]

You don't have to draw all the requests sent your way! As you get more popular (and you will because your art is good) that will become literally impossible to do. I promise you not a single art blog answers every single ask.

But, but I HAVE to you don't understand :( the pressure is killing me, I don't want to disappoint people

[7roaches]

assorted old and somewhat unfinished oc art (except the second one thats recent)

[kirayamidemon]

I can’t believe this is how I’m gonna fucking get back to drawing Kuroshitsuji I hate everything

[socialc1imb]

I love art ! I’m not lying !

[tovaicas]

my real favourite character is Nidhogg, I’m only obsessed with Estinien bc he’s a hangers-on /jokes

[bmpmp3]

the epic highs and lows of trying to read an ongoing shounen manga

[homophyte]

thank you for the long & thought out response. while i do fully agree with you on stances like prison abolition & the myth of the stranger pedophile scapegoat, my question and discomfort with jimmy’s actions comes not so much from a political/philosophical standpoint but from a very human emphatic one. i put myself in the shoes of the girl he groomed and abused and imagine people listening to and enjoying the music of my abuser and it makes me sick to my stomach. so thats more where my guilt and discomfort comes from. that said i can’t say that their music doesn’t have an impact or isn’t enjoyable. i also agree with you that this mass outrage and very public renunciation and demand for punishment is very much a social mechanism and automatic reaction that quite simplifies a complex situation. however these mechanisms exist for a certain evolutionary purpose after all (sorry my background is psychology) but thats sort of besides the point because im also not a fan of how these things get handled with zero nuance. 

its also true what you said that me or you or anyone deciding to disengage with this band or their music changes nothing in the grand scheme of things, so doing it as some sort of Noble Cause against abuse is useless. so in this case i feel it’s up to personal preference and whether or not i can swallow the cognitive dissonance and discomfort this information arises in me whenever i listen to their music from now on. 

thanks again for the insightful response, i’m glad we can have this sort of discussion because i also think this topic is extremely important but people often shy away from it because it’s so heavy. 

im glad you asked me to share! like i said ive spent a lot of time thinking abt this specifically so its very much like years worth of mishmash thoughts kinda strung together only by me experiencing them over time in succession lol. but i agree its important to talk about it especially within a culture so ensnared in the logic of the prison and particularly how effectively thats been exported into like 'mob justice' for lack of a better word.

re: the emotive aspect im not sure i have much to say other than like Yeah its a very strong one and i dont think its a bad thing at all to have. i got the impression from ur ask--and idk how true this is--that you were wrestling between a desire to return to the music bc you enjoyed it and that response preventing you and feeling a sort of obligation to do one over the other n struggling with that. so i think i approached it as like 'heres ways you can reason w that emotional response and grapple w it if its smth ur agonizing over' or something like that. im also a firm believer in the ways politics shapes the ways we think n feel so my instinct was to tease out some of the structures that may be shaping ur thought processes--which of course i nor anyone but you can fully know. but i dont get that same sense from how u describe it here and either way i think whatever feeling ur having about it is like...i dont want to say its 'valid' but ur allowed to have that and do whatever you want pretty much lol. i cant and am not going to force anyone to engage w the band and theres probably more reasons than i could think to list why its not for everyone even without the sordidness of abuse hanging over it.

without getting into a much much broader discussion i would gently push back on the idea of a biologically innate reason for the existence of carceral/punitive logics (and frankly psychology more broadly), if only bc it does a lot of the work of justifying them. keep in mind that these are concepts ideas and patterns of thought that exist because they serve systems of power and particularly the state. we did not have to have a society which created them, we only happen to--which is to say theyre not innate in this way and i disagree that they have an 'evolutionary' purpose bc it fails to properly historicize them. but thats me coming from an antipsych position lol