#i know he doesn't sound like an actual human being

[appocalipse]

no pilots allowed • bradley bradshaw

Early mornings at the Hard Deck are usually quiet and boring...until Rooster shows up. He's offering to help, you're trying not to be distracted, and the line between "just friends" and "something more" is getting blurrier by the minute...

"Do you ever sleep?"

You don't look up from the glass you're polishing, but your mouth twitches into a faint smile...the same way it always does when he shows up at the Hard Deck this early.

"We're not open for, like, another few hours," you tell Rooster, as if he doesn't know that already. You can hear him approaching the bar from behind, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor, making his way through the quiet, mostly-empty room.

You're not supposed to let people in before hours, technically. Especially not good-looking naval aviators who will inevitably distract you a little more than you'd like to admit, but...

"Then what are you doing here?" he asks.

You look up at him. He's taken off his aviators, his dark eyes watching you rather intently. His posture is casual, his tall frame leaning against the counter.

You set down the glass you've been polishing and reach for another one, returning your attention to your task. "Someone has to make sure everything's ready before we open."

He gives you a slow, easy smile. "Mind if I help?"

"Help?"

"Yeah." He looks around the bar as if trying to figure out where to start. "What do you need me to do?"

"Aren't you tired from training?"

"I'm fine," he says, not convincing you in the slightest. "Seriously. What do you need?"

You set down the glass. A small part of you can't resist the chance to keep him around longer.

"I'll feel bad if I make you work," it sounds like you're reasoning with yourself.

Rooster grins. "Then don't make me work. It's my idea."

"My aunt will kill me if she catches you in here, especially if you're working."

"She won't know."

Well...there are some heavy crates that need to be brought in from the storage room, bottles of alcohol that need to be placed on the shelves, tables that need to be wiped down...

The heavy ones. Oh, the heavy ones are tempting.

"You're a menace," you tell him, though it comes out sounding more like a compliment than an insult. It's hard to offend him anyway, you've found; he seems to take everything you say in stride, regardless of whether you mean it or not.

He smiles at you, unfazed. "Is that a yes?"

"What are you doing here so early anyway? You and your team don't usually show up until well after dark."

"Do I need a reason?"

"It's early. You can't be that bored already."

"Maybe I just wanted to see you."

Boy, is he good.

Not falling for it is a challenge every time. You wonder if Rooster knows that, if he gets a kick out of it the way Hangman does when he flirts with every pretty girl who crosses his path. The difference is, Hangman's flirting is playful, an intentional provocation that you can take as a compliment or blow off with a laugh.

Rooster's flirting is different. It's always delivered in that same deep, mellow voice of his, a warm baritone that reminds you of dark whiskey on a cold night, and he has a way of saying things that makes you think he might actually mean them.

"...you don't have to sweet-talk me," you tell him. "I already let you in."

He grins at you. "Who says I'm sweet-talking?"

You turn back to your task of polishing glasses so he won't see the smile you can't contain. That's it, you think. New rule: no more letting him in early. He's too distracting.

"Am I being kicked out?" Rooster asks, amused.

"Yes."

"Really?"

You try not to laugh. "No. But you really don't have to help."

He straightens up from the bar and stretches his arms, yawning. "Where's Penny? Did she leave you here to do all this by yourself?"

"Visiting her mother with Amelia. She'll be back later. I offered to cover while she's gone," maybe out of boredom or some desperation for human contact, but it sounded like a good idea at the time, you just didn't realize it would involve so much work. "The other waitresses will be here, um, soon, I guess, once it gets closer to opening time."

You don't want to admit you're a little intimidated by the responsibility. You've only been working at the Hard Deck for a few months now, having moved here from halfway across the country, and most of that time has been spent behind the bar or taking orders on your notepad, doing the tasks Penny asked you to do, and nothing more. Now that she's away for a few days, you're starting to feel a little overwhelmed with the amount of work that needs to be done.

"You look tired," Rooster observes.

"Thanks."

"I mean it in a good way."

"It doesn't sound good."

"You always look nice," he clarifies, to your mild embarrassment and surprise. "I just mean you seem like you could use some help."

You don't meet his gaze because, no, you're not going to be distracted by those brown eyes again, it's bad enough already. "I...okay. The delivery truck is supposed to arrive soon, so...there are a lot of crates that need to be brought inside. And some in the storage room that I need to bring here to the bar. Some of them are really heavy. I'm not even sure how Penny brings them in by herself."

"Let me take care of that for you."

Let me take care of that for you, says he, like it's no big deal.

"There are some boxes of liquor that need to be taken out of the storage room and brought in here, too," you continue, despite your better judgment, still watching him out of the corner of your eye.

He gives you another slow smile. "Okay. Where is this storage room?"

"There's a door behind the bar. To the right. I'll help you carry them."

"You don't have to."

"I'll show you where they are. And it's gonna be easier if there are two of us."

He looks at you with a knowing smile. "Is that why you want to come along? So you can make sure I don't get distracted and break anything?"

"Exactly."

"I think you're just making excuses to spend time with me."

Does he really have to keep looking at you like that?

"Rooster," you say, as firmly as you can manage.

"Yes?" It doesn't seem to bother him that you're trying to scold him. In fact, you think he's enjoying it.

You walk backwards behind the bar to lead him toward the storage room, pausing when you reach the door. You let out a sigh. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"

"Really?" He grins at you, putting his hands in his pockets. "I thought I was being very nice."

"Is that what you call it?"

"Yeah."

"Crates," you say, gesturing to the storage room and changing the subject before he can talk his way into any more compliments. "In there, by the wall. The smaller boxes on the shelves are for the bar. We'll bring them in after we move the big crates. The ones with the heavy bottles inside."

Rooster pauses. "'We'?"

"I can't let you carry all of those by yourself. They're heavy."

"That's cute. But I can handle it."

"No. Not by yourself."

He gives you a confident grin. "Watch me."

The moment he disappears into the storage room, you start to regret saying anything at all. You're not entirely sure what possessed you to let him help you with this; he must have gotten to your head. There are plenty of things you could be doing right now while he's out of sight, and yet...you decide to stand there in the doorway, watching him take inventory of the room, squinting in the dim light and trying to decide where to start.

It's not like you can just leave him to it. It would be too embarrassing if he hurt himself and you did nothing. The best way to keep an eye on him is to stay close by.

Right?

Rooster lets out a groan as he heaves one of the large crates up off the floor. "You weren't kidding," he mutters. "These are heavy."

"Let me—"

"I've got it."

He doesn't let you help him. He lifts the crate off the ground with another grunt, and you're distracted for a moment by the sight of his muscular arms flexing under the strain, the tight white t-shirt he's wearing pulled even tighter across his chest, the—

"Y/N?"

"Hm?" You look up quickly. "What?"

He grins at you. "Want to open the door for me?"

Fuck, you think, not for the first time that day, stepping out of the way to let him through.

You grab a smaller crate for yourself. It's not as heavy as the one Rooster is carrying, but you still strain a little under the weight of it, and Rooster still gives you a disapproving look when he notices.

"I told you," he says, slightly out of breath from his own effort, "you don't have to help."

"It's literally my job to help," you mutter. "Actually, it's my job to carry them all myself, so—"

"I got it."

"Yeah, but I can—"

"You can relax," he tells you, letting out a small groan as he heaves the crate up a little higher. "And go back to what you were doing."

It would be easier to protest if he didn't make it look so effortless. He carries the crate out of the storage room and sets it on the floor near the bar with a thud, barely breaking a sweat.

Your fingers dig into the rough edges of your own crate, which seems ten times heavier all of a sudden. You set it down next to his, more carefully than he did, glancing over at him to see if he noticed.

He looks down at the crate you just set on the floor, then over at you with barely concealed amusement. "Not bad," he says. "You could handle that all by yourself?"

"Shut up."

"No, really." He's not trying to hide his smile anymore. "Impressive."

The laugh you let out is entirely involuntary, equal parts embarrassed and amused. "Okay, fine, I get it," you say. "You're strong. You go get the rest of them while I finish wiping down the tables."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you."

"Any time."

It's fine, you tell yourself as he heads back into the storage room. Rooster being in here won't distract you. It's fine. Everything is fine.

The delivery truck arrives shortly after Rooster has brought in the last of the crates to the bar, so you spend the next hour opening the boxes and sorting the bottles, filling the shelves behind the bar with whiskey and rum and vodka, gin and tequila and other liquors...and totally not stealing glances at Rooster as he carries the crates from the truck into the storage room.

You've found a rhythm by the time he returns from the truck for the final time, wiping your hands on your apron as you watch him approach the bar.

"I think that's all of them," he says, letting out a groan as he stretches his arms above his head.

The nerve, you think, resisting the urge to stare. The absolute nerve.

"Thank you."

He lowers his arms. "I never said it was for free."

"What?"

Rooster leans forward and props his elbows on the bar, the same cocky grin from earlier playing at his lips. "There's a price for my help."

"A price?" you ask, still polishing the same glass you've been working on since he arrived. "And what's that?"

"...a drink."

Well, that's easy.

"A drink? You want me to pay you a drink?"

"Ah, no, no," he says with a laugh, waving his hand like the idea is ridiculous. "I want you to let me buy you a drink."

Oh.

"Oh."

"And something to eat, too," he adds, and by the time you recover from the initial shock of what he's suggesting, he's already standing up straight again. "What time do you get off work?"

"No."

"No?" He looks at you in surprise.

"I can't," but you're only barely resisting.

"You can."

"Rooster."

He frowns. "What?"

"I..." Why is this so hard? "I can't go out with you. It's—I can't."

"Why not?"

You feel tempted. Boy, are you tempted. You're smiling even as you shake your head, trying to focus on polishing the glass in your hands. "Because I actually...like you."

Rooster pauses, his smile returning. "You can't go out with me because you like me?"

"This heart," you tap your fingers on your chest, smiling still, "is off limits, okay? No pilots allowed."

The tables are clean and the bar is stocked and organized, but you need to do something else, anything else, if only to avoid Rooster's gaze. You slip the cloth you've been using into your apron pocket and look around for another task. There must be something you missed. Anything.

Tables, yeah. You can wipe down the tables again.

"Okay," he says slowly, clearly not convinced, "so let me get this straight: You like me, therefore you're not allowed to go out with me?"

You nod. "Exactly."

"Are you kidding?"

You take the cloth out of your apron pocket again and glance around the bar, searching for any traces of dust on the tables or chairs that might need to be wiped down.

"Y/N?"

You've already gone over the tables once...

Rooster steps closer. "You know that makes no sense, right?"

You're not distracted by the sight of his hand sliding onto the countertop next to you. You're not distracted by the sudden proximity of him as he leans in closer. It's fine, it's not a problem, you can deal with this.

"So...you're saying you do want to go out with me," he says, sounding far too pleased with himself, "but you won't?"

He's so close. He smells good, like pine and leather. You glance over at him, realizing how little space there is between you now, and quickly look away.

"That's—I don't..."

"Because you like me."

"Shut up."

His gaze drops to your mouth. "Make me."

You swallow. Hard.

It takes a monumental amount of willpower to step away from him, to resist the temptation to touch him or get closer, but you manage. Barely. You make yourself focus on the task you've found for yourself, pretending that Rooster isn't standing behind you watching as you wipe down the tables a second time.

"I think we should go out," he says again, obviously not taking your silence for the no it's supposed to be. "There's a place downtown that I think you'd like."

You chuckle, which probably doesn't help matters, but...it's really hard to say no to him.

"Would I?"

He must have sensed weakness because he follows you around the bar as you continue your pointless cleaning. "Today is one of the last days we have off," he tells you. "Maverick has us in the air all day tomorrow, and most of the day after that. If we don't go out tonight, who knows when we'll have another chance...or how long it'll be before I see you again."

"Rooster..."

"Come on," he says, more gently this time. "One drink. Or maybe dinner. Nothing too fancy. I promise."

You pause and glance over at him. He really doesn't know when to quit. "But it's not a date."

"No. Totally not."

You don't like how much it sounds like he's laughing at you.

"Really?"

"Not even close," he says, like he's serious. "It's a totally not date between two friends."

He follows you, like a puppy, around the bar, until you pause again, thinking it over for what feels like the millionth time in the last few minutes. One drink, he said.

Not a date.

...just two friends hanging out.

No feelings involved.

You sigh, letting the cloth in your hand drop to the table, giving in to the inevitable. "Fine," you say, turning around to face him. "But it's not a date."

"No."

"Or a first date."

"Right."

"And it's just one drink."

"I swear."

"And we can't—we can't..." You can't help but notice the way he's looking at you, his brown eyes full of mischief, a hint of that playful smile on his lips again, and you're suddenly worried he might get the wrong idea about this whole thing. "No...you know."

His eyes linger on your mouth again before meeting your gaze with a sly smile. "No...what?"

"You know."

"I really don't."

"It's not a date."

He chuckles softly at your obvious distress, clearly enjoying this. "Okay, it's not a date."

"Exactly. So don't do anything you'd do if it was a date."

He steps closer, grinning, the space between you evaporating again. "And what is it," he asks in that deep voice of his, a low rumble that resonates somewhere in the pit of your stomach, "that you think I would do on a date?"

The table behind you feels like it's digging into your back.

"No kissing."

"Got it," he says, resting one hand on the table behind you, "no kissing."

"Or any other...date stuff."

"Like what?"

"Like..." You glance at his mouth.

Rooster smiles. "You want to make a list?"

You duck under his arm before he can do something that will get you in trouble. "I'll meet you after work," you tell him over your shoulder as you walk back toward the bar, desperate for some space before you lose your resolve altogether. "Just...stop talking. You're distracting me."

He turns and watches you, amused. "Okay. Pick you up at seven?"

You wonder if it's too late to back out of this, or if he's going to show up here at seven with that stupid smile of his and his ridiculous mustache and ruin everything anyway.

"You don't have to pick me up," you mutter, wiping your hands on your apron one more time, unable to hide your smile. "It's not a date, remember?"

"Whatever you say, sweetheart."

Oh, he's impossible.

"It's not a date!"

[isetfiretomyself]

Yandere Male Boxer X PR Manager Reader (G/N)

This idea was my main reason I started a Yandere blog so I hope you enjoy! (Pssss if you like this one check out my other stuff :3)

Trigger warnings! Violence ,Obsessive behaviour , Yandere behaviour, This is all fictional I do not condone any unhealthy behaviour irl !!!

🦷 Yandere Boxer who's an actual beast in the ring. He's known for being a one hit wonder if the opponent winds him up enough in the build up to the match.

🦷 Yandere Boxer who's been accused of cheating multiple times with how hard he can punch, which is never true. He's just too strong!

🦷 Yandere Boxer who's so aggressive in the ring and hates interviews so the public mainly see him as some thug! Which Yandere Boxer didn't mind and till opponents will drop out or avoid fighting him. Now that's an issue...

🦷 That's when Yandere Boxer's team gets a PR manager, you.

🦷 Yandere Boxer felt a little bad for you, you definitely had a challenge ahead but you seemed determined.

Yandere Boxer was in the gym lifting dumbbells. His music blaring in his ears till he noticed a smaller figure stand next to him. "What are you doing?" Yandere Boxer asked, an eyebrow raised. "I thought this would help us get to know eachother!" You say with a smile before starting to lift your weights. Yandere Boxer couldn't help but noticed how small yours were compared to his, it was cute.

You struggled a little to lift your dumbbells above your head. Closing Your eyes you try and push through, your shaking arms suddenly feel supported. You open your eyes to see Yandere Boxer gently holding your arms. "Your form is wrong, you're going to hurt yourself." He said but it was less rude more....caring. "Here. Like this" He guides your arms down and up again slowly "remember to breathe" Yandere Boxer said way too close to your ear, had he been getting closer?

🦷Since then Yandere Boxer likes you being at the gym with him. Even if you just talk to him to him instead of working out. (Though he loves watching your small form struggle to keep up with him)

"That's it!" You say while taking notes sitting on the floor next to the boxing ring. Yandere Boxer hooks the guy he's sparring around the face fast, knocking him to the floor. Walking out the ring quickly. "What is it?" Yandere Boxer asked his voice is so deep it's hard to hear emotions but you can tell he's eager. "We show your passion! Make you more human!" You say excitedly.

🦷 Yandere Boxer doubted it would work but he's not big in social media so he let you take the lead. And oh boy where you right!

🦷 Yandere Boxer who went viral with his new campaign before a fight. A lot of people found him quite attractive, there was even thirst edits of him!

🦷 Yandere Boxer who was feeling the happiest he had been for awhile! And till he found out you managed other people D:

"Who are they?" He doesn't sound angry but he's definitely in your space. "Influencer mainly... you're my most famous client!" You say trying to calm him down. "I'll pay double." He said too fast. "Elijah.. it's not about the money." You say quietly. "Then is it me!? Am I too boring!? Too quiet!?" He yells, you've never heard him yell. You covered your ears in pain. "Oh (name) forgive me, It's okay I'll fix this" Yandere Boxer pulls you close rubber your back. You were stunned.

🦷 Yandere Boxer who's got another match. You lay of your sofa with some snacks watching the start, to your absolute horror when he takes of his robe there's a tattoo on his collarbone. With your name on it!?

🦷 Yandere Boxer when who took the microphone "(Name) I just wanted to say I love you and I'm going to do better and be the best for you."

While the whole crowd cheers you're on the edge of your seat completely stunned.

[zoswriting]

queen pls i need more of dad shoto🙏

ask, and you shall receive.

✦ don’t eat the baby.

⤷ synopsis : your baby’s cute as fuck. that’s it. that’s the synopsis.

⤷ a/n : my bad this is so late HAHAHA i’ve been trying to think of a scenario for the longest time </3 writer’s block is insane, hence this short-ish little thing. my baby fever will always be worse, though.

⤷ warnings : fluff, cuteness aggression, shoto taking everything literally, dad!shoto, husband!shoto, you have a daughter called rumi (she’s basically gonna be the basis for all of my baby scenarios unless stated otherwise), probably some other stuff i can’t think of right now

every time you think shoto couldn't be more perfect, you're proven wrong. every time, without fail. how have you been proven wrong this time?

shoto's sitting in the rocking chair you begged him to buy (although he really didn't need much convincing, he could not say no to you when you were pregnant. he still can't say no to you.) with a bottle in hand. your daughter is gently cradled against him, her head and body tilted in the perfect position for her to be fed, her little eyes slowly, slowly falling shut as she drank her milk, provided to her by your husband. that definitely isn't rare, but it doesn't happen often, either.

he doesn't notice you in the doorway straight away, focused on making sure your child is being properly fed rather than anything else. he only notices you when he sees a figure go to sit down on the bean bag in the corner of rumi's nursery, and he turns his head, just to be met with your adoring gaze and soft smile.

"hi," is all he says—whispers, more like—before his line of sight is directed on rumi again. you smile a little harder, loving the scene in front of you. god, you wish you could take a picture of this and keep it with you forever. it's silent for a little while longer, apart from the soft sounds of your breathing and your daughter drinking from her bottle.

"you're so natural like this, you know? i love seeing you all... domestic. it's so sweet," you say softly, leaning forward with your elbow on your knee and your chin propped up onto your hand as you continue to stare at him. he raises an eyebrow at your words.

"what, exactly, are you telling me, love? that you find me attractive when i'm being a father?" he muses, to which you glare at him playfully and roll your eyes.

"haha, funny. honestly though? kind of. you get all gentle and tender when you’re holding her and it's really cute."

"i'm flattered, truly."

your little conversation momentarily pauses there, but your glances at him don't. not when he puts rumi’s bottle down because she’s turning her head away, not when he gently lifts her up whilst placing her head on his shoulder and starts tenderly patting her back to burp her, and definitely not when he finally stands to put her in her cot. you stand too, watching the way shoto carefully peels her off of his shoulder and sets her down in a way as to not jostle her too much. he sets her little rabbit teddy just in the top corner of her cot, leaning down to give her pudgy, baby cheek a kiss.

he turns towards you when he feels you stand next to him, his arm wrapping around your shoulder. you lean into him and just take in the sight before you. your baby, the life you both created (you could go on a whole tangent about how it’s ’so crazy two people are able to make a whole human’, which he’s heard countless times before during your late night conversations), your whole entire world just peacefully asleep.

“i’m gonna eat her,” you mutter mindlessly. cuteness aggression, as people call it, really hits you full swing in moments like this.

shoto pulls back just slightly to look at you. “please don’t. i kind of like having a not-eaten daughter,” he says softly, yet so, so seriously, it’s comical.

you huff out an amused breath, looking up at him. you’re tempted to to correct him, tell him that you’re not actually serious, but you think that he knows as much, so you decide to play around a little more. “fine. i’m eating you, then,” you turn your head back and lean in, gently biting his shoulder. he doesn’t flinch, just stares down at you with a glare that’s both incredulous yet also fond.

“what are you doing?”

“eating you, ‘cause you won’t let me eat her.”

“i don’t think that’s very wise.”

“shut up,” you bite him a little harder.

“okay.”

you pull away from his shoulder, sighing as he won’t let you win. instead, you both just look below you at your baby girl. his arm goes to wrap around your waist, gently reeling you in closer to him without any further words spoken.

your daughter stirs just slightly, her face contorting into a tiny frown before relaxing. you smile, looking up at shoto, who kisses your head.

you don’t think anything could be better than this.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

Knights: COME ON MEN, the Princess must be up ahead!

Stan: *makes a dramatic entrance by slowly turning around in a chair with a goat on his lap that he’s stroking. He claps slowly*

Stan: *has an eye patch and a wicked grin on his face*

Naive Knight: You good sir! Do you know where the Princess is? Me and my men, have come to rescue her and have come to ask her hand in marriage.

Stan: *Does evil cackle* But you see, dear knights you are too late, because your dear princess is dead. I have killed him, for my name is—

Dragon Ford: *yawns and has come out to drag Stanley away for cuddles*

Stan: Dude, I’m trying to do a evil speech here!

Dragon Ford: *snorts in amusement*

Stan: Don’t judge me! It’s not like I have any other entertainment around here.

Dragon Ford: *nudges Stan towards a stack of books*

Stan: I’ve read those already! I’ve practically read every book in this castle I’m that bored.

Dragon Ford: *shrugs in a way to say, that sounds like a you problem. And proceeds to go terrorize the knights*

Stan: *shakes his fist at the dragon* BOOOOOO! You’re no fun! You party pooper!

Dragon Ford: *turns around to lick Stan*

Stan: *shows Ford the bird, but conveniently, an actual bird comes and censors it from audience view point*

Once the terror of being kidnapped by a dragon wears off, Stan finds that its actually really boring, being locked up in a castle with all this gold and nobody but maniacs to bother. He doesn't want to bother maniacs! He want to bother regular people!

Stan: look at me, I'm falling so low as to read. That's how bored I am. If you were really my brother, youd know that this is basically a form of torture.

Ford rolls his eyes.

Stan: Don't roll your eyes! I saw that! Let me mess with the knights! Its the only form of entertainment around here! I'm wasting away! I need to mock people or I'll die!

Fiddleford: you could always-

Stan: im not doing weird magic things with you. Or anyone here. I like not messing around with things and being a human person. I don't want to risk turning into a 'robot' or whatever it is you are.

Fiddleford: you can't accidentally turn into a robot. That's not how it works.

Stan: uhuh, I don't trust a single word from your metal mouth, metal monster man. You're still trying to convince me that thing is Ford.

Fiddleford: because it is!!!

Stan rolls his eyes and proceeds to plan his next knight bothering scheme, ignoring the dragon hovering over his shoulder.

[brotherwtf]

fantasy au with succubus/incubus gale secuding human bucky

fucking love this idea and I'm actually gonna throw it into canon bcs I have a really really good hc for this

when John's plane goes down, he doesn't land in a field but instead in the woods in Berlin, parachute catching on the branches and sending him careening into the ground, head spinning as he tries to get up and gather his parachute, but he ends up passing out on the ground before he can gather his wits

he wakes to the sound of branches rustling, instinctually reaching for his gun and pointing it at the sound from where he lies on the forest floor, hand shaking as his unfocused eyes try to find what had made the noise

there's a figure in the distance, half obscured by the large trunk of a tree and John clicks the safety of his gun and points it at the figure, not saying a word in case it doesn't see him

it creeps forward, inching ever closer to John and into the light, and John has his finger poised on the trigger to shoot when the figure fully steps into the clearing

it's Gale, immaculate as ever in his dress greens and perfectly quaffed hair, youthful eyes and perfect skin, petal lips wrapped delicately around a toothpick, feet crunching the branches as he walks closer to John on the ground

John can't find any words, all of them lodged in his throat as he sees Gale, Gale walking towards him good as new, like he hadn't been shot down at all

"Buck, what happened?" John asks, voice croaked and head pounding as he tries to speak

Gale just shakes his head, mouth pulling into that small smile he always reserved for John, stopping in front of him with perfectly polished boots and the perfect cloying scent of his aftershave. He doesn't say a word as his delicate fingers start to unbutton the brass buttons of his uniform jacket, doesn't say anything as he shirks it to the ground, eyes watching John's like a hawks as he sits up on his knees, watching Gale take off his uniform.

He doesn't know why he can't look away, his eyes trained on every one of Gale's movements as he starts working on his shirt now, slowly, ever so slowly undoing the buttons and revealing pale, almost milky skin underneath. John's breath is rapid, his head pounding as Gale shrugs the shirt off, letting it fall to the ground like a billowing parachute.

John's mouth is dry, his hands moving on their own accord as he reaches upwards for Gale's waist, fingers burning when he touches the heat of Gale's skin. Gale makes a noise, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, and blood roars in John's ears. His hands creep until his fingers are splayed across Gale's lower back, pressing the heat of him until John's lips are pressed to his stomach.

It tastes like a drink of cool water after months of dehydration, like warm soup touching your tongue after years of hunger, John can't get enough of the taste of Gale. Gale takes John's hair and pushes him away, a small and pathetic sound leaving John's lips as he's pushed to the ground, but it's almost worth it when he sees Gale between his legs, muscles flexing as he crawls up to John's waist, those same fingers undoing John's flight suit, breath hot on John's stiff cock.

John doesn't remember getting so hard, but he can't bring himself to care when Gale's perfect lips wrap around the head of him, dipping his tongue into the slit all while looking up at him through perfect blond eyelashes. John doesn't remember Gale being so perfect like this, or maybe he was and John was just a fool not to notice.

When Gale takes John's entire length down his throat he can't help but throw his head back at the sensation, burning with pleasure as Gale bobs his head up and down, bright blue eyes locked in on John's when he lifts his head up again.

"Fuck, Gale, God I missed you so much, fuck... what happened to you?" John says, words hitching up on a moan when Gale takes all of him down his throat again.

Gale doesn't say a word, just moans and shakes his head around John's cock, closing his eyes so John can see the perfect fan of his eyelashes across his cheek.

It almost burns when John comes, hands gripping the ground to try and get some purchase while Gale holds his hips down, come and spit gathering at the corners of his mouth as he tries to take all of it down his throat. Gale chuckles and swallows it all, sticking his tongue out between his teeth as if he were showing John he had swallowed it all. John reaches a shaky hand up and cups Gale's cheek, running his fingers through that golden blonde hair of his and sighing. Gale leans into the touch, pleased with a slight flush over his cheeks.

"I'm okay, John. Don't worry," Gale whispers, voice hoarse from having John's cock down his throat.

John feels like he could cry. His throat burns, his eyes well up, and he lurches forward to take Gale in his arms.

"You have no idea how much I missed you. God I was so fucking worried about you, you couldn't have died, I knew you couldn't have," John chokes, tears clogging his eyes and his throat.

Gale's stiff against him, but he tentatively raises his arms up to wrap around John, slow and steady as he tucks his face into John's neck.

John doesn't remember passing out, but when he wakes up, Gale is no longer there, and he feels that empty dread all over again as he calls out for him.

[unsolicited-opinions]

Many have been talking about the way that much of the the Muslim community in Australia has sought to defend the behavior of two Muslim NSW Health nurses on Bankstown, deflect accountability, and excuse inexcusable ethical failings.

These images (from this article), for example, are all over Twitter:

Haviv Rettig Gur's words echo my own thoughts and fears, but I worry that he and I both may be falling into Islamophobia. Haviv writes:

What if there really is a problem in the Muslim world, a crisis of modernity, of equality and democracy, minorities hounded into nonexistence, systematic oppression of women, rampant antisemitism? And what if this deep crisis is being carried into the West by Muslim diasporas?

I mean...he's asking the same question I'm asking lately, but his phrasing feels awfully similar to Tucker Carlson's "just asking questions," doesn't it? That makes me feel uneasy. I admire Haviv's work. I think he's intellectually honest and genuinely insightful. I don't think he's motivated by bigotry and I don't think he hates Muslims, but this phrasing and framing leaves me feeling uncomfortable.

Hend Amry, a Libyan-American who currently lives in Qatar, responds to Haviv:

just asking questions while I wipe them out

Haviv:

I’m wiping out Islam? That’s your answer? I admire Islam, I first seriously encountered it via medieval Jewish philosophers. I know a bit about the vast diversity it contains. And now, knowing that, reread the tweet and answer the actual point.

Hend Amry:

“What if there really is a problem in the Jewish world, a crisis of modernity, of equality and democracy, minorities hounded into nonexistence, systematic oppression of women, rampant Islamophobia? And what if this deep crisis is being carried into the West by Jewish diasporas?” We know what a Nazi sounds like, changing the subject doesn’t change it.

The false equivalence and Holocaust inversion lost her this argument.

Haviv Rettig Gur:

How dull and racist. Yes, let’s compare Muslims to Jews on this point. The greatest fights among Jews today are about Jewish mistakes and misdeeds. Jewish forums have been intensely debating Gaza for 17 months. How many Muslim forums and institutions have debated Muslim violence? Meanwhile, Jews everywhere are constantly told, often by Muslims, that they must distance themselves from other Jews or be deemed complicit. Jews everywhere have become legitimate targets for harassment on this point. Muslims are not similarly required to fret about the crimes happening within and in the name of their religion. (Many do, but they’re a small minority.) And to ask of them to criticize or distance themselves is deemed racist by the likes of Hend. This started as a comment on those murder-encouraging Australian nurses. What do we think? Did their own community respond as the Australian Jewish community would have responded in their shoes?

Haviv has what I think is a legitimate point, but perhaps he has missed the fact that some Muslim groups in Australia did respond with firm condemnation:

From SBS:

The Ahmadiyya Muslim Community Perth said the nurses' comments "not only violate the sanctity of human life, but also fundamentally contradict the teachings". [Full statement here] Imam Syed Wadood Janud of Perth's Nasir Mosque said the comments were "factually contradictory to what Islam teaches about the afterlife". "Islam teaches respect, compassion, and justice for all humanity, and such vile remarks have no place in our faith," he said in a statement. In the same statement, Ata Ul Hadi, a senior resident doctor at Armadale Health Service, said he was shocked that healthcare professionals could hold "such insensitive ideas about human life". "As a Muslim, I have a deep regard for the struggles, pains, and vulnerabilities of my patients. I strive every day to go above and beyond to ease their suffering," he said. "How anyone in the health sector could see their duty any differently is incomprehensible." The statement reiterated Islam is a religion of "peace, compassion and respect for all humanity", and said the community stands against hatred, bigotry and discrimination. Imam Kamran Tahir of Adelaide's largest mosque, Mahmood Mosque, was also critical. "The comments made by the nurses are completely against the teachings of Islam. Service to mankind is the essence of Islam," he said. "The fundamental qualities that we must all acquire to serve mankind are love for humanity and kindness in our hearts for others." ...

A joint statement by 24 Hazara [Afghan ethnic group] community organisations said the alleged threats against patients were "abhorrent" and that all individuals "deserve compassionate and equitable treatment" from healthcare providers. "These comments are deeply disturbing and fly in the face of everything we stand for as a community," the organisations said in a statement. "We believe in the inherent dignity and worth of every human being, regardless of their ethnicity or religion." The statement also said Hazara organisations were "particularly saddened" to learn that one of the nurses, Ahmad Rashad Nadir, had come to Australia from Afghanistan. It said that individual's comments "do not reflect the values of diaspora communities from Afghanistan." "Our community has always valued inclusivity and understanding," a spokesperson said. "This incident does not represent who we are."

Haviv is correct that if the roles were reversed, the international Jewish community would be nearly monolithic in its fierce condemnation of any Jewish clinicians who threatened patients based on religion, national origin, or ethnicity.

The Muslim world, however, is not monolithic. As Haviv himself wrote: "I admire Islam, I first seriously encountered it via medieval Jewish philosophers. I know a bit about the vast diversity it contains."

Muslim groups which seek to excuse Ahmad Nadir and Sarah Abu Lebdeh, groups who suggest the international reaction of revulsion to their behavior is inappropriate or driven by Islamophobia should be cordially invited to perform anatomically impossible feats of self-buggery - but that's not who all Australian Muslims are and it seems to me that we'd do well to support and amplify the Muslim voices who so clearly, without reservation, condemn their co-religionists' disgusting behavior.

These Muslim communities should not just be embraced as allies of Australia's Jews, but of all people everywhere who treasure liberal values and secular pluralism.

[ceramicbeetle]

i kind of hate to say it because i feel like i'll get pushback for it,,, but i kind of feel like if you're going to be making informational posts about autism online you do need to be reading actual autism research and literature. at least some of the times. like you can't just make things up and then present them as fact.

[sortanonymous]

On the last (two) Meta Knightmare(s)...

Before settling down for the night to look for Susie's crazy cousins, a number of Allies recounted their backstories, including Adeleine. Her big bro must be so proud of her!

(Again, credit for both this art and Noir himself goes to @desultory-novice)

Then the next day, Pikiria was flying through space to locate the Mages, with her father anxiously keeping track of her. Even as she selflessly pushes her luck by flying into Gabbel's thunderous atmosphere, it can't get that bad, right?

Chapters 14 and 15 of MKMIV: The Unforgettable Star-Studded Finale out now on AO3!

[giantkillerjack]

Hey, I know we're all having fun here with Bishagate 2.0, but this is your reminder that Misha Collins is not a fictional character and so trying to dissect why actually he's secretly lying about being straight is, in fact,

🎉Really Uncool.🎉

The whole point of this whole thing with WB telling him to pretend to be bi is how laughably obvious it is that people inherently deserve control over how they present their sexuality.

It isn't cool to do if he is straight, and it is especially not cool if he IS queer. As in, not only is it not your business, but if you want to expose people as queer without their input or consent, I struggle to see how that is - in practice - actually different from when homophobes want to do that.

Like, if he's straight, fine! And if he's in the closet, THAT IS ALSO HIS CHOICE AND YOU GET ZERO SAY ON THE MATTER.

Save your analysis for fictional characters, please, I am begging you.

And before you flame me, prepz, at least read the original tags.

[leyiorr]

i can't stop looking at her t-t-t-t, FACE!

mdni.

satoru gojo is doomed.

why is he doomed, you ask? well, put bluntly, you, his girlfriend of five months, are driving him absolutely crazy.

crazy is an understatement, actually. insane, mad, mental, unhinged, deranged, bonkers - whatever you want to call it. he's holding on by a thread; the thinly woven string known as sanity growing ever weaker as the days roll by and turn into weeks.

of course, he's only blaming you. you hadn't actually done anything wrong.

you're the first relationship satoru's had in his life, and he'd be damned if some inappropriate thoughts ruin his chances with the love of his life. he'd never been happier - dating you gave him the kind of happiness he thought only existed in movies; the kind of giddiness of a child in a candy store.

he was devoted to you in every way, shape and form - you are everything he's dreamed of and more.

more.

that's right, you were more.

recently, you were the devil's temptation personified.

surprisingly, even after twenty-odd years of being one of the most attractive guys around, and having women throw themselves at him like he's some kind of greek deity, satoru is a virgin. i'll repeat that, he is a virgin. a fact that only suguru knows. a fact that he's neglected to tell his girlfriend.

he may have a flirtatious personality and the ability to charm ninety percent of the human race with one of his thousand-kilowatt smiles, but in truth, he had never dated anyone. ever. let alone got his dick in a pussy.

so when he starts wanting to go further, he's not sure how to bring it up without sounding like a horndog.

it all started when you wore a sleek black dress to one of your dates. it clung to your figure, fabric wrapping shamelessly around your every curve and tickling your midthigh at its end. and if that wasn't bad enough, it had a plunging neckline, giving the world - satoru specifically - an eyeful of the assets god gifted you with. your boobs were practically spilling out of your dress, the light catching your cleavage as you held his arm. he could feel himself salivating like some sort of perv. how was he supposed to focus with aphrodite's personal creation hanging off his arm?

his eyes began to drift to the flesh of your chest more than he'd like to admit. all sorts of r-rated scenarios ran through his head and he dared to entertain every. single. one. he could do so much with them, tease them, spit on them, pinch them, suck on them, put his dick between them-

“satoru?”

his gaze snaps back to your face at record speed. you notice how he's chewing his bottom lip, flush creeping onto his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. his hands are clammy; there's suddenly too little oxygen in his room.

“did you listen to anything i said?” your arms fold beneath your bosom and satoru almost implodes.

what do you expect him to do? the necklace around your neck has his initial on it, and it hovers over your tits almost mockingly. if it snapped, the letter would fall right between the valley of your breasts-

“satoru!”

he's choking on his saliva, apologizing profusely as he encourages you to continue your story - though he hasn't heard shit over the blood pumping loudly in his ears.

it's a battle no, a war between his rationality and his desires and he doesn't know which is winning. his rationality wins when he's around you - he just sucks in a breath and thugs it out, no matter how much his dick shouts at him. but in private, he's letting the desires win as his fists himself to the thought of you, your lips, your ass; your boobs.

the first time he sees you in a bikini he has to take a breather before he can get into a game of beach volleyball with you and the group.

(and even then he was struggling. every time you jumped for the ball the only thing he was looking at was your tits.)

he should be neutered. effective immediately.

it drags out for so long that you finally notice, and force him to talk to you about why he's avoiding you, and if you'd done anything wrong. but all you get is:

“baby, i'm so sorry- you're so pretty and i can't help myself. i didn't know how to bring up that i wanted to take our relationship to the next step, you mean the world to me and i'd hate to make you uncomfortable-” he trips and stumbles over his words-

“...is that it?”

and his eyes bug out of his head as he stares at you. weeks, months of agony over this and all you have to say is 'is that it'?

he doesn't even have chance to respond; to process your words before you're popping the top button of your blouse.

yeah, satoru gojo is doomed.

[simonbrain]

it doesn't matter how quietly you attempt to get off at night; your lieutenant is always listening, always grumpy about the pretty sounds disturbing his slumber.

you were embarrassed when he brought it up to you (keep it down, can't fuckin' sleep with oll tha' racket), so you opted to not use your vibrator the next night, instead using your fingers like some lady from the 1800's. it wasn't as efficient, but it did the job, and you were knocked out after a few orgasms.

you think you're doing good, as he doesn't confront you about your nightly activities for a few days after that. not until one morning when he pulls you over to an obscured area outside, not paying any mind to your stumbling and hissing.

even with the mask on, you can tell he's scowling. "how many times do i 'ave to tell you to keep it down?" he grumbles, peering down at you through golden eyelashes. his head tilts as he speaks, and you have to force yourself to not squeeze your thighs together in front of your superior officer. "i can hear tha' wet cunt through the walls every night—are you tha' thirsty for it, pet?" a finger clips onto your belt loop, and you're being tugged closer, a chuckle rumbling from him when he takes notice of how flustered you're getting.

you've never wanted to explode into tiny pieces more in your life than this moment. your cheeks feel hot, and you can only stare up at him and watch as his gaze roams down your body. heated. predatory.

"i— i don't want—" you try to deny what you know is inevitable because ghost always gets his way, but it's thrilling to watch how he pushes his body against yours, the smell of him overpowering your rational thoughts. he only peels the mask high enough to free his mouth before he's shoving his tongue down your throat, a gloved hand finding its way to the front of your pants.

that night, when you crawl into bed with a fully charged vibrator, warmth already swirling in your belly, you think about how ghost's hands felt on your body. how he so meanly nudged the fat head of his cock in until he was fully sheathed, stretching you so thin you swear he was going to split you apart.

("there we go," he coos—or rather snarls at you, thick fingers filling up your mouth because you were whining too loud for his liking. "knew you wanted this fuckin' cunt stuffed full o'me," he groans while pawing at your chest, harsh pants hitting your ear. "tha's why you're so loud, innit? nasty fuckin' thing.")

how he kissed you like he was trying to consume you, licking into your mouth with such fervour, you were surprised he hadn't already burst into flames. he resembles a brick more than an actual human sometimes, but patience has always been his strongest quality.

you really shouldn't be surprised when ghost pours into your room while you're making yourself dizzy with thoughts of him, your brain liquifying on the pillow from the constant delicious vibrations against your throbbing clit. the sound of the door being kicked shut behind him startles you as he stalks over to your bed.

"i'm starting to think you like pissing me off." he growls softly, the bed squeaking underneath his weight. the vibrator is still buzzing against you, and you swallow when his eyes drop down to the soft, wet mess between your legs. "get on your fuckin' knees, girl."

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Danny the Guy Who Won't Die

He lives in Gotham, and he is just A Guy. Nothing weird about him, he's just there to study/work/help Lady Gotham to lift her curse/on vacation with Sam. Point is, he is not there to cause trouble and there's no GIW on his tail. Just a dude living his (after)life.

And Gotham, being Gotham, still finds a way to be annoying. There are mugging attempts, robbery, Rogues running around. Only Danny really doesn't want to deal with any of it.

Now there's a dilemma. If he uses his powers to fight, it will sooner or later come to Bats' attention. And if he fights as a human, it will also alert some of the Bats since he doesn't really do a great job at keeping his power levels low. Not to mention the fact he is really not enthusiastic about accidentally punching someone hard enough he sends them to a hospital.

What does he do instead? He pulls the 'I guess I'll die' act.

So every time he is attacked, he just plays dead. The mugger shot him in the chest? He falls down and stops breathing. Caught up in the middle of a Poison Ivy attack? Skewers himself on the vine and goes lax. Scarecrow's Fear Gas? Very dramatically chokes himself and plays a corpse. He makes sure to disappear before any ambulances arrive later, and it all goes well for a few months - he is just a casualty, who cares, really - until one day, he runs into that same mugger who shot him in the chest a while ago.

The man does a double take. Danny doesn't notice - he's been mugged so many times, who has the brain capacity to remember all of those fuckers. But the rumor goes out anyway.

A guy-who-won't-die. It's more of a city legend, really, and the Bats don't give it much thought since, well, it sounds stupid and not very important. A rumor of some man who was shot dead and then showed up like nothing happened? Yeah, it's probably because the mugger didn't check if he was actually dead. That happens. Maybe it wasn't even the same man, Gotham is a big city. If anything, hey, at least that was one less casualty? That's a good thing.

That is, until one day, they show up to Joker's hostage situation and witness the clown screaming at one of the hostages. He is so enraged he is shaking, spit flying out of his mouth, and, contrary to the usual Joker's evil sneers and maniacal laughter, he seems just... furious. But, like, the normal-human-level furious. The 'I just lost the last ounce of patience with you' furious.

"Don't you look away from me, you think I don't remember you?! Na-ah, I do. You were the one I drowned in the shark tank last week! And you were the one run through the chainsaw trap two weeks before that! And you were in the guillotine!!! I saw your fucking head get deattached from your body, how the fuck are you here again?!"

And the guy he is screaming at just looks at him, confused and incomprehensive.

"Um, I'm pretty sure I'd remember getting my head cut off, you know? So, err, wrong guy."

"Wrong guy my fucking ass-"

Joker is so distracted by his screaming match that it makes it almost too easy for the Bats to fight him down and drag to Arkham. Yet, a few of them get just a bit suspicious.

Now, imagine all the shenanigans when they try keeping a watch on Danny the Won't Die Guy.

[dontmixpaintinyourcoffee]

This one goes out to all the bitches who love some good Safehouse Era Horror. It's me, I'm bitches. I want Jon and Martin to be fucked up and eldritch but I want them to be fucked up and eldritch and loved

(Notes under the cut because I can't help myself. Heads up, I do go into some detail of how Jon gets injured so I can explain my thought process for how I designed his scars. All canon-typical and fairly clinical in tone.)

Here's how I picture Safehouse Jon!

He doesn't need glasses anymore by this point, so he should just be wearing empty frames, but I drew this before I settled on my glasses headcanons. This drawing looks better with the reflection anyways.

He hasn't gotten a haircut since before his promotion to Head Archivist. He doesn't love the weight of it on his neck, but he also uses it to fidget, and he really doesn't want to go through the whole process of cutting it. He's disliked haircuts since he was a kid (People: Bad. Small talk: Bad. Touching: Bad. Loud sounds: Bad. People talking all at once: Bad) and since his time with the Circus he's only grown more reluctant to go and get it done.

At this length his hair is naturally pretty curly but he is. Not taking care of it. I actually put a lot of effort into trying to make it look brittle and tangled (I have a lot of experience lol, my hair is quite thick and I've always hated taking care of it. Yes I am also projecting my feelings about going to a hairdressers onto him why do you ask.)

The various scars were a bit of a strange task, but anyone who has seen my takes on The Bad Kids knows I'm not averse to selective realism in my fiction. Easiest one was the neck, I always pictured Daisy making a vertical cut based on "through the voice box". The larynx is longer than it is wide, so I think Daisy would go for the method that dealt damage across the largest total surface area. Yes I am aware that I'm speaking the same way Martin does when he explains his corkscrew.

The worm scars were easy because I barely drew any. There are a few marks on his cheek, but they're just surface bites. I picture most of his encounter with Prentiss showing on his legs, particularly on the right side, with enough damage there that he starts using a cane after the incident to keep weight off his right leg. More research to be done on this particular detail.

Finally the burn on his hand from Jude. This was the weirdest one to figure out just because of the nature of the injury. How do you quantify the damage done to an epidermis by a living manifestation of sometimes-boiling wax that can heat and cool at will? I settled on it being a second-degree burn that healed supernaturally fast, containing the damage to the space Jude had direct contact with. He'd probably have some mobility issues there as well. I know there are ways to help with mobility and pain after a severe burn, but I don't know how much of it Jon would actually. Do. Like I said, definitely further research to be done on these last two.

Hey so I'm gonna ask you to stop and consider the horror of the watcher. The helplessness. The guilt. The inherent terror of being a spectator, a participant by proximity but not by action. The horror of not being able to look away, of being a bystander. Jon forgets to blink sometimes. But wouldn't it be so much worse if there were no eyelids at all? That's how I interpret the description of The Archivist being "All Eyes" :D

I love a good Many-Eyed Jon, so I whipped up my own interpretation here. I think the more he Becomes the more he starts to resemble the thing from the dreams. He has a lot more control of it in S5, but it still creeps up on him and he has to consciously go back to a human shape.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

I imagine that Sea Grunk Ford snaps out of his panic attack when Cat Verse Stan lays in his lap and starts purring, but stays jittery. And argues with CV Stan, who's still a cat. SG Ford knows his brother's different tones, CV Stan is like a younger relative, and SG Ford is less likely to handle situations like a wet cat.

CV Stan is just glad that they're so high up on the tree - nope, not thinking about the height! - that nobody on the forest floor can hear this bizarre conversation.

SG Ford: I don't speak cat body language that well, but even I know I'm doing something wrong.

CV Stan: *lying* What, it's only petting! Come on, continue, I still can feel you shaking like a leaf.

SG Ford: *eyes narrowing dangerously* You're currently a cat, and you and my brother are different people. But I know how he sounds like when he tries to spare my feelings while he's being uncomfortable. You did the same when you tripped yesterday. You hurt your foot worse than you admitted to your brother.

CV Stan: *is about to rebutt with another vehement meow*

SG Ford: *raises eyebrows and lists more examples*

CV Stan: *now would be sweating bullets if he was human*

SG Ford: I won't tell you brother, I swear on it. But that's a conversation you still need to have with him.

CV Stan: *slumps in relief*

SG Ford: If I am to calm down, it'll happen faster when I know that you're comfortable. Or under much less strain, at the least. You're a person I care about - bup, bup, bup, I'm still a shit liar when it comes to interpersonal matters! You said it yourself!

And I'll start self-blaming and going tense again if I'm thinking I'm hurting you, and nobody wants that.

CV Stan: Yeah, no thanks. Recognizing my Ford in how you panicked was awful.

SG Ford: So. You're going to show me the correct way how to pet a cat - the cat being you -, and I'm going to do my best not to spiral again. Then we both can go down this tree. Does that work for you?

*offers two of his pinkies*

CV Stan: You're a damn menace. Blackmailing a younger version of your own brother with knowledge about yourself. I can see how you and Lee are twins.

But fine, let's do a damn pinkie promise. *baps pinkies with his paw*

SG Ford: Thank you. No really, thank you for this. *face softens and he smiles, palm hovering* Now, would you start your showcase?

CV Stan refuses to think about why he feels warm. Or feeling warmer when SG Ford does as he promised and follows his lead, making Stan go boneles as he quickly figures out the best spots on his cat body, while SG Ford finally relaxes against him.

(He's not going to think yet about how they're going to get down from the tree.)

All Fords love to argue with Stan regardless if they can understand him or not. And now sg Ford can finally pet cat Stan.

The hardest part of getting down is that cv Stan doesn't want to stand on sg Fords shoulders, because that's where he hangs out on cv Ford, and this already feels like he's betraying his Ford somehow by interacting with another Ford as a cat. For some reason.

But he also refuses to have sg Ford just hold him in his arm, because what if this old man drops him? Or if he loses his grip using just one hand? But sg Ford also doesn't have custom cat pockets.

He's trying to meow all his concerns to sg Ford and wiggling, but sg Ford still doesn't understand cat, so eventually he just pins cv Stan under an arm and slides down the tree in some crazy movie action stunt that has cv Stan yowling convinced he's going to die for real this time.

When they reach the bottom, which takes like 3 seconds, his claws are digging into sg Fords coat and he's frozen in terror. It takes sg and cv Fords powers combined to actually pry him loose, and then he just digs down into cv Fords coat instead. See him climb a tree for a crazy old man again, it won't happen. That old man shaved years off his life!

But at least he's not a shaking leaf in a tree and sg Stan can finally comfort his bro.

[mariasont]

Early seasons Spencer’s gf joining the team and quickly realizing just how used to Spencer she is bc the rest of the team’s reactions to him are so different from hers

Cinnamon Sticks - S.R

a/n: obsessed with the idea of baby spencie having a gf who just gets him while he's still an awkward, nerdy little genius! thanks for requesting bestie so sorry it took so long i am the worst LOL

masterlist

pairings: early!seasons!spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: established relationship, secret relationship, relationship being exposed bc these two are just so in love

wc: 1.7k

Garcia burst into the bullpen like some sort of whirlwind that was painted in neon, her scarf fluttering behind her almost like a cape. She juggled a precariously full cup of coffee, while her phone teetered between ear and shoulder as if testing the limits of human dexterity.

"I swear to all that is holy, if my life doesn't slow down in the next five minutes--"

The sentence derailed as she misjudged her pace, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup. She stopped abruptly, her arms a flurry of motion, but not quick enough to stop the scalding liquid from spilling over and searing her fingers.

"Oh, fantastic! Just what I needed!" she huffed, waving her hand like it might stop the sting.

She threw herself into the closest chair with a huff, slumping back and fixing the coffee cup with a murderous glare, like this was just another tally in a long line of grievances.

Your eyes darted up from your work, only for a moment, enough to confirm what you already knew. You hadn't been working here long, but it was long enough to recognize the phenomenon that was Garcia: a blur of motion and words, mid-rant before anyone had the chance to catch up. It was like clockwork really.

You risked a glance across the desk at Spencer, who was so absorbed in his notebook it was a wonder he even remembered to breathe. If Garcia's antics registered as white noise to anyone, it was him. But then, almost like he had a radar for being watched, he looked up, catching your gaze.

His eyebrows lifted into a subtle what can you do? expression, and you couldn't help but smile back.

That was the thing about Spencer. He had this uncanny knack for knowing exactly what you were thinking, almost as if he had a cheat sheet for your brain. And maybe he did--like his brain worked three times faster than everyone else's in the room (which, let's face it, it definitely did). But instead of that being intimidating, it was oddly reassuring.

"At this rate, I'm one bad email away from alphabetizing my entire pantry for stress relief."

Spencer's notebook hit the desk, and there it was--the shift. His shoulders drew back, face lighting up--the kind of thing that signaled his mini-lecture was incoming.

"Organizing your pantry is actually a practical stress management technique. By categorizing items, you create a structured environment that reduces decision fatigue. Its why people feel calmer in tidy spaces, it's psychological."

Morgan held up a hand. "Psychological, huh? Sounds like you’re just trying to justify your weird love affair with labels, pretty boy.”

“Don’t forget,” you added absently, flipping a page in your report, “it also saves time when you’re cooking. I think you called it practical efficiency."

The words slipped out without much thought, but as soon as they did, the bullpen stilled. You glanced up, heart sinking as you saw every face turned in your direction.

Morgan’s grin was the first thing you notice--wide and knowing, stretching across his face. He tilted his head, eyes bouncing between you and Spencer like he was putting pieces together in real time.

“Wait a minute,” he said, sitting forward with a gleam in his eye. “Did you just quote him? Like, word for word?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “What? No. I mean—maybe. I don’t know.”

“Pretty sure you did,” Morgan shot back, smirking. “Man, what else has he been teaching you? You got the periodic table memorized too?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Oh, please. If you’ve been around Spencer long enough, you’re bound to pick up a few things. He’s like a walking encyclopedia.”

“Well,” Spencer said, his head tilting slightly as he spoke, “your cinnamon sticks always end up at the back of your pantry. That’s why I figured you might appreciate the idea of organizing by use frequency. Like I said, practical efficiency.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you knew he’d made a tactical error.

Garcia gasped, her eyes lighting up like she’d just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip of her life. 

“Oh. My. God. Spencer Reid, how exactly do you know what the back of her pantry looks like?”

You froze, rooted to the spot as the realization hit you like a cartoon anvil. This was bad.

Spencer’s expression mirrored yours for half a second—wide-eyed panic—but he quickly scrambled for an answer. 

“It’s, um… a logical assumption,” he stammered, his fingers toying with the pen in his hand, a nervous tell he couldn’t quite suppress. “Spices like cinnamon sticks always seem to migrate to the back of the pantry unless there’s an intentional system in place.”

Morgan let out a long, low whistle, rocking back in his chair with enough force to make it creak. His grin was insufferably smug, the kind that practically begged for something to be thrown at him. 

“Nice save. But I don’t think Garcia’s buying it.”

Garcia tapped her chin, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Oh, no, no, no. This is too good. I mean, logical assumption my fabulous behind! Cinnamon sticks in the back of her pantry? Really? What’s next? A detailed analysis of how she stacks her cereal boxes?”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a bark than anything natural. “You’re all reading way too much into this. Spencer just knows weirdly specific things about, well, everything. That’s kind of his thing, remember?”

“Mmhmm,” Garcia hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, genius, I’ll let it slide this time. But I’m watching you.”

“Please don’t,” Spencer muttered under his breath, earning a round of laughter from the team.

Garcia spent a solid ten minutes in full interrogation mode after that, her eyes narrowing with each and every pointed question she lobbed your way. Morgan, of course, was no help. He leaned back, grinning like a kid with a front-row seat to the circus, his smirk practically screaming that he knew they were this close to striking a nerve.

Spencer and you had been so careful. You'd been dating long before you joined the BAU, but the moment Hotch had called to offer you the position, you both knew you'd have to keep things under wraps. Dating a coworker was one thing; dating Spencer Reid, a genius with an accidentally too-honest mouth, was an entirely different challenge.

You hadn't expected it to be this hard, though. Keeping the secret wasn't the worst part--it was pretending he wasn't the center of your universe every time you walked into the room. It was keeping your hands to yourself when all you wanted to do was smooth out the messy strands of hair that always fell into his eyes. It was biting your tongue when someone interrupted his long-winded tangents because the truth was, you loved hearing him talk.

The hours stretched on, and the bullpen slowly thinned out. Garcia was the first to leave, blowing a kiss to the room. Morgan left soon after, pausing to flash you one last grin before disappearing. Even Prentiss packed up for the night, muttering something about needed an extra shot of espresso tomorrow morning.

"You handled that well."

You looked up from your report to find Spencer by your desk, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other skimming lightly along the edge of the divider. His expression was surprisingly soft, almost bashful, as though he had been waiting to get you alone.

"Handled that well?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You were the one who almost blew it, Spencer. Cinnamon sticks? Really?"

He smiled, lips twitching upward as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Okay, I'll admit that wasn't my most subtle moment. But in my defense, they do end up at the back of most pantries."

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair. 

"We're lucky Garcia got distracted. If she'd pushed any harder..." Your voice drifted into a soft sigh. "That could've been bad."

"That was a close one."

The quiet that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it felt a little more substantial, if that was the word, filled with that soft ache that always bloomed in your chest when he was near. 

Spencer stepped closer, his hand brushing against the edge of your desk. His body angled toward you, like even when you weren’t touching, he couldn’t help but gravitate toward you.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I don’t think she actually suspects anything. But we should probably be more careful.”

"Probably," you replied, drawing out the word in a teasing, sing-song tone. “Unless you’d rather keep showing off how ridiculously well you know me.”

His cheeks flushed a soft pink, but he didn’t look away. Instead, that shy, boyish smile—the one that always made you a little breathless—spread across his lips.

"That's going to be hard," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I noticed a lot about you."

The words hit you like they always did--soft enough, but with the force of a thousand butterflies taking flight in your chest. You could feel the flush creeping up to your neck, and you mentally cursed him for how easily he was able to do this to you.

"You're lucky I like you."

His smile widened, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in that way they only came out at specific moments. Like when he successfully performed a card trick for the team or when he stumbled across an original copy of a book at a library sale. 

The same one you'd seen when he talked about his mom on her good days, or when you asked him on a date. 

You leaned forward. "And since I like you, any chance you'd want to kiss me right now?"

"How could I not, with you looking at me like that?"

The angle was clumsy--your chair too low, his frame leaning awkwardly over--but all of that melted away the second his hands found your face. His thumbs brushed soft circles against the place where your cheek met your jaw.

His lips were soft against yours at first, testing, before growing firmer, more sure. The kind of confidence that came with a hundred familiar kisses before. 

Time seemed to slow, or at least for you it did, the rest of the world nonexistent.

The sound of a throat clearing broke the spell, and you jerked back from Spencer, your chair wobbling slightly as you turned toward the sound. You immediately regretted it--your lips felt swollen, your face hot, and there was Prentiss, leaning against the doorframe.

"We were... uh, testing something," you blurted, avidly avoiding eye contact. "You know, like... oxygen exchange! For scientific purposes."

Spencer blinked, then mumbled, "Oxygen exchange? That's the best you got?"

"Shut it," you hissed through gritted teeth, not daring to look at him.

Prentiss arched a brow. "Relax, lovebirds. If this is your idea of scientific research, I'll make sure Garcia doesn't find out. You're welcome."

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[searchingwardrobes]

I have been debating sharing this for some time, but with the new year weight loss ads amping up, I feel it's something I have to say. I'm worried for people's health.

Unless you've been living under a rock, you probably already know about people taking the diabetic drug ozempic for weight loss. You've probably heard the debates about the ethics of taking needed drugs away from diabetes patients and maybe even the side effect of "ozempic face." However, there is one side effect of taking these drugs that, in my opinion, people are not being warned about.

If you carefully pay attention to the television ads, you will hear them mention "pancreatitis" as a possible side effect. If you're like me a decade ago, that word probably means nothing to you. Let me warn you, however, it is no minor thing. My husband suffered from chronic pancreatitis for five agonizing years. The pain is beyond comprehension. Doctors who specialize in the pancreas describe it as the worst pain a human can endure. There is no actual cure. Little is understood about the disease, so treatment is difficult. Doctors who understand it are few and far between. It took my husband forever to get diagnosed. He went through multiple surgeries and procedures, but nothing worked. He had to go on an extremely limiting diet. If he varied from it in any way, he would have an attack. The only way to recover from an attack was to not eat at all for days, then slowly add in broth and jello. Did he lose weight? Yes. As a matter of fact, one day he stepped out of the shower, and I burst into tears at the sight of him. He was skin and bones - I could count every rib. Was it worth it to be thin? If you even ask that question, I'm concerned for your mental health.

They couldn't figure out exactly why my husband got pancreatitis. At that time, they thought only alcoholics and drug addicts got pancreatitis. This made it difficult to get compassionate medical care, unfortunately. Now they know that prescription medication (particularly diabetic medication) and high cholesterol can also cause it. Then there is another group - where they just don't know. But you better believe I would hesitate to take any medication that could cause pancreatitis. I would weigh my options carefully to assess if it was worth the risk. In my opinion, weight loss is not worth that risk.

My concern has been heightened seeing the Hers commercials for these drugs (under different names, but rest assured, it is the same thing). These commercials brag that you can get these drugs from Hers with just a simple virtual call, no questions asked. I wonder if people are fully aware of the risks of these drugs. I also wonder if we even know all of the risks yet. I also fear that the culture around these drugs could develop into an us vs. them mentality. That if it's so easy to be thin, why wouldn't you be? And some are getting dangerously thin on these drugs.

I know some diabetics who are on these drugs, and necessarily so. They tell me that it causes nausea when they eat. That's why they don't eat much. Again, that doesn't sound like a pleasant way to live. If you need it to regulate your blood sugar, that's one thing. But if you don't? Why would you do this to yourself?

My husband is now healed of pancreatitis. It was a miracle. You may not believe in that sort of thing, but I'm telling you, there is no other explanation. We had exhausted every medical solution, then the pandemic hit. We were concerned because hospitals were only taking life or death cases. What if he had a bad attack and needed an iv of pain meds? What would we do? Weeks passed - no pain. A month passed - no pain. Six weeks passed - no pain. He decided to grill a steak - something he hadn't been able to even take a nibble of in 5 years. I watched him take a bite, holding my breath. Nothing. He ate the whole thing. No pain. Five years later, still no pain. The doctors can't explain it, either.

So our story has a happy ending. Not everyone else's does. I hope people take the time to read this. If you do, please, please share it. I don't want anyone suffering needlessly.