#perpetual disappointment with this team

[reminiscingtonight]

Bench cam after conceding 2

Both of them are a mood

[6ebe]

going to be completely honest guys I’m starting to get stressed and anxious abt the euro final tomorrow

[importantstudentbusinessspy-blog]

Crushing On The Nerdy Guy At Work 2.0

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Tim Drake x Reader

Synopsis: You finally got your wish and spent the night with the adorably awkward tech genius. Too bad he thinks you used him and no longer trusts you because of it. Even worse, you two still work together.

Tags: NSFW, characters are in their twenties, coworkers to lovers, oposites attract, nerd/popular, she fell first, virgin hero, first time, one-sided pining (reader has a massive crush on Tim), Angst, betrayal, protective Tim, batfam, love confessions, drunk confessions,

TW: stalking (by an oc) - Tim handles it.

After clocking out, Tim met Jason at a bar. The two planned to grab dinner before patrol.

The place was loud, busy, and packed with people out for happy hour, but Tim wasn't worried, especially when the waitress placed his burger in front of him.

Munching on a fry, Jason leaned back against his booth and gave a soft whistle. "Damn, look at that one."

Tim glanced up and did a double take.

You sat with some of your coworkers at a booth nearby, engaged in an animated conversation.

Tim began to regret suggesting a place so close to work, but he was starving after having forgotten to eat lunch again, so he sent Jason the location without thinking twice.

The same outfit you wore to work - a preppy skirt, knee-high boots, and a white cardigan - made you look soft and feminine among the suits and jackets at the establishment. His eyes lingered on you as you were deep in conversation with Rose and another team member. The same two who were gossiping about yourself and Tim the other day when he found out you'd kissed him on a dare.

Perfectly manicured hands wrapped around a martini glass as you raised it to your red lips. You looked like you belonged on the cover of the fashion magazine. He's seen you read so often... "Vague" or something.

Rose clocked him first. She mouthed something to you that made you pause. Then you turned and locked eyes with him across the room.

Tim tore his gaze away. "She’s my coworker." he told Jason

Jason smirked, popping another french fry into his mouth. "Your coworker just looked at you like you were dessert."

"No she didn't-"

You cleared your throat behind him, making both of the men turn around to face you. At some point, you had made your way over to the booth.

The man sitting next to Tim leaned back in his seat, watching you with amusement.

Ignoring him, you spoke. "Hey, Tim…"

"Hey," Tim gave you a tight-lipped smile, before gesturing to his companion. "Um, this is my brother, Jason. Jason, Y/N."

"Hey, Y/N…" Jason gave you a long once-over. You would have noticed if you weren’t so laser-focused on your co-worker.

"Hi," you waved to Jason mindlessly, still looking at Tim. "So…" Trying to look nonchalant, you flipped your hair in a signature move that usually garnered you mouthwatering looks. "How was your day?"

Damn it! What was it about him that made you act so... childish?

Tim's answer was stiff, guarded. "Busy."

You hated that he still thought you’d betrayed him. It wasn't fair, and he didn't even give you the chance to explain how you truly felt! You fidgeted with the hem of your skirt. "Do you… maybe want to get coffee sometime?"

Rose and Violet, who have slowly made their way over to you with their belongings in hand, were now giving you funny sideways glances.

Oh, please, you thought, like they’ve never been down bad before.

Tim’s perpetually analytical blue eyes studied yours behind smudged lenses of his glasses. "My schedule’s tight."

Wow. He really didn't wanna talk to you.

Disappointed, you huffedan half-hearted, "Forget it." Before retreating.

Behind you, Rose not-so-subtly slipped Jason a note, mouthing the words "Call me" before turning to Tim. "Genius boy, I don't know what you're going through but hurry up and snap out of it. Steven, from Legal, asked her out today." Her tone was at the same time playful yet serious. Without further information, she turned and followed you out.

After you girls left, Jason turned to his little brother, grinning. "You’re the dumbest man I’ve ever met."

Tim scowled through a mouthful of burger. He muffled out a, "What?"

Jason gestured toward your retreating figure. "She’s a goddamn ten, Timmy, foaming at the mouth through her chanel lipstick for you."

Tim didn't want to correct his brother that the lipstic he's usually seen you wear was called "Dior." Instead, he said, "You don’t know what your-"

"Timmy," Jason shook his head. "She was practically kneeling at your feet ready to give you head right here and now-"

"Jason!" Tim looked around nervously, hoping no one heard his brother. "She only kissed me because of a dare."

Jason’s eyebrows shot up. "Wait, shit. I didn't know that! So you got moves!" He clapped Tim on the shoulder.

"I dont 'got anything'". Tim shrugged, not feeling nearly as smug as someone in his position typically would. "But, we… yeah. I dont know."

"Oh, scored?"

"Jay-" Tim rubbed the bridge of his nose. Sometimes, his brother could be so vulgar.

Jason immediately smacked Tim upside the head. "So?"

Tim glared, rubbing his temple. "So nothing! It wasn’t real. I told you, it was just a dumb game for her.”

"Oh god, this is so fucking high school." Jason snorted. “Let me get this straight. She was dared to kiss you. Not to spend the night, right?"

"... as far as we know."

"Not to look at you like you the way she just did. Like you hung the fucking moon, right?"

Tim swallowed hard, taking another bite of his burger. "I... I guess."

Jason shook his head, bringing his beer to his lips. "You're so stupid..."

As he went on, Tim considered the facts.

It had only been a few days since he learned about the dare that led to your night together. It was easier to be mad at you, but really, he was mad at himself.

You were gorgeous, constantly surrounded by friends and admirers, while he was a loner. A nerd who preferred the company of gadgets and puzzles to that of real people (save for his family).

The nerd only got the prom queen in movies. Tim hated that he had let himself be fooled. He had just been a joke to you. That was it.

Damian’s fist collided with his face before Tim had the chance to react. The punch was sharp, sending the third Robin reeling back before he regained his balance. "Ow!"

"Oh, I’m sorry," his younger brother drawled, feigning concern. "I was under the impression we were sparring."

Tim wiped at the blood seeping from his lip. "We are, brat."

"One of us is," Damian muttered. "Stand ready, Drake."

"Can’t. I have to be at the office in ten minutes," Tim grumbled, stepping off the mat and wiping his sweat off with his shirt. In the window his saw his reflection. He needed to stop forgetting his meals. His stomach was beginning to look flat, save for muscle - it didn't look healthy. Then his eyes landed on his reflections mouth, stained in blood. "And now I have a flashy new injury to explain to everyone who asks."

"Next time, dodge." Damian shrugged, not hiding his amusement. "And I saw your calendar. You don’t start work until nine today."

Tim raised a brow. "...Did you hack my phone?"

"I’ve been practicing. Your lessons paid off." Damian looked proud of himself, tilting his head. "Speaking of, manicure at seven-thirty today? Really?"

Tim didn’t even blink. "Did you see that I’m also taking part in a pie-eating competition this Sunday?"

"Oh yeah." Damian snickered. Still not catching onto what Tim was hinting at.

"Hm, what about my Wonder Woman fanfic collection?" Tim trued again, leading him on.

"Hey, everyone’s into something." Damian shrugged. "At least it’s not some weird shit."

"You're a little slow today, kiddo." Tim tapped his head with his index finger, grinning. "That’s not my account you hacked."

Damian’s smirk faltered. "...What?"

Growing up with Batman, Tim had taken precautions long ago to redirect any hacking attempts to lead to the account of another Timothy Drake - a forty-year-old, blue collar father of two from Middletown, Ohio. No one in his family knew anything about his personal life - except Alfred. He trusted that man with everything.

"Anyway, I gotta go." Tim patted Damian’s shoulder. "Enjoy stalking a middle-aged man from Ohio."

"Damn it, Drake!" Damian growled. "Thats disgusting!"

"Hey, everyone’s into something." Tim echoed his brother’s earlier words before shutting the door behind him.

"No." Tim’s response was clipped as his leg began its usual anxious bounce. The the untied lace of his sneakers brushed against the floor of Commissioner Gordon’s office.

"Funny," Jim Gordon chuckled behind his coffee mug. "You seem to think that was a question. Let me make myself clear - it wasn’t. This is the bust of the decade! You’re doing the damn press conference."

"Commissioner - " Tim ran his hands through his hair, already feeling his nerves spike. "You don’t want - "

"What happened to your lip?" Gordon interrupted eyeing the fresh cut.

Tim self-consciously ran his finger over the cut from Damian. "I fell."

"Again?"

Tim wasn’t stupid. He was top of his class in the academy, and Gordon knew perfectly well he was capable of defending himself. Right now, Gordon was trying to change the subject. "Sir, you really don’t want me babbling into a mic in front of a crowd of journalists."

"Theres nothing i want more." Gordon smirked. "I find the idea to be well-deserved. You solved the riddle, son, you caught the Phantom. Gotham deserves to know who saved her. Better iron out that shirt and get a clean shave, because you’re going to be on camera tomorrow."

"But-" Tim swallowed, getting his points in order. "What if I mess up and disclose something I shouldn’t - confidential information!"

"That’s why we have a PR associate," Gordon said, raising a brow. "In fact, she should be waiting for you in the conference room right about now."

Oh no. As if he hadn’t been humiliated enough lately. Now you were going to watch him sweat through his clothes and trip over himself during press conferences? "I have my daily scrum in ten minutes." Was his final attempt.

"You’re excused." Gordon took another sip of his coffee. "Your scrum was with me anyway. And I already know your schedule."

Tim was out of arguments. "Yes, sir."

On the way to the conference room, he was stopped by Stanley, the department’s IT manager.

"Drake, can I borrow you for on-call?"

“Sorry, Stan, now’s a bad time.” Tim brushed past him, then paused. "And once again, I’m not IT."

"I know!" Stanley groaned. “But we’re swamped with tickets, and you’re the best with computers! Steven from Legal just downloaded a virus - it’s probably a quick fix."

Tim rolled his eyes. If he had a dime…

"Look," he began. "I have a meeting in five-"

Then he saw it. Tim narrowed his eyes to look over Stan's shoulder.

Steven from Legal was leaning against the wall of your cubicle, making major googly eyes at you.

You sat there, effortlessly put together as always. Plaid skirt hugging your waist, crisp white blouse tucked in neatly beneath a fitted blazer, knee-high boots that made your legs look unfairly long. And a damn bow in your hair. Delicate. Feminine. Perfect. Tim hated how it made his stomach twist.

Steven from legal reached up to tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear and you flinched at the sudden movement.

Tim clenched his teeth. He didn't like this. The young detective cleared his throat. "Yeah, I’ll help Steve."

Stan grinned. "Oh, thank you, man! You’re a godsend-"

Tim was already walking past him.

After begrudgingly fixing Steven from legal's computer, Tim arrived at his first media training session, dreading being on camera.

You entered a minute after he did, balancing your laptop in one hand and a coffee in the other.

"Good morning," you greeted in an unsure tone as you took your seat across from him.

Tim pushed up his glasses and folded his arms. "Morning."

You slid a neatly organized, color-coded packet across the table. "I prepared a media package for you over the weekend. It was approved by the Commissioner. It includes a script that should make it easy for you to answer most questions."

Tim skimmed through the pages, raising a brow at how meticulous it was. He thrived in chaos while you, he learned, thrived in order. A smirk threatened to break out when he saw you align your pen to your notebook. The smirk faltered when a thought came to mind. "Was the press conference your idea?"

"...what?" You blinked.

"The press conference." Tim gestured around the two of you. "Was this your way of getting me alone so that we could talk?"

Your expression changed into that of disbelief. You felt your teeth clench and nostrils flare as you huffed. "Press conferences are a routine procedure after any worthy development occurs in any government sector. No, I did not orchestrate a media frenzy to trap you into spending time with me, Tim. Were both doing our jobs."

Swallowing. Tim cast his gaze down, feeling like a bad student in trouble with a teacher. "Youre right. I'm sorry."

"Its fine." Luckily, you dropped the subject. "In the next few hours, we’ll go over wardrobe and behavior," you continued. "Keep your answers short and to the point. No rambling."

Tim scoffed. "I don’t ramble."

You arched a perfectly styled brow.

His jaw tightened. "…Fine."

He was in your world now. Public speaking was hard. Terrifying. But you had good tips and feedback, and he found himself growing less and less nervous with each question he practiced, having memorized your script helped out tremendously.

And you were all business - professional, not flirty like he was used to. It threw him off at first, but even through his bitterness, he found himself impressed.

You also kept to a strict schedule, so the days you two spent leading up to the conference you ate together - which resulted in him never skipping meals. He liked what he saw in the mirror. He was still lean and on the thinner side, but he'd bulked up a bit.

You, meanwhile, tried to stay professional, but Tim was making it hard.

His sleeves were always rolled up just enough to show the lean muscle of his forearms, veins visible when he typed, wrote, or did something with his hands. His posture had changed too - broader, more confident because of your lessons, less of the lanky boy you remembered.

He was still always adjusting his glasses - pushing them up his nose with his index finger - and you were way too aware of how that same finger gripped your wrists only a week ago. When he looked at you, even briefly mid-conversation, those gorgeous ocean eyes felt like a magnifying glass boring into your soul.

You cleared your throat. "Tim, remember to keep your hands still when speaking-"

"Yeah. Got it."

Short, clipped. But his voice was deep. He was just speaking, trying his best to work together, but his low rasp reminded you of the way he whispered, "Does that feel good?" In your ear a mere few nights ago.

And the worst part? He had a five o’clock shadow now. That jawline, a little rougher, made you ache to feel it against your skin.

Tim was already so goddamned irresistible to you. Close proximity tested your sanity, and you were afraid you were failing.

"Detective Drake, Tamara Lane from the Gotham Gazette." One of the journalists raised her mic to him. "Are the rumors true that you and your PR associate are dating?"

The room fell silent.

Tim froze.

You gripped your phone nervously behind the stage.

Tim blinked once. Then, with an arched brow, he leaned toward the mic. "Since when does the Gotham Gazette run a gossip column?"

The room burst with chuckles, tension easing. But you caught the way his jaw tightened. The way his fingers twitched at his sides.

"First of all," Tim continued, straightening, "I’m here to talk about the Phantom case and trial. If you have any questions about that, I’ll happily answer. But don’t waste everyone’s time with melodrama, please. No, we are not dating.” He finished, choosing not to chastize the journalists further.

"I'm afraid that's all the time we have today." The moderator spoke into her mic. "Thank you detective. The city owes you."

Tim shook his head. "Thank you, but the city owes me nothing. As one of Gothams citizens, I was doing my responsibility to the same streets I grew up in."

That got him a room full of claps. You were so proud. He handled it like a pro. Physical distance was a killer when all you wanted was to run over there and praise him for doing a good job.

"So y/n," An aggressive male journalist made a few steps towards you, invading your personal space. "That bite on Drake’s lip. That your doing?" He winked, backing you against a wall.

"I - " You felt yourself stumble, the tension knotting your stomach. "No, it's not. Can you please back up, Darren?"

This wasnt your first time meeting him. Darren was a tool back in college, when you were both in the journalism program. More than once that he'd attributed your success to your looks alone, with not so subtle implications that you had slept your way to the top.

You were hoping that leaving your previous big shot corporation and getting a job in public services would get him off your back. It didnt.

"Sure can, gorgeous." Darren smirked. "Just as soon as you tell me it was you who gave him that love bite - "

"That's close enough." Tim was there in an instant. His hand shot out, shoving Darren back effortlessly while pulling you behind him, his grip firm, but careful on your arm. You let out a sigh of relief, squeezing his hand in gratitude as the nosey journalist shrank back.

Tim turned to you, eyes searching for any sign of distress. "Are you alright?"

You nodded. "Yeah, thanks."

You were still clearly shaken. He eyed you for a moment, as if waiting for you to contradict yourself.

That's when a thought had occurred to him. You were a beautiful girl, never lacking male attention and always having your fair selection of admirers. But...

But how much of that attention was actually wanted?

Right now, you looked extremely uncomfortable. If the women in his life were faced with such behavior, Tim pondered. If Barbara, Steph, or Cassie were backed into a corner by a man they'd take one clean punch to knock the guy's lights out.

But you weren't like his sisters. You were all smiles and sweetness. You were innocent... vulnerable.

The thought made something stir within him... his fists clenched at his sides as he turned to glare at the retreating journalist.

He and you addressed each other by name. This wasn't your first time meeting.

It took five minutes to bypass Darren's security and get root access to his computer - where Tim found a disturbing amount of pictures of you. Some were with your higher-ups, others with professors, TAs, all taken without your knowledge.

Tim cringed reading the notes Darren had attached to each one - sexualizing and objectifying you to justify your successes in life.

Tim made quick work of adding screenshits to a secure folder, which he sent anonymously to Dick's work email.

Tim’s phone chimed in under a minute. Dick’s name flashing on screen on the wayne family's private texting platform. "Timmy, You should be asleep on your night off."

Tim couldn't help but grin as he typed back. "How'd you know it was me?"

"Who else sends anonymous emails containing incriminating evidence At 3 in the morning?"

Tim glanced at his watch, confirming he's really been up that late.

"Touche" he wrote back.

"Whose this creep?"

"Some guy who's been harassing a-" he paused, before typing. "-friend at work."

"Jesus, christ there's so many files."

"Tell me about it. Need my help with anything?"

"Nah, I'll get a permit and look into it."

"Great,"

Before finishing up, Tim made sure to leave Darren a clear message his screen so that when he opened his laptop the next day, he'd be met with the words: "Journalism is not the same as stalking. Learn the difference, asshole." Capitalized on his desktop wallpaper.

5 Months Later

"Hey!" Tim picked up your call after the first ring.

You shivered outside the nightclub in nothing but your dress (that looked more like a nightgown as your roommate said) and puffy jacket. You were out with your roommate again, but a few glasses of wine told you it was a good idea to call him.

Holding the phone to your mouth, you spoke. "I have something to say to you, Tim Drake.”

His voice shook as he said. "... Okay?" As if he was laughing.

"Just... dont hang up." You took a deep breath. "I need you to hear this."

"Go ahead," you heard laughter on the other end of the call.

"I LIKE YOU. TIM DRAKE." You yelled into your phone. "I have liked you for a LONG time. Way before rose and the dare and the bar. And because I am an idiot, I screwed it up -"

"Where are you?"

"You promised you wouldn't interrupt!" You accused.

"I said no such thing, sweetheart. Where are you?" He insisted. "You're definitely drunk and shouldn't be alone right now."

"Im just fine, thankyouverymuch!" You slurred. "And I don't - *hiccup* - wanna be seen in the state im in right now... especially by you. Anyway, can you focus?"

You then proceeded to list every tiny thing you’ve noticed about him over the months of knowing him: "I like how you get so into work that you forget to eat, even though it drives me crazy."

"And I like that you’re so damn smart, but you can’t take a compliment to save your life." You snickered as you spoke.

"I like that you don’t realize how many people actually admire you.”

"…And I like that you kissed me back that night, even though you were surprised."

"Ahem," someone cleared their throat beside you.

You turned to look who it was, and your eyes landed on him. Your mouth dropped, and you blinked at him blankly. You were in disbelief. Had you manifested him out of thin air?

After placing his jacket around you, Tim crossed his arms, watching you intently as you fidgetted under his gaze as he waited for you to continue. His blue eyes crincled at the sides with barely suppressed laughter. They seemed to say, "You wanted to do this, so do it."

"I..." You took a deep breath, still not believing he was here. "... Okay, I’m just gonna say it."

Tim raised an eyebrow.

"That night we spent together? I wasn’t faking anything." You shifted, suddenly feeling very warm. "I mean, you were just... so good. Like, ridiculously good."

Tim blinked, pursing his lips and looking like he was trying hard not to laugh.

You continued in a rush, "And not just in a ‘this guy knows what he’s doing’ type of way, but in a ‘no one has ever made me feel like that’ way, and it’s been messing with my head because now every time I see you, I just-" You cut yourself off, mortified. Why are you saying all of this? Oh, right, the wine.

Tim stared at you. Processing. Then, very slowly, he smirked, taking a step closer. "… you haven’t stopped thinking about it, huh?"

Shivering, you made a strangled noise. "I-That’s not the point!"

"No, no, I think it is." His smirk grew, and he stepped closer still, pulling you into his arms. You welcomed the warmth of his body, feeling small in his big frame. He exhuded a sudden confidence you hadn't seen in him before when he said, "Go on, prom queen. Elaborate."

You groan, covering your face. "I hate you."

"Do you?"

"Whatever." You suddenly lost confidence, facing away from him. "That’s it. That’s all I wanted to say."

You turned to go step back, but Tim grabbed your waist, pulled you back toward him, and kissed you breathless. "I like you too, prom queen. Now I need you to answer an important question."

You gasped against his lips, feeling elated that he had basically confessed he liked you back. Your breath hitched when you said. "Anything."

He smiled down at you. "How many drinks did you have before you forgot I was your boyfriend?"

Your eyes fluttered open to soft kisses peppering your face.

"Morning." Tim rasped against your ear before nipping at it, making your skin rise along with your hitching breath.

There was a new bruise forming on his back, you ran your fingers over it but didn't ask any questions. He had his personal life and you had yours and you respected whatever he had to do to take out stress in his life.

"Morning-" your voice was soft and sleepy as Tim left a bite mark right on your pulse before licking over the mark he left. "How was patrol?"

"Nothing interesting. I missed you, though. And you definitely missed me." He emphasized the last words, his fingers reaching for your bare pussy under your nightgown.

"Nothing interesting?" You squeaked. You were so wet that his fingers glided over your slit with ease. That was good, interesting, in Tims case usually implied danger. You worried less on the nights that he came back home bored.

He tilted his head to the side as if considering something. "Well, actually, the end of the night was pretty entertaining. Thanks to you."

"Really?" You asked, grinning. "What happened?"

He took your breasts in his hands and softly rolled your nipples between his index and thumbs over your pastel pink nightgown. Sensitive, you let out a wimper, arching against the mattress and pushing your breasts into his hands. "Mhmm, maybe I shouldn’t say."

Each swipe of his finger over your responsive peaks sent a shiver down your body straight to your sex. Your head rolled back against the soft pillow, hair spralked all around you.

"Please tell me?" You begged, now starting to get nervous. Last night was girls' night. You knew Tim would be on patrol, so you met your girlfriends at the bar. Come to think of it... you don't really recall what happened.

He kissed down your body to the top of your inner thighs. Where you were ticklish. "Let's just say i got a cute phone call at four in the morning."

Gasping, you bolted up to a sitting position on the bed. "No!"

"Oh yes," at his place between your thighs, Tim met your gaze and let out a sinister, evil laugh. The vibration of his laughter made his tongue rub deliciously against your slit, making you moan and arch your back.

You fought to stay focused. "What did I say to you?"

"Idunno," he hummed, closing his eyes as his toungue mapping out your clit in small circles.

"Tim- ah-" your fingers grasped at his messy hair as the stimulation against your clit began to build up. Oh god, he'd gotten so good at that. Your breathing grew quicker as his tongue continued its assault. "Mhnnn, what did I say?" You whined.

Veiny hands squeezed your thighs before coming back up to push you back onto the bed. The material of your nightgown split at the front, baring and exposing your breasts to be tormented by his hands once more.

He continued toying with you for a long time. The delicious stimulation grew stronger and stronger until you weren't able to hold back anymore. Panting, you came all over his mouth, and he lapped at your spilling juices.

"Good girl," he cooed, running his hands over you.

"I-" you panted, kegs shaking as he gathered you in his arms. "Tim. P-please, how bad was it?"

"What do I get if I tell you," He asked with amusement while his thumb rose to tease your clit again.

Overstimukated, you squealed, wrapping your arms around his neck as he picked you up and carried you to the bathroom. "I'll... I'll kiss you?"

"Well, alright." He snickered while turning on the shower handle, letting the water fall over the both of you, still in your clothes. He lowered you to the ground, keeping his lips a breath apart from yours, and whispered. "You got so drunk you kinda forgot we were dating."

Your hads rose to cover your mouth as you shook your head in horror. "No,"

He nodded. "Im afraid so, prom queen. And you called me, screaming about how you had a crush on me-"

"Stop," your hands covered your eyes.

"-and how I rocked your world -"

"Oh god."

"-really, the 'best you've ever had'. Your words, not mine."

"I'm never touching alcohol again!" You moaned, gently baging your head against his chest.

Tim's hands came to cup your face, brushing your hair behind your ears. "I love you, prom queen."

You smiled back, shily. "I love you too."

Tim's grin only widened.

[starlightvld]

Bait & Switch, pt. 1

Part 2 >>

Or read the edited, expanded version on AO3

Based on "I wasn't in that tunnel."

Call of Duty, soapghost, ghostsoap, angst with a happy ending Part 1 cw: mentions of torture, blood, violence, MWIII spoilers

---

Soap turns hazy, unfocused eyes toward the screen and watches the man with his face run down the tunnels under the English Channel. The man shoots at Konni soldiers, ferocity and desperation painted over every twitch of his brows and silent shout from his lips. 

It all seems so real.

But it can't be. It's not.

He watches Price and the man with his face cut through the enemy. Watches them attempt to disarm the bomb.

Watches Marakov approach.

Their bodies jerk in succession as Makarov's bullets rip through them both. They hit the ground, and sympathetic pain throbs through Soap's shoulder. 

He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. Not his wound. Not him. Just a man with his face bleeding onto dirty concrete on the other side of a black and white screen.

Makarov goes after Price. The man with Soap's face rises up to stab Makarov and–

Makarov blows a hole through the man's head.

It's surreal to watch his own face go blank. To watch the life drain from wide eyes within seconds. To see the others barely pause. Only standing beside the body for a few moments before continuing on because they have a fucking job to do. No time to pause and mourn the perpetual FNG.

Except for Ghost.

Soap's vision darkens on his right side, and he blinks away the sweat or blood – could be either or both but he's too numb to care – as Ghost falls to his knees beside the body of the man with Soap's face. The CCTV cameras are too shitty to see his eyes as he gazes down at the body leaking blood across the floor, but Soap hopes.

Hopes there's real emotion there. Hopes even more that Ghost finally sees it – finally sees that the dead man whose chest he's so tenderly pressing with his hand isn't his *Johnny.*

This time the watery blur appears in both eyes, and he doesn't bother to blink it away. Because he's seen all this before, and it never changes.

The door behind him opens, but he keeps his focus on the screen. He watches his former teammates leave the body behind in their desperation to follow Makarov.

But they won't find him. Soap knows because he recognizes the footsteps behind him as easily as he once recognized Ghost's.

Ghost, who made his gait purposefully distinct to alert Soap to his presence before slipping into Soap's bed late at night and who murmured soft words in his ear, words no one would ever believe the hardened man would say out loud. But he did. He said them to Soap as he took him apart piece by piece like he would a favorite gun, slow and deliberate, before putting him back together with love and care.

A hand slides into his long, filthy hair. Soap braces for the pain, and Makarov doesn't disappoint as he yanks Soap's head back.

"Enjoying the show?"

Soap doesn't respond. He never does, though it enrages Makarov.

On the screen, soldiers fill the tunnel, taking up the space won back by the 141. They set up a perimeter around the bomb.

The dead man remains sprawled on the ground, lifeless and forgotten.

"Look how they just left you behind. Left you to be picked up and brought here to wallow in misery."

A surge of anger burns through him—

But.

No. That's not right. Soap was never in that tunnel.

He's been in this cold, dark room since the mission in Siberia, taken down by a bullet and dragged away before he could radio for help. He has no idea how long he's been here, but he's endured every kind of torture: electrocution, waterboarding, frostbite, knives, pliers, hot pokers, and more. His body is a canvas of scars and burns

Through it all, he held on to his faith with ragged, broken fingers, with bloody teeth sunk into the promise of hope, that his team would find him. That *Ghost* would find him, rescue him from this hell, and wreak havoc on their enemies.

Until Makarov showed him why no one had come for him. Why no one will ever come for him.

A knife flashes in front of his eyes, fluorescent light reflecting off silver. Soap's voice grates through the air like steel against steel.

"Who was he?"

Makarov lets go of his hair, leaving behind a dull throb of residual pain, and rounds the chair Soap is tied to, hands on his hips and a sadistic glint in his eye.

"Him? Oh, just someone who got confused about his role in this lovely little play. Perhaps the serum was a bit too effective at turning him into you, disgusting loyalty and all, hmmm?"

Serum.

Memories resurface slowly. He's had this conversation with Makarov before. A sliver of panic bleeds into his numbness.

Christ have mercy. He's fucking losing it. How long before he stops remembering? How long before he becomes a shell of himself?

Maybe it doesn't matter. After all, no one is coming for him.

When Soap doesn't say anything more, Makarov's glee sours into a frown. The blade flashes in front of his blurred vision once more before pressing against his neck.

"I admit I thought you would be easier to break. You seemed so obedient in Verdansk. You could've ended me, but instead you followed orders like a good little soldier. And here you are."

The knife digs in, but pain is a familiar friend he's learned to ignore. When Soap doesn't react, Makarov sighs.

"I suppose if you won't break on your own, it's time to get experimental."

He brings out a syringe and holds it up as if considering his next action. The liquid inside glows a sickly yellow green, and Soap's stomach churns at the thought of what new pain this torture it might bring. Because he knows Makarov's pause is just for show. There is no escape.

The gleeful grin returns as he jabs the needle into Soap's neck in the same spot he'd just cut him open. The liquid is brutally cold as it enters his blood stream, his muscles seizing from the rapid temperature change.

WIthin seconds, Soap's world tilts sideways. His eyes blur yet again. He blinks and blinks, but the room goes softer with every passing second. His muscles relax, and he slumps forward in his chair, the bonds securing his wrists behind him cutting into his skin, though he can't feel it anymore.

Makarov sounds like he's underwater when he speaks. "Good. Let us begin."

Blackness takes him.

---

When Soap wakes, he's no longer in a dark, cold room. Through the broken out window of his full helmet, he sees strange buildings rising up into a swath of blue sky. Giddiness that borders on panic wells up in his chest.

He's outside. He made it outside. Did he escape? He doesn't remember.

His gaze falls, and the world stops.

He's surrounded by rivers of blood, knife in hand. His heart pounds like he's dying.

And on the ground lies a Ghost, splayed out like a sacrifice, bloodied and beaten and looking up at Soap like he's seen God.

"Johnny?"

Part 2 >>

Or read the edited, expanded version on AO3

[electricneonvalkyrie]

I hesitated to throw my opinion into the ring, so I figured I'd sleep on it.

I woke up, and it still stung.

Take it with a grain of salt. I’m not a casting director. I understand it would be a serious challenge to find a performer with acting chops and a matching appearance. But I've always thrived on challenges, so this argument seems flimsy.

Honestly, what do I know about Hollywood?

Many talented people globally never realize their dreams due to systemic barriers; however, it seems unbelievable that the team didn't consider maybe… stepping into a gym.  

The daily grind of PTSD is a heavy weight for me to carry, and as a muscular woman who doesn’t fit the traditional perception of femininity, losing a rare representation in media breaks my heart.

I understand it was a narrative-necessity in the game—though many (overwhelmingly male) gamers tried in bad faith to cast doubts on this.

Yes, it’s realistic for a woman to have a muscular build.

Have you gone to a gym in the last twenty years?

Hi female athletes everywhere. Hi CrossFit competitors. What’s up bodybuilders? Hey women in the military who can bang out more push-ups than the average male.

I see you.

But historically, when adaptations change the appearance of female characters in storytelling, it’s often catering to the male gaze, unintentional as it may be.

Read: Sarcasm.

In my opinion, it’s no coincidence that this has happened here.

No one should subject the actress portraying Abby to this criticism; it’s quite literally not her fault. This is an awkward role to take on, especially given the game's incredibly toxic past. But seeing Abby Anderson depicted this way feels like a gut punch.

Her strength—something that many real life women work damn hard for—is being erased.

Reducing her size feels like perpetuating the idea that women can only be strong if they’re still petite and conventionally attractive.

HBO seems to be overlooking what made Abby so special to loyal fans like me: the compelling interplay of her intense self-discipline, the lingering impact of her trauma, and the raw emotion of her grief which manifested in her merciless fights and her struggle with inner demons.

They had an opportunity to stand behind the integrity of Abby’s design and they’ve rewritten her character.

Let’s call it what it is. Disappointing as hell, at a first glance.

I have no doubt the actress playing Abby will shatter expectations, revealing her character's resilience in a brutal world, because otherwise, she’s not Abby Anderson. She's a gentler, more nuanced version of the fierce character Neil Druckmann once spearheaded.

He wouldn’t backpedal, would he?

For all the gamers who never got the chance to kill Abby in The Last of Us Part II, it feels like HBO has done it for them—not with a battle, but with erasure. Not with brutality, but with a quiet, deliberate softening of everything she stood for.

Fuck, I hope I'm wrong.

[thethiefandtheairbender]

once again i am asking everyone who was disappointed with natla and wants more good original animated storytelling to watch The Dragon Prince on netflix, particularly if you want complex, flawed, and fleshed out female characters and worldbuilding! Also for consistent motifs/symbols, foreshadowing, and a truly stunning amount of lore.

Unreliable narrators! Tragic siblings! Characters who are allowed to be hypocritical and sympathetic! Neutral and malevolent magic systems! Exploring not only how to break cycles of harm, abuse, and violence, but also why they're perpetuated! Dragons with personalities! Varied queer (lesbian, gay, transgender) and disabled rep (deaf, blind, amputees)! Majority of cast and key players are also all characters of colour, particularly in s4 onwards

It's been 5 out of 7 seasons and we're still unravelling things from the first 4 episodes alone, never mind the foreshadowing.

Tropes:

If you didn't want to be assimilated into my found family, you should've killed me when you had the chance

Someone who believes they are hard to love and someone who loves them like it's breathing

The needs of the many (interrogated) x Deal with the devil

Just... constant recontextualization, god bless

Child kings and queens

A metaphorically cannibalistic magic system that might not be so metaphorical after all

and so much more! I think about "You let him live, but you killed us all" every damn day, and that's just from ep1. Some of the ATLA voice actors (Sokka and Koh the Face Stealer) feature here as well as some of the creative team (most notably Aaron Ehasz, ATLA's head writer)

[ctimenefic]

just had to write this out of my brain, I'm sorry pierresteban lorekeepers if I have fucked up the dynamic, I'll go back to my corner at once

2k of post-Brazil stuff tentatively titled something like slow lane, fast lane, parallel lines

Pierre didn’t pack a podium-worthy outfit for the triple header. Certainly not for Brazil. A party outfit, sure, in case Charles did well – that’s still fucked, a crumpled bundle rank with sweat at the bottom of one of his cases, shipped back home without him two weeks ago after Austin. He hadn’t seen this coming.

No one had seen this coming. 

He has to settle for a creased button up, undone so far the team will be able to see his heart still thudding against his ribs, hours after the last bubbles swirled away into the standing water on the track. It’ll do; he tries to smoulder into the mirror, but he can’t stop smiling. It’s just going to get soaked with sweat anyway, in whatever bar backroom they’ve secured. It was Harriet, he heard, shaking with hope from the moment the red flag came, ringing round Sao Paulo venues with broken Portuguese and her heart in her mouth.

It is strange, being alone for this clutch of minutes, to shower and shave and press cologne against his skin like anointing oil. The team had been all around him the moment he was out of the car, all the way to the hotel. Esteban next to him for hours, hip to hip. Pierre had been warm, despite the rain, the perpetual grey of track and sky.

The shirt is not so white that he’ll look filthy, later, if he’s touched. He undoes another button, just in case. Kiki said, once - if he won, and she wasn’t there. Then it was fine. She’d been joking, maybe, but he hadn’t pressed her. There are many beautiful men and women in Brazil. 

He goes down to the lobby early, already sick of the quiet. He wants the roar back, the force of it against his skin. He wants hands on his back, fingers on his neck, in his hair. Three girls from the team are huddled waiting for a taxi, by the doors, but they hover six inches away now, like without their uniforms he’s unsafe to clasp. Apart, again. 

Pierre drifts away, to the spot where the lobby leaks into a bar and - George Russell is there. As out of place as usual, squinting at his phone, folded up in an armchair that’s too low for him. It turns his knees into a ski slope. He only looks up when Pierre gets right up beside him; then he unbends upright, gets halfway to a handshake before he’s gripping Pierre’s shoulder instead. “Good racing, today,” he announces, like he hadn’t said it hours ago, dripping wet and still horribly sincere, all his natural animosities tucked away.

“Thank you,” Pierre replies, automatic. “I did not think Mercedes were slumming here though?” It is a fine hotel, but not so very nice. The lifts are slow. And Mercedes take up space. They have a sponsor deal, he thinks; some foolish video Charles had sent him last year with a string of emoji. 

Russell snorts. “No. Meeting Alex for our sad bastards dinner.”

Of course. Because for Mercedes, fourth is a disappointment. Which trophy did Russell imagine he’d be snatching today? Pierre’s? Max’s? He hopes Alex charges his meal to Russell’s card. 

“I am going out with the team,” Pierre offers. Immediately feels foolish. He meant- the point was to not invite Russell. It is fun, usually, being rude to him, watching his jaw tic. He is very English about it. 

Now, though, he seems unfazed. His eyebrows jump just a little. “I gathered.” 

His gaze drops briefly down the deep V of Pierre’s shirt. It is perhaps not an achievement with the most notorious homosexual on the grid, but still. There’s some satisfaction to it.

“Where are you- oh!”

The cooldown lap had felt a hundred years long, after an impossibly drawn-out race. Pierre had felt like he could count every drop of spray between his and Este’s cars. 

It is a little like that now, watching Russell’s eyes slide over his shoulder, the way his face changes slowly and utterly. Cheekbones lifted, so his eyes get a little smaller, the start of crows feet at the edges. The top of his face starts smiling before the rest catches up. His shoulders roll too, back and down and open. It happens in a blink, and yet it changes the whole shape of him. Like sunlight through clouds. 

Pierre doesn’t need to look round to guess what he’ll say next. “There he is,” Russell adds, regardless. “Have a good evening, Pierre.” He strides off before Pierre can find the right sniff for such an abrupt dismissal. 

He turns to wave at Alex, but he’s already turned back towards the lift, shoulders up around his ears until Russell slings an arm over them. He hears Russell teasing: “Don’t be a lazybones, Albono, you’re on the fourth floor, we can walk it.”

And then they are gone, and the girls from the team come to collect him for the car, and they are squashed up close enough that he does not have to think about it for too long. Just long enough. 

How many people look at him like sunshine? He had friends like that, once. More than one of them, once.

Tonight, he will say something gracious. Tell Esteban he raced better. That Pierre could not have caught him if he tried. (Perhaps not if he tried. Perhaps that is ungracious. Perhaps he should not remind Esteban that he is the better teammate. That he is keeping the team.) He has a whole taxi ride to find the right words, the olive branch that Esteban will not reject, or discard, or ignore.   

They will hug, and it will not be the last time. The Haas is not so bad; that will help. And ten, or twenty years from now, Pierre can walk into a room somewhere in France, some gathering of old men who raced fast cars, and someone will smile to see him. 

It is twenty minutes to Harriet’s bar. By then he can see it; where in windswept Normandy it will be. Snow on the ground and overcast. He will keep most of his hair, he decides, somewhat against the odds; he gives Esteban a little gut but fewer lines, no jowls. Silver in his stubble, but not his hair. Comfortable shoes. Bracelets on their wrists. 

The bar is good, for a last minute get. The staff on the door know his face, gesture him through. There are beautiful people in clusters, grapes on the vine, ready for picking. And on the dancefloor, Alpine, Alpine, Alpine. In the centre of it, Esteban, tall even there. 

There’s a whoop from near the edge of the throng as someone spots him - one of the pit crew, Marc. It spreads, fast, a sea of heads turning his way, a cheer Pierre thought he might not hear again. They tug him in, hands on his shoulders, back, feet already bouncing, the strange wistful sadness in his stomach already lifting as he raises his hands, shouts with joy and-

Esteban looks across to Pierre and smiles like clouds parting.

---

The carpet in the hotel stairwell has a dizzying pattern, geometric but impossible for the eye to follow. Or perhaps only impossible for someone who has been awake for 24 hours now, staring at it in the half-dark of emergency exit signs. But Pierre has to try, has to trace the thick black lines up and left and down over and over, or the choking gluk sounds Esteban is making round his cock will drive him mad. Tip him over ten seconds into the best-worst blowjob of his life. 

They had taken the stairs because it would be quicker than the ancient lifts. Not quick enough, for Esteban. Despite the risk, Pierre does not want to make up the distance. He wants this to last.  

Esteban pulls off for a moment; his smile is a slice of white in the darkness. Pierre doesn’t mean for his hand to drop to his face, thumb along his bottom lip, down his chin, but it does so anyway. He catches Esteban’s spit on his thumbpad; sucks it into his own mouth. There’s salt to it. 

“You are very wet for me,” Esteban murmurs, matter-of-fact, and Pierre gives up on the carpet, shuts his eyes and lets his head fall back into the corner with a thunk. He has been wet all day, drenched in rain and champagne and sweat. What is one more? He can feel it, the way precome rolls down the underside of his dick to Esteban’s fingers, until Este’s tongue drags back over him, a long side up the inches he cannot fit in his hand. 

(“It’s bigger,” he’d said, and Pierre had failed to hide his smirk. He hadn’t made it up, tripod. And Esteban’s hands are bigger now, too.)

His shirt is undone, bunched at his elbows where hands - some familiar, some strange - had dragged it down to trace the shape of his shoulders, the rise and fall of his arm muscles. He’d tugged it back up in the car back, but not enough to stick, not with Este’s long fingers at his neck. It makes him feel on display now, naked from his thighs up, Esteban’s dark head the only modesty he’s been afforded. 

He’s cold where Esteban had slicked down his happy trail with his tongue. It makes him shiver when Este gets back to bobbing back and forth, and his hair whispers over Pierre’s stomach. He has been touching him all night, never a hand off him, and yet Pierre is still so sensitive to each new collision. He can feel Este grin, smug, around him, like he’s noticed. It doesn’t rankle like it should. 

Esteban divebombs down Pierre’s dick again, and he comes before he can get out a warning, choking on thick air, hot and tight in his lungs. Este surfaces seconds later, cracks Pierre’s mouth open with a finger and thumb on his jaw, and feeds him his come in long, loving licks around his teeth. He’s still got his other hand wrapped around Pierre’s softening dick. As Pierre blinks up at him, stupefied, those clever fingers slide to cup his balls instead. A single digit taps at his taint. 

“Dry here,” Esteban muses. Pierre’s mouth falls open, panting. He thinks his come must still be gleaming on his tongue. He can still taste it. “We can fix that.”

And then there is light, crashing through the dark, as the door to the stairwell on the floor above opens, and the perpetual glow of the corridor shines through. Pierre clutches Este to him like cover. The bastard still has all his clothes on, at least, even if Pierre’s bare thighs are obvious either side of his too-skinny frame. 

The shaft of light falls a little to their left, not quite a spotlight. Perhaps they will not be noticed. Perhaps there is still enough luck for one more miracle. 

Soft steps, on the stairs. And then-

“Fuck,” someone hisses from above them. 

Not someone. Familiar. Far too English. 

Someone who should not be in the stairwell of the Williams team hotel at 4am. But. Pierre is in no position to throw stones. His stones are still in Esteban’s large, warm hand. 

Esteban is being no help. He snickers into Pierre’s neck for a moment, so lightly his lips barely leave his skin. Then: “Take the lift, George,” he calls, apparently deciding plausible deniability is for other motherfuckers. 

His voice is a little rough. Well-used. 

Russell, at least, understands how to play the game. It is silent, except for the hurried steps up and away. The whine of the door. 

“Shit,” Pierre groans. Esteban’s finger presses again at the space between his arse and his balls. “Shit,” Pierre says again. It echoes differently. Higher. 

Esteban is snickering again. “Always so dramatic,” he chides. But his hands are gentle as he pulls Pierre’s slacks back up his legs; does up precisely one button on his shirt and slides his palms down the sides like that will make him presentable for the CCTV in the corridor. “Come on, two floors more to mine. I shall have to fuck you in the morning, you are too spooked now.” 

Pierre doesn’t like the needy sound he makes; Esteban’s eyes gleam. He won’t beg for it, but: “When is your flight?” Pierre’s is late, commercial. They book different flights, more often than not. Esteban’s gaze wavers for a second. But only down to Pierre’s mouth, his navel, and back up. 

“The same. It is the same. I asked- said to change it. After. At the track.” Este must bite his lip – his bottom teeth disappear for a moment. Pierre wants the light back, wants to see his face. “We were-” he says the rest with his hands, palm to palm, parallel – two cars moving in sync around a curve. “And in the cooldown. You smiled at me.”

“I smiled?”

Este huffs. It is just enough like his cruel silences to make Pierre feel alert again, hands twitching to grasp a wheel he cannot see.  “I cannot change it back. It will be sorted by now.” 

There is an inch between them that has not been there all night. Esteban’s weight shifts, like he means to step back further. Pierre has to lunge for him, cram their mouths together. They had not done this at the bar. Touching, yes, everywhere they could get away with, but this was different. Private. 

Este whines a little into the kiss. His fingers get grabby again.

“Fuck me now, and later,” Pierre demands against his mouth. Esteban nods; in the dark his lips leave a smear against Pierre’s temple. 

His echo sounds like a promise. “Now and later.” 

[cjlouwho]

wrote another comment to ABC:

I’m writing as a long-time fan to express my deep disappointment with the recent perpetuation of harmful biphobia both in a recent episode and in the larger discourse surrounding the show. While 9-1-1 has often delivered thoughtful and diverse storytelling, this situation has felt like a painful misstep.

In the episode in question, the comment asking if one character “turned you gay” was not only offensive but perpetuates outdated and damaging myths about sexuality. Additionally, the storyline in which a character breaks up with their bisexual partner, claiming they need to “explore their options,” relies on harmful tropes that invalidate bisexuality and frame it as incompatible with commitment. These narratives undermine the experiences of bisexual people and reinforce damaging stereotypes.

Adding to this frustration, a cast member recently gave an interview that came across as grossly biphobic. Their comments trivialized bisexuality and dismissed the complexity and validity of bisexual identities. As a prominent voice associated with the show, such remarks contribute to the erasure and stigmatization of bisexuality, making it even more disappointing.

The hashtag #LetBuckFuck has also contributed to this harmful discourse, promoting the idea that a bisexual character’s story is less about representation or depth and more about shallow, hypersexualized stereotypes. This hashtag and the conversation it has sparked perpetuate the same harmful biases that have plagued media portrayals of bisexual people for years.

Lastly, it is disheartening to see a beloved gay character seemingly written off with a sad, lonely, and incomplete ending while a character with a history of racism, homophobia, and bigotry receives a longer, more redemptive arc. This sends the message that certain stories—and certain lives—are valued over others.

I urge the 9-1-1 team to reflect on this feedback and strive to do better. The show has the potential to continue breaking ground with meaningful, empowering representation. However, these recent instances have fallen short and caused harm to the very communities the show has been praised for representing.

I thought I had posted this already, but apparently had not! Thank you so much for writing in!!

[pandapetals]

Slim Pickins

logan howlett x fem!reader- angsty, reader lowkey hates logan, inspired by sabrina carpenter's song slim pickens

read on Ao3

Without a doubt, you knew you were going to end up alone. The thought crept in after every disappointing date, every one-night stand that left you cold, every late-night text that led nowhere. All the guys you met were the same—douchebags with oversized egos and nothing real to offer. It was a pattern you couldn't break, a cycle that seemed destined to repeat. Why was it so hard to find a decent guy?

You didn’t even need perfect. You weren’t looking for some fairy-tale romance or a knight in shining armor. You just wanted someone who didn’t make you feel like you were settling for less than you deserved.

Then there was Logan.

You’d sized him up the moment you met him—jacked, rough around the edges, with a perpetual scowl and a short temper to match. He walked like he owned the room, his shoulders tense, his eyes dark, and he had the kind of attitude that practically screamed “trouble.” You’d rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, dismissing him in an instant. He wasn’t your type. You knew his kind. And after a few clipped conversations, you were more than certain Logan was exactly the kind of guy you couldn’t stand.

“Douchebag,” you’d muttered after he’d walked off from another pointless exchange.

And you didn’t hold back either. You bitched and complained about him to anyone who’d listen—Charles, Scott, Storm, anyone within earshot of your growing frustration.

“He’s impossible,” you’d said one night over beers with Storm, your voice rising with indignation. “He’s not a team player, doesn’t listen to anyone, and doesn’t even get me started on his attitude. You know what he said to me earlier?”

Storm had given you a knowing look but let you rant anyway. Everyone had opinions about Logan, after all. He was easy to dislike, a ball of raw energy, constantly on the edge of something dark and dangerous.

“He’s just... ugh,” you groaned, running a hand through your hair. “I don’t get why anyone puts up with him.”

But deep down, beneath all the complaining, something gnawed at you. Something you didn’t want to admit.

You hadn’t seen it right away—not until one mission changed everything.

It had been chaotic, a nightmare situation where nothing went as planned. The team had been dispatched to rescue a group of mutant kids who had been captured by some underground militia. The operation had gone sideways almost immediately. You’d been cornered, pinned down by enemy fire, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears as panic crept in. And then—Logan.

You saw him, right in the thick of it, moving with a kind of brutal precision that took your breath away. He tore through the enemy lines like it was nothing, claws flashing, his eyes wild and fierce. But what caught you wasn’t the violence—it was the way he threw himself into the rescue without a second thought. No hesitation, no fear, just pure instinct as he fought his way to those kids.

The moment you saw him lift one of the terrified children into his arms, shielding them from harm with his own body, something inside you shifted. He wasn’t careful, wasn’t gentle, but there was a raw protectiveness in his actions that hit you like a punch to the gut.

You watched him take down another wave of attackers, blood streaking his face, his body moving like a machine—powerful, unrelenting. And then, as he brought the last of the kids to safety, something unexpected flared in your chest.

Respect.

He was more than your first impression.

You didn’t want to admit it, but Logan wasn’t just the hot-tempered, arrogant jerk you’d made him out to be. There was something deeper there, something you’d been too quick to write off. The way he fought, the way he protected those kids, the way he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders without ever asking for help—it unsettled you. Because it meant you’d been wrong about him.

Being wrong about Logan was a lot more dangerous than you wanted to acknowledge.

Days passed after that mission, but you couldn’t shake the image of him—the way he’d looked standing there, bloodied but unbroken, with a kid clinging to him like he was some kind of savior. The frustration you felt toward him softened, and changed. You found yourself noticing things about him you hadn’t before. The way his gruffness wasn’t just aggression, but a shield. The way he stayed on the fringes of the group, never quite fitting in, but always there when it mattered.

You didn’t complain about him as much after that. You didn’t have much to say when Scott made some offhand comment about Logan’s attitude or when Storm chuckled about his lone-wolf tendencies. Instead, you found yourself defending him in small, subtle ways, even if it was just a quiet “He gets the job done.”

It was a shift you didn’t want to admit, but one that was impossible to ignore. The more you tried to fight it, the more you felt the pull.

And Logan—he noticed.

You’d catch him watching you now, his dark eyes lingering longer than before, his smirk a little less cocky, a little more curious. He never said much, never one for words, but there was something in the way he looked at you that made your pulse quicken.

One night, after a particularly long and exhausting mission, you found yourself alone with him in the briefing room. Everyone else had already left, and you were sorting through some files when Logan approached, his boots heavy on the floor. You didn’t look up, but your body tensed, already attuned to his presence.

“You were good out there,” he said gruffly, voice low and gravelly.

You glanced up, surprised by the unexpected compliment. “Thanks,” you muttered, unsure how to respond. Compliments weren’t his style, and it threw you off balance.

Logan leaned against the table, arms crossed, watching you with that unreadable expression of his. “You’re not as annoying as I thought,” he added, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched with a reluctant smile. “High praise coming from you.”

He shrugged, his gaze never leaving yours. “Just callin’ it like I see it.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything, the air thick with something that felt different now. Less hostile, more... charged. You didn’t know what to do with it, and this new dynamic was between you. It wasn’t the same as before, but you weren’t sure what it was either.

Logan pushed off the table and started to walk away, but then paused, looking back at you over his shoulder. “See you around, kid.”

You scoffed, but there was no real heat behind it. “I’m not a kid, Logan.”

His smirk deepened, eyes gleaming with something almost playful. “Yeah. I know.”

Just like that, he was gone, leaving you standing there with your heart pounding harder than it should have been, your mind racing with thoughts you weren’t ready to unpack.

Logan wasn’t perfect. Hell, he was far from it. Maybe there was more to him than you’d given him credit for.

That scared you more than anything.

[victoriadallonfan]

Alien vs Predator vs Parahumans

So, recently, I decided to check out Alien vs Avengers because that art is gorgeous and I was curious about how an author could write a xenomorph outbreak in the Marvel Universe, and what wacky interplays they can do with various aliens, superpowers, and magical stuff.

It was... disappointing. Not to go all power levels on us, but it had Hulk struggle with a single drone and Spider-Man be caught off guard by a face hugger. And randomly immune to magic.

Not great.

So I got to thinking... what would be a cool way to handle Alien, Predator, and the Parahumans franchise?

Spoilers beneath the cut for Ward Spoilers

I think the one that gives the least amount of headaches would be post-Ward, so I'll be going off that timeframe.

They way I envision it, is that Weyland-Yutani (Or just Weyland at this point I suppose) is a wealthy organization focusing on colonizing other Earths, seemingly working with the Wardens, Auzure, and Mortari in helping refugees and allied colonies to have viable successes.

They aren't squeaky clean, obviously, but all their marks against them seem small potatoes when the city of Perpetuity had to deal with winter, anti-parahumans, Shin and Cheit terrorists, supervillains, the Machine Army, and Titans over the course of Ward itself.

So the company grows in power and influence, eventually funding a colony they call Jericho on a pretty barren Earth, claiming to use it as a test bed for more hostile environment technology. Not many people give the useless rock and it's colony much of a glance, beyond noting the oddity of 2000 residents going over there.

Quite a lot for merely scientist and personnel families, but again, bigger issues.

During the epilogue of Ward, the Majors are made up of Sveta (Coach/Mentor), Victoria (assistant coach/mentor), Withdrawal, Caryatid, Finale, and Limerick. The team as a whole has made waves with their travels across the multiverse, protecting colonies from supervillains, monsters, and natural disasters.

With Victoria flying off to Japan to help with the cape resurrection project, The Majors are content with doing a final lap of known colonies when Withdrawal picks up an SOS from Jericho on his scanner, only for the signal to cut out.

Curious, the team heads out to the portal leading to the colony... and are met with Weyland Yutani security and a Project Executive, who greet the heroes with artificial cheeriness ("Server malfunction, you know how the tech acts with these wacky powers!" "Oh the armed security? Well, you know, can't be too careful with the wildlife and all that supervillain nonsense." "Oh, you want to check in with the colony? Uhhh, wow, hm, I'll need to bump it up to my bosses boss - paperwork am I right - and I'll need to see about permits and gosh- Oh, what was that? You... You know the Mayor personally? Oh you're going to call her to grease the wheels? Well, you know what, I don't want to bother her with such a small issue so how about you stick around and you don't tell on me that I'm looking the other way a bit wink wink hahahaaaa.....")

The tension is not quite high, but everyone feels a bit on edge with each other as they go through the portal. The security team leader explains the colony is actually several miles away from the portal to better work with the natural earths hostile environment, so it's not uncommon for some issues to come up and these check-ups are mandatory (though it's clear she's upset that the Executive is on the ground here with his own goons). The Majors aren't quite used to the military types beyond Limerick, but they do their best to try and bond with the group.

Tensions don't lessen when radio contact continues to be unreciprocated by the colony as they drive in, though it's still explained away with bad reception from the harsh Earth.

This quickly changes when the colony is abandoned. A ghost town. Ruined cars are in the street, windows busted and interiors ruined by the harsh conditions of Earth. Shell casings randomly across the colony, along with discarded guns.

Checking the databases finds that the records - all of them - have been deleted.

Yeah, this is a problem now.

There's more tension, more arguments about what happened and what to do, but the Executive eventually reveals that there is technically another site further off in the distance: an archeological dig site for what they thought were past Earth inhabitants.

The group heads there and finds the dig site ruined, thrashed apart at the opening of a massive tunnel leading into the earth below.

The story from there follows the Majors and WY team exploring the cave and running into the Xenomorphs, the cave morphing and activating various traps or leading into biomes that make no sense for existing underground.

Meanwhile, a trio of young predators are being led to the ritual site by an Elder, and find these superpowered humans to be the perfect chance to hunt new prey....

[putschki1969]

Hi Puts, thank you for answering my ask on the reaction from Japanese fans. It's understandable that all of us are left with mixed emotions. I do wonder if you're going to post the link (if you manage to get it) of YKL21? It pains me that Keiko isn't there but a part of me also wants to see how the arrangements are done to accommodate her absence. I want to see if YKL will be able to create those magical harmonies now that their backbone to those sounds is no longer there. I admit to being a little resentful in this regard, and it's probably because I've been listening to her music for years, and have come to admire YK that I truly feel disappointed with her decision. I hope she realises sooner than later how vital Keiko is to the YKL sound and that Keiko is a human and vocalist who has her own sets of aspirations to fulfill. Her desire to be part of YKL does not negate her desire to be part of Kalafina or embark on other goals. Anyway, thank you always Puts and for being patient in answering all the asks~

Hello there!! Before I get to your ask, I'd like to make a general announcement, don't worry, it's not specifically related to you or your message but rather to the entire issue at hand.

A quick heads-up to all of my followers and lurkers:

First of all I'd like to apologise to everyone who has sent an ask on this matter and still hasn't received a reply. I decided to take a break from all of this during the weekend since it was getting mentally draining and I started to seriously neglect some of my real-life responsibilities. Also, if at this point I've not posted a response to your question/message regarding the current situation, then it is likely I never will. Throughout the course of last week, I got way too many repetitive inquiries, I'm sorry to say that I just do not have the time or patience to answer every single one of them. I strongly urge people to just go through my relevant tags (#kalafina reunion, #space craft, #yuki kajiura) and thoroughly inform yourself before you send anything. Trust me, I covered the topic quite extensively and I don't believe you will be left with many (if any) unanswered questions once you have browsed through everything! Then I received a bunch of messages from people who clearly just want to argue with me and I am honestly so tired of them. I've made my stance perfectly clear and I think I have been fair in my assessment. On top of that, I've invested a lot of time clarifying my arguments and discussing the matter in the reply section of my posts. At some point, it's just enough. You don't need to agree with me, it's your prerogative to have a different opinion but there's no point in trying to sway my opinion, you are really just barking up the wrong tree. There are more than enough spaces in this fandom where your thoughts and arguments will be very much appreciated, you do not need to waste your time on my blog. To make a long story short, if you insist on painting Space Craft (and by extension Wakana, Keiko, Hikaru) as the ultimate and sole villain in this shit-show of a situation while simultaneously pretending as if Team Yuki isn't equally at fault for perpetuating all the petty hostilities and stupid rules of this everlasting feud, then I'm sorry to tell you, this is not the right place for you. Over and out.

Re: Anon's Message

Now that all the above stuff is out of the way, I can focus on your message, dear anon. First, let me clarify something. It's 100% okay to be invested in Yuki's activities and to be curious about her future projects. Despite my arguably controversial thoughts on Yuki's role in this feud, I certainly don't want anyone to "cancel" her or to "boycott" her lives in any way. Please continue to love and support her, especially if you've been her loyal fan from the get-go! No one has to ever feel the need to justify their interest in Yuki to me, your devotion is completely valid.

As for me, I stand by what I've always said, I am first and foremost a Kalafina fan, therefore, this blog only covers stuff that is at least somehow related to them. If none of the girls are involved in a project, I am not really motivated to invest my resources into it. People reading my live reports should know that Wakana's absence has already taken away a huge chunk of my enjoyment of YKL, with Keiko gone too now, I just don't see the appeal anymore. Both of them were such an integral part of these live performances, at least for me. There are songs of course that work without them (and those will continue to sound amazing) but I've always enjoyed a majority of music in Yuki's lives BECAUSE of Wakana and Keiko. Their renditions are not the be-all-end-all in this world (often not even the original) but they are the definitive versions engraved in my mind so everything else just doesn't feel right to me.

In short, I will likely not be covering any of the YKL Vol#21 news or provide content related to it. Unless of course there are some surprise changes to the lineup but that's very unlikely. If they end up covering Kalafina songs (Yuki is saying something about having different suites in her lives so the inclusion of a Kalafina-suite is certainly possible), I might consider posting about it but I'll cross that bridge if/when I come to it.

You don't need to worry though, I think there are lots of very passionate YK stans in this fandom who will surely provide everything you are looking for! And it's not like I will be gate-keeping any good sources, if I happen to come across a recording or something, I will definitely let you know. I'll just not go out of my way to invest any money, time or effort into any of it.

Last but not least, I completely agree with your thoughts about Keiko. All we can do is hope that this feud will someday be resolved, otherwise there will always be hostilities and conflicts of interest. As long as there are these two opposing sides and any allegiance to one side will get you shunned from the other side, we'll never know peace.

[dream-thief-forever-amen]

I love that the “hero” is still the absolute worst in season 2.

Let us explore the evidence.

Spoilers below:

1. Does not get on the plane to be a father to his child… his supposed motivation to earn money in the first place. Even when he has billions. In fact he’s become even more distant and unreliable, not even communicating with her any longer.

2. Promises to care for that girl’s younger brother but dumps him off on an old woman without explanation and a bag of cash. Continues to watch this old woman raise this random kid while working her old bones off in an outdoor market. Just like he watched his own mother work herself to death to care for his fully grown butt.

3. Does not use his considerable fortune to get the kid’s mom out of North Korea - just does the bare minimum with one broker.

4. Hoards his wealth to pursue his private obsession. Spends two years wasting away in his private hobby hotel and still does not have a solid plan or even good ideas about how to handle the murder island - and has not attempted to outsource this large problem to others better equipped to solve it.

5. Still has not realized the old man’s gamble at the end of season one with the homeless man only required that HE go down and help the dude or go down and get someone else to work with him to help the dude instead of just watching and hoping something would happen (This is arguably the theme of the show).

6. Gets back into the game but does not tell a single soul it’s a murder machine until AFTER they have all signed up, been photographed, and marched onto the field to be slaughtered.

7. Did not check in on or help his friend from season one, even though they were still in the same city and his friend was struggling. Now that poor sod is also in the game.

8. Doesn’t make his impassioned speech to convince others not to continue the game after round one - nope, not until over half have already voted and his own side is losing.

9. When the majority votes to continue the game, he makes no attempt to try to reason with or plead with those who voted to stay, even though they only lost by a narrow margin. The entire group stays divided and refuses to work together. Ironically it is two characters from the other, majority side who make a point to reach out to him. One of them shares his personal story of why he voted the way he did - swaying hearts and minds - which is ironically what our “hero” should have done. Except he doesn’t have a sad story of circumstances - he is the sad story.

10. Later our male lead finally thinks it’s time to perhaps attempt to sway some hearts and minds and is instantly talked out of it cause it might stir up trouble… in the murder game… the irony…

11. The completely haphazard plan to take over the facility by disarming the uniformed guards. Even though he knew they were outnumbered, there is surveillance everywhere, and he had zero plan of what to do next. Leaving the majority of his “team” to fend for themselves (and be murdered) while he secured the strongest among them to hide in wait.

HE IS THE WORST.

Is it a case of being your own worst enemy, of mental illness, of selfishness, stupidity? Is it soupical tendencies born from disappointments? Is it just in our DNA?

I don’t know. But I do think this show has gone to great lengths to show us repeatedly that the male lead is someone who doesn’t know how to care for others.

His sweet daughter loves him dearly but you could already see she was old enough to be disappointed in him. There was pity there too.

Money can’t change your bad habits or your crap personality.

This man didn’t even invest his money so that at least the interest could fund a few orphanages or homeless shelters in perpetuity. Nope, he’s got it sitting around on a mattress.

I also find it interesting how many older women are still trying to raise fully grown men in this show. The male lead’s mom. The mother of his dead friend who our male lead tosses another son onto. The mom contestant in season 2. There’s too many for it not to be commentary.

I’m glad we have shows like this though. Cause there are no easy answers. This island is just a symptom of a larger problem, one that can’t be fought alone. It will take many heads coming together to even start to unravel the mess we are in.

Anyways… looking forward to the finale. I would not be surprised if our lead male becomes a new commander of the games at the end.

[sleepyfan-blog]

Tiny Visions

Author's note: Part one of The Emperor of Mankind raising the baby primarchs! Next

tagged: @egrets-not-regrets

warnings: dehumanization of the primarchs, dehumanization of infants, Warp Fuckery

Summary: Several of the Very Tiny Primarchs warp powers begin to manifest themselves at the same time, while still in their gestation pods. The results of this cause the Emperor to order them to be pulled from their gestation tubes as very young infants.

The tireless and careful work of over a thousand years' worth of genetic testing, engineering and tinkering lay slumbering in twenty maturation pods. Hundreds of anxious scientists watched every readout on the monitors, every twitch that the infant super-soldier generals made as they slept and grew in their incubation chambers, worried that if they did not keep their tense vigil, something terrible would happen and one or more of the little ones would be lost, and His Excellency would be furious… Or worse, disappointed that something had happened to one of his currently tiny creations.

Each of the twenty tiny primarchs floated in their numbered pods, what they may dream of was unknown to any of the scientists who kept monitoring them constantly. This project was intensely secret - from the moment that each of them had been brought onto the project (anywhere between months to decades ago) they had never left the underground palace genetics laboratories, lest the enemies of the Emperor of Mankind find out about what was being created in the sprawling complex. The Thunder Warriors were… They had been a success, yes. But their genetic enhancements had been unstable, and they had taken very poorly to the uneasy peace that the Emperor, His Custodes and Thunder Warriors had created across Terra, ending the shattered factions that Terra had long-descended into in the endless Night that Humanity as a whole was only beginning to crawl out of, and only by the grace and aid of The Emperor and the other Perpetuals who had lent their guiding hands and keen minds to the task of Uniting Terra.. And eventually, to reach out to the scattered and lost pockets of Humanity still lost to the Long Night that had consumed the galaxy.

The Primarchs were due to be released from their gestation pods within the next several months, if the meticulously gathered and reviewed data continued to show the signs of their growth and maturation within their tubes at the rate that they were currently growing at. There was some uncertainty as to just what physical age the little soldier-generals would be once they were released from their maturation chambers, given the fact that they would stand larger than even the Legiones Astartes that they would be commanding once fully mature. Still, it was none of their places to question how long the little generals would sleep and grow within their maturation chambers, merely watch and ensure that they got the nutrient slurry infused into their -

Primarch Eight began to thrash in it's sleep, tiny fists flailing, mouth opening in closing and head thrashing back and forth in clear signs of distress, causing dozens of alarms to go off. His dedicated team of geneticists rushed over to his chamber, frantically reading the sudden change in vital signs and movement - the little ones commonly moved a little, but were primarily stationary as they grew.

Primarch Nine began to thrash and wail as well - his tiny wings flaring out and causing him to be propelled against one wall of it's maturation pod and bounce off, it's tiny fists and feet flailing. It's mouth opening and closing in silent wailing. Nine's team rushed over to try and figure out what had set the little general off, their voices low and frantic.

Primarch Fifteen, who was the most deeply connected to the warp according to The Emperor and Lady Erda, turned an even brighter red and began wailing and flailing in it's pod as well, possibly in response to two of it's siblings suddenly reacting in distress to some sort of stimuli that none of the assembled baseline human scientists could begin to fathom.

And then, to the tremendous distress of it's entire team, primarch fourteen decided to Cause Problems because it's siblings were being rambunctious by teleporting outside of it's gestation pod. Again. It teleported several inches off of the ground and would have hit the ground with a wet thud (and probably start to wail at the top of all three of it's lungs) had not a pair of large, darkly tanned hands not suddenly grabbed the tiny primarch out of the air. "Fourteen, what have I told you about teleporting outside of your pod before it's time to leave, hmm?" The Emperor of Mankind rumbled, staring down at one of his future generals.

The baby Primarch with short, ashy white hair plastered flat to his skin by the incubation fluids opened it's golden eyes and stared up at it's creator and Lord. It's gummy, toothless mouth opened and it wailed tiny hands balling into fists as it flailed at the indignity of being cold, as the thick, sticky incubation fluids quickly began to chill the tiny primarch.

"Neoth, give him here, he's cold." Lady Erda ordered, lightly swatting at the emperor, having removed her clean jacket and began to wrap it around the infant primarch, rocking him back and forth, murmuring in a low, soothing voice "Shhh, shhh ,shhh. Mama is here, little one. I know, it's bright and you are cold, and some of your brothers are very upset. That's why mama and papa are here. To see what has upset you so. Come on now, stop crying for mama, you're safe now. There's a good boy."

Fourteen stopped crying at the sound of one of it's creators' voices, golden eyes wide, as a tiny fist was shoved into it's mouth. It leaned it's damp head against her chest, it's breathing slowing down to normal, before it's eyes slid shut and it began to sleep.

The Emperor of Mankind had left Fourteen in Lady Erda's capable hands, walking over to where Eight's, Nine's and Fifteen's teams were gathered and frantically trying to figure out why the three infant primarchs had started to thrash around and wail within their incubation chambers. Apart from distress-related vitals changes, there was nothing that any of the mortals could discern was wrong with any of the tiny primarchs.

"Imperator! We-" The lead scientist started, bowing deeply as he spoke, going silent as the large perpetual raised a silencing hand.

"Eight and Nine are having visions, and Fifteen is currently psychically connected to the two of them. The visions are not happy ones, which has upset all three of them. While I had intended on letting them incubate in their pods until they were physically toddlers…" The emperor's gaze focused for a moment on Lady Erda, who was still rocking a sleeping Fourteen and humming a lullaby to it. A small frown pulled at his lips "Will they be stable, if removed from their gestation pods?"

"S-sire?" Several scientists stuttered at the same time, eyes widening in surprise.

Amar Astarte walked over, grabbing the most recent readouts collected on each of the infant primarchs. "They should be able to survive outside of the pods. I thought that the plan was to wait until they were toddlers physically, before releasing them from their gestation pods? That way they would have a degree of independence before starting to be trained, sir. As infants they will have different developmental and physical needs… Also none of them should be capable of doing much more than rolling over on their own… Warp-based power shenanigans notwithstanding, my lord."

"… Nine and Eight have visions of what will happen, if they stay in the gestation tubes for that long. It is not a future I wish to see come to pass." The Emperor responded, the frown on his face deepening. While he could dismiss Erda from the project - and Amar as well… Part of him would rather that not happen. Both of them were incredibly talented geneticists and incredibly useful to him.

"… There is also the fact that we've been getting some rather… Unusual readings from Primarch Twenty's pod. It's abilities keep us from doing a visual check of it without removing it from the gestation pod entirely, I would advise caution in twenty's case." The geneticist warned The Emperor, frowning a little as well.

"Hmm? No, their readings are fine. They're a perfectly healthy set of twins." The Emperor corrected, placing one hand on the glass of Nine's pod, the other on Eight's as he sent a psychic wave of calm and peace their way, to get the little ones to stop thrashing and crying in their pods. He wasn't expecting three new minds brush clumsily up against his own in response, filled with innocent curiosity and fear. The emperor again pulsed calm-care-safety to the three fussing infant Primarchs. Fifteen - who he had most contact with - settled down immediately. Nine fussed for a couple more seconds before settling down. Eight, from whom the most concerning visions of chaos-tainted Astartes had come from fussed until he reached out to eight's mind once again and sent more soothing thoughts and feelings to the very fussy dark-haired baby. Eight finally settled down.

"… Oh. When do you want to begin decanting, sire?" Amar asked, slightly taken aback at his answer.

"I will need to ensure that the wing of the palace for the twenty of them is fully furnished and baby-proofed… Decant them in two weeks, beginning with One. I will increase the security around these labs and the Gellar field that protect them from outside warp influence. Three full squads of Custodes will be at each location, and I will have Valdor be watching over them directly. Do not interfere with their protective details." The emperor ordered "Back to your standard duties. Eight, Nine and Fifteen are already back in their slumbering states…" He let his voice soften and warm a little as he looked upon Erda, who was still rocking a sleeping Fourteen in her arms. Something about the sight stirred something very old in his heart briefly, but there was much to do, and she was a potential future traitor to his glorious cause. "Erda, the Primarchs' rooms aren't ready yet. Fourteen will need to go back into his pod for his own safety."

Erda sighed, cuddling Fourteen a little closer (the little Primarch whining wordlessly a little in his sleep) before nodding in agreement "You're right. Alright, sweetie, time to go back into the pod. Remember, mama loves you and your brothers." She pressed a kiss to it's forehead as two members of Fourteen's team opened it's gestation pod and brought it over for Erda to lower the tiny general into, which she did without complaint.

[astersofthesky]

I have been so used to hearing L's dub voice in my head (whenever i read fics) and also whenever I watch clips that it genuinely shocked me when i heard the "I am L" scene in japanese and how different they sounded alongside the implications in the attitude of their characters.

L's sub voice holds a natural polite tone normal for the japanese whilst maintaining an air of professionalism and authority. His tone does not sound "condescending" too when he told the task force about how they would've died if he was kira. It was respectful although you can hear the slight disappointment in his voice, as if he's trying not to let it shown out of tact.

Additionally, the way jpn sub! L spoke the "Let's show Kira that we're willing to risk our lives, because justice will prevail." scene sounds encouraging to say the least. He was clearly driven by personal reasons ("But I will win in the end.") but even so, he was speaking in a "we" sense, like he was giving the task force some acknowledgement for their efforts and then pushing them to do better in the investigation.

The dubbed version of this scene, on the other hand, gives a feeling that L like meeting and working with the task force is more of a "chore" rather than of extra help. The perpetually tired tone of dub!L made the "Please don't give out your names so casually." scene translate to "Gosh, they're so stupid." It's both mockery and a warning. Atleast, that's how I interpreted it.

He lets his authority known by the task force without coating it. For example, the "I want to show kira that we're all risking our lives if that's what it takes, because justice will prevail no matter what" scene is very authoritative. Note on the emphasis on "I WANT," like L's telling the team "Yes, we will but under MY orders."

Now this isn't a hate on the death note dub version. I loved the dubbed voice for L and i do believe it also fits him. You could say I was just surprised at how a slight change of tone and delivery could change a scene so much.

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Hi! Congratulations on your milestone 😊

I would really like to see something with Spencer x Reader and Blinding Lights by The Weeknd! ❤️

Hello my love! I’ve wanted to write a fic based on this song for so long! Set in place of 3.16 Elephant’s Memory.

Send me a song lyric from my list to celebrate my follower milestone 🎵

Blinding Lights

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Summary - Spencer is ten months sober and struggling to ward off his cravings. When a case takes the team to his hometown, he knows there’s only one face that can keep him from falling off the wagon.

CW - heavy angst, hopeful ending, past drug use, thoughts of relapse, Spencer is just really sad, brief mention of a bad past relationship, tears.

WC - 3.8k

The golden medallion watched him thoughtfully from the dresser, the way any inanimate object could. He could feel the judgement rolling of it in waves, hearing its sickly sweet commentary as he stared unblinking at the opposite wall.

You’re not strong enough, it goaded him. You can’t do this alone. Relapse is inevitable. 

Of course he knew a piece of metal couldn’t think, couldn’t chastise him, didn’t have its own voice to vocalise these vicious words. It wasn’t sentient. It was a coin, a simple gold chip. And anyway, the taunting voice following him around like a rain cloud sounded too much like his own for it to be anything other than his own intrusive thoughts. 

His cell phone was next to him, tucked against his stomach as he lay in the foetal position atop the scratchy hotel bed sheet. 

Since having to cut his meeting at Beltway short and joining the team for the case less than twelve hours ago, he’d tried calling the same number fifty two times. 

Fifty two times he’d called and fifty two times he’d gotten the same monotonous voice in response. 

The number you dialled has been disconnected. 

Yet it didn’t stop him from calling the same number over and over until his thumb was numb and the beeping continued to sound in his ears long after he’d hung up. 

It was said that insanity was doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Did he really think that after fifty two phone calls the line would become magically reconnected just because he was so persistent? 

He wasn’t surprised exactly, but he was disappointed. It had been more years than he could count since he’d last tried to call that number. 

No, that wasn’t true, Spencer knew exactly how many years it had been, he knew how many minutes it had been since he last heard your voice. 

Five years, two months, sixteen days. 

He’d been standing in your doorway bidding you his final goodbye before he flew to Virginia to start work at the BAU. You’d said you’d stay in touch and you had. For a time at least. And then life simply got in the way. 

But today of all days when he was, as the literature put it, craving, for the first time in ten months of sobriety he needed to hear your voice. He needed to hear your dulcet tones on the other end of his phone telling him it would be alright. 

And to make even more signs point towards you, the case had taken them to his hometown of Las Vegas. 

He didn’t know for a fact that you still lived here but there was something in his gut that told him you were close by. He could feel your aura, sense you were within his grasp but just out of reach. 

Without so much as blinking, he blindly reached for the dresser next to the bed and felt around until his fingers brushed over that taunting gold medallion. 

He tucked it into his palm, squeezing so tightly it would surely leave indentations in his hand. It was meant to be a token to aid him, to keep him focused for the next two months when he got his own. 

But it was simply serving as a reminder of his addiction and how much he would give to get high right now. 

The dilaudid didn’t just allow for his escape from reality but it also offered him a reprieve from his perpetual loneliness. Spencer had been on his own for so long, fighting battles solo against demons who always seemed to win as of late. 

Sin City had never felt as cold and lonely as it did right now. 

Still clutching the chip in one hand he used his other to pick up his phone. He pulled up his call history whilst moving as little as humanly possible. 

But this time he didn’t call your disconnected line. 

He put the device on speaker and held it in his hand, finally closing his sore and tired eyes as he listened to it ring. 

He counted four dial tones until his call was answered. 

“Boy wonder?” Garcia’s tone didn’t hide her confusion. “It’s late, I thought you’d all called it a night?” 

“It’s not about the case.” He barely recognised the sound coming out of his lips and judging by the long pause down the line, Penelope didn’t either. 

“Ok. What’s up?” She sounded concerned, it was nothing new. 

Since the team discovered his addiction it was the same tone they’d all used on him. It was growing tiresome. 

“Can you find someone for me? Like if I gave you a name could you find out where they live?” 

Another stretch of silence met his ears but he knew Garcia was still there. He exhaled through his nose and forced his exhausted limbs to straighten out, hearing the clicking of joints that shouldn’t be as worn down at his age. 

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, holding in a groan deep in his lungs as he got himself into a sitting position. 

The medallion was still pressuring aggressively into his palm. 

“You know I can, Reid.” Garcia finally spoke. “But you’ve got to tell me what this is about. If I’m going to help you, you have to be honest with me.” 

The truth was that Spencer felt like he was drowning. During daylight hours he was just about capable of keeping his head above water but in the night was when he started slipping beneath the surface. 

The whole team was worried about him, hadn’t stopped worrying about him relapsing, worrying about his monsters out running him. 

If Garcia wouldn’t give him the information he needed, it was likely ten months was where his sobriety ended. 

“I need to see an old…friend.” Now was not the time to be going into detail. “It’s important.” 

It wasn’t as though he deliberately kept you a secret from his team, he just never felt like talking about it. If he talked about you then all the pain would come flooding back to him, the waves of heartbreak likely to wash him away to sea for good. 

But still, in the midst of undoubtedly the worst time of his life, you were the only person that had a hope of making it better. You’d been there holding his hand when he’d made the decision to have his mother committed, you’d been his rock in that horrible time of his life. 

He knew when he was like this, you were the only one he trusted enough. You were the only person who had ever seen him, all of him, both metaphorically and physically. 

“Reid,” Garcia sighed as she spoke his name and he knew exactly what words would leave her mouth next before she vocalised them. “Are you ok?” 

Are you ok?

Such a flippant and vague question, but one in which he’d been asked more times than he cared to count over the past year. 

And it wasn’t just the question, it was the tone that went along with it. The pity veiled in a cloak of concern, the kind of concern you only had for a person on the brink. 

“No.” He confessed, loosening his grip on the chip maybe in the same way he was steadily loosening his grip on reality. “But that’s why I need you to do this for me.”

The desperation, the agony of his fractured mental state must have come through in his voice because it was only a second or two before Garcia replied.

“Ok.” She agreed and he heard the distinctive clicking of keys down the phone line. “Give me a name.”

***

It failed to register with Spencer that it was gone midnight when he emerged like a shadow from his hotel room, creeping down the corridors as if he were nothing more than an apparition. Limbs moved of their own accord with the address Garcia had given him burnt into his memory. 

He found himself behind the wheel of one of the hired SUV’s, foot hugging the gas pedal as he sped in the direction of your home. The gold medallion sat on the dashboard almost like a reminder that this wasn’t a venture to buy drugs. 

As much as he wished it was. 

He knew the roads in Vegas like the back of his hand and he traversed them on autopilot. One road blurred into another, his focus waning. 

All he could really make out through his tired and heavy eyes was the assault of light around every turn, seemingly getting brighter with each new street he drove down. 

It soon became blinding, piercing his retinas as somehow he continued to drive, but all he could see was light. It all felt like some kind of fever dream, the haze that shrouded his brain was so familiar somehow. 

It was almost as if he was high. But that wasn’t possible, was it? He’d remember if he’d used, wouldn’t he? 

No, he couldn’t be high, he was simply fatigued. He was exhausted from work, drained from the constant internal battle he was fighting over his abstinence. 

He just needed to see your face, to rid his vision of these damn lights that seemed determined to impede his vision. 

He never could see clearly since you’d been gone. 

Somehow he ended up parking the SUV on a quiet and sleepy road and then once again, his limbs moving without his brain telling them to do so, he was climbing out of the vehicle, up the front steps of a building, and knocking on the door. 

He didn’t know what he planned on saying when, or if you opened the door. He hadn’t exactly stopped to think this through, if he had done there was no way he would have just shown up at your door after five years. He had more sense than that. At least he usually did. 

All he knew was that if he didn’t see your face he had absolutely no doubt he would relapse. It was an incredible amount of pressure to put on one person, his sobriety rested on your shoulders and you were none the wiser. 

He rubbed his palm aggressively against his left eye socket while he waited, still someone seeing those blinding lights long after they’d disappeared. 

Time had ceased to be relevant to Spencer long ago and so he had no idea how long it was he was standing in your stoop, rubbing his eye as if to somehow erase any trace of light still poisoning his retinas. 

But eventually the door creaked open, slowly, cautiously; it was the middle of the night and of course you would be sceptical about someone knocking on your door. 

He dropped his hand back to his side as you appeared from behind the door, your hands clutching the wood, ready to slam it closed again if you perceived a threat. 

Your brow was furrowed and you were rolling your bottom lip between your teeth. But a fraction of a second later he saw the realisation flood your features, the recognition of the man on the other side of your door in the middle of the night. 

Your frown faded at the same time your eyes widened in an animated fashion. Your jaw fell, leaving your mouth agape while you sucked in a thick breath. The hands that had been clutching the doorframe fell to your sides and you simply stared at him unblinking. 

“Uh, hi Y/N.” He offered you a meek shrug which told you without the use of his words that he had no idea why he was here. 

He stuffed his hands inside of his pockets and brushed his fingertips across the chip in an attempt to keep him grounded but it failed. 

You remained silent, taking him in. He’d aged, of course he had, so had you. But in your mind he was still the twenty-one year old saying his goodbyes as he left you forever in pursuit of his own dreams, in the process destroying your own. 

But it wasn’t just the fact he’d aged, he almost seemed like a completely different person from the one you remembered; a ghost of his former self. 

The dark circles he always wore under his eyes were blacker than you recalled, a stark contrast again his sallow, alabaster skin. His eyes always held so much emotion, like his heart lived through his pupils but right now they were vacant, staring through you rather than at you. 

His lips were cracked and split from profuse chewing, something you knew he only did when he was nervous or upset. His shoulders drooped, his neck retreated inside his sweater as though he just wanted to disappear inside it all together. 

You took a few breaths, trying to hurriedly reconcile all the emotions running rampant within you so you could move past them and focus on this broken man on your doorstep. 

“Spencer,” you swallowed as you spoke. “What are you…why are you…?” 

“I’ve been trying to call. I’ve been…” his voice was trembling and trailed off to try and correct it, whilst also trying to clutch at the right words. “I’ve been on my own for long enough.” 

The last part of his sentence was whispered, so quiet you had to strain your ears to hear him. 

He hung his head, looking down at his feet as he didn’t want to see your reaction to his pathetic words. He grasped the medallion tightly, it still didn’t help him to feel rooted. 

But then he felt your delicate fingers brushing against the underside of his jaw, gently guiding his face back up until your eyes met. Even when they did, you kept your hand on him and your simple touch was everything he needed to feel tethered again. 

It was as if you realised this too, as your lip started curling into a soft smile and when you removed your hand from under his chin you were quick to place it instead on his wrist. 

“You wanna come in?” You tapped his arm, causing him to dislodge his hand from his pocket. 

He nodded a little too frantically, sending his messy curls bouncing into his eyes. But he didn’t seem to care. 

With his hand free out of his pocket he hurriedly caught your own hand and the grip in which he held you showed off his desperation. 

You offered him another smile before leading him inside by his hand. And somehow just thanks to your touch, he felt whole once more. 

***

You made some chamomile tea while Spencer sat on your couch, eyes scouring the room, taking in every inch of your life. He committed everything to memory, drew a map of your home on his heart. 

By the time you returned Spencer had made himself comfortable, his converse tucked neatly next to the couch and he sat with legs criss crossed, a big plush sofa cushion resting in his lap. He was toying with something shiny between his fingers but he quickly pocketed it when he saw you coming back. 

You handed Spencer one of the mugs which he took with a small, tight lipped smile of thanks. You sat down on the other end of the couch, leaving ample space between the two of you. 

Spencer took a sip and if he noticed it was scalding hot it didn’t even seem to register with him. He cradled the mug in his hands and sighed. 

“I don’t know.” He croaked, barely able to maintain eye contact with you for more than half a second. 

“You don’t know what?” You replied, giving him a slightly curious look. 

“You want to know why I’m here. You were inevitably going to ask. And the answer is: I don’t know.” He sipped more of the tea. 

“Ok.” There was no point in following that up, no use reminding him of how many years it had been because he knew that better than you did. 

“I tried to call.” He said for the second time. “A lot.” 

“I had to change my number a while back. I had some issues with an ex-boyfriend. He got…obsessed after the break up. It’s ok now though.” You shrugged. 

Spencer noticeably winced, hating himself for not being able to be there for you during that time. It also had a little to do with the idea of you being with someone who wasn’t him. 

He’d asked you to go with him. When he moved to Virginia, he’d asked you to go with him. But you had a life in Vegas, you had dreams of your own that you weren’t willing to give up in order to chase his. 

And along the way you’d met someone else, of course you had. Just because he hadn’t even so much as looked at another person in the last five years, it didn’t mean you had to do the same. 

But secretly, he’d wished you had. 

He sipped his tea, his heart constricting inside of his chest at the thought of you with another man. You were each other's firsts; you were Spencer’s only. 

When he didn’t speak again you put your mug down on the coffee table and scooted a little closer to him. He could feel the heat radiating off of you. 

Spencer hadn’t been able to see clearly since you’d been gone, but now as he looked at you it was like a thick fog had lifted from in front of his eyes. 

“Spence?” You brought him back to the present, eyes blinking at you several times. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” 

He copied you and put his own mug next to yours on the coffee table before lacing his hands together on the cushion in his lap. 

“I’ve been…unwell.” He mused, remembering the terminology Ethan had used to describe his addiction. “I mean, I was unwell but I got better. And recently I guess I’ve been feeling…sick again.” 

You tentatively reached out and placed your hand on top of his and he felt so instantly relaxed at the feeling of your skin on his. 

“And you came here because…”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I just knew if I didn’t see you I would have done something stupid tonight. I…I’ve missed you.”

Of course he’d known he missed you before this moment, but Spencer had long ago compartmentalised those emotions. He tried not to dwell on them because if he did he probably wouldn’t make it out of bed most mornings. 

Your absence had left a hole in his life. He’d tried filling it with work, and for the most part it had been effective. 

But being beaten to death and back again in Hankel’s cabin, all those emotions managed to break free of the cage in which he’d held them captive. 

Dilaudid helped mute them, helped him escape from the loneliness he’d harboured for five years. Being sober again, he’d been forced to feel everything. 

You briefly squeezed his hands before softening your grip, unaware of just how much your touch was soothing him. 

“It’s been so long, Spencer.” You breathed out, thumb caressing his knuckles. “I missed you so much and now you’re here…” Now you’re here I never want to be apart from you again. 

“I know.” He nodded, knowing what you weren’t saying. “Me too.” 

A quiet understanding passed between the two of you while you unlaced his hands so you could entwine your fingers with his. 

All the pent up emotions clung to the walls of the room like stale cigarette smoke. Everything that had ever been left unsaid between the two of you being spoken without the use of words. 

You sat like this for some time until, still keeping your hands interlaced, you stood up, tugging Spencer to do the same. 

He let you lead him by the hand towards your bedroom where you let go of him so you could lie down on top of the made bed. He took a few seconds of contemplation before an encouraging smile from you convinced him to do the same. 

You laid on your backs but your hand soon found his again and he held on so tightly as if afraid you might float away. 

His other hand slipped inside of his pocket and he pulled out the medallion which he cupped inside of his palm. 

With you there by his side, holding his hand, the chip was much less taunting of him than it had been earlier in the night. 

It was never supposed to be an omen, but a talisman, and now he was seeing it for what it really was. 

He had two months until he would receive his own, and laying next to you in your bed he finally believed he could achieve that. 

He rolled his head to the side on the pillow and you did the same, a soft smile cloying to your lips. 

“What…what happens tomorrow?” He couldn’t help but ask, always in need of answers to questions that didn’t always need asking. 

You gently squeezed his hand as a small exhale left your parted lips. 

“Let’s worry about that in the morning, ok?” 

“I wish I could.” He rolled his lip between his teeth. “Maybe coming here was a bad idea. I don’t know if I can just leave again this time.” 

“Spence,” you shuffled a little closer to him. “We’ll figure it out, ok? But if you think for a second I’m just going to be able to let you walk away again, well for a genius, that’s just dumb.” 

Spencer couldn’t help the chuckle that left his lips as his heart soared at your words. He brushed his fingers over yours whilst doing the same to his chip. 

He exhaled a slightly shaky breath whilst turning completely onto his side and opening his palm so you could see the coin.

“It’s not mine.” He was quick to say. “I still have two more months to make my year.” 

He didn’t need to say more than that. You mirrored his position and took the medallion from his open palm. 

He wanted you to have all the facts, to have total transparency between you so you knew exactly what you were getting yourself into. But he underestimated just how much you still knew him. 

“I figured.” You whispered. “You’ll get there. And if you’ll let me, I’d like to help you.” 

Once again his heart soared, his whole body feeling lighter than air. Tears he didn’t know had sprung to his eyes, started rolling down his cheeks but yet, he was smiling. 

“I’d like that very much.” He nodded against the pillow. 

You fell into silence after that and soon Spencer’s tired eyes started to flutter closed.

You’d been the one to show him how to love and along the way he’d forgotten. But now he was starting to remember it all. He’d been on his own for long enough and maybe, just maybe, you could show him how to love all over again. 

Being In your presence, the voices in his head were silenced, the lights weren’t quite so blinding. And with your touch, he could finally sleep. 

[murfpersonalblog]

My 2 Cents on the WWDITS Finale - 9/10

I LOVE WWDITS, but ngl I didn't care much for Season 6. I barely laughed, and found most of the eps depressing. I was hoping for more overarching plot threads, and felt disappointed & my expectations were too high. I loved S5, but I think the "plot" ended there, and S6 felt all over the place--which I guess was the point. As such, I LOVED the finale, cuz of this right here:

Jerry's introduction and the 1950s footage cemented that these silly vampires are perfectly fine doing the same thing they've always done for all eternity.

On the one hand, they are stuck in their ways, from their outdated clothes to their accents to their hobbies--even Colin Robinson, the most modern one of them all, is trapped in a perpetual 100-yr loop and never remembers anything that happened in his past lives (unless he checks the archives he's hermetically sealed in his basement vault).

However, the bit about them having learned nothing at all was a red herring. Cuz ALL of these vamps actually HAVE grown & learned a great deal.

Laszlin's Monster--a creature with real emotions & a heart/soul, who is WELCOME in their family--is right there watching footage of Laszlo's previous failed attempts to create life from death. Laszlo AND Nadja are visibly cringing at how disastrous Laszlo's experiments used to be. But S4-S6 gave us the beautiful Laszlo-Colin partnership. Laszlin's Monster says "I LOVE BOTH MY FATHERS, NOW KISS."

Laszlo had been doing everything by himself and failed--it was only once he got off his high horse and finally accepted help from Colin (the person he'd once looked down, then had to RAISE as his father in S4) that he finally achieved a scientific miracle. Laszlo & Colin have been my fave characters this entire series, and it paid off BIG TIME.

Nadja's arc was more of her coming full circle as the only sensible vampire in the room, with very simple yet perfectly effective solutions for all the knots they (AND we the viewers) tangle ourselves in:

She does the exact same quick problem-solving in the pilot--which the finale's end credits even show the vamps watching old footage of--when Nandor's blabbing about hygiene, and Nadja's bored out of her skull (cuz she knows they can just label their corpses with Sharpies):

And ofc the "perfect" solution leads to the elephant in the room: Nandermo.

IMO Guillermo was most interesting as a vampire slayer. His character arc bored/irritated me the most whenever he DID get overly ambitious--trying to lead the Vampiric Council through manipulating Nandor in S3; and working at Canon Capital in S6. I was happy to see him & his cousin team up to save the vamps in 6x9, cuz that's literally what Memo's best at, cuz he IS a killer--of vamps. I actually WANTED a whole season with Nandermo cosplaying as Batman & Robin--it's so effing adorable!

Memo THINKS he wants bigger & better things, and maybe he would've thrived as a full time analyst at Canon Capital--but is that what he REALLY wanted? Ofc not! He's gleeful like a little kid at Xmas when Nandor lets him finally sit in his coffin.

Cuz even though Memo's matured & grown enough to realize that BEING a vampire literally sucks, he still loves the ALLURE of vampires. He's THRILLED to finally be allowed to sit with Nandor in his coffin, and is IMPRESSED/AMAZED that there really is an underground lair. He's STILL that kid from the pilot in love with being Antonio Banderas' Armand from Interview with the Vampire!

Nandor has always been the Marius to Guillermo's Armand. The promise of adventure & excitement is still there in the end. The finale's a whole NEW beginning for Nandermo, and Memo's happy as a clam to follow Nandor's lead on a new series of hijinks in the secret lair. Like he tells Nandor: "You'll ALWAYS be 'Master' to me."

IMO, the one who's MOST stuck on his ways & never changing is Memo. Season after season he leaves & comes back; even in the finale he fakes like he'll never see Nandor again just to give the film crew good "closure" footage. So I reckon he's gonna grow old in that house, cuz he can't ever bring himself to leave for long--he needs them as much as they need him, codependency at its finest. Memo'll probably end up just like Benjy, Nandor's elderly S2 Familiar that Nandor made a vamp in his old decrepit age.

(WWDITS thinks they're SO SLICK with the Benjy-Benji reference!)

It won't be cuz Memo wants to be a vamp, but cuz he's old AF and afraid of dying & leaving the vamps behind to go on without him. Nothing from this season/finale gives me confidence that Memo will actually move on, but I don't think that has to be a bad thing, if moving on is NOT what will make Memo AND Nandor happiest--which is obvs from how sad Nandor was at the prospect of them NOT working together as Batman & Robin.

Nandermo love & need each other, the finale confirmed it, and I'm satisfied.