#[human. human like ears. he smiles.]

[erinwantstowrite]

im glad your burce is a good person (or at least a good dad)

it's insane how bad of a person bruce can be in some of the comics.

ig bruce is such a hard character to write good that dc themselves can't do it 😔/j

i feel like they keep making bruce a bad father because they keep hiring writers who don't know him like at all nor the core values of someone with a good heart. like yeah humans make mistakes, but you know what heroes that people should look up to don't do?? beat their children, harm their children, belittle their children, etc etc. i think batman's most valuable trait should be the gentleness in which he treats children, especially his own. give me a Bruce who is so nervous about his kids doing anything that his flaw is him being overprotective, not *abusive.* because an abusive Batman is not Batman, and he's not a hero. if he is written as an abusive person, then he is no longer written as a hero. they can't have it both ways!!

[mrmeepsmadmind]

i love when ppl draw bumblebee like the happy little creachure he is but also i love when people draw bumblebee like he's had 500 beers in the last 1 hour and still the pain won't even ebb

[fairylando]

if you ever asked yourself what fairylando means... this video is exactly what it means.

[5hrignold]

stimming

[james--murray]

[He stares at his now..enhanced reflection. Blood pouring down his face and a buzzing in his ears]

[alittleemo]

crazy to have a crush on someone in radio bc wdym i just heard your voice in my car. no words genuinely.

[holeforzenin]

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ “I DON’T NEED GOOGLE, MY HUSBAND KNOWS EVERYTHING”

You’re sitting on the kitchen counter in an oversized shirt— his shirt. Your legs are swinging idly while you’re scrolling on your phone as he cooks. “Do you think cats can see ghosts?” you asked aloud, eyes squinting at a Reddit thread.

Nanami didn’t even look up from where he stood at the stove. His sleeves are neatly rolled up to his forearms, his tie loose around his neck and his glasses were sliding slightly down his nose. “They can. Their pupils can pick up ultraviolet light, which some believe contributes to sensing energies humans can’t”.

You blinked, taken aback by how he knew the answer to such a useless question like that. “Okay, how do you know that?”

He finally looked over at you with one brow raised. “Because you asked me that last year at 1 a.m. after watching that horror movie. You were scared to go to the bathroom”.

You flushed in embarrassment from the memory, making a face as you tossed a kitchen towel at him. “Shut up, I forgot”.

“You always forget”. He caught the towel effortlessly and set it aside, walking over to you with that steady, unhurried pace that made your stomach flip. “That’s why you don’t need Google, right?”

You smiled, your eyes bright as you looked at him. “Exactly. I don’t need Google. My husband knows everything”.

“Hm,” he murmured, slipping his hands to your hips and standing between your parted legs. “Maybe. I do have a few things memorized by now”.

His lips brushed your temple, his nose dragging down your cheek to the spot just below your ear. You melted instinctively, leaning into the comfort of his touch. “Like how you always get pouty when I win an argument,” he whispered against you, softly kissing your jaw. “Or how you kick your feet when you’re excited”.

You gasped playfully. “That’s not knowledge, that’s slander”.

“And yet…” He lifted your chin with two fingers, thumb brushing your bottom lip as he stared into your eyes. “I know what this means, too”.

He kissed you softly and passionately, like time didn’t exist beyond the press of his lips against yours. You sighed into him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he deepened it, his tongue teasing yours with lazy confidence as his palm splayed warm and heavy on each side of your thighs.

“I think,” you murmured between kisses, “you just like proving me right”.

He chuckled lowly, voice deep but still soft as always. “Mm. And what am I proving now?”

“That you do know everything,” you breathed in desperation, tugging gently at his loosened tie. “Especially when it comes to me”.

That was all the invitation he needed.

Nanami eased you back, laying you down across the countertop with a careful hand behind your head, kissing down your throat as he nudged the hem of your shirt up past your hips. No panties. Of course. You knew he liked easy access.

“You did this on purpose,” he muttered, dragging his knuckles along the inside of your thigh.

“Because I knew you’d come home early”.

“And what does that say about you?” he asked, smirking.

“That I know you, too”.

He hummed softly, slipping two fingers through your folds and groaning softly at how wet you already were. “Smart girl”.

You whimpered as he teased your clit, lazy circles designed to drive you insane. His lips met yours again, his other hand pressing your wrists gently above your head.

“You always ask the most ridiculous questions,” he muttered, lining up against your wet entrance without warning, which is crazy because you didn’t even notice when he reached into his pants and pulled his cock out till you felt the weight of him pressing against you. It’s so thick and hard and sooo warm that you squirmed. “But when it matters— when your body’s desperate for something real, you don’t need answers”.

He slid into you slowly, making you gasp at his size, your back arching by the stretch and your legs are wrapping tightly around him.

“You just need me”.

You nodded, completely breathless. “Always you”.

Nanami kissed you like a promise like he had all the answers in the world— and you didn’t need a single one of them as long as he was yours.

[chuluoyi]

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄, 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄

- zayne x reader

husband and wife, at the pinnacle of their love. on a night filled with wonders, you will know that he sees only you and everything that you are

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—fluff, explicit smut: slightly rough & drunken sex, fingering, missionary. you and zayne have a daughter (her name is meirin!)

note: god what have i written... the anniversary banner pv made me do it T^T anyhow, this is also a direct prequel to the upcoming angst fic in the name of love :))

“Whoa, so that’s Dr. Zayne and his wife...”

Soft whispers rippled through the crowd the moment you and your husband stepped into the pristine ballroom, all eyes subtly drawn to your arrival.

Tonight, you were accompanying Zayne to Akso Hospital’s anniversary dinner party. His sharp gaze and immaculate three-piece suit made a striking impression. Naturally, you matched his sophistication in every way—your flowing black dress accentuated your figure, while your hair styled into an elegant updo.

A sight for sore eyes, that was what the two of you were.

“Mind your step,” he murmured softly, his voice reassuring as the two of you gracefully ascended the stairs. His left arm wrapped around your shoulder, and you couldn’t help but notice the envious gazes of the ladies fixed on you.

“How does such a perfect couple even exist?”

“She’s so pretty… Of course, Dr. Zayne only wants the best.”

“Oh! And I’ve heard they already have a daughter too!”

A smile curled on your lips, a subtle boost of confidence washing over you as their murmurs reached your ears. You felt giddy too—on most days, you were a hunter in a life-and-death situations, rough and rugged. But tonight, draped in elegance and arm-in-arm with Zayne, you felt like a princess.

“Don’t smile that wide...” he suddenly whispered to your ears, a twinkle in his hazel eyes. “You’ll look like Meirin when she’s munching on her cookies.”

You shot him a frown. “Wha?”

“All those praises are going straight to your head.” Even in a prestigious event like this, Zayne couldn’t resist teasing you. “Sooner or later, it’ll get too big for me to handle.”

Fixing him with an unimpressed glare, you deadpanned, “Shush, you!”

When you reached the main hall, the buzz of conversation and clinking glasses filled the air, blending with the elegant music playing in the background. The hospital director, an elderly man with a warm smile, greeted you both along with his wife.

"Zayne, thank you for coming," he said, shaking your husband's hand and giving him a light pat on the shoulder. His gaze then turned to you. "Ah, this must be the stellar hunter wife of Dr. Zayne. You look absolutely radiant, madam."

"Ah, please don't call me that..." You mustered your most polished facade, supplying a soft, graceful laugh.

The director's wife grinned and added, "Why didn’t you bring your daughter here? Everyone’s looking forward to finally meet her already."

"She's a handful," Zayne immediately replied with a smile, his tone warm and affectionate. "And she gets fussy when her bedtime nears, so we decided to leave her with my in-laws tonight."

The director let out a hearty guffaw. "No matter how fussy she is, she must be really adorable with a mother this beautiful, eh?"

Throughout the night, it was a compliment you frequently heard. While you were flattered, a thought lingered in the back of your mind—what were your husband's true thoughts about all this attention to you?

Zayne was keenly aware of how captivating you were.

There was a surge of pride whenever he had you on his arm. Just like any man out there, he too wanted to show his hot wife off and flaunt her so everyone could see, as if saying: This is my woman.

But he too knew that it was in a human's nature to covet what they didn't have. And it was rightly proven when he stepped away for just a moment, only to return and find you engaged in conversation with a man.

The hospital director's son, no less.

"Miss, I've heard you're part of the Hunter Association?" he asked you inquisitively. "What a noble profession it is! Keeping all of us here safe on daily basis."

You responded demurely, "And those in Akso do the same, don’t they?"

Your conversation was harmless, and Zayne was a rational man, so he didn’t feel the need to intervene. He just made sure his gaze was on you every so often.

But when the director’s son began persistently offering you drinks, filling your glass time after time, Zayne's patience began to wear thin. The sight of the man’s insistence grated on him, stirring a possessive unease he couldn’t entirely ignore.

. . .

You could’ve sworn your vision swam a little after the third glass of alcohol. The warm buzz coursing through you also made everything seem a little brighter, and left you feeling just slightly off-balance.

"Miss, the white wine here is the best—" the man standing before you declared with a convincing grin, swirling the bottle in front of you. "Don't you want to try some?"

"Ah, no, sir..." you replied with a polite laugh, raising a hand in subtle refusal. "I've already had whiskey and gin just now—"

"Just a little! You really have to try it!"

You hesitated, heat creeping up your neck as the alcohol already coursing through your system made your cheeks flush. You didn’t even like alcohol much and only drank socially, but this was the very son of your husband's boss. Refusing outright seemed rude—

“Can you kindly not make her drink too much?”

Or so you thought, until your knight in three-piece suit suddenly stepped in and saved you from your plight.

Zayne’s tone was gentle yet firm, his words striking an authoritative balance. He flashed a placating smile. “My wife doesn’t have a very high tolerance.” Swiftly, he grabbed the glass from your hand and, without missing a beat, downed its contents in one go.

“If you’re looking for a drinking partner, let it be me instead.”

You knew better than anyone that your husband didn’t have a particularly high tolerance for alcohol either. Yet, for the next 30 minutes, you watched, equal parts impressed and concerned, as he matched the man drink for drink, deflecting further offers directed your way with a subtle, protective grace. Though Zayne’s words remained measured, you could see the flush creeping up his neck.

And soon, you’d witness just how far his limits had been pushed.

“Zayne! Are you alright?”

Worry laced your voice as you placed both hands on Zayne's cheeks, your brow furrowing in concern. Somehow or another you managed to drag your husband away and led him to the hotel room.

The warmth of his skin was unmistakable, and his face contorted in discomfort as the vertigo hit him full force. “Oh no, what have you done? Why did you even drink that much!?”

“I’m fine,” Zayne grumbled, his voice thick.

“You’re drunk!” You couldn't help but scold him as you started pulling off his coat and unbuttoning his shirt, trying to help him breathe easier. “You can’t even handle alcohol properly, and yet you’re trying to keep up with him...”

To Zayne, your voice somehow felt comforting. His mind was hazed, but your touch—your hand against his neck—felt like a cool splash of clarity.

His pretty wife... The dizziness was making it hard to stay upright, but the sight of you grounded him, and he instinctively leaned into you—

“Zayne—!”

You barely managed to catch his weight, instinctively wrapping your arms around him. He was so warm against you, his breath uneven, not to mention the slight tremor in his body. "Are you alright?!" you asked in a flurry. "Oh, let me get you some water—"

"You talk too much..." Zayne murmured, his words slurred as everything around him swayed.

Gripping your shoulder to steady himself, his unfocused gaze lingered on you, drawn to the curve of your lips, the delicate line of your neck, and the outline of your cleavage.

How can he have a wife this ravishing and do nothing?

And suddenly, he was sober. Very sober.

Or maybe not. It was simply just him finally giving in to his desires.

In one go, he seized your wrist, yanking you against him with sudden force— and with a quick tilt of your startled, precious face, he devoured your lips in heat.

"—!" It was like a spark igniting, burning through every thought. His mouth was urgent, demanding, as if he couldn’t wait another second to feel the rush of your closeness. His kiss was intoxicating—almost overwhelming—as he tangled his fingers in your hair, tilting your head to gain better access.

Zayne's hands moved to your back, pulling you into him, so close that the heat of his body pressed against yours. Then those sinful hands wandered to your hips, guiding you toward the desk. With reckless urgency, he swept everything off the surface, sending objects crashing to the floor with a sharp clang and made you sit on it.

"Ah, Zayne, you—!" You accidentally pushed him back, and he growled the moment your lips parted.

"Are you trying... to escape?" His gaze turned dark with lust, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes. "Why? Isn't this exactly how you wanted me to be...?"

In that moment, you gulped as your heart thundered in your chest. What was even happening now? How did it escalate into this?

You stuttered, eyes widened, "Z-Zayne..."

But your husband had shed all traces of his usual composed self. In the haze of his muddled thoughts, he was driven purely by need. He swiftly removed his glasses, tossing them aside without a second thought, and this time—

His lips went straight for your neck, which, unbeknownst to you, had looked so enticing to him all evening.

"Hahh..." His breathy grunts were hot against your skin and his touch no longer gentle but firm and possessive. His mouth moved with a mix of hunger and desperation, and you struggled to contain the moans as his hands slipped inside your dress, and—

A shiver ran down your spine when he spread your legs, and you couldn’t help the titillating gasp that escaped when inserted his two of his fingers in you all at once, edging you.

"Ungh, ngh! Hah—" Your body jerked and you clung to him, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. Zayne wasn't usually this brash, but tonight it was as if a screw had come loose.

"Louder," he commanded in your ear, and your heart pounded at his authoritative voice. He pushed his digits deeper as if punishing you, that you yelped. "Do not hold back."

He lifted you by your waist, effortlessly pressing you against the small table by the window. You were on the 20th floor, the world below far out of sight, but the thought that anyone might catch a glimpse was somehow... thrilling.

"I-I'm close—" you stammered, and the moment you did, your husband vigorously moved his fingers inside your squelching folds, "A-ah!"

The room felt smaller, the air thicker. The way your walls took his fingers alone made your thoughts scatter, and when you came undone on him, you latched onto him, your head resting against his chest as your breaths came in shaky, uneven gasps. "Z-Zayne... please..."

He pulled out his fingers, looked at your cum coating them, and brought them to your lips. You, still trembling, sucked the essence off with teary eyes.

Sweaty, disheveled, lips swollen and cheeks flushed... how he had reduced you into this state was gratifying.

Zayne’s gaze darkened, his breath heavy as he stared down at you. "Are you ready to take me now?"

You nodded.

He gave you a small smirk, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw gently. "Good girl."

He lifted you over to the bed, and you gasped in surprise as he tossed you onto the soft sheets, the motion quick but not unkind. You barely had time to react before his intense gaze locked onto yours, his presence domineering above you.

“Spread your legs.”

Was this man really your husband? Sometimes, you still struggled to reconcile the tender part of him and the man consumed by a unrestrained intensity before you now.

By now you had swallowed all shame and did so. You wanted to look away, but then unable to when the sight before you caught your breath—

All the while, he had his eyes on you. Zayne pulled at his tie with deliberate intent, then he shed his suit pieces, casting them to the floor with a casual abandon, before undoing the remaining buttons of his shirt, revealing his bare chest altogether.

Your husband looks so hot. The way he gazed at you throughout it all too...

He glanced at the space between your legs. “Wider.”

You complied, letting your face burn impossibly hotter, anticipating him.

He eased in slowly, starting with just the tip. You whimpered at the intrusion.

"Hurts?" he questioned with a frown.

"No," you refuted quickly, desire too burning in your gaze as you met his eyes. "I can take more."

You arched your back as Zayne sank deeper, his full length filling you. A moan tumbled from your lips as your walls clenched in response, and he pushed himself completely inside you.

"Hah..." You inhaled sharply, giving yourself a moment to adjust to his entire length, and seeing you like that, your husband cradled the side of your face with his palm.

"So beautiful..." Zayne whispered, his glazed gray-hazel eyes fixed on your spent face. His other hand clasped yours, pinning it beside your head. "My wife... is so incredibly beautiful."

It was heart-fluttering to know that your husband found you pretty. Everyone might compliment you the same way, but his were the only one that truly mattered. After seven years of marriage, your heart still skipped a beat every time he held your gaze like this.

Without warning, Zayne started to move his hips. Your moans got louder and unabashed as his movements were slow at first, before he picked up the pace and thrusted in and out of you with fervor.

"Ahhh!" You threw your head back as his thick cock messily dragged itself against your walls. In, out, in out— Stars began to blur your vision, your nails digging into his shoulder as you reached for him.

You could see that excited glint in his eyes, the lust exploding at the sight of you. He watched you intently, savoring the way unbound desire twisted your face, each mewl you made filling the air. Your thoughts turned into puzzle pieces—

Thrust. So full, you are.

Thrust. What if... this time— you become pregnant again?

Thrust. That would be... nice. You can call it “New Years’ baby.”

Everything was incoherent. Teetering on the edge of consciousness, each hit to that one spot sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, pushing you to the brink of tears and screams.

Then, unexpectedly, he reached his climax first. His cum shot through, filling your womb to the brim in spurts after spurts, and you cried, trembling beneath him. Your release followed suit though, and you went limp in the aftermath.

Zayne collapsed on top of you and you wrapped your arms around him, burying your head in the crook of his neck, his name still falling off your lips as a whisper in his ear, a gentle song laced within moans. He kissed your neck, your shoulder, panting heavily against you.

“I love you.”

The world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you in a tangled web of desire.

The first thing he heard was your whimper.

With a groan, Zayne cracked his eyes open the morning after, instantly recognizing the dull ache in his head—it was a hangover. But before he could press his hands to his temples, his gaze fell on you, curled up in a blanket next to him.

And the whimper came again, and it tugged at something deep inside him.

“What’s... wrong?” he asked in a groggy voice, turning toward you, his hand instinctively reaching for you despite the pounding headache. “Are you alright...?”

You blinked up at him, a flicker of resentment in your gaze, and Zayne gathered you into his arms. The events of last night came back to him in fragments, and realization dawned on him.

“Are you... sore?” he murmured, concern edging his tone.

“I hate you,” you retorted in a scratchy voice, mushing your head in his shoulder. Zayne widened in slight surprise, pulling you closer into his embrace.

“Is that it...? I’m sorry...”

He gently patted your head and back, trying to soothe you. The sight of you—vulnerable and distressed—made his heart tighten with a pang of guilt. Just how rough had he been with you last night?

“There, there, it’ll pass...” he said quietly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “It’s normal... because we went longer and more vigorous than usual... Probably just mild irritation in your—”

“Don’t pull medical facts on me,” you muttered sullenly, weakly punching his chest. A smile made its way to his face at your mini attack.

“But it’s true though?”

How endearing. He couldn’t help but feel a warmth in his chest, his heart softening at the sight of you, even in your grumpy state.

And in that moment, Zayne thought, nothing could've possibly ever shatter his world ever again.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Danny wakes up in a cage in the Batcave as a human and thinks to himself “well that’s not a good sign.”

Big bad bat encountered him in the caves near the Batcave by finding him half dunked in the Lazarus pits under Gotham during a routine check. He put the boy in a cage as a precaution, but was otherwise planning on investigating then returning him to his rightful place.

Danny does not know that.

He proceeds to search his pockets (phase his hand into his body disguised as reaching into his pockets) and pulls out a tool kit, systematically disassembles, exits, then reassembles the cage.

And walks out.

Now the bats are hunting the streets for this engineering escape artist while Danny is just hanging out at a newsstand reading up on the universe Clockwork had sent him to check out.

"Woah! What happened here?" Duke gasps from the staircase. He is wearing his school uniform, but upon checking his backpack, he realizes his chemistry textbook is missing, likely somewhere in the Batcave after his latest monitor duty.

He had been multitasking by shooting out questions to the rest of the bats as they patrolled. Due to an injured wrist, Duke had been benched from his regular day shift (Jason offered to cover for him), and watching screens had been the only way Bruce had been willing to let him participate.

That quickly became boring, however, since Oracle was much faster than he was, and Duke had a tough time focusing on screens. He's never been one to enjoy too much screen time - he didn't have the attention span for it.

This meant that Duke had not been in the cave for the past three nights, after he struck a deal with Bruce to let him catch up on some much-needed rest instead, provided he could continue his civilian work during the day.

Imagine his surprise to find the Batcave in disarray, with almost everything taken apart, piece by piece, including the Batcomputer and the dinosaur. Bruce, Damian, Dick, Jason, Tim, and Cass were currently attempting to gather the pieces and reassemble everything, which seemed hard given all the little pieces that had shattered about.

"Some kid with a screwdriver," Jason grunted, holding up various nails towards the light. In front of the anti-hero were five distinct piles of nails and bolts, each separated by type and size, which he carefully sorted from a large bucket.

"What?"

Tim looked up from a mountain of wires, some of which were dropped over his shoulders, around his head, and a few were entangled with his leg, as he tried to untangle everything. He looked as crazed as he did the year he decided he was going to put up all the Christmas lights by himself, only to realize how large Wayne Manor really was. "Two nights ago, we found a civilian unconscious in cave sector T-Y13. He was practically radioactive with Lazarus pits water, so Bruce had the bright idea to put him in a cage as a precaution. The civillain woke up while Bruce was away so he couldn't explain that he was not kidnapped, realized he was in a cage, and deassimbled it with a tool set he pulled from his ass-"

"Tim. Laugauge" Dick scolds, leanign over metal tubes to cover Damian's ears. The twelve-year-old huffs, but doesn't shake off Dick's hands as he stares at a different buckets of lightbults, sorting them like Jason was doing to the nails.

It was a little darker than what Duke was used to.

"-And then, he decided to reassemble the cage once he was out." Tim continued as if he weren't interrupted, nodding his head to the only part of the cave that looked normal. The contamination unit seemed to shine in the untouched spotlights. "Then the civilian had the bright idea to take apart everything in the cave. He systematically disassembled everything and mixed up the pieces. The only things he left alone were the railings!"

"It's pretty impressive," Bruce praises. He was checking over technology boards with a critical eye. A headlight strapped to his forehead shines brightly on the pieces as he smiles. "I wonder where he is now."

"If he has any brains, he's probably applying for a position with a pit crew in NASCAR," Cass laughs, picking up different boards of metal. "He took the whole place apart in less than twenty minutes."

"He even got the Batpens" Dick sighs. "Why was he so passive-aggressive about pulling out the pen's springs?"

"If I woke up in a cage, after unfair imprisonment, I would also cause my captors as much grief as possible," Damain comments casually. "We are lucky he decided to leave nothing harmful behind."

"He just took everything else!" Steph's voice calls out from a dark patch of the cave. Duke knows it's in the direction of the showers and the changing room. "Does anyone see any shower heads over there? The kid took them off every shower!

"I have one!" Cass calls back, holding up an item in her hand. "Are any pipes missing? There are five long metal cylinders that I can't figure out what they are for."

"No, he left the pipes along, but I think he took the mirrors and the door."

"Which door?" Bruce yells back. There is a moment of silence before Steph replies.

"All of them! "

"Of course. That's what these ones are for." Jason says in an Ah-ha voice, holding up a few black bolts. "They're the ones from the shower heads!"

Duke stares, then sighs. He lets his backpack slide off his shoulders, landing on the stairs with a thump. Looks like he's calling in sick to school again.

Rolling up his sleeves, he moves over to Cass and helps her lift the long cylinders she had mentioned. "Do we know anything about this civilian?"

"Before he took the Batcomputer apart, we were able to get that he wasn't in any of the local government records. He isn't from Gotham or this state." Bruce says while carefully placing pieces back on a large computer board with a pair of tweezers. "My guess, he's not going to be in any system, either."

"Why?"

Bruce looks up, his eyes shining. "His DNA matched eighty-five percent with Themyscira's genetic make-up. No proof of cloning either. We may just have a genius male Themysciran on our hands."

Duke didn't like how excited Bruce sounded when he made that statement. He opens his mouth to snap, "You can't adopt him, Bruce!"

It's validating that his voice wasn't the only one that said it, but that it echoed by literally everyone else in the cave. Bruce purses his lips but doesn't agree or disagree with the accusation as he turns back to his computer board.

Duke hears him mutter under his breath, but he's too far away to figure out what he said.

"How long do you think this will take us to put back together?" He asks Cass as they compare metal pieces- he's holding a triangle-looking thing that he can't figure out where it came from.

She kicks aside a circular metal slate, raising a brow at him, then nodding her head toward the left side of the cave. Duke turns to look in the direction of the third Robin, who was wiggling around.

"What are you!?" Tim screams at a blue wire, shaking it like he was strangling someone's neck. Somehow, in the time Duke looked away from him, Tim had his right arm tied to his left knee, with a red wire thread running through his shirt, and his right leg was no longer visible because the rest of the wire pile had consumed it.

"Oh, so it's going to be a few hours," Duke sighs as Cass nods sadly.

"Does anyone have any eyes on the light switches?" Dick yells out. "Damian and I almost have all the pieces to turn the lights back on."

"Oh gods -He took the lockers!" Steph screams in angst. "I had a snack stash in there!"

[fatherbrat]

incubus!sukuna, part two. part one here

you wake up sweaty, the sheets clinging to your skin. there’s an unfamiliar pressure on your hips, and you almost feel stuck. when you open your eyes, there are four staring back at you in the dark.

instinctively, you open your mouth to scream, but sukuna is faster than you. one of his large hands is covering your face before you can even blink, muffling your scream completely.

he leans into you, close enough that you can smell faint wisps of smoke coming from him.

“you remember me.” it’s a statement, not a question. “let me have you like this.” outside of your head, he thinks.

he watches as you glance at the clock across the room. 3:56. you close your hand into a fist, pressing your nails into your palm before raising it to your face and counting all five fingers. you look back at the clock. still 3:56.

you’re awake.

the pressure on your hips—his hands holding you down—goes away as he shifts positions, lifting you into his lap. suddenly, you feel overly exposed in the tank top and underwear you wore to bed. his double erection presses into your side, twin promises of what’s to come.

just like in your dreams, he makes the first move with little hesitation, pulling your underwear off you in one swift movement. you follow his lead, tugging your tank over your head and tossing it to the floor.

you’re already wet enough for him to slip three of his thick fingers inside you without prepping you first. he chuckles to himself as he watches the way your pussy greedily sucks his fingers in. you squirm a bit, trying to subtly push yourself down on his hand, hoping for more.

he pauses. “what? this not enough for you?”

the stern tone of his voice makes your legs tense, bringing them together. sukuna tuts, “don’t run away now, you just said you wanted more.” he pushes your legs back open, wider than they were before.

you purse your lips. “technically, i didn’t say that.”

he stares down at you, unfamiliar with this kind of back-talk from a human. he expects attitude from succubi, always too impish and bratty, but human women? they’ve always been willing and pliant.

you tuck your lips between your teeth and stare back, eyes twinkling.

you aren’t expecting the large smile that breaks across his face, making you feel like a rabbit staring into the maw of a lion.

you’re suddenly on your back, head resting against your pillow. sukuna hovers over you and pulls his fingers out of your cunt, and he looks you in the eyes as he licks them clean. you don’t break eye contact, which only seems to rile him up further.

“you’re a bold one,” he mumbles, pushing your legs up until your knees are nearly to your ears.

you groan at the position, momentarily wishing you’d been stretching more regularly. but you don’t have any time to dwell on it before sukuna presses the fat tip of one of his dicks against your slit.

your breath hitches as he sinks himself all the way in, pushing your legs further back to get deeper.

“oh my god.”

somehow, he feels bigger in real life. your jaw drops at the rude entry, and you watch sukuna’s lips stretch into a sly smile.

he pulls out completely, only to thrust back into you, his tip kissing your cervix. he continues at a steady speed, driving you closer and closer to an orgasm with every movement.

when you come, you swear you see stars. your toes and fingers and ears are tingling, skin prickling all over. your cunt spasms around sukuna’s monstrous cock, clenching and releasing like she’s trying to milk him. you’re so focused on trying to ride it out that you hardly register when sukuna lines up his second dick with your entrance.

you scream when you feel it—sukuna’s twin cocks stretching you open more than you even knew was possible.

he gives you a moment to take it in, whispering for you to breathe as he waits for you to relax around him. one of his hands envelops yours, pinning it to the bedsheets.

the moment you adjust, he goes back to his previous pace, only marginally slower.

the feeling is overwhelming, being so totally stuffed. it only gets worse when he starts thumbing your clit. immediately, your mind goes blank, short-circuiting in response to the devastating amount of pleasure.

you're subjected to more orgasms in quick succession, each one sending shockwaves throughout your body. sukuna keeps going, looking increasingly satisfied every time you come.

the tears that pricked the corners of your eyes start to fall down your temples. a string of “please, please, please, please” spills from your lips, but you’re not quite sure what you’re asking for, too fucked out to be coherent.

you’re vaguely aware of the praises he starts showering you with. something about how you’re his favorite, and how your pussy sucks him in the best, how he’ll never fuck another, blah blah blah. his hips buck at a sloppier pace than before.

you feel his cocks pulse inside you, and for the first time since he’s started visiting you, he comes.

you’re not expecting to feel so empty when he finally pulls out of you. he uses his fingers to stuff his cum as far up as it’ll go, but it leaks out anyways, trickling towards your ass. he lets go of you, letting you lay down your legs and stretch them out on the bed.

in your cum-drunk haze, you latch onto sukuna's hand, tucking it beneath your head and mumbling thank you’s into his skin as you curl up under the sheets. as you begin to drift into unconsciousness, you feel him wrapping you up in his arms, cradling you. a single thought cuts through the fog in your brain: this is new.

you think you hear him tell you you’re welcome just before falling asleep.

reblog for a kiss ( ੭ ˘ ³˘)੭‎°｡⋆♡‧₊˚

[leyiorr]

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

mdni.

satoru gojo is doomed.

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

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

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

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

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

more.

that's right, you were more.

recently, you were the devil's temptation personified.

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

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

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

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

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

“satoru?”

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

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

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

“satoru!”

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

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

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

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

he should be neutered. effective immediately.

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

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

“...is that it?”

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

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

yeah, satoru gojo is doomed.

[maskedbyghost]

Hear me out, possessive reader plays a prank, or maybe to see how it would work out and starts acting wayyy less possessive, to the point of being a normal partner..

I NEED SI REACTION

Anon, I love your fucking mind. I had the best time writing this, literally giggling and kicking my feet while imagining Simon spiraling because his crazy girl went "normal mode" on him and he couldn’t handle it for even a second. BASED ON THIS IDEA

You barely looked at him when the waitress called him handsome.

You just smiled to yourself and kept sipping your drink, didn’t glare at her, didn’t grab his hand and lace your fingers through his, didn’t scoot closer in your seat or wrap your arms around him like you used to, and Simon sat there blinking at you like he’d just been slapped across the face.

And then when you walked past a group of girls at the grocery store and one of them giggled and said something about his arms, you didn’t even flinch, didn’t even frown, didn’t even murmur something low and territorial under your breath the way you always did, and Simon actually almost tripped over the cart trying to get a reaction out of you, heart hammering so hard.

You used to get pissed if he so much as looked at another woman too long, used to give him that smug little smirk when you caught someone staring at him, used to lean into him and press your mouth to his ear and mutter "mine" so dark and low that it left him shivering for hours, and now? Now you were just... chill.

Way too chill.

He caught himself thinking insane things like maybe you were losing interest, maybe you were getting ready to leave, maybe you finally realized he wasn’t enough for you, maybe you were pulling away slow and silent to make it easier when you walked out for good, and by the time you got home, Simon’s brain was working overtime, replaying every interaction, every glance, every smile you had given that wasn’t just for him, every time you hadn't touched him when you should have.

You didn’t steal his hoodie when he tossed it on the couch.

You didn’t scroll through his phone and make snarky comments about the girls who liked his photos.

You didn’t pull into his lap when he sat down to watch TV.

You didn’t tell him to shower because he "smelled like other people," which he always secretly loved, even though he rolled his eyes and grumbled about it every time.

You just... existed next to him.

Detached.

Simon sat there on the couch while you scrolled on your phone, completely casual, legs tucked under you, not touching him at all, and he was spiraling so badly he almost convinced himself he could physically see the relationship disintegrating in real time, piece by miserable piece.

He thought about asking if you still loved him.

He thought about proposing on the spot just to lock you down before you could change your mind.

He thought about texting Johnny and asking him if it was normal to feel like your entire world was slipping out from under you because your girlfriend wasn’t being a possessive lunatic for five seconds.

Finally, when you stood up and stretched and said, "I'm gonna head to bed" without even glancing at him, without even saying goodnight or trying to drag him with you, Simon couldn’t take it anymore.

He launched off the couch and followed you, heart pounding like he was about to get left behind at the airport or something, stomach twisted into a knot.

You climbed into bed and flipped onto your side, facing away from him like it was nothing, like you hadn’t spent months curling around him like a vine the second he lay down.

He just stood there at the foot of the bed, breathing way too hard for a normal human being, feeling an honest-to-God panic attack brewing in his chest.

"Love," he said, his voice way shakier than he wanted it to be.

You didn’t even roll over. "Hmm?"

He swallowed hard, hands fisting at his sides. "You don’t want me anymore."

You snorted. Actually snorted. "What are you talking about?"

Simon clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. "You—you’re not even—you didn’t get mad when that girl flirted with me. You didn’t steal my hoodie. You didn’t call me yours even once. You’re acting like we’re—" his voice cracked and he cursed under his breath, "—like we’re normal."

You turned slowly, propping yourself up on your elbow, and the look you gave him was so infuriatingly calm he almost burst into tears on the spot.

"You mean," you said, so evenly it made his eye twitch, "like a normal girlfriend who trusts her boyfriend?"

He stared at you, chest heaving, entire body screaming at him that something was wrong.

"You’re gonna leave me," he said, absolutely sure of it, absolutely certain this was the beginning of the end.

You blinked at him for a second, like you were trying very hard not to laugh in his stupid, panicking face, and then you moved so fast he barely had time to react—you were grabbing him by the front of his shirt, hauling him down onto the bed, straddling his hips, and pinning him there with your thighs as your hands locked around his neck, firm but not tight, just enough to make him shut up and listen.

"Listen to me, you stupid, beautiful man," you said, voice low and furious in that way that made every nerve in his body light up, "you need me just as much as I need you. You belong to me. You hear me? You are fucking mine. I’m not going anywhere; I’m never fucking leaving you. I don't want normal; I want you wrapped around my fucking finger where you belong. Don’t ever doubt that again."

You leaned in closer, your nose brushing his, your hands still gripping his neck just enough to keep him pinned under you, and you added, your voice dropping even lower, smug and wicked, "And maybe I wanted you to lose your fucking mind for a bit. Wanted you to see how much you love it when I’m unhinged about you."

Simon just exhaled like he’d been punched in the stomach and kissed at the same time, his whole body sagging against the bed.

He groaned, almost whining, burying his face against your chest with a muffled, desperate, "Fuckin’ hell, don’t ever do that to me again, you psycho."

But his arms were wrapping around you like steel, holding you so tight, and when you laughed and tugged his hair gently, he actually sighed in relief, like his whole world had finally clicked back into place.

"You’re crazy," he muttered again, not even trying to sound annoyed, his voice almost grateful.

"You love it," you said against his hair, grinning wide enough your cheeks hurt.

"Yeah," he breathed, voice raw and low and real, "yeah, I fuckin’ do. I need you crazy. Need you to ruin me a little. Keep me yours."

You kissed the side of his head, smug and sweet and savage all at once, and Simon just kept breathing you in, letting that awful gnawing terror bleed out of him one slow second at a time until there was nothing left but you, your hands, your voice, your body wrapped around him like armor, pulling him deeper, anchoring him exactly where he belonged.

And he was fine, better than fine actually, and exactly where he needed to be.

-----------------------------------------------

i can't even explain how much i love this idea...

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐘 “𝐈’𝐌 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇” 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐈𝐌

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

The living room is quiet as you grab a spare blanket from the closet. Xavier watches you quietly, head tilted slightly.

“Why are you taking that to the couch?” he asks.

“I’m sleeping on the couch tonight,” you explain, not meeting his eyes.

He blinks slowly, processing. “Is the bedroom uncomfortable?”

When you explain your reasons, he simply nods once and says, “I understand. I’ll join you.” He’s already following you to the living room. As you settle onto the couch, he squeezes in beside you, somehow fitting into the remaining space.

“Xavier, there’s not enough room,” you protest.

“But I want to sleep here,” he states, already wrapping an arm around your waist. His body radiates warmth as he pulls you closer against his chest. Your continued protests are met with the same neutral reaction, but his grip only tightens, secure and protective.

“Sleep,” he mumbles into your hair, his breath even. “I sleep better when you’re close.”

You shift uncomfortably, the couch clearly not made for two people. He notices immediately, his hunter’s senses attuned to every movement.

“Is it uncomfortable for you?” he observes quietly. Without another word, he repositions both of you, somehow finding the perfect arrangement where your bodies fit together like puzzle pieces on the narrow surface.

“Better?” he asks. When you nod, his lips twitch in what might almost be a smile. He brushes your hair back with careful fingers, his touch delicate despite his strength.

“Xavier, how can you sleep in such random places, then?” you can’t help but ask.

“Mm? I just... sleep when I feel like it,” he says absently, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “I’ll just close my eyes and sleep.”

Within minutes, his breathing deepens, and you realize he’s already fallen asleep, still holding you tightly against him, completely content with wherever you choose to rest as long as you’re together.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

The bedroom door closes with a soft click as Zayne retreats inside, leaving you alone on the couch. He doesn’t argue when you announce your intention to sleep there tonight—just gives you a brief, assessing look before nodding once.

You toss and turn on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position. The cushions, while plush, don’t quite support your body the way the mattress does. After twenty minutes of adjusting pillows and rearranging blankets, you finally settle into an awkward position that feels almost comfortable.

From the hallway comes the sound of soft footsteps. He appears in the doorway, arms crossed as he leans against the frame, watching you shift for the dozenth time.

“You can’t sleep like that,” he states the obvious, voice low in the dim room. His expression remains impassive as he approaches, but his eyes track your movements.

“The human spine requires proper support during sleep cycles,” he continues, bending down beside the couch. He slides one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you against his chest.

“This will lead to muscle strain, and you’re going to wake up sore tomorrow,” he says, carrying you toward the bedroom. His voice is firm, but his hold is gentle. “As a doctor who’s in charge of taking care of a certain stubborn hunter who doesn’t want to sleep on the bed, I cannot allow it.”

“The bed has more than enough space for both of us,” he says quietly, placing you carefully on your side of the mattress. “And I prefer knowing you’re getting proper rest.”

He settles beside you, maintaining a respectful distance while still close enough that you can feel his warmth. “Now sleep. Doctor’s orders.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The pencil in Rafayel’s hand pauses mid-stroke when you announce you’re sleeping on the couch tonight. He looks up from his sketchbook, eyes widening as you walk past him with a pillow.

“What? Why?” he calls, abandoning his work to follow you.

When you settle onto the couch and explain, he pouts dramatically, flopping down on the floor beside you.

“But I can’t sleep without you,” he whines, reaching up to tug at your blanket. “Remember last week when you fell asleep in the bath after your mission and I just sat on the bathroom floor all night?”

“Well, that was your choice. Or you could’ve carried me to bed,” you dismiss him.

“That’s not the point,” he sighs, rolling onto his back. “Fine. If you’re sleeping here, so am I.”

He disappears momentarily, returning with his own pillow. As you try to get comfortable, he squeezes himself onto the couch, ignoring your protests that there isn’t enough space.

“There’s plenty of room,” he insists, wrapping his arms around you and nuzzling into your neck.

You shift uncomfortably under his weight, the couch creaking in protest. He notices your discomfort but misinterprets the cause.

“Am I too heavy?” he asks, adjusting himself so he’s half-draped over you, half-wedged between you and the back of the couch. “Better?”

It’s not better, but his hopeful expression makes it hard to say so. You squirm again, trying to find a comfortable position.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, suddenly serious as he studies your face. “You’re actually uncomfortable, aren’t you?”

Before you can answer, he’s up and pulling you with him, his previous playfulness replaced with genuine concern.

“We’re going to bed,” he declares, tugging you toward the bedroom. When you resist, he sighs dramatically.

“Look, I know I sleep on the couch sometimes, but I usually wake up lightheaded, and I have to lie down on the bed the whole day with no work finished. Trust me when I say discomfort isn’t worth it.” His voice softens. “Please? For me?”

With gentle insistence, he leads you back to your shared bed, immediately pulling you close once you’re both settled. “See? Much better,” he whispers, fingers tracing patterns on your skin. “Now, I can hold you properly.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

The phone in Sylus’s hands is set aside the moment you announce your intention to sleep on the couch. He watches you from his position on the bed, expression unreadable save for one slightly raised eyebrow.

“Really?” he asks, voice smooth and calm as you gather your things. He makes no move to stop you as you head for the door.

The living room is quiet as you settle onto the large couch. Despite its size, it still feels small compared to Sylus’s custom bed. You’ve just begun to get comfortable when the lights dim slightly.

“This is rather amusing,” comes his voice from the doorway. Without waiting for your response, he approaches, towering over you. “You think I’ll allow this arrangement?”

He bends down and lifts you effortlessly into his arms. “Sweetie,” he says, voice laced with amusement, “that couch, impressive as it is, wasn’t designed for proper rest. Even I find my legs hanging off the edge.”

As he carries you back toward the bedroom, his hold is firm but gentle. “If you wish for space, just say so,” he continues, laying you down on the bed. “But I prefer to have you where I can reach you.”

You start to object, but he raises a finger to your lips, silencing you mid-sentence.

“I’ve watched you shift positions seven times in the span of two minutes,” he observes. “You’re not going to rest properly that way, Miss Hunter.”

He sits beside you on the edge of the bed, one hand coming to rest on your shoulder. His fingers trace a path down your arm, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone so powerful.

“The bed is large enough for both of us, even if you wish to maintain distance,” he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Now, shall we try this again? Or would you prefer I join you on that inadequate couch?”

When you hesitate, the corner of his mouth quirks up in a knowing smile. “I thought as much,” he murmurs, sliding in beside you, one arm draped across your waist. “Much better, wouldn’t you agree?”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

The smile falls from Caleb’s face the moment you announce you’re sleeping on the couch tonight. He watches from the bedroom doorway as you grab your pillow and head for the living room.

“Hey, wait a second,” he calls, following close behind. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

When you give your reason—whether it’s needing space, being upset, or just wanting to sleep alone—his demeanor shifts.

“That’s not happening,” he says, crossing his arms as he blocks your path to the couch. When you try to move past him, he catches your wrist, gentle but firm.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” he states, voice dropping lower. “Not tonight, not ever.”

Despite his words, you manage to settle onto the couch, arranging your pillow and blanket while ignoring his frustrated sigh. You toss and turn, the couch suddenly feeling lumpy and uncomfortable. He notices immediately, his sharp eyes tracking your every restless movement.

“This is ridiculous,” he finally says after watching you adjust your position for the tenth time. “You’re uncomfortable, and you’re just being stubborn.”

His expression softens slightly at whatever he sees in your face. “I know when something’s bothering you,” he says, voice gentler now. “But this isn’t solving anything.” He scoops you up in his arms, blanket and all.

“The couch is fine for watching movies,” he says, carrying you toward the bedroom. “Not for sleeping. Especially not when there’s a perfectly good bed where I can hold you properly.”

His grip is steady as you squirm in his arms. “If something’s wrong, we’ll talk about it,” he promises, gently placing you down on the bed before lying beside you, one arm draped firmly across your middle. “But I’m not letting you spend the night uncomfortable just to prove a point.”

Whoops, got a tiny bit carried away with this one... 😬

[pseudowho]

It was an average Monday morning when you, Nanami Kento's wife, were turned into a cat.

"An unusual Curse," Shoko had said, "not longer than a week, surely--"

"Not--not longer than a week?!" Kento spluttered, his glasses lopsided, and, dangled in front of him beneath the arms (legs-- legs, he reminded himself)...you.

You, with two pointed ears, a long whippy tail, your many toe-beans and a perturbed little head-tilt. On the doctors' office couch, a neatly folded (if a little furry) pile of your clothes.

"Meow," you had said.

"Don't 'meow' me," Kento spluttered again, fixing you with a stern look that barely overlaid his concern. You simply stared up at him, long, and feline, and unblinking...and reached out one little paw, pressing it onto the end of his nose.

Kento sighed; a bone-deep, weary sigh. Shoko put out her cigarette, speaking through a haze of smoke.

"Like I said. Give it a week, and Mrs.Nyanyami will be back to nor--"

"What did you just call her?'

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Mrs.Nyanyami, the cat formerly known as Nanami Kento's wife, wanted for nothing.

"I think that tuna's more expensive than anything I've ever eaten," whispered Yuuji to Gojo. On the other side of the conference room, you sat upon the desk before Kento, waiting patiently for the next lump of tuna (meticulously cut into cat-appropriate cubes) to be delivered in his chopsticks.

As Kento's hand approached, you held it close with paw and claws, to steal the pink fish from him. He looked like a surgeon performing heart surgery.

"I just...dont know how he can look so serious while he's doing that," Gojo whispered back, to Yuuji's frantic nods. Still, they watched this freakish nature documentary with quiet obsession.

A higher-up sat down beside Kento, waiting for the meeting to begin. Jolting back, and grumbling, he did a double take.

"Young man-- you can't bring a cat to a Sorcerer's meeting--"

"That's not a cat," Kento snapped, frosty, "that's my wife."

And so began the rumour amongst the higher-ups, that Nanami Kento had gone mad.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"You should leave her at home--"

"--absolutely not--"

"--really, Nanami...just put the television on, she'll be fine--"

"--unequivocally, no--"

"--why not?!"

Silence. An awkward shuffle on Kento's thick chest. You peeked your head out of the pocket of the cat-carrying hoodie that Kento wore over his shirt and tie, and turned to Gojo with narrowed eyes.

"Meow," you had said, batting at Kento's strings, and hooking his tie out with your paw, to kick it to death with your legs.

"I agree," said Kento, whispering and scratching you beneath the chin until you purred, "he's wrong, isn't he? Stupid Gojo. You'd get lonely. You'd get bored. Yes you would..."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Oh my god...he's gorgeous...you should get his number--"

"--I'm not brave enough...you go. I'll get our coffees."

"--okay, okay..." The woman cleared her throat, sweeping her hair behind one ear with her best smile. Kento looked up from his coffee, with one finely raised eyebrow.

"Can I help you?" He lied, unwilling to help anyone at all before he'd finished his croissant.

"Hi, yeah, I just...can't help but notice you're sitting alone, and my friend-- well she-- she just wondered if she can have your number, and--"

The woman broke off into shrieks. Climbing up her leg, all claws and furry vengeance, was you. She shook her leg, shrieking. You hissed. Your cup of steamed milk clattered over the table, slopping everywhere.

"--o-oh my god-- oh my god, what the hell is this cat doi--"

"I'm sorry," Kento sighed, not sorry at all and dabbing his mouth with a napkin and doing absolutely nothing to help, "it's my cat. She doesn't like company--"

Hisses. Claws. Dirty feral yowls.

"Get this fucking thing off me--"

"I can't take you anywhere. No more steamed milk for you."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

At times, you seemed so human. At others, undeniably cat.

Kento would wake to clattering from the kitchen, bleary and feeling around for you, only to remember, and trace his hand up to the furry, round little patch you'd leave behind on your pillow. He allowed himself just a moment of misery, before getting up.

He followed the sounds of cups and kettle and coffee machine, and leaned against the doorway with sleep-mussed hair and a squinting, teenagerish glare.

You were up on the counter, all four paws and determination. You had gotten as far as switching the kettle and coffee machine on, and heaving the cupboard open with your tiny limbs. Kento watched as you tipped your head sideways, managing to drag two mugs out in your teeth. He winced as they almost smashed upon the counter.

"Come on," Kento rumbled, his voice rusty with sleep, "let me do that."

You meowed at him, batting at the air with one angry paw when he stepped closer. Kento huffed, raising his hands in surrender.

"Fine," he tutted, "but I'll pour the water."

"Meow."

"Why? Because you don't have opposable thumbs, darling."

The fur stood up along your spine. You turned around, and around, in a circle, then sat upright. You turned your back on him while you waited for the kettle to boil. Your tail flicked from side to side, irritable. Kento waited, too, reaching out one hand to stroke your ears.

You nudged your back paw out, and pushed his mug off the side to smash on the floor.

Silence.

"...what is wrong with y--"

"Meow."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Skitterskitterskitter.

Distant meows.

Kento groaned, rubbing down his face. He checked the clock, frog-blinking; two in the morning. He groaned harder.

Skitterskitterskitter.

Thunk.

More distant meows.

"Please just come back to bed," Kento moaned into the hands pressed over his face.

SkitterskitterskitterSKITTERSKITTER-- rustlllleerussstle--

Directly over his face.

"Meow--"

"I am begging you--"

RustlerustleTHNKskitterskitterskitter.

Distant meows.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"I miss you."

You raised your head to look at him. Your purring hitched. Your ears tilted.

Kento had murmured, his low voice barely audible. The only light in the living room was the ever-changing light of the television screen. Laid on his back on the sofa, with you curled on his chest, Kento stroked down your back with longing.

You crept up his chest, pressing your cold wet nose to his, and purred. Nose to nose, and cross-eyed, Kento could have cried.

"I really miss you," he repeated, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Your claws dug into his chest, just a little. You rub, rub, rubbed your warm furry head along his jaw until he sniffled, and gave a choked little chuckle.

He fell asleep with you on his chest that night. In so many ways, it was familiar; home. In so many others, you were gone forever.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Meow."

Kento shuffled. His chest felt heavy...warm. His belly felt warm, too. And his lap, and--

Kento's eyes shot open, his head lifting up from the couch.

You bit your lip, naked on top of him, and smiling. Human. An angel.

"Oh, my love," Kento moaned, crushing you to him in a bear hug from shoulder to toes, "you're back-- I missed you, I was so worrie--"

You batted an arm out, swiping last night's wine glass from the coffee table beside you, to shatter on the floor.

Silence. Kento blinked slowly, looking from the wine glass, to you. You felt your cheeks grow hot, swallowing hard.

"God, I...sorry, Kento. Force-- force of habit--"

Part Two linked here!

[hardknifeplays]

Simon Riley spoiling his missus rotten.

sfw, fluff, soft!simon — reblogs & likes are appreciated.

This man, Simon Riley, will never let you buy cheap things. Even if the thing you want is good quality and highly functional, and buying it really helps you to 'press down the cost'.

"No," said the man quickly when you want to buy an affordable reading tablet, his eyes are still fixated on whatever document was on his laptop screen. Confused, you raised your brow while your hands folded on your chest. "Babe, I'm just using it for reading. That's all, nothing productivity-related." you explained more, but your husband just answered you with another low hum.

"Said no," he repeated flatly. Not knowing why did he just outright denied you of the decent tablet, you sat yourself down carefully on the edge of the table next to his laptop. "But why? I will use it just for reading, I repeat, my sir, just for reading. I'm not going to play games, or even text via the tablet. It is affordable enough." you argued, your hands moving around so expressively (mostly to convince him to agree with you).

Finally, his eyes darted and met yours lazily. He studied you from your head to your torso, then back to your eyes, before letting out a long exhale.

"You don't deserve cheap things," he sighed. You rolled your eyes, and quickly responded, "It's not cheap, Si, it's affordable. Why do I have to buy more expensive things if the cheaper ones are well-functioned already? Especially just for one purpose?" and you could see he responded by wiping his face with both of his hands, before he stood up from his seat and placing himself in front of you.

His swift movement made you looked up at him, the distance between your bodies was almost non-existent and you could feel his warmth radiating towards you. A fucking human furnace, this Manchester lad. He looked at you in the eyes, this time his brows down, looking rather concerned. He lifted his finger outlined your jaw lightly, his eyes trained on your lips before his dark brown iris shot you again with a more loving and gentle expression.

"Why are you always treating yourself this way? Denying yourself from something that you truly deserved," he began, "You don't deserve cheap things, mama. I can afford your every need." as he said so, his lips met yours softly, and you felt his finger tucked some strands of your hair to the back of your ears.

When he let go of the kiss, you returned him a kiss on each cheek. "I don't always need expensive things, Simon. As long as it works well, that would be enough. We can use the money for something else. Okay?" you reassured him once again. His eyes aimed down at the table for a few seconds, before getting back to you.

"You don't always need it, but I am willing to give it to you," he stated, staring right into your eyes for a few seconds longer.

You could feel your blood flushing all over your body, spreading tingling and warm sensation just by seeing the seriousness in his eyes. It made you feel cared for, and you know at this moment that this man would always give what's best for you. Your 'enough' would never convince him, if he could go further for you, he would.

He always would.

You let out a shaky sigh, and then you placed your finger on his chest pointing at him. "Okay, your money, your rules." you chirped playfully, and a grin bloomed at the lips of your husband as he scooped you from the table and pulled you into his embrace.

"That's my missus." he smiled into your hair, finally winning you over.

[mariasont]

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

Cinnamon Sticks - S.R

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

masterlist

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

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

wc: 1.7k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was bad.

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

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

Morgan let out a long, low whistle, rocking back in his chair with enough force to make it creak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You handled that well."

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

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

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

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

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

"That was a close one."

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could feel the flush creeping up to your neck, and you mentally cursed him for how easily he was able to do this to you.

"You're lucky I like you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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