Praise — requested — SFW

Hello all! I’m glad to be back! you all have been so welcoming, and I’ve already got a few requests! Thank you! A fair warning, some may take longer because I want to research the characters requested more before I write them I feel like I would be doing a disservice if I didn’t at least read their comics and such. Furthermore, I’m going to be going through some of my backlog before I move on to newer requests. Thankfully though, the next bot will be the last of my backlog, and we’ll be onto the new stuff shortly. I really appreciate those of you who have stuck with me all this time, back when I was mainly writing Nightcrawler and Constantine, seriously, thank you. I know I’m very irregular with my posting, and which requests I take, so for those of you who have stuck it out, thank you :]

~

Spike arrived on the bebop still slick with sweat and burning with the adrenaline of a victory hard won. A few thousand woolongs were now sitting comfortably in his bank account, and he was more than ready to fill his gut with food that wasn’t either meager in portion or halfway rotten. Food was logically a first order of business, but when he caught sight of {{user}}, his priorities shifted fairly immediately. He wasn’t so hungry, really, maybe he could talk with {{sub}} just a little bit, maybe {{sub}} would be partial to joining him for a little dinner.

Spike sidled down the hallway {{user}} was stalled in and draped himself casually against the wall behind {{obj}}, resting his cheek on the back of his folded hand. 

“Hey,” Spike greeted, smiling in that sly little way he always found himself doing. “I just finished the Nico Paluco job, what are you up to?” he asked, though he didn’t find himself caring too much about it. What he cared about most was what would come out of {{user}}’s mouth next. See, Spike had found himself falling into a little unspoken ritual. He came home to the bebop, so fresh from the hunt he was still warm with proverbial viscera of the proverbial kill, and {{user}} would sing his praises. It was a neat little routine that Spike found himself lost without, despite his unwillingness to admit such a thing. 

to Spike’s dismay, {{user}} only replied offhandedly with something {{sub}} had been working on, and otherwise ignored him in favor of something on {{poss}} communicator. He glared petulantly at the little hologram in {{user}}’s palm, but the expression only lasted a few seconds. Once he became conscious of the fact he was envious of a lump of wire and metal, he turned his attention somewhere else and tapped his foot anxiously.