#but like...can you blame them after everything they've been through??

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

Pt 2 of Danny being sort of reincarnated in the DC universe. Tim's pov of Danny and his weirdness. Ft Damian and setting up a play date [pt 1 here] [pt3 here]

Tim can honestly say he's enjoyed the last few months. His newest little brother is a delight and managed to get everyone wrapped around his little finger. The funniest, and saddest if Tim was honest, part of it all is that Danny has no idea. He hasn't seemed to realize how devastatingly cute he is while exploring the world. Add in the fact Tim found a speech therapist for him, so sometimes he will actually say something instead of just writing, and you can actively hear/see the scary Gotham vigilantes crumble every single time.

Danny follows whoever he deems "safe" like a weird glowing duckling. The kid had no idea how the world works and knows it, attaching to family in fear and googling anything and everything to understand. Tim really wants to get the kid help for his anxiety, but Danny is refusing currently. Tim can't really blame him, Danny has so much medical trauma.

The downside of being deemed as "safe" and non judgemental early on is Tim knows the most of the horrible details. It'd not much, but between what Danny has let slip and what he's searched on different mental health and trauma, Tim has a very ugly picture of what happened during his time in the lab. On the plus side, if he's asking questions and trying to work on/understand his mental health, then Tim is sure he'll be willing to see a specialist eventually. Tim is willing to go at Danny's pace and protect the kid as much as possible. He debriefs the rest of the family whenever he discovers a new trauma so no one accidentally triggers Danny into another panic attack. He has far too many of them daily already, and Cass is the best at calming him down, but she's not always available.

A less sad, and more interesting development is Danny's features have been changing from Damian's. Whoever made Danny really fucked up. Genetically he's still a clone of Damian, but visually, he looks like someone tried to draw Damian from memory and decided to make him part fae or something. Danny's eyes faded to a pale celadon blue, his ears are slightly pointed, his teeth are sharper than the should be, he gained freckles that glow Lazarus Pit green when he gets emotional, his hair curled and turned the darkest black Tim has ever seen while also gaining glittering white tuffs throughout, and his constant soft glowing are just a few things that shifted and changed over time. Tim has a theory that Danny has a higher concentration of Lazarus waters in his body than any of his predecessors and that caused him to mutate. Unfortunately, it's just a theory because Danny had a massive panic attack and dissociation episode the one time they tried to draw some of his blood. No one was willing to push it after that. So until Danny is healed enough mentally for it, there will be no tests.

Danny also freaked out and hid in his closet for 3 days straight when he realized how uncanny he's looking. He was terrified they'd hurt him for it or the flickers of developing powers when he's emotionally, which is often, and it took an insane amount of reassurances and bribes to get the kid to come out. Duke was actually the one who got Danny to calm down enough to talk about what he's developed so far. Duke talked about his own powers and how they developed; he's also taken to using them around the manor more to help the baby realize it's okay. It's now fairly common to see both use their powers, even if Danny's usage is still unintentional. Tim wonders if he should ask one of the Martians to help Danny control his, so far Danny has shown invisibility, floating, and phasing through things, he was startled into using them every single time they've manifested. Tim is holding off on contacting anyone yet because Duke and Tim have been double teaming to get Danny comfortable with his powers and making progress.

Plus, Danny regresses every time back into the mute, anxious wreck hiding behind his "safe" person like the first night any time someone new is introduced. So Tim makes sure both Cass and him are present for any introductions. Though, he does think introducing Danny to aliens would go smoother than most others. The kid is absolutely obsessed with everything space related. He lives in space themed clothes and has his own section in the family library because of all the space, physics, and alien culture books he's collected/been gifted. He's read every single one at least twice and is actively trying to learn Martian and Kryptonian, mostly their written language currently since talking is still an ongoing battle. Tim can hardly wait to introduce Danny to Kon.

Speaking of ongoing battles.

"Please, anki, you need a proper name." Damian sounds desperate, "I made a list of names that you can keep your nickname with. Please just pick one."

"Don't wanna." Danny whines quietly. Despite the kid technically being the same physical age as Damian, Danny never acts it, ping-pongs between behaving like literal 4 year old and young teen. Have you tried to tell a 4 year old they need to pick a different name for themselves or stuffed animal or pet or something? It's a battle of patience.

"Please.." Tim blinks as Damian pulls out his saddest puppy eyes. Tim has literally never seen Damian do that. It's not very good, but Danny is the definition of a people pleaser.

"...okay..." Danny reluctantly takes the list from Damian.

"Thank you." Damian gives a small satisfied smile.

"Danny, do you mind if I borrow Damian?" Tim asks in amusement. "Oh, shit!" is clear in Damian's body language, but the lack of real panic in Damian and the teasing vibes Tim is sure he's putting off keeps Danny from panicking. Kid can give Cass a run for her money in reading body language.

"Okay... I'll look at the names while you're gone.." Danny's voice starts fading out by the end of his sentence. Tim expects Danny is going to be mute for the rest of the day. He's come a long way since arriving, but speaking is still hard on him. Tim is positive it's a trauma thing. Another reason to try to convince him to see a therapist.

"We'll be right back." Tim smiles and pulls Damian out of the room and a little ways down the hall. "You taking lessons from the baby?"

"Don't know what you're talking about." Damian grumps.

So Tim puts on his best approximation of the face Damian pulled and in his most pathetic voice goes, "Please..."

Damian turns an interesting shade of red. "Shut up."

"I think it's cute." Tim's face hurts a little from his grinning. He has to shove down the anxiety at that realization, remembering what his own therapist has told him in relation to grinning reminding him of JJ.

"I'll stab you again."

"And upset the baby? Heartless." Tim teases before switching topics. "Do you think you could have Jon visit?"

"Probably, why?"

"I think it's time to introduce Danny to people outside of the family. Jon is a ball of sunshine and an alien, I think he'd be a good start." Tim explains.

"Why not Kon? I'm sure Anki would love to meet a clone like him. Especially one who is an alien and is as different from his template as Danny is to me." Damian points out. "As well as being connected to one of his "security people"."

"I thought about that, but I was also thinking about Jon being closer to his physical age." They discovered Danny has an intense distrust of adults, and while Kon is chronologically closer in age to Danny, he's mentally and physically a 19 year old. He knows Danny will love Kon and vice-versa, but he feels it's worth starting with someone younger.

"... I shall call Jon tonight. I assume Friday after school is acceptable?"

"Yeah, Cass should be hanging out with him all day and I can get off early. Tam knows we got a traumatized baby with separation anxiety." Tim chuckles, "I think she's happy I've been taking care of myself more because of Danny."

"Why have you been doing that?" Damian tilts his head. "It's not a bad thing, but it's out of character."

"I realized I can't be Bruce."

"Wha-?"

"I can't let my worst habits affect a kid that is dependent on my ability to help him figure out his place in the world." Tim feels tired. "How can I help him if I won't help myself?"

"... I see. When you put it that way, I understand." Damian looks thoughtful. "Perhaps I should look into getting a therapist as well."

"I'll send you a list of people I've vetted." Tim says and starts heading back to the room they left Danny in. "Now, let's check on the baby."

Danny is frowning at the list Damian gave him. It's an interesting sight, several names are blacked out with extreme prejudice, and his iPad is opened to the search engine. He seems to be looking up the remaining names' meanings and hating most of them. Any he doesn't hate, he writes the meaning next to with a frown. Tim and Damian occupy themselves while he does this, Danny hates being stared at, especially while working on something.

The silence is broken when Danny crushes the paper. A glance shows he copied 5 of the names and their meanings down in a note app. Danny opens the drawing app he prefers to communicate with while nonverbal.

[I want to think on these. I'll make a decision by dinner tomorrow.]

"Decide on what lastname or names you want and I'll set up a paper trail to prove your identity during the weekend. Damian wouldn't let me or Barb set one up til you picked a "proper" name."

[Ugh! Fine!]

"What do you mean? Anki will have the Wayne last name!"

"Yeah, but he might want mine or Cass's name too. Or maybe he'll decide to take the Al Gul name out of spite." Tim shrugs. "Names have power. Cass and mine would be an extra layer of protection, but he's technically an Al Gul. Kon took the El name to spite Clark and Clark couldn't do shit about it since Kon is technically blood."

"I suppose..." Damian does not look happy about this.

[Your friend's name meanings hope's abomination or false hope?] Danny looks so concerned.

"Yeah. He picked it out himself. He's a clone of Kal-El, better known as Superman or Clark Kent." Tim tries to keep his anger at Clark under wraps, but Danny's weary look tells him he didn't succeed. "Clark and Kon have a better relationship now, but Clark was awful to him for simply existing at first. It's fine for him to feel violated and angry, but it wasn't acceptable that he took it out on a kid who didn't ask to be made."

[Is cloning common?] Danny is intrigued.

"Only in the hero communities. Villains seem to like trying their hand at it. It's hit or miss on how the clone ends up. Some are mindless puppets, some are actually programmed to be an evil version, some literally are just the hero with some "fun" new trauma, and some might be completely unaware their clone statuses. Then there's the clones who know they're clones and are completely different than their DNA donor, but still want to do what's right." Tim explains. "The categories can overlap or a clone can start in one and end up in another."

"Would you be willing to meet Kon-El?"

[Maybe? Is he nice?]

"He's one of Drake's paramours."

"Damian!"

[What's a paramour?]

"He means he's one of my boyfriends." Tim can feel how red his face is.

[Pural???] Danny looks like a whole new realm of possibilities just opened up. It's adorable.

"Yeah, I have 2 boyfriends." Tim smiles, "Having multiple partners is completely fine so long as everyone is in the know and consenting, otherwise that's cheating."

"Stop corrupting my Anki" Damian complains with no heat. And Tim can't let that "challenge" slide.

"Look up the polyamory and being polyamorous, if you want to know more. Also, gender is a lie and sexuality is a mess. Do whatever makes you happy so long as it doesn't hurt you or anyone else." Tim says with the tone of someone commenting on pleasant weather. It makes Danny giggle before he opens the search bar to Google what he can on those three topics, wanting to fill his gap in knowledge. Damian and Tim share a fond look. This isn't nearly the first time Danny went on a research binge after a conversation. He has some vast gaps in his knowledge, and he takes it as a personal challenge every time he finds a new hole. It's admirable and adorable to see him so enthusiastic about learning. He has an air of child-like wonder, even if he dislikes the topic.

"Before we lose you to the allure of learning, anki, I'd like to ask if you'd be alright if I brought my best friend over after school on Friday?" Danny looks at Damian in surprise. Tim jumps in.

"His name is Jon, he's kryptonian and Kon's sort of brother and/or nephew. He's Clark's son, but he's always been accepting of Kon, so he'll be nice to you. Especially since Damian cares about you." Danny cautiously studies them before nodding. "Awesome. I plan to be home before them and Cass will definitely be here all day, so if something happens, we will be here."

Danny looks relieved.

"Now, enjoy your research."

[reiding-writing]

Heyyyy, I think it would be soo cool if you could write a scenario where cold!reader actually works a case like idk but yk the typical talking w witnesses or family members.

I also would loveee to know what her interrogation style is like, morgen was always pretty aggressive and Hotch was always so straightforward etc. so I would love to know how she interrogates suspects.

Have a nice one, ly and ur work sm !! ^_^

THE REID TECHNIQUE. /spencer reid/

you volunteer to interview a middle-aged woman suspected of kidnapping a little girl.

cold!reader 4.2k series masterlist. main masterlist.

a/n | had this one in the works for a few weeks after learning about the reid technique in my forensic psych lecture ✊

The clock above the whiteboard marks every second with an unforgiving tick. It's been twelve hours since the child, eight years old, brown hair in braids, green jacket, was last seen.

You know too well how thin the margins are.

“Local PD has brought in a suspect. Margaret Ellery. Lives four streets over from the family. No hard evidence yet, just circumstantial.” Hotch discards his phone in his pocket.

You push off the table, the movement casual, but inside something sharp and certain slices through the haze. Margaret Ellery. The name means nothing to the others yet, just another possibility. To you, it burns.

“They've got CCTV placing her car near the park at the estimated time of abduction,” Emily says, flicking through images on her tablet. “No witnesses saw the actual snatch, but...” She hesitates. “It’s something,”

“Something," you echo, voice flat.

You can feel Spencer’s gaze flick towards you from his desk. You don’t look at him. If you do, he’ll see it—the thing coiling under your skin, the certainty you can’t explain.

You know it was her.

The others begin discussing who should lead the interview, voices overlapping—Emily suggesting herself, Morgan arguing the woman might respond better to a softer touch—and for a moment, you let them talk.

Then, calmly, you speak.

“I’ll do it.”

The words drop like stones into the room.

The conversation stalls. Morgan frowns, one eyebrow lifting. Hotch studies you, impassive. Spencer’s pencil stills in his hand.

You don’t volunteer for interrogations. Everyone knows it. You only step in when everything else has failed—the nuclear option. The last resort.

You have built your reputation on results, not likability. You dismantle people, piece by piece, until there's nothing left but the truth. It's not pretty. It's not kind. It's necessary.

But this time, without waiting for anyone to fail, you want it.

Hotch’s mouth tightens into a line. He doesn’t like it, but he also knows better than to argue when you make that face—the one you wear now, cold and still, like a weapon waiting to be drawn.

“Are you certain?” he asks.

You nod once. Precise. Final.

“She’s guilty,” you say. Not a question. Not a theory. A statement of fact.

“How do you know?” Emily asks, cautious.

You flick your gaze to her, then away again. You don't explain things like this. You never have. You just know.

Hotch’s brow furrows. “You’re sure?”

You nod once. Crisp. Certain.

“I can get her to talk.”

He hesitates. You don’t blame him. It’s not just that they’re worried about the woman cracking under your methods, it’s that they’re worried you will push too hard, dig too deep, and leave something broken beyond repair—something in her, something in yourself.

But there’s no time for cautious sensibilities. There’s a child missing. The longer they dither, the colder the trail gets.

Hotch considers for a beat longer, then relents with a sharp nod. “On your lead.”

Morgan shifts his weight, clearly cautious. “I’ll second,”

“No.”

Hotch exhales slowly, measuring you with a look that’s half reluctant approval, half silent warning. “You know the protocol.”

You incline your head with a sigh of exasperation. You know it backwards.

“I work better alone,” you say calmly, before he can open his mouth to suggest otherwise.

That’s non-negotiable. You’ve explained it a thousand times—too many cooks spoil the broth. Too many variables ruin the interrogation. One misplaced glance, one ill-timed question, one unspoken judgement radiating off a team member— it can destroy hours of work.

No one interrupts you when you’re working. No one even breathes too loudly.

Hotch nods once. Reluctant but resigned.

“Room Three,” he says. “She’s waiting.”

You turn sharply on your heel, the heels of your boots clicking lightly against the floor, and make your way down the corridor without looking back.

Behind you, the team watches you go in silence.

Spencer’s gaze lingers the longest.

He understands. Not completely—no one ever could—but enough.

Enough to know that once you step into that room, you’ll become something else. Something sharper. Harder. Merciless in your precision.

And God help the woman on the other side of the glass.

—

You pause outside the interrogation room, hand resting lightly on the door handle. Through the one-way glass, you see her: hunched, fidgeting, a picture of nervous innocence.

She’s shorter than you expected. Plumper. Her hands twist nervously at the hem of her cardigan.

She looks like someone’s kindly aunt. To the untrained eye, she might seem harmless. Sad, even.

You don’t let it fool you.

You close your eyes for a moment. Centre yourself.

This is not about rage. Rage clouds the senses. This is about control. Subtlety. Precision.

When you open your eyes again, you’re a blank slate.

The woman jumps slightly at your entrance. Good. She’s on edge already. You file the information away for later use.

You close the door with a soft click and cross to the chair opposite her, sitting down with a deliberate, unhurried grace. You say nothing for a long moment, simply studying her, letting the silence stretch taut between you.

She fidgets again, clearing her throat. Her eyes flicker up to meet yours and then away, unable to hold your gaze.

You watch her, utterly still.

Already, you can see the cracks beginning to form.

You offer a thin, perfunctory smile.

“Good afternoon,” you introduce yourself, voice low and even. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, alright?”

She licks her lips nervously. “I already told the others— I didn’t do anything,”

You tilt your head slightly. Not a challenge, not an agreement. Just an acknowledgement.

“Of course,” you say smoothly. “We’ll go over everything again. Just to be thorough.”

You slide a thin manilla file onto the table between you. The movement is calm, almost lazy.

In reality, every microexpression, every twitch of her fingers, every catch in her breath — you’re cataloguing all of it.

You see guilt. Not the guilt of a wrongfully accused woman, but the heavy, aching guilt of someone who knows precisely what they’ve done and is terrified of the consequences.

You suppress the flicker of satisfaction that rises in your chest.

This will be easier than you thought.

You fold your hands neatly on the table.

“Let’s begin.”

You watch her closely, noting the way her shoulders stiffen under your gaze. She’s nervous.

“I’d first like to briefly remind you that you don’t have to answer any question that you’re uncomfortable with, and you have the right to an attorney if you require one,” You keep your tone measured, almost conversational, as you begin. “This interview is being recorded, and can be submitted as evidence if needed in court,”

Margret’s response is nothing more than a brief nod, and you quickly move on.

“We’ve spoken to several people who know you, Margaret,” you say, glancing briefly at the file in front of you for show, though you don’t need to. You know the contents backwards already. “Your neighbours speak highly of you. Friendly. Involved. Always ready to lend a hand.”

She swallows, nodding a little. As if being agreeable will somehow absolve her.

You continue, letting the words come slowly, giving them weight.

“You knew the Hartleys quite well?”

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, hands twisting harder in the hem of her cardigan. “We… we live near each other, yes. I used to babysit for them sometimes, when Claire was first back at work,”

You incline your head, as if pleased by the admission. You knew that information already of course, but the fact that she’s supplying the truth to you early is a good sign.

“And you’ve stayed in touch since then?”

Her mouth twists slightly. “Not really. They… they got busy. New friends. Things change,”

You let the silence settle for a beat, as if considering that. Then you lean forward, just slightly, enough that the space between you shrinks.

“The thing is,” you say, voice still calm, almost gentle, “we have several witnesses who say they saw your car near Westwood Park yesterday afternoon.”

You watch her stiffen, the flicker of fear crossing her face before she can mask it. You press on, smooth and relentless.

“That’s the park where Elsie Hartley was last seen.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again. She shakes her head, a tight, jerky movement.

“I must have been passing through. I had errands— the shops—”

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “At four-thirty in the afternoon?”

She falters. You don’t need to press the point yet. Just plant the seed. Let it fester.

You sit back again, steepling your fingers lightly.

“We’re not here to attack you, Margaret,” you say, voice dropping slightly. Softer. Sympathetic. “We just want to understand what happened.”

Her eyes dart to the door briefly. You catch the movement, file it away. Already thinking of escape.

You won’t allow it.

“Things happen to people,” you continue, letting your voice thicken just slightly with understanding. “Painful things. Things that change how we see the world.”

You see the way she flinches, barely perceptible. A tiny tell, but enough.

Good. She’s listening now. Feeling now.

“Tell me about your daughter,” you say quietly.

Her face crumples before she can stop it, a raw flash of grief, there and gone.

She tries to cover it up, sitting up straighter, forcing a small, brittle smile.

“She… passed away. A long time ago.”

You nod slowly. “Nine years.”

Her hands clench into fists in her lap.

You lean in again, lowering your voice further.

“Grief can… distort things,” you murmur. “It can make you see injustice where there is none. It can make you desperate to fix something, to make up for what you lost.”

Her breathing has quickened. You see the pulse hammering at her throat.

“Sometimes,” you continue, “it makes people do things they never thought themselves capable of. Good people. Kind people. People who were simply… overwhelmed by sadness.”

She’s trembling now. Just slightly. You act as though you don’t notice.

“You saw Elsie playing in the park,” you say softly. “Maybe you thought her parents didn’t appreciate her enough. Maybe you thought you could give her the love your own daughter never got to fully experience.”

Tears are brimming in her eyes now, but she’s fighting them. Fighting herself.

She shakes her head weakly. “I didn’t— I wouldn’t—”

You don’t argue. You don’t contradict her.

You simply sit back, offering a small, understanding nod.

“Of course you didn’t mean for things to get so complicated. You just wanted to make things right.”

The denial is there, trembling on her lips, but you ignore it.

You pivot neatly, seamlessly, back to the facts.

“You said you were running errands,” you say, as if returning to a mundane detail. “Tell me about that. Which shops?”

She stares at you, panic flickering behind her eyes. She wasn't ready for the shift. That’s the point.

“I— I went to 7-Eleven. And then… the pharmacy. I had a prescription,”

You scribble something meaningless onto your pad, nodding slowly.

“The pharmacy?” you echo. “Do you have the receipt?”

She freezes.

“No,” she says after a moment. “I must have thrown it away,”

You don’t react. You just jot down another line.

“Which 7-Eleven?” you ask, tone still mild.

She blinks. “The one on Briar Lane,”

You hum thoughtfully, making another note. She’s lying. You know it. And she knows you know it.

You give her another moment to stew in her own fear before steering the conversation back.

“Funny thing, Margaret,” you say, lightly conversational, “we pulled CCTV from Briar Lane yesterday. The store, the pharmacy, the petrol station.”

You look up, meeting her eyes directly for the first time since you sat down.

“You’re not on any of it.”

The colour drains from her face.

You don’t press. Not yet. Let her feel the walls closing in. Let her suffocate on the inevitability of it.

She shifts in her seat, wringing her hands.

“I must have got the times wrong,” she mutters weakly.

“Of course,” you say smoothly. “It’s easy to get confused. Especially when you’re upset.”

She clings to the lifeline you’ve thrown her, nodding desperately.

“Yes. Yes, I was… distracted,”

You offer her a small, almost pitying smile.

“I understand, Margaret. Truly. No one’s here to judge you.”

Another beat of silence. You watch her, patient and unblinking.

“I can see how hard this is for you,” you say after a moment, voice softening again. “Reliving yesterday. Remembering what happened.”

Her mouth trembles. She presses her lips together tightly, like a child trying not to cry.

“I didn’t… I didn’t take her,” she says, almost whispering.

You nod thoughtfully, as if weighing her words.

“Of course,” you say again. Calm. Unthreatening.

Then, without warning, you steer the conversation right back to the beginning.

“Tell me again what you were doing between three and five yesterday afternoon.”

Her face crumples. She wasn’t ready for the cycle to start again.

But you are tireless. Patient. Merciless.

That’s the thing about interrogations — it’s not the dramatic threats or slammed fists on the table that break people. It’s the relentlessness. The subtle erosion of certainty, the slow dismantling of lies.

She tries again.

“I was at home, actually. I remembered— after the pharmacy I went home. I didn’t feel well.”

“Hmm,” you hum noncommittally. “Your neighbour said they saw your car leave around two, and you didn’t return until gone six.”

You tilt your head, watching her carefully.

“They must be mistaken,” she says quickly, too quickly.

You don’t argue. You just let the inconsistency hang there between you, a slow, toxic drip of doubt.

The denials come more frequently now, growing more desperate with each cycle.

“I wasn’t near the park.”

“I don’t even know where she disappeared from.”

“I just… I was having a bad day.”

You let each one slide past you without reaction, without resistance.

Each time she throws out a denial, you seamlessly redirect — not forcefully, not aggressively, but subtly, like water flowing around a stone.

Back to the CCTV.

Back to the witnesses.

Back to her tangled, faltering story.

You give her a moment to stew in her latest denial. Watch the way she clutches at the hem of her cardigan like it’s a lifeline. Her breathing is shallow now, you can almost hear it hitching every few seconds.

She’s trying to believe her own lies. Trying to build walls faster than you can knock them down.

You lean back slightly in your chair, as if relaxing, as if you have all the time in the world. Then you let your voice slip into a more analytical register.

“Let’s review what we know,” you say, tapping your pen lightly against the table.

The soft sound makes her flinch. Good.

“Your neighbour saw your car leave at two o’clock sharp. CCTV from Briar Lane shows you were not at the pharmacy or the store, as you claimed. In fact—” you pause, leafing slowly through the papers on your clipboard, letting the moment stretch, “—your car was picked up again. Not in Briar Lane. But parked a block from Westwood Park.”

You place a printed image on the table between you: the grainy still of a pale blue Volvo estate. Her car. The timestamp in the corner reads 4:14 p.m.

Margaret pales visibly, staring at it.

“That’s not me,” she whispers, voice breaking.

You arch a brow, slow and sceptical.

“Registration plates don’t lie.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her eyes are wild now, darting across the table, as if searching for some unseen escape hatch.

You press the advantage mercilessly, but with a surgeon’s precision.

“You told us you were at home,” you say calmly. “Yet your vehicle was a block away from the site of a child’s abduction.”

You let the words hang heavily in the air. They don’t need dressing up. They’re lethal enough.

“I just— I just parked for a bit. I wasn’t feeling well—”

You shake your head, slow and deliberate.

“No pharmacy visit. No store. No proof of you being anywhere else.”

You place another sheet on the table, another CCTV still, this time capturing her figure, blurred but unmistakeable, moving across the park entrance at 4:20 p.m.

“Witnesses place you in the vicinity. Cameras place you there. Your alibi doesn’t hold.”

Her lips tremble. You can see the walls crumbling now, piece by piece.

You don’t drive the knife in yet.

Instead, you shift your posture — lean forward, just slightly, closing the space between you by mere inches.

Subtle, calculated.

Not enough to threaten. Just enough to pull her attention inward, to focus it entirely on you.

You keep your gaze steady, non-threatening but utterly unwavering.

Your body language speaks louder than your words. I am your only way out of this.

Margaret's eyes flicker between your face and the photographs, her breath hitching audibly now.

You watch as the fight starts to bleed out of her.

Still, you’re careful. She’s fragile now. One wrong move and she’ll retreat into full panic, barricade herself behind the last reserves of her denial.

You soften your expression by degrees. Let the razor edge dull into something gentler. More… understanding.

Margaret sniffs loudly, wiping at her eyes with trembling fingers. Her composure is breaking apart under the sheer, relentless weight of the truth pressing down on her.

“I just—” she chokes. “I didn’t— I didn’t plan anything—”

You allow a small, almost imperceptible nod. Not agreement. Just… acceptance.

You lower your voice, pitch it softer.

“I know, Margaret,” you say quietly. “I believe you. You were overwhelmed. You weren’t thinking straight. You saw a little girl alone, vulnerable—”

“She was sitting by herself!” Margaret blurts suddenly, anguished. “Just swinging on those stupid swings— and no one— no one was watching—!”

The confession hangs there, raw and shaking.

You don’t react. Don’t let the triumph show. You simply soften further, offering a small, almost maternal tilt of your head.

“You wanted to keep her safe,” you murmur. “Like any mother would.”

Margaret’s face crumples. Tears spill over at last, fat and helpless.

You fold your hands neatly on the table. Stay calm. Stay steady. Be the lighthouse in her storm.

—

“She’s using phased psychological reinforcement,” Spencer says quietly, almost in awe. Like you’ve never quite been so alluring.

Emily glances at him. “In English, please?”

Spencer shifts slightly, tapping his fingers against the glass in a subtle rhythm.

“She’s employing the Reid Technique,” he explains. “It has nine stages that are worked through in order to achieve a state of psychological comfort that elicits more honesty from the suspect,”

“The Reid technique?” Emily raised an eyebrow.

“It’s uh, named after John Reid, he was a police officer in Chicago during the 1950s. It revolutionised formal interviewing, although it’s actually very difficult to implement in practice, because if the suspect catches on then they’re likely to shut down,”

He nods towards you, still composed, still relentless inside the room.

“She’s between stage four and stage five right now— Addressing why the suspect hasn’t confessed, and using mirroring tactics to keep the suspect engaged,”

Morgan hums low under his breath, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Sounds scientific,” he goads.

—

Margaret hiccups through her tears, twisting the sleeves of her cardigan into knots.

“I didn’t—” she whispers again.

You make no move to comfort her. You don’t offer tissues. You don't even shift your posture.

You simply remain present. Solid. Reassuring by your very stillness. In her shattered mind, you are the only constant left. Exactly where you want her.

You let the silence stretch just long enough for Margaret to drown in it, her sobs the only sound filling the sterile room.

Then, softly, so gently it’s almost a caress, you push the conversation where it needs to go.

“Margaret,” you say, voice low but firm, threading compassion through every syllable, “I’m not here to judge you.”

She drags her tear-reddened eyes up to meet yours, desperate and wide.

You offer the smallest of smiles. Not kind. Not cruel. Just human.

“You loved your daughter, right?”

Her face crumples. She gives a broken little nod, a whimper catching in her throat.

You lower your voice even further, until it's barely above a whisper. “And now there's this... ache. This emptiness. It’s unbearable, isn’t it?”

She presses her sleeve to her mouth, trying to smother another sob.

You let the moment hang there, let her sit in the shared understanding you’ve carefully, ruthlessly constructed.

“Were you trying to cause trouble, Margaret?” you ask, tilting your head ever so slightly, as if puzzled. “Or were you simply trying to give that little girl the love you never got to finish giving your daughter?”

It’s everything.

It’s everything she’s been trying to make sense of for the last twelve hours.

And you’ve handed it to her, neatly gift-wrapped, an explanation she can live with.

Her face crumples entirely.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” she wails, folding in on herself. “I just— I just saw her— all alone— they weren’t even watching her! She was just sitting there, swinging by herself, and I thought—”

She breaks off, hiccupping on a sob.

You remain silent, giving her the space to pour it out.

“I thought— she deserves better. Someone who’d see her. Someone who’d love her properly. I could— I could do that. I could give her what she needed.”

Tears stream down her face now, unchecked.

“She’s happy with me,” Margaret insists desperately, as if trying to convince herself as much as you. “She’s smiling. She’s laughing. I’ve never— I’ve never seen her laugh like that. Not once when she was with them.”

You allow yourself a single, careful breath.

But you’re not finished yet.

You shift your tone again, turning almost maternal, gentle and firm.

“Margaret,” you say, leaning in just a fraction, letting her feel the sincerity. “I believe you care for her. I do.”

It’s not a lie. Margaret does care. In her own warped, desperate way. “But she’s scared. She misses her family. She needs to come home.”

Margaret sobs harder, hands shaking so badly she nearly knocks the water cup off the table.

“Help me bring her home safely, Margaret. Please.”

For a long, fragile moment, she just cries.

And then, brokenly, she nods.

“She’s—” she mumbles through the tears. “12A, Eversham Court… I made up the spare room for her, I got her toys and clothes—”

She’s rambling now, stumbling over herself to spill every detail she can think of.

You don’t interrupt.

Outside the room, you know Hotch will already be sending officers to the location, moving fast but discreetly.

Time still matters. Every second counts.

Everything has been recorded. Every word, every sob, every admission captured, preserved, incontrovertible.

You stand slowly, gathering the papers with smooth efficiency.

As you move towards the door, Margaret’s voice breaks behind you, small and shuddering.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” she says again, voice thick with tears. “Tell them that. Please. Tell them I just wanted to love her—”

You pause, hand on the doorframe, and glance back over your shoulder.

Your face gives away nothing.

“I’ll tell them,” you say simply.

It’s not a promise. Not really. But it’s enough.

The door opens with a quiet click. Uniformed officers step inside, moving with trained efficiency.

Margaret doesn’t fight. She’s too broken to resist. She sobs helplessly as they read her her rights, the words barely cutting through her cries of apology. “I’m sorry,” she gasps as they cuff her. “I’m so sorry—”

You watch silently for a moment as they lead her away.

She’s still crying. Still apologising to no one in particular.

You feel no satisfaction. No triumph. Just the faint, hollow weight of inevitability.

You step back into the corridor, letting the door swing shut behind you.

The others are waiting. Hotch nods once at you, brisk and approving. Emily looks grim but relieved. Morgan mutters something under his breath that sounds like "damn," but you don’t linger on it.

Your gaze flicks automatically to Spencer.

He’s watching you the way he always does after you work. Not with fear, not with pity, but with something quieter. Something sharper.

Admiration. And something almost akin to academic attraction.

“Seven minutes, twenty two seconds,”

You don’t smile. You don’t say a word. You simply walk past him, your boots clicking steadily down the hall.

New record.

[rcmclachlan]

Can you imagine what Tommy looked like when he went in for his shift later that day?

(8x11 coda)

+

When Kinard walks into the locker room at the start of their shift, Lucy does a double take that would make Tex Avery weep with envy.

No one at Harbor would be able to say with a straight face that Kinard's been fully himself over the last few months, what with the wistful eyes and the almost complete lack of Independence Day quotes, but watching him stow his shit in his locker now, he looks diluted, like someone spilled water past the edges of his outline until he grew blurry and ephemeral. She has no idea what could've happened to make him look like this.

He shuts the door to his locker not with the cheerful flair with which he's done since she met him, or the way he's been doing it as of late: quick and perfunctory, like if he wastes even the slightest bit of movement, he'll be losing some kind of bet with himself. 

He shuts the door with a quiet click. Then he just stands there, hand on the handle. She's not even sure he's registered that she's in there with him.

"Kinard," Lucy says. "You good?"

It takes a second for it to penetrate, but she sees the moment it does. He blinks himself out of the fugue state and straightens up,  no expression on his face. He looks like the fucking Terminator. 

"Kinard," she says again, this time barking it out as forcefully as she thinks he can handle. That tone never fails to work on her brother's demon kids, and also Captain Ribiero.

"Donato." He says her name slowly, almost dreamily. He's as solid as a cloud. If she got off the bench and put her hand on his arm, it would fall right through him. "Do you remember the second time we flew together? The gas explosion at Park Fifth. Do you remember what you said to me after we got the kid out—Charlie?"

Wide-eyed, she stares at him, because he's never once brought up Park Fifth since it happened, mostly out of fear that she'd bludgeon him to death with the closest thing within reach for the reminder. It's been literally years since then, and the trust and rapport they've built has erased any hard feelings from that night.

"I asked..." She trails off with a grimace.

It hadn't been her finest moment, considering the kid had just died in his arms. It was her fault—for not listening to him when he wanted her to fly to the east side of the building, downwind, so he could get in and run to where little Charlie Kindstrom was trapped inside with a gas fire that wouldn't quit no matter what they threw at it. She had wanted to get in from the apartment window, have him attack it head-on, to save time, and she'd used her seniority to override him. They wasted precious minutes anyway, trying to get him inside by way of the one clear corner and somehow keep him from being flambéd. 

When they finally got Charlie on board, Kinard had been covered with ash and blood from where Charlie's skin had sloughed off during the transfer, and when Reina, their aeromedic, couldn't get her pulse back, he looked at Lucy with what, at the time, felt like blame. The guilt and frustration and the fact that this smart-ass fucking newbie was calling her out on her mistake, even though he wasn't, not really, got the best of her, got control of her mouth before she could wrestle them back.

"I asked if you ever got tired of being right all the fucking time."

He'd rocked back from it like he'd been slapped, eyes wide and hurt, red from the smoke and the loss, but he never answered her. Reina called time of death, and nobody said a word the entire flight to LA General. When they got back to Harbor, they had it out right there on the tarmac, then walked back inside, arms slung around each other, to find three of their teammates holding up pieces of paper with scores written on them. Nico gave them a 6.5, the fucker.

Now, she watches with wordless horror as a smile like a flatline slowly creeps across his face, eating everything in its path. He steps back from his locker.

"I do," he murmurs. "I really do."

Kinard exhales, then visibly steels himself, plates of armor sliding down, locking in, and then walks out into the hangar like nothing can touch him. Like nothing will touch him ever again. 

Realization hits, and it takes conscious effort to dig her nails out of her palm so she can grab her phone off the bench and open a very, very, very old text thread.

Blowing out a breath, she puts her phone on Do Not Disturb then slides it into her pocket so she can finish tying her boot laces, trying to unclench her jaw with varying success.

Not only does she have an entire shift to lead during the fourth straight day of a county-wide burn ban, which means every idiot from here to San Bernadino is going to try to burn their neighborhood to the ground because they couldn't go a week without throwing a backyard barbecue, but her best pilot's nursing what is clearly a freshly broken heart, and that's a thousand times more dangerous than some dumbass lighting up a firepit in their bone-dry yard.

"I should've called out," she mutters, then stands up.

Would've, could've, should've, but that won't pay her bills. Spending the next 48 hours keeping Kinard from falling out of the sky, however, better come with OT pay.

[angelremnants]

Of Stormbound Hearts l L. Laufeyson

summary : In the midst of a storm of emotions and unspoken longing, two souls collide in a moment that blurs the line between desire and fear. The tension between them disguised under quarrels has been building for months, and when it finally unravels, neither can escape the pull of what they’ve both denied for so long. But as their connection deepens, so do the questions. Will they be able to handle the storm they've created, or will it consume them?

pairing : Loki Laufeyson x f!reader

warnings : Mature themes (+16), intense emotional tension, physical intimacy, angst to eventual fluff, vulnerability, character conflict, suggestive content. Proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such material.

word count : 4.9k

(ao3 version)

The dimly lit room trembled under the weight of your clashing words. Tension hummed like a taut wire, each breath you drew amplifying the storm raging outside the windows. Thunder cracked sharply, rattling the walls like an impatient herald of unresolved truths. Yet neither of you blamed Thor for the horrid weather—after all, he had fled the chaos of your ongoing quarrel, retreating to find solace a few doors away.

The argument had collapsed into a suffocating silence, and the air between you was sparking with the aftershock of words that could not be taken back. Loki’s composure was shattered, a pale reflection of his usual elegance. His chest rose and fell unevenly, dark locks falling across his face in wild disarray, evidence of his frustrated hands. His arms hung stiff at his sides, fingers twitching with restrained fury—the kind of control that seemed like a punishment, as though it physically pained him to keep from destroying something, anything.

You fared no better. You tugged tightly at your hands behind your back, a futile effort to quell your trembling. Although your voice had been quieter than his during your shouting match, the magnitude of your confrontation rippled through you like an unstoppable tide, leaving you breathless.

You wanted to say something cutting, to twist the knife just enough to force him to react. But his silence unnerved you. The tension in his body and the way his chest rose and fell unevenly—it wasn’t anger. Not entirely.

“What now, Loki?” Your voice sliced through the quiet, intransigent and bitter. “Another lecture about how I’ve derailed your grand, masterful plans?”

He stood motionless, his silhouette framed by the storm’s flickering light. His shoulders were tense, rigid beneath the weight of everything he didn’t say. You shot daggers at his back, daring him to respond. The distance between you felt impossibly vast yet suffocatingly small.

“Are you going to speak?” you pressed on, your words razor-sharp. “Or is this the part where you brood in silence, as if the world owes you something? How very godlike of you.” Your tone dripped with mockery.

His muscles tensed at the provocation, every inch of him vibrating with restrained energy. You felt the atmosphere crackling with the kind of dangerous power you recognized all too well. Your instincts screamed at you to retreat, to stop provoking the storm brewing before you, but a deeper, reckless part of you pushed forward, daring to test the limits—perhaps as a way to prove to yourself that you could withstand it.

Instead of unleashing his fury, he closed his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath, as though the very act of restraint was excruciating.

“You think this is a game?” His voice was low, trembling with barely restrained anger. “Do you think I stand here, unraveling because it amuses me? Don’t mock me, [Y/N]. I am holding on by a thread.”

The vulnerability laced through his fury struck you like a lightning bolt, but you wouldn’t let him see it. Folding your arms, you threw his anger back at him with a defiant glare.

“Control. That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Your fragile ego.” You scoffed bitterly, crossing your arms to mask the nervous tremor in your fingers. “Honestly, Loki, if you’re so desperate for control, maybe you should stop being so insufferable—”

His head fell forward slightly, his sharp laughter echoing bitterly around the room. The sound was devoid of joy, just a hollow crack in the façade he fought to maintain.

“Stop.” He abruptly turned to you, his eyes unyielding and blazing with darkness. The storm within him mirrored the one outside, each word trembling with unrestrained venom. His lips curled into a joyless smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. The shadows carved harsh lines into his face, and his gaze burned with a fury that made your pulse quicken.

“You ruin everything,” he snarled, taking a step toward you. The intensity in his gaze forced you to take an involuntary step back. “Every plan. Every strategy. Every ounce of control I’ve fought to keep. You invade my thoughts, my dreams, my every waking moment.” He laughed bitterly, his voice trembling with fury and despair. “You don’t get it, do you? How maddening, how utterly unbearable you’ve made this for me. You’ve undone me. Me! The God of Lies, of Mischief, reduced to this—this pathetic shadow.”

Your defiance faltered. There was no venom in his words, only a bone-deep frustration and something else, unknown to your senses.

"Please don't do this," you warned, your voice now softer, hoping to appease him—unfortunately, he wasn't paying enough attention to note this subtle cry for calm.

"Do you know what it’s like? To crave someone so deeply that it consumes you?" Loki continued, his voice cracking slightly. He stepped closer, the heat radiating from him now palpable. "To loathe them for it? To want to destroy them because it would be easier than feeling this—this madness?"

Your anger wavered in the face of his raw emotion. You noticed his hands twitching at his sides, his fingers curling into fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His brow furrowed, veins straining visibly beneath his skin, as if his emotions were about to burst forth. The tremble in his voice betrayed the turmoil he fought to contain.

"You terrify me." His voice softened as he whispered your name in an almost pained tone, and for the first time, you saw the cracks in his façade. The vulnerability he had buried so deeply now spilled over. "You've taken the one thing I've always had—control. And you've destroyed it without even trying. I hate you for it. I despise your existence."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and the armor you had so carefully built around yourself began to fracture. It felt like a physical blow, a sharp breath escaping you as if you had been struck in the solar plexus.

"Then leave," you whispered, your voice thin and brittle. The word felt like ash on your tongue. "If I’m such a burden, leave."

“Do you think I haven't tried?” His voice was a mix of anguish and fury. “I have fought gods, defied realms, burned my own bridges to the ground in the name of my freedom—and yet, I can’t walk away. I am shackled, chained to this unbearable ache that you've submitted to me.”

Your heart hammered in your chest as his words sank in, each one unraveling the control you thought you had. You had believed yourself to be the one in charge, teasing him, testing his limits. But now, faced with the depth of his emotions, you realized how little you truly understood him.

“Loki…” Your voice trembled, softer now, filled with uncertainty.

“No. Let me finish. Let me finish,” he insisted, his voice shaking with a mix of rage and vulnerability that gleamed in his eyes. “You will hear this—I deserve the least of it. You infuriate me,” he growled, suppressing emotion as he took a strained breath, pressing a trembling hand to his chest as if in pain. “Because you’ve invaded every part of me. You’ve stripped me bare, torn me apart.”

He took a step closer, the heat of his body almost overpowering your train of thought. Your back pressed against the wall, and as you opened your mouth to reply, no words came out. The tension in the room was suffocating, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from him.

“I hate it,” he admitted, his voice rough. “I hate how much I need you, how much I—” He broke off, his words choking in his throat. “I can’t even hate you properly. I’ve tried. I’ve tried everything. This burning torment consumes me every time I look at you, every time I hear your voice and know I can never—” He exhaled suddenly, as though the admission physically pained him. Lowering his head, he gripped his hip with his other hand as if to steady himself. “You make me feel like I’m falling apart from the inside out. You haunt my thoughts. It hurts, and it bewilders me beyond recovery to hear you call for me, to hear you say my name.”

The storm outside roared, and the lightning illuminated his face as he towered over you, his forehead nearly brushing against yours. The tremor in his hands pressed against the wall on either side of you, trapping you without making contact.

“I am weak, and you are the one thing I cannot resist. It pains me, irritates me, and yet—and yet, I crave it. I crave you.”

You stared at him, rendered speechless, as his voice dropped to a near whisper.

“I’ve known nothing but pain and suffering my whole life, but never have I suffered like this. Every moment I’m near you is agony,” he confessed, his breath warm against your cheek. “But every moment I’m away is worse.”

He pursed his lips, his throat constricting as if swallowing the pain. Then, slowly, almost as though it was the last shred of his pride slipping away, he sank to his knees before you.

His shoulders slumped forward in silent surrender, as if his pride and strength had been stripped away in that single motion. Your heart raced as you saw him like this—so proud, so untouchable—now laid bare and vulnerable.

"I am begging you," Loki murmured, his voice trembling. "On my knees, if that’s what it takes. Tell me to leave." He shut his eyes tightly, as if even the thought of it would scar him. "If you feel nothing, say the word, and I will disappear from your life, no matter how much it kills me. But if there is even the smallest chance that you..."

He stopped, his voice breaking completely as he looked up at you, his stormy green eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"If you feel even a fraction of what I feel for you... please. End this. Free me from this torment—or let me stay as I am. It would be an honor if you could accept me as such." He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I am already painfully yours. But I beg you, please, tell me what to do."

For a long moment, the only sound was the storm echoing the chaos between you. You stood over him, and for the first time, you saw him—not as a god, not as an agent of chaos, not even as your acolyte, but as a vulnerable being, utterly at your mercy. His words, heavy with unrestrained emotion, shamefully made your heart race and stirred something deep inside you.

"I..." you started, your voice barely a whisper, but Loki shook his head. His hands curled into fists against the earth as he slowly lifted his gaze, stormy green eyes locking onto yours. "No," he breathed in anguish. "If you’re going to reject me, say it directly—don’t give me hope first."

Your heart felt heavy, a tight knot forming in your throat as Loki's words cut through the air like a cold breeze. Each syllable lingered, wrapping around you like a shroud and igniting a tumult of emotions within you. You hesitated for a moment before brushing your fingers over his trembling shoulders. You couldn’t stand to see him like this. He had always been a god of power and control—and now, he was breaking in front of you.

"Loki," you whispered, your voice low but steady, "please, don’t kneel. Get up. It pains me to see you like this."

But like a child being reprimanded, Loki categorically refused to obey to your demand and shook his head, his hands clenched into fists against the earth.

"Look at me, Mischief," you said softly, your tone coaxing, as though your voice alone could undo the weight crushing him. Your hands hovered for a moment before finally resting on his trembling shoulders. "You don’t belong on your knees. Not before anyone, and certainly not before me."

His jaw tightened, and he averted his eyes, an abashed expression crossing his face like a shadow. How wrong you were, not to know that it was one of the finest luxuries in all of the realms for him to be found in such a compromising position for you. Only for you.

Sighing, you resigned yourself to match his position and lowered yourself to your knees in response. Your fingers rose to his face, cupping his cheeks with a tenderness he wasn’t sure he deserved. Though he didn’t return your gaze—probably out of shame, judging by the flush staining his alabaster cheeks—you could see the turmoil in his eyes, mirroring your own.

You took a deep breath, your chest rising and falling as you tried to steady yourself. Even in the overwhelming intensity of the moment, a mischievous glint sparkled in your eyes, and a small, teasing smile curled at the corners of your lips. You brushed your fingers lightly against his temple as you lightly leaned in before flicking his forehead. “You really do have a way with words, don’t you? Twisting my thoughts around like one of your tricks.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed, flickering with a mix of disbelief and indignation. His mouth opened, a protest forming on his tongue, but it faltered. He exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion. A small tremor betrayed him in his silence, noticeable enough to reveal the cracks in the armor he so desperately tried to maintain.

You sighed softly, your breath brushing against his cheek as you tilted your head just enough to meet his gaze again. “You’re impossible, Loki,” you murmured quietly now, in an almost tender tone. “Completely and utterly impossible.”

With that, Loki’s walls crumbled. His head fell gently onto your shoulder as his body surrendered to the weight of his emotions. He was emotionally spent, utterly drained, and you held him close, your heart pounding in your chest. Your hands slid through his hair, fingers gently brushing through the tangled mess as a soft gesture of comfort. You glided your hands down his back, letting the tips of your nails graze his spine before tracing back up, repeating the process; each touch sent shivers of pleasure through him.

“You’re cruel,” Loki barely audibly huffed with dry humor, yet it still tinged with something like relief.

You let out a soft laugh, your lips brushing the crown of his head. “If anything, I think you’re the cruel one for making me care this much,” you replied, trembling. “You push, you pull… you twist me into knots, Loki. And still…” You paused. “Still, here I am.”

His breath hitched at your words, his body taut beneath your touch. You slowly pulled back, cupping his face once more. Your thumbs grazed his cheekbones as your eyes roamed over his features—the furrow in his brow, the way his lips trembled slightly, the flush on his pale skin.

“Honestly, I should be the one angry with you, Mischief,” you said with frustration. “I never did anything wrong, yet you let it all spill onto me—your anger, your pain. You teased me, belittled me, and made me feel like I didn’t matter. And yet, here you are, breaking down in my arms and asking me to understand.”

Your words cut through him and he swallowed hard, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. With a sigh, your expression softened, your lips twitching into a small, understanding smile. “But you’re a beautiful soul, Loki—complicated, yes, but beautiful all the same. And I can’t help but be pulled in.”

A shudder ran through him at your words, his vulnerability deepening. For a moment, he looked as though he might shatter entirely.

You melted into him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and tangling your fingers in his hair. You leaned into him, intoxicated by his warmth, your lips brushing over the shell of his ear. “I want you to look at me, sweetheart.”

Loki’s sharp intake of breath betrayed his surprise, his stormy eyes snapping up to meet yours. His reluctance was palpable, a flicker of resistance flashing through his gaze, but this time he obeyed nonetheless.

Your teasing nature returned, a discreet and sly smile tugging at your lips as you pulled back slightly. Your thumb grazed his jaw, your touch soft and deliberate as your gaze roamed over his face. You admired every detail, letting your fingers trace his lips, cheekbones, and the curve of his jaw.

Loki's breath caught in his throat, your words cutting through the veil of confusion and tension that had clouded his mind. He buzzed with delight under the weight of your gaze and the soft but insistent touch of your fingers; it was almost too much to bear. Battling to stay still, he fought against the urge to jump on you and ravage you senseless for speaking those words and treating him like he was the finest ornament.

You replaced your hands in their original positions and brushed your eyes over his face, taking it all in. Loki’s features were a portrait you wished you could engrave in your mind forever. His brow furrowed slightly, expressing the intensity of his uncertainties. His lips, which you teasingly traced with your thumb, parted in a shallow, desperate breath, trembling ever so slightly as if on the verge of confessing something left unsaid, although everything had already been spoken. The sharp, high points of his cheekbones, usually so regal, now appeared softer, flushed a deep crimson from a mix of vulnerability and desire. A single drop of sweat traced down the side of his face, catching the light and adding to the tension in his gaze—and oh, those eyes.

His eyes, darkened with longing, swirled with flickers of green shimmering with desperation. The depths of his irises seemed to pull you in, reflecting not only his internal struggle but also his raw need to be seen and understood, and more importantly, for you to accept him wholly. Beneath the intensity, you could sense the vulnerability in his eyes, attracting you like would a siren song.

Your fingers glided down the length of Loki’s neck, lightly grazing his skin as you leaned in closer, your breath warm against his ear. The faint teasing smile on your lips never faded, even as you sensed the tension building in his body, each gentle touch adding to the pressure. You reveled in the way he reacted to your every move. It was a delicate game, a playful form of payback for the emotional torment he had caused you during your journey, and perhaps a way to steady yourself against your growing desire to close the distance between you entirely.

Your thumb traced his jaw, your fingers lingering near his lips, as if daring him to break the silence. The heat between you thickened, charged with unspoken need. You almost forgot his boundaries, lost in the thrill of the game and definitely too enthralled by the gorgeous being in front of you.

However, you failed to notice the shift in his posture. The practiced stillness that once defined him wavered, giving way to a sense of danger. His breath hitched, and his mind snapped back to the person he truly was. The weight of his identity surged through him like a tidal wave, breaking the fragile restraint he had been maintaining. His breath came in short, shallow bursts, and his eyes burned with a warning you failed to heed.

In that moment, you overlooked the reality that you were not dealing with an obedient being, but a depraved and hedonistic god who always took what he wanted. A god whose desires were as boundless as his patience was fragile.

In a flash, Loki shot out his hands, seizing your wrists and yanking them away from his face. His grip was firm and unyielding, forcing you to pause as you felt the rising tension in his body with barely contained fury simmering beneath the surface.

“Enough,” he growled, a whisper of danger hanging heavily in the air. You blinked, momentarily stunned by the shift in his demeanor. You found yourself captivated by the intensity of his gaze, unaware that his restraint had snapped and his longing had surged to the surface all at once. Primal hunger radiated from him as his hands tightened around your wrists, pulling you closer with an urgency born of days filled with loneliness and yearning. The heat between you burned brighter, almost unbearable, as the space between your faces dwindled.

“You should know better than to toy with a god,” he warned, his voice thick with desperation, sending shivers down your spine. You leaned in slowly, your lips hovering just a breath away from his. Your warm breath teased him, a subtle dare to close the distance. But at the last moment, you hesitated. Something inside you faltered—not out of fear, but from an instinct to stretch and savour the moment. You drew back ever so slightly, your lashes fluttering as you caught your breath.

The instance of hesitation was his breaking point. A low, feral sound escaped his throat as his hands moved swiftly, cradling your face with a reverence that trembled with need.

He surged forward, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that was both relentless and heartbreakingly tender. It was fierce and all-consuming, as if every ounce of his pent-up longing was poured into that single moment. You thought you heard him sigh in relief as he pulled you closer, as if the weight of your shared emotions connected you in a way that words never could.

His trembling hands released your wrists, one sliding to the nape of your neck, the other tracing down your silhouette before settling at your waist, pulling you firmly onto his lap. Your bodies aligned, his center flush against yours.

You tried to speak, but the words were trapped in your throat, lost in the overwhelming intensity of his kiss. His lips were insistent, each press a force that left no room for thought, only the sensation of him, of this. Each kiss felt like a claim, a demand you couldn’t resist. Your breath caught in your chest, and before you realized it, your arms instinctively wrapped around his shoulders, fingers tangling in his hair as his kiss deepened.

Your mind raced faster than your heartbeat, torn between the fire of his touch and the fear gnawing at your insides. How did we get here? you wondered, your fingers pausing against his skin as confusion tugged at your thoughts. Is this what I’ve been waiting for? The line between longing and fear blurred in your chest. You felt yourself being pulled deeper into his orbit, yet a quiet voice in the back of your mind warned you not to lose yourself in this moment.

“Loki...” you whispered, your voice heavy with the vulnerability you could no longer conceal. But before you could finish your sentence, his lips claimed yours once more, and you found yourself powerless to resist. He couldn’t stop; his mouth moved over yours with a desperate passion, and you surrendered to him, lacking the strength to pull away.

"Don't pull away," he mumbled against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. "Not now, please."

The world outside your embrace faded away, leaving only the sensation of his lips against yours and the heat of his body seeping into yours. You could feel his heart racing in his chest, pounding as fast as your own. Every kiss was a question, and every touch confirmed that neither of you could walk away from this—no matter how much you might want to, and no matter how much fear lingered in the back of your minds.

You knew that you should stop, that you should hold back, but the pull of him was stronger than anything you had ever known. The quiet voice in your mind warned you not to lose yourself, but it was drowned out by the heat building between you, a magnetic force neither of you could deny.

You could feel his pulse racing in his fingertips as they traced the line of your spine, grounding you in the whirlwind of emotions. Everything around you seemed to be speeding up, charged with an urgent, desperate energy that neither of you could control. For a fleeting moment, you understood: this wasn’t just about passion; it was something deeper, something you couldn’t articulate. It was months of tension and longing finally unraveling between you.

When you gently separated, your bodies reluctant to lose the closeness, Loki still had the clarity, even amidst the storm of his desires, to give you space. His forehead brushed against yours, and your breaths mingled as you both tried to steady the rapid beating of your hearts. Loki’s hands lingered on your skin, holding the moment without pulling you back immediately. There was a vulnerability in that, a tenderness within his hunger.

Your heart pounded against your chest, the rhythm echoing in your ears as you gazed into his eyes. There was a quiet intensity there, a storm brewing in the depths, and you knew, with terrifying clarity, that neither of you could walk away from this. Not now. Not ever.

He whispered, his voice raw and desperate, "Stay." The word was barely a breath against your lips. It wasn’t a request; it was an unspoken promise, a silent vow.

Your cheeks flushed deeply as you felt the weight of his gaze and the heat between you. Timidly, you nodded, your lips parting in a barely audible "Yes"—a whisper of surrender. The vulnerability of your gesture only spurred him on.

Without a word, Loki's lips found yours again, his kiss more urgent than before, as if claiming what was now his. His touch was demanding and desperate, overflowing with everything he had kept buried. It wasn’t a tender kiss; it was a claim, a release for all he had confined within.

He took everything you offered, his lips moving hungrily against yours, ragged with desire. His hands roamed your body with a reverence that spoke of months of longing. One hand slid back to the nape of your neck, while the other traced the curve of your waist, stationing to their rightful places, savoring how your bodies were leaving no space between you.

You felt a stronger pull towards him than ever before. As you surrendered to his embrace, you realized there was no turning back. You let your instincts guide you and continued to kiss him, your focus narrowing to the sensations of his lips, his touch, and his breath.

His hands trembled as he gripped you tighter, sliding over your curves, anchoring himself to the reality of your touch. He explored with deliberate slowness, tracing the length of your spine and backside, teasing as you had done to him earlier. He relished in this dance of long-awaited affection and need, in the feeling of your fluttering eyelashes against his cheeks, the thundering beats of your pulsing heart under his palm, the shared heat as your bodies almost united as one.

You tugged at his hair, attempting to slow him—but oh, he couldn't, not anymore, not ever. He groaned, unrelenting, lost in the feeling of you. He was too far gone, too hooked up on the feeling and the taste of your sweet lips. He shuddered pleasurably when he chased your mouth even as you gasped for air, even when he too needed to breathe.

It felt as though he could travel to Hel and back with the fire in his veins, ignited by the scent and taste of you. You only spurred him further when you bit his lip and gratified his back by raking your nails down. A low growl rumbled deep in his chest as he shifted his grip and lifted his hips in reflex, pressing against you with relentless hunger.

When you finally broke apart, both gasping for oxygen, Loki's forehead rested against your temple. His breathing was uneven, and his hands still trembled from the raging storm inside him as they lingered on your skin. Although his grip loosened, the raw intensity remained, demonstrated by the furrow of his eyebrows in pleasure.

"Careful," he rasped moments after with his voice hoarse, having taken his time to clear his mind a bit from the foggy sensation in the febrile hope he could somewhat behave himself not to go rampant. He backed away to admire his handiwork, his eyes roaming over you to appreciate the flush in your cheeks, the pink of your swollen lips, and the dazed look in your eyes. "You've already tested my patience. Keep this up, and I won't hold back."

Your heart thundered, your body vibrating with exhilaration and need. A small sly smile tugged at your lips as you leaned forward, biting his lip once more in defiance. Loki’s control slipped further. With a swift motion, he pulled you down against the concrete of the ground, his lips finding yours again in a renewed storm of desire.

The storm hadn't passed. It had only just begun.

ending note : I honestly almost turned it into a smut— almost. It was tempting, but I haven't reached that level yet.

Want to read more of my works? Check out my masterlist !

dividers ©️ @strangergraphics-archive + @enchanthings .

angelremnants ©️ 2024. All rights reserved. Do not repost, reproduce, or distribute without explicit permission.

[theodorenmyth]

I just read 'people you know' and it's so good !!! I was just wondering if you could make an alternate ending (I love the angst but fluff is so cute!!!) with Mattheo and Theo realising what they've done and apologised to y/n but he Makes them work for it until he feels like they're truly sorry, then it works outs. 🙏🙏 Thanks sooo muchhh ♡♡♡

People you know

Pairings : Mattheo R. x GN!Reader x Theodore N.

Summary : Mattheo and Theo work to earn back your trust, proving they’ve changed. Slowly, you let them in again. One night, after carrying you to bed, you ask them to stay. Holding you close, they realize—they’ll never lose you again.

A/N : maybe this one will heal your hearts.... I think

Warnings : Angst, fluffy ending

Word count : 1k+

They didn’t think it would ever come to this.

Mattheo and Theodore had convinced themselves that no matter how much damage had been done, no matter how deep the wounds had cut, you would always find your way back to them. You always had before.

But not this time.

This time, you had replaced them.

At first, they didn’t take it seriously. They saw you hanging around Casper Rosier and Elias Avery and thought it was a temporary thing, that you were just passing time. But then you stopped looking at them. Stopped waiting for them. Stopped acting like they were the center of your world.

And it hurt.

It hurt when Mattheo saw Casper drape an arm around your shoulders.

It hurt when Theo saw Elias steal bits of your food at lunch like it was his right.

It hurt when they saw you at the courtyard under the tree—their tree—with them.

They had no one to blame but themselves.

Pansy had called them out on it first. "You let them go, and now they found people who actually treat them right."

"We didn’t let them go," Theo had muttered, but his voice was weak.

"Yes, you did," she’d said with finality. "And now they’re happy without you."

They should have taken the hint. Should have accepted that they had lost their chance.

But then Mattheo saw you at the Three Broomsticks, sandwiched between Casper and Elias, laughing, and something in him snapped.

The next thing you knew, Mattheo was looming over your table, his hands braced against the wood. "Alright," he said, voice low and sharp. "I think it’s time we talk."

You raised your brows, unimpressed. "Talk? Now you want to talk?"

Theo appeared beside him, looking just as tense. "We should have talked a long time ago," he admitted.

Casper leaned back lazily. "You’ve got some nerve, Riddle."

Mattheo ignored him. "Please," he said, voice tight. "Just five minutes."

You stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. "Fine."

Mattheo and Theo led you outside into the cold, their hearts pounding.

"You hate us," Theo said quietly.

You crossed your arms. "I don’t hate you. I just don’t trust you anymore."

The words stung.

Mattheo exhaled sharply. "We were assholes," he admitted. "We fucked up. We got caught up in our own shit and didn’t see what we were doing to you until it was too late."

You studied him carefully. "Why are you telling me this now?"

Theo ran a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. "Because seeing you happy without us fucking killed us." His voice cracked slightly. "Because we miss you, and we know we don’t deserve you back, but we’re selfish enough to want to try anyway."

You felt something in your chest tighten, but you weren’t going to let them off that easily.

"You don’t get to just say sorry and have everything go back to normal," you said. "You hurt me. You made me feel like I didn’t matter. If you want me back, you have to prove that I do."

Mattheo and Theo looked at each other before nodding firmly.

"We’ll do whatever it takes," Mattheo said. "Just… don’t shut us out completely."

You hesitated, then gave a small nod. "You can start by earning my time back."

And with that, you walked away, leaving them standing in the cold.

But this time, they weren’t going to let you slip away again.

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

They weren’t expecting you to forgive them easily.

Honestly, Mattheo and Theo would have preferred if you had just screamed at them, cursed them out, anything but what you actually did—make them earn you back.

And oh, did you make them work for it.

It started small. They weren’t allowed to sit next to you in the Great Hall, but you let them hover nearby. You wouldn’t wait for them after class, but you didn’t speed up when they walked beside you. You let them talk, let them try, but you made no promises.

And yet, that small sliver of hope was enough for them.

They did everything.

Mattheo would leave sweets on your desk before class, casually acting like he had no idea how they got there. Theo would pass you notes, little things like ‘You look nice today.’ or ‘This class is unbearable without you talking to me.’

They remembered things. Things they should have always remembered.

Theo pulled you aside before Potions one day, placing a small, wrapped package in your hands. "I know your hands get cold, and I saw these at Hogsmeade."

Inside were a pair of enchanted gloves, warm as if you were always near a fireplace.

Mattheo, as dramatic as ever, threw his scarf around you when he saw you shivering. "Can’t have you freezing to death. I refuse to grieve fashionably."

And slowly, you started letting them back in.

You allowed Theo to sit across from you in the library instead of a table away. You let Mattheo walk with you to class without rolling your eyes. You started responding to their little notes with snarky comments, making them grin like idiots.

The real shift happened one night in the common room.

You had fallen asleep on the couch, your book slipping from your fingers. Theo and Mattheo had been sitting nearby, both watching you with quiet longing.

Theo was the first to move. Carefully, cautiously, he reached over and brushed a strand of hair from your face. "They used to fall asleep on us all the time," he murmured.

Mattheo swallowed. "I miss that."

Theo hesitated, then whispered, "We should bring them to bed."

Mattheo nodded, and before he could second-guess himself, he slipped his arms under you, lifting you as gently as he could. You stirred slightly but didn’t wake, instead curling into his warmth instinctively.

Mattheo’s heart clenched.

Theo followed closely behind, and when they finally tucked you into bed, they both hesitated before stepping away.

And then, still half-asleep, you murmured, "Stay?"

They froze.

Theo swallowed. "Are you sure?"

You sighed sleepily, shifting to make room. "I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t."

They didn’t waste a second.

Theo slid in on one side, his warmth familiar and comforting. Mattheo took the other, draping an arm over you protectively.

For the first time in months, it felt right.

Mattheo exhaled against your hair. "Missed this," he whispered.

Theo pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "Missed you."

You sighed, finally, finally relaxing in their arms. "I missed you too."

And just like that, they knew—this time, they weren’t going to lose you again.

[mbruben-stein]

MHA boys reaction to finding out after the final war that their s/o became wheelchair bound and became a teacher after the war ended.

~Izuku Midoriya~

When Izuku first learns that his s/o was badly injured in the war and can no longer walk, he would be absolutely devastated. Seeing the person he loves in so much pain, and knowing they sacrificed their mobility fighting alongside him, would tear him apart with grief and guilt. He'd likely break down crying and apologizing profusely for not protecting them.

But once the initial shock passes, Izuku's compassionate and supportive nature would quickly take over. He would do everything in his power to be there for his s/o during their recovery and adaptation to life in a wheelchair. Izuku would constantly encourage them, telling them how incredible and heroic they are for all they've done. He'd be endlessly patient, helping them with daily tasks and pushing their wheelchair without complaint.

At the same time, Izuku would make sure not to coddle or pity his s/o. He knows how strong and capable they are. So while he offers help, he'd also give them space to figure things out and maintain their independence as much as possible. Izuku would cheer on every milestone as they learn to navigate the world in new ways.

I imagine Izuku being so proud when his s/o takes a job teaching at UA. Using their skills and experience to help train the next generation of heroes is an amazing way for them to continue making a difference, wheelchair or no wheelchair. Izuku would brag about them to everyone. On tough days, he'd remind them what an inspiration they are to their students.

Overall, this tragedy would only make Izuku love and admire his s/o more. He'd stand by their side unconditionally, being the steadfast pillar of support they can always count on. They would grow even closer through this challenge. To Izuku, his s/o will always be his hero, no matter what.

~Katsuki Bakugo~

Initially, Bakugo is filled with rage and guilt. He's furious at the villains who hurt his s/o so badly, and furious at himself for not being able to protect them. He may lash out or seem angry at first, but it's masking his devastation and self-blame.

Once the initial shock and anger fades, Bakugo becomes fiercely protective and supportive of his s/o. He's determined to be there for them no matter what as they adjust to their new circumstances. He helps them with physical therapy, getting their home accessibility upgraded, and anything else they need without complaint.

Bakugo is secretly very proud that his s/o has taken on a teaching role at UA to help train the next generation of heroes. He knows they have a wealth of experience and wisdom to share. But he grumbles that the "damn kids better not give you any trouble or they'll have to answer to me."

When his s/o has hard days and gets frustrated with their physical limitations, Bakugo is quick to remind them that they're still every bit the incredible hero and person they've always been. "You think a little thing like a wheelchair makes you any less amazing? Don't be a damn idiot."

Bakugo makes it clear to everyone that NOTHING about his love and respect for his partner has changed. He shuts down any pitying looks or comments immediately. His s/o is still the badass he fell in love with and he won't let anyone imply otherwise.

On the anniversary of the day his s/o was injured, Bakugo is always extra attentive, planning special things to show how glad he is to still have them by his side. He knows things could have turned out much worse and he'll never take their presence for granted.

Overall, in the end, he loves them for who they are no matter what.

~Shoto Todoroki~

When Shoto first learns what happened to his partner, he feels a mix of deep concern, sadness, and anger that they were so badly injured. Even years later, remembering the moment he found out still brings back those painful emotions. He wishes more than anything he could have protected them.

At the same time, Shoto is incredibly proud of his S/O's bravery, sacrifice and strength. They put their life on the line as a hero, just like he did. And now they are channeling that same heroic spirit into inspiring and guiding the next generation at UA. Shoto has endless respect and admiration for them.

Shoto makes sure to be there to physically and emotionally support his partner as much as possible, especially early on as they adjust to using a wheelchair. He helps make their home fully accessible. If his S/O is self-conscious about the wheelchair, Shoto reassures them that it doesn't change how he feels at all - he loves them unconditionally and their chair is a symbol of their courage.

When he visits them at work, Shoto loves seeing his S/O in their element - skillfully navigating the school grounds and classrooms, captivating the students with their hard-earned wisdom and experience. The students look up to them immensely. Shoto teases that they're everyone's favorite teacher.

In private moments, Shoto makes sure his partner knows how much he cherishes them. The war took a heavy toll on them both physically and mentally. But supporting each other and building a life together has brought hope and light back after so much darkness.

Overall, his S/O inspires Shoto to be a better hero and person every day.

[ladyloveandjustice]

Seeing people say they get more attached to the male characters the female characters because they're "badly written" is always such a weak excuse but pulling it for the Batfamily is so wild. Because all comics characters are badly written at one point or another. Batman has some of the most inconsistent characterization and worst writing of ALL TIME, everyone has their conflicting vision of Batman and how much of an asshole he should be so it's a mess. He's done some outrageously unforgiveable shit you have to ignore if you want to keep liking the character??? Stuff that makes absolutely no sense where you can't even fathom why he'd do that??? But then other writers ignore it, and you ignore it.

Jason Todd's characterization was a fucking contradictory mess when he was first resurrected (and is probably still bad and inconsistent sometimes I imagine. I haven't sampled enough of the new comics but he does seem to flip flop a lot) but he is THE most popular character to write fanfic about based on the number of kudos search I did, and all those fanfic I read either just quickly glosses over the stuff he did in Battle of the Cowl etc, or completely ignore it, or blames it on the Lazurus Pit or whatever. Because it was all pretty stupid! Because that comic was bad!

Nobody could agree on how to write Damian when he first debuted either and it's kind of hilarious going back to those comics to see how inconsistent he is. (especially how Morrison wrote him as like, so good the best unbeatable and others were like "no. doesn't matter how highly trained he is. he's ten. Tim could absolutely fuck him up in ten seconds if he wanted to" (and does, eventually. after getting tired of being constantly attacked). Steph can fight him evenly and she's definitely holding back bc he's a child, so she'd win too if she weren't. He's ten." it's honestly very funny to contrast them.)

All the characters have great writing too though, and that's why people love them! And this is just as much the case for the girls! Babs has tons of excellent writing as Oracle. Steph has tons of good writing too. Cass has honestly hands down one of the best solo comic runs of all time, and it lasted 70+ issues. Selina has some excellent comics...and so on, and so forth.

All of them has extremely angsty crunchy often compelling backstories that the fanfic community would be all over if they were guys.

And they are all just as traumatized and sad as the boys, and fandom loves trauma. Anything Dick or Jason or Tim have gone through they've probably also had an equivalent experience. Being tortured by a villain and dying after being fired as Robin and then relentlessly victim blamed? oh hey Steph's had that happen too. Being poor and surviving on the streets as kid? Selina's been through that. Being raised as a child assassin? Cass did that way before Damian.

There's overall less comics about them (preboot at least I'm not keeping up post that) but like. there's still a LOT of comics they were in, it really should not matter.

"the women aren't written as well/aren't as interesting and that's why" is such a pathetic claim in a fandom like comics where everyones been written well, horribly, and everything in between, and I really think people should learn to admit they just don't care about female characters as much, it's easier on us all. you don't have to force yourselves to write about them if it's a chore, I'd rather you not because that writing will suck. But be honest, come on.

[mythicalninjas]

Can we have some platonic bayverse turtles being woken up in the middle of the night by their younger sibling reader (who's 4 years old) because they had a nightmare 🥺👉👈✨💓just pure comfort

That's my nephew's age 🥹 What a cute request. Also it reminds me when I used to wake up my mother when I was a child hahaha. Hope you enjoy!

Rate/Warnings: SFW, reader is 4 years old, fluff, comfort after having a nightmare.

"Lee?" a young and soft voice called in dark of the room.

It's been a while since Leo went to sleep after putting their sibling to sleep. In this family, everyone is responsable for taking you to bed. He groaned and opened his tired eyes, trying to get them used to dark.

"Lee?". The young voice called again, making the turtle let out a hum. "Y/N?".

Leo turned on a lamp next to his bed. "Y/N... W-What happened?". He checked the small digital clock positioned below the lamp. 2 pm.

"I had a nightmare", you whispered, eyes filling with tears. Leo knew what you were talking about, and he doesn't blame you — he can't get angry, at all The same thing happened to him and his brothers when they were your age. He remembers going to Splinter's quarters or his brothers' rooms to find comfort after waking up from the worst nightmare.

"Come here", he crawls over to the corner of the bed, lifts the blanket and nods for you to snuggle in. "Whatever that nightmare was like, it's over now; nothing was real".

"But... if it's not?".

He smiled as cover you under the cosy blankets. "Nothing and no one will hurt you. Do you know why?"

You shook your head.

"Because I will always be there to kick their butts".

You giggled.

Leo spends the next few minutes recounting a story that Master Splinter used to tell when the brothers were the same age as you. As soon as the story ended, he looked down at you and see that you were already asleep. He smiled, relieved to see that you're feeling safe.

"We love you so much, Y/N. You have no idea."

☆☆☆☆☆

A long workout is all Raph needed after days of looking after criminals. Ever since the Foot Clan started rampaging, life has been tough. They found out you'd joined the mutant family and they've been on the warpath ever since. And that makes you nervous, having constantly bad dreams in the night.

Now, after a shower, he is lying down in his bed reading a magazine since sleep hasn't come yet. Through his peripheral vision, he notices a small silhouette approaching cautiously. "Y/N?". He sits up as notices your frightened face. "What happened?".

You hug him. "I- I had a nightmare".

"That nightmare again?...".

You nodded.

Raph carefully picks you up and puts you next to him on his bed. "Nothing of this was real, okay?". Nothing can describe how safe and secure you feel with your big brother around. Whatever lurks there seems afraid to come forward.

You said nothing, only just snuggled closer to him to feel protected. "There were monsters. Many of them. They-".

"Hey", he called your attention. "I won't let anyone hurt ya, Y/N. Ya know that, right?"

You nooded again as feel his strong arms circlin around you as a fortress.

"What you saw in that stupid nightmare cannot hurt ya. You're safe with me. You're safe with our family".

Just after that, he picked your favourite toys and teddy-bears magazine and read it for you. You both had fun for the next hour.

Till you fell asleep on him.

He smiled down at you.

"I love you, Y/N. I'd do everything to make you feel safe". He may be a giant, scary and strong ninja, but when it comes to protecting his family, nothing and no one can stop him.

He looked up and saw Mikey standing a few meters away, staring back at you two. Raph knew the assingment. He mentioned his baby brother to join them. Even the orange-clad turtle isn't the youngest anymore, he's still their baby brother.

Now they have two baby siblings in the family.

☆☆☆☆☆

Your footsteps are light as you walk through the damp cement of the Lair, darkness taking over every corner. Only a few lights here and there flashed or illuminated a small part, but it wasn't enough. As you walk through the large place, there are muffled snoring sounds coming from where the orange-clad turtle is sleeping.

As you got closer to that particular space, the snores got louder. "Mikey?", your young voice echoed through the space, but not loud enough to wake the others. Taking a few steps closer to his bed, you called again. "Mikey?". Frustrated, you poked your brother to try to wake him up. It worked, but it startled him.

"What-Where?! HUH?- Oh, Y/N?", he moved awkwardly around the bed until he found the lamp. "Wha-What happened?"

You could see his eyes squished because of the light.

"I had a nightmare". Tears started to fall.

"Oh, my little one. Come here". He gestured for you to climb in. Mikey lifts his thick colorful mini pizza pattern blanket, the best blanket among the brothers' in your opinion.

The next several minutes you both spend talking about your favourite pizza flavours and the many ways to defeat a monster. Every types of monsters and tips to fight them. "Remember what Simba said when he and Nala were at the elephant cemetery?" Mikey asked as a big smile paints his round face.

You shake your head a "no".

"I laugh in the face of danger! HAHAHA"

You laughed, making the brother's heart warm. This is what he wants to see from you. This is what he wants to do: make you laugh, feel safe and loved. After a few minutes, e notices you were snoring very low.

He smiled, stroking your hair softly. "Good night, Y/N".

☆☆☆☆☆

You woke up with a start after the worst nightmare you've had till now. Panting and almost crying, you made some effort to get up. Those monsters and ghosts never leave you alone in your dreams.

It's late night and everybody is sleeping, well, you thought all of them were. You notice that the lights in the lab and the many monitors are on, and, as you look more closely, you notice your nerd brother is there. "Donnie!" you called as get closer to the computer station. The nerd is sleeping with his head resting between his arms. "Don!". As soon as you started to shake him, Donnie wakes up. His glasses almost falling from his nose.

"Don-" you sobbed, lifting your arms, begging him to pick you up.

He made a worried face. "Y/N? What's going on? Why are you crying?". Pulling you to his lap, he dries your tears. "Tell me... What happened?".

"I-", you sobbed even more. "I had that bad nightmare".

The purple-clad turtle lets out a Oh and puts his arms around you. "Don't be afraid, Y/N. It's just your mind playing tricks on you. I told you about it, remember?", he runs his finger on your hair slowly. "What you saw in your nightmare is fake".

"But- Why it feels so real?"

Donnie hugs you tighter this time. When he was at your age, he used to have nightmares too and ran to Splinter for comfort, and he'll share the same care he, and his brothers, received. He understands you very well.

Blaming or not caring about your feelings is something he'd never do. You're a child. Their sibling. His sibling. Someone to share a true fraternal love.

"Hey, I have an idea".

You looked up at him, not getting what he means.

Donnie gets up from his chair as he carries you and takes you to his room. "I'm going to tell you a story that I used to hear when I was a child: the story of a candy neighborhood".

You stopped sobbing.

He smiles as adjusts his blankets till cover you fully. "There were many houses in this neighborhood. One made of cake, another made of cookie, and several others made of everything sweet you can imagine.", he couldn't help but chuckle a bit at your curious face. "In one of these houses, there is a mini milk bread sofa with marshmallow cushions. The room is full of PopTart frames, a large chocolate TV, a crystalline sugar chandelier, and the decoration made of lots and lots of M&Ms and candies".

He noticed how hard you were trying to stay awake.

"The kitchen has four kitchen faucets. One pours soda, the other orange juice, the other a very creamy chocolate milk and the last one pours... Hum... What do you think?"

You think for a moment. There are many options you couldn't choice a first. Then... "Limonade!".

"Yes! Limonade! A perfect choice!".

As your big brother keeps with the story, you eyes close little by little. The warm and comfort slowly leaving you in a state of peace, the security that your brothers transmit seems to make everything bad suddenly disappear like magic.

Even with you asleep, donnie didn't stop with the story because he knew you were dreaming with it. You soft smile says everithing.

"Good night, Y/N". He leans down and kisses your forehead lightly. "I love you".

☆☆☆☆☆

A/N: The "Candy Neighborhood" story It's what my mother used to tell me when I was young. I still remembers each detail. Good times that never come back...

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

Float On

CCF Spring Break Prompt: Seagull | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Pre-Steddie | CW: After Effects of S4, Depression | Tags: Eddie Munson Lived, Now He Just Kinda Wants to Float Away, His Friends Won't Let Him, Angst w/a Hopeful Ending

The bird swoops low again, aiming for the sandwich on Eddie's knee. It's graceful, in a way Eddie isn't. Not these days, not since, well. Since. He sits on the beach and wastes another day of their spring break moping. 

Spring Break isn't for him, not since that one two years ago. But everybody else wanted to get away, and he couldn't blame them for that. He wants to get away from Hawkins, too. Permanently. But all his prospects for escaping that hellhole have fallen into the cracks in the earth, like much of the rest of the town.

So, here he is. Half-heartedly protecting his peanut butter and jelly sandwich from a would-be thief of a bird.

Eddie's tired. More tired than usual of trying to fit himself into a round hole as a square peg. Eddie isn't, and will never again be like everyone else after everything that happened. Societal norms seem harder than ever, after knowing what being just a little different gets you. 

His friends don't get it, not really, and he tosses the sandwich on the ground, giving up. He's used to things being taken from him, and he doesn't have the fight left to stop it.

Eddie floats on his back in the ocean. He floats better here than he ever did at home in lakes and ponds, and he's been doing it for hours every day they've been here. 

Float, float, floating. 

He almost wishes there were a water gate underneath him now, complete with tentacles to pull him under. Down, down, down, until it spits him out someplace else. Somewhere more suited for this version of him, forever tainted by the Upside Down.

Eddie hears the splashing, the man-made movement of wading, then swimming, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't want to listen to Gareth's lecturing, or Jeff's eternal encouragement. It's definitely not Goodie. He's scared of the seagulls after they stole his nachos, tray and all.

The movement ceases, and he can feel them floating next to him. That's fine, he supposes. As long as they stay quiet.

"You're drifting kind of far out."

Eddie's eyes open, and he turns his head to look over at Steve Harrington. He shouldn't be here. How'd he get here?

"Gareth called me. Said you were floating away. I didn't know he meant it literally."

Eddie nods. He is floating away. He's damaged, inside and out, and spending spring break at the beach isn't helping.

Nothing helps, not really.

Steve reaches over and takes his hand, "You can't just float away, okay?"

Eddie admits, "I kind of want to."

"I know. But I won't allow it," Steve says, and Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and Steve's hand, at the same time.

They aren't friends, not really. But it's been a weird limbo after that other spring break. You can't live through something like that with people, and not feel kinship. But they are very different people, and Eddie has always known that.

Steve Harrington landed on his feet. The bruises around his neck faded, and he got right back out into the world.

Eddie's scars seem to run deeper.

"I just feel heavy. Weighed down."

"You're floating," Steve teases softly.

"But I feel saddled with an anchor, hell-bent on dragging me down. Maybe it should," Eddie admits.

Steve rolls onto his side, out of his floating position, and kicks over closer to Eddie's head. Then, Steve treads water behind him, cups the back of his neck, and slides an arm over Eddie's belly. Slick skin against slick skin.

Eddie knows what's coming, can sense it, and he closes his eyes. Holds his breath.

And he was right. Steve pulls him under, fully submerging him, washing him clean. Then, he brings him back to the surface.

It's symbolic, a baptism of sorts, and he accepts it. Turns his face towards the sun, and opens his eyes, blinking the stinging saltwater away.

Steve Harrington still has a hold of him, but Eddie kind of believes he might be able to keep himself above water, now. 

But he doesn't have to. Not yet. He lulls his head back on Steve's shoulder, as Steve holds him up, treading water with ease.

Jeff's standing at the edge of the ocean, and holds open a towel. Eddie's exhausted, and he steps into it, letting Jeff wrap him up in the soft cotton, hugging him.

Steve is shaking out his hair like a wet dog, and the three of them trudge towards the rented beach house that hush money paid for, but couldn't make him happy.

He lived. 

Now he actually has to do that.

They kick through the sand, and when they reach the steps, Eddie pauses. 

"What?" Jeff asks. 

"I'm hungry," Eddie answers, "I'm starving, actually."

"Swimming will do that. We'll order pizza," Steve offers, and that sounds like the best thing Eddie's ever heard. He wants Steve to take charge.

And Steve does. Stands at the counter, in the rented beach house, shirtless, chest hair still damp as he argues with all the guys, trying to formulate an order that makes sense. Eddie can't stop staring at him. 

It's like he's glowing. 

Eddie's stomach tightens. He can't. He can't have feelings for Steve Harrington just because he came and played savior.

There's bickering and wheedling, and Steve Harrington being bitchy to regain control of the situation. It's soothing, somehow. Eddie sprawls out on the couch, and closes his eyes. 

He doesn't open them until his legs are being lifted, and Steve slides down on the couch, now dry, pizza in hand. Steve puts Eddie's legs in his lap, opens the box, handing over a slice.

Eddie grins, and takes it. Enjoying Steve's hand on his shin. It feels grounding, like maybe, maybe he won't come untethered and float on anymore. 

"Thanks for coming," Eddie says.

Steve smiles, "Always. You need anything, I'm here."

For some reason, Eddie actually believes him, and he leans forward, squeezing Steve's hand.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to read takes on Spring Break prompts, or to offer up your own!

[thebroccolination]

THEORY TIME WITH DETECTIVE KEY!!!

Okay, so. Potential spoilers for "The Ex-Morning," so proceed with caution, oui?

We're finding out in episode seven why Tam left, so!

TIME TO SPECULATE BEFORE WE GET TOLD!!!

First things first, they've got the same outfits in these two scenes:

So it's the same day, just different times of day. I'm gonna guess that since Phi sounds like he's on the verge of crying when he says, "I know why you left me that day," the top image is the scene where he and Tam finally talk about it. He certainly looks the appropriate level of distressed and traumatized.

The bottom image is likely later that same day, and Phi's clearly come to terms with whatever it is, enough that he's not angry with Tam. The whole vibe of that kiss seems fairly composed, so I imagine they're on more even footing by then.

And I mean, even in the top image, Phi's crying, but he's also hugging Tam pretty tightly while Tam strokes his hair, so….

Obviously there's no excusing how he left, but I've been banking on the reason being a mix of external and internal from the beginning.

'Cos here's the thing: I'm pretty sure there was some kind of threat behind it.

The series literally began with Phi and Tam investigating illegal activity as students with Phi talking on camera about how this local drug business could be connected to a member of government. They made this video for a competition, so I doubt their footage was ever made public, but they did get multiple people arrested, so it probably made the news news. The actual news.

And in the trailer, we have Phi saying, "Sorry for putting you through all this."

That, to me, seems like he could be apologizing in general: if he hadn't blown up at Tae, Tam wouldn't have come back, and maybe if they hadn't been so clumsy about their first major investigation together, whatever theoretically happened to make Tam leave wouldn't have happened, either.

I think Yong knows, and I think Paul found out through him.

And I think Paul told Phi.

I actually suspected Tam wouldn't be the one to tell Phi in the end. It seems like he's struggled with open communication all along, but also:

If the reason he left was that the award that landed Phi his job also endangered them, I can see Tam not wanting to tell Phi that it was technically his own fault in the midst of Phi trying to rebuild his career - a career he only got because he broke down crying during an interview after Tam broke up with him.

Then I can see why he's reluctant to tell Phi. If it's also Phi's fault, he doesn't want to kick him when he's down.

Like, "Okay, so not only was your career breakthrough ruined by my leaving, I'm also going to ruin one of your happiest memories by telling you the thing we won an award for also ended up fucking up everything."

It's also super possible that if this theory is true, then Tam doesn't blame Phi at all. After all, they were a team, and Tam did the research side of things. He might entirely blame himself.

Anyway, I think that's what that scene with Paul is: telling Phi the reason why Tam left because it's urgent enough that Paul feels okay with going over Tam's head.

Like, Yong definitely knows. There's this shot of a flashback scene from the behind-the-scenes special of Tam going in to talk to Yong, and he's

Same outfit from the flashback that starts episode 3 in which Phi gets the interview he'll fall apart doing because of Tam's breakup text.

Interestingly, we also get these flashback shots of Yong presumably back when he and Gaogie were dating/engaged:

So we might find out some stuff about him too.

Still many missing pieces, but I'm delighted with this week's episode. Went in a total curveball that made me go, "Ooooh," as a writer because it's not the direction I would have gone, but it's also really good. I would've been a little sad if they only got together at the very end, and I like that Phi took that leap of faith.

Time to rewatch again byeeee!

[silverynight]

Blossoming hearts

There's a knock on his door; he's grading his middle school children's papers and hasn't had dinner yet because he knew that was going to happen at some point in the evening.

The knock. Izuku immediately gets off the couch and opens the door only to get pulled into a tight embrace.

"A bad day, Kacchan?" He asks gently while the pro hero grumbles in response and nuzzles against his cheek.

He's probably just exhausted.

"Sit on the couch so I can patch you up," Izuku already knows Katsuki didn't let the paramedics do their job and came directly to his tiny apartment instead.

It's been like that for a while, almost since the school Izuku works for managed to convince Dynamight to talk to their students about being a pro hero.

They both got surprised to see each other when Katsuki walked into Izuku's classroom, but neither of them said anything until the class was over.

Katsuki stayed, apologized for being an asshole to Izuku when they were kids (which was something the quirkless teacher wasn't expecting) and then asked for a second chance.

It's been two years since that happened, and they've become very good friends ever since. Izuku even got to meet Katsuki's former classmates from the UA; it was very exciting.

Now they have some sort of a routine that includes Katsuki paying a visit to Izuku right after his shift ends, at least when it ends at a decent hour.

The pro hero reluctantly sits on the couch because he dislikes the idea of being apart from Izuku for too long, but he knows Izuku will get mad at him if he doesn't comply.

Wearing an oversized shirt and shorts, Izuku comes back from the bathroom with two painkillers and a few things to clean and cover Katsuki's wounds. He hands the pro hero a glass of water and focuses on the scratches he can see.

"I can make dinner if you're–"

"I bought us takeout."

"Oh. Thanks, Kacchan!" Izuku smiles, not even flinching when the pro hero's arms wrap around his waist. He's used to it, Katsuki has become a very physically affectionate person, at least around him. "Did you bring clothes?"

"Yeah," he's in his hero suit still, but he usually brings casual clothes if he plans to stay longer.

"Then go change while I set the plates."

They eat in comfortable silence; Katsuki just uses one hand for everything while he keeps the other on Izuku's knee. Again, the teacher doesn't blink at that; the pro hero likes to feel him close even when they're around Katsuki's friends.

Uraraka, who has also become good friends with Izuku since he met her, has told him that it looks like Katsuki is in love with him.

Izuku always dismisses those types of comments, even the ones he often sees from strangers on social media, because he finds it ridiculous that Japan's number one hero could fall in love with a quirkless nobody like him.

He's okay with being Katsuki's friend.

After dinner, they move back to the couch where Katsuki sits right in the middle, pulls Izuku down to sit next to him, and moves his freckled legs up and places them on his lap.

One of his hands stays on Izuku's leg while the other grabs the remote until he finds an All Might documentary on YouTube.

Izuku calmly continues grading papers, as Katsuki leans closer and sometimes nuzzles against his cheek like a very affectionate cat.

"Was it a bad day?" The teacher asks in a whisper after a while.

Katsuki nods.

"Did civilians get hurt?"

Another nod.

"I'm sorry." Izuku mumbles sincerely, running his fingers through spiky blond hair.

"It's okay. It was nothing serious. There were no casualties."

He's glad. But he also knows Katsuki blames himself for everything that goes wrong during a mission, especially when people get hurt.

Izuku leaves the papers on the table and wraps his arms around Katsuki.

"I bet you kicked the villain's ass though," he says after a while.

"Of course I fucking did!" The pro hero looks up at him, smirk back on his face; Izuku feels relieved to see him grinning again.

He then explains to Izuku exactly how he kicked the villain's ass, and the teacher makes a couple of comments about both Katsuki's quirk and the villain's.

They actually watch the documentary for a while and point out the things the people that made it got wrong about All Might (they're both fanboys after all).

"I'm glad I found you again, nerd. I don't know how I lived this long without you."

Izuku is used to those types of comments, Katsuki mumbles them when he gets sleepy, but he blushes nonetheless. He knows his friend doesn't actually mean that.

"Alright. Time to go to bed."

"I'll take the couch," Katsuki says immediately; he always does it because that's the only thing Izuku can't dissuade him from doing.

"Goodnight, Kacchan."

"Goodnight, Izuku."

***

When Katsuki stays, there's always a delicious breakfast waiting for Izuku when he finally, and a bit groggily, walks out of his bedroom.

He has no idea how the pro hero does it, but even after sleeping on the couch, he wakes up completely refreshed and with a grin on his face the moment his eyes meet Izuku's.

The teacher is glad actually, he doesn't remember him looking so genuinely happy, even when they were kids.

He must really love his job.

They eat a bit in a hurry (because Izuku's class starts early in the morning), and Katsuki offers to give him a ride.

It's a completely different experience to arrive at the school he works at with Japan's number one hero on his motorbike. The kids and their parents can't help but look at them; Katsuki has a permanent smirk on his face the moment he takes off his own helmet and gently takes the one Izuku's wearing.

When he's not on a hurry, like that day, Katsuki walks him all the way inside with an arm around his shoulders or waist, and before Izuku tells him he needs to get inside the classroom, the pro hero gives him a soft kiss on his green curls.

That usually leads to all sort of questions from his own little students, and curious looks from the other teachers.

"Sensei! Is Dynamight your boyfriend?"

"N-No!"

"Is he your husband then?"

"How was your wedding, sensei?"

"Did other pro heroes go?"

"You wore a dress or a suit?"

Before the middle-schoolers can overwhelm him with even more questions about his supposed wedding with Katsuki, Izuku decides to make things very clear.

"We're not married and we're not boyfriends either. We are just very good friends."

Strangely, most of his students look very disappointed at the news. Others narrow their eyes in suspicion, like they can't quite believe his words.

"Sensei, why are you so red?"

"Because i-it's hot in here!" Izuku tries not to stammer that much, but all those questions have left him a bit flustered. "Let's start with the lesson!"

***

Sometimes, it's Izuku the one who spends the night in Katsuki's apartment. When that happens, the pro hero makes the teacher's favorite dinner himself.

While Izuku changes in another room, he can hear Katsuki's happy hum as he cooks; he has always thought it's because he loves to cook, but when he made that comment in front of Katsuki's friends, Ashido assured him that was not the case at all.

"He really likes to cook," she agreed before adding: "but when we were in high school, he never once hummed when he was making breakfast. He had always had a permanent scowl on his face."

Then it must be because his life is happier now that he's a pro hero.

"Nerd! Dinner's ready!"

Izuku can't help but moan the first time he takes a bite of the katsudon; Katsuki looks up at him from his side of the table and turns slightly pink.

"It's delicious!"

This time, it takes a while for the pro hero to react, but he does it eventually, blinking like he's trying to wake up from a pleasant dream.

"Of course it is! I made it!"

After dinner, Izuku likes to stand in Katsuki's living room, looking at the city from the window; the apartment must've been really expensive, but it has an excellent design and an amazing view of the city.

The pro hero likes to slide one of his arms around his waist and pull him closer to himself as they both look at the night sky and all the buildings around.

"You could look at this every night, you know?" Katsuki says, almost in a whisper, after a couple of seconds of peaceful silence. "Move in with me."

It's not the first time Katsuki offers him that, but Izuku used to think he didn't actually mean it. Until now.

"Really?"

Katsuki turns around to face him; the height difference is even more evident now that they're so close and the pro hero has to look down to meet Izuku's green eyes.

"I wouldn't joke about something like that."

Izuku tries to consider all the possibilities; they're good friends now, but what if spending so much time together affects their relationship?

"We already spend all our free time together, nerd," Katsuki chuckles, the moment Izuku's cheeks turn pink at the realization that he said that out loud. "I would gladly spend all day with you and wouldn't get tired of your nerdy ass, but we both have jobs. It'll be fine."

"Okay. I'll move in with you."

Not only does Katsuki smile from ear to ear, his eyes sparkle with joy before he lifts a very surprised Izuku and gives him a kiss on the forehead.

Izuku blushes so much it takes a couple of minutes for his face not to look like a strawberry anymore.

***

Even though Katsuki likes to pick him up from the school he works at, when his shift allows it, he also seem particularly pleased whenever he finds Izuku already in the apartment.

"I'm home."

"Welcome home, Kacchan!"

No matter how tired he arrives, the first thing the pro hero does is to embrace Izuku for a few seconds and sometimes press his lips against the teacher's green curls.

Then he lets Izuku fuss over him a bit, check on his scratches and wounds before taking a shower and going back to the kitchen with comfortable clothes and help the teacher with dinner.

They both have changed a bit since Izuku moved in with Katsuki, but for good; they're happier somehow and know the other so well, they don't have to voice their needs in order to understand what to do to help or support the other.

Izuku is now Katsuki's official nurse, and the pro hero helps him grade and organize his students' homework when the teacher is too tired to focus.

They're such a good team, Izuku can hardly believe it sometimes.

The problem starts when the people find out and begin to post a lot of theories online about why they live together; the most popular of them all is that they're dating.

Katsuki knows this, and he doesn't mind it one bit, Izuku sometimes thinks he lets them believe that on purpose, perhaps so the reporters stop asking about his type.

Then their respective parents start to think they're dating; it takes them a while to convince them that's not true. Inko looks disappointed as well as Masaru, but Mitsuki seems rather annoyed; she has a long and private conversation with her son, and Katsuki refuses to tell Izuku what she told him.

Nothing... or at least almost nothing changes after that, Katsuki is more physically affectionate and sometimes stares at Izuku with a soft expression on his face when he thinks the teacher is not looking.

One day, the pro hero arrives early from his patrol, and Izuku finds him in the kitchen already cooking a delicious dinner for the both of them. There are a couple of candles on the table, and when Katsuki turns around, Izuku realizes that he's a bit nervous.

"What's the occasion?" The teacher asks happily, already lured by the smell of curry.

To his surprise, the pro hero turns slightly pink at his words and starts rubbing the back of his neck.

"Listen, nerd... what if I told you I bought an engagement ring for you a while ago because I already knew you were the love of my life?"

Izuku drops his backpack and stares at his childhood friend like he can't quite believe this is happening. Maybe it's just another dream.

Tears start forming in the corners of his eyes as images of them together cross his mind; of course, they both have been ridiculously in love with each other for a couple of years now, but Izuku was too oblivious to notice.

He thinks about telling him they should start dating first before thinking about marriage, but that's ridiculous; they have been unknowingly dating for a while now. They love each other.

"It's alright if you don't–"

"I'd love to marry you, Kacchan."

This time, there are also tears in Katsuki's eyes, and his smile is so wide that the sentiment behind it reaches his eyes. He takes out a little box from one of his pockets and puts a beautiful ring on Izuku's finger.

They kiss for the first time after that; telling each other a lot of things with his hands and the touch of their lips. The dinner is tempting, but it's more alluring the need for each other and they end up in Katsuki's bedroom until the dinner is cold.

Katsuki admits to Izuku that he can't wait to tell everyone that he's officially his now.

Izuku chuckles in his arms and nuzzles against Katsuki's bare chest before closing his eyes and thanking the universe for putting Katsuki in his life again.

***

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[moopiter]

When It's Over - Chapter 1

2.2k | Homelander x gn!Reader | Angst, Pre-established character death and such discussions. Kinda Slow Burn-ish As always, cross posted to Ao3

The greatest superhero to ever live supposedly gave his life six months ago in a blaze of glory. But you swear you caught a glimpse of his cape in the halls of Vought tower your first day. You're left with nothing but questions. Is there even a body in that casket they put in the ground?

Authors note: Hey look at me, I'm not dead. Trying to get to drafts. This will be multi-chapter and I'm planning on having fun with it! Divider credit

It’s pouring rain over Manhattan, just like the forecast said.

For once, you can’t blame the clouds. You’ve felt like rain a while too.

The piles of undone laundry and dishes in your apartment that you've been putting off attest to it. But you've put yourself together for a big day. Rain be damned.

The puddles of rain are pooling in the cracks of the concrete under your boots. It's silly, but years ago you might’ve splashed and played in them, back when the world wasn’t such a big place. You try not to think about it too long, but you do. Just like how you’ve already overthought every interaction that’ll follow after you step foot through Vought’s doors.

You're always worried about the 'afters' of things. Repercussions and worries keep your mind occupied. It's a bad habit really, overthinking.

The wind undoes everything you’ve meticulously styled in the mirror this morning, but you keep your head up and simply persist. There’s a sea of new opportunity waiting for you after all. For once in a long time, you're determined.

The interview was the hard part, and that’s over. It leaves nothing to worry about. Worst of it's past.

When you graduated college, Digital Marketing Specialist wasn’t really what you imagined to be your future career. But an opportunity at Vought was a one in a million. Maybe one in a thousand. They were willing, after all. You hopped on it.

You catch wind of a conversation you'd rather not hear, meandering around the puddles. One that you've heard all too often before.

"He can't really be gone. I'm waiting for them to make it a stunt."

"Yeah, he's like the strongest dude alive. He wouldn't just up and die."

Every time you think you've forgotten, you're reminded. Homelander's dead. You're not going to work under your childhood hero. Vought's posterchild, the best of the best for as long as you can remember. A perfect superhero—no, the perfect superhero, or so everyone thought. Until it all was over.

Funny, ever since his funeral, seems like all Vought wants is more and more new employees.

They've been making frequent changes to their staff. Creating a new image for the company and rebranding the Seven must be a lot of work, if you had to guess. He was their shining star after all. You don't dwindle there long. Maybe this would be a steppingstone on a bigger journey, or maybe you’d climb the ladder. The hazy fog hiding your future is just a little lighter today, and you can daydream. It carries you through those first few steps through the door.

You take the new employee orientation in stride. Surely, there are only so many NDAs to sign right off the bat because you’re working with social media and marketing. It’s just something you shove to the back of your mind. Especially as you give your first overly zealous handshake to your new supervisor. But no matter what you do, it feels like you'll never have that energy you can't put a name to.

Nothing to worry about, you remind yourself. But she has sharp eyes that notice one of your buttons has come undone.

She leads you along your new office first, as you diligently follow behind and try to fix yourself. Appearance-wise, the space it occupies is nothing compared to the marble and accents throughout the rest of the building. It's dreary and bland. The repeating greyscale only occasionally broken by splashes of color from sticky notes and desk décor.

You catch glimpses of the posters that adorn the three walls that aren’t windows. All different members of the Seven advertising who knows what.

It's hard not to notice Homelander’s posters rolled up beside the trash can when you walk past. He was always your favorite.

He was always everyone's favorite.

And people still talk about him.

They probably always will, given what happened. Ultimate sacrifice and all. It’s easy to wear that smile he used to and try to look on the bright side. At least this place is more detached from the rest of the building. Bigwigs don't cast sideways glances here. It feels detached, like its own little world hidden in a maze of cubicles and computers.

You’re happy to hide in it, make it cozy. Forget about things.

With a generic introduction, you’re finally acquainted with your new office family. Not many disengage from their work to look up from their cubicles. But you wave and say hi anyway. It’s awkward, sure.

You're terrified someone will take note of how terrible you look compared to everyone else. Dressed in second-hand business attire, just trying to do your best.

But overall, it’s not half bad. Nobody notices, somehow.

You're happy to be shown around, to see the inside of a place everyone always wants to see. The marble clacks underneath your feet as you follow your new supervisor around the floor and take in the sights, trying your best and failing miserably to maintain direction.

It’ll take some time to get adjusted to. Just like the robust cafeteria and lavish break room you have access to now.

Not to mention the elaborate coffee bar too luxurious to even imagine relaxing in. That's all everybody drinks here is coffee, all hours of the day.

Maybe just this once you can convince yourself you deserve these finer things. As intimidating as it all may be. You made it after all. You work for Vought. Nothing to worry about, right?

It’s something you try to internalize as you walk in tandem with your new supervisor, making your way back to the elevator. Walking past corridors and offices, traversing the endless maze you’re bound to be lost in later despite her best efforts of a tour. Her skirt barely accommodates her rushed wide strides you're barely able to keep up with.

“There are certain floors off-limits. Without even looking at you, she explains that the underground levels and the medical wing are off-limits.

You nod along and give a quick, “Yes, ma’am,” and try to keep from falling behind.

“And 99. Unless you’re given special permission, that floor is off-limits for lower-level employees.”

That’s all I am? You think, your attempts at staying on the bright side faltering.

But something catches your eye before you can respond.

It’s the blue you see first, out of the corner of your line of sight, down the last corridor. There just long enough for you to dart your eyes left and watch as it disappears around a corner.

Deep blue followed by unmistakable red and white. Stripes, too long for a regular flag. You even catch a glimpse of gold for the split second it graces your vision. But in the millisecond it takes to turn your head, it's gone.

If you weren’t wiser, you’d think it was Homelander’s cape. The Homelander.

It wasn’t a regular flag. Couldn't of been. It flowed too languidly, just like how it used to be carried on his shoulders, strong enough to carry the weight of the world.

But Vought wouldn’t do that to him. They wouldn’t let someone else wear his suit, right?

Wouldn’t it be wrong?

“Hey, earth to newbie.”

Your eyes shoot back to your supervisor, now standing facing you with her hands on her hips. She taps her foot against the ground in displeasure, her once friendly eyes turning judgmental as she looks you over again.  “Are you just going to stand there and waste more time? Come on,” she sighs, turning on her heel to leave as she beckons you along behind her.

You burn bright red with embarrassment, following behind and trying to push the sight out of your mind.

You attribute it to your nerves, and nothing more.

Beyond the raindrops coating the glass outside, the sun starts to peek through. So you muse over that instead and let your thoughts carry you somewhere else.

The cubicle they allot to you is nice, and the chair is comfortable. At the very least, it’ll keep you sane during the long shifts staring at the screen in front of you. Writing and researching. A dozen other specialists and analysts work through the day, keeping the coffee bar busy as you sign digital forms and click through endless new employee trainings. Occasionally, you think back to that unexplainable sight earlier.

There are no publicity stunts planned, no specials, and no memorial photoshoots. You can’t help but scavenge through the schedules you have access to now, looking for a reason.

Despite all your efforts, you can’t find any rationality as to why someone would be parading around in one of his suits. He had to have had multiple, couldn't of been the suit.

You catch yourself wondering if he was buried in that red, white, and blue or in something more modest. Only his family got the privilege of seeing him one last time.

Everyone wanted to see him again. Who wouldn’t? But rumor has it, there wasn't much left of him anyway.

His folks were too heartbroken to speak publicly. They were, like the rest of the country, immersed in the day of mourning. But now that you think about it, you’re not sure if you’ve ever seen anything about his family. Just the origin movies with terrible actors.

For a moment, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—you’d actually caught a glimpse of him. If all those Reddit theorists questioning his death might be onto something. But it’s just wishful thinking you shrug off.

The long hand of the clock barely graces 5, and the department slowly files out the door without you noticing. Too preoccupied. Being the determined person you are, you stay behind to finish the training early. It gives you more time to muse about what you saw.

Hopefully it'll get a genuine smile out of your supervisor when tomorrow rolls around, and you'll make up for today.

Over your shoulder, the shorthand of the clock ticks by 5, trudges past 5:30, and crawls over 6. Unaware, you finish the final module of the information safety training and sigh. When you stretch your back, your chair creaks, the only sound in the office. It's palpable, the satisfaction of completing a task.

Nothing to worry about. That is, until you become aware of the silence surrounding you. Your smile falters then.

There’s no incessant tap of keyboard keys or overheard phone calls. Suddenly, you’re all too aware of the time that you let slip past as you peek above the walls of your cubicle.

Not only is the social media department absent of the hum and chatter, so are the adjoining offices.

Oops.

Somewhere along the line, the rain stopped falling. Now the sun’s climbing down out of the sky. At the very least, you won’t have to catch a taxi in the rain; just trudge through the puddles again. It’s muggy past the windows, the clouds still looming, and the humidity fogging your view of the city.

But it’s a lovely sunset past it all. Despite everything.

You mull it over as you pull your jacket over your shoulders and grab your bag, damning yourself for staying so late. There’s something to be said about hard work and dedication, but no one would be around to hear it anyway. So you log off and slip out.

It’s a short trip from your office and down the hall to the elevator. But the sound of your footsteps echoing off the marble as you go makes it feel like a mile. You swear there isn't a single thing in the building alive, besides you. All you can hear is your own heartbeat.

It’s honestly the slightest bit unsettling.

Everyone on this floor abandoned the place hours ago, leaving you behind. Far below you, various security and analytics departments work around the clock. You're sure of it. Far above you, the Seven go about their lives in their penthouse apartments. But from where you walk, it’s like being the only soul here.

You keep your head on a swivel, instincts on high alert as you walk.

But nothing decides to dance in the corners of your vision this time.

A sigh escapes your lungs as you step on the elevator. Embraced by the slightest bit of comfort, knowing you’ll be downstairs with other people again as you slip past security on the ground floor. But something feels off as you lean forward and press the button to head down. The air isn’t sitting right.

The bright yellow button for the 99th floor is lit, the place you’d specifically been told to not go.

Your brow creases as the button for the ground floor presses underneath your finger. Without really thinking, you assume whoever it was changed their mind and got off below you, so you press the button for the 99th down. Hoping it goes off.

It stays illuminated underneath your fingertip regardless.

You press it again once, then twice.

And it still stays lit.

There would be something wrong with the elevator as soon as you step inside, wouldn’t that be your luck? What would you say if anyone caught you up on the Seven’s floor? The most you can do is hope and pray once it reaches the top, it’ll let you go back down.

You close your eyes. If you’re lucky, there won’t be any witnesses to the cardinal sin you’re committing.

Accepting fate, you open them and gaze down the hallway as the metal elevator doors slide closed in front of you, sealing you inside. But the second they close fully and the elevator begins to move, you freeze.

It’s not just your reflection staring.

You can distinguish the unmistakable silhouette of patriot blue, draped by red and white behind you in the reflection of the hazy metal. Artificial light even bounces off the golden eagles on his shoulders as if he’s right there with you.

Menacingly staring straight past you is none other than Homelander himself. It has to be.

For just a second, those hopeful theories pop into your mind again. Maybe he's not dead! Maybe it was all just a hoax, and your favorite hero is here. Alive and well.

But then you remember you got on the elevator alone. Empty.

He doesn't move, doesn't blink. Doesn't even breathe.

Maybe there is one thing to worry about.

[celaenaeiln]

What are you favorite things about Dickkory?

Please and Thank You☺️

SO. MANY. THINGS!!!

Where do I start?!

Their freedom

Their dedication

Their dynamic

Ok so my favorite thing - well one of three favorite things - about Dick and Kory is that they just let each other be who they are.

What I mean is Dick never tells Kori she has to look a certain way, act a certain way, or talk a certain way. Obviously he's going to stop her from killing people but he loves her for who she is.

Secret Origins (1986) Issue #13

This means the WORLD to me because EVERYONE loves Kori for her body canonically. Like every single guy is just so turned on by her looks but for Dick that doesn't matter. He loves her wholely and purely. I'm tearing up a little by how much respect he gives her.

The New Titans (1988) Issue #71

You have no idea how happy his words make me. He never ever EVER blames Kori for the way she dresses or restricts her in any fashion. He's always extremely supportive of her. If she wants to do modeling? He's all for it. If she wants to go dancing? He's right there with her. She wants to try something new? He's helping her. He is SUCH a supportive boyfriend in everything she does. The killing is still off-limits ofcourse but everything else he loves her so much. He loves her for who she is not how she looks.

The New Titans (1988) Issue #71

He NEVER puts her down. And she never puts him down. They're supportive. And this I can appreciate even more because some of Dick's other love interests have it out for him. They get some type of power play about digging open his insecurities and throwing his faults in his face but not her. He's aware of his own faults, he doesn't need that to be used as a weapon against him like some more modern love interests do. Kori's understanding and loving and in response to that Dick treats her like a queen.

That's the first reason. The second reason is they help each other.

Dick can be difficult to deal with because he locks his emotions away. When he feels stressed he isolates himself because he doesn't want to talk to anyone about how he's feeling. But Kori? She doesn't resent him for that. She actually patiently tries to get him to open up. She's understanding and loving of him and his situation. I love them because when things get hard they don't just abandon each other, move on, and then get back together again after they've solved their own problems alone - no. They work hard to work through it together.

The New Teen Titans (1980) Issue #28

Dick and Kori come from vastly different cultures and have different beliefs so this causes problems. Here Dick's contemplating settling down with Kori because of how she kills people.

The New Teen Titans (1984) Issue #13

But in the face of it all, losing her is imporant to him that their difference in values

The New Teen Titans (1984) Issue #14

The New Teen Titans (1984) Issue #15

The thing about Dick and Kori having problems is that it's inspiring. Like you see all the troubles they faced, all the hardships, differences, and difficulties they went and it's amazing. Because Dick and Kori come from two different world. Literally. But they worked hard on their relationship. They worked through their differences because they loved each other so much that they wanted to stay together.

We could've have Dick and Kory forever if the real life Batman office writers hadn't broken off their wedding because they wanted to take Dick away from the Titans and give him to Batman. Do you realize what this means? If DC writers Dick hadn't been ripped away and Kori hadn't been disparaged by them, we would STILL be reading about Dick and Kory now. They would've been married and had kids by now.

But that brings me to my point - their love is amazing because they worked on the things that were different. It's awe-inspiring to love someone so much that you'll stay with them through anything.

Dickkory is my number one romantic pair for this reason. The problems that Dick has faced in his subsequent relationships is NOTHING compared to what he worked through with Kori. Which is why it frustrates me when a love interest abandons him at first stirrings of trouble because "hello? what you're getting now is cleaned up dick grayson. This is like playing a game on easy mode and still failing. If you can't be there for him when he has his act together, how could you ever be there for him when he's truly struggling?"

Going back to the scene at hand, Dick still stays with Kori but Kori is forced to marry another man at her father's orders and this is what breaks them apart. Because Kori is married to Ryand'r and Dick loves her. But despite this?

The New Teen Titans (1984) Issue #32

For Dick on the other hand it takes a case for him to understand -

The New Teen Titans (1984) Issue #34

But he gets it.

The New Teen Titans (1984) Issue #34

They come back stronger than ever.

Their love is the greatest romance of the ages for this reason. Your partner is your confidant. When the whole world turns against you, YOU need to be there by their side and they need to stand by you through everything. If you suddenly go from being rich to dirt poor, your parents abandon you, your friends betray you - the greatest love is standing with your partner through everything.

And Dick loves Kori for this too

Tales of the Teen Titans Issue #44

And that's what they embody and that's why I respect them.

Their relationship isn't a shattered vase glued together, their relationship is a muscle growth. You exercise, you stress the muscle and tear it. It causes you pain but that tear heals and the result is a stronger muscle and a healtier and fitter body. They're just so great.

So the second reason was their dedication to each other. The third reason is I love their dynamic!!

Kori is aggressive and strong but loving where as Dick is softer and strong but loving. It's like a girlboss and powerful malewife dynamic. Dick is phsycially shorter and smaller than Kori and Kori taller than him. They way she carries him around and touches him and holds him?!

The New Teen Titans (1984) Issue #15

The way that Dick gets so jealous and tries to show off for Kori only for his mount to slip off the cliff is so cute!! To everyone Dick is this cool, sexy, intelligent, perfect figure. The only time he gets childlishly jealous and reckless is when he's with Kori. And then having Kori bridal carry him after his mistake is just priceless.

But Dick doesn't begrudge Kori for this. What I love about Dick loving Kori is that he loves her for her power.

The Flash (1987) Issue #81

Dick thirsting for people who can pick him up and throw him around will always be my favorite part of him.

"I love that in a woman."

Yeah, Dick, we can hear that loud and clear. See it too.

LIKE LOOK AT THIS!!!-

Dark Knights of Steel Issue #7

With Kori there's no hesitation to give Dick affirmation.

Tales of the Teen Titans Issue #50

The New Teen Titans (1980) Issue #2

Tales of the Teen Titans Issue #49

Everyone in the entirety of DC knows that Dick is exceedingly pretty. Even villains regularly call him out on it. But it's SO nice to hear his girlfriend tell him that in such an honest and nice non-sleezy way. And that's my probably most favorite thing about them. This girlboss/malewife dynamic they have going on. They're equals but it's not the usual dynamic where the guy showers the girl with compliments and she's satisfied back. She tells him of her own volition how much she loves him and how beautiful he looks. She carries him around and is aggressive in their love. And I just love that so much.

Their love overall is just off the charts.

The New Teen Titans (1984) Issue #39

The New Teen Titans (1980) Issue #38

Teen Titans Spotlight (1988) Issue #19

The New Teen Titans (1984) Issue #10

[l00kingatthem00n]

can i ask for some medkit :3? something like tending to his wounds or listening to him complain after a long day, can be platonic

━━ IT WAS A GOOD DAY.

WARNINGS: self-deprecation [mainly from medkit] - let me know if there is anything else.

Working with the Church of the True Eye is exhaustive, even isolating. After days with little to no contact from him, Medkit finds himself a block away from the little diner you've said to meet him at. He could easily go in and see you, get this over with. But he finds himself hesitating, wondering if he really should go over.

MEDKIT PRIDES HIMSELF ON HIS PUNCTUALITY. Whatever time is asked of him, whatever is needed, he comes and does what is expected of him. Carefully, meticulously, he’s maintained this perception of workplace professionalism. However, with the dark rings beneath his eyes, the disgruntled expression across his features, and the disinterested lilt of his words, it’s evident that he doesn’t enjoy his duties. He used to help people, or he thinks he used to help people, but now he can’t even begin with what he does. Medkit knows he'd be buried for spilling anything about his work. It’s simply just exhausting, enervating. But, he knows if he wants to keep living within Crossroads’ streets even somewhat comfortably— Safely, too —He’ll have to continue with such efforts. 

That’s why the Church of the True Eye is a frequent employer of his at the very least, but that’s putting it lightly. His timeliness, abilities and efficiency are what promise him paycheck after paycheck. Nevertheless, Medkit never wastes his time. Each hour, each minute, and each second is spent doing his work according to his rigid schedule. Again, it’s not out of a fondness for the work he does nowadays but more of a necessity to ensure that he still gets the money that he needs. He’s paid for his time; He might as well do what he does with a slight sliver of hope that they’ll cough up spare change. Ultimately, he rarely ever makes any last-minute rearrangements, nor is he ever late. 

And so, it is beyond his comprehension that he decides to be late now on all occasions. It isn’t that he’s lost in downtown, the winding streets and stores are familiar. He knows that antique store with its ridiculously expensive prices. He knows that the laundromat with their barely functioning machines. He also knows that the boutique the more than pleasant cashiers. It also isn’t even because he’s behind on time from pressing work, all that has been attended to throughout the morning. Truthfully, he’s far from lost, and he’s far from busy. Medkit is across the street from the diner you’ve agreed to meet at, far enough out of sight from the window on the street. It's to ensure that he doesn't risk you seeing him there, standing and stalling. Despite everything, his punctuality, he can’t bring himself to walk over when it's a walk that's a few measly minutes of his time. Maybe, even a measly seconds.

It’s only a stroll along the crosswalk, weaving through masses of strangers. Then, what gives?  Maybe he can blame his bodily paralyzation on the particularly exhaustive day he had at the Church of the True Eye. That's not to say that they already treat him well. Swords, they don't even try to generally treat him well, if anything, his contracts with them only have him recognized as a “valuable asset” rather than a “valuable member.” Medkit is above the crude and unprofessional language, something he leaves with Sword and his friend, Rocket. But, if he were to use any of their crass sayings, the one that would accurately describe his day would be that:

The Church have been up his ass. 

Whatever reason for their miserable ministrations towards him is beyond him. From the Broker’s consistent monitoring of his personal matters, Scythe’s insistence that he update her on gear modifications, to even Father Overseer’s impromptu call necessitating that he remembers his service to them, Medkit doesn’t know why they've been so inconvenient to him. To say the least. He thinks himself a decent employee under their dubious standards. He hasn’t exactly gone out of his way to interfere with their plans. And he certainly hasn’t been a prominent and lingering concern for dissension and betrayal. He does what’s asked of him, and does what needs to be done. 

It could be that his already thin patience has gone thinner, scarcely tolerating their wants and demands. That’s unlikely, though. He thinks he woke up fine. A warm mug of tea by the window side as the sunlight cascades through. Maybe, it could be that he’d done something a while ago offensive to the Church’s practice. Except, if that were the case, they’d have made a demonstration out of him and not press him so passive-aggressively. He’s more than familiar with what happens to those who’ve wronged them. While he thinks he’s important enough that they’d be less severe with their punishments, he would know for sure if he’s done something. 

It also couldn’t be that he’s secretly scared of you. In all his years, within the winter confines of Blackrock, the towering labyrinths of Lost Temple, and the neon inferno of Crossroads, he’s met many inphernals. Some were unkind, some were cruel, some beyond that. From their poisoned tongues to their stained hands, to their unspeakable actions. He remembers someone like that so well, someone he knew so closely that they’re now engraved in the recesses of his mind. 

But, some were kind, some were caring, some were too generous for their own good– Like you are. Once more, he’s not scared of you. It’s quite the opposite. For their society built upon conflict, you’re probably the most charmingly compassionate individual he’s ever met. Truthfully, someone like you should stay leagues away from someone like him. Medkit feels selfish for gravitating towards you. A guilt that settles in his chest for letting him be your friend. 

You’re good for him, too good for him. 

Now that he thinks about it, that’s most likely the reason why he’s stalling; So close yet so far from you. It’s been days, maybe weeks since he’s last seen you. Too preoccupied in the maddening world of work from the Church of the True Eye. He’d been kept beneath their watchful gaze for a long time. You’re kind, you’re patient, yet everybody has certain thresholds. As much as he wanted to call you, learn how you’ve been and what you’ve been up to, he knows the Church would be breathing down his neck for as long as he wasn’t attending to their pressing matters. Even then, when he returned to his apartment in Crossroads, he couldn’t bring himself to pick up the phone and call you. It felt unpleasant. No, it felt wrong to contact you when he hadn’t spoken to you in so long. 

That was when you decided to call him. His phone had rung three times as he contemplated picking it up. The first time it had rung, he had clicked his tongue and aggravatedly wondered who it was. The second time, his eyes widened with realization and he considered letting the noise go on and on until you would call it an end. And the last time, guilt came over him again at the thought of losing you even more with his lack of communication, so he picked up the phone. On your end, it’s quiet. For a moment, he worries that you never even meant to call him until—

“Medkit!” You gasp, “Oh my Swords, sorry, I didn’t think you would pick up. Hey, how are you–?”

You talk to him like no time has passed. That he hadn’t left you in utter silence for days, letting you wonder and worry regarding his well-being. Medkit is not deserving of anything from you who is so tender-hearted, not your sympathies nor your condolences. He’s your friend, supposedly, but he feels he isn’t deserving of such an intimate title too. Now, because here he is, meant to see you in this little diner. But, he’s here; On the sidewalk, standing from afar. A sinking guilt settles within his chest. He should just move, just move his feet and walk over. Medkit is not scared of you, so what is he scared of? 

He hisses through the gaps of his teeth; Nothing, he has nothing to be scared of. There are lingering worries about the worst possibilities that could occur if he were to see you. Would you be disappointed with him? Would you see him and spit venom at him? Would you wish him the worst and finally put an end to this friendship? Medkit doesn’t know. Even if his scattered and stressed thoughts lead him to believe that the absolute worst will happen, finally he feels himself moving forward. 

Weaving between the passing inphernals; Frantic office workers, lazing cashiers, and chatting friends –he makes his way over. From the street window, he can faintly see you at the back of the diner through the smudge and grime across the glass. Your horn colour and its distinct shape make it noticeable among the others. Before he knows it, his hand grasps the steel knob and he opens the door. A faint ringing of a bell to signal his arrival. Some young server briefly welcomes him as they pass him to give orders. The quaint atmosphere of the diner allows him a moment of clarity before he hears your voice ring boldly. He snaps his head to the back, seeing you smiling widely. 

You wave excitedly at him, “Medkit! Hi”

Medkit swallows thickly. The worst hasn’t happened, it seems far from it. But, he’s still worried. Still thinking something bad could happen to him. He slips into the leather chair, scooting closer to the table as he quietly greets you. Still, you smile at him as you place your chin in your palm. 

“It’s good to see you!” You tell him.

“I hope this was an alright place. I know you have more—" You gesture vaguely "—Eloquent tastes.”

“No worries, it’s fine.” He glances around another time. “It’s quite nice.”

You seem excited at his agreement, nodding along. “Right? I love the colours, there’s a bunch of decorations too!”

Your enthusiastic presence is overwhelming. Yet, it's also pleasant. He doesn’t know why, but he soaks in your sunlight. You're smiling t him as you babble on and on. The words are blurred from your frantic tongue. But, at some point, Medkit can’t help but follow along too, and he finds the faintest of smiles gracing his usually rigid features. Every time he meets your gaze, he practically admires that brightness he is so absent of. You babble on about something he doesn’t exactly catch. It’s not particularly a grievance of his, but you tend to speak quickly whenever you are so elated. Regardless, something clear comes through your chatter. 

“Oh, by the way,” you click your tongue, snapping your fingers as you meet his gaze. “If you don’t mind me asking...” 

“What took you so long? Knowing you, I was expecting to be late.”

Medkit pauses. His lips pursing together as he mulls over what to tell you. To tell you about his trouble, that he had been a stroll away, letting the time pass by because he was scared to confront you, only to finally come in a moment of blind courage; That would not be worth the effort. One day, maybe he won’t feel much a drowning in his stomach when he tells you about what strife lingers in his thoughts. For now, he’ll tell you little white lies— It’s not like you’d know anyway, right?

“I was occupied. My apologies.” 

You raise your brow. “Occupied by?”

“Them.”

“Oh.” 

There’s a silence that hangs between the two of you. He wonders if he’s already slipped up, saying so much with so little. Though you dispel any doubts promptly, waving your hand at him. 

“Psh- Don’t worry about those guys, let’s focus on getting a bite! I’m sure you’re hungry, it’s lunch after all.”

Then, you move your hand high up, waving it absurdly to catch the attention of any available staff. Reflexively, he lowers his gaze, letting his visage be obscured by it resting on his palm. The server clicks their pen, patiently waiting for your orders. With a quick skim of the menu, he lets you order for the two of you. While he isn’t particularly a fan of burgers, obscenely gross with oil and grease dripping down his hands. Gods, the thought alone disgusts him. He supposes he’ll let you take a reign meal plans for today, as a treat for his distance behaviour. As the server bids their farewell, promising your orders hastily, you turn to him. 

“So, Medkit, tell me about your day.”

Medkit scratches the nape of his neck, deciding to keep up with his little white lies. “Uneventful, just uneventful."

"I have got bothersome and relentless work from them as usual."

"Geez, really? That's rough."

"Of course, but it's nothing that I can't handle."

You chuckle, "Just don't exhaust yourself like you usually do, Medkit."

Medkit blinks slowly; Once, then twice. He chuckles too, soft and almost uncertain. He dismissively waves his hand at you.

"Oh, please, it's fine. I’d much rather hear what went on with you, truly.”

You seem surprised. He’s unsure why. It could be that he’s a little more straightforward than usual. He hopes he isn’t coming off as curt and snappy, that’s the last thing he wants you to think of him. 

“Oh,” you blink; Once, then twice. “Really?”

“Really.” He drums his fingers against the laminated table, “If I remember right, you said you got a teaching internship recently. Could you tell me about it?”

“Ah! You remember!” You somewhat squeal, sitting upright, “Yeah, I got a student teacher job in downtown Crossroads. Uh, where to start?” 

You contemplate for a moment, then you smile, “Okay, so–”

This time, he tries his best to discern your tongue. Somehow, you’re even brighter than before. Your hands are wildly gesturing all over for emphasis. Your smile is wider than it typically is, letting the wrinkles of your face glow. Your eyes have a distinct twinkle that he feels nobody in this diner would miss. It feels like nothing has passed, that nothing has changed. It was the same as it always was and it always will be. He hopes, at least. 

Maybe, it was a good day. With you, that is.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: dude. I COMPLETELY MISREAD YOUR REQUEST. I TOOK IT AS LETTING MEDKIT LISTEN TO YOUR DAY. TS PMO. 🥀 I STILL nailed down some of the original request, but omg whoever you are, please feel free to request again because i feel SO bad 😭😭😭unless you actually enjoy this but OH MY GOD IM SO SORRY

ultimately, this was such a cute thing to write... i ave to admit that medkit isn't my favourite, but writing him is so fun!!! i decided to leave this relationship as ambiguous if you cant tell...So feel free to interpret it as platonic, romantic or something In between heh

[psychostxr]

𝐣𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐢 | emotions

PAIRING. jordan li x gn! reader

WORD COUNT. 0.7k

WARNINGS. cursing, mentions of death, marie bashing (i'm sorry)

NOTES. i have also hopped on the jordan li train, and my god, i've never had a character chokehold me so tightly

Since Marie Moreau joined Godolkin University, everything has gone downhill. After the death of your friend Luke and the murder of your favorite professor, your life has gone through a ball of shit. You didn't want to blame Marie. The poor girl got caught up in Luke's drama — drama you didn't even know existed — she's just as traumatized as you are.

That's what you would've said before news spread around school that Marie and Andre were the ones that stopped Luke, not Jordan. Your partner who actually fought Luke while Marie ran at the first sign of danger. The thought of Marie frustrates you to no end, but you have other things to worry about, such as Jordan locking themself in their room since classes ended.

For as long as you've known Jordan, they've always been competitive. They climbed up the school's student ranks at Godolkin, beating almost anyone and everyone who tried to get in their way. They were one stop away from being first-ranked. But because of Marie and Andre's 'courageous act' of stopping Luke, they've been pushed up the ladder, while Jordan has to settle for fifth. It hurts to see Jordan so angry at the world and themself.

You knock gently on Jordan's door, hearing the muffled sounds of what you presume to be Marie's interview with Hailey Miller. The room goes quiet, and you wait a few moments for Jordan to open the door. But they don't.

"I know you're in there, Jordan." You turn the doorknob, rattling the door in your unsuccessful attempt to get in. You sigh and lean your head against the door. "Please open up, baby. I'm worried about you."

There's a moment of silence until the door cracks open. You take a step back, seeing Jordan's somber expression.

"Hey," you say, smiling softly. "Can I come in?"

Jordan hesitantly returns your smile. "Sure."

They open the door wider, allowing you to enter their dimly lit room. Their room is nothing from the usual, with clothes strewn over their couch and textbooks scattered on their desk. You pull your bag off your back, setting it down on Jordan's bed to retrieve your laptop and the takeout you bought from Vought A Burger.

"I was thinking we could maybe watch Property Brothers and have dinner together?" you suggest. "Or any other show if you want?"

Jordan shakes their head, their lips quirking upwards. "That sounds really nice, actually."

You pass Jordan the takeout, unsure if they've eaten anything since having lunch with you earlier today. You quickly set up the laptop on the coffee table before sitting on Jordan's bed.

Leaning against the headboard, you open your arms wide. "Come here."

Jordan doesn't hesitate, settling themselves in your waiting embrace. Their arms wrap around your torso, pulling them closer until their head finds a comfortable spot nestled against your stomach.

Feeling the weight of Jordan's emotions, you hold your partner close, your arms enveloping Jordan's shoulders. You softly kiss the crown of Jordan's head, your lips brushing against their ink-black hair.

"I'm sorry you're having a shitty day," you whisper, threading your fingers through their silky strands. "It's not fair."

"It's not your fault," Jordan says, sighing. "Shit happens."

"This school is shit," you explain, your anger spiking. "You've worked your fucking ass off to become second-ranked at Godolkin, but because of Marie and our asshole of a principal, you've lost your spot."

Jordan lifts their head to look at you. "It sounds like you're more upset than me."

"I'm sorry, it's just..." You shake your head before staring lovingly at Jordan. "I love you so much, Jordan. So much that I feel everything you feel. When you feel angry, I feel angry. When you're sad, I'm sad. So when you go through these obstacles in life, you aren't alone. I will always be there for you, baby."

Jordan crumbles at your words, and a small smile plays on their lips. They lift themself and lean towards you. Their lips press against yours gently before pulling away, leaving you no time to savour the kiss.

"I'm lucky to have you," they admit.

As you grin, you pull Jordan closer into another kiss. But this time, you can feel the intense emotions radiating off them, and you soak in the passion and love from Jordan's kiss. The rest of the night is spent in each other's arms, binge-watching Property Brothers and devouring greasy takeout.

© psychostxr — all rights reserved. please do not repost, copy, translate, or claim any of my works as your own.

[corkinavoid]

Obsessed With You by Cosmicandy

Theater gothic/Phantom of the opera

(For some horrific reason I couldn't think of a trope)

DPxDC Phantom in the Opera

9/2 sat

Went to Gotham City Opera to see Eugene Onegin with B & Dames. The performance sucked ass (as modern takes on classics usually do), but during Tatyana's aria, some tech guy dropped a rubber chicken from catwalks right on stage. I bet it was on purpose since the lead's voice sounded much similar to the sound that chicken made. Wish I could shake the dude's hand, that was truly the crescendo of the whole scene.

15/2 sun

Came by GCO on the way to WE. Had some time to spare, so decided to go in and find the rubber chicken guy to thank him for the laugh last week. Thought he might appreciate the positive feedback since he was defo yelled at for the stunt. Turns out everyone blames it on a 'ghost'. Using 'Phantom of the Opera' as a cover story is poor taste, in my opinion, but on the other hand, it worked, and who am I to judge.

17/2 mon

Got curious and pulled up the records of GCO employees. No one matches the guy I've seen on the catwalks.

18/2 tue

Blackmailed Damian into drawing the guy. No match through the face recognition program. Should have expected that, really; the one cute guy with a sense of humor I meet (or see, actually), and he doesn't exist.

20/2 thur

Can't stop thinking about the rubber chicken guy. Might have to go back to GCO and ask about the whole ghostly rumor. Last time, no one bat an eye at the 'ghost' excuse, now that I think about it. Has it happened before? Is it a go-to explanation for any prank no one wants to take credit for?

26/2 wed

Visited GCO at night. Seen the guy, but the cam footage came back corrupted when checked downstairs. So maybe the fact that his hair was floating and glowing in the dark was not a hallucination.

27/2 thur

Definitely not a hallucination! Good news: got a sample. Bad news: after analysis, the data also came back corrupted. Weird news: the hair keeps glowing even after it's been cut off.

2/3 sun

The guy's name is Danny. Ghost story confirmed. I'm having a crisis.

4/3 tue

I'm not sure if I want to know absolutely everything there is to know about him or I want to forget everything I've already learned. But then, I've already got so far. Might as well commit to the bit?

8/3 sat

Was invited to see La Traviata tomorrow. Can I still call that reconnaissance, or am I in date territory?

10/3 mon

...it was a date. On an entirely unrelated note, Teddy Hyde ruined all my attempts at coming prepared.

18/3 tue

Heard a new rumor among GCO staff members. They suspect the ghost in their opera is having a crush on Red Robin. Not sure where they've got that idea, but it sure took them some time to notice.

19/3 wed

Damian keeps staring at me at dinners. Maybe I should take that portrait of Danny that he did down from the wall over my bed.

22/3 sat

Going on a date today, and this time, it's definitely a date! Feels like I should be having a crisis over dating a ghost, but somehow, I'm only having a crisis over outfit choices.

61/0° gBs

hEy, yoU're keEEpinG a DIary¡ aboUt Me!¡ ThAt"s cuTe FUCK OFF DANNY THIS IS PRIVATE INFORMATION GET OUT heHeheEhe no~

~•~•~•~

The thing is, I loved the song. And I loved the aesthetic. And I had such a goddamn hard time figuring out how to fit them together; I went through at least three different setups before deciding fuck it imma write silly boys being silly and wish for the best.

Dare I say it turned out cute as fuck, even though I still missed the mark on theater gothic aesthetic for the most part. Anyway, have a few pictures for general vibes!

[Just so you know, if you enter 'sex with a ghost' into google, the first few results will be the lyrics to 'Sex with a Ghost' by Terry Hyde, which is why Tim's research has been rather fruitless]