#it's hard to compartmentalize it at home

[thrassisfras]

listen. i'm fuckin exhausted.

[mer-se]

please pick friends u can argue or have misunderstandings with and actually communicate with immediately after like, it’s so fucking important

[edwardshundredyearoldspunk]

went to mexico yesterday to visit my grandpa's tomb for day of the dead. only the second time I've visited him since he died in may. not really used to having a dead™ to visit but now I'm home and I got mexican hot chocolate and I'm cuddled up with a mug and life is good. for now life is good 🥹

[mariasont]

Office Sleepover - A.H

a/n: this is honestly kind of shit but whatever

might make this a mini series?

part two here!

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: in which reader gets put on a hit-list and has to stay in the office (kind of based off when penelope got put on a hit-list by the dirty dozen)

warnings: reader kind of flashes hotch, really inconsistent with how the gov works i'm sure, there's also definitely not an oven in the break room but in my world there is <3

wc: 3.8k

Hotch's voice reached you, but the words tangled into an indecipherable code as they hit the air. You nodded, a reflex, but it was as if your brain had short-circuited. You could make out fragments--a hit on you, stay at office, 24/7 protection, you can take the back office. But no matter how many times he said it, it seemed to ricochet through your head, making less sense each time. You were on a hit list? A hit list?

It all felt very made up, like a script ripped straight out of a tv show. Risk was a part of the BAU job description, but a hit list? For a fleeting moment, a chuckle hovered at the brink of your lips, but it was swiftly swallowed by a wave of dread that rose in its place. You blinked a couple times, probably too many in a vain attempt to clear the fog and bring Hotch's face into focus.

"But what about all my stuff? And you want me to camp out here in the office? For how long, Hotch? I mean, I'm all for overtime, but this is... this is a lot, and I--," you babble, your speech racing ahead of your thoughts. "And my baking? That's my biggest stress reliever. Not to mention my DIY projects--I can't just abandon my half-finished throw pillowcases. Plus, how many pairs of shoes is too many for an office closet?"

Your pout formed a delicate bow, and though he said nothing, his eyes softened. Hotch could feel the frown marring his features. He might never say it, but seeing you like this struck a chord, making it a little hard to breathe. 

Circling the desk, he planted himself in front of you, his hand settling on your shoulder. "Hey, take a deep breath," he urges softly. "Let's take it one step at a time. List out what you need, someone will bring it here. Your baking supplies, DIY projects, even your shoes."

True to Hotch's word, as usual, you found every piece of your life carefully compartmentalized into cardboard boxes, lined up carefully in the office that now doubled as your temporary room. There was an odd sense of dislocation in finishing your workday and needing only to count about thirty steps before arriving at your room.

You swung the door closed, the sound sealing the room as a deep sigh wrapped around you and you started sifting through the boxes. The pullout couch serving as your bed was less than appealing, its worn fabric making you grimace internally. Nevertheless, you diverted your attention, busying yourself with the organizing of your extensive collection of things. Spencer would definitely shake his head at the sight of the vast amount of clothes you had brought.

The irony wasn't lost on you; surrounded by the office's ceaseless motion, yet you felt more alone than in the stillness of your own apartment. God, this was pathetic, and you needed a drink, but you had a nagging suspicion the office handbook would have a thing or two to say about that. You spent a solid two hours attempting to infuse the sterile space with a touch of home, it wasn't perfect (at all), but it would have to do.

Rossi knocks on the doorframe, poking his head in with a grin. "I didn't realize we were redecorating the bureau in shades of bubblegum," he teases. "How you doing, kid?"

"Actually, it's blush," you correct with a mock-serious tone, meeting his smile with one of your own. "I'm fine," you insist, but Rossi's knowing look prompts a quick add-on. "I am, really, I mean I've always said I wanted my own office."

"An office with a view of the bullpen, no less. You're living the dream," he says, his eyes scanning the room. "Need any help with anything? Or anything else from your place? Maybe your favorite mug to make feel more like home?"

"Don't worry, I'm already one step ahead of you," you assure him, revealing a drawer brimming with mugs.

Rossi lets out a low appreciative whistle. "Why am I not surprised?" he chuckles with a broad grin. "Well, I'm heading out for the night. Remember, I'm just a call away if you need anything. And Hotch is still here, buried in paperwork as usual."

He left, and you were alone--a cue to try and cling to some normalcy of your routine; you drew the blinds and slipped into the comfort of your pajamas. You hauled yourself off to the office bathroom, reluctantly at that, and proceeded to attend to your skincare, brush your hair, and polish your smile with a thorough teeth brushing.

Eyeing the hallway warily, you made a silent exit from the bathroom, the carpet softening your footfalls. But in your rush to avoid prying eyes, you crashed into a solid wall of a figure, the force sending you tumbling backward. You hit the floor with a muted thud, your ass hitting the ground, legs splayed inelegantly in front of you. Your eyes rose to meet the firm, penetrating look of Hotch. Of fucking course.

There was a pause as Hotch's eyes drank in the sight of your flushed complexion and the wide, doe-like eyes that seemed to capture the light just so. He felt like his heart could stop then and there. And he knew it was wrong, but he certainly liked the sight of you sprawled below him. He blinked, breaking the trance, and offered a concerned, "Are you okay?" His hands were outstretched, ready to pull you back to your feet. 

Your cheeks turned a deeper shade as you held onto Hotch's hand, the feeling unexpectedly comforting, rough in yours but nice. "What? Oh, yeah, I'm all good, sorry about that," you managed to say, the words squeaking out a tad too eagerly. 

You stood up, and his closeness was all-consuming. You were suddenly intensely aware of every breath, every throb of your heart, and your mind went blank; the usual stream of thoughts replaced by a buzzing silence.

His eyes held yours for a fraction longer than necessary before he stepped back, creating a respectful distance. The hallway's warmth seemed to dissipate with the space, leaving you with an unexpected stab of disappointment. 

"Rossi said you'd be here. Anything I can do to help?" 

You rationalized the offer as a gesture of your goodwill, but a small part, well a big part, of you knew just wanted to be close to him, to be alone with him maybe--in the office, after hours, in his office. This was weird, I mean, you'd always admired your Unit Chief, but this was different. You chalked it up to the day's unfortunate series of events--you were tired, and lonely, and you needed desperately to snap out of it before you made a fool out of yourself.

"No, you need to rest. It's been a long day, and you've been through enough." He paused, his gaze assessing you. "How are you holding up?"

"At this rate, I'll need a sign that says 'I'm fine,' to stop the check-ins." Although you silently doubted that would deter him. You gesture to the surroundings. "And this? It's like a sleepover at work. Just hoping this so-called hit man doesn't show up."

Hotch internally recoiled at your words, leaving him with the sensation of a cold grasp tightening around his heart. He cleared his throat, the joke falling flat in the gravity of his concern. "I'll be here for a while longer. If you need anything, don't hesitate to come find me," he managed a nod before retreating to his office.

A while longer? You knew Hotch was a workaholic, but it now occurred to you that he must never sleep. Quickly, you gathered your scattered belongings, and made your way to your office.

The pull-out couch seemed even less inviting than you remembered, if that was possible. You perched on the edge, the metallic frame cold through the thin mattress. As you lay down, the couch seemed to swallow you in its awkward angles. Perfect. Tossing and turning, you struggled to find a comfortable spot. Eventually, exhaustion won over discomfort, the rhythm of your own breathing lulling you into a fitful sleep.

Your eyes flickered open at some point during the night and the blinds drifted apart, as if by an unseen hand, and through the gap, your eyes fell on a hooded figure, the face not visible in the dim light. Your muscles locked in terror, an icy fear clawing its way up your spine as you tried to move--to reach for your gun, to call out for Hotch, to do anything. But as if imprisoned by an invisible force, you could only watch, confined to the bed, as the figure crept towards the door. 

A scream tore from your throat, a raw and piercing sound that ricocheted off the walls and echoed through your eyes. This was it, you thought. 

Then, in an instant, you were awake and disoriented, your breaths coming in short bursts, and your body covered in a sheen of cold sweat. Your fingers clenched the sheets, the fabric twisting in your grasp as you fought to decipher what was reality. Your eyes snapped to the blinds, half-expecting to see the figure from your dream materialize, but the emptiness beyond them slowly calmed your racing heart.

With a throat dry as parchment and your pulse still echoing in your ears, you drifted from your room towards the break room. As you ambled past Hotch's office, you paused. The door, slightly ajar, felt like an invitation. Despite knowing better, a foggy curiosity nudged your feet forward. With a shaky breath, you eased the door open wider and slipped inside. 

His office felt different at night--it was quieter, more personal, and you felt like an intruder on Hotch's private world. You took a moment, absorbing the sight of his meticulously organized desk, the case files that were always present.

It was tempting to try to piece together the man from his workspace, but you held back. As you turned to leave, a familiar scent stopped you--the subtle hint of his cologne hanging in the air. It wrapped around you, easing the tension that had sunk into your limbs. Almost without thinking, you found yourself sinking into the couch.

The room, infused with his distinct scent, seemed to have your blinking growing heavier, more intentional. You nestled deeper into the cushions; the fabric familiar beneath your fingers, lulling you into a sense of security. Just five minutes, you thought.

Hotch's steps were slow, his eyelids having a hard time staying open as he made his way through the bullpen. He carried his briefcase, the leather handle worn and conformed to his hand. He contemplated a detour to your office, a silent check-in to ease his mind, but he dismissed the idea--you were probably still asleep, and he'd definitely look like a creep. Reaching his own office, he noticed the door ajar, a sliver of morning light spilling through the gap.

He stepped into the room, and time seemed to stand still as his gaze landed on the couch. There you were, fast asleep on his couch. Your hand lay gently under your cheek, a makeshift pillow softening the hard angles beneath, while your nose gave the faintest twitches. Your lips were parted as if mid-whisper and strands of your hair were splayed in a disarrayed crown around your head. He knew that in no way could that have been comfortable. It hurt his back just looking at you, but still you looked so peaceful.

He moved with quiet steps, heat creeping up his neck as he placed his things on the desk. Turning back to you, he couldn't help but notice the gentle dishevelment of your pajamas, buttons undone in innocent disarray, the fabric parting to reveal the gentle slope of your breasts. He felt an odd mix of emotions--a gentle chiding for finding you in such state, and the guilt of finding the sight so undeniably sweet. 

A quiet cough escaped him, more out of habit than necessity, as he approached a cabinet where blankets were neatly stacked--a nod to many nights spent just as you were. He draped one over you, his movements slow and unhurried, shielding you from potential curious eyes before finding his normal place behind the wooden desk.

He tried to focus--really, he did. I mean, he had a towering pile of paperwork and responsibilities that demanded his attention. But despite his best efforts, his gaze involuntarily drifted to you time and time again. It was as if he needed visual confirmation of your steady breathing to assure himself that you were okay. He thought about you here all night, alone, and he found his knuckles whiten against the grip of his pen. He knew you had security on you at all times, but somehow, he found no comfort in that.

Hotch's eyes flicked to the clock--7:30 am. You still had at least another half an hour before you technically needed to start work, although truth be told he would let you sleep as long as your body allowed. There was no way in hell he was going to disturb you when you looked so content. 

As Hotch worked, the morning light grew stronger, casting a warm glow over his desk. It was nearly 9 am when the sound of shifting fabric eventually roused you. You were waking up, blinking away the remnants of sleep, confusion etched on your face. As your eyes caught sight of the clock and Hotch, mortification set it. 

"Oh my gosh, Hotch. I am so sorry," you blurted out, embarrassment coloring your cheeks. "You could've woken me up--I... I should've set an alarm. And I shouldn't even be here, but I can explain, sort of..."

In a flurry of motion, you leapt from the couch, only to feel a sudden tug at your chest as a button from your top snagged on a stray thread. The fabric pulled open, revealing way more than what was appropriate for your boss to see. Your face turned a shade redder as you scrambled to cover up. Hotch, momentarily sidetracked by the sight of the cleavage of your tits once again, quickly refocused and interrupted your flustered explanations.

"It's fine," he assured. "Given everything that's happened, you needed the rest." He nodded towards the couch. "You're always welcome to sleep here if you need to--though I can't promise it'll be any more comfortable next time."

"Oh no, it was super comfortable, really," you insist, despite the awkwardness clinging to your words. Hotch gives you a look that says he's not entirely convinced. "Okay, well, I'm going to uh... go," you mumble, stopping short at the door with a sudden concern.

Hotch understands immediately and offers, "They're all in the briefing room--won't be out for a while."

With a relieved nod, and minimal eye contact, you dash out, hoping to reach your office unnoticed. But because the world just hated you these past days, just as you're rushing by, Morgan's hands come to your shoulders to stop you.

"Easy there, mama," he teases, a smile on his face. But as he gets a good look at your attire, his grin grows wider. "What in the world...?" he starts, laughter in his voice. He glances from you to Hotch's office door, then back again. "Hold up, hold up--you didn't... with Hotch? Are you?"

"What? No, Morgan, absolutely not! Why would you even--oh my god," you gasp, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. God, I mean, the day hasn't even started, and you needed it to end. Realizing your voice has risen in your flustered state, you quickly lower it to a harsh whisper, your eyes darting around to ensure no one overheard. "Why would you even suggest that?"

"Um, maybe because you're making a grand exit from the boss man's office in your PJs? Just a wild guess."

"No, Morgan, it's not what you think," you insist, but your attention snaps to the sound of the team's voices nearing the door. "I don't have time for this," you mutter, darting back to your office. 

In a whirlwind, you shed the pajamas, slip into your work attire, and hastily run a brush through your hair. Good enough. 

You threw yourself into work, the stack of papers becoming a welcome distraction, a rare sense of relief rather than the familiar dread. It was a considerable effort to divert your mind from the distractions--Hotch, the hit man, and Morgan's incessant teasing. Not that anyone would believe that you and Hotch were together; he was the very definition of sophisticated, handsome, and successful, and you were just, well, you.

Not that there was anything wrong with you. You liked yourself just fine; you laughed too loudly at jokes, talked to your houseplants as if they were your old friends, and you had an odd fascination with weather patterns. These things made you wholly you. You just knew you couldn't be more different from Hotch.

With a bit of luck and purposeful avoiding, your day passed smoothly, sparing you any unnecessary run-ins with Hotch. Everyone had gone home for the day which is why you stood in the break room attempting some baking recipe from Pinterest. 

The slippers on your feet padded against the carpet as you hummed around the room. With swift motions, you ushered the coffee cake batter into the oven, then turned to tackle the mess you had created on the countertops. Cleaning as you go wasn't your usual style, but office break room didn't seem like the place for your usual creative sprawl. 

Your phone had buzzed incessantly with Penelope's calls--her offers the keep you company is why you loved her, but you weren't going to subject her to that, no matter how many times she said she didn't mind.

Hotch's office was quiet, save for the soft scratching of his pen against paper as he finally closed his files. He moved into bullpen and as he passed the breakroom, the soft hum of the light and faint sound of movement drew him in. There you were, engrossed in tidying up, with your hair casually gathered above your shoulders and wearing your sweats, Hotch found him instinctively pausing to watch. 

He knew he shouldn't bother you, knew he was likely the last person you'd want to see, yet he found himself rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on you, the warmth in his chest intensifying with each fleeting second.

The moment you turned and saw a figure, a sharp gasp cut through the silence, and the icing in your grasp became a sweet projectile that flew across the room. Relief washed over you as you realized who it was.

"Jeez, Hotch, give me a heart attack why don't you," you said, half-laughing as your heart rate settled. "Especially when there's a hitman who might beat you to the punch."

Hotch parted his lips to speak, but you were quicker, a stream of thoughts tumbling out before you could stop them. "I thought everyone was gone. You weren't at your desk earlier--oh wait, you had that meeting with the DOJ, right? Did they have anything about the people who marked me?" 

In your haste, you closed the gap between you, and only then did you spot the icing on his cheek. "Oh, sorry about that, Hotch," you said with an apologetic grin, reaching out as if to wipe it away. 

As your palm made contact with his skin, a shared realization of the intimacy of the gesture washed over you. Time seemed to slow as your thumb traced a lingering path through the icing, your whisper barely audible, "There."

The word seemed to hang in the air as you froze, the proximity suddenly overwhelming, your breath caught in your throat. Hotch's backward step was almost imperceptible, but it was enough. You cleared your throat awkwardly, cheeks warming with a flush. "Um, did you need something?"

Hotch shook his head slightly, "No, just wanted to check on you before I head out."

You gave a thumbs up, mustering a smile. "Well, consider me checked."

Hotch nodded, his expression unreadable. "Goodnight," he said, to which you echoed in response as you watched him leave.

Alone now, you slumped against the counter, your hand pressed to your face. Consider me checked? God, someone needed to tape your mouth shut.

[tasteracha]

the storm.

a/n: happy (early) birthday to my shining star xian @forlix i love you so much i ache with it. i love this universe you've created and i love your characters and your beautiful, beautiful mc that i'm so happy you've let me play with.

warnings: unprotected sex, fingering, teasing, pretty tame for me tbh! many big emotions. wc 2.7k. hurt/comfort sex between two people who love each other.

pairing: hwang hyunjin x afab!reader, she/her!reader, based off of xian's lovely crying lightning (you can read this as a stand alone but why would you? xian's fic is phenomenal. please read it.)

as beautiful and wonderful and kind and patient hyunjin is, it’s hard to forget sometimes that his general presence is still exceptionally infuriating sometimes. the days of your loneliness, before the two of you had finally come together into one woven cord instead of two strings dancing alongside one another, were all but a distant memory. overriding that was the smell of his skin in the morning, the glint in his eye when he catches yours across the cameras and fans, the warm weight of his hand steady on the small of your back, protective and possessive. all you knew now was the cracking of lightning across a stormy sky, raindrops hitting your face in a welcome intrusion to your mundane day to day. 

the all expanse of the storm did its job well of making you forget that sometimes the raindrops were irritating, too. 

they came in the form of him opening one eye slowly as you tried to swipe shadow across his lid, upsetting your plan and making you double back once you’ve scolded him; the air moving around you as he walks away from you after teasing you one too many times; the sound of his laugh when he’s behind the camera of someone, making eyes at the lens that should have been reserved for you only. each one was a piercing cold drop of water to your face, piercing as they fall and sliding down to form a puddle at your feet. 

it didn’t escape your notice that you weren’t upset at him, really; it wasn’t his fault that you were spiteful. even thinking the word makes you shiver in disgust - this isn’t you. you had never been one to let your feelings affect your actions, you selfishly prided yourself in your ability to compartmentalize, but he had this hold on you that made you experience things you never thought were possible. 

he, of course, finds the entire show encompassingly amusing. you could see the mirth in his eyes from across the room when he meets yours, recognize your own expression in them like a mirror and it made your scowl deepen in it’s permanence. you almost wish for the time when he didn’t know of your affection for him; the surety in his step when he makes you frown is maddening, overshadowed by the smugness he holds in knowing he could make you smile with greater ease. let it be known that you didn’t lack in confidence - your spine is stood high, head held with authority and feet planted firmly on the floor. envy wasn’t something that ever crawled up your legs like ivy over an ancient grecian statue. jealousy, even, seemed too harsh a sentence for your current charge. to put it simply, you were annoyed. 

he knows this, of course. he knows you, inside and out, and on your best days it’s a rare gift that you treasure, hidden away in the deepest corners of the closet that is your heart. on your worst days it’s utterly terrifying, the feeling of being laid out to shrivel in the sun with no chance of respite. and wasn’t it ironic that the one thing that made you feel this way was the one that cured you too?

it’s with an embarrassing amount of pleasure that you remind yourself that you are the one he goes home with, at the end of the day. you’re cleaning up your station and you hear his laugh in the background, not directed at you but ringing like sweet bells nonetheless. every brush that returns home into your kit, every lip product that gets swiped into a bag, every charcoal pencil is the ticking of time that needs to pass before he is yours again. simply yours, not belonging to the cameras or the managers or the staff whose stare linger on him for longer than they should be allowed to. 

you knew where your talents were - in your art, your ability to read people, your creativity and your drive for perfection. these uncharted waters were not in your skillset, but as hyunjin stalks across the room to reunite with you after what seemed like hours, you took a moment to be grateful that it seemed to be in his. putting yourself in someone else’s hands, feeling the level of trust that you had for him, sent a tingle up your spine, but if anyone was going to take care of you it was him; the thought soothes you like a balm, not enough to be permanent but enough to get you by for now.

“missed me that much?” he crowds into your space to press a light kiss to your hairline, expertly moving his body so that no one could see. “i’ve only been shooting for an hour.”

“keep talking and you’ll get shot,” you mutter, ignoring the heat that rises up to your cheeks as you turn from him to gather your things, aching to be home and in his arms and away from prying stares. his heat is still pressed up against your back, standing as close as he could while still letting you move freely. as much as you want to drag him into some secluded hallway and refamiliarise yourself with the taste of his skin, you had to pull out your endless supply of restraint. getting caught with your hand down his pants in a building that you frequented often was not an outcome that you wished to experience, at least not today. 

his hand is warm on the small of your back as he walks you out a series of doors and stairs to the parking garage, the sound of your shoes bouncing off of the walls a bit jarring. 

“you looked nice today,” you tell him, honest, as he slides into the passenger seat of your car. the worn seats smell like his cologne and his old bracelet hangs from the rearview mirror - god, even your car was reminding you of how much of your life he encompassed - not that you were complaining about that. 

“that was all you,” pride drips from his voice and you catch his soft gaze when you turn to look behind you so you could back out of your parking spot. 

“i may have helped, but it’s still your face,” you counter, hand busy on the gear shift, as eager as your heart was to finally get home. 

“if i didn’t know you, i would have thought you were obsessed with me,” he says, the biting tease dripping off his tongue like citrus. “with the way you were staring at me, back there.”

“i’ll make you walk home,” you tighten your grip on the steering wheel despite the threat being empty. he knows which threads to tug on without unraveling you, playing you with his words like it was muscle memory. 

“you’d make me walk?” he gasps theatrically, pressing his palm to his chest and fluttering his eyes at you. “what if i get kidnapped, or mugged? how would you live with yourself?”

“you’re an idiot,” you deadpan, cursing the betraying fondness that rises up in you. 

“your idiot,” he grins stupidly, settling his hand on your thigh as he watches the streetlights shine across your face as you drive. his touch is scalding, long fingers pressing into your very nerves and leaving them flayed out. 

“yeah, remember that,” you retort, and you hope he thinks you mean the idiot part. 

the remainder of the short drive home was spent in comfortable silence, hyunjin tapping away on his phone with his free hand as you speeded down the freeway. when you park you let out a sigh and your keys jangle in melancholy along with you when you take them out of the ignition. hyunjin presses his fingers into your thigh in a final squeeze before he exits the car, long legs carrying him over to your door before you could blink to open it for you. 

walking up the stairs to your third story apartment never felt more relaxing, the breath they stole from you a necessary tax to pay to enter the comfort of your own walls. 

you pull him to the bedroom as soon as you walk through the front door, dropping your things in the foyer with as much care as you could muster. 

it takes you a couple of seconds to push him to sit up against the headboard, a couple more for him to complain about it, and less than that for you to climb into his lap and press a searing kiss to his lips. 

he opens himself to you, open mouth curved into a smile as you lick into it. you taste the coffee you had made for him this morning, the croissant he had eaten during a break, the gloss that you had carefully dabbed across his plush lips. 

you want him, no one else could have him. how could you feel this much possessiveness over someone you already hold as yours?

his hands circle your waist and his thumbs press into your skin, holding you against him even as you pull away from him. his lips are left glistening red and he looks up at you with a kind of reverence that you don’t think you’ll ever get used to. 

“slow, angel,” he moves his thumbs in slow circles. “i’m not going anywhere.” 

“hyune,” you gasp, going lax against him. you’re far too drained to pretend that your entire body didn’t ache for him. “need you.”

“i know,” he shushes you, trailing his fingers up and down your spine. he loves to tease but he’d never do so at your expense; he must sense that your emotional turmoil is bubbling into the direction of a vortex. “you have me. take what you need, baby.”

the reminder that he was yours, though wholly unneeded, sounds so sweet to your ears. your fingers slide up his chest, twisting into the button at his collar and popping it open with practiced ease. you peel the panels of material off of him to expose his sun-kissed skin, abdominal muscles tensing with how he’s holding back from jerking up into your lap. 

“what does my baby want, hmm?” he says, voice catching when your hands slide over his chest and brush over his nipples. he groans when you roll one between your fingers and the sound of it makes your heart soar.

“i want you to shut up and take your pants off,” you back off of him to rid yourself of your own clothes, folding them into a neat little pile at the foot of the bed. he shows no such care for his own, kicking off his pants and boxers throwing them along with his shirt across the room. his hungry eyes stay on you the whole time, shining with excitement as if it was the first time he was witnessing you undress.

you climb back over him as fast as humanly possible, the feeling of his bare skin against yours like an eternal gift. you grind down against him, his rapidly hardening cock sliding between your folds and his head catching against your clit. you’re wet, of course you are; you have been since his hand was on your thigh on the car ride home you moan and duck your head, a little embarrassed by how affected you are by such a simple motion.

he braces himself on his elbow as other hand moves to your hairline, brushing a few strands back behind your ear on it’s path towards cupping the back of your neck. he moves closer, lips so close to yours that you can almost taste them again, but before they meet you’re feeling the earth’s weight shift and your own balance break. 

“i want to take care of you,” he explains when you look up at him in a daze, dizzy from how quickly he had flipped you underneath him. “let me?”

“i thought i told you to shut up,” you were breathless but the permission still rang true under your words. you’d let him do whatever he wanted, how could you deny such a sweet request?

he grins something wicked as one of his hands slides down your chest towards your lower belly. his fingers part your folds easily and you feel so exposed even though he wasn’t looking. he decidedly keeps his mouth shut even as whines begin to spill from your lips, your eyes fluttering closed as a familiar burning sensation starts to take over your body. 

he alternates between rubbing gentle circles into your clit and teasing his fingers at your entrance, so close to dipping inside but not quite. he ducks his head to mouth at your neck, sucking a constellation of marks into your skin until you’re panting into his hair and shaking apart in your orgasm. 

he gives you a moment to recover, waiting patiently until you open your eyes to see his fond smile aimed at you. 

“what’s that look for?” the snark is completely absent in your voice post-orgasm, and it almost comes out dreamy. 

“i can’t even look at you now?” he breaks his unspoken vow of silence to ask. “i can’t help myself. i have the most gorgeous person walking this earth underneath me, looking at you is the tamest thing i can do to you.”

the blood returns to your cheeks as you take in his words. you don’t respond because you didn’t know how; what could you even say to that? he doesn’t seem to mind as he moves impossibly closer to you, leaning a bit of his weight against you. it’s not too much, just enough that you could feel his chest moving with his breaths. he lines his cock up to your entrance, his hips flush against yours as he slowly pushes in. 

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding when he enters you fully, every inch settling your frustration as it flows out of you along with the air in your lungs. this feeling was worth all of it, the early mornings and the onlookers and the sharing of him when all you wanted to do was lock him away for you and you alone.

he loves you. he was so in love with you that it poured out of his very being, in his gentle touch and the slide of his lips against yours and the slide of his cock against your walls. each drag of his hips sends burning pleasure up your spine, licking flames against your vertebrae until you can’t move. 

you’re so drunk on him that you lose track of time, all of your senses falling away until hyunjin is the only thing you can feel, see, touch. you lose your words, unintelligible syllables trying to shape his name falling from your lips, pressed against the skin of his neck and floating to his ears in a sweet symphony. 

it isn’t long before you’re falling apart underneath him, electricity crackling between you as fucks you through your orgasm. he gathers you in his arms as he tumbles over the edge after you, folding himself over you so he can kiss you, and you don’t realize that you were crying until his cheeks come back glistening with salty water. 

“god, i love you,” and to this day it still feels like a heavy declaration, the words never diminishing their weight despite the number of times they’ve fallen off of his tongue. “you are everything to me.”

“hyunjin,” is all you can say, but you know he reads between the curved letters of his name. i love you too, you mean the world to me, what would i be without you. 

he cares for you like the cracked piece of porcelain that you are, light fingertips tracing along the tear tracks on your cheeks that move to turn you on your side so you could smush yourself into his chest. your hand rests right above his heart, and if you looked close enough you could see the static sparks of electricity that connect the two of you together. 

[ssahotchnerr]

I saw your request for aaron hotchner valentine’s day! maybe an aaron hotchner x bau wife reader and they are all away on a case and they’re still there on valentine’s day and it’s been a rough case and y/n has been extremely stressed but Aaron makes sure she still feels special and treats her to a nice dinner and surprises her with flowers

too married

happy vday pt 2!!! cw; fem!reader, your usual cm case descriptions, mentions of food/alcohol, fluff <333

"it's disheartening, isn't it?"

aaron hummed from in front of you, fiddling with the key to grant the two of you access into your hotel room. "hm?"

"that we're here. on valentine's day." you could laugh if pushed, your voice sharp and inches away from wavering.

no matter how little the inflect, and even if you hadn't shown it at all, aaron still noticed it. he paused and turned back to you, a forlorn expression on his face. "sweetheart-"

"it's fine." you brought your hands to your face, frustratedly and tiredly rubbing your eyes for a moment. "sorry, i'm just looking for something to complain about. it's been a long day."

"a hard day." aaron added in your regard, reaching out to touch your arm soothingly.

your current unsub clearly hadn't felt the universal love within the air; he's been most brutal the bau had endured in a while. full of mutilation, a sickening signature, devolving by the minute.

truthfully it had gotten to you; you were finding it extremely difficult to compartmentalize, and spending most of the day staring at the graphic crime scene photos didn't help. at one point you couldn't bring yourself to look at the pictures, lowering your head down to the table and wanting nothing but to cry into aaron's shoulder.

but he was nowhere to be found, you've barely seen him. he had spent a good portion of the day conducting interviews, off following leads that only resulted in dead ends.

you did see him at lunch, but ignored his occasional, concerned glances. if you were to make eye contact with him, and despite how tempting that was, you would have lost it. in addition, the fact it was valentine's day, made it kind of worse.

sure, it was partly a hallmark, commercial holiday, but you couldn't help but yearn to be out to dinner with aaron - eating ridiculously priced food in a restaurant you could barely see him in, giggly and warm from the wine, serial killers being the least of your concerns.

and rather than going to bed to continue the night, you were going to bed to get a few hours of shut-eye if you were lucky - given the late hour and horrors of the day to keep your mind awake. before it was right back to where you had left off.

"besides, we're also too married to do anything too special, right?" you forced a laugh, the sound sounding foreign in the empty hallway. aaron internally winced, the strain and exhaustion in your voice tugging sadly at his heart.

you continued, "and if we were home, it'd be a quiet night-in wouldn't it? maybe we'd get take-out, watch a movie, go to sleep early."

a lie, but anything to make yourself feel better.

but, that's where aaron, without fail, always stepped in.

"well," he started, but didn't finish his thought - finally managing to get the room key to cooperate and pushing the door open, entering with you at his footsteps.

his back constructed your view, but once he sidestepped towards the bathroom to your right, he revealed a bouquet of red roses, chocolate covered strawberries, accompanied by a card waiting on the desk.

"i know it's not much." aaron explained as you froze, his hand finding the small of your back. "and it's not everything either, i do have more planned for once we're home but-"

maybe it was the near delirious exhaustion, the day you had, him, or all the above, but you only had one means of responding.

you grasped onto the lapels of his suit jacket, bringing him to you and kissing him so forcefully he nearly tripped up against the wall. aaron laughed gently in your mouth, but the kiss was long and deep, the two of you melting into each other.

not enough? it was everything, and the kiss alone silently proved that.

"thank you." you whispered once the two of you separated. your palms were resting on his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft under your fingers.

aaron smiled, the kind that caused the ends of his eyes to crinkle happily. "i love you. and although today wasn't how it should've been, and i would've loved to have spoiled you endlessly, and jack would've definitely been staying at jessica's for the night." his lips turned upwards into a light smirk, a wicked glint in his eyes before turning to their softness. "just like any day, i'm reminded how lucky i am you're my wife. whenever i'm with you, wherever we are, i'm home."

you blinked at him, in utter bafflement and awe. "how do you always know just what i need to hear?"

"because you're my beautiful wife, and like you said, we're too married." he teased, but his playful demeanor sobered, his voice lowering to a whisper. "i'm sorry you had a bad day."

"it's okay. it's better now," you answered just as softly as you looked into his eyes, stroking your thumb along his cheek before turning back to your surprise, "and when did you manage to do all this?"

"i can't reveal all my secrets, can i?" aaron quipped with a smile, pulling you in for another kiss. you reciprocated, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"happy valentine's day darling. and to many, many more."

[unconventional-lawnchair]

His Scrubs

Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: A dedicated nurse in Gotham starts caring for the injured vigilante Red Hood, leading to a complicated bond between them. As their relationship deepens, she grapples with her feelings and the chaos of his violent world.

CW: No use of Y/N, mentions of blood, death, violence, trauma, survivors guilt, readers going through it and Jason is not helping, gn!reader

Wc: 5941

Working as a nurse in Gotham was a unique kind of hell. Your mentor, Dr. Leslie Thompkins, used to tell you that there was a special place in heaven for those who dedicated themselves to caring for the broken and battered souls of Gotham. The city, with its towering skyscrapers and shadowy alleys, was a paradox of beauty and despair. As a nurse, you witnessed the aftermaths of violence you never thought possible, the toll of addiction that ran generations, and the consequences of a society teetering on the brink.

Each shift brought a new wave of patients, the stories of their lives etched into their weary faces. You had learned to compartmentalize the chaos. To save yourself from the heart break younger you would face every time you would get to go home.

The survivor’s guilt destroyed you, you'd come home to your safe warm apartment, the stark contrast between your life and the lives of those you treated weighed heavily on your conscience. You would sit in your cozy living room, a cup of tea warming your hands, while the images of trauma and suffering replayed in your mind like a never-ending loop. Each laugh from the children in your neighborhood felt like a reminder of the laughter you had fought so hard to save; the laughter of those who didn’t make it, who had succumbed to the darkness of Gotham’s streets.

It got so much worse when Red Hood emerged. You despised him.

Forgetting his more violent approach, he sent more and more souls to your halls then you could count. Not the sympathetic ones, not the ones you wanted to care for. The monsters, the villains, men and women you considered a blessing to never see. People who sent most of the souls you mourned right to you.

That bitter anger is what prompted your switch to the day shift. You wanted- no, needed to get away from it. The day shift had its fair share of horrors and the lack of freedom was draining, but it meant that most of your patients were people you wanted to help.

Though, it came with its own downsides. Your pay dropped, your hours were longer, and now, you had to walk home at night. Walking home through Gotham’s shadowy streets after a long shift was a gamble with fate. The city, saturated in darkness, felt alive with danger. Danger you knew intimately. Every alley seemed to have eyes you couldn't see, and every corner could hide a lurking threat. What's worse is you knew first hand what could happen.

Not that you had a choice. You had traded the chaos of the night shift for the uncertainty of twilight; it was a decision that filled you with dread as well as relief.

You clutched your bag tight against your side, the familiar weight of your stethoscope a reminder of your purpose, even as the fear prickled at the back of your mind. Not bothering to change at the hospital, not risking it getting any later. The streets were quieter now, but that only made the ambient sounds of the city, distant sirens, the scuffle of rats, the occasional shout, more pronounced. You quickened your pace, your heart pounding against your chest with every step.

You made it to your shitty apartments, walking through your grounds and avoiding your vile neighbors. The old lady who insisted she heard every small sound you made after 8pm, the horrid teenagers who would do anything for the cash in your bag, and that awful married man from down the hall who took any chance away from his wife to make you as uncomfortable as possible.

When you made it to your door, you were quick to enter and lock it behind you. All three latches you had installed as well. The second you walked in the cold night was shoved away, warmth and bright yellows painted the portrait of a cozy home. A life you had made.

Yet, the paranoia never left. As you walked over to the kitchen and poured yourself a glass of water, you couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching you. You leaned against the counter, the coolness of the granite grounding you as you took a deep breath. The familiar sounds of your modest apartment greeted your ears. It was all the same, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant murmurs of the city outside it was always a comfort, yet they also felt like a mask hiding the lurking dangers beyond your walls.

As you sipped your water, your eyes wandered to the living room. Your eyes lingered on your darkened window that was on the fire escape. Not your favorite thing, which is why you installed black out curtains. Staring at it longer, you noticed something that made your heart sink.

Your curtains were opened. Yet the window was still dark, hardly letting any light in. At first, your mind tricked you into believing that maybe, possibly, there were eyes in the darkness. Staring at you, waiting for you to just make one wrong move. But when your eyes processed what they were receiving, you were rushed with a very familiar panic. It was red.

Your windows were absolutely painted with blood.

Your own blood surged through you like ice water, freezing you in place. The sight of the deep red streaks contrasting against the dark glass made your heart race. You blinked once, twice, three times, willing your mind to process what you were seeing. Was it real? Had it come from outside, or was it a figment of your exhaustion-induced imagination? Your mind wandered to the worse. Was it from inside?

But the metallic scent that wafted in from the window confirmed your worst fears; the air was thick with the unmistakable odor of blood.

You willed yourself to walk over. A guilty form of relief heated your veins when you saw no evidence the blood had, at any point, entered your home.

Then came the problem, do you open the window? Or do you keep it closed? Do you check on whoever or what ever was hurt? Or do you look the other way? Part of you wanted to turn away. Call the police and leave it to them.

But fuck, the paid hero you were, you couldn't stop yourself.

The anticipation was killing you. So as your fingers brushed the lock on your window, you flinched away for just a moment.

Then, you pushed it open quickly. Getting it over with, hoping your bleeding heart wouldn't be the death of you.

You covered your nose with your sleeve, staring out of the still dripping window, avoiding the fresh blood. You narrowed your eyes into the darkness only for your eyes to lock with a pair of piercing white slits. They were glaring at the window the second it opened, and you were greeted with none other then the Red Hood.

You stared him down, lips tightened in a firm line. He was covered in blood, holding his side, leaning against the wall and panting. Even in his clear pain he took the time out of his day, so selflessly, to stare into your eyes with a death glare.

You were an idiot.

Red Hood. Vigilante, murderer, anti hero, a right monster, just stared at you.

You knew your old mentor, how she used to care for the bats on their worst days. You wondered, just for a moment, if that's why he was here. Holding his gaze in absolute silence.

“You're bleeding.” You huffed at him and his eye slits narrowed. As if to say ‘No shit. Fix it.’

The tension between you was palpable, a charged silence hanging in the air. You took a deep breath, the metallic scent of blood mixing with the familiar smell of your home, and it made your stomach churn. “What do you want?” You asked, trying to sound more assertive than you felt.

“I need help.” He scoffed, his voice slightly strained, but there was an urgency beneath it that you couldn’t ignore. “I can’t go to the hospital. Not like this.”

“Of course you can’t.” You snapped, bitterness lacing your words. “You’d probably scare half the staff into quitting.”

He winced and after just a second or two of staring at each other you stepped into your house. Leaving the window open for him to slip in. You assumed he took the hint, as your window was slammed shut behind you.

You were quick to grab your emergency kit from the bathroom. When you returned, he was laying back on your coffee table. He must have remembered that from being treated by Leslie before. He was dozing in and out, and as you finally approached him, you could see the blood pooling on the table and down to the floor beneath him, a stark reminder of the urgency of the situation.

“Stay awake.” You ordered, your voice firm as you knelt beside him. “I need you conscious if I’m going to help you.”

He grunted in response, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “I’m trying.”

You could hear his teeth grinding and you simply didn't respond. “You're overheating.” You commented. “Take off your helmet.”

“Like hell.” He hissed and you scoffed, starting to work. Cutting through his suit without much complaint from him.

“You come to my house in the middle of the night and can't even follow simple instructions?” You hissed back. Like two cats locked, your voices could be mistaken as snarls to anyone listening in.

“Oh fuck off.” He snapped and let his head lull back, his eyes blurring. You snapped your fingers in front of his face as you took in his abdomen. Two gun shots.

“Unfortunately this is my damn apartment.” Your tone was sharper than you intended, but the urgency of the moment was drowning out any lingering resentment you felt toward him. “And I’m not about to let you bleed out on my coffee table. So either help me help you, or I’ll drag you to a hospital myself.”

He chuckled weakly, the sound gurgling in his throat, which only added to your frustration. “You know, you’re not very nurse like.”

“I'm off the clock.” You rolled your eyes as you began to clean the wound. “I’m about to throw you out if you don’t stop talking.”

He let out a labored breath, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth- not that you can see it. But god could you hear it. “You’re just arguing with me to keep me awake, aren’t you?”

“... just keep your eyes open, Red Hood. You're not as charming as you think.” You shot back, concentrating on the task at hand. “Or maybe you'd like to take your chances with the hospital instead?”

“Seems like you’re doing a pretty good job, don't doubt yourself.” He snarked, his voice slightly slurred, fatigue creeping in despite your efforts. Still, in what could be his final moments, he found the audacity to be sarcastic with you.

You didn’t respond, focusing on cleaning the wound with swift, practiced motions. The sight of the jagged edges of the bullet wound made your stomach churn, but you pushed the nausea aside.

You had treated countless wounds like this before, but somehow, this felt different. The adrenaline coursing through you mixed with a sense of dread that you couldn’t shake. Every second mattered, and yet here he was- this man who brought chaos into your life- laying in your apartment, bleeding out while making quips like it was just another day.

“Just breathe.” You once again ordered, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your mind. “I need you to focus on that. In and out, nice and slow.”

He nodded slightly, the movement causing him to grimace. You could see the sweat glistening on his neck, and his breath came in labored gasps. You hurriedly worked to clean the wound and apply a dressing, but the sight of the blood made your heart race.

“Who did this to you?” You muttered absentmindedly, trying to keep the conversation going. It was a tactic you often used with patients to distract them from the pain.

“Just another night in Gotham.” His voice was strained but laced with that same dark humor. “You know how it is. Bad guys, good guys, everyone in between.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” You snarked as you applied pressure to stop the bleeding. “You think you’re funny? Dying anti hero?”

“I have been told I am.” He smirked again, not that you could see it, his tone playful despite his condition. “But you’re the real hero here, yeah? Playing nurse to a monster like me.”

You paused for a moment, looking him dead in the eye-slits, swallowing thick. “You're not a monster. Not in my home.” You corrected, the sound of tearing elastics and the ripping of tape sounded out in your empty apartment, as you got the bandages. “You're my patient.”

He stopped speaking, and for a fleeting moment, the bravado he usually wore like armor slipped away. "Your patient.” He echoed, a hint of something almost vulnerable beneath the sarcasm. "Well, I guess that makes me lucky."

You shook your head, forcing yourself to remain focused on the task at hand. "You're not lucky, Red Hood. You're just in a lot of trouble, and I need you to stay with me while I help you."

He let out a low chuckle that quickly turned into a wince, the pain evident in his covered eyes. You had to admire the expressive mask, it kept you keen on his emotions. “You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Special isn’t the word I’d use.” You mumbled, your fingers deftly applying more pressure before you began to wrap his torso and start on the next wound.

You both slipped into a comfortable silence. Eventually, you turned on the tv, and he seemed to actually be interested in whatever nonsense was playing. Some black and white movie, dramatic and sappy.

You spent the next few hours cleaning and inspecting each wound. You managed to get him to drink some of your juice, eat some plain crackers, and by the time you cleaned up after everything, he had disappeared from your couch where you had shifted him.

He had taken his ruined tattered uniform with him, but left a lovely gift in his potent blood that stained your table and floor boards. You weren't surprised he left, more annoyed he didn't even bother to thank you.

But what did you expect from the ‘monster’ that was Red Hood?

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you surveyed the mess he’d left behind. Pushing away the ridiculous concept that your night had become. The stark contrast of the blood against your clean, modest apartment felt like a personal affront. You had spent so much time trying to create a safe haven for yourself, only for it to be tainted by the chaos of the man you tried to escape.

The silence of the apartment was deafening now. As you cleaned up the blood with a damp cloth, you couldn’t shake the feeling of anger mixed with concern. Why did you care? Why did you even help him? You should have just called the cops and let them deal with it. He was a wanted criminal.

But the truth was, despite everything he represented- the violence, the lawlessness, the depravity- you had seen a flicker of humanity in him. He wasn’t just a monster; he was a man shaped by the same city that had shaped you. You understood that all too well. Bitterly, you wondered what had gone so wrong for you to choose nurture and for him to choose violence.

“Ugh.” You muttered to yourself, tossing the bloodied cloth in the trash. “What am I doing?”

You sank onto the couch, the adrenaline from the night finally wearing off. Your body slid to the floor and you shook with leftover shock.

You leaned back against the couch, your mind racing. The events of the night played on a loop, each moment echoing in your thoughts. How did it come to this? You had always been the one to help, to heal, yet here you were, embroiled in the chaos of Gotham’s underbelly, caring for the very personification of its violence.

The weight of your emotions pressed down on you, suffocating in its intensity. Frustration, anger, and an inexplicable concern for the man who had just bled all over your coffee table. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart.

“Get it together.” You whispered. You could almost hear Dr. Leslie, reminding you that everyone deserved to be saved. To be safe. No questions asked.

Well, you did two out of the three.

~~~

It became a routine, much to your dismay.

He came back days later, hurt again. You tended to him and you soon learned that you had rewarded bad behavior. Reinforcing this idea that you were some ally to him.

You reminded him of Dr. Leslie, that she was still available and willing to help, that she made a life of her golden heart. You did not.

Yet, the meetings became frequent. You began to leave your window unlatched, something he scolded you for. He was suddenly incredibly comfortable with raising his voice with you. That wasn't all.

Also comfortable with eating your dinner, watching your tv, demanding sympathy like a child. All under the idea that you were his nurse.

Most of your nights now entailed you cooking more than normal, to feed the behemoth of a man. He'd sneak in through your window and latch it locked. Or on your ruined coffee table and you would tend to him, feed him, and he would linger longer every time.

When he wasn't draining your supplies and food, he was watching you on your walked to and from work, making a routine of ensuring you made it home safely.

You hated to admit it. He was growing on you.

But every time he slipped through your window, each time he left behind traces of blood and chaos, a part of you felt like it was being chipped away. You had wanted to create a sanctuary, a respite from the horrors you witnessed at the hospital. Instead, you were becoming a refuge for the very chaos you tried to escape.

The first few nights after his first visit were filled with uncertainty. You found it hard to sleep, the memories of his bloodied form etched into your mind. You would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the sounds of his labored breathing and the sharpness of his pain. You had saved him, but at what cost? Each time he returned, you felt the line blur between patient and something else.

Days turned into weeks, and with each passing encounter, the boundaries you had desperately tried to maintain began to crumble under his comfortable behavior. You found yourself looking forward to his visits, despite the chaos they brought. Of course, you would never wish harm upon him. The initial anger at his reckless behavior transformed into concern, and then, surprisingly, a reluctant fondness.

He was breaking you down so perfectly. You knew he knew what he was doing too.

The nights he showed up were a mix of tension and reluctant familiarity. Sometimes he would come in badly injured, and you would patch him up, your hands moving with practiced efficiency, your heart pounding in your chest. Other times, he would arrive with only minor scrapes, a smirk in his voice, teasing you about your nursing skills or the state of your apartment.

“Rather cozy and plush for a nurse in this city.” He teased, leaning back into your pillow covered couch and groaned a bit as you continued to reset his middle finger.

“If you keep coming to me with these injuries you can fix yourself, I might just start locking my window again.” You huffed and he scoffed.

“Good.” He grumbled, taking his hand and rubbing his wrist. “Lots of freaks out there.”

“That's why I have you.” You scoffed and stood up, his eyes following you as he watched you go to the kitchen and grab a water bottle. He never took off his mask, he was glad for that now, he was positive his pupils were twice their normal size.

He liked it. That you took comfort in him. That he was your safety.

Because it was around that time that he admitted to himself that you were his safety too.

It was a strange and unexpected partnership that had formed between you two. Each encounter layered new complexity onto the already tangled web of your lives. You were both broken souls in a city that thrived on chaos, drawn together by circumstances neither of you could control.

As the weeks passed, you found yourself caught in a delicate dance. You would joke, bicker, and even share the occasional comfortable silence while watching old movies or eating meals together. He would often tease you about your habits, the way you meticulously organized your medical supplies, or how you always had to have the TV on for background noise. Just how human you seemed for a, as he called it, hero of the day.

You would ask him if that made him the hero of the night, but he didn't seem too keen on it.

“You know, it’s okay to have a little chaos in your life.” He would say, flashing you that infuriating smirk, his mask curled up to the bottom of his nose so he could enjoy the meal you made, that somehow managed to make your heart race. Trying not to think too hard about how sharp his teeth were. You wondered if he filed them. No way in hell they were natural. “You’re in Gotham, after all.”

“Not every part of Gotham has to be chaotic, Red Hood.” You would sigh, your hands on your hips, trying to maintain your authority. But even as you said it, you felt a warmth spread through you. You were beginning to appreciate the lightness he brought into your otherwise heavy existence.

Then came the day when he showed up with a gift- a half-eaten pizza, the grease soaking through the cardboard box. He had barged in through your window, an air of triumph surrounding him.

“I figured you could use a little junk food after all the healthy food you've been feeding me.” He chuckled, plopping it down on your coffee table, now permanently stained from his previous visits.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. At least you didn't have to dirty your hands tonight. “You think a pizza is going to make up for all the blood you’ve left on this table?”

He shrugged, a playful glint in his eye slits. “It’s a start.”

And just like that, the boundaries you had set began to dissolve even further. You found yourself laughing more, enjoying the absurdity of the situation. You were a nurse tending to a vigilante in the heart of Gotham, and yet, with each shared moment, it felt strangely normal.

But the thought nagged at you; was this a good idea? You were still aware of the risks, the danger that came with his lifestyle. The chaos, the violence, the unending cycle of pain. You had seen it all too clearly in your line of work. But somehow, amidst the chaos he brought, you also found a strange sort of peace.

Yet you still let him in, you still fed him, you still spent time you should of spent sleeping, watching tv until you fell asleep. You hadn't realized how domestic his visits had become. Until he was on your couch, face down, shirt off, while you straddled his back.

You ran your palms along his shoulders, having forgotten which one of his many teasing comments had led to this. He was sweaty, his back rippled with red, and he was trying to pretend he wasn't aching. He groaned, low, into the couch as you continued to work your thumbs through the insane amount of knots.

You could truly appreciate how much bigger he was then you like this. Your hands barely fit over the small of his back, even as you pressed your wrists together and pushed down. You pressed deeper, feeling the tension in his muscles beneath your palms. It was a strange position to be in. Straddling both him and the line between caregiver and something that you both have been avoiding since this began. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the way he clenched his fists into the fabric of the couch as you worked. Breathing heavy and the hair on the back of his neck prickling.

“Is this how you treat all your patients?” His voice was muffled but laced with that familiar teasing tone.

“Only you, unfortunately.” A playful smirk tugged at your lips. Able to tell just how much he was struggling to take a full breath from under his mask.

He shifted slightly beneath you, the movement sending a spark through your body. “What a lucky guy I am.” He mumbled, though there was an edge to his voice, a mix of teasing and the strain of pain that lingered in his tone. “You should charge for this kind of therapy.”

“Therapy? Is that what you think this is?” You quipped back, trying to keep the atmosphere light. The truth was, you were painfully aware of how intimate this was. He lifted his hips to shift himself on your couch, lifting you up with him like you were nothing. You don't want to think about how different this would be if he was on his back instead.

You caught your breath, the sudden shift in his weight causing your heart to race. The closeness was distracting, his warmth radiating against your skin, and you fought against the urge to lean into him. The tension between you was disorienting, and for a moment, the world outside faded away. It was just the two of you, caught in this strange and fragile place where boundaries blurred.

“Yeah, therapy.” His tone was lighter now, but there was a seriousness buried beneath it. “You know, you could probably make a killing with all the heroes and villains in this town. Just think about it: Gotham’s very own nurse, providing ‘aftercare’ for the weary souls.”

“Or you know, I could just run for the hills and pretend I never met you.” You shot back, trying to deflect the weight of the moment.

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “That's alright… you can keep this just for me.”

“Just for you? You would be so special.” You scoffed and tried to ignore how your body seemed to respond positively to his more possessive tone.

His eyes, hidden behind the mask, seemed to glimmer with amusement, and you could almost hear the crude smirk in his voice as he replied, “Oh, I’m definitely special. You’d be surprised how many people want my ‘aftercare’...”

“Fuck off.” You huffed before you began to apply more pressure, making him groan louder into the pillows. You slowly pressed your thumbs against his back dimples, hearing another low groan reverberate in his helmet.

“You know, you can take that off.” You huffed and he seemed to stiffen all the knots you worked so hard to untangle. “Hey-”

“I'm fine.” He huffed and slowly relaxed under your fingers again.

You could feel the tension radiating off him, a mix of bravado and vulnerability, and it made your heart race. “You’re clearly not fine.” You muttered, your voice softer now, a hint of concern creeping into your tone. “You’re hurt, and I’m not about to let you pretend otherwise while I’m trying to help you.”

He shifted again, this time with a hint of irritation. “I'm not-”

“I don't have to see.”

“What?” He whispered, a bit bewildered. You climbed off of his back and pretended you didn't hear what you could almost distinguish as a whine leaving him. You could feel his eyes on you as you picked up one of your larger silk clothes. You turned to him and walked over, he sat up, staring up at you as you stood before him.

“It's only fair. You won't relax like that.” You mumbled and lifted it to your face. With a bit of a struggle, you managed to tie the cloth around your eyes. Suddenly plunged into darkness, instinctively reaching out to grab his forearms. “See? Can't see a thing.”

He scoffed, but wasn't able to help how he admired your more oblivious state. He was used to your shameless challenges, your demanded presence, your snarky comments. But now? You were perfectly content and calm. Even your tone shifted the second you did it.

You were being weak with him.

It didn't help that everything he wanted to say was caught in his throat. Your lips parted ever so slightly, he could just see the top of your teeth peaking through your lips. You looked absolutely exposed and he had to do his best to shove away the more unkind thoughts he had.

Still, the room was thick with tension. Eventually, he lifted his hand, holding up a few fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

You scoffed with a laugh, looking to the side a bit and moving your hands to run over his large bicep, down to his forearm, up to his hand. And your fingers ghosted over his own. Smirking to yourself at your win. “Three.”

“Fucking hell.” He whispered your name, soft, careful, before he moved his arms. You were curious at first, until you heard the soft clicks of something metallic, and something falling to the floor. “You'll be the death of me, yeah?” He muttered and a shock ran down your spine.

That was new. It was the first time you've ever heard his voice. His actual voice. You ran your hands up his chest and slowly up his neck. Your fingertips ghosting over his jaw line and neck, making him release a breath he didn't know he was holding in.

“Hood?” You whispered, and he let out a shaky groan, as your thumb traveled up his chin to his jaw, discovering a few scars. What was getting to you the most, was his breath. It fanned over your face, you hadn't even noticed how much you had leaned into him.

Cigarettes and strawberry candies. That made you smile. You never in a million years would of guessed he liked strawberry sweets, but you'd commit that to memory.

The intimacy of the moment was overwhelming, and you found yourself lost in the cadence of his breath, the way it mingled with your own as you traced the contours of his face. The softness of his skin contrasted sharply with the violent persona he projected to the world, and it made your heart ache with a mixture of sympathy and confusion. Who was he?

“Why are you really here?” You whispered softly, your voice barely breaking the silence that enveloped you both.

His breath hitched slightly at your words, and for a heartbeat, you could feel the weight of unspoken thoughts hanging in the air. Before he could second guess it, his lips brushed yours.

It was so soft. Softer than you'd ever thought he'd be. You guessed it made sense, he had always been tough, firm, and harsh with everyone. Not with you. Not with you in a long time.

The kiss was unexpected, yet it felt like a long-awaited surge of electricity between you. You squeaked and that made him deepened it. Time seemed to pause, the chaos of everything outside your walls faded into the background as you melted into the moment. Red Hood’s lips were warm against yours, and you could feel the tension in his body, a mix of pain and uncertainty- a need that mirrored your own.

You pulled back slightly, your heart racing as you furrowed your brow, as if you were trying to study the face you couldn't see. “What was that?” You asked, your voice trembling just a little.

He hesitated, his eyes narrowing as if weighing his words. “A mistake?” He offered, but the way he said it was more self-deprecating then teasing. He was nervous. He was offering you an out.

Like hell you'd let him get away with that.

“Not the way I’d describe it.” You whispered, giving a gasp when he reached for your hips and you were reminded how big he was. His hands made you feel pathetically small, as he pulled you between his legs. You tightened your lips in a thin line, still not able to see a thing.

“Yeah?” He prodded and you nodded, taking a deep breath. Leaning closer. “What is it then?” He asked softly.

“I don't know.” You whispered. “I may need another kiss. Just to be sure, you know?”

He gave a laugh at that, one that shook your entire body. He took your lips again and his hands raised up to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss. It was intoxicating, sending a wave of warmth through you that made you forget everything else- the dangers of Gotham, the blood on the hands he held you with, the weight of your responsibilities. In that moment, it was just the two of you, lost in the warmth of each other’s presence.

You melted against him, your body responding instinctively to his touch. You could feel the tension in his muscles, but also a gentleness beneath his bravado that took you by surprise. It was as if he was allowing himself to be vulnerable, if only for a moment.

He lifted your waist up until you were straddling him again, leaning back into the couch and pulling you with him. Not an inch of space between you.

When you finally pulled away, both of you panting slightly, you could see the hesitation in his eyes, even through the mask. “So… that wasn’t a mistake?” He asked, his voice low and hesitant.

You shook your head, your heart racing. “No, it wasn’t.”

He studied you for a moment, and you were trying to catch your breath. His hands slipped up from your waist to behind your head. Suddenly, you felt the blindfold fall.

You quickly reached up, managing to catch it under one of your eyes, closing both of them tight. He gave a weak laugh and cooed at you. “Open them. Please, Scrubs.”

You were shocked by his words, but obeyed them easily. Slowly you opened your eyes and looked at him. Taking in his features, a bit breathless.

“Hood?” You croaked out and he took his own uneven breath.

“Just.. call me Jason.”

Your heart raced at the sound of his real name, feeling like a revelation that changed everything. “Jason.” You whispered, testing the name on your tongue, savoring the intimacy of it. It felt like a key unlocking a door to a part of him that was hidden beneath the mask, a glimpse of the man behind the vigilante.

He seemed to relax at your acceptance, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Yeah, just Jason.” He said, his voice low and gravelly, yet there was a softness in it that made you feel safer then ever before.

“Jason Todd.”

You were the first one he ever confessed his true identity to.

[strangespector]

Heartbreak Anniversary

Summary: Love, break up and healing

Words: 873

A/N: Going through it right now

Meeting Jenna Ortega felt like a scene out of a movie. We were introduced by a mutual friend at a small gathering in Los Angeles. I had always been a fan of her work, admiring her talent and charisma from afar. The moment our eyes met, it felt like destiny. We clicked instantly, laughing and sharing stories late into the night. Jenna’s warmth and kindness were intoxicating, and it wasn’t long before we became inseparable.

My past was a tapestry of pain, woven from a troubled childhood with abusive and distant parents. Having Jenna in my life felt like a blessing, a beacon of hope that illuminated my darkest days. Our love blossomed quickly, and we spent every waking moment together, filling the voids in each other’s hearts.

As months passed, our bond grew stronger. We were inseparable, sharing dreams and fears, building a sanctuary of love and trust. But as they say, good things don’t last forever. Jenna landed a role in a new TV show that required her to be abroad for almost a year. The thought of being apart was unbearable, but I was adamant that our love could withstand the distance. Jenna, however, had reservations about a long-distance relationship, yet she agreed, trusting my optimism.

From the beginning, Jenna insisted on keeping our relationship a secret. She was adamant that her public image remain untarnished by the complications of a personal relationship. I understood her reasons but felt the sting of being hidden away, a secret love that couldn't be shared with the world.

The first few months were filled with constant communication. We texted, called, and video chatted every chance we got. But as Jenna’s schedule became more demanding, the messages became sparse, and calls went unanswered. My mental health began to spiral as I grappled with the fear of losing her. The distance wasn’t just physical; it started to feel emotional too. Despite my pleas, Jenna never offered to fly me out to visit her. I felt like an afterthought, a hidden part of her life that she could easily compartmentalize.

Then came the rumors. Social media buzzed with speculation about Jenna and her co-star, Emma. Paparazzi photos showed them together, looking cozy on multiple occasions. My heart shattered. Was I not good enough? The tabloids only fueled my insecurities, and soon, the story was everywhere.

Jenna called, knowing I had seen the articles. She assured me they were just rumors, that Emma was a good friend who supported her on tough days. I wanted to believe her, but the growing distance and lack of communication made it hard. I felt like I was begging for her attention, for her love. Jenna promised things would get better once her schedule eased up, but deep down, doubt began to take root.

Weeks turned into months, and nothing changed. I was tired of being the one holding on. I stopped updating Jenna about my life, stopped sending her good morning texts and detailed paragraphs about my day. My silence was met with indifference. Jenna didn’t reach out to mend the growing rift between us. I began to disassociate from the relationship, protecting my heart from further pain.

Then one day, Jenna called. Her voice was calm but distant. She said she couldn’t give me what I needed and ended our relationship. My heart shattered into a million pieces. How could she give up so easily after a year of being together? The pain was unbearable, but I knew I had to respect her decision. Tears streamed down my face as I realized it was over.

Months passed, and Jenna returned home, her show finally wrapped. She tried to adjust to life without her co-stars, without the constant bustle of work. Alone with her thoughts, Jenna began to regret breaking up with me. She tried reaching out, but I didn’t respond. I had moved on, surrounding myself with friends and family, picking up new hobbies, and slowly piecing my life back together. It was a painful process, filled with nights of tears and self-doubt, but I was finally starting to feel like I could breathe again.

Then came the event. I was working backstage, busy with preparations, when I saw her. Jenna walked into the dressing room, and our eyes met. She came up to me and said hi, her voice filled with nostalgia and regret. She told me she missed me, and for a moment, the world stopped. I smiled, acknowledging her words. Jenna said I looked great and was happy to see me thriving. Little did she know, I had spent countless nights crying over her, battling my demons in silence. But I had emerged stronger.

I told Jenna I was proud of her, that I always knew she was destined for great things. We both smiled, a bittersweet acknowledgment of what we had and what we lost. We knew the road had ended there. With a final embrace, we parted ways, thankful for the love we shared when we needed it most.

Every story has an ending, and ours was no different. Jenna and I went our separate ways, carrying the memories of our love. It wasn’t a fairytale, but it was real. And sometimes, that’s enough. In another universe, we would have been together.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Bringing Him Home

Pairing: Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Wife!reader

Warning: mention of spacing out, fluff, bit of angst, family life talk

Authors note: I made this a little angsty at first but I make up for it I promise

Word Count: 1.5k

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The aroma of a simple pasta dish simmered on the stove as you moved through your evening routine, preparing dinner for yourself in the quiet comfort of the little home you and Kyle shared. The night was calm, only the soft hum of the radio playing in the background, its melodies soothing the silence. It had been one of those long days where you were grateful for the small things—like the warmth of the kitchen, the rhythm of cooking, and the promise of a peaceful evening.

You weren’t expecting Kyle tonight. His missions, especially the solo ones, often kept him away for days or weeks. But you had learned not to worry too much—not outwardly, at least. There was always that quiet part of you that held your breath until you saw his face again, that small, anxious knot in your chest that only loosened once he stepped through the door. Until then, you carried on as usual, trying not to let your thoughts wander into dark places.

The soft creak of the front door opening pulled you from your thoughts. You turned from the stove, spoon still in hand, your heart skipping a beat. Standing in the doorway was Kyle—no, it was Gaz, his tactical gear still strapped to his body, his eyes dark and shadowed, his posture weighed down by more than just exhaustion.

Your heart clenched at the sight of him. You could tell from the way he stood there—silent, almost hesitant—that something had happened. The wear and tear on his gear told part of the story: dirt and grime clung to the fabric, and there was a scuff on his helmet that hadn’t been there before. But it was his eyes that told you the most. They were distant, unfocused, as if he were still trapped somewhere far from here.

“Kyle?” you called softly, your voice gentle, careful. You set the spoon down and wiped your hands on a dish towel as you crossed the small space between you.

His eyes met yours, but it took a moment for him to truly see you. For a few heartbeats, he just stood there, caught between two worlds—one foot still in the battlefield, the other just barely touching the floor of your shared home. It was always like this after a hard mission, especially when he had been out there alone. He was a soldier, trained to compartmentalize, to push everything down until the mission was done. But now, here in the quiet of your home, that wall was beginning to crack.

Without a word, you reached for his vest, your fingers working quickly but gently to undo the straps and buckles that held his gear in place. He didn’t stop you, didn’t move, but you could feel the tension in his body, the tightness in his muscles as if he were holding himself together by sheer willpower.

“You’re home now,” you whispered as his vest fell to the floor with a soft thud. “You’re safe. You’re with me.”

Kyle’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and his brow furrowed as though he were fighting back something—emotion, exhaustion, or maybe both. His hand came up to rub at his temple, a small gesture of frustration, but you caught it in your own hand, bringing it down gently. His skin was rough, calloused from years of service, and his hand trembled slightly in yours.

You guided him to the couch, the weight of his gear gone, but the heaviness in his heart still visible in every step. He sat down stiffly, like his body wasn’t quite ready to relax yet. You knelt in front of him, carefully undoing the laces on his boots. He didn’t protest, though his hands flexed in his lap as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

Once his boots were off, you sat beside him, your hand resting lightly on his knee. His eyes remained fixed on the floor, lost in whatever he had just come from. You knew better than to push him to talk—not yet, anyway. Kyle needed time to come back, to shake off Gaz and just be the man you loved.

“Kyle,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you leaned in closer. “You don’t have to carry it all right now. You’re here. You’re with me.”

For a moment, there was nothing—just the sound of his quiet breathing and the distant hum of the stove still on in the kitchen. Then, slowly, Kyle’s head dropped, and his shoulders slumped forward. It was as if your words had finally broken through, shattering the last of his resolve. He leaned into you, his forehead resting against your shoulder as his breath hitched, barely audible but enough to tell you that he was letting go.

Without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close. His body was tense, stiff with the weight of the mission still clinging to him, but you held him firmly, your hand running through his hair in slow, soothing strokes. You didn’t say anything—there was no need. You knew he just needed to feel you, to be reminded that he was home, that he was safe.

Minutes passed like that, with Kyle slowly relaxing into your embrace. His breathing evened out, the tension in his muscles loosening as you held him. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes were still tired, still haunted by whatever he had seen or done, but there was something else there now—something softer, warmer.

“I made dinner,” you said gently, offering him a small smile. “It’s nothing fancy, just pasta. I didn’t think you’d be back tonight.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Pasta sounds good,” he murmured, his voice low and rough from disuse, but there was a softness in it that made your heart ache.

You stood up, offering him your hand. He took it, his grip firm but still trembling slightly. As you led him to the kitchen, you kept glancing back at him, making sure he was really here with you. He was moving slowly, but at least he was moving, each step pulling him further from the battlefield and closer to home.

In the kitchen, you finished preparing the meal, the normalcy of it all grounding both of you. Kyle sat at the small dining table, watching you with a kind of quiet intensity, his eyes following your movements like he was trying to remind himself that this was real—that he was here, with you, and not somewhere else.

When you set the plates down in front of him, you noticed his hands were still trembling, though he tried to hide it. You reached across the table, taking one of his hands in yours, and gave it a gentle squeeze. He looked up at you, and for the first time since he’d walked through the door, you saw a flicker of the man you knew—the man you loved.

Dinner was quiet at first, the soft clinking of silverware and the warmth of the kitchen surrounding the two of you like a protective cocoon. After a few bites, Kyle finally seemed to let out the breath he’d been holding since he arrived. He leaned back in his chair, a subtle relaxation in his shoulders.

“So, tell me about your day,” he murmured, his voice gentler now, the soldier receding more and more as the minutes passed.

You smiled, launching into the little things that had happened—a funny story about a neighbor, a new recipe you wanted to try. Kyle listened intently, nodding along, his hand never leaving yours. He would bring your hand to his lips occasionally, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles as if grounding himself in your presence.

When the conversation lulled, he glanced down at his half-eaten plate before looking back at you, something thoughtful in his expression.

“I’ve been thinking,” he started, his voice soft, a bit hesitant. “About... us. About our future.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? What kind of thinking?”

Kyle smiled softly, his thumb brushing over your palm. “I know things aren’t always easy with my job. But... I’ve been wondering if we’re ready to expand our little family.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you felt warmth rise to your cheeks. “Kyle, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

He chuckled lightly, the sound warm and affectionate. “Maybe not kids just yet,” he said with a playful smirk. “I was thinking we could start smaller. Maybe a dog?”

The image of the two of you caring for a dog—coming home to a wagging tail, walks in the park, lazy afternoons together—flashed through your mind, and a broad smile spread across your face.

“I think that sounds perfect,” you said, squeezing his hand. “We’ll start with a dog, and who knows? Maybe down the road...”

Kyle’s eyes softened as he leaned across the table, brushing a soft kiss against your lips. “Yeah,” he whispered against your mouth. “We’ll figure the rest out together.”

In that moment, it didn’t matter how hard his day had been or how heavy the world outside your little home felt. Here, in the quiet warmth of your kitchen, you knew that no matter what, you and Kyle would always have this—a place where the weight of the world could be left at the door, and all that mattered was the love you shared.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reblogging! -Midnight💜

[sassydefendorflower]

In case of their death, each Bat has a dedicated spot where they keep their will/private messages to different members of their family/their friends.

It makes sense in their line of work.

Tim's is a hard drive, no surprise there, but he made sure the code to access it was just stupid enough that most of the family would have to come together to crack it (and even then, they still have to call Bart for the final clue) - it’s something stupid and sentimental, something Bruce would never have guessed Tim would choose as a password. Maybe Quadruple Summersault. Or Short Pants. Or Second Mask. Or Always Be Prepared. Or maybe just I Love You.

Babs has a lot of video messages just in case. She wrote code that would automatically send her last words to everyone she cherished (her dad, the Bats, the Birds of Prey, her co-workers at the library) should she forget to enter the I'm Still Alive Code. (she has to stay at the hospital once without her phone and accidentally sends her last words to everyone - Gotham is chaos for a day until people manage to check in on her).

Cass has already hidden all her goodbyes in the rooms of those she thinks deserve it. Once she is gone, she hopes Bruce will find the letter in her nightstand. The one that says "my words are still here, you just have to look for it" - which is a bit ironic, considering most of her letters consist of funny cartoons and nice memories captured in the chicken scratch of someone who might never be a portrait artist but can undoubtedly catch a moment in time with just a few strokes of a pencil.

Dick updates his will every couple of months, just to be safe. And his letters? His final words? Those are usually stored with a civilian friend or two. One batch is definitely kept at Titans Tower. All of these people have instructions to send them once the news of his death has hit the public. His letters are unusually long, filled with jokes and anecdotes, and a lot of things he never quite managed to say before. For someone who likes to talk, Dick is awfully good at saying nothing. But that's not how he wants to die - at least not this time, so long letters it is.

Jason doesn't have a lot of letters, or a lot of anything really. He just has a very detailed will. A binding legal paper that explains exactly what the family is supposed to do with his body. He's not gonna take any more chances with this. At the end of his will, there is only one addendum: I love you. Please let me be dead. Nothing more - nothing less.

Steph is a bit obsessed with the details of her death, maybe because her first close encounter resulted in a complete loss of agency. She wants to plan it down to the smallest bit, and since she knows she cant do that, she plans everything else. Where she wants to be buried, what songs should be played, what kind of food should be offered... and in each of these instructions there is a personal message hidden just within. She wants Bruce and Tim to carry her coffin, carry her one last time. She wants Cass to dance at her funeral, and Babs and her mom to write the speeches. Small love letters hidden in a search for control.

Damian is needlessly good at compartmentalizing, or maybe its because he's just twelve. He should think of himself as immortal, and nothing is crueler than the fact that he doesn't. He has a will, hidden underneath his mattress because he's too young to actually request legally binding documents. And he has letters and paintings and notebooks - in the hopes that when they find them they'll remember him as a boy and not a weapon. For someone so desperately striving for the title of Robin, Damian mostly wants to be remembered as a son.

For a long time Duke didn't partake in this "family tradition". Because he saw himself as outside of them, as someone with parents, as someone with a home. But a dozen close calls, and suddenly mortality becomes something else. So he saves his will on the Batcomputer, addressed to his parents but protected by Bruce. And he writes small notes. Thoughts. Ideas. Things he thinks they will appreciate should he be gone one day. And he leaves them lying around. Maybe the mark he makes is hidden in the small things. The post-it notes and exploded overhead lights. Duke would be fine with that.

And then there is Bruce, who - in a way - cannot die. His legacy is the Cave, his brain a part of the mainframe they use to fight crime. And he knows that. He knows that no matter where he goes, he will never be really gone. So he makes sure that one day - long after he has passed - the Batcomputer destroys itself. To set them free. To leave them with the physical memorabilia of Bruce Wayne, and no longer with the desperation of the Bat. It's the biggest love letter Bruce can imagine writing - the possibility of being free.

[seafoamreadings]

week of november 10th, 2024

these are written predominantly for the *rising* signs but they are also intuitively "channeled" enough that they should work for any dominant energy you have! (try your sun if you don't know rising, or more advanced readers can try moon, anywhere you have a stellium, etc and see what works best for you!)

aries: significant nodal transits this week mean all you have to do is walk, and the path appears. the full moon this week also points to (likely positive?) developments around money and your deepest core values.

taurus: the full moon this week is the yearly full moon in your sign. it can be a highly emotional time and yet, the moon is so happy in your sign that it's hard for this to go badly for you. just make sure you're meeting all your needs as much as possible.

gemini: a full moon across your 6th/12th house axis this week pushes you to integrate the multiple parts of yourself that sometimes disagree with each other. sometimes as you go about the routines of daily life it's easy to forget that you even have some of these parts. quiet introspection, especially if you can actually have the moon in view as you do so, is likely to bring about fruitful results psychologically.

cancerians: while full moons may typically have you feeling moody and broody with lots of mood swings, this week's feature in taurus is likely fun and friendly. if you're up for socializing a bit it is a fantastic time to do so, and if not, at least send off a few texts to strengthen community bonds.

leo: if you've had any changes you'd like to make at home or to your more public-facing image, this can be a good time for it. just be cognizant of mercury and mars doing their impending retrograde things.

virgo: earth energy amplifies a bit with venus into capricorn plus a taurus full moon. this is good news for you, overall, especially if you're looking for fun or a new flirtation, or if you're trying to work out an academic plan or spiritual leveling up.

libra: while the vibes are not particularly libran, your ruling planet venus is quite busy all the same, and this is broadly beneficial to you, especially in your home life and/or if you want to reconcile with a family of origin or ancestry. meanwhile a merging of households or a sharing of resources or expansion of intimacy can also be a really good move now, being mindful of course about upcoming retrogrades and possible associated hiccups.

scorpio: creative pursuits or flirtations that seemed to fizzle out in the last few months (and similar endeavors) may pop back into existence this week. you get to choose what to actually follow through with, but if you've wanted a fun fling or artistic undertaking to come back and get a little more permanent, this is the time.

sagittarius: work you've done on your inner world, like shadow work or therapy or a dream journal, starts to pay off big time with this week's full moon, in such a way you can see benefits on the earthly plane. meanwhile a household problem may begin to resolve by the end of the week - rent issues, a roommate search, repairs, etc.

capricorn: venus moves into your sign to grace you with timeless elegance, attractiveness to money, and similar. if you're seeking a charming benefactor this may also come to you in the next few weeks.

aquarius: you can let this week's full moon act as a sort of bridge between your private and public life. of course, if you want to keep these compartmentalized you can, but if it helps you to live authentically to dissolve the boundaries or just make them a little less impermeable, this is a great time for it.

pisces: make new friends and build your close-knit community. it doesn't have to spontaneously appear over night or even in a week or a month. but it is built brick by brick. place a few tetris pieces about it this week.

watch the transit posts in real time to have the best guide through your week. want a little more? have a look at my patreon or ko-fi.

check out my etsy for a private reading or dm me to set up a reading through venmo, cashapp, or paypal.

[guardianspirits13]

So. Moon Knight has been on my mind recently, in the midst of my woeful Dead Boy Detectives hyperfixation. And of COURSE it got me thinking as things always do, and it crossed my mind how similar Charles’ and Marc’s home lives were as kids. Like one parent who actively hated them and that they could never do any good by (who beat them regularly), and the other parent simply passive, sympathetic but demure.

Hear me out- Charles and Edwin as a DID system. Two souls one body, the same as it is in Moon Knight. As ghosts they are two separate apparitions (for the most part) but they firmly believe that they lived separate lives, and it takes a psychic and a long-winded investigation to realize that perhaps the reason they are so inseparable is because they lived the same life.

Charles is the protector, at least physically, but Edwin takes on the emotional trauma and serves to compartmentalize and do homework and keep up appearances when Charles does not have the capacity to do so. But, as the bearer of emotional trauma, Edwin is also attune to their attraction to the same sex, which Charles must not know about for his own physical safety.

Charles thinks back on his life and remembers mostly his parents and his childhood. He knows he played cricket in highschool and had a couple flings with girls, but he’ll tell you it’s a miracle he didn’t flunk out given how little he remembers doing schoolwork.

Edwin vividly recalls his school life and although he was tormented by his peers, his teachers are fond of him and he’s incredibly intelligent and hard-working, even if a couple of assignments fall through the cracks. However, he couldn’t tell you what his parents looked like. He has a vague recollection of a distant, vaguely considerate relationship with them, but nothing too vivid.

Also, whenever Charles is fronting, Edwin feels trapped in a liminal space that he can’t ever seem to break free from. He has terrible nightmares of pain and torture but no idea what causes it, as he remains unaware of Charles’ physical trauma.

Just… augh. The more I write the more I realize how unexpectedly well this concept works for them. I already have three fanfics and an animatic on my plate but PLEASE if anyone wants to this concept is entirely up for grabs.

[necrotic-nephilim]

"I don't care how much you hate me - you need to eat!"

DickTim during Bruce's Lost In Time phase but with Dick stopping Tim from leaving💕

send a quote and a ship and I'll write a short fic!

fucked up DickTim during Bruce's lost in time era my beloved. this is 2k of *very* dead dove DickTim, with one-sided feelings from Dick and unreliable narrator vibes. it is a smidge OOC, just bc of how dark Dick gets, but i think i kept it best i could. enjoy <3

It wasn’t supposed to go this far.

Dick thought he was doing this to honor Bruce. The last thing Bruce would’ve wanted was to see Tim drive himself over the edge and go too far, all for a fruitless chase to bring Bruce back from the dead. And sure, maybe deep down Dick knew he reflected some of Bruce’s worst traits. The obsessive control. The worrying to the point of being overbearing.

It came with the capes and spandex territory. Especially now that Dick had decided to man up and put on that damned cowl.

But even at Bruce’s worst, Dick was pretty sure he wouldn’t dare go this far.

Dick knew it was wrong. What he didn’t know was why he couldn’t stop himself. Why the gnawing guilt was so easy to compartmentalize and why every good point Tim had got ignored by Dick’s logical side, brushed off by one simple mantra.

He was doing this for Tim’s own good.

All of this was to protect Tim from doing something he would regret.

Dick had done brain scans, had Tim magically checked up, and even managed to get him to properly talk to a psychiatrist. Everything came back normal. Tim was perfectly healthy.

So maybe this was something that had always been a part of Tim. Maybe it was a bad idea for any of them to have let Tim into the vigilante world so young.

Some people could handle it. Some people couldn’t. Dick had seen firsthand how it broke minds and ruined lives. He’d seen people turn to drugs, cults, murder, and god knew what else just to try to cope with it.

That didn’t make Tim weak. Tim Drake was the furthest thing from weak, and Dick would fight anyone on that.

This was just a hard life to cope with. Sometimes, people needed support through the worst of it.

That’s what Dick was doing.

Giving support.

“I don’t care how much you hate me- you need to eat!” Dick stepped back, dodging Tim’s attempt to kick his feet out. The bowl of salad Dick had set next to Tim was completely ignored.

Dick had learned not to give Tim hot food after Tim flung potato soup at his head the first time, chunks of potato stuck to his hair.

Tim’s scowl was lethal. Technically, he wasn’t restrained. He could move freely around the manor and do whatever he wanted.

It was the shock collar that kept him from leaving the grounds or breaking into the Batcave.

Dick had decided that would be the most humane way. The shock was only momentarily painful, it was designed to knock Tim unconscious if he tried to get somewhere he wasn’t supposed to. The collar had taken three tries before Dick found a lock Tim couldn’t pick, and a few more unfortunate incidents of Tim finding weak spots in the barrier.

But Dick always found Tim and brought him back home.

That was what was important.

The fact Tim kept trying to break out and go to god knew where on some fruitless quest to find a dead man made Dick more secure about this decision.

He was doing this to protect Tim. Once Tim worked through the worst of his grief, all this would be in the past. Something they would laugh at.

Hopefully.

It was like one of Tim’s contingency plans. Really, he of all people should understand.

But he didn’t. Which was what hurt Dick the most, the angry look in Tim’s eyes and the way his fists clenched when Dick came into Tim’s room. Tim had access to the whole manor, but he stuck mostly to his room, refusing to talk to anyone.

Especially Dick.

And now, it seemed, his latest tactic was a hunger strike.

“I’ll let you look over the burglary case we’re working on,” Dick offered. “I’ll bring you all the files and your computer if you just…” he gestured to the salad, “eat something.”

That had worked, in the beginning. Dick could coax good behavior out of Tim by offering to let Tim help with whatever case Dick was facing. It took a load off of Dick’s back and gave Tim something to focus on.

Of course, Dick couldn’t leave Tim’s computer with him. The first time Dick did that, Tim managed to break all of the firewalls and safeties put on it to start a case file about Bruce. Dick had to delete everything and only allow Tim monitored access from that point on.

After that, Tim really didn’t like Dick.

“Can’t you just go back to ignoring me?” Tim snapped. He sounded… resigned. Emotionless in a way he hadn’t been, like all the fight he’d been putting up for weeks was finally going out.

“Ignoring you?” Dick frowned. He felt like he’d been punched in the gut at the words. He kept a wide berth from Tim, wary of more punches being thrown, and decided to sit at Tim’s desk chair, a good few feet from where Tim was on his bed. “What makes you think I’m ignoring you?”

Tim scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You only talk to me to ask if I’ve dropped the Bruce thing yet, or to try to force self-care on me. The rest of the time you ignore me so you don’t have to face your own guilt.”

Dick violently shook his head. “That’s not-” he sighed, running a hand over his face- “I’m just busy, I promise. Between being Batman, managing Bruce’s estate, and trying to handle Damian, I just…” his voice trailed off. So many things to balance. He still didn’t know how Bruce managed it all. “I haven’t made enough time for you. I’m sorry.”

He decided to take on the burden of helping Tim. It was his responsibility and Tim was right, Dick was doing a piss poor job of taking care of him.

No wonder he pushed away Dick’s attempts to reconcile. It must’ve come across as half-assed, in Tim’s eyes.

Dick wished Bruce was here. He would’ve known the right way to handle this.

“Don’t start now,” Tim said icily. He picked up a book from his nightstand and opened it, pointedly not looking at Dick anymore. “Just leave me alone.”

“Will you eat first?” Dick asked. “If you just eat, I’ll go. I promise.”

With a loud sigh, Tim snapped his book shut. He picked up the salad Dick brought and shoveled down mouthfuls, all while glaring at Dick. Once the bowl was empty he set it back down and spread his hands, waiting.

Dick didn’t leave.

He wasn’t going to abandon Tim.

Dick stood up and Tim relaxed for just a moment before he realized Dick was walking toward Tim’s bed instead of the door. Slowly, like he was approaching a wild animal, Dick crept forward. He chose to sit on the foot of the bed, still far enough away from Tim to give him personal space.

“Tim-”

“Out. Now. You promised.”

Dick ran his fingers through his hair. “I know, but-”

“What do you want from me?” Tim almost yelled the words. “Do you want me to just say I don’t believe Bruce is alive? Will you finally leave me alone, then?”

“Can you say it under a truth serum?”

Tim went quiet, grinding his jaw.

“I want you to get better,” Dick sighed.

“What happens when I get better, then?” Tim challenged. He moved to sit cross-legged on the bed. So close to Dick that Dick could reach out and touch him, but emotionally, they were miles apart and it hurt Dick’s chest. “You ‘fix me’-” he put finger quotes around the words- “to your liking, then set me free?”

“Don’t talk about yourself like you’re an animal.” Dick frowned, fist clenching at the idea Tim thought of himself that way.

Tim just stared at him. “Then don’t treat me like one.” He raised a hand and tapped the collar.

It looked like it had new scratch marks on it.

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Dick said. He tried to find the words. It was so hard to explain it when Tim wasn’t listening to him. He wasn’t even given a chance. Dick tried to reach out. For once, Tim didn’t pull away. He was completely rigid under Dick’s touch, though. His hand rested on Tim’s arm, thumb stroking back and forth. “You know I’m doing this because… because I’m worried about you. And I care, Tim.”

“No you don’t,” Tim leaned away from Dick, but didn’t pull his arm free. “Whatever version of me exists in your head-”

“Tim-”

“-isn’t real,” Tim ignored him and kept going. “You won’t even listen to my theory-”

“Tim!” Dick tightened his grip, ignoring the small wince of pain that came out of Tim. “I’m not entertaining that kind of talk.” He tried to be firm but loving with his tone. But even Dick could hear the anger and frustration that was bleeding off of him. “This is practically self harm.”

“I know I’m right,” Tim mumbled. He wouldn’t look at Dick. “Will you just leave, now?”

Against his better judgment, Dick stood up. He had to patrol soon. “I’m sorry. We’ll talk after-”

“I’m going to sleep,” Tim snapped. “No, we won’t.”

Dick tried to throw his hands up in frustration, but he was still holding onto Tim’s arm.

He didn’t want to let go.

He knew Tim was waiting for him to let go, but Dick couldn’t force his fingers to release. He just stared for a moment, breathing hard.

Dick was doing this out of love.

And now, he loved Tim too much to want to let go of him.

Did he have to patrol tonight? He was pretty sure the Birds of Prey were in Gotham.

“Dick,” Tim said carefully, starting to scoot away from him. The apprehension in his voice was unsteady, eyes narrowed. He was always too on edge. “I’m tired. Just go on patrol.”

Instead of letting go, Dick lifted his other hand and held Tim’s face. Tim flinched but stopped inching away. He was completely still, barely even breathing.

He looked afraid of Dick.

Dick’s chest clenched. He wished he could get Tim to understand. Dick leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Tim’s forehead.

He wanted to kiss somewhere else, somewhere a few inches lower and just as unobtainable. That was a feeling Dick buried deep, deep inside of him.

It wasn’t why he was doing this.

A hand pressed against Dick’s chest. Trying to push Dick away, but for just a moment, the pressure and warmth almost made Dick shudder. Tim hadn’t properly trained in a while.

He wasn’t actually strong enough to push Dick off of him. If Dick wanted to, Tim couldn’t have stopped him.

But their relationship was already fractured. It would take a long time of repairing and letting Tim heal before Dick could even try pursuing those feelings.

Tim had once had a childhood crush on Dick, though. So he was pretty sure they could work their way up to it, be something more.

Dick pulled away. He let go of Tim’s arm and allowed himself one stroke of Tim’s hair. It was getting a little long, brushing against Tim’s shoulders.

The entire time, Tim remained perfectly still. But his eyes got wider and wider, the way they always did when he had just figured out a case.

Dick was getting too close. He needed to pull back.

“You still have the spare comm link?” Dick asked.

Tim didn’t answer. He just kept staring with those wide, searching eyes. He looked a little pale. Dick should get him some iron supplements, Tim becoming anemic is the last thing Dick wanted.

“Use it if you need me for anything,” Dick continued. He gave Tim what he hoped was a calming smile. “Get some sleep, Tim. I love you.”

He turned and walked out of Tim’s room. Slowed to crawl at a snail’s pace, hoping for an answer from Tim. He would take any kind of answer.

But Tim kept silent, even as Dick took his time intentionally, slowly closing the door. Dick just sighed, turning down the hall to head down to the Batcave.

Someday, he’d get through to Tim. Dick would find a way.

Someday soon.

[mychoombatheroomba]

Between the Bones Chapter List

Act 1

Chapter 1: Too Slow Chapter 2: Proper Introductions Chapter 3: Your Move Chapter 4: Bruises are the Best Teachers Chapter 5: Up Close and Personal Chapter 6: Back to Back . . . Chapter 7: . . . Against the World Chapter 8: Say You'll Be There Chapter 9: Danger Close Chapter 10: Firing Range Chapter 11: Proximity Alert Chapter 12: Let You Down Chapter 13: Better This Way Chapter 14: Afterburn Chapter 15: Thank God, You're Finally Home Chapter 16: Quiet Moments Chapter 17: A Losing Game Chapter 18: Razor's Edge Chapter 19: Moment's Silence (NSFW)

Act 2

Chapter 20: Choices and Consequences Chapter 21: Interrogation Chapter 22: Voices Carry Chapter 23: Compartmentalization Chapter 24: Dehumanizing Chapter 25: Only You (NSFW) Chapter 26: Idle Fantasies Chapter 27: Show Them What You Can Do Chapter 28: Bloody Lessons Chapter 29: Pack Mentality Chapter 30: Old Hurts Healing Chapter 31: Hell of a Vacation Chapter 32: Don't Breathe . . . Chapter 33: . . . Don't Break Chapter 34: Two Steps Back

Act 3

Chapter 35: Weakest Links Chapter 36: Don't Let Go Chapter 37: Hard Truths Chapter 38: Covert Operations Chapter 39: Black-Out Names Chapter 40: Letters From Home Chapter 41: For the Fallen Chapter 42: A Little Sorrowed Talk Chapter 43: Still I Can't Escape the Ghost of You Chapter 44: I'll Be Missing You Chapter 45: Secrets and Steel Chapter 46: Lessons Final and Familiar Chapter 47: To Be Alone With You (NSFW) Chapter 48: Not A Word Chapter 49: The Crucible (Part 1) Chapter 50: The Crucible (Part 2) Chapter 51: Race Against Time Chapter 52: All That Remains Chapter 53: Fade Out Chapter 54: The Enemy of My Enemy Chapter 55: An Eye for An Eye

More chapters to come!

Incorrect Quotes (for the memes) 1 2 3 4 5 6

And if you want to read the Krauser spin-off series:

Disavowed Chapter List

[rachalixie]

when he’s in a bad mood all he needs is you.

a/n: this was inspired by my minho post bc i’m a self indulgent mess

coming home to seungmin crying quietly on your couch was a surprise. he’s curled up tight, trying to take up the least amount of space as possible and stifling his huffs of breath into his fist to stay silent and your heart breaks for him.

he’s always been the strongest in your person you know. he’s the most level-headed, the first one to solve problems and act diplomatically and always able to compartmentalize his own emotions. the first to offer silent comfort and stability to those around him. he rarely ever let anyone see him shed a single tear, let alone several, and you’re almost at a loss of what to do before you shake yourself out of it. seungmin needs you.

you toe your shoes off as silently as possible before padding over to where he’s curled up. your hand drifts to his back, rubbing a few slow circles there before you climb behind him and wrap yourself around his body. you know him well enough by now that giving him a grounding touch is what he needs, even if he has a hard time asking for it. you used to hesitate, hands hovering over him like you didn’t know if they were welcome. now, your arms curl around his stomach with confidence. your heart lurches every time you feel his muscles contract with the cries he’s poorly holding back. his hands move to clutch at yours, his nails digging into your skin a bit, but you don’t mind. you would rather he let it out if that helps him, and it doesn’t hurt as much as it stings. his breath is coming out in uneven bursts, and he barely gets more in before it’s rushing out in a choked huff.

“breathe, sweetheart,” you say, keeping your voice honeyed and soft, your mouth close to his ear.

“can’t-” he starts, gulping down air like it’s water. “don’t know what to do.”

“let it out. don’t hold it in,” you soothe, squeezing his hands back. he turns a bit in your hold, keeping both of your hands gripped in his, and presses his face into your chest. you keep your breaths slow and steady, coaxing him to time his breaths to yours.

it takes a few minutes but he calms down, his grip on your hands loosening as his body relaxes against you. he’s slumped into you now, boneless and tired.

“i’m sorry,” he croaks, keeping his face buried to hide his tear streaked cheeks.

“you have nothing to be sorry for.” you say, your emotions bubbling up inside of you. “this is what i am here for. for the happy and the sad moments, okay? you’re not a burden, not to me.”

he hums into your shirt, letting go of your hands to wrap his arms around you.

“do you want to talk about it?” you ask, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“no,” his muffled voice sounds from beneath you. “just, hold me for a bit?”

“always.”

—

soft hours

[peachesofteal]

ok i have a question- for the dead disco fics, if there was a situation where ghost had to choose between reader and soap, who would he choose? idk why im thinking abt this LOL

Hey babe, what is wrong with you? (I love this so much it scratches my angst brain just right) Why do you want to feel this pain? (I too, want to feel this pain...let’s indulge)

Ghost x Soap x female reader Dead Disco - verse AU - not canon to the actual story. Warnings-tags: Angst. Inferred character death. Darling's usual (eating issues, depression, anxiety, despair, self destructive behaviors)

The bed is too big, as it always has been. As it always was before, and during. And as it always will be for now on, too. Your legs spread across it, kicking and swishing across pristine sheets like you're swimming in them, like you're drowning. Drowning, is more apt. Drowning is more akin to these feelings that swimming, certainly. Drowning is how you feel right now, smothered in your loss, lungs full of water, burning from the salt of your own tears. You're at the bottom of the ocean, lost beneath where the sunlight doesn't reach, far beyond the swell of the waves. Drowning is what it feels like, when your heart clenches in your chest and your stomach heaves it's bile free. Drowning is how you would describe this black, bottomless hole that's developed soul, the one that pulls you deeper and deeper with every breath. Drowning. You've drowned. And no one was there to pull you to shore. To safety. No one was there to save you.

"I'm home!" Your bag falls to the floor with a thud as you toss your keys on the island, loosening your jacket and heading towards the dining area of the flat. "Holy shit, wait until I tell you about my day. My boss was on one today, she was being a crazy a-" the words die on your tongue when you finally look up and see the expression on Johnny's face. At first glance, one might call it grim, but for those who know him, who know to look closer, you see the red ting to his eye lids, the rub of drier skin around his nose. He's been crying. "What's going on?" you ask, looking from him to where Simon sits, stone faced. Immobile. Neither of them answer you at first. "Hello?" The knot that's been loosely tied in your stomach tightens. Simon nods at the free chair next to him. "Sit, darling."

There are two boxes, in your bathroom. They sit, full of things, clothing, items, trinkets, pieces of memories, pieces of love. They idle next to your bathtub, waiting, watching you, every time you drag yourself towards the toilet to vomit, or whenever you muster up the strength to look at your toothbrush. The boxes have sharpie scrawled across them, big loopy letters that almost look like mouths, almost look like they could grow teeth and talk to you, or eat you alive with what's inside of them. You supposed, they could. If you were to open them, and actually look at the things inside, they would consume you. Chew you up. Spit you out.

"I- I don't understand." You take a half step towards Johnny, who visibly flinches, face torn fractured with despair, while Simon's lips press into a hard line before he speaks. "We will make sure you're taken care of, we-" His voice is cold. So, so cold it scratches at your heart, pin pricks of icicles working their way beneath your ribs. "Stop." you shake your head, willing yourself to focus. What is he saying? What does he mean? "Simon, what... wh-what does that mean?" "Darling we're so, so sorry." Johnny's voice, is the opposite of cold. It's molten. Hot, and burning red with orange, thick with something you think is sadness. "You are sorry." You repeat it, numbly. You're not crying, which is a surprise to yourself and probably the two of them too. Your brain is really working now, hard. It's compartmentalizing and organizing and shoving little things away, burying others beneath mountains of sand and locking memories into boxes that you'll never be able to open. "You can't. You can't just leave me... you... you promised." Simon stands completely still, while Johnny shifts his weight nervously, fingers tangling with one another as he watches you like a hawk. Like a solider. "This will be better... for everyone." He tries to soothe you, tries to calm you, even from where he lurks, five feet away. Simon offers you nothing. "I don't understand, everything was fine. I thought... we were okay." Simon finally moves, shaking his head with a no while you watch, mouth ajar.

The boxes have been ripped into tatters now. They lay in shreds across the things in the bathtub, covering two t shirts of Johnny's, a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie of Simon's. Your silk bathrobe, and giant fleece blanket from the couch. There's also a book, a collection of photographs, a few pieces of jewelry. Worn index cards with recipes on them, Johnny's mum's, and a comic book, that Simon used to keep in his drawer of the bedside table. The final touch is the secret pack of cigarettes, the ones Simon used to keep in the closet, sans the one in your mouth. You inhale it slowly, breathing in the tobacco and the nicotine and the fumes of the lighter fluid, the entire contained dumped onto of the collection of things in the tub, waiting for your final flick. When it comes, you stay perched on the edge on the bath, barely interested, unmoving, as the fire rages. As it consumes.

"You fucking promised!" You scream. You scream it over and over until your throat is hoarse and Johnny looks panicked. Simon grips him roughly, sliding him half behind his body, as if to protect him from you. As if he thinks you'd hurt him. They both watch you with stricken faces, hunters tracking a wounded animal, and your breaths come in short bursts as tears track down your face. "You said you love me." It's barely a whisper, mournful and slow, and they both hear it. "We do." Johnny croaks. "We did." Simon counters, and you flinch. "But this is what's best, for all of us. It was always going to be him, darling. You've known this." It was always going to be him. It was always... going to be Johnny and Simon, over you. It was always going to be them, and not you. The truth stings, burns, bites. It twists it's wicked claws around your heart and tugs and tears until there's nothing left. You've known this. You idiot. How could you possibly believe, in the end, you'd still be in this equation? You'd still be a part of this? How could you possibly believe, that after everything, they'd still love you? Still want you? Simon's mouth moves, but you hear no sound. You hear nothing, as you turn on your heel and barricade yourself in the bedroom. You hear nothing, as they knock, and knock, you hear nothing, until the wood stops vibrating, and the front door open and closes with a final thud. It was always going to be them. You've known this.

"Bloody hell." Gaz whistles, eyes locked on the screen. Johnny wipes a towel across the back of his neck, mopping up the sheen of sweat that lingers there while Simon saunters through the rec room doors. "Christ. Didn't ya two live near there?" "Live where?" Johnny frowns, looking up. There's a heli eye view of a burning building on the news, it's entire structure engulfed in flames, firemen barely making a dent. The camera switches to a ground reporter, a pretty woman with a serious face, who's explaining that arson investigators believe the fire started on the ninth floor, where there's still a single person trapped, unable to be rescued so far by exhaustive efforts. Something glitches in Johnny's brain, something short circuiting while he blinks, and breathes, and blinks, trying to wrap his mind around what he's seeing. The ninth floor. Someone trapped. Didn't ya two live near there? The ninth- It's almost unrecognizable, but he knows. Of course he knows. The ninth floor, the ninth floor- His heart stops in his chest, and he turns frantically to Simon, who stands like a statue in the doorway, eyes wide and frozen. "No. Nonononono-" Johnny whispers. He stumbles, away from Simon, away from Gaz, eyes not leaving the television while he drops to his knees. "She- Simon." Simon doesn't answer, just stands, broken. Empty. Like a ghost. He has no words. He has nothing. And neither does Johnny.