i-loved-silly

[i-loved-silly]

OMG YAS FREAKY ALMOND :0

Heyyy so for the freaks out there 🤗🤗 coming soon

[i-loved-silly]

ok I’m coming back to writing for almond aka my silly little computer x reader. Sorry the mini game isn’t out yet I lost my code 🥀🥀

[i-loved-silly]

MORE MR TERRIFIC HEADCANONS OR DRABBLE ABOUT CRUSHING ON EACH OTHER AND CONFESSING FEELINGS PLEASEEEEE, I NEED MORE CONTENT ON HIM

I didnt want to give the reader any definite powers in case yall wanted to self insert, but they will have above average strength for the plot :3 - also this is my first time writing for him, I took SOO long on this bc I struggle with his character

MR TERRIFIC X READER

875 words

A Friday night of enchiladas and shitty TV shows was interrupted by an alert of unknown energy fluctuations within the city. You and the justice gang would surely take care of it, Guy insisted it was for everyone's hero reputation.’

The big, ugly and leathery creature was causing enough property damage to hire at least six whole construction companies. Citizens were running around in the dark, screaming and stumbling. It was your job to make sure those people made it home tonight. That is, if their building wasn't completely left in rubble. 

“Can you cover me, Guy? This thing is--fuck! Trying to kill me!” You groaned as you held up a piece of road asphalt as a shield in front of you for the third time in the last ten minutes. The creature threw another taxi in your direction, and you winced as glass exploded all around you. A bright red screen enveloped your eyes as you let go of the crumbling piece, you finally let out a sigh of relief. 

“Thanks, Michael.” You didn’t have to look up to know it was his signature color. You heard a scoff to your left. 

“Oh come on, I was getting there! You’ always here to steal my spotlight, huh?” 

A green wrecking ball crashed into the creature's side, effectively ripping their focus onto Guy now.

“Clearly not quick enough, I almost got fucking crushed.” You muttered, stepping out of the red bubble and dusting off your suit. To your right, Michael deactivated the shield with a single hand motion. 

“You good?” He asked, his eyes briefly scanning over your face. You felt a burning sensation on the side of your jaw and cheek, a scratch mark from whatever rubble had hit you during the fight. You wiped at it with the back of your hand, and he said nothing.

“Yeah, thanks.” You flashed a smile, ignoring the ache in your joints as you straightened up. Another piece of rubble flew behind you, but that wasn't your concern at the moment. 

“You always know when to show up, huh?” 

“I was here the whole time…”

You blink, pursing your lips. 

“Oh I uh, yeah of course. I just meant,” You ran out of words to say, gesturing to him and then to yourself with your fingers--back and forth. His eyes flicked past you; which you took as disinterest. 

“You know, for saving my life and shi--”

“Duck!” 

You stood there staring at him for half a second before the world spun around you. His hands gripped the sides of your arms as he pushed you away. You both hit the ground hard--or rather he did. He sheltered your head with his forearm as you hit, gravel digging into your palms. You opened your eyes quick enough to see a flash of grey swing right past where your head would have been. 

You breathed out, furrowing your brows as you glanced to your side. Michael’s face a mere couple of inches away from yours. His jaw clenched before he quickly rose to his feet, offering you a hand up. “Come on. You alright?”

He pulled you up easily, your legs either weak from the short fall or whatever moment you just had with him. You swallowed, quickly taking his hand and letting him pull you up. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks again.” 

“You have to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

He looked at you with a completely serious expression. “Putting yourself in danger so I could save you. I’m not oblivous.” Deadpan, and yet his mouth slightly quirked up in an almost-smile. 

You nervously laughed. ”What’s the harm in it? I thought I was being pretty lowkey about it.” 

He shook his head, “No, no you weren’t.” 

“Can you two give us a damn hand over here?!”

Guy yelled from your left, you completely forgot you were in the middle of a battle. The creature was already laying on the ground, struggling against the green ropes holding it together. You gave him a shrug. 

“I think you got it under control.”

Kendra too was standing on the side, catching her breath. She narrowed her eyes at you. “We do, actually. You’re welcome.” You knew she didnt mean that scoff, so you smiled. 

Turning back to Michael, you noticed his amused expression. “How about you let me save you next, alright? That makes this equal.” 

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head at you. “I don’t need any saving. Besides..I wasnt complaining, was I?” 

Well, you couldn't argue with that. You lightly groaned, going to stand right in front of him. “Come on, give me a chance, Michael. You’re always doing the cool shit, at least pretend for me.” 

Michael looked to his side, seeing the pissed off expression of Guy. He was complaining to no one in particular about the two of you flirting instead of doing your job. Oh how the Justice Gang has some to this! He almost laughed to himself. He took a few steps past you to meet up with the others, but paused right as the shoulder of his jacket brushed against your own. 

“If it's for you, I might.” 

You grinned as Guy groaned in the distance. That was good enough for you. 

[i-loved-silly]

just a joke!

[i-loved-silly]

"Clever little bugs." Yall have GOT to listen to me....... please............. hear me out..........

[i-loved-silly]

I desperately need Galactus x Reader content...

[i-loved-silly]

Hey so uhh heyyy galactus 😄😄

[i-loved-silly]

us against the world, just me 'n you !

「 tws + notes: unedited, probably ooc, cw: toxic relationship with lex (because... it's lex), yes that's a lana ref in the title im sorry y'all, is this giving 2012 mcu fandom? 」

「 gn!reader, can be platonic or romantic <3 」

↳ ft. my sweethearts + one stinky poopy head

aka: clark kent, guy gardner, lex luthor (stinky poopy head in question), lois lane, michael holt

author's note: superman (2025) movie was fire. here's some hcs that i brewed up,, jus u being close with these characters, friendship or otherwise. had to get a little evil abt lex. becuz. >:] some are shorter than the others! this is because. um mmm ummhh uhhh..... :'> i tried and i failed. specifically kendra which SUCKZZ but MY BRAIN JUICE!! HELP!!!!! anyways this post is split for your convenience becuz otherwise it's too GatDamnb long </3 see part two for more characters!!

CLARK KENT

▸ please tolerate his awful music taste. he wants to make playlists for you :[ !! and really, it's not that bad but like. dude c'mon stop trying to sneak the mighty crabjoys in.

he always makes the title of the playlist a random inside joke the two of you have and makes sure to add you as a collaborator. plays it on shuffle whenever you're hanging out

▸ his parents love you. you aren't leaving that place until the kents make sure you are well fed and taken care of.

you absolutely WILL have the best apple crumble you've ever had after being invited to dinner, and yes, ma kent will insist you have second plate.

clark will always be there to politely decline for you (or eat it) if you don't want.

they adore you! always asking clark when his "polite little friend" can come over again.

▸ gently harassing clark is good for enrichment. yours or his? who cares! there's something about you that makes him wanna be playful too. his form of being silly includes taking sips of your drinks when you aren't looking though. guard your snacks too.

of course, you have your own ways to messing with him. hiding his stuff, flooding his camera roll with selfies of you (and less than flattering photos of him with the 0.5 zoom), etc...

he does seem to panic extra when you try to remove his glasses. so maybe not that. huh. odd.

GUY GARDNER

▸ going yap4yap with this man. explain whatever is going on in your head, your latest obsession, your new interest or hobby, a rabbit hole you fell down while sleep deprived, and he'l listen.

depending on what you're talking about, he may or may not get why you like it, but at least he tries.

expect lots of lore dumps about general glory comics though.

"an' they retconned this backstory for ernie the battling boy. for this shit! trash, i'm telling you, the modern interpretation is trash—"

he's got big feelings about comics okay.

hey is this metacommentary? in MY headcanons about guy gardner specifically? idk what ur talking abt lol...

▸ using his oath as an excuse to do things he doesn't wanna do is funny.

using his oath as an excuse to force you to accept his help? even funnier. he likes being a hero. and being your hero specifically? that's the best feeling in the world for him.

"guy!" you yelp, as he unceremoniously hoists you up by your thighs. you had been trying to reach something just out of grasp, but the minute guy saw you struggling, he knew he had to do something. and that something was obviously lifting you without warning. "forget grabbin' the stepstool, sweetstuff. you got a big, strong hero at your service."

▸ massive sweet tooth. always down for getting a sweet treat with you. he'll suggest it and make it seem like your idea, just so he can say,

"...you're paying right?"

LEX LUTHOR

▸ will leave you on read for literal weeks and months. somehow doesn't see it as hypocritical when he gets catty about your response times, even if it was only a few hours.

he's always saying shit like:

"i'm a busy man. i thought you'd understand that."

but when it's you replying late?

"i expect you to at least answer when i message. it's the least you could do to show me you value this relationship."

DIVA STFUUUU

▸ this man does NOT apologize. it's not his style.

lex belittles or buys his way out of things. he either makes you think you were in the wrong or just buys you something nice and expensive to quell your anger.

has 100% e-transferred you 2k just so you would stop being mad at him.

▸ that being said though, this man does have taste. lex insists that since you're seen with him so often, you gotta look nice. he takes care of your wardrobe. and it gets you crazy amounts compliments.

he's very good at picking things you'd look good in which suit your personal style. he might be neglectful, manipulative, and downright cruel to you sometimes... but damn, lex is attentive.

he stands at your side, a hand on your hip. someone has complimented you again, as the both of you have become accustomed to at this point. lex clears his throat, smiling at you as if telling you, "that's your cue." "...thanks," you reply to the person, "lex got it for me."

LOIS LANE

▸ inside joke: asking her "is this off the record?" when you're gossiping.

to which she'll reply, "only if you say it beforehand. which you didn't. this exposé is going to be scathing."

▸ always sending you random voice messages. it'll be three am in the morning and she'll go,

"how many p's in therapist again?"

could she just search it up? yeah. but she wants an excuse to talk to you.

but dyslexic lois hc my beloved. i struggle with numbers so i'd totally end up screenshotting stuff with big numbers like "say this out loud for me please? :("

▸ imagine sharing old photos with her ohh mygoshhh,,,,

lois has shown you pictures of herself she thought she would take to her GRAVE. mostly from middle school and high school. in the spirit of being fair, you've also shown her yourself at your most awkward stages.

"...actually, you know what?" she holds up the pictures of your younger selves beside each other. lois' squints at them thoughtfully. "what?" "i think we would've gotten along."

MICHAEL HOLT

▸ the better playlist maker (sorry clark)

he enjoys the technical aspect of the stuff that he listens to and favours pieces that are the most complex musically.

given that he has an ear for these things, he's good at identifying the patterns in the music that you tend to gravitate to.

burns the playlist on a CD. it contains some are your favourites that you never tire of, some reccomendations from him, and it's ALWAYS absolute bangers.

▸ is it a headcanon if it's technically canon?

the best person to have around during sick days. always there to assure you that, no, you're not dying from the minor cold.

take the medicine, rest, and don't fight him on this. michael has 14 phds for a reason.

he will cave if you're asking for him to cuddle. of course, he's aware of the transmission risks, but something about you being all sniffly does something to him.

lets you rest your head against his chest while you nap :]

▸ locked in 24/7. superhero stuff, being THE mr. terrific... it makes for some really odd hangout times.

that being said, he will always try to make time for you. ass crack of dawn or middle of the night, i fear. very apologetic about ruining your sleep schedule, but always happy to spend time with you.

he's more relaxed in these moments, you notice. open to being soft with you. rests his head on your shoulder. rubs the back of your hand with his thumb when your fingers are intertwined. plants kisses to your temple ocassionally. it's his favourite place to kiss :(

— reblogs always appreciated!

[i-loved-silly]

All in the Code

Mr. Terrific x fem!billionaire/businesswoman!reader

Despite your best efforts to manage how people see you, Mr. Terrific knows who you are and what you're capable of. Almost like he can read your coding.

2.8k+ words, banter, fluff, nerdy stuff, brief feelings of inadequacy, ✨feelings✨

Masterlist | DC Masterlist | Request Info

“What about Mr. Wayne?” your assistant asks.

“What about him?” you ask, not looking away from your laptop. There’s a bug in the code, but you can’t seem to find it.

“To join your collaboration effort,” she reminds you.

“Oh,” you hum, pressing the Run Scan option on your screen. “Yeah, add him to the list, please.”

“That makes ten,” she says, using her stylus on her tablet to add Bruce Wayne to the list. “The goal was twelve, but if you’re busy, I can-“

“What about Oliver Queen?” you suggest, pushing away from your desk as the analysis tool runs.

“I’ll reach out. Thinking closer to home, however, we could contact a representative of LuthorCorp.”

“Absolutely not,” you say. “I’ll match the donations of everyone else combined before I go to Luthor.”

Your assistant smiles, shaking her head as she scribbles another note. She knows that you don’t like Lex; not because he’s considered competition for your multi-billion tech company or for buying the land parcel you wanted south of Metropolis, but because he’s a scumbag.

The landline on your desk rings, so you wave as your assistant leaves, then raise the receiver to your ear, tucking it against your shoulder.

“Max Lord is on line two,” someone informs you. “He insisted on speaking directly to you.”

“I’ll pick it up,” you assure them. “Thank you.” After changing the line, you greet Max Lord and look at the completed scan on your laptop.

“Morning,” Max says. “I just got the invite for the gala; they asked me to bring the Justice Gang. I’m wondering if all of Metropolis’s business leaders are being asked to provide entertainment and donation grabbers.”

You smile at Max’s bluntness, then reach across your desk to find the envelope containing your invitation.

“One second,” you request softly. “I got the invitation but haven’t actually looked at it. I was planning to have my assistant call and give an acceptable excuse.”

“Another hair appointment that’d leave you double booked?” he inquires with a chuckle.

The excuse worked, you think. “I was thinking more along the lines of a talk show in Coast City, something that got me out of Metropolis.”

“Oh, to be a pretty woman who can get away with anything,” Max muses.

You rip the envelope open, your recently painted nails reflecting the light above your head. After scanning the paper, your brows draw together. “They want me to bring – and I quote – 'a well-spoken employee to represent the company.'”

Max whistles lowly. “Wonder what Luthor’s says.”

“'Wear a hairpiece?'” you joke. “Are you going?”

“I have to. Green Lantern might agree, but the other members of the Justice Gang would rather be shot execution-style.”

“Can’t say I disagree,” you reply. “Though the blood might ruin my shoes, and I think I’d like to be buried in them.”

“Your cross to bear. Maybe Mr. Terrific will let me in on whatever excuse he offers.”

“Good luck, Max,” you offer before replacing the phone on the receiver.

The hosts of Metropolis’s annual Business Leaders gala clearly have no awareness of the definition of tact. Every year, the event becomes a little more demeaning, driven solely by the goal to raise money for the ‘development of Metropolis’ – whatever that means. You get treated differently from your counterparts in business, mostly due to the fact that you play dumb every chance you get. As far as the people in your city are concerned, you seem to care more about your appearance than the success of your empire, and you aren’t worth contacting with questions or concerns. The last time you did an interview with the Daily Planet, Lois Lane called you out for being removed from the processes and technical procedures you were credited with inventing. Now, you’re seen as the owner and CEO of a company that you don’t know anything about. It’s perfect.

While scrolling through the code again, you select the input type line. Your eyes wander up a few lines, spot the error, and replace the input type data with a corrected phrase. When you run the code again, it gives you exactly what you need. Smiling, you lean forward and use your thumbprint to open the bottom drawer of your desk.

“Where is it?” you murmur to yourself, moving an empty box aside.

Sighing, you close and lock the drawer again, then unlock your cell phone. Within a minute, you’ve placed an order for a box of circuit boards to be delivered to your office by the end of the day.

Outside the window, the sky flashes green courtesy of a Lantern. The Justice Gang is at it again. Maybe you should get in on Mr. Terrific’s plan to skip the gala. It would give Metropolis something to talk about besides your apparent inability to manage a company you don’t even understand.

“You’re back.”

“The window is not open for you,” you say around the PCB cutter held between your teeth.

“What’s today’s project?”

You connect a wire, then place the PCB cutter on your desk. Turning, you stretch your arms over your head and smile.

“What does it look like?” you challenge.

Mr. Terrific sighs, pulling up a chair. He leans in front of you, squinting as he reads the lines of code on your computer screen. Then, he shifts the circuit board resting beside your trackpad so he can see it.

“Line fifteen is wrong,” he decides.

“Line fifteen is improved,” you argue. “The remote trigger that you used to free the people in the burning apartments in Bakerline a few months ago? It was directly tied to the directional processing capabilities.”

Michael fixes an unimpressed stare on you, his nanotech mask still in place despite the fact that his jacket is discarded on the back of his chair. “The directionality is fine.”

Lifting your brows, you raise your voice an octave to ask, “So, you haven’t lost any T-spheres recently?”

“One was damaged,” he explains flatly. “It wasn’t worth recovering.”

You nod, pursing your lips. Then, you pull his T-sphere out from under your desk.

“You can’t-“ Mr. Terrific pauses to take a deep breath. “You can’t just take tech like this.”

“But you can leave it on a sidewalk in Metropolis?” you counter. “Besides, it’s not like I could do anything dangerous with it.”

“What do you call this?” he asks, pointing to your computer.

“You have no proof I did this.” You smile brightly when he sighs.

“That doesn’t work with me.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Can you stop?” Mr. Terrific requests. “You might be able to fool Luthor, the people at the Daily Planet, even Max, but you can’t fool me.”

“And why do you think that is?” you wonder, crossing your arms. “Because you’re smarter than them?”

Mr. Terrific shakes his head, his cheek hollowing where his tongue presses against it. “I’m not doing this with you,” he decides. “What else did you change in the code?”

“This one won’t explode,” you offer, shrugging.

“What if I need it to?”

“Then you can work in an override. We both know you can. It’s- it’s running pretty basic coding."

"You reworked a T-sphere-“

“Improved,” you remind him.

“You don’t make any sense!” Mr. Terrific exclaims. “How can you sit here and tell me you improved my tech while acting like you’re not smart enough to do it?”

When your arms fall to your lap, you lick your lips and pull your chair back to your desk.

“Forget it,” you murmur. “Just take your T-sphere. You can fix it.”

“I…”

You want him to keep talking, need him to say something. But, while your eyes are on the computer, Mr. Terrific watches you silently.

“Whatever,” he sighs as he stands. “Are you going to the gala?”

After you shake your head, Mr. Terrific steps through your open window.

“Have a good night,” he says.

“You too,” you whisper.

And then he’s gone. Unplugging the circuit board, you watch the code run in a loop, wondering if there’s a place between being not enough and being too much.

The overpriced latte sitting on your table is too sweet. The notebook covered in flower stickers with the Superman logo doodled in the top corner is blocking the view of the equation you’ve been working on for nearly half an hour. Altogether, you should look busy, content, and unwelcome to disturbances.

Yet, someone pulls out the chair on the other side of the table and sits in it. They set a cup of blonde coffee beside your latte and wait.

“May I help you?” you question, erasing an exponent to correct the multiplication.

“Depends,” Lois Lane answers. “Any comment on your company’s recent acquisition of-“

“No,” you interrupt. “If that’s all-“

“What about your relationship with Mr. Terrific?” she presses.

With furrowed brows, you drop your pencil and meet her eyes. “My what with who?”

“Yeah. He mentioned that you’d been invaluable to recent development of the Justice Gang. There’s a lot of speculation right now about what that could mean.”

Your jaw clenches. Next time you see Michael Holt, you might bruise his face so he doesn’t have to wear the mask for a week. He had no right to bring you into anything, especially after last night’s conversation. Which leads you to wonder…

“When did he say this?”

“Three days ago,” Lois offers before taking a drink.

Before he knew that I tried to help with the T-spheres. “I collaborated with Mr. Lord to supply a few technical components,” you lie.

“Interesting,” Lois hums. “Because I contacted Mr. Lord, and he said he wasn’t aware of any professional collaboration.”

“Hence, the rumor mill,” you deduce.

“You might be able to keep this act up, but sooner or later, someone else is going to notice that you are not what you seem.”

“What do you mean by that, Ms. Lane?”

She smiles, wrapping her hands around her cup. “I’m sure someone of your mental acumen can figure it out.”

“Off the record?” you ask.

“Sure.”

“I sourced a prototype that I thought Mr. Terrific might find useful. I gave it to him. That’s the end of our collaboration.”

“Which I’m sure is valuable to him, but that’s not matching up for me.”

“I can’t help you connect dots,” you say, smiling.

“But you know I will.” Lois stands, slides her card across the table, and smiles. “Perhaps I’ll see you at the business gala.”

“Perhaps.”

You watch Lois leave, tracking her outside the window until she disappears around the corner. Then, you drag your pencil across the page of unsolved equations and slam your notebook closed. You have a call to make.

“What were you thinking?!” Mr. Terrific demands, landing on the roof behind you.

“We need to talk,” you answer, turning away from the ledge.

“No, you don’t get to send out an SOS and then decide what we do. I thought you were in danger.”

“My reputation is,” you argue. “Because you pulled me into something despite knowing that I do everything in my power to stay out of the public view!”

“I said you helped, not that you were solving coding issues I couldn’t detect.”

“And now Lois Lane is convinced that I’m hiding something and am capable of doing far more than I am!”

“Because you can!” Mr. Terrific yells, spreading his arms. “You are incredible but you’re so busy trying to keep everyone from realizing it that you’re forgetting it yourself!”

“Coding a T-sphere doesn’t make me incredible,” you seethe.

“No, but that combined with everything else does. You think I don’t know how much you’ve done? How you built your company from the ground up and are the developer of every piece of tech you put on the market? Hiding behind a pretty smile and fancy outfits doesn’t change who you are or what you can do.”

“Maybe not, but it’s easier this way and you know that.”

Your chest heaves, Mr. Terrific’s heavy breaths matching yours.

“I like it this way,” you admit. “I can’t let anyone down if they don’t expect anything. And I don’t have to deal with the misogyny or the whispers.”

“I understand that,” he offers. “And I’m sorry for saying something that brought unwanted attention. I meant it, though, and I won’t lie about that.”

You nod, looking down at your worn tennis shoes. One of the benefits of owning the building is that there are no neighbors around when you’re not in character, out of costume. “Did the code work?”

Mr. Terrific hesitates, then nods.

“How’d you get it? Hack through the firewall or figure out my password?” you inquire.

“You built a backdoor. I couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not, but it was well-hidden.”

“It was intentional,” you say. “I trust you - for some reason.”

“My dashing good looks?” he suggests.

“That can’t be it,” you sigh dramatically.

“I’ll get the press off your back,” Mr. Terrific promises. “What’s the story?”

“Prototype tech I acquired for you.”

“Got it. Change your mind about the gala?���

“I’m not going to that stupid party, Michael.” You laugh when you look up and see the close-lipped smile on his face. “Don’t tell me you want to go?”

“Oh, no,” he replies. “I’m hoping there’s an intergalactic threat, something just dangerous enough to keep me occupied all night.”

“I’m trying to get a date in a different time zone,” you joke.

Michael’s smile drops before his head tilts to the side. His eyes rake up and down your body quickly.

“I don’t like that look, Terrific,” you murmur.

“I said you were invaluable,” he remembers. “And you want a date.”

“That…” You want to say it’s a bad idea, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted to agree. “You’d be putting your public image at risk.”

“Are you kidding? The men of Metropolis would consider me a god.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“What can I say? Emotions aren’t my thing.”

“Your call, T-boy,” you say. “Next time the press badgers you, say what you want. I’m with you.”

You move toward the door, sliding your hands in your pockets.

“Hey,” Michael calls. “Is the new T-sphere finished?”

“Technically,” you answer, turning back toward him. “I only checked the code, no practical testing yet.”

“I- uh- I broke one today.”

“Broke one?” you repeat.

“Superman has a dog that’s hard on toys.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Could we test it?” he asks. “Tonight?”

You smile and tip your head toward the door. “I’ll order pizza.”

Mr. Terrific nods, then takes long strides to join you. Maybe letting him see who you are was the key to learning it yourself. It was in your code all along, but it took someone else being able to see it to realize that you’re special, and that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

“And will we see you at tonight’s Leaders in Business gala?” Cat Grant asks. “After a hard day of saving lives, it should be quite the break for you!”

“Oh, the Justice Gang will be there,” Green Lantern assures her, winking at the camera.

“I’ve actually got a flight to catch,” Hawkgirl says, waving before she launches from the ground.

“What about you, Mr. Terrific?” Cat inquires. “Would it be fair play to assume you’ll be present?”

“I’ve got a date,” he answers flatly.

“I’m here to see Lois Lane,” you say when you enter the Daily Planet building. You’re pointed toward her desk, drawing attention as your heels click through the bullpen. “Ms. Lane,” you greet. “Have a moment to talk?”

“Always,” she answers.

As you follow her to a private area, Jimmy Olsen leans toward Clark Kent and whispers, “Whoa.”

“Ready to be the star of your show?” Lois asks.

“Not exactly,” you reply. “Mr. Terrific said I was invaluable. Did you hear what he told Ms. Grant?”

“Sure, everyone’s talking about it.”

You smile and say, “There’s your reason. See you around, Ms. Lane.”

The stars above Central City are bright. Lying on the roof of Star Labs, you move your fingers closer to Michael’s.

“Altair,” he says, raising his other hand to point to a star.

“You still haven’t answered the question,” you remind him.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “The T-sphere worked. Really well.”

Pushing up onto your elbows, you look at Michael and ask, “Better than yours?”

“Maybe.”

You raise your hand, planning to brag, but Michael has other plans. He grasps your wrist and pulls you closer, meeting your eyes when you catch yourself above him.

“The chromic nanocoating of the mask change the transparency of the mask in response to temperature changes,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” you draw out. “But the nanoparticle size adjusts, too, keeping your face protected and concealed. It’s impressive… Why are we talking about it?”

Michael kisses you instead of answering, and when you move your hand to his jaw, you feel the temperature change. It’s in the coding. Good to know.

[i-loved-silly]

worth a shot

summary: Michael Holt rarely loses his cool. But then he shows up at the door bleeding, and suddenly you’re both forced to admit just how much it would hurt to lose each other. warnings: mentions of blood/injury, one (1) superman reference, reader is a physician's assistant, probable (definite) medical inaccuracies, mini make out sesh, swearing, michael being his usual smug self. word count: 2.5k author's note: went to watch superman and was not expecting for my heart to be completely stolen by this man. i've watched it twice in theaters now and i might go back for thirds. i haven't written anything worth reading in a long ass time so this might be complete dookie but 🤷🏾‍♀️ anyways enjoyyy

The apartment smells like garlic and tomatoes—a warm, homey scent that doesn’t quite belong in Michael Holt’s sleek, minimal space. It’s not unusual for you to be here; two and a half months in, you’ve reached the point where dropping by isn’t an event anymore. Still, this is his apartment, his meticulously ordered world, and you never forget that. With every stir of pasta sauce in his kitchen, you wonder if you’re a convenient distraction or something he actually likes.

The pot simmers softly in front of you, with the timer ticking down as your "chilling at home" playlist hums through his home speakers. You imagine his face when he walks in: eyebrows lifting by a fraction, maybe a small exhale that translates to excitement in his language.

The door code breaks your thoughts. Beep-beep-beep, then the click of the lock. Relief hits first. Then something else—an instinctive shiver under your skin.

The sound that follows isn’t his usual steady stride but something heavier. Then the first audible breath comes out. It's controlled, sharp, but it drags like sandpaper.

You turn, spoon clattering against the stove.

“Um, Michael—”

His name dies in your throat.

He’s framed in the doorway, mask still on, top part of his uniform torn and streaked with blood. Not all of it is his—you know the difference—but enough of it is. A dark smear blooms just below his ribs, soaking through the precision-engineered fabric.

The warmth of the kitchen plunges into ice.

“You’re bleeding,” you manage, voice tight.

His head tilts slightly, like your observation is nothing worth commenting. “Technically , it's just a superficial laceration.” His body betrays him though; the skin on his knuckles are drawn taut as he stumbles forward and grips the back of the armchair in the living room, while his other arm is wrapped around his torso.

Irritation bubbles up through the concern you have for his current state. “Technically,” you shoot back, already yanking the first-aid kit from under the sink, “you’re bleeding through your damn suit. Sit. Now.”

He hesitates, not out of defiance but out of habit. Michael doesn’t take orders in his own home. But then his gaze catches yours in the soft glow of the stove light: the sharp crease between your brows, the way your hands grip the fabric of the first aid kit like it's the only thing tethering you to reality. Something shifts in his face, almost imperceptible, but enough.

He sits.

You set the kit on the floor beside him, your motions brisk and precise—except for the tremor you can’t quite shake. The clinical part of your brain catalogues everything: jagged tear along his side, blood slow but steady—venous, thank God. His breathing’s even, posture upright, no signs of shock. Yet.

“How bad?” you ask, struggling to cut away at the thick fabric of his suit with a pair of scissors.

“I told you, it's superficial,” he repeats in a poor attempt to downplay the situation. “One and a half, maybe two inches. Missed anything vital.”

"How do you know that? You have a portable x-ray I don't know about?" you retort.

"Technically, yes. A human one," he replies. You know exactly who he's referring to and you have fight to not roll your eyes.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Your tone sharpens as you peel the material back. Heat rushes under your skin—not because of what’s revealed (though the sight of him, bare from the waist up, is hard to ignore), but because this isn’t a patient. It’s him.

The mask comes off next, set neatly on the counter. For a second, you just stare at each other. His face is calm, yours anything but.

“Tell me what happened,” you say, tearing your gaze away from his to snap on a pair of blue latex gloves.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” you bite out, meeting his eyes. “Because if you’ve managed to get yourself bleeding internally, I swear I'll take you out myself.”

Something like wry amusement flickers in his eyes. Still, he answers. “Explosion. Some shrapnel from a secondary blast. It grazed me when I moved to cover—” A pause, jaw tightening, before he finishes: “Someone else.”

Your stomach clenches, but you keep your voice steady as you click on a penlight and angle it over the area around the wound. “Are they okay?”

“Who?” he says, gaze following the smooth efficiency of your hands. He wants to tell you how beautiful you look like this—focused, lip pulled between your teeth, hair grazing your forehead—but judging by the steel in your voice, that feels suicidal.

“The person you dove to cover.” You move the light between his eyes, quietly relieved to see his pupillary reflexes are still intact. You press the flashlight into his hand, freeing yours to dig through the kit for a pair of tweezers.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “They’re okay. It was… a mom and her little girl.”

Your teeth catch the inside of your cheek and a breath sticks in your throat, but you force it down, sterilizing the tweezers with an alcohol pad before holding out your light for him to take. “Hold. I need to check for fragments.”

He obeys without a word, angling the beam so you can see the wound clearly. No shrapnel embedded—thank God. You grab gauze and antiseptic wipes, hands steadying as you fall deeper into routine.

“When I press here,” you murmur, applying gentle pressure near the wound, “does it hurt?”

“It’s not exactly comfortable.”

“Michael.” Your tone is sharp, but your voice cracks like a shard of glass.

A beat. Then, with infuriating calm: “…Five out of ten.”

“Thank you,” you mutter, applying the antiseptic around the gash.

The sting makes him suck in a slow breath, but he barely flinches. When your fingers skim the heat of his skin, something inside you trembles—and of course he notices.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You swallow hard, taping the gauze with more force than necessary. “No. You scared the shit out of me.”

For the first time since he walked in, Michael Holt doesn’t have an response. Instead, he watches you instead silently for a few moments before he decides to pivot.

“How was your day?”

You pause mid-motion, eyes flicking to his with raised brows. “Seriously?”

“You’re the one who said distraction helps the patient.” There’s a ghost of a smirk on his mouth.

You shake your head, half a laugh breaking through the tightness in your chest as you finish the last strip of tape. “Yes, as in you're the patient and I'm supposed to be distracting you. Unbelievable.”

You get up to throw your gloves away and rummage through his medicine drawer, cursing yourself that the strongest pain reliever he has on hand is some rapid-release ibuprofen capsules. You bring the bottle over to him along with a glass of water. Adrenaline is still humming in your veins, but the worst of it is over. He’s patched up and he’s alive, and that’s what matters.

“Take these,” you say, screwing the top off and shaking out two pills into his hand. “Try to keep pressure off that side and go slow when you transition from sitting to lying down and vice versa. No heroics for at least seventy-two hours,” you say pointedly as you return the the pills to the kitchen.

“Define ‘heroics,’” he says dryly, carefully getting up from the armchair and following you.

“You know what I mean.” You reach for the pot on the stove, flicking it on to reheat the pasta sauce that had been sitting idly for the past several minutes. It feels almost absurd going back to dinner after all that, but the normalcy helps—an anchor in the brief moment chaos. “Sit. I’ll grab you a plate.”

He moves slower this time, lowering himself into one of the tall chairs at his kitchen island. Your eye drifts over to the blanket draped over the back of the sofa—your blanket, one that you brought over and forgot a couple of weeks ago. You head over to the living room to grab it and return to the kitchen to wrap it around his shoulders before he can argue.

The faintest quirk tugs at his mouth. “You know I’m not freezing to death.”

“You’re half-naked and lost a decent amount of blood,” you say, ladling sauce over his plate of pasta. “Humor me.”

His gaze lingers on you longer than usual, something softer sliding beneath the sharp lines of his face. He doesn’t argue.

You set the plate in front of him, then grab another for yourself before you turn to his liquor cabinet. “Wine?” he questions as you set a bottle down and reach for the corkscrew on the bottom shelf. His brow arches. “Is it safe for me to drink alcohol with the painkillers you just gave me?”

You pause, giving him a look that could cut glass. “Who says the wine is for you, Michael? You’re not the one who had to interrupt your cooking because someone was—oh, I don’t know—bleeding all over the place,” you continue, waving the corkscrew at him accusingly.

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “Touché.”

You pour for him anyway, because you’re terrible at telling him no. His glass gets a conservative half-pour. Yours is generous.

“Don’t even start,” you warn when you catch the amused glance he throws at your glass.

He raises his hands in mock surrender, then picks up his fork. “Smells good.”

You slide onto the chair beside him, and he lets the blanket slip so it covers both your shoulders now. A soft, quiet little cocoon that stands in contrast with the sharp, calculating lines of his modern kitchen.

For a few minutes, the only sound is the clink of forks and the low hum of music. It feels almost normal—almost.

You glance at him as he twirls pasta with methodical precision, like even eating is a calculated act. “So,” you start, the silence starting to buzz in your ears. “I offered a distraction earlier. You still want one?”

His eyes flick to yours. “I’m listening.”

You lean an elbow on the counter, resting your chin on your hand. “Had a patient today come in convinced she broke her wrist. Swore up and down it was shattered. Turned out to be a mosquito bite.”

That earns a huff of air—a laugh by Michael’s standards.

“She wanted a cast. A cast, Micheal.” You laugh, shaking your head. “I had to spend fifteen minutes explaining why that wasn’t exactly medically necessary.”

He watches you as you talk, steady and focused, like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. It still rattles you sometimes, that kind of attention—even after two and a half months. Something warm curls low in your chest, equal parts nerves and something dangerously close to love.

By the time you finish your story, both plates are empty, and the tension that gripped your shoulders earlier has eased. Just a little.

Your palms brace the island as you stand to clear the dishes, but his voice stops you. “Leave them. I’ll take care of it later.”

When you turn, he’s already stacking your plate on top of his like he means it. You press a quick kiss to his temple, smile tugging at your lips. “Is this you trying to be sweet, or you trying to find a loophole around me telling you to rest?” He doesn’t answer—just smirks when you steal the plates from his hands and load them into the dishwasher yourself.

You both end up on the couch, not that either of you admits how much you need it—you, to keep from pacing a hole in the floor; him, because staying upright after losing that much blood isn’t in the cards, no matter how indestructible he likes to think he is.

The blanket follows you, draped across your laps. A movie hums low from the screen, something he put on with a flick of the remote before leaning back, muscles taut under too much composure.

You tuck yourself into the far corner of the couch, knees angled toward him. The bare skin on the good side of his torso is pressed against your thigh beneath the shared throw, heat sinking into your bones. It’s ridiculous how aware you are of every inch of him—every slow breath, every shift of muscle—and his fingers idly dragging up and down your calves isn’t helping the tingling sensation running through your body.

For a while, neither of you speaks. You're both looking at the TV, but the movie isn't really being watched.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he says suddenly, voice a smooth rumble in the quiet. “I’m Mr. Terrific, after all.”

The words pull a sharp laugh from you. “Yeah. To everyone else.” Your voice softens, the weight of the truth anchoring every syllable. “But to me? You’re Michael. My Michael. And I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you. I don’t… I don’t know what I’d do with myself. Honestly."

Your confession hits like a fault line cracking. His jaw tightens, eyes darkening—not cold, but heavy with something you’ve only caught glimpses of before. Then his hand moves under the blanket, warm fingers curling around your thigh, steady and sure.

You suck in a breath you hope he doesn’t hear. He does. Of course he does.

His head dips, close enough that you feel the ghost of his breath along your temple. “Nothing's gonna happen to me,” he murmurs, voice brushing your skin like velvet. Then his lips graze the curve of your neck—a soft press, more gratitude than hunger, but it sets fire to your nerves all the same.

You close your eyes for half a heartbeat, let yourself feel it, then pull back just enough to meet his gaze. That look—the one that says exactly where this could go if you let it—burns low in his eyes.

“Mikey…” Your voice breaks on a whisper, rougher than you meant. “We can’t.”

His thumb traces an idle pattern against your thigh. “Can’t what?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“Don’t—” You cut yourself off with a shaky laugh, pressing your palm to his jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone. God, he’s warm. “You just got sliced in half, for Christ’s sake. Take it easy, horndog”

Michael shrugs, shooting you a lazy grin. “Worth a shot.”

"You're impossible," you say, unable to fight the grin flashing across your face.

“No,” he corrects with faux seriousness. “I’m terrific.”

You groan, reaching for the jar on the coffee table labeled "Terrific Tax" without missing a beat. “That’s a quarter.”

He shakes his head at you, digging a crumpled bill from his pocket. “Highway robbery.”

“House rules,” you shoot back with a smile, setting the jar back down on the table.

You laugh softly, dropping your chin on his shoulder so you can look up at him, and that’s when his lips brush your forehead—a featherlight kiss that sends a shiver racing down your spine. He steals that opening to properly kiss you—slow, careful, but deep enough to make your pulse stutter. His hand stays anchored on your thigh, not pushing, just grounding you there with him as his lips part yours like a secret.

When he finally eases back, his forehead lingers against yours. You feel his breath, warm and steady now.

“Pretty sure this still counts as taking it easy,” he murmurs against your lips.

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. “Mhm. Don’t push your luck, though.”

“Stay,” he says. His tone shifts into something less playful but still sincere. Not an order. Or a question. Of course, you’re happy to oblige.

Neither of you move from the couch for the rest of the night.

[i-loved-silly]

that old man wouldn’t know what to do with all that anyway

[i-loved-silly]

late night.

MR. TERRIFIC had yet another late night with the Justice Gang, flying into your shared apartment at the ungodly hour of 4 AM.

Despite setting down his things with the utmost care to avoid making noise, you stumbled out of the bedroom with a yawn. You obviously just rolled out of bed, throwing on the closest shirt over your undergarments.

"You're back," you smiled tiredly, blinking away the sleep to see him clearly. From the look on his face, you knew exactly what he was going to ask. "Don't start. I was already up."

"Mhm," he gave you a knowing smile, shaking his head. His voice was low and gritty from the long day, sluggishness evident in his tone. "I told you to stop waiting for me. It's not good for your health."

You rolled your eyes as you approached him, leaning over the kitchen island as he pulled off his gloves. "You coming straight to bed?"

"Mhm."

Your eyes flickered up to meet his, which were already trained on your figure. Heat dotted your cheeks as you matched his charming smile; conversation wasn't exactly required to catch up when you knew each other so well. It took a long time to get to this point, but it was worth it.

You rounded him, dragging your hand across the expanse of his back slowly, feeling the lettering of his alter ego underneath your fingers. Curling them around the edges of his jacket, you tugged twice. He got the idea and rolled his shoulders, shrugging it off.

You spared a glance to appreciate his skin-tight suit before turning your attention to the jacket. An idea popped up in your head and you slipped your arms through the sleeves, sighing contentedly at the rush of warmth over your skin and his smell flooding your senses.

You gingerly made your way over the cold tile to the long mirror propped up in the living room. The jacket hung heavy on your shoulders, the hem of it cutting off just under your underwear, and the sleeves spilled over your hands.

You turned, looking over your shoulder and catching the cursive TERRIFIC across your back. The heat on your face grew. His name looked good on you.

He stepped into frame with a gentle hand on your waist. His eyes traced the contours of your body in the mirror—meticulous, as usual. Over time, you got accustomed to his calculating stare and rarely shrink when he studied you.

"It suits you."

"Do I look terrific?" You teased, a sweet smile on your lips as you peered up at him.

He chuckled deeply, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Yeah, baby. Keep it." With a parting squeeze to the fat of your hip, he left for the bedroom.

You frowned, following him into the room. He was already turning on the shower when you entered. "You only have one, though?"

"Since when does that stop you from taking my stuff?" He countered.

True, you conceded. But, "I never take your hero stuff."

"I have replacements."

You stared at him for a moment, a grin spreading across your face. You crossed your arms, or at least tried to with the excess of fabric hanging off your limbs. "Why are you lying? I sleep right next to your closet, baby, you do not have another jacket." You giggled.

He leaned against the doorway of the bathroom, towering over you as he considered your words. "You think I can't get more? It looks good on you, so keep it."

"I—"

"You can keep arguing with me, beautiful, or you can take the win. Either way, it's already yours."

A retort was waiting on your tongue but you swallowed it down with a smile. A big smile. You pulled the jacket wings closer together, getting comfortable in your newest addition to your collection. "Mm," You hummed. "Fine. You win."

He rolled his eyes lightly, a cocky little smirk on his lips. "I always do." His fingers gently raised your chin to meet his lips, kissing you slowly. "I'm sorry it's always late like this," he murmured against your mouth.

Your arms circled his waist, pulling him closer. "As long as you're coming home, I don't care what time it is."

He hummed in acknowledgement as he captured your lips again, tilting his head to press deeper into you. His hands snaked under the jacket, then under your shirt to grasp at your skin and pull you closer. If the jacket was warm, his battle-worn hands were hotter. Your mind spun as you inhaled his scent with every breath, blissed out as he overpowered your space.

You didn't even realize you were moving; he was walking into you, guiding you back to bed.

The mattress hit the backs of your knees, causing you to drop onto your ass. You gazed up at him, half-asleep and half-drunk on the heat of him.

He smiled proudly at your dazed state before retreating back to the bathroom, turning off the lights. "Go to sleep."

first time writing for him, might be ooc but yeah i adore this man sm

[i-loved-silly]

I feel like Michael would immediately know when you have a crush on him. Like he’ll know you want him so bad and be so smug about it.

You’d think he wouldn’t care or be completely oblivious but noooo he takes notice of everything. He knows when you keep glancing over at him or hovering nearby. Compliments mostly directed toward him, yeah it’s painfully obvious. Everyone eventually gets the hint but he’s the first.

Something about his gaze is just sooo dreamy. His gaze might linger as he passes by you, nearly brushing your shoulder. He’ll watch you avert your gaze elsewhere and mentally write that down.

But let’s be honest…he can be painfully obvious too. He’s a little extra careful with you on missions and he rarely does that. Yes, he helps his teammates a MASSIVE amount but you’re constantly being covered by his red shield thing (?)

He says he doesn’t do people or emotions…so why does he care more than usual? eughhhh

[i-loved-silly]

Dude if you give us Mr. Terrific x Reader headcanons or drabbles I'll give you my soul, this man has unfortuantly taken over my mind.

I soooo want to write drabbles. I just need ideas so pls send requests <33 I plan to write some general hcs later today either way!

[i-loved-silly]

Doom scrolling the Mr terrific tag - fyi my requests are open ❤️

[i-loved-silly]

Shared Glances

Summary: When Mr. Terrific comes back to the lab late at night, Guy hot on his heels, you help stitch him up. Small (1.9k) fluff drabble that I wrote up and barely proofread. No Y/N usage. No warnings.

Pairing: Mr. Terrific x f!reader

A/N: Like I said, rough day, so saw Superman again. Came away with this. I'm about to pass out so just wanted it posted instead of it going through the normal 3-day editing process, lol. Hope you enjoy. Will probably write more. Let me know if you have any ideas or requests. I have one in my queue at the moment for Loki that will come out soon, but I will also take Mr. Terrific and Bucky Barnes ideas!!

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You turn the radio off with a free hand when you hear the Gang thundering back into the Hall. Well, when you hear Guy. His voice could grate on your nerves even through the shut lab doors. It’s taking all of you to keep your hand steady as it solders the delicate machinery of the disassembled T-Sphere in front of you.

You were supposed to go home hours ago, but just hadn’t felt the need. You told yourself that you just had a lot of work to do, so it was easier to sleep here, on the pull-out couch your boss designed for you. In reality, the lab felt more comfortable than your dingy apartment ever has been.

From the corner you set up in the back, couch by the bay window overlooking Metropolis, you had everything. Bookshelf filled with any book you want, your own desk and tinkering table, mini-fridge with your iced coffees and that horrible caffeinated-algae glop your boss drank. Hell, he had even fixed up your busted radio from college, adding a module that expanded the frequency pick-up. Now, you can listen to any station in the world, all from the comfortable sterile Terrific Lab.

It all sure lives up the name. In fact, the only bad part is when the Justice Gang’s missions end, and you can tell Guy is on your bosses heels; through the lobby, up the stairs, down the hall, right to-

The door bangs open and you jump, welding pen going flying behind you. You curse under your breath as you look at the drops of metal littering half of your components, and rip off your welding mask to scowl at the intrusion.

Mr. Terrific meets your gaze with an eye-roll as he walks in without ceremony, wiping away a drop of blood from a scratch above his eye. He pulls his gloves off slowly and roughly, throwing them at the hamper by the door without looking. There’s more gashes on his jaw and near the collar of his leather jacket, but he barely seems to notice as he stops just short of his desk chair. He jabs a thumb behind his shoulder at Guy, who looks barely worse for wear.

“Is he still talking?” His voice is perfectly even. That’s how you know he’s pissed.

You’re pissed too. Mr. Terrific doesn’t get scratched up unless something goes wrong. And what’s the probability that it was his fault?

Not very damn high.

He drops in his desk chair, leather creaking, and types out his password with piston presses that almost crack the keyboard. All the while, Guy keeps shouting about whatever, voice echoing around the room. You try to ignore him as you gather the medkit, but it’s hard to tune it all out. Especially when you see blood dripping down on the clean floor from Terrific.

“All I’m saying is that could have gone so much smoother than it did. And for what? Popularity? Are the police here so inept they have to call in the Justice Gang-”

“We’re not the Justice Gang.” Terrific says as you pull your chair up next to him, opening up the medkit with a sterile hiss. The smell of antiseptic fills the room as you snap your medical gloves on.

“We are, but that’s not up for discussion. What is up for discussion, is why we just spent hours hunting down some shithead petty thieves that the cops could have found with a magnifying glass!” Guy cries out, pacing by the door and gripping his head between his clean palms.

“Look over here.” You murmur under your breath, Terrific glancing to you, with your hands clean and workspace ready. You’re not going to leave him alone either.

He sighs, closing his eyes once before turning and facing you, leaning back in his chair. He looks tired. You don’t blame him. Guy wasn’t wrong on how long the mission took. They had said it would be a short mission, mainly just for the 6 o’clock news, but it was easily 4:00 a.m. by the time they came back in. Hawkgirl didn’t even sound like she came in the building. You’re almost jealous of her.

“We should be better than them. Be able to find them before they even get their grubby hands on the jewels-” Guy starts up again, and you’re not sure whether the wince on Terrific’s face comes from the alcohol wiping his neck wound clean, or Guy’s grating voice.

“They stole cash.” He mutters, mainly just to you, and you smirk a little as you gently peel off his disintegrating mask and setting it back in the nanite pool on his desk.

The T dissolves on contact, assimilating into the mass, ready to reform at a moment’s notice. For now, you just see Terrific’s face, brushed over with his own blood and a bruise forming at his temple. As you press the antiseptic pad to the gash above his brow, he winches fully this time, hand clenching on his knee.

“Sorry.” You murmur, cleaning it quickly.

He hums a note, fingers brushing your elbow, telling you to slow down without a word. It’s an easy directive to follow.

It was easy to tune out Guy when you were this close. But he always finds a way to be known.

“Y’know, I thought you were a lab assistant, not a nurse.” Guy barks, arms crossed as he stands in front of the door like a brick wall. You shrug a shoulder, cutting a nanothread bandage to match the cut.

“I don’t see you cleaning him up.” You glare at the man, who glares back.

“He’s a god-damn super genius. I don’t think he needs someone patching him up.”

“And you don’t need to talk as loudly as you do, and yet...”

Terrific huffs, shoulders settling slightly in his chair as you carefully bandage him. Guy scowls, directing his ire at Terrific’s rod-straight back.

“Funny. She’s funny. You hire her after seeing her one-woman show? Love it. There should be a sign on the door; Smart-Ass Comedy Club.”

“Think I could charge entry?” Terrific muses, and you nod.

“I’ll take a 50/50 cut.” You smile, and he nods back slowly, rubbing his chin.

“Hmm. Maybe. I’ll think on it.”

Guy groans, rubbing his face quickly with two hands as he starts pacing the room again.

“For two people who aren’t dating, y’all are the most annoying couple I have ever met.” He says through gritted teeth.

“For someone with a chronic concussion, you sure do talk a lot.” You say, flicking your eyes to meet his as he looks over his shoulder to glare at you again.

“I’m just saying. You’re always in here, waiting to patch him up, or organizing his files, or tinkering with his shit.” He nods to the dismantled T-Sphere on your workbench. Terrific glances at it and lifts a brow at you, and you grimace.

“I was trying to expand the sensor range. I ruined a few of the components when he barged in.” You jerk your head towards Guy, and Terrific sighs.

“I’ll get some more.” He mutters, glancing over at the Sphere again. “You really disassembled that yourself?”

The question makes your heart flutter. All you can do is nod to avoid looking him in the eye when he glances back at you. He hums a little, under his breath, as if to just himself.

“Hello?! She’s messing with your damn orbs! This is not casual behaviour!” Guy almost shouts, and Terrific turns away from you to look at him. He jerks his head to the door.

“Get out, Guy.” His words are even and low, if clipped at the ends.

“What? No. We have to go over the mission.”

“Go yell at Hawk.”

“No. She’ll yell at me.” Guy crosses his arms again, and Terrific turns his chair fully towards him. He backs up a step, back against the door.

“I will make you wish she was yelling at your sorry ass.”

The air stills, both men staring at each other as if the other will disappear if they waited long enough. Guy grows impatient, setting his jaw and hissing at you through gritted teeth.

“You’re just in denial. Both of you. With your little game of shay raids-”

“Charades.” You pipe up from the back, and Guy scowls.

“Whatever! What-fucking-ever! Y’all are made for each other anyway.” Guy storms out of the room, slamming the door after him. Terrific sighs, turning back towards you.

“Are we done here? I have to see how bad you massacred my sphere.” He mutters, and you roll your eyes.

“I didn’t destroy it. Just... burned a few parts.” You shrug, steady hands moving as you slip into the familiar rhythm of wiping and bandaging the scrapes and bruises that refuse to stay hidden. “All done. Next time, try to use the spheres, not your face, mkay?”

You peel off your gloves, the sterile snap loud in the quiet lab. He’s already turning back to his screen, diving headfirst into whatever research obsession he’s wrapped up in. The medkit cleans up fast, but you hesitate, caught between routine and something softer pulling at your chest.

It’s late. Too late, really. But it wouldn’t feel right to leave now. Not without that familiar presence, that quiet habit you’ve claimed as your own. His missions and Guy’s endless complaints wear on him, but you know the weight doesn’t stop there.

You’re tired too.

His injuries barely cut deep, but they tug at something fragile inside you; a sudden fear of how mortal he is. How even heroes can bleed. How this lab, his sanctuary, can feel so hollow without him.

The fleeting glances. The whispered words, half-heard over microscopes. The casual brushes of shoulders as he fiddles with chips smaller than a fingernail. These moments stitch themselves into your days, the quiet pulse you look forward to.

A man you’re happy to see. Every day.

“Michael?” Your voice is soft.

“Yes.”

“Can we play some chess? If you’re too tired, it’s okay.” You offer the chance, breathless, as if daring him to say no.

His shoulders drop, a small smile touching his lips—the barest flicker, but for your heart, it shines like a beacon. You smile back, warm and wide. For a heartbeat, you swear he leans in, closing the space between you, filling it with the clean scent of soap and shea.

There’s something about these quiet hours. When his voice lowers, when the hum of the lab feels like a heartbeat, and you work in sync, like your thoughts are the same.

You never say the words out loud, but sometimes you think them.

You want more.

More of this.

More of him.

Not just his brilliance, his trust, or his permission to stay.

Just… him.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he murmurs, voice rough but steady.

You lean in, arms wrapping under his, pulling his chest just a moment closer before you pull away, rushing to the chessboard like a kid with a secret.

From across the room, he watches you, the tension Guy left behind slipping away like smoke. His shoulders ease, fingers rubbing the armrest with quiet thoughtfulness.

It’s easier for Michael to breathe when you’re near.

Easier to think.

Easier to feel.

Though he’d never admit it.

Not quite yet.

But every time you catch him looking at you, pen poised and eyes bright, it almost slips out of his mouth.

For now, his heart will have to keep its own steady rhythm. Though, not a day goes by that he doesn’t want to hear yours.

[i-loved-silly]