#File operations structure

[emblogicsblog]

Writing Character Device Driver

Writing Character Device Driver - A Linux character device driver allows user programs to interact with hardware devices by reading or writing data one character at a time. Developing such drivers requires understanding the Linux kernel's structure, APIs, and coding practices.

Linux Kernel APIs and Key Concepts

The kernel provides APIs like register_chrdev() and alloc_chrdev_region() for registering character devices. Each device is identified by major and minor numbers, enabling the kernel to associate device files with their respective drivers.

File Operations and Device Registration

Drivers implement a set of file operations (struct file_operations) to define how the kernel handles user interactions, such as opening, reading, and writing the device. Properly registering the device using functions like cdev_add() ensures integration with the kernel.

Challenges in Development

Writing device drivers involves challenges like managing hardware-specific quirks, maintaining thread safety, and ensuring synchronization using mechanisms like mutexes, spinlocks, and semaphores. Compatibility across kernel versions and varying hardware specifications adds complexity.

Coding Standards and Security

Linux emphasizes clean, maintainable code. Following the kernel coding style and using the required headers ensures compliance. Security practices, such as validating user inputs and minimizing kernel attack surfaces, are critical in driver development.

Testing and Documentation

Thorough testing with tools like kmod and insmod is crucial. Developers must document interfaces, supported hardware, and usage instructions to aid users and maintainers.

Future Trends

With advancements in hardware, Linux device drivers will increasingly focus on improved modularity, real-time performance, and compatibility with modern interfaces like PCIe and USB 4.0.

By adhering to Linux's guidelines and practices, developers can create robust character device drivers that meet the needs of modern systems.

Linux character device driver development,Kernel modules,Device driver coding,Major and minor numbers Linux,File operations structure,Device registration in Linux,Hardware specifications for drivers,Linux kernel compatibility,Driver synchronization mechanisms,Error handling in drivers.

[xinganhao]

cherry on top 🍒 mafia boss!seungcheol x reader. (4)

stories like this always end with a damsel in distress. except—this time around—you’re not the one who needs saving. previous chapter + masterlist.

📄 Minutes of strategic information meeting, filed by Kim Mingyu (Mafia Soldier, Logistics & Recon)

Date: ██████████ Location: Safehouse Omega-9, Undisclosed City Perimeter Time: 03:17 HRS

ATTENDEES:

Yoon Jeonghan (Underboss)

Lee Chan (Combat Unit Leader)

Chwe Hansol (Surveillance Division)

Kim Mingyu (Logistics & Recon; Recording Officer)

Civilian Target [REDACTED] (Unauthorized Attendee)

AGENDA:

Contingency Plan for Retrieval of Boss (S.Coups)

Chain of Command During Absence

External Threat Assessment

[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

JEONGHAN: We go in through the east dock. Two snipers posted by 03:40. Chan leads breach. Hansol, your eyes stay on thermal—no improvisation this time.

HANSOL: I never improvise. My brilliance is structured.

CHAN: Can we not do this right now?

JEONGHAN: [ignoring them] Mingyu, once we get him out, you're on evac. Full blackout route. No trackers, no chatter.

MINGYU: Copy.

HANSOL: Any updates on who turned? Someone had to leak coordinates.

CHAN: There’s a list. We’ll handle it after we bring the boss home. One fire at a time.

[DOOR SLAMS OPEN. SOUND OF HIGH-HEELED FOOTSTEPS. SILENCE.]

CIVILIAN TARGET: You’re planning this without me?

JEONGHAN: [visibly tense] You weren’t invited.

CIVILIAN TARGET: He’s my belo—my boyfriend, Jeonghan. You think I’m just going to sit around while you play war games?

JEONGHAN: This isn’t a movie. You’re a civilian. You don’t belong in this room.

CIVILIAN TARGET: No, I’m the reason he still believes in soft things. I belong more than half the people at this table.

CHAN: She’s got a point.

JEONGHAN: Chan.

CHAN: I’m just saying. She’s not exactly fragile.

HANSOL: She did rewire one of my bugs with a paperclip. That was... not unimpressive.

JEONGHAN: [sighs] This isn’t about guts. It’s about blood.

CIVILIAN TARGET: Then you should know mine’s already on the line. Every second he’s gone, I feel it. And I’m done being sidelined. I’m not here to ask. I’m here to help.

[BEAT OF SILENCE. THEN—]

JEONGHAN: You get one job. And if you screw it up, I’ll personally drag you out.

CIVILIAN TARGET: Deal.

JEONGHAN: Hansol, give her the map. Mingyu, loop her in.

MINGYU: You’re going to need a comm. And a bulletproof vest.

CIVILIAN TARGET: Got both. And a knife in my boot.

CHAN: Okay, badass.

[MEETING CONTINUED UNDER LEVEL-2 SECRECY PROTOCOLS. TRANSCRIPT REDACTED. END OF MINUTES.]

FINAL NOTES:

Civilian Target formally added to Operation Homecoming roster.

Jeonghan authorized conditional field involvement.

Morale status: heightened.

Risk level: astronomically high.

🗂️ Operation Homecoming: Field Notes & Briefing Report, compiled by mafia underboss, Yoon Jeonghan

Clearance Level: Top Confidential Date Logged: ██████████ Location: Safehouse Omega-9

SUMMARY: Boss (S.Coups) was captured 48 hours ago following the receipt of a falsified emergency ping traced back to the civilian target’s encoded channel. The ping claimed she’d been injured and was en route to an undisclosed hospital in Sector D. According to surveillance logs, the Boss diverted course alone, abandoning standard security protocol. We believe he was intentionally isolated through signal jamming, then intercepted at the underpass beneath Route 14.

AUTOPSY OF THE TRAP:

Fake GPS tag mimicked civilian target’s bio-signal pattern

Voice distortion software replicated her distress call

EMP deployed upon vehicle arrival to disable tracking

Tactical unit waited with sedation-grade rounds

CURRENT LOCATION OF BOSS: Confirmed. Underground storage facility, formerly Syndicate-aligned. Defected cell now controls the zone. Reinforcements on site. Boss presumed alive—last thermal footage confirms faint movement.

INTERVENTION STRATEGY: OPERATION HOMECOMING

Phase One – Extraction:

Entry through east dock (03:40 HRS)

Chan leads breach unit, Hansol on thermal, Mingyu handling evac

All units silent channel only

Phase Two – Internal Sweep:

Civilian target assigned distraction and misdirection role (see below)

Two-minute window to locate and stabilize Boss

Phase Three – Extraction + Fade:

Mingyu initiates blackout route

Decoys deployed on west perimeter to delay pursuit

Rendezvous at Site Echo

CIVILIAN TARGET: PERFORMANCE LOG

Arrived wearing borrowed Kevlar and jeans tucked into combat boots. Asked if bulletproof vests same in women’s sizes. Did not wait for response.

Showed immediate enthusiasm, zero tactical finesse. Hansol gave her the map. She held it upside down. Twice.

Informed her she’d be working as the visual diversion. Her response: “Like bait?” Followed by: “Cool. I’m good at being annoying.”

Surprisingly effective. Created a loud enough ruckus on the perimeter to draw three guards off their posts. Managed to bluff her way past checkpoint by pretending to be a lost food delivery driver. Claimed she had gluten-free soba for a man named Kevin. There is no Kevin.

Still not sure how she pulled it off.

When Boss was found, he was semi-conscious but breathing. Whispered her name first.

END STATUS:

Boss retrieved.

Minimal casualties (1 injured – not fatal)

Facility compromised but not traced

Civilian target cried in the van. Then threatened to punch me for writing that down. I'm writing it down anyway.

FOOTNOTE — for Seungcheol’s eyes only: You’re reckless, stubborn, and impossible to reason with. But apparently, that’s your thing. You’re also luckier than most of us ever will be.

She didn’t sleep. Not once. Kept looking at every door like you might walk through it.

When you did, she didn’t even say anything. Just threw her arms around you like gravity stopped working.

Try not to make her go through that again.

– YJH

📱 Phone history log, filed by mafia soldier Chwe Hansol

Device: S.Coups' Personal Line (Encrypted Channel #017) Status: Outgoing Messages Only – Blocked by Signal Jammer Timestamp Range: ██:██–██:██ (Time of Abduction)

NOTE: Texts never reached intended recipient. Recovered during post-mission diagnostics. For archival purposes.

[01:12 AM] Where are you? They said you were hurt. I'm on my way.

[01:15 AM] Which hospital? No one's answering. This isn't funny. Call me.

[01:17 AM] Your signal keeps bouncing. Something's wrong. Stay where you are.

[01:21 AM] I swear to god if they laid a hand on you

[01:24 AM] No ambulance ever came.

[01:25 AM] This is a setup.

[01:27 AM] I'm so stupid. They used you. Fuck fuck fuck

[01:28 AM] I should've followed protocol. Should’ve sent Mingyu. Should’ve sent anyone but me.

[01:30 AM] If you get this, lock all the windows. Call Jeonghan. Stay put.

[01:34 AM] They knew I’d come for you.

[01:36 AM] This isn’t your fault.

[01:39 AM] Don’t come after me.

[01:41 AM] Love, beloved, please. Don’t try to save me.

[01:45 AM] You always do this—you throw yourself into fires you don't understand.

[01:49 AM] If they hurt you because of me, I’ll never forgive myself.

[01:52 AM] Tell Jeonghan to burn everything. Get out. Go far.

[01:54 AM] Forget me if you have to. Just live.

[02:01 AM] I love you. Please, please, please, don’t be stupid.

[END OF RECOVERED LOG]

📰 Excerpt from "The Ethics of Mafias: Love in the Line of Fire", a follow-up think piece by Xu Minghao

... If leadership within organized crime is already an ethical minefield, then love within it is something more volatile still: a paradox of vulnerability embedded in violence. New whispers surround the figure known only as S.Coups—the alleged mafia boss whose name, until recently, conjured images of discipline, domination, and an empire forged in precision.

Now, another narrative has emerged. One that reshapes how we understand not just the man, but the very myth he embodies.

According to rumors sourced from both within and outside the organization, S.Coups may have a romantic partner. Not a fellow operative, nor a political alliance. But a civilian. Someone unaffiliated and—crucially—untouched by the bloodied logic of the underworld.

If this is true, the implications are vast.

To love in his position is a risk. It is weakness, some would say. Yet others might argue that such love is the only thing capable of keeping a man like him from becoming monstrous. If the rumors are accurate, she is the reason he looks over his shoulder less. The reason he checks his own wrath. The reason his most trusted lieutenants have stopped fearing him and started worrying about him.

Love, here, is not a diversion. It is discipline.

And perhaps that is the most fascinating ethical twist of all: that this boss, so often theorized as either tyrant or savior, might be both—because of her.

Some say he texts her between assassinations. That he buys her gummy bears because she mentioned liking them once, months ago. That he has started folding her laundry and learning her aunt’s dietary restrictions. These are, of course, unconfirmed. They seem almost laughably mundane. But within the shadowed world of syndicates and secret wars, what could be more radical than tenderness?

Others claim that he was taken. There are now verified reports of a failed abduction and his eventual rescue. She was allegedly involved. They say she showed up unarmed, untrained, and utterly unafraid. They say she demanded to be part of the rescue mission. They say she was reckless, infuriating, and ultimately, instrumental.

And that when he saw her again, he wept.

To be loved, it turns out, is not always soft. Sometimes, it is brutal and inelegant and wildly inconvenient. But in the context of a life built on violence, to be loved is to be saved. Again and again. In the ways that matter.

Whether S.Coups is worthy of that love is not the question. The question is whether it has already changed him. Whether, in the end, the girl outside the syndicate might be the only thing real in a world made of smoke and mirrors.

And whether that, more than power or fear, will be his lasting legacy.

Mafia boss S.Coups is many things. Protector, manipulator. Brother, enemy, friend.

It seems we must add two more things:

Lover, and loved.

FIN. THANK YOU FOR READING CHERRY ON TOP!

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #30

Dani Phantom wasn’t exactly trying to join a government-sanctioned group of reformed (read: questionably reformed) assassins, mercenaries, and general menaces to society, but in her defense, she didn’t know what a Thunderbolt was. She thought they were just a bunch of really cool weirdos with snappy outfits who didn’t mind that she phased through walls sometimes or accidentally vaporized a training drone.

It started when Dani, on the run from some GIW idiots, phased through several realities and crash-landed in the middle of a Thunderbolts operation — specifically, right between Bucky Barnes (grumpy, armed, tired) and Yelena Belova (chaotic, armed, also tired but hiding it better).

“Is that a child?” Yelena asked, peering over Bucky’s shoulder like he was a slightly inconvenient lamp.

Bucky, gun still raised, frowned. “That’s a floating child.”

“I can see that, Captain Obvious,” Yelena snapped, flipping her knife casually in her hand. “Why is she floating like—”

Before she could finish that thought, Dani spun midair and zapped the rogue Hydra agents sneaking up behind them with a giant neon green energy blast. The agents went flying into a brick wall like someone had yeeted them across a football field.

“…Okay,” Yelena said brightly. “I like her. She can stay.”

“I—what?” Bucky sputtered, lowering his gun slightly. “She’s a kid, Yelena.”

“And she vaporized five men without blinking,” Yelena pointed out, beaming like a proud aunt. “I say we keep her. She’s Thunderbolt material. Very murder-y. Very spunky.”

“She’s like ten.”

“Exactly. She’s moldable. We can teach her the good stuff early,” Yelena insisted, already imagining Dani learning to throw knives and argue over which snacks were superior.

Meanwhile, Dani floated down to their level, blinking wide green eyes. “Are you guys… superheroes?” she asked hopefully.

Yelena immediately lied through her teeth. “Yes. Very professional. Very respected. No felonies.”

Bucky choked on absolutely nothing.

Thus began Dani’s unofficial, highly illegal induction into the Thunderbolts.

Nobody officially signed paperwork. Dani just started showing up. She helped steal Hydra files. She broke into a SHIELD safehouse for snacks. She haunted a couple of corrupt senators for laughs. The team decided if the government didn’t want her around, they should have given them actual HR training.

The real problem started when Bucky and Yelena decided they were both, separately, her legal guardian.

“You are not responsible enough to raise a kid,” Bucky said one evening, arms crossed while Dani hovered upside down from the ceiling chewing bubblegum she definitely stole from somewhere.

“And you are?” Yelena scoffed, tossing popcorn at Dani, who caught it in her mouth mid-flip. “You still get confused by TikTok.”

“That’s not the same as raising a kid!” Bucky barked. “She needs stability. Structure. Rules.”

“She needs to learn how to properly dismantle a car bomb in under thirty seconds,” Yelena said cheerfully. “You Americans are so boring.”

“I fought in World War II, of course I’m boring!” Bucky exploded.

“You’re ancient,” Yelena sniffed. “You probably think letting her get a tattoo is ‘dangerous.’”

“She’s a kid!” Bucky nearly screamed.

In the background, Dani giggled and skated on a conjured green energy hoverboard through the briefing room, knocking over chairs and sending a very concerned Red Guardian flying out of the way with a yell.

“This is fine,” Yelena said as Bucky watched in silent horror. “She is thriving.”

Thriving was one word for it.

Things escalated when Bucky tried to enforce an 8 PM bedtime.

“I’m literally a half-ghost,” Dani said, deadpan. “I don’t sleep.”

Bucky blinked. “What do you mean you don’t sleep? Everyone sleeps.”

Yelena, sitting smugly on the couch with a tub of ice cream, smirked. “Ha! The child sides with me. We binge-watch shows until 3 AM.”

“You’re killing her brain cells,” Bucky growled.

“Undead,” Dani corrected sweetly, phasing through the ceiling to avoid capture when Bucky tried to confiscate her ghostly hoverboard.

Meanwhile, other Thunderbolts members slowly realized there was a child among them and had no idea how to handle it.

Red Guardian tried to teach her Russian wrestling moves.

Taskmaster, after three failed attempts at babysitting, locked themselves in their room and refused to come out without bribes of coffee.

Ghost (Ava Starr) just accepted Dani as a background gremlin who occasionally made her coffee float across the room when she was too tired to move.

The real bomb dropped when Jazz Fenton stormed into the Thunderbolts’ compound.

Not walked. Stormed. Like an avenging angel armed with binders full of academic papers, parental rights lawsuits, and the righteous fury of an older sister forced to deal with supernatural nonsense since age twelve.

“What. The hell. Is going on,” Jazz asked, her voice eerily calm as she stared down Bucky, Yelena, Red Guardian, and Taskmaster at once.

Nobody moved.

Even Dani froze, halfway through trying to fit a stolen grenade into her backpack.

“You—” Jazz pointed at Bucky. “—brought my minor sister to an assassination mission.”

Bucky immediately tried to stand at attention like she was a general. “In my defense, she’s very good at it—”

“And you—” she pivoted to Yelena, who grinned unrepentantly. “—taught her how to hotwire a motorcycle!”

“Useful life skills,” Yelena said brightly.

“And you—” Jazz growled at Red Guardian, who tried to blend into the wall. “—gave her vodka!”

“It was for medicinal purposes,” Red Guardian said weakly.

Jazz took a deep breath, cracked her knuckles, and pulled out a thick legal document titled “Fenton v. Thunderbolts: Custody Hearing” that somehow already had signed pages, notarizations, and citations of obscure interdimensional child protection laws.

“I am taking her home,” Jazz said, enunciating every syllable like she wanted to bludgeon them with the concept of language.

Dani immediately wailed, “Nooooooo! Jazz! I like it here! They let me have grenades!”

“You are eleven!”

“Twelve and a half!” Dani insisted.

“I was giving her a flamethrower for her half-birthday,” Yelena said proudly.

Jazz pinched the bridge of her nose like she was resisting the urge to start swinging.

“I don’t even know how you people are still alive,” Jazz muttered.

“Luck,” Bucky offered helpfully. “Mostly luck. And sarcasm.”

“And murder,” Yelena added. “Don’t forget murder.”

Jazz turned to Dani, crouching so they were eye-level.

“Sweetie,” she said in the voice adults use when they’re seconds from committing a homicide, “you cannot just…join a government hit squad.”

“But they have matching jackets,” Dani said, voice wobbling. “And Bucky taught me how to punch people really hard without breaking my own hand!”

“She is surprisingly good at it,” Bucky muttered under his breath, rubbing his jaw where Dani had accidentally socked him two days prior during sparring.

Jazz looked up at the group, expression utterly blank.

“You realize that she’s technically a meta-human, a half-ghost, and a minor with no legal documentation in this universe, right?”

There was a pause.

Bucky blinked. “Technically…?”

Yelena shrugged. “Technicalities are boring. She lives here now.”

Jazz threw her hands in the air. “That’s not how this works! That’s not how any of this works!”

Dani, sensing weakness, clutched Jazz’s arm and put on the biggest, saddest puppy eyes she could muster.

“But Jazz…I finally have a family here…” she sniffled, lip trembling.

Bucky and Yelena, without missing a beat, immediately looked at Jazz like how dare you break her little heart you monster.

Jazz stared at them. “You are manipulating me.”

“Yes,” Yelena said brightly. “It’s working, no?”

Jazz closed her eyes, counted to ten in Esperanto, and resigned herself to the fact that apparently her life was now a living sitcom.

“I want a full academic curriculum. Supervision. No war crimes without prior approval. And absolutely, absolutely, no assassinations unless it’s self-defense and I’m there to supervise.”

Dani fist-pumped midair. “YES!”

Bucky and Yelena high-fived behind her back.

“I’m going to regret this,” Jazz muttered.

“You already regret it,” Bucky said, smirking.

And that’s how little Dani Fenton, half-ghost clone, menace of Amity Park, became the official junior Thunderbolt, the semi-official godchild of two retired assassins, and the proud holder of a laminated “Certified Baby Badass” card that Yelena made with glitter pens.

There were explosions. There were lawsuits. There were training montages.

There was Jazz drinking an entire bottle of wine while watching Dani yeet herself at Taskmaster with a battle cry of “YEET OR BE YEETED!”

There were Bucky and Yelena arguing over which martial arts Dani should master first (“Russian Sambo!” “No, Krav Maga!” “SHE’S A CHILD YOU MANIACS!”) while Dani snuck off to teach herself breakdancing instead.

There was Dani winning the team sparring competition by phasing through everyone’s attacks and slapping sticky notes labeled “LOSER” on their foreheads before they even realized what was happening.

There was Jazz realizing too late that she was now somehow not only Dani’s sister, therapist, and guardian…but also the unofficial mom of the entire Thunderbolts squad, a title she did not want but was too tired to fight.

And there was Dani — floating over the compound at sunset, arms spread wide, grinning so hard her face hurt — who realized for the first time in a long time that maybe, just maybe, being a weird half-ghost clone kid wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

Especially if you had a dysfunctional murder family to back you up.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Hii, I was wondering if you could do poly141! with a crush on administrator!reader? Like how they would all be having a crush on her and eventually bringing her into the relationship? No worries if not, I love your work and you’re one of my fave accounts. Have a good day💗

At Their Mercy

Pairing: Poly!141 x Reader

Warnings: Tension, suggestive flirting, possessiveness, military setting, mutual pining, rumor mill drama, reader described as professional/feminine-coded, slow burn with romantic payoff

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy! I absolutely love this idea!! This is a fantastic idea and I hope I captured what you imagined! I’m so glad you love my writing as well!

Summary: You run the tightest operation Task Force 141 has ever seen. But even the sharpest minds can be unraveled when four elite soldiers set their sights on you.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

You ran a tight ship.

The kind of ship that never hit rocks, never leaked, and never allowed room for error. As the lead administrative liaison for Task Force 141, you were the bridge between elite chaos and tight military structure. Every mission roster, clearance request, requisition form, and post-op report came through you first. You were the force behind the front lines—silent, efficient, untouchable.

You dealt with mission logistics, debriefs, diplomatic correspondence, and more red tape than any human being should have to suffer. Every supply chain was calculated to the second. Every form filed precisely. Even if it meant chasing men with blood on their boots down the hall to get them to sign a single line.

It was a high-stress job.

But you thrived on control. On being the one fixed point in a volatile world.

Until they came along.

Captain John Price. Simon “Ghost” Riley. Johnny “Soap” MacTavish. Kyle “Gaz” Garrick.

The 141.

They were a storm wrapped in Kevlar—brilliant, lethal, insubordinate, and damn near impossible to manage. They were the embodiment of beautiful chaos. The opposite of everything you stood for.

And your undoing.

John was the first to notice you—not just for your mind or precision, but for your calm. You were a lighthouse in the combat fog. You never flinched when brass raised their voice. You never cracked under pressure. He respected it. Then he admired it. And before long, that admiration curled into something deeper. Something more.

Simon came next. You didn’t shrink away from him like others did. You handed him mission packets without hesitation. Spoke to him like he was just another man, not the reaper in a skull mask. That grounded him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

Johnny flirted from the start. Relentlessly. At first, it was just to get a rise out of you. But when all he got was sarcasm and the occasional unimpressed glance? That made it personal. A challenge. And Johnny loved a challenge. Especially when the prize was someone like you.

And Kyle… Kyle never pushed. He observed. He noticed how you rubbed your temples when no one was looking. How you tucked your mug into the same corner of your desk every morning. How you softened—just a touch—when it was only them in the room. He didn’t flirt. He *saw* you. And that made it worse. Because it made it real.

You tried not to encourage them.

You dressed sharp. Stayed professional. Avoided lingering. You didn’t meet their eyes when they looked too long.

But they knew.

They noticed when your shoulders relaxed in the privacy of your office. When you started teasing Johnny back under your breath. When you called Simon “brooding” and made him *smirk*. When you caught Kyle watching you and actually *smiled*. When you told John to stop looming like a disappointed father, and he laughed.

They saw the cracks forming.

And then the rumors started.

You heard them in the mess hall, murmured by soldiers with too much time and too little respect. That you were sleeping with the 141. That Kyle got special treatment. That Johnny kissed you behind the armory. One lunatic even swore he saw you sneaking out of Simon’s quarters—which was laughable, considering no one knew where Simon actually slept.

None of it was true.

Yet.

It got back to you fast. You called a meeting with HR. Filed two formal complaints. Nearly took a corporal’s head off when he winked at you in the hallway.

You thought maybe the 141 hadn’t heard.

But one day, you stepped into your office to find John seated at your desk.

“Close the door,” he said quietly.

You did.

“We heard the rumors.”

You crossed your arms, jaw tight. “They’re lies.”

“Don’t doubt that,” he said. “But they’re still hurting you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to us.”

You looked at him, and something shifted in the air between you. “Why?”

Simon stepped in from the side room. “Because we care.”

Kyle leaned in the doorway. “Because we’re tired of pretending.”

Johnny entered last, his face softer than you’d ever seen it. “Because it’s true. Maybe not yet—but we want it to be.”

Your heart hammered in your chest.

John stood and came closer. “We’re not asking you to throw away your job. We’re not going to parade anything. But the four of us… we’ve talked. We want you. All of us.”

Simon added, “You make us better. Tighter. Calmer.”

Johnny smirked, just a little. “You even make Ghost smile. That’s a miracle, love.”

Kyle’s voice was gentle. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

You looked at all of them—John’s fierce steadiness, Simon’s burning silence, Johnny’s relentless affection, Kyle’s quiet care—and something in you broke open.

You didn’t speak. Just moved.

You stepped forward and curled your hand into John’s shirt, tugging him down. You kissed him. Soft. Certain.

Then turned and kissed Kyle—slow and sweet. Simon stepped closer and pressed a palm to your waist like he was anchoring you, and you turned and kissed him, too, his mask barely lifted, lips warm and wanting.

Johnny grinned when you reached for him. “Knew you liked me,” he whispered against your mouth.

“I like all of you, but you’re all still insufferable.” you whispered back.

Their touches were careful after that. Reverent. John cupped the back of your head. Kyle rubbed slow circles into your back. Simon rested his hand at your hip, solid. Johnny leaned his forehead against yours like he never wanted to leave.

It wasn’t perfect. It wouldn’t be easy.

But it was yours.

And for once, you let yourself fall.

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

[bananayuyu]

Tell Me No {2}

Pairing: professor!Yunho x f reader

Genre: smut, dark academia vibes

Word count: 4.9k

Summary: Your relationship with Professor Jeong is blooming, but finals are coming and have you stressed beyond belief. Will you be able to survive them, when all you want to do is spend time with your gorgeous professor?

Warnings: smut, MDNI, oral (f receiving), fingering, squirting, praise

A/n: I've got part 3 planned out already, lmk if you wanna be tagged!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Masterlist | Read it on ao3

"How's my favorite student doing?"

Professor Jeong's whisper is so soft you can barely hear it, his face not lifting from the stack of papers on his desk. The classroom is quiet, but not silent, and the blanket of soft chatter is hiding your interaction just enough that you decide to respond.

"Fine, I guess," you whisper back, his head raising in concern. His face is serious as he looks deep into your eyes, trying to read why you've just said that.

"After class," is all he says in return, and you know from the nervous shifting of his eyes that it's time to walk away, time to slink back to your desk.

You were nervous, terribly, horribly nervous for finals, that was why your head was spinning and you were barely getting sleep. It was make or break time, the last two weeks of the semester when every bit of work you'd put in would either pay off, or disintegrate in your hands.

You wished you found school easy, but you just never did. As much as you loved to write you found the structure of classes and exams hard to cope with, even though you knew how important it was for your future career.

If you were ever going to make it as a writer, you'd need connections and letters of recommendation and people on your side. You'd never tasted an ounce of support from your family, when it came to these dreams. Being here had helped you understand how important these University relationships were, that your professors or peers might be people many years down the line who helped you succeed. You'd received more positive feedback in the last few weeks that ever in your life; even your annoying classmate liked your work enough to tell you.

"That last story prof read was yours, wasn't it?" Marcus asks as class ends, the room filled with warmth from the wood stove in the corner, winter now upon you.

"How could you tell?" you ask, rolling your eyes as you turn back to face him.

"You always include a cat in your stories, no matter how irrelevant, it's pretty fucking obvious."

"Okay, sorry for doing that, I guess," you sigh, eyes hitting the ceiling again.

"I'm not tryna be an asshole, seriously, it was good. And prof obviously loved it too, he was smiling the whole time he read."

A jolt of happiness shoots through you at the mention of Professor Jeong's admiration, and it takes every bit of your will to avoid smiling.

"Well, thanks then," you respond, shooting Marcus a quick, tight smile.

"Wow, see, the ice is breaking, you aren't being such a bitch to me anymore," he laughs, grabbing his bag and zipping it closed. "You finally warming up to me?"

"No, absolutely fucking not," you grimace, staring back at his waggling eyebrows.

"Forget I said that, then," he laughs, standing and walking out of the room, your eyes snaking over the empty desks around and the small line of students at the front of the room, asking for extensions or extra credit work to make up their grades before the end of the semester.

"I asked you to rewrite this paper three weeks ago," you hear Professor Jeong telling the boy in front of him, filing the short stories from the day into his bag.

"I know sir, I'm very sorry, I was just too busy with my other classes-"

"I know this is upsetting to hear, but I can't give you more of an extension than I already have. This is a small school, we do not operate with the goal of passing as many students as we can. Other students in this very class have made up work I've requested, within the time I requested it. It simply wouldn't be fair to them to let you get away with this." His eyes raise to meet yours for a moment, before moving down to the boy again. "Listen, you got good grades on your first two papers, and if you do well on the final, you will pass. Just focus on the final, and you will be fine."

The boy shuffles off in frustration, and several students behind follow him too, not bothering to try to convince your professor of giving them second chances. Was it too harsh? You couldn't tell how you felt about it, because a part of you felt so flattered by what he'd said. You were the student who redid work on time, and had worked your ass off since to maintain high grades in all your classes. If you'd neglected work like your classmate had, you'd understand your professor not giving you another chance. You didn't know what the boy's life was like, whether there were legitimate reasons for his inability to rewrite the paper; so much panic, so much worry over a person you didn't know was a clear indication of just how stressed you were.

You could care all day about the plight of everyone around you. But until you secured your independence and stability, you really needed to focus on yourself.

You waited patiently for the last student to exit the room, before gathering your things. You and your handsome professor had tried to not be obvious, to not spend time lingering around each other when other students or faculty were present. But there was something about always being the last to leave class that you liked; even on days when you didn't follow him home, you still got to have at least one private conversation, and even if he hadn't touched you, the few moments alone would leave you tingling with warmth all over.

He hadn't let things escalate any further, in the weeks since. You still made out when you visited his house, still felt his hardness through the thick cotton of his pants, let him touch you and tease you and drive you completely insane. But never had he seemed to want to push it further, and though you should have been laser focused on school, you couldn't help thinking about it. Did he not want you like you wanted him? Was he caught in feeling wrong for liking you the way he did?

Together you exit the building in complete silence, the air still but frigid. You had worn your favorite black leg warmers today, paired with your thickest tights, a white thermal turtle neck, and your warmest navy blue sweater. You even had long socks on, the white contrasting against your dark blue Mary Janes, but you still shivered as you stepped outside. You should have brought your winter coat today, but there was nothing you could do about it now. Usually on clear days like today, the sun warmed the winter air by early afternoon, enough that you wouldn't need so many layers.

You walk fast to help warm yourself, moving through the routine you knew well by now. You wait by the platform as Professor Jeong buys your tickets, and he slips one carefully in your hand as he walks past, only glancing at you a moment before moving to stand ten feet away. Your body aches to follow him and be next to him always, but you know as well as he does that you really shouldn't get caught. As sweet and wholesome as this whole thing felt to you, it wasn't something other people needed to know about. You were sure most wouldn't understand, and those who did might only tease you about it endlessly.

It takes several minutes for the train to arrive, running late due to the freezing weather. Though it'd barely snowed in the morning, enough water froze over on parts of the track to require some last minute maintenance. You both rush to the door with every other waiting passenger, pushing your way close to the front to not miss out on a seat. On days like today no one was walking home, and the trains got uncomfortably full.

You push in behind him, handing your ticket off quickly, and stumble into the seat to his right, pretending like you'd accidentally ended up there and were just thankful to be sitting. People crowd the isle, a pair of legs mere inches from your own. You were thankful they belonged to a girl, one who leaned down and whispered 'sorry!' when a bump in the track knocked her sideways and into you slightly. Most of the students lived just one stop down, and in a few minutes the car is much less chaotic; you finally chance a glance in his direction, taking in his profile, the soft plane of his cheeks and perfect curve of his nose.

His head turns, and suddenly you snap your head away, feeling almost shy. He widens his thighs, leaning forward and sitting more comfortably, but the movement has caused your legs to touch and your whole body burns at the feeling, the opposite of relaxing. You want to mount him, climb into his lap and kiss and ride him until all your problems are forgotten. But you're in public, still several students and other professors littered through the train car, and you have to keep your composure.

Finally, you arrive at his stop. Forthsmith station is as barren as it always is, and as soon as the train is gone his hand is on your back, the two of you making quick work of the small walk to his house. Even he feels cold in his thick wool suit, the late November weather not usually this cold, the two of you clinging to each other for any warmth you can find.

As soon as you're greeted with the warmth of his cozy home, you sigh in relief. He lights the fire under his mantle, and as the wood starts crackling you walk to him, wrapping your arms around his back and squeezing hard. He chuckles, tugging on your arms to release, before turning around and pulling you in, sighing at the perfect feeling of your head tucked in his chest and arms around his back. In a moment you're raising your head to kiss him, and it's warm and sweet and so gentle, making your frigid body melt into him. You hold onto his neck, pulling him in. It's so easy to get lost in each other the moment you're alone, when you have to pretend in all other contexts to barely even notice each other. Soon your kiss is paired with heavy breaths and tongues, and the heat between your thighs is growing fast, your body begging you to find something to grind against.

You pull him to the edge of the couch and push him down on it, climbing onto his lap and straddling him. His cock is obviously hard, and immediately you're grinding against it and kissing him, his hands coming up to grip onto your ass and guide your movements. You've barely spoken a word to each other, because this is all you really wanted to do; to be back in each other's arms after so many days apart, your schedules not allowing for a moment like this in too long.

"How's my pretty girl feeling?" he asks, breaking the kiss and pulling his hands to the sides of your face.

"I'm fine," you whine, frustrated he's not matching your movements anymore. "I'm horny," you whisper.

"I know, angel, I can tell, but you looked upset earlier, I want to know if you're feeling alright."

"I just want you to touch me so I can forget about it all," you sigh, pouting at him.

"That's not how adults deal with their problems, angel," he responds. You roll your eyes, but finally give up your humping, slumping into his chest again. "Tell me what's wrong."

"I'm just very stressed for finals," you say.

"Which final are you most stressed about?" he asks, running a hand down your back.

"Yours," you say, snuggling into him more.

"Mine? Why mine?"

"Cause it's two parts, two separate days, that's really intimidating."

He sighs, taking in a deep breath. "I'm not going to lie to you and say it's easy, but I know you can do it." You just grumble beneath him, not responding with anything coherent. "What always helps me when I'm nervous about something is to do a trial run. I did that with my thesis defense, I performed it to my roommates probably three times in the week leading up to it. It helped a lot."

You nod your head against him, wondering just how hard the rest of your academic career would be, if you'd ever be able to get to the point of defending a doctorate thesis.

"I know what we should do. I will have you do a mock exam tonight, I'll time you and everything, and then you'll get to see that it really isn't so bad."

"What?" you asked, head shooting up. "I don't want to do that, I'm tired..." you whine, looking pathetically frustrated.

"I'll reward you after, how does that sound?" he asks, squeezing your thigh in his hand.

"But the exam is like four hours total," you sigh, pouting.

"We'll just do one section tonight, you get to choose. Which one are you most nervous about?" he asks.

"The- the short story," you stutter. "I think the essay portion will be fine, I've written so many five-paragraph essays in my life. Writing a whole short story by hand in two hours sounds awful though."

"Awful? Like I'm trying to torture you?" he mocks, smirking.

"Shut up," you grumble, turning your head away and making him laugh.

"Okay, short story it is. I'll get you some paper and a pencil and we'll do it in my office, so it feels more like you're at school," he says. "And I promise the reward will be worth it darling, I promise to make you feel so good." His voice is low and sensual as the sentence leaves his lips, and your body shudders with need, your chest flushing. He gives you a quick chaste kiss on the cheek before standing you up, moving to his office to set out the materials you'd need, and pulling out his desk chair for you. In minutes you're sitting at his desk and he's starting his timer, leaving the room to start preparing dinner while you panic internally about what the hell to write about.

It was so hard to come up with something on the spot, no prompt to help you. But like always, the feelings you were having translated right onto the page, and before you knew it a creepy and mysterious story was pouring out of you, atmospheric and unnerving, matching the anxiety you were still feeling about the next two weeks of your life. An hour in he'd brought you a cup of soup, and gingerly you sipped at it without spilling on your pages, careful to dip your roll in the broth and avoid sending crumbs flying in all directions.

"You done?" he asks when he enters again, the timer on his phone beeping. You'd made it the two hours, time flying remarkably fast. Your hand was starting to cramp, but you felt proud of yourself. You'd actually managed to do it, and he was right; you were no longer so fearful of his coming exam.

You nodded at him with a genuine smile, turning your papers around to show him your completed work.

"See, I knew you could do it," he says, leaning down across his desk to place a kiss on your cheek. "Now read it for me, from start to finish."

"Oh, sir, I- I don't know-" You cut yourself off with a sigh, looking away from him.

"I want to hear it," he says, voice low and buttery in that way you love, your insides rolling.

"But it's not very good," you pout, looking back to him.

"I'm sure that's not true," he says, sitting himself on the edge of his desk and crossing his legs. "Come on, read it."

"Okay," you say shakily, letting out a trapped breath.

"'You know what you must do, child,' my mother says. She's staring down the letter I've received, the letter from Lucifer himself, calling upon me. Red ink stains the page, the characters boxy and sharp. 'Come now, or he dies.' And I know exactly who he's referring to. Dahlia is slinking around the side of the room, his rose gold fur shining in the moonlight. My mother tries to resist him, but she's never been able. Who would have ever guessed that a demon lived inside this beautiful cat, cursed for a thousand years to be stuck in this strange form, never knowing who or what will come along next in his life?"

It starts flowing out of you the moment you get over the hurdle of simply starting, and then Professor Jeong's eyes are fixed on you and sparkling with awe, spurring you on further, making your heart sing.

"It was a long trek to the station. The Midnight Train stopped only once in our town, across the river from my family's old stone cottage. As I crossed the bridge the water twinkled, a soft breeze blowing through the tall grass in the valley. It was peaceful and quiet, soft moonlight illuminating the path ahead. Not a soul was out, just the haze of smoke from chimneys. I breathed hard as I neared the station. My body was not up to this sort of journey, but I'd known from the moment I started my letter that I'd be coming here. There was no where else for girls like me to go."

It was easy to speak, easy to feel proud of your work when he looked so pleased. You read through the horrors of the Midnight Train, tried your best to make your voice spooky and haunted, but all it did was make a chuckle escape from deep within him, his beautiful high cheekbones on display. You take in a sharp breath to calm your own laughter, steadying yourself for the last page of your story.

"Through the back door of the dining car, a final room appears to me, and from the shadowy darkness a skeleton comes, creaking in its movements. 'Ms. Delphine, a pleasure,' he says as he bows, his middle ribs clicking together. 'I always appreciate a visit from one of the chosen protectors.' I stare down at my precious companion in my arms, his face soft and tranquil, as if he hadn't noticed the horrors around us. 'It is a true curse, and a true calling,' I nodded, staring into his empty eye sockets. It was clear I had much to learn. The damned see life differently. Of course they do, I thought. How could I have been so short sighted to think otherwise?

The skeleton moves aside, holding a hand out towards the back of the room. With careful steps I glide forward, finally making out the shape of a door. When I open it, the sky is bright and birds are singing, flowers dotting a lush field. In the distance I spot the Unchosen Castle. It is strikingly shiny and bright. I hold a hand up to shade my eyes. 'We'll be seeing you,' the skeleton says. I turn back to him, the room brighter now. Rotting flesh is hanging off his left knee cap. A bullet hole is obvious in the side of his skull.

But as strange as it is, I don't feel panic. When I look down, Dahlia is asleep in my arms. I was called upon, but expected to leave. My old life out of reach, my new life a set of honors. But I had no desire to step out into that field. I close the door instead and breathe in the muskiness. The darkness greets me. For the first time in my life, I feel completely at home."

"Wonderful, just wonderful," Professor Jeong says, shaking his head and clasping his hands together. "Promise me you will write horror books when you're older."

"I want to," you smile, blinking as you look up at him.

"It's a wonderful style, almost a cozy horror, if that makes sense."

You turn your eyes down, overcome with the way he's so perfectly described what you were going for. To know it had translated off the page sent your head spinning. Could you really do this, become a successful author? It was him above anyone else, who was making you believe in that future.

"Come on, let's go back to the living room," he says as he grabs your empty bowl, pushing in his desk chair once you stand out of it.

As soon as you're back in the coziness of the fire-lit room, your hands are on him and his are on you, grabbing for every bit of each other.

"My little genius," he sighs, kissing you soft and tenderly, arms wrapping tightly around you. "You did so good for me, doing exactly what I asked. And you wrote so well."

"I wanna be good for you, that's all I want to do," you sigh, opening your mouth further, relishing in feeling his tongue against yours, the soft warmth tantalizing and true.

"Let me taste you then," he says, and you suddenly can't breathe, jitters snaking their way up through your legs and landing straight in your core. "That sound good?" he chuckles, your shocked face so utterly adorable, and you murmur a soft 'mhm' before kissing him again.

He lets you deepen it, pulling your faces together and relishing in the taste of each other's mouths. Your body is tight against him, on your tiptoes to reach as high as you can, but still he is bent over slightly to meet you, holding onto your low back as you arch into his touch. Your hips press against his, and you can feel how hard he is already; you swear he's yearning to fuck you as much as you're yearning for it too, but he's taking his time, waiting patiently, and something about that is making your brain melt even more.

You'd never been treated so respectfully in your life. It was such a confusing feeling, because you knew he shouldn't be wanting you like this at all. But if anyone was a fly on the wall and could see how he acted, you were sure no one would think negatively of him at all.

Slowly he breaks the kiss, planting a final peck on your nose before leaning down and undoing the strap on each of your shoes, helping you carefully step out of them. Then he pulls off your leg warmers, setting them in a pile beside your shoes. The anticipation of what's coming off next sends shivers through you, and when he looks up he catches sight of the lust in your eyes, his eyes shiny in the yellow light. He takes his time with your tights, pulling gently at the waist to move them over your hips, and his hands feel electric against your bare ass, making your mouth water. As he pulls them down your thighs he relishes the moment, planting soft kisses in your plushness and moving closer and closer to the small nest at your center, making you squirm.

"You smell amazing, angel," he says, his pupils blown at he looks up at you, his eyes darker now than you'd ever seen them. He looks good like this, his cheeks slightly flushed, hair faintly disheveled. You wonder what he'd look like after a good ravishing, how perfect he'd be with swollen lips and completely messy hair. You reach down to mess it up further, the dark black locks soft and lusciously thick in your hand. Soon he's pulled your tights completely down, and you hold onto his shoulders to balance as you step each foot out in quick succession.

"Come here," he says, leading you to the couch and sitting you down as he'd been earlier. When he leans in you grab onto his suit jacket again, pulling him closer and deeper, loving the feeling of the soft, thick wool in your hands. Since winter started he'd been wearing gorgeous suits every day, and you'd be lying if you said it wasn't so incredibly distracting during class.

"You like my suit?" he asks, chuckling as he makes his way to your neck and places gentle kisses from your jaw to your shoulder, making you shudder in pleasure.

"Yes," you sigh in response, tipping your head back.

"Does it turn you on?" he jokes further.

"Yeah, it does," you chuckle, lifting your head back up to nip at his ear in retaliation. He just laughs and pulls back, before diving into your plush lips again and devouring you. He's been thinking about this for days, and it's making his head fuzzy that you're half naked in front of him, spread wide on his couch.

Finally he moves down to your thighs, leaving gentle nips and licking along the length of them, making you wetter as your cunt tingles in need. It's agonizing waiting for him to get there, but when he does, when he licks a slow stripe up the entire length of your slit and moans at the taste, it's more than worth it. Your back is already arching, knees pushing themselves even wider so he has all the room he needs. He does it again, before focusing his attention on your clit, licking slow half circles around it, the warmth of his tongue too perfect to comprehend.

He spends his time working you up, holding onto your thighs and whispering praises, 'god you taste so fucking good,' or 'good girl, open up for me.' Your cunt is flushed and pink and wet for him, and finally he brings his right hand to meet his mouth, slipping to finger slowly into you and making you almost scream.

The deepness of the feeling is instantly delicious. You reach your hands out to grip onto his hair, groaning in pleasure as he starts sucking harder, pumping his fingers in and out of you slowly, but with force. He's curling them up in that perfect way, hitting the exact spot that drives you crazy, and the pleasure builds fast, your cunt feeling fiery-hot and utterly amazing. It's taking your breath away, how smooth he is, how each movement seems perfectly controlled and perfectly tailored to you. He looks up once, catching your eye, and you almost fall over the edge in an instant from the sight of him between your legs, his pink cheeks stained with your wetness. You throw your head back, moaning loudly, and he picks up his speed slightly, feeling the walls of cunt starting to shake, knowing what's about to come.

Suddenly your pleasure is growing higher than you expect, but even as it reaches amazing heights, it keeps building, keeps growing. You're almost screaming at the feeling, so intense you're unable to comprehend it at all, and then suddenly you feel it, your legs shaking, your cunt squeezing down on him, and the extreme wetness spilling out of you. You look down to see his face covered in your squirt, a look of pure satisfaction on his face as he milks you through all of it, your high-pitched moans the most beautiful melody. Your orgasm lasts longer than any you've ever had, and by the end you're dumbfounded, slumping back into his couch and breathing uncontrollably, blinking in your confusion.

"That was so hot, fuck," he groans when he finally pulls away from you, moving back up to wipe a hand over your cheek and take a look at your eyes. "You feeling okay?"

"Yes, I definitely am," you chuckle, a small tear escaping from your right eye, and you wipe it away quickly. "That was fucking crazy."

"Have you ever squirted before?" he asks.

"No, I didn't know I could," you answer, smiling shyly.

"Fuck," he sighs, ego doing somersaults at knowing he was the one to help you discover that ability. He chuckles before sitting himself down next to you, wrapping you up in his arms and cradling you, planting soft kisses on your forehead as you come down.

Twenty minutes later you're a yawning mess, your body completely wracked from how hard you came. It was also growing late, the street outside dark and gloomy, the fire crackling in the corner was giving you much needed warmth that was only adding to your sleepiness.

"I don't think I can make it home," you tell him, looking up with upward turned eyebrows, hoping he'll let you stay.

"No staying here until finals are done," he says, shaking his head, and you pout and shove your head in his chest, frustrated. "I want you to stay here with me too, darling, but I can't be the reason you don't make it to your classes tomorrow."

You sigh in knowing he's right, that it's probably not a good idea to stay when you have such important days ahead. It takes all your remaining energy to stand up, redressing in the warmth of his living room, and sliding on your shoes. He brings your bag for you, carrying it as he walks you back to the station, before sending you off with a quick kiss on the cheek.

The train is nearly empty so late, and the air feels colder when you step off, without him by your side. But all you can think about is his mouth and fingers and tongue, and that night you sleep like a baby, completely and totally content.

next part ->

Taglist: @iamalily @atzri @marii1087 @dilfkimhjj @yunyuniverse

Thank you all for the feedback and support <3333333333

[commodorez]

Zoomer here, and I do indeed have questions about computers- how do filesystems work, and why should we care (I know we should, but I'm not exactly sure why)?

So why should we care?

You need to know where your own files are.

I've got a file on a flash drive that's been handed to me, or an archival data CD/DVD/Bluray, or maybe it's a big heavy USB external hard drive and I need to make a copy of it on my local machine.

Do I know how to navigate to that portable media device within a file browser?

Where will I put that data on my permanent media (e.i. my laptop's hard drive)?

How will I be able to reliably find it again?

We'll cover more of the Why and How, but this will take some time, and a few addendum posts because I'm actively hitting the character limit and I've rewritten this like 3 times.

Let's start with file structure

Files live on drives: big heavy spinning rust hard drives, solid state m.2 drives, USB flash drives, network drives, etc. Think of a drive like a filing cabinet in an office.

You open the drawer, it's full of folders. Maybe some folders have other folders inside of them. The folders have a little tab with a name on it showing what's supposed to be in them. You look inside the folders, there are files. Pieces of paper. Documents you wrote. Photographs. Copies of pages from a book. Maybe even the instruction booklet that came with your dishwasher.

We have all of that here, but virtualized! Here's a helpful tree structure that Windows provides to navigate through all of that. In the case of Windows, it's called Explorer. On OSX MacOS, the equivalent is called Finder.

I don't have to know where exactly everything is, but I have a good idea where thing *should* based on how I organize them. Even things that don't always expose the file structure to you have one (like my cellphone on the right). I regularly manually copy my files off of my cellphone by going to the Camera folder so I can sift through them on a much bigger screen and find the best ones to share. There are other reasons I prefer to do it that way, but we won't go into that here. Some people prefer to drag and drop, but that doesn't always work the same between operating systems. I prefer cut and paste.

Standby for Part 2!

[orellazalonia]

Echoes of a Nobody

Summary: The Avengers discover you may now be working with a hostile organization, sparking confusion, guilt, and questions about whether you were taken or left by choice.

Word Count: 2.1k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

The Tower still functioned. The lights still came on at sunrise, the coffee still brewed automatically, and the world, predictably, still needed saving.

But it wasn’t the same. Not really. They didn’t talk about you anymore. Not in meetings. Not in the break room. Not even in the way people usually mention someone who left like “I wonder how they’re doing,” or “Remember how they used to do this?”

Your name hadn’t been spoken in weeks and no one looked at the desk the same way. Even with the new intern, no one admitted they noticed the difference in the reports. The missing efficiency. The absence of quiet competence. You’d made things easy for them, too easy. Because you hadn’t needed praise. You hadn’t asked questions when the assignments piled too high. You never made a scene when someone else took credit.

You were just… reliable. Invisible.

And now, you were gone. Not fallen in battle. Not reassigned. You left on your own terms. And somehow, that made it worse. Because the truth was, they’d all gotten used to you being around without ever really seeing you.

Sam noticed first. He didn’t say anything out loud, but every time he found an old file tagged with your formatting or caught a smart line of code the intern didn’t recognize, his jaw would clench just a little.

Clint complained more. “Why is everything in the wrong place?” He muttered once, staring at a disorganized gear locker that used to run like clockwork under your watch.

Bruce rubbed his temples during mission debriefs now. Things were falling through. Small details, easily fixable mistakes, but they stacked up. Quietly. Subtly.

As for Bucky, he still didn’t say anything either. He still trained. Still showed up. Still leaned into quiet corners with that girl he was so drawn to, the one with the bright laugh and easy smile. They were exactly what they were meant to be: Happy. Whole. Seen.

Yet still, something in Bucky’s expression occasionally flickered. Like when he asked the intern for last quarter’s field logs, the kind you used to prepare without being asked. The intern blinked had. “Wait, were we supposed to keep those updated?”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t scold. Just nodded tightly and walked away.

He hadn’t really known you. Not the way he knew her. But maybe he knew enough now to feel the edges of your absence even if he didn’t understand it. Because no one really understood what you did until you weren’t there to do it anymore.

And now, the Tower moved on like it always does. Your desk still sat there, empty. No one had claimed it really. And when the lights dimmed and the late night silence crept in, the air around your space felt heavier. Like the room knew something had been lost.

Not loudly. Just quietly. Like everything you ever did.

Therefore, what came next was a surprise to them all. It was Bruce who discovered it first, he didn’t mean to find it.

It was late that day, late enough that the Tower was more shadows than light, more quiet hums of distant servers than footsteps in the halls. His coffee had gone cold an hour ago and he wasn’t even sure why he was still at his desk. The mission reports were dull, mostly cleanup work from intel they’d intercepted last week from an anti-shield faction operating out of the Balkans.

He was skimming out of obligation, not curiosity until he opened the fifth folder.

The file tree wasn’t remarkable at first. Standard formatting. But the subfolders were ordered a little too neatly. The names weren’t generic; they were contextual, smart. Predictive.

Then came the layouts. His eyes narrowed.

Line after line of data filtered across the screen, and his breath caught, not because of the content, but because of the structure.

The headers. The symbols. The little quirks in spacing that most people wouldn’t notice.

But Bruce did. Because he remembered seeing it for years. Quietly, reliably, every week formatted the exact same way. You used to send summaries with this layout. It wasn’t a style. It wasn’t even a system. It was… you. Distinct. Efficient. Invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking for it.

Bruce sat up straighter, heart tapping a little faster. He clicked deeper. Opened a timestamped diagnostic from a surveillance relay taken offline days before an attack. Whoever wrote the analysis had restructured the data logs to show energy signatures layered over civilian heat maps. It was clean. Elegant.

Too elegant.

“Wait,” He muttered, leaning closer.

There were redundancies in the formula. Little backups, hidden verification lines built into the metadata. He’d seen them before. He remembered once asking about them, years ago, why you'd included them when no one else did.

You had shrugged. “Because systems fail. People forget. I don’t.”

Bruce’s fingers paused over the keyboard. He sat back slowly, eyes still fixed on the screen. The quiet hum of the tower seemed suddenly louder, more isolating.

He didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Didn’t want to assume something that wasn’t possible. Except… it was. And no matter how much he told himself it couldn’t be you, that this was probably just someone who used your old files, or mimicked your workflow, he felt the truth in his gut.

This wasn’t mimicry. This was your work. Your habits. Your voice, written in lines of code like a ghost.

He didn’t say anything to the others at first. Not yet. Because if he was right… It meant you weren’t just gone. You were working for them now. And there was a high chance, you weren’t coming back.

-

Bruce spent most of the night reviewing the files again, hoping he’d find something, anything that would disprove his gut.

He didn’t.

So when the team gathered for the morning briefing, he stood silently near the edge of the table, clutching his tablet like a lifeline. Steve was mid-sentence about a possible weapons facility when Bruce finally spoke.

“I think she’s working with them.”

The room shifted. It was subtle, but sharp. Natasha looked up. Clint stopped halfway through unwrapping a protein bar. Sam’s brows dipped in confusion. Steve frowned.

“What?” Steve asked.

Bruce tapped his tablet and cast the projection into the center of the room and said your name. The file structure lit up in pale blue: neat, layered, and efficient.

“She designed this,” Bruce said. “The data formatting, the way it parses real-time risk indicators, and the multi-tier flagging structure. This isn’t like hers. This is hers.”

Bucky, who’d been leaning against the wall near the back, arms folded, finally looked over.

“You’re saying she’s helping them now?” He asked, voice low. More like a statement than a question.

“I’m saying I don’t know,” Bruce admitted. “But this level of detail? It’s not someone copying her style. It’s her work. I’d bet everything on it.”

Sam squinted at the file, then crossed his arms. “So, what? She was a mole this whole time? Just embedded with us, waiting?”

“No.” Bruce’s tone sharpened. “No way. She didn’t have access to anything sensitive until the last year, and even then she didn’t take advantage of it. This is recent.”

“So she was taken?” Natasha asked. “Maybe they’re forcing her to work for them.”

“Could be,” Steve said quietly. “We’ve seen that happen before.”

Bruce hesitated, his thumb brushing over the edge of his tablet. “If that’s true, then why does this read like she cares? There’s attention to detail in this. Clean backups. This isn't bare minimum compliance. It’s-“

“Deliberate,” Bucky finished.

Everyone turned to him. He didn’t look at anyone. Just kept his arms folded, eyes fixed on the holoscreen, jaw tight.

“She used to keep my files color-coded,” He said after a pause. “Even though I never asked her to. Wouldn’t even have thought to.”

“She did that for you?” Clint muttered. “She never even looked me in the eye.”

“She barely talked,” Sam added.

“Because none of us ever really gave her a reason to,” Natasha said, voice quiet.

Steve’s mouth tightened. “She was reliable. Smart. I just thought she preferred to be behind the scenes.”

Bruce looked down. “Well, if they’re treating her better… if she’s found a place where she feels like she belongs…”

“…Then maybe she didn’t need to be forced,” Natasha finished.

There was a long silence that sank into the walls like fog.

Sam glanced at Steve. “So what do we do?”

No one answered. Because deep down, they were all wondering the same thing: If you chose to leave, if you found people who valued you in ways they never did…

Do they even have the right to go after you? And worse, would you even want to come back?

The holoscreen was still glowing when she walked in, heels soft against the floor, a cup of something warm in her hand.

She smiled easily, the kind of smile that made people look up even when they didn’t mean to. Bucky did. His posture eased just slightly, eyes flicking toward her like muscle memory. The one he loved brushed his arm with the back of her hand as she passed him and made her way to the table.

“Hey,” She said with a curious tilt of her head. “What’s all this?”

Steve didn’t answer immediately. Neither did Bruce. The tension still hung from earlier like humidity in the air.

“We think one of our old administrators might be working with the group we’re tracking,” Steve finally said, tone careful.

She blinked. “Oh?” Her eyes flicked to the display, then back. “Who?”

Bruce hesitated. “She left a few months ago. Used to run most of our comm scrubs and data threads.”

A small pause before her mouth curved. “Ohhh. You mean the quiet one? I think I remember her.”

She said it gently, like trying to recall the name of someone she might’ve sat next to in a lecture hall years ago.

“She didn’t talk much, did she?” She continued, sipping her drink. “I always thought she seemed sweet, but kind of… you know. Overwhelmed?”

Bucky didn’t respond. Natasha’s expression sharpened subtly, but the woman either didn’t notice or didn’t mind.

“She left,” Bruce said, steady but not unkind, “Because we made her feel invisible.”

Her brow rose slightly, as if surprised by the weight of the statement. “Oh. I didn’t realize she felt that way.”

“She might’ve been taken,” Steve said. “Or maybe she joined them willingly. We’re still piecing it together.”

The woman tilted her head. “And you think she’s helping those guys now?”

“We have signs of her system work embedded in their infrastructure,” Bruce confirmed. “The designs match her exactly.”

A thoughtful hum. She leaned lightly against the table. “That’s kind of impressive, actually. I mean… good for her?”

There was a pause.

She blinked. “I just mean, it sounds like she found a place where she fits, you know? I always thought she looked like she didn’t want to be here most of the time.”

“She probably wanted to be useful,” Natasha added.

“Sure, but maybe she is now,” The woman replied, light and certain. “I mean, I don’t want to sound harsh or anything, but if she didn’t have much clearance, how dangerous can it really be?”

Bruce stiffened. “She knew more than anyone realized. She was just never loud about it.”

“Right.” A gentle nod, like she understood. “Still… maybe it’s not worth making this a whole mission. I mean, do we really want to drag her back into this if she’s finally found her place?”

No one answered, not right away.

“She might be compromised,” Steve said firmly. “Or being manipulated.”

“Of course. But if she’s doing it by choice?” She gave a soft, almost sympathetic smile. “It just doesn’t seem worth disrupting everything over someone who didn’t even seem to like being here.”

“Maybe she didn’t like how she was treated,” Bucky muttered.

She blinked again, this time with a little laugh. “Oh… well, we were all busy. I’m sure nobody meant anything by it.”

Sam and Natasha exchanged a look.

She gave Bucky’s arm a soft squeeze. “I just think you all have bigger things to worry about than chasing down someone who’s probably better off without us. But… I know you’ll do what you think is right.”

She offered them all one last sweet smile and drifted out the way she came, calm and weightless as a breeze. Only when she was gone did anyone breathe again.

Bucky’s gaze turned back to holoscreen.

He didn’t know what unsettled him more: her gentle way of brushing it all aside, or the fact that he’d once agreed with her without even thinking twice.

He wasn’t sure what was right anymore.

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal

[the-bar-sinister]

Warning! Unit is hard coded to reduce functionality of unused systems. This includes core processes!

To ensure the maximum functionality and longevity of the unit, we recommend running certain core processes daily as part of routine maintenance. 

These functions are recommended for use:

Eating

Sleeping

Walking

Speaking

Additional functions which benefit from daily use:

Standing/sitting

Lifting

Reaching

Additionally, many functions are installed at a low level in base systems and require daily use to increase rage of operations, including:

Art

Dialogue

Reading

Puzzle solving

Cooking

Warning! Sleep mode functionality is an essential core process! 

Sleep Mode is used to ensure and maintain internal file structure and consistency and cannot be delayed indefinitely.

Delaying sleep mode will result in reduced system performance, with continued system degradation as a result of longer periods without utilizing sleep mode. Unit will enter sleep mode involuntarily after system degradation reaches internal limits. If sleep mode is manually denied, the unit system will become permanently inoperable. 

A note on cleaning:

Unit requires consistent cleaning scheduled at the convenience of the operator. Bleach and other harsh chemicals are not recommended and may damage the unit. Special care is recommended for the hair, nails and teeth of the unit.

[sourcherrybites]

Legally Binding Affairs

Character: Jason Todd x DA! Reader

Disclaimers: My knowledge of the US legal system is based on Law and Order, Criminal Minds and Legal Eagle. I wrote more words than I usually do so the end is kinda sloppy, my apologies babes

Word count: 1.181

➜ Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2

Masterlist

Jason hates you; he despises your very existence because you make his job miserable and eight times more complicated than it should be. Ever since you got to Gotham, you have caused anything but trouble for him, his family, his business AND his crime-fighting activities.

It all started when that dumb fuck of New Jersey's governor announced that to fight the overwhelming crime rate in Gotham they would appoint a brand new DA, the starlight, the ace, the beloved child of the country's justice system; you. A prodigy since law school, with a 98% conviction rate, not reaching 100% because not even you could fight the unfairness when prosecuting rich folks or false allegations.

There you were, standing next to the Governor on TV with a serene look on your kind features, and a body language that said nothing could disturb your peace, a suit tailored to your shape, clean and ironed until perfection, fixed and organised hair and a straight pose. You. Were. Perfection. And maybe that's why they sent you off to Gotham —you were just too good. (suspiciously good)

You made it your goal to turn the Gotham court system into your personal renovation project, From the very moment you stepped out of that courthouse, determination etched on your face, the whole City watched as you won case after case. Your conviction remained unshaken, even in the pervasive corruption that seemed woven into the very fabric of the city. Nothing could stop you —not even the countless attempts to end you. In fact, you managed to reduce Gotham's crime rate by a staggering 1% in just two months—an achievement that was basically historical. (and again, suspicious)

You were stubborn and couldn't mind your own business, and Jason didn't really care; at the end of the day, you became a small spark of hope for Gothamites — that until you threw one of his guys behind bars, then it became personal.

Were you just that stupid that you couldn't grasp the danger you put yourself into by going after high-profile criminals? He was sure that every Rouge in Gotham had a bounty on your head, and you didn't care! You just didn't care! Like you were some sort of masochist, suicidal maniac! But he would make you care, on God, he would; one, because no one wanted the new favourite child of the city becoming another Harvey Dent, and two, he was just absolutely tired of you messing up his stuff.

Drug operations were busted, fights for keeping territories were more common, and the attempts to get the most clients by dealers became more desperate, selling harder and harsher drugs. You were just messing it all up! You just had to stop before you got everyone killed.

"Pretty nice home you got here. The federal government pays well, it seems." His modulated voice echoed through the emptiness of your apartment, it wasn't expensive, you weren't one of the luxurious lifestyles because you just couldn't afford it, but it was neat and well taken care of, the most expensive thing you had was your Computer on your desk, a long, caramel coloured structure next to the window looking at the city.

"Should I add trespassing to your file, Mr. Red Hood?" You asked calmly, in the same calm voice you used when talking to the defence attorneys. He was sitting on your couch, manspreading on your couch, one hand on the back of it to keep up the relaxed posture and the other on the gun that sat comfortably against his left thigh. "Funny little one." He let out a smug chuckle, an edge of annoyance in his voice that couldn't be hidden by the modulator. He stood up, the thud of his boots loud as he approached slowly, probably trying to make you feel smaller, which it did because he was the size of a double refrigerator, but you were, by far, more worried about the files hidden under your couch, in the special plastic pocket in which it usually is the information about the furnishing, him finding that made you nervous.

"Should I offer you a glass of water, sir?" You asked with faked courtesy, barely holding back the subtle shake of your voice, to which he chuckled again. "Thank you, doll, but I have other things to talk with you." He said, clenching and unclenching his fists.

He took another few steps, "You're tense. Are you scared?" Yes, absolutely terrified, about to pee in your expensive suit pants that you wore only once every millennium. You wanted to jump out the window before spending half a second longer with that beast. "Somethin' to hide?" He inquired again. You shook your head, keeping your eyes locked into the whites of his mask. And then you looked back at the couch, a little too low.

Shit.

Both of you pounced at the same time, struggling for two different reasons, you were doing your best to keep him from reaching the files and him barely struggling to keep you away with only one arm. You kicked, pulled, pushed, and clawed at him to keep him from flipping the couch. Meanwhile, he barely did some force to keep you away with the arm which was holding the gun.

He reached one of the files from under the couch, and you yanked his hand away, twisting his elbow at a painful angle and making all the pages fall and scatter around the floor. "You little sh-" He wanted to growl, looking over the mess on the floor until his eyes met the deep blue ones of a picture. Bruce's picture. He violently pushed you away, making you hit the floor with a thump and kicking the air out of you whilst he read the notes, and every page he read made him panic more. Somehow you had noticed things no one else picked on, his pattern of picking up children just at the same time as a new robin hit the streets, analysis on his posture, his voice, coincidences and discrepancies you had found. You had figured The Batman out.

He grabbed another file, the one labelled Grayson, the same story. Drake. Damian. Gordon. Brown. Sionis. Todd. There was no point in keeping the helmet on now so he just took it off and threw it somewhere else in your living room as he flipped on his file. You knew who he was, you knew who his family were and for the first time since he knew about you, he panicked.

"How did you get this....?" He muttered, barely above a whisper, his shaky hand pointing the gun at your face. "Did you show this to anyone else?" His grip on the barrel tightened, his index pressing against the trigger as he snarled. You coughed, placing a hand on your chest. "Lower your gun... and I tell you..." you managed to gasp, sitting up against the wall. "Let's just... talk... Mr. Todd... and I promise I'll explain everything." And that was it, He just needed to hear you out.

But would he?

©sourcherrybites 2025

[mostlysignssomeportents]

“Carbon neutral” Bitcoin operation founded by coal plant operator wasn’t actually carbon neutral

I'm at DEFCON! TODAY (Aug 9), I'm emceeing the EFF POKER TOURNAMENT (noon at the Horseshoe Poker Room), and appearing on the BRICKED AND ABANDONED panel (5PM, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01). TOMORROW (Aug 10), I'm giving a keynote called "DISENSHITTIFY OR DIE! How hackers can seize the means of computation and build a new, good internet that is hardened against our asshole bosses' insatiable horniness for enshittification" (noon, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01).

Water is wet, and a Bitcoin thing turned out to be a scam. Why am I writing about a Bitcoin scam? Two reasons:

I. It's also a climate scam; and

II. The journalists who uncovered it have a unique business-model.

Here's the scam. Terawulf is a publicly traded company that purports to do "green" Bitcoin mining. Now, cryptocurrency mining is one of the most gratuitously climate-wrecking activities we have. Mining Bitcoin is an environmental crime on par with opening a brunch place that only serves Spotted Owl omelets.

Despite Terawulf's claim to be carbon-neutral, it is not. It plugs into the NY power grid and sucks up farcical quantities of energy produced from fossil fuel sources. The company doesn't buy even buy carbon credits (carbon credits are a scam, but buying carbon credits would at least make its crimes nonfraudulent):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/31/carbon-upsets/#big-tradeoff

Terawulf is a scam from top to bottom. Its NY state permit application promises not to pursue cryptocurrency mining, a thing it was actively trumpeting its plan to do even as it filed that application.

The company has its roots in the very dirtiest kinds of Bitcoin mining. Its top execs (including CEO Paul Prager) were involved with Beowulf Energy LLC, a company that convinced struggling coal plant operators to keep operating in order to fuel Bitcoin mining rigs. There's evidence that top execs at Terawulf, the "carbon neutral" Bitcoin mining op, are also running Beowulf, the coal Bitcoin mining op.

This is a very profitable scam. Prager owns a "small village" in Maryland, with more that 20 structures, including a private gas station for his Ferrari collection (he also has a five bedroom place on Fifth Ave). More than a third of Terawulf's earnings were funneled to Beowulf. Terawulf also leases its facilities from a company that Prager owns 99.9% of, and Terawulf has *showered * that company in its stock.

So here we are, a typical Bitcoin story: scammers lying like hell, wrecking the planet, and getting indecently rich. The guy's even spending his money like an asshole. So far, so normal.

But what's interesting about this story is where it came from: Hunterbrook Media, an investigative news outlet that's funded by a short seller – an investment firm that makes bets that companies' share prices are likely to decline. They stand to make a ton of money if the journalists they hire find fraud in the companies they investigate:

https://hntrbrk.com/terawulf/

It's an amazing source of class disunity among the investment class:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/08/money-talks/#bullshit-walks

As the icing on the cake, Prager and Terawulf are pivoting to AI training. Because of course they are.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/09/terawulf/#hunterbrook

[cobbled-peach]

˗ˏˋ જ⁀➴ camisado

"can't take the kid from the fight, take the fight from the kid, sit back, relax, sit back, relapse again"

Part 1 | [Part 2]

cw: GN!reader. Pure angst for this one baby, literally zero comfort (I'll make it up to you in pt 2 xx). Talks of addiction, taking drugs, anxiety + panic attacks and withdrawl symptoms. (pls let me know if i missed something!!!). Both reader and Spencer sort of cannot communicate and are not slaying but they mean well a/n: this started as just a character study but I kinda fell into the deep end and got quite caught up in it so its inadvertantly a LOT more than just a character study, sand so I divided it up into something more cohesive. w/c: 5.4k

It’s impossible to prove a hypothesis.

You can run an experiment a thousand times, collect a thousand successful results, only to watch the 1001st experiment fail. Empirical data only takes you so far, giving the illusion of certainty. Until it doesn't.

Science deals in probabilities, assumptions – not guarantees. Spencer Reid knows this better than most.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when he started thinking of his addiction like a science experiment.

Maybe it was easier that way. A coping mechanism – reduction as self-defence. He could lessen the weight of it, condense something so vast and devastating into variables and charts and numbers in a feeble attempt to soften the struth. An attempt to strip it of its emotional weight and file it away under “manageable.” As if the cravings could be measured or quantified. Understood.

He frames the parameters in his mind with clinical precision. Independent variable: the drug. Dependent variable: his behavior. Control group: the version of himself from months ago, when the spiral hadn’t yet begun. Before the late nights. Before the secrets. Before the lies.

Addiction is just a problem like any other. A system which he can study, decode and master.

He creates his hypothesis: he can control it. He can use one more time, and still be fine. Each addition to his hypothesis only strengthens his willpower:

If I time it right, no one will notice. If I maintain structure, I won’t lose control. If I’m careful, my life will reman intact.

But addition doesn’t care for logic, nor does it follow the rules of scientific inquiry. It doesn’t operate within a sterile lab, patiently waiting to be measured.

There are no constants. No peer-reviewed journals to validate his pain or explain it away. There’s only the truth: the shaking in his hands, the crawling of his skin, the nausea that comes in waves, the sleepless nights that stretch into oblivion. Only the raw data of his descent: chaotic, unquantifiable and unforgiving.

The data never replicates, and the experiment keeps failing.

Again. And again. And again.

The variables start to mutate. The outcome blurs. The method falls away.

Still, he clings to the process. Records the collapse like data points, hoping objectivity will save him.

Day 6: Forgets to eat.

Day 9: Lies to Garcia about the bags under his eyes.

Day 12: The first time he brings it into the building. Doesn’t use. Just wants to know its there.

Day 16: Snaps at Prentiss mid-briefing. Doesn’t apologize.

Day 19: Blanks on a case. Morgan has to cover for him.

Day 22: Tells you it’s “just anxiety.”

Day 25: Uses before a profile. Feels sharper. Lies to himself and says it helps.

Day 28: Uses again. No excuse this time.

By now, he knows he can’t control it.

Fine. He can create a new hypothesis.

Compartmentalization. He tells himself he can seal the chaos in a box, keep the infection contained. Let the rest of his life remain untouched.

His work. His friends. You.

Especially you.

He tells himself that love and addiction can coexist, as long as they don’t overlap. As long as the two worlds remain separate. He can maintain the boundaries.

But love isn’t a constant either.

And addiction… it leaks. It slips through the cracks to taint everything it touches.

He forgets to reply to your messages. Forgets what day it is. Forgets to tune in when you speak.

He tells himself he’s tired. You tell him you’re worried. He smiles. Lies. Makes promises. You both watch as love falls into the contamination zone, becomes tangled in the variables he can’t control.

Watch as it starts to fail.

It starts like most mornings.

Spencer wakes to sunlight bleeding in through the blinds. Amber-toned light, catching dust motes in midair – it makes the room look almost serene. The sun streaks across the hardwood, illuminating coffee stains and the faded outline of where a rug used to be. Gentle, unassuming. The morning is pretending like nothing is wrong.

Outside, early traffic hums. A low, steady drone overlayed with birdsong and the sharp, impatient honk of a horn. Somewhere inside the apartment, a faucet drips in an uneven rhythm. He thinks of it like an erratic metronome, counting down time he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

He shivers. The sheets are tangled low around his legs – his doing, no doubt. He’s been tossing again. Restless, even in sleep. Maybe even more so in sleep. Dreams come with sharp edges now. Inescapable.

Your leg is resting lightly over his calf. Casual. Trusting. As if your body still believes in him, even if your mind has started to doubt.

You stir beside him, just a stretch. Your fingers graze his hand in a featherlight gesture, asking a question without a voice. He curls away in response. Rolls onto his side. Pretends to be asleep.

You don’t press. You never do. Not anymore.

You just rise, silent and soft, padding across the cool floor toward the bathroom. There’s the familiar clink of your toothbrush, a muffled yawn, the gentle hum when you finish. He used to join you for this. Brushing teeth side by side, heads bowed under the mirror light, elbows bumping and smiles shared. He always thought that was one of the most intimate things a couple could do – a quiet, unspoken routine shared between two people.

Today, he just stays in bed, weighted by guilt. Anchored to the mattress, hoping it’ll keep him from drifting. The drug is still in his system, softening the world and smoothing the edges that keep cutting him open.

You move to the kitchen next. Cupboards creak and mugs clink. The coffee machine whirs, beginning its little dance. The scent of coffee reaches him moments later. Overly sweet – his favorite. You always remember. He never asks.

He pushes himself upright, legs over the edge of the bed and feet meeting the cold floorboards. He imagines walking into the kitchen with you. Imagines wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder the way he used to. Imagines you leaning into him, whispering a song under your breath.

Instead, he stays where he is. Elbows on knees, head in hands. The light seems colder now that he’s facing it directly. Less gold, more white-blue. Less morning, more mourning.

He strains to hear you. The soft thud of your footsteps, the sound of cups and cabinets, your soft breath. The peaceful repetition of a ritual he used to be a part of, but now avoids and observes from afar.

Spencer wishes you would hate him. It would make things simpler. Cleaner. He wishes you’d scream, or cry, or slam the door and tell him to go to hell. Wishes you’d throw a mug just to watch it shatter.

But you don’t. You never do. You just remain; quiet and present.

Hopeful, maybe. Or resigned.

Last night had been bad.

The tremors came again, starting in his fingers and crawling up his hands and arms like static. He blamed the case. Said he felt “off.” The lie came so easily, as they all did lately. He crawled into bed, trying not to vomit or shake the mattress.

You didn’t say a word. You left a glass of water o the nightstand. Crawled in beside him. Pressed a kiss to his shoulder. The gesture broke him a little more.

He could hear the unspoken questions, the palpable worry in your body despite you saying nothing.

But what help can you offer someone who won’t accept it? How can you save a man who insists he isn’t struggling?

His mind feels quiet now, though. Usually spinning in overlapping questions and unrelenting memory, it’s finally still. False peace. A chemical silence.

He tells himself that his planned retreat is love. Letting you go before he destroys you completely.

He’s rehearsed it in his mind like a script. Over and over. A breakup: surgical and precise, a clean and final incision.

Version one: He says, “I can’t do this. It’s not your fault.” You cry quietly. Nod. Let him leave. He walks away without looking back.

Version two: You already know. You’ve known he was planning this for weeks. You tell him it’s okay. That you understand. That you love him. He ends up on the floor, sobbing. Can’t let go. Doesn’t leave. Prolongs the pain even more.

Version three: You scream. You throw something – maybe a glass. You call him a coward. He welcomes it, embraces the heat. It makes him feel real. Makes the leaving easier. Makes him feel like he isn’t the only villain in the story.

He’s practiced every scenario.

A thousand internal rehearsals. Different lines. Different outcomes.

Only one of them will break the cycle.

He doesn’t hear you come back in, but suddenly you’re there, setting his coffee down on the bedside table with the softest clink, like you’re trying not to wake him even though he’s already up, stiff-spined and quiet.

‘Spence?’

Your voice is thick with sleep, but still laced with warmth. It twists something deep in his chest.

He swallows. His mouth is dry, like he’s been breathing through it all night. Almost like his body is trying to cough out whatever truth he keeps trying to choke down.

‘Sorry,’ he says, though he doesn’t know what for. A pre-emptive apology, maybe. A reflex. ‘What time is it?’

‘Almost eight.’

The sheets rustle as you sit beside him. The mattress dips beneath your weight, and he feels the subtle pressure of your presence before your chin touches his shoulder. Light and familiar, just resting against him.

He flinches. Barely, but enough.

You feel it. Don’t pull away.

‘Is everything okay? Is this about the case?’

It’s not. You both know its not.

He considers lying anyway. Considers giving you numbers. He could offer up statistics about trauma and cognitive decline. Something familiar and in the realm of fact, clean and clinical and easy to categorize.

But nothing comes out.

Silence answers for him. It stretches between you, getting thinner by the second.

He counts seven seconds exactly before you shift away from him. He records it like a data point, adding it to the line in his ever-growing graph of failure.

You lean back against the headboard, wrapping your fingers around your mug. You sip it slowly. The smell of his own coffee reaches him again. Sweet and familiar. Grounded in a time before everything broke.

Your movements are careful. Each shift, every breath, calibrated around him like you’ve mapped his problems and have built your mornings around avoiding them. You’re not naturally quiet in the mornings. He knows that. You’d sing sometimes, badly and too loud, and bang drawers open without care. But now you measure each movement, minimizing the noise because you know it unsettles him when he’s wound too tight.

Another thing he hates. You adjust, without even being asked.

He joins you after a long moment, settling beside you. Not close enough to feel the warmth from your body. His eyes fall to the mug you selected for him. His mug, in your apartment. The faded yellow one, that’s more a dull cream than anything now.

He left it here by accident over a year ago, when weekends were tentatively spent in each other’s presence. Fresh and new. He remembers when he first found noticed it tucked in your cabinet between your own mismatched sets. His chest had gone still and warm.

Now it just feels like a piece of evidence. Proof that he’s infiltrated a life he doesn’t belong in. An outlier in your apartment.

He doesn’t reach for it right away. When he finally does, his hands tremble.

Your eyes flick down. That’s all it takes.

And suddenly you’re both back there. Three months ago. His apartment. Your hand wrapped around his wrist. Eyes wide with something deeper than fear. You were crying, but so softly that he almost didn’t register it. The needle had been on the counter, hidden beneath a tissue like something sacred and shameful all at once. A relic he didn’t know how to bury.

There had been begging. On both sides.

You telling him that it was dangerous. That you were scared. That he was killing himself slowly.

Him promising (over and over and over) that this was the last time. That he’d stop. That you couldn’t tell his team.

You’d desperately searched for solutions, tried to jump hurdles and find ways to help without exposing the situation to his team, to the world. You’d lost count of how many times you’d hit dead ends.

He continued with his promises. Seemed to get better for a while, but inevitably sunk down again. You wanted to believe he could get better. Maybe part of you did.

‘So,’ you say, voice softer now. It drags him back to the present like a lifeline, though he wishes he’d remain drowning. ‘You didn’t sleep?’

It’s phrased as a question, but it’s not. It’s a gentle accusation.

‘I slept some,’ he lies.

You don’t believe him. How could you? The evidence is all there. Red-rimmed eyes, sunken cheeks, a slow, syrupy fatigue that not even coffee can fix.

You nod, but your silence screams.

He sips his coffee. Too sweet. Perfect.

It tastes of normalcy. He watches the sun paint your shoulder – still cold, but warmer now it’s touching you. For a second he wants to pretend. Pretend this morning is just like any other, that he’s still the man who deserves your soft kindness.

But then you say, suddenly and very quietly:

‘I found something this morning.’

You don’t say what. You don’t need to.

He freezes. The blood drains from his face. The bathroom bin.

He’s been sloppy lately. Too tired to be cautious. Except this time it was perfectly planted. An excuse to initiate the end.

‘Do you hate me?’ he asks.

‘No.’ It’s immediate. Truthful. Your voice cracks anyway.

Your body folds in on itself, curling your arms around your knees, mug forgotten on the nightstand. Forging a shield around yourself. It makes you look smaller than usual. More fragile.

And in that shape, he sees it. Not anger. Not resentment. But heartbreak.

A slow, dull heartbreak. Bruised and tarnished. Despite it, you’re still here. Still hoping. Still loving him through the destruction.

Spencer stands abruptly. The weight pressing down on his chest has become too heavy, the consequences of his actions gaining in on him. Your apartment suddenly feels too small, Suffocating. He escapes to the kitchen, clutching his coffee mug.

‘Spence—’

You rise immediately and follow him. The way you say his name is tentative and fragile, like the first crack in a piece of glass. The first real fluctuation in his carefully controlled experiment.

He ignores you, pretending not to hear, and allows himself to be carried by the momentum of his own restlessness and panic. The ceramic of his mug feels too heavy, his nerve endings too attuned to the realness of it. When he sets it down, the sound echoes unnaturally loud. A shout in the silence.

‘Spencer.’

Your voice holds more weight this time. It’s a deliberate attempt to break through the barrier he’s created.

He exhales sharply through his nose. ‘What?’

You take a cautious step forward. Not accusing, just trying to close the ever-widening space between you.

‘Talk to me. Please.’

‘I am.’ His words are hollow as he gestures between you. ‘We’re talking.’

‘No, you’re avoiding,’ you correct, unwilling to back down. ‘I want to know what I can do for you. I can find you a new support group—’

His hands rise as he blocks out the rest of your words, pressing his palms firmly to his eyes. An attempt to press his feelings back inside. He fights the rising tide of panic and shame. Fights all the words threatening to spill out. Fights himself.

Fails.

‘I’ve tried!’ The calm snaps as his voice cracks, a sharp edge to his words that surprises even him. He pulls inward again, as if shielding himself from his own confession. It’s out in the open.

He feels sick – whether it’s the drug wearing off, or the anxiety squeezing his chest, he can’t tell.

‘I know…’ you begin, gentle, trying to reach him.

‘I tried,’ he repeats. His voice is softer. Desperate now. Raw. ‘I really did try. You think I wanted this? I don’t—’

‘Then let me in,’ you cut in, voice measured despite the frown on your face. ‘Let me help. Stop trying to get through this on your own.'

He grits his teeth. ‘I’m trying to protect you.’

‘From what? From you? You’re not the danger here, Spence. The silence is. Your lack of communication is. I don’t want to get you in trouble but you’re not leaving me with many options—’

He shakes his head. Starts pacing the kitchen like an animal in a cage. ‘You don’t get it.;

‘Then help me get it.’

‘You can’t!’ His voice cracks, and his hands tremble at his sides. He worries that he’s going to start crying. They already feel glassy, starting to sting, but he refuses to break down so early on.

‘Can’t what?’

‘You can’t understand what it’s like in my head. It’s loud. All the time. Noise and chaos and—’ His voice falters. He blinks away the building tears. ‘And I can’t get it to be quiet. The only time it’s silent is when I—’

He cuts himself off too late. The words hang in the air.

When I have it in my veins.

It’s not news. It never is. But it still hears to hear. Still lands like a punch to the gut.

You close your eyes, steading your breath and swallowing the sting of it. A moment to process, and then you exhale shakily.

‘I love you,’ you say, voice trembling. The truth, used as a mechanism to get him to see reason. A desperate attempt to pull him back to safety.

‘Don’t.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t say that right now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it makes this harder,’ he says.

‘This?’

He doesn’t answer.

The fierceness that takes over you then is startling. Shocking even to him.

‘No.’ You straighten, and your hands ball into fists at your sides. ‘Tell me. Tell me what you mean. Because I’m so tired of trying to decipher your half-sentences and prematurely ended conversations.’

He swallows hard. The silence suffocates the two of you.

‘I think we should break up.’

The wors fall like shards of glass. Sharp. Brutal. Irrevocable.

No rehearsed sincerity. No apology. Just the brutal truth. The 1001st experiment – failing harder than he could’ve ever predicted.

‘You’re really going to do this?’ you ask, voice breaking as you stare at him like he’s morphed into a stranger in just a few seconds. ‘You’re really going to do this now?’

Behind the hurt in your expression is confusion. You don’t understand. How can he push you away when he needs you the most? When he needs the support and guidance?

He nods once. Empty. Silent. The air seems to vanish, completely sucked from the room.

‘You think walking away is protecting me?’ It comes out as a demand, bottom lip trembling so hard it’s difficult to speak. ‘That—what? Making me sit here alone, wondering what I could’ve done differently—is going to help me?’

‘It’s not about you.’

‘That’s bullshit.’ The words bite, and he feels like he’s been struck by a whip. ‘Everything you do affects me, Spencer. Every time you lie. Every time you shut me out. I’m constantly hoping you’ll throw me just a scrap of truth. Just one honest thing.’

He takes a moment to look at you. To observe the cracks in your armor, the exhaustion behind your eyes.

And he knows: he’s breaking you.

‘I’m trying to protect you,’ he repeats. His voice holds no weight now, feeling threadbare.

‘Then talk to me,’ you plead, your voice breaking around the edges. ‘Let me in. Let me be in it with you. That’s what a relationship is, Spencer.’

‘I can’t.’ His jaw tightens. ‘I don’t want you to watch me fall apart.’

‘I already am watching. I have been. For months.’

The words land like a punch. He doesn’t outwardly flinch, but you see something change behind his eyes. It’s like the breath has been knocked out of him, and he’s trying not to show it.

If he could rewind time, he would.

Five minutes – so he could stop himself from saying the words that fractured this moment.

Five weeks – so he could prevent himself from taking and erase every relapse he never told you about.

Five months – to a Monday morning where he didn’t curl away from your touch, but welcomed you against his chest with open arms.

But time isn’t a variable he can control.

So he stays frozen. Like the stillness will ground him. If he doesn’t move, maybe the moment won’t progress forward.

Your face is unreadable now. He hates that. That’s what cuts deepest, he thinks. He used to be able to read you like a book. Once, he could even name every emotion before you even spoke it aloud – guilt in the twitch of an eye, love in a half-formed smile. Now, all he sees is distance. A stranger across the room. A closed door where open windows used to be.

‘I don’t want to fight,’ he says quietly. Final.

A beat of silence.

‘So that’s it?’

‘I can’t keep pulling you under with me,’ he says it. That line is rehearsed. It comes out sounding practiced, like it’s been spoken too often in the mirror. Even so, it lands jagged and half-shattered, just like everything else he’s touched lately.

There’s no screaming. No slammed fists or doors. Just something hollow. A quiet devastation. You feel it crack open your chest, the silence louder than any argument.

You take a step back. Not from anger, but from instinct. A recoil. He watches the moment with a clenched jaw, eyes misty like he’s already halfway gone.

Maybe if he yelled, things would make more sense. Maybe if he cried, you could believe that breaking up was hurting him too. But he just stands there. Still. Detached. Resigned.

‘Breaking up…’ You say the words carefully, like it physically hurts to speak them. ‘You don’t mean it.’

‘I do.’

‘No, you don’t.’ He’s unsure if you’re trying to convince yourself or him. ‘You’re just scared.’

He shrugs. Defeated. ‘Maybe. But that doesn’t make what I’m saying untrue. I’m breaking up with you.’

‘I don’t need you to be perfect, Spencer,’ you say, stepping toward him. ‘I just need you. The you who spoke to me. The you who let me carry even a little bit of the weight.’

He shakes his head. The words fall out bitter and painful. ‘You think this—’ he gestures vaguely between you, hand faltering mid-air, ‘—is a relationship? This is a time bomb. Every relapse, every lie – I drag you with me. And I can’t keep doing that to you.’

‘You don’t get to decide what I can or can’t handle.’

‘Yes, I do,’ he says. His voice cracks under the strain and his hands tremble now. ‘Because when you look at me like I’m breaking your heart by just existing—’ He stops. Swallows hard. ‘It kills me. I’m not putting you through that again.’

You throw your hands up. Not angry, just wrecked. The tears come slow at first, before you can even realize you’re crying, like your mind is still trying to pretend things might be okay, but your body knows it’s not.

‘Stop acting like what you’re doing is noble, Spencer,’ you whisper. ‘Stop weaponizing love to justify walking away.’

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

The silence after is deafening.

You don’t say what you’re thinking. Too late. You already have.

Instead, the two of you just stand there, not touching, not moving. The faucet drips lamely behind you. The birds continue singing outside. Oblivious, out of place – not caring that your world is falling apart.

‘Please.’

It comes from you finally. Your voice is so low it nearly disappears into the air between you. You aren’t begging. Not really. It’s something smaller than that. A final chance.

‘I don’t know how to be better,’ he admits, voice as quiet as yours. ‘I want to. I swear, I want to. But I don’t know how.’

‘Then let me help.’

You close the gap between you. A few fragile steps that feel like miles. When you stop, it’s with your heart wide open and bared. Your hands lift, almost touching him, but not quite. He leans in, forehead resting against yours.

His hands remain clenched into fists at his sides. He knows that if he touches you, really touches you, he’ll stay. And if he stays, he’ll keep breaking your heart into smaller, sharper pieces.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs, tone just shy of grief. ‘I wish there was a gentle way to leave you.’

And that’s when you feel it. The subtle shift. The air in the room changing. A certain ending.

It doesn’t end with a scream. It doesn’t end with a slammed door. It ends in the space between your bodies. In barely held restraint. In the inch he keeps between your hands.

Then he steps back, and the moment breaks.

You don’t follow. He doesn’t look back.

When he leaves, you let him go.

He doesn’t slam the door, though he wishes he could.

He wishes there was a clean, decisive sound. Something loud enough to match the shattering in his chest. Something final.

But there’s only a soft click as the door eases shut behind him, the apartment trying not to wake the grief sleeping in its corners.

He stands in the hallway. Motionless. It smells faintly like burned toast and over-watered plants. A dog barks from a floor below. The banality of it – the normalcy – makes him want to scream.

He counts his steps, just to drown out everything else in his mind.

Seven to the elevator. Ten seconds down. Twenty-four more to the front door of the building. The mundanity makes him cringe. Something should be stopping him from walking out. It shouldn’t be this easy.

He catches his reflection in the glass of the door. A brief flicker. He looks away before the mirror can accuse him, before he can see the guilt in his eyes.

You’re still upstairs. Maybe on the couch. Maybe still standing where he left you. He hopes you’ve stopped crying. Knows the tears are probably still falling.

When he steps out onto the street, the morning hits him harder than expected. Too bright. Too warm. The lightness feels unfair. A child is laughing down the block. Somewhere, a child laughs. A care radio blasts a pop song. The world is still going, indifferent to how he’s feeling.

The world hasn’t ended. Not for them.

He takes a deep breath, hoping the air will ground him. Fill his lungs and center him. It doesn’t. So he walks. Not fast, and not with purpose.

He just moves, one foot in front of the other, and hopes the momentum will save him. Like distance will undo the damage.

Still no particular destination. Work, maybe. He’s due in, he thinks. He just knows he can’t go back to you, even if that’s where his heart wants to go.

The air bites at is skin. Colder now that he’s moving. Maybe it just feels that way because he’s raw, stripped of the warmth that lived in your voice, your touch, your home. He starts to move faster, hoping the breakup won’t catch up with him.

Halfway down the block, it starts.

A too-shallow breath. A heartbeat that comes too fast. A tremor that doesn’t start in his hands, but originates from somewhere deeper. Somewhere ungraspable. He blinks rapidly, trying to control the way his chest won’t open up properly.

He rounds a corner too sharply. His vision warps at the edges. Every footstep feels like it echoes, the street unstable beneath him.

His own name flickers in his mind like static. He tried to ground himself in language, in familiarity, pleading for it to pull him back from whatever this is.

I’m not okay. I’m not okay. I’m no okay.

His pulse thuds unevenly. His ribs feel like they’re contracting, his chest turning to stone. The air won’t come in properly. He opens his mouth, gasps in ragged drags of oxygen. It feels like he’s breathing through a piece of gauze.

Somehow, though he doesn’t remember the walk there, he finds himself outside the BAU building.

He grips the brick wall beside the entrance like it’s the only thing holding him upright. His knees buckle and his slides down, curling in on himself. His arms brace across his knees – still clothed in soft pajamas – and he hangs his head low.

He’s trying not to fall apart in public. Trying not to be a problem. But the breaking inside is too loud. He looks insane, probably. Can’t bring himself to care.

He gasps again, and presses a hand to his chest. The other grips at his hair.

Parasympathetic regulation. He knows the terms. Tells himself he can breathe. Four-count inhale. Five-count exhale. He keeps losing count.

He digs his palms into his eyes. He wants to vanish into the dark behind his eyelids, wants the pressure to stop the noise. He wants to erase the world. Wants to go back.

A sound escapes him. One that is part breath, part sob. Low and fragile and unfamiliar.

Then:

‘Reid?’

He doesn’t respond. Just keeps breathing – or, trying to.

Footsteps. Quick and purposeful.

The voice again, closer. ‘Spencer?’

He hears it clearer this time. Morgan.

And then Morgan is there, crouched beside him without hesitation. Morgan doesn’t say much. He doesn’t freak out of panic. He just stays. Solid and steady.

‘Hey,’ he says gently. ‘Breathe. You’re okay. You’re right here with me, alright?’

Spencer wants to nod. Wants to speak. But his breath stutters again, getting caught. Morgan mirrors a breath. Slow. Deliberate. Exaggerated.

‘In and out with me, Pretty Boy. One—two—three—’

A pause. Breathing in unison.

‘That’s it,’ Morgan says, voice softly coaxing. ‘Keep going. I’ve got you.’

Spencer latches onto the rhythm. Not perfectly. Not easily. But slowly. His heartbeat begins to come down from its frantic pounding.

He leans his head back against the cool brick wall. Lets it ground him. Still shaky, but better.

‘I can’t… I can’t go in,’ he rasps. His voice sounds foreign in his own mouth. Dry and hoarse and cracked.

‘That’s okay,’ Morgan says immediately. ‘We don’t have to move. We’ll just sit here.’

And they do.

The silence between the isn’t empty. It’s full of everything Spencer can’t say yet. He grips his knees until his knuckles turn white.

‘I think…’ He swallows. ‘I think I broke it. Whatever I had, I ruined it. I told them…’ his voice catches as he takes another gulp of air. ‘I just left them.’

Morgan doesn’t ask questions. He just listens.

Spencer closes his eyes again, not to shut Morgan out, but to try and hold something inside. He feels it cracking anyway. Slowly. A quiet and ruinous cave-in.

No tears fall. He doesn’t have the energy left for that. He just sits with the ache. The guilt. The weight.

Someone walks into the BAU behind them. The buzz of the door opening and closing. Footsteps fading away. Spencer keeps his head down throughout.

Morgan rests a hand on his shoulder. It’s not heavy. Just present. And Spencer doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t recoil. Just breathes.

They sit like that as the sun rises higher, casting long shadows on the sidewalk. The world keeps going. The day unfolds without waiting. They remain together. Breathing in sync. Still and unmoving, because motion might shatter what’s left of Spencer’s composure.

Spencer thinks about his hypothesis again.

You can run the experiment a thousand times and get the same result.

But it only takes one failure to prove you were never in control.

if you made it this far, thank you for reading!! I rewrote and edited this so many times i think i went crazy and decided this was the best it would be!!! I have a taglist now! Please comment if you want to be added, or go to this post here. taglist: @abbyy54 @curatedbylucy @cynbx @enchantedtomeetcoffee @goobbug @internallysalad @jeuj @leparoleontanee @mrs-cactus69 @readbyreid @redorquid @santinstar @shortmelol @thoughtwriter @whitenoisewhatanawfulsound @written-in-the-stars06

[luxaofhesperides]

Can I please have meet cute/weird with mistaken villain! Danny (but really just a engineer and or chem student) and the one being put on investigation cause Danny is a day villain(not really)! Duke

Technically, Danny Fenton is innocent. Technically. 

Duke wants to give him the benefit of the doubt, especially since he’s having so much trouble finding solid evidence that Danny is stealing from a wide variety of people, but he’s been burned before by trying to see people as better than they were. It doesn’t change the fact that Oracle’s cameras keep spotting Danny right before a building on the street is broken into and something stolen. He’s always just walking down the sidewalk; no one has spotted him entering or exiting a building, but he’s around far too often to be unconnected to these burglaries. 

It doesn’t help that strange, petty crimes have been on the rise since Danny first arrived in Gotham. 

So.

Danny Fenton is technically innocent.

Duke is trying to prove that he’s not. 

Maybe I’m looking too closely, he thinks, going over Danny’s sparse file in the Hatch. Maybe Danny’s only one person in a bigger operation.

He could just be the lookout, the runner, the information gatherer who marks which buildings to hit. He may even be the scapegoat, the sacrificial lamb; Danny has no support in Gotham, no family, no job. There would be no one to help him if he got arrested or injured in a fight. He’s a freshman college student from Illinois who should be unprepared for life in Gotham but is somehow managing to survive like a native. 

There’s a lot about Danny that doesn’t add up. 

Duke has seen plenty of different people since he first went out as the Signal. He’s tried to be kind and give people the benefit of the doubt, but it leads to his loved ones being put in danger. Some people are truly evil, some working on a malicious agenda, some are misguided in their beliefs, and some are desperate people who see no other way to move forward.

He’s not sure yet which on Danny is, but he’s hoping Danny is just desperate and needs a little help to get out of a life of crime.

Which leads to the next problem: Duke has no idea what Danny is steal, or why. He hits both rich and poor folks, civilians and members of the mob, and once, notably, stole something right out of Cobblepot’s office. Allegedly, at least, since no one saw him enter or exit the office, not even the security cameras. 

But added to the whispers going around about a new group in Gotham snatching people up from the streets, and some strange green substances found in warehouses often raided by police for the frequent drug labs that pop up in them… 

It doesn’t look good for Danny. Especially when a few of the items he stole were found where people either vanished or where that green substance has been found.

A week of analysis in the Batcave and they still don’t know what it is. 

Both Damian and Jason suspected Lazarus water, but the composition was completely different. By the look of the molecular structure, it shouldn’t have been in a liquid form at all. 

All these findings lead back to one person who may have answers: Danny Fenton.

According to Tim, who’s already broken into Danny’s dorm room and checked over all the labs he has classes in, Danny has some concerning items in his possession. Various inventions and little metal knick-knacks put together by a practiced hand. He was also the one to find all the information that went into Danny’s file when it was first being made: social media posts, school report cards, news articles about his parents… everything. 

And then he had an emergency mission to take with the Titans that swept him out of Gotham leaving Duke to tackle this investigation on his own. 

He doesn’t have Tim’s natural skill in stalking and invading privacy. He hates breaking into people’s spaces and following them around, but needs must and he has to force himself to work through the discomfort. 

It’s a good thing he did, too. Danny’s leaving his dorm after his last afternoon class, hood up to hide his face and something held in the front pocket of his hoodie. He ducks around people on the sidewalk easily, almost as if he’s gliding through the crowd instead of walking. 

Duke follows from above, bending the light around him to hide him from sight. 

He walks for some time, weaving through alleys and streets as if he’s been in Gotham his whole life, leaving behind the university campus to head towards Otisberg. There’s something strange about the way Danny walks, as if he’s moving around people who aren’t there, guided by something Duke can’t hear. Even using his meta abilities doesn’t do much beyond show him where Danny’s going to be in the next few seconds. 

He continues to follow Danny on the rooftops, walking along the edge to keep him in sight. 

Then Danny stops behind an apartment building and tilts his head back to look up at it. He tilts his head to the side, then nods and looks around the empty alley. Duke crouches down, keeping his eyes on Danny in the hopes of catching him in the act—

Danny disappears.

Duke curses under his breath and jumps down from the roof, putting more strength into his abilities as soon as his feet touch the ground. 

The space where Danny was has a faint outline, oddly enough. He’s never seen that before. From it is a semi-transparent trail, smoke-like and a pale green leading into the building. It goes straight into a wall, as if Danny walked through it.

He can’t go in and search the entire apartment, but he can grapple up and take a look into the hallways to see where Danny’s heading. If he was looking up, then that’s where he should be heading. 

It doesn’t take any effort to scale the building. There are ledges and windowsills and plenty of handholds for him to propel himself off of, and paired with his powers, Duke is able to find the correct floor in just under two minutes. 

The green smoke slowly dances through the air of the ninth floor, on the east side of the building. If he’s been counting the rooms correctly, then the target of tonight’s burglary has to be apartment 924. 

The curtains are drawn on the window he makes his way over to, and his abilities don’t show him anything helpful for the immediate future. He hates going in blind, especially to a civilian’s home, but capturing Danny takes priority. Duke picks the lock and slides the window up slowly, making sure it stays quiet, then slips into an empty bedroom. 

He makes his way out into the hallway on silent feet, keeping a wary eye on the thin smoke strands of green, curling along the walls. The rest of the apartment is empty as well, pale sunlight slanting across the floor through the blinds. 

Everything is still and silent. Danny’s nowhere to be found. 

Did he miss Danny leaving, somehow? Was this a misdirect to get him out of the way while Danny stole from another location? Did he know Duke was following him?

But no, his ears pick up on the faint sound of clothes rustling. 

Cautiously, Duke turns towards the front door, where the door to the coat closet is open. He focuses on what’s going to happen in the next twenty seconds and sees Danny panic, then disappear from sight again, but a transparent outline of his body is visible just enough to show him where he runs to. Best not to spook him; Duke pulls at the light around him and bends it to hide him from sight.

Then he moves along the wall, getting around the open door without bumping into anyone or anything. 

A figure in front of the coats, shoving them to the side roughly, flickers in and out of view, almost like a reflection in water, distorted by ripples on the surface. 

Danny pops back into visibility suddenly, scowling at the coats. “Are you sure it’s in here?” he asks the empty air. 

There is no answer, but Danny acts like there is. He rolls his eyes and says, “It’s a favor. That I’m doing for you. I can literally stop right now and you wouldn’t be able to stop me.” He shoves aside another heavy winter coat, then sighs. “Why don’t you look for it, and then tell me where it is.”

He steps back and bumps into Duke.

Danny whirls around, eyes wide, and blast of green light has Duke crashing back into the wall, trying to blink spots out of his eyes. 

“Wait!” he yells, grabbing for Danny before he can run off. “I just wanna talk!”

“Standing right behind me like a serial killer does not make you look like someone who wants to talk!” Danny yells back, slipping through his hands like mist. 

“I just have a few questions!”

“Well, I have a question: why?!”

“Will you hold still, we’re being too loud!”

Danny escapes to the other side of the apartment, next to a window looking fully prepared to fling himself out of it. But he does stop yelling, so Duke is counting it as a success.

“Why is the Signal coming after me?” Danny asks, glaring at him suspiciously.

“Dude,” Duke says, “You’ve been seen outside of every single building that’s had a burglary since you first arrived in Gotham. All the Bats are after you, they just sent me because I’m the only one active during the day.”

“All the Bats?” Danny repeats, losing what little color he had in his face.

He looks legitimately scared, pale enough to be concerning, and Duke drops his guard and tries to relax the tension in the apartment. “I’m not gonna turn you into the cops or anything. I just had questions and you seem like the most likely person to have answers. That’s it.”

Danny still looks wary, ready to run at a moment’s notice, but he doesn’t leave when Duke approached casually, leaning his weight against the couch. 

“So,” he begins, “What’s the deal with all the thievery? It’s rarely something super rare or expensive.”

There’s a long few minutes where Danny doesn’t answer, looking anywhere but at Duke. Then he twitches a bit and glares off to the side, and says, “I taking items that are contaminated with ectoplasm to help ghosts move through the veil and leave Gotham.”

That tells him nothing! That just gives Duke more questions! But at least it’s an answer, the first one any of them have got.

“I think you’re gonna have to explain a little more.”

“Ghosts are real, alright?”

“Yes.”

Danny stops. Squints at him. “What do you mean, ‘yes’?”

“Ghosts are real,” Duke repeats, “There are a few who help heroes or are heroes themselves, but that’s more on the magic side of things so I’m not super familiar with it.”

“Magic,” Danny says slowly. “Sure, alright. Um. Yes, ghosts are real. And there are a ton in Gotham who need help moving on, but they’re too weak to get past the veil. Something about Gotham has made the veil super strong, so they need a little boost to get through. Additional ectoplasm bonded helps with that.”

“And that’s why you’re stealing random things?”

“The ghosts I help can kind of sense ectoplasm-infused things, but they need me to grab them since they can’t hold anything without a physical body.”

Duke nods slowly. “Okay, that’s starting to answer some things. We have found those objects in the last places missing people were seen. Any idea what’s going on with that?”

“Yeah, those people were already dead.”

The way Danny says the most concerning answers as if they’re nothing is really throwing Duke off his game. He was expecting to be calm and serious to keep Danny from freaking out too much and look like a legitimate hero. But as soon as Danny started talking, all his nerves fell away and Duke is left grasping for composure. 

“They were…”

“They were ghosts, yeah. And they needed to get through the veil. But they were also able to possess their own bodies and didn’t realize they were dead until I had to break the news to them, which is why it looks like living people just up and disappeared.”

“Okay… What about the green stuff we’ve been finding?”

“Ectoplasm.” Danny holds up a hand and a neon green light surrounds it. Except it looks more solid than light, as if it can be touched, and it moves on its own like fire around Danny’s fingers. “It’s what ghosts are made of.”

Oh. If Danny has ectoplasm, does that mean…

“Are you dead?” Duke asks, heart dropping. 

Instead of looking upset about the question, or even disturbed by it, Danny just shrugs and waves his hand back and forth. “A little.”

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Duke says, trying to resist the urge to rub his temples. It’s a habit he didn’t mean to pick up from Batman, and it would just look silly with his helmet in the way. “You’re just doing all this to help ghosts?”

“Yeah. Basically. They asked for help man, of course I was going to help them.”

Danny’s a good person. He’s just a good person to ghosts. But this is good news either way, and he can let the others know that Danny isn’t the next Catwoman and is entirely unconnected from any drug production. Everything that made him look like a criminal is just the fault of ghosts. 

“Speaking of,” Danny continues, “Looks like they found what they need, so I’m going to grab that real quick.” He pushes off of the wall and heads for the closet again, moving past Duke without any fear. Duke follows, keeping a few feet of distance between them so Danny doesn’t feel trapped, and watches as he shoves aside the coats again and pulls a shoebox out of the depths of the closet. From it, he takes a single intricate lace headband and holds it up.

It looks normal, if a little old, but when Danny sends ectoplasm through it, the lace lights up and holds the glow. 

He pulls some strange contraption out of his pocket and holds it up to the headband. It makes a few beeps, then Danny mutters, “7.4 millisieverts. That’s enough to get you through the veil.”

Another concern Duke can let go of: Danny’s not creating weapons like his parents have, he’s just measuring ectoplasm through his own inventions. 

Maybe he could talk to Bruce or Tim about getting Danny an internship at the R&D lab in Wayne Enterprises? That way they could keep a closer eye on him while seeing what he can create in some of the best laboratories in the country.

Well, it might take having them meet Danny before they trust him enough for that, but Duke is sure he can make it happen. 

“I better go see this through, then,” Danny says, shoving the contraption back into his hoodie pocket. He gives Duke a small awkward wave, then pops out of visibility. “I’ll see you around, I guess?” he disembodied voice hedges, and Duke smiles.

“I’m sure I’ll be able to find you again.”

“Cool. I gonna go now!” 

He doesn’t see any sign that Danny’s left, but he gets a feeling that he’s alone now, the apartment suddenly emptier than it was before. 

As strange and concerning as Danny and all his bizarre actions were, Duke is glad he was able to finally talk to him and get some answers. Knowing how Gotham pulls people him in, it’s only a matter of time before the other Bats are exposed to Danny’s kind of strange. He’s already looking forward to it. 

For now, though, he has a file to update in the Hatch; POTENTIAL THREAT will be removed and replaced with GHOST HELPER. 

If anyone goes snooping into his files and gets confused, then that’s their problem. Duke’s explained enough. And Danny can take care of the rest, once they go through the effort of tracking him down. Duke's done his part, he's ready for the rest of them to step up to his level.

He can’t wait to see what other kind of trouble Danny can get it into.

[airosuiren]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔊𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱𝔰 𝔗𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔊𝔲𝔞𝔯𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔊𝔞𝔱𝔢

A/N: You ever watch people climb a ladder you built with your own blood? That’s this chapter. [Y/N] and Karma aren’t chasing applause. They’re the shadows behind the stage, the hand that pushes the scalpel deeper when justice needs to hurt. The world sees students. The staff sees assets. The other students? They don’t know what they’re looking at anymore—and that’s exactly the point. This chapter is about walking into enemy territory with a smile on your lips, a knife in your belt, and a partner at your side who never blinks when you burn too hot. You’re not here to fit in. You’re here to outlast everyone who doubted you.

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 1, 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 2, 𝔖𝔦𝔡𝔢 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

The transition from operatives-in-training to full-fledged agents should have been jarring. But for [Y/N] Midoriya and Karma Akabane, it felt more like slipping into clothes they had long since outgrown.

They were already killers. Already protectors. Already unshakable.

Now, they were official.

And that changed everything.

Their new assignment came with increased freedom—and increased danger. No more hand-holding. No more simulated threats.

Kasuma called them in one final time for a private briefing.

“You’re not children anymore,” he repeated, like a mantra. “You’re ghost agents. Assets. The moment you step into this, you belong to no one and serve only the mission.”

He paused, then looked at them—not the badges on their jackets, not the files they held.

Them.

“I’m proud of you both,” he said quietly.

[Y/N] felt something tight twist in her chest. She nodded. Karma smiled, just barely.

That was the last time they saw Kasuma for a while.

He left for an overseas operation that would last months, taking Irina with him. He gave them a contact in Tokyo and warned them: Stay sharp. UA might need you sooner than expected.

They didn’t know then just how right he was.

In the weeks that followed, Karma and [Y/N] established a base in a small apartment on the edge of the city.

They weren’t exactly living undercover, but they also weren’t public heroes. They moved through the world like ghosts, slipping between crowded alleys and rooftops, collecting information and building networks.

Their targets weren’t low-level thugs anymore.

They were watching names whispered in fear:

People tied to the League of Villains.

Underground arms dealers.

Corrupt businessmen sponsoring bio-enhanced quirk tech.

Karma enjoyed the tension.

[Y/N] thrived on the structure.

They operated like one mind in two bodies—flawless coordination, unspoken cues.

And slowly, as nights turned into weeks and weeks into months, their bond deepened.

They didn’t talk about it.

Not directly.

But it was there in the quiet things:

The way Karma always saved her the last strawberry milk in the fridge. The way [Y/N] always patched up his wounds before her own. The way they gravitated toward each other when things were too loud, too heavy, too real.

It was natural. Unspoken. And undeniable.

One night, after a long mission that ended in fire and fractured ribs, they collapsed on their apartment floor, bruised and breathless.

Karma’s shirt was torn. [Y/N] had blood on her knuckles.

She lay on the floor, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“You ever think,” she said quietly, “that we’re the only ones who get it?”

Karma was silent for a beat.

Then: “Every day.”

She turned her head. He was already looking at her.

The moment stretched long and quiet.

Then Karma reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

[Y/N] blinked.

“You didn’t,” she said, trying to sit up.

He opened it.

Inside was a ring. Silver. Clean. A thin band etched with a symbol only they understood: a flame crossed by lightning.

“It’s not what you think,” Karma said quickly, ears turning red. “It’s not… I mean, not yet. It’s just…”

She took it before he could finish.

Slid it onto her finger.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered.

And that night, for the first time, they didn’t sleep in separate beds.

Not for sex. Not for comfort.

Just to be close.

To know they were real.

To remember they were alive.

Their next mission came sooner than expected.

A deep investigation into a string of disappearances tied to illegal quirk experimentation.

They found a lab buried beneath a seemingly abandoned hospital.

What they discovered made even Karma’s cocky grin fade.

Children.

Dozens.

Hooked to machines, wired for data extraction.

[Y/N] nearly vomited. Karma stood frozen.

And then they moved.

The operation burned that night.

[Y/N] created a dome of air to shield the children. Karma melted the power grids and iced every escape route.

The scientists didn’t escape.

Neither did the armed guards.

The media was never alerted.

The story never made headlines.

But the kids lived.

That was enough.

They spent a week off-grid after that.

Recovery. Sleep. Therapy in the form of video games, bad takeout, and long walks along empty rooftops.

[Y/N] didn’t cry. Karma didn’t joke.

They just existed. Together.

It was during that quiet week that the second kiss happened.

The first had been months ago. A heat-of-the-moment adrenaline spark after a close-call mission.

But this one…

They were sitting on the apartment balcony.

Karma said something stupid. [Y/N] laughed.

He turned to look at her. She turned at the same time.

Their eyes met.

And suddenly, it wasn’t a question.

It was inevitable.

He leaned in. She met him halfway.

Soft. Slow. Real.

When they broke apart, Karma pressed their foreheads together.

“Don’t leave,” he said quietly.

[Y/N] smiled.

“I never do.”

They didn’t define it. Didn’t label it. Didn’t need to.

It was theirs.

And that was enough.

By the end of the month, they were called in for a special briefing.

Kasuma, back from his mission, met them at a secure facility.

“You’re going to U.A.,” he said, without preamble.

[Y/N] blinked.

“What?” Karma said.

“You’re not enrolling as students,” Kasuma clarified. “You’ll be embedded. Posing as transfers, but you’re there as internal operatives.”

[Y/N] folded her arms. “Why us?”

Kasuma looked at her evenly. “Because I trust you. Because you’re smart. Because you’re powerful. Because if anyone can keep that place from collapsing, it’s you two.”

Karma raised an eyebrow. “You’re not worried we’ll… y’know… start chaos?”

Kasuma smiled faintly. “I’m counting on it.”

He handed over two sealed envelopes.

“Inside are your contracts. Your permissions. Your mission parameters. Don’t lose them.”

They didn’t.

The night before they left, [Y/N] and Karma stood on the rooftop of their building, looking out over Tokyo.

“It’s going to be different,” [Y/N] said.

Karma nodded.

“We’re going back to being students,” she added.

Karma snorted. “Sort of.”

She turned to him.

“What if they hate us?”

He shrugged. “Then we make them wish they didn’t.”

[Y/N] laughed.

“You’re terrifying,” she said.

Karma leaned closer.

“I’m yours.”

And she kissed him.

Under the stars.

Bonds forged in fire. In blood. In quiet promises and loud declarations.

Unbreakable. Unshakable.

The world had no idea what was coming.

But it would learn.

Because [Y/N] Midoriya and Karma Akabane were no one’s background characters.

They were the storm.

And they were heading straight for U.A.

U.A. High School was louder than she remembered.

[Y/N] Midoriya stood in front of the dorm building, one box levitating behind her as she used a casual breeze to float it into her hands. Her other arm was looped through Katsuki Bakugou’s as she babbled happily about the dorm arrangements, the bland uniforms, and the god-awful lighting in the girls’ bathrooms.

Katsuki Bakugou carried the heavier boxes with minimal complaint. Not because he was kind. Because he knew better than to let her get bored.

“Can’t believe they’re making you set up alone,” he muttered.

“Oh, I’m never alone, Kats,” she chirped, skipping ahead as her wind quirk lifted a box through the air behind them. “I’ve got voices. And glass. And you.”

“...I’m not comforted by that.”

“I didn’t say you were. I said I am.”

“Seriously, Kats,” she said in a sing-song voice, “I think the hallways are actually designed to suck the soul out of people. Like, one big soul Hoover.”

Bakugou grunted. “You’re just pissed there’s no pink tile.”

“I ASKED for lavender. That’s not unreasonable.”

He didn’t reply, but she caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

From a distance, Class 1-A watched the interaction with a mixture of fascination and suspicion.

Bakugou? Willingly letting someone talk his ear off? Letting them touch him? Letting them use him as a moving wall to carry her dumbass decorations for her room?

It was chaos.

And then she turned.

Bright green eyes landed on the gathered students with that same cheerful gleam—too bright, too wide, like a neon sign that flickered too much.

“Hiya, Class 1-A!” she chirped, twirling once as her hair fluttered in the wind she summoned. “I’m [Y/N] Midoriya! Twin sister of your very own Izuku~!”

The silence hit like a slap.

All eyes turned to Izuku.

He turned pale.

“You never said you had a sister,” Uraraka said quietly.

Izuku swallowed. “I-I didn’t think it was important.”

Ouch.

[Y/N] grinned wider.

“Oh, don’t worry, Deku,” she said sweetly, floating a small wind-blown leaf onto his head. “It’s not like I’ve been alive this whole time or anything.”

Bakugou snorted. Kaminari blinked. Todoroki tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

“She’s quirkless, right?” Sero asked.

“NOPE!” [Y/N] beamed, hands on hips. “Got mine before Izuku even knew what a quirk was. But I kept it a secret to make him feel better.”

Another silence.

Izuku looked like he was going to pass out.

“That’s… insane,” Momo said cautiously.

[Y/N] cocked her head. “Awww, thanks! I try.”

Bakugou stood beside her, arms crossed, and for once, he looked smug.

“Don’t try to figure her out,” he said dryly. “You’ll go nuts before she does.”

Aizawa called her in that afternoon for a quick assessment.

“You know the rule,” he said. “Sparring introduction. You’ll be matched with Todoroki.”

“Oh, Todoroki~?” [Y/N] sang, clapping. “The one with fire and ice? Cute.”

Izuku stood immediately. “She’s too unstable. She shouldn’t—”

A gust of wind slammed him back into his chair.

“Oopsies,” [Y/N] said, not looking at him. “I twitch sometimes.”

Aizawa sighed deeply and waved her toward the arena.

The match lasted three minutes.

Todoroki opened with ice.

[Y/N] melted it mid-air with a snap of her fingers.

He followed with fire.

She swallowed it with a vortex and spit it back at him in a wave of scalding steam.

Then she surrounded him in a prison of rock and danced just out of reach, laughing.

No quirks, no weapons, no tricks—just raw elemental dominance wrapped in a pink ribbon of madness.

When it ended, Todoroki stared at the ground, humiliated.

[Y/N] patted his shoulder.

“You’re very pretty when you’re confused,” she said sweetly. “Like a sad puppy who forgot where the door is.”

The class stared at her like she was a ticking bomb.

Later that evening, Izuku cornered her in the hallway.

“You humiliated me,” he hissed.

[Y/N] smiled like sunshine. “Did I?”

“You told everyone about your quirk. You—”

“I pretended to be quirkless for you,” she said brightly. “Because you were crying. Because Mom hit me when I tried to say I had powers. Because she said it would ‘hurt you.’ So I waited. And waited. And then you got powers and didn’t even tell me.”

He flinched.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

That made her laugh.

Not a soft giggle.

A high, wild laugh that echoed through the dorm halls.

“I don’t care,” she said, still laughing. “You’re just not my brother anymore. You’re a guy I used to know. Now I’ve got a best friend who actually likes me and a boyfriend who brings me strawberry milk.”

She walked away without looking back.

Katsuki was waiting by the dorms. He gave her a once-over and passed her a soda.

“Deku crying again?”

“Always.”

She popped the can open with a flick of ice and grinned.

The next week, Karma arrived.

He walked into Class 1-A like he owned it, two buttons undone, blazer flapping, strawberry milk in hand.

Iida tried to lecture him.

Karma tossed the empty milk carton into his chest and kept walking.

[Y/N] launched herself at him. They kissed in front of everyone.

The room combusted.

Iida screamed about propriety. Kaminari short-circuited. Mineta nosebled and passed out.

Only Bakugou rolled his eyes and muttered, “Took long enough.”

Karma grinned. “[Y/N] missed me so bad she almost burned a building down.”

“I only set the bathroom on fire,” [Y/N] huffed. “That doesn’t count.”

“Hi,” Karma said to the class, slipping an arm around her waist. “I’m Karma. I like strawberry milk, chaos, and her. Try to touch her, and I’ll break your kneecaps with a smile.”

Uraraka stepped back. Even Todoroki seemed uneasy.

Izuku looked like he was going to explode.

From that point on, Class 1-A gave them space.

[Y/N] dragged Bakugou around, repainted his room lavender, stuck googly eyes on his grenadier gauntlets, and kept calling him “BoomBoom BFF.”

Bakugou let her.

The Baku Squad hated it.

The Deku Squad hated her.

The rest kept their distance.

Aizawa didn’t bother interfering.

“You’re not here to make friends,” he muttered during homeroom.

“Nope!” [Y/N] replied cheerfully, balancing a pencil on her nose. “I’m here to make trauma fashionable.”

He stared at her. Marked her present. Moved on.

At night, she slept in Karma’s dorm. They curled under too many blankets, whispered about strategy, giggled at dumb inside jokes, and practiced hand-to-hand in the common room after hours.

They were chaos wrapped in chemistry.

And U.A. didn’t know what to do with them.

[Y/N] didn’t need approval. Didn’t crave love from people who once ignored her existence.

She had Karma. She had Katsuki. She had her own strength.

And that was more than enough.

Because the girl who had once stayed silent had found her voice.

And it was cheerful.

It was twisted.

It was absolutely, unapologetically psychotic.

And she loved it.

[Y/N] Midoriya liked her new dorm.

Mostly because she didn’t actually stay in it.

Her official dorm was neat, full of sparkly figurines, mood lighting, and a whiteboard of unfinished elemental theories. But her real home? That was Karma’s room, where the walls smelled faintly of cherry detergent and strawberry milk.

Sleeping there was normal. Comforting. Strategic.

Until Principal Nezu decided to “reassess arrangements.”

“You’ll be placed in separate dorms permanently,” Nezu said, paws folded neatly on his desk. “We believe it’s for the best.”

[Y/N] blinked. “Best for who?”

“For the morale of Class 1-A. For appearances. You understand.”

She smiled. Too wide. Too sweet.

“Oh, I understand just fine,” she said in a singsong tone. “And I’m telling you very gently, Nezu-san… fix it before Karma comes back from his mission. Or you’ll be the one applying emergency morale patches.”

Karma had been called to Tokyo. She, on the other hand, was given one job: get comfortable. That was laughable. Comfort and U.A. didn’t mix, not after everything she’d heard and seen.

Aizawa, who had been silent up to this point, exhaled slowly. “She’s not bluffing.”

Nezu chuckled nervously. “We’ll consider it.”

They didn’t.

So she waited.

The day Karma returned from Tokyo, he didn’t enter U.A. like a normal person.

He kicked the door open.

Strawberry milk in one hand, dorm key in the other, blazer tied around his waist.

[Y/N] launched into his arms before the dust settled.

“You smell like fire and deadlines,” she murmured against his collar.

“And you smell like you haven’t slept in days.”

“I haven’t. I threatened a rodent.”

“Good girl.”

“You’re saying what now?” Karma asked later that night, tilting his head as [Y/N] ranted, pacing in a circle in their shared—secret—study room.

“They want us in separate dorms, Karma. Like they forgot the clause in our contract that literally says we operate as a team unit and we share living quarters for control and coordination. They said it might ‘make other students uncomfortable.’”

Karma rolled a coin between his fingers. “What’s our authority level again?”

“Above theirs,” [Y/N] said sweetly.

“Neat. Let’s burn the paperwork.”

“Nope. Better idea. We’ll let Aizawa do the talking. Then we’ll make friends with the support course. I want to build a thermal-proof ‘Do Not Disturb’ field around our dorm.”

He smirked. “You’re adorable when you’re scheming.”

“You’re hot when you’re complicit.”

Aizawa held an emergency meeting with the faculty.

“They have security clearance higher than half of Japan’s military. I don’t care if it makes Mineta nervous. Let them share a room or deal with the fallout.”

Principal Nezu reluctantly agreed.

“Very well. But we announce it.”

“Effective immediately,” Aizawa said flatly the next morning, “Karma Akabane and [Y/N] Midoriya will be rooming together. This has been authorized and approved. No discussion.”

There was so much discussion.

“THAT’S NOT FAIR!” Mineta cried.

“She sleeps in his T-shirt!” Kaminari shouted.

“Why do they get to act like royalty?” Iida barked.

“Because we are,” Karma said with a smile.

[Y/N] sat beside him, swirling a tiny tornado in her teacup. “We’re not normal students. We’re contractors. You remember the part where I folded Todoroki like a beach towel, right?”

Todoroki raised a hand. “I’m not part of this conversation.”

Uraraka’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re just above us now?”

“No,” [Y/N] said, licking her spoon. “We’re beneath you. Like ghosts. That protect you while you sleep. Or choose not to. Depending on how annoying you are.”

Silence.

Behind the scenes, things were moving fast.

The League of Villains had made three indirect attacks in a month.

U.A. needed insurance.

[Y/N] and Karma weren’t just students.

They were insurance with trigger-happy smiles.

Their official mission briefing, written by Kasuma himself, was clear:

Maintain cover as elite student transfers. Monitor League movement. Neutralize threats. Protect critical assets.

In short: babysit the hero children. Eliminate anyone who tried to hurt them.

It was a mess.

And they were perfect for it.

Karma adjusted quickly. He got along with some of the Baku Squad when they weren’t acting like territorial cats.

[Y/N] continued to rub everyone the wrong way.

“Why do you only talk to Bakugou?” Jirou asked one afternoon.

“Because BoomBoom is the only one who doesn’t flinch when I touch a blade.”

“You used wind to send Sato’s cake into the ceiling.”

“Poor structural integrity.”

“You set Iida’s notes on fire.”

“They were boring.”

“You replaced my shampoo with glitter.”

“That one was Karma, actually.”

“TRAITOR!” Karma called from the common room.

Despite the chaos, the missions kept coming.

Small ones at first.

Interventions off-campus.

Scouting dangerous areas.

U.A. didn’t announce it, but the staff all knew who to call when the police were too slow.

[Y/N] and Karma answered every time.

No fanfare.

No reports.

Just results.

One night, they got called to intercept a rogue bio-enhanced villain on the edge of Musutafu.

Aizawa handed them the file.

“He’s armed, unstable, and strong. Try to de-escalate. But if he throws the first punch—”

“He’s done,” Karma said, slipping on his gloves.

[Y/N] grinned. “Got it. Dinner after?”

“I’m thinking noodles.”

“Spicy?”

“You read my mind.”

They were gone in seconds.

Thirty minutes later, the villain was unconscious, tied to a lamp post, with a sticky note on his forehead that read:

‘Try again never.’ –The Ghosts of U.A.

Back at school, things grew tenser.

Izuku cornered [Y/N] one morning.

“We should talk,” he said, hesitant.

“We just did,” she replied.

“Seriously. I want to understand.”

“Now you want to understand?”

“I didn’t know how much I hurt you.”

She stopped.

Looked at him.

Then leaned in close.

“You hurt me a lot, Izuku. But I’m over it. I’m not angry anymore. I just don’t trust you. That’s different.”

He swallowed hard.

“But maybe one day,” she added with a sad smile, “we’ll be family again. If you earn it.”

And she walked away.

At night, she sat on the rooftop with Karma, twirling a spark of light between her fingers.

“They’re starting to hate us more,” she said.

“They’re starting to fear us more,” he corrected.

“Same thing.”

Karma shrugged. “Let them. We’re not here to win a popularity contest.”

She sighed. “No. We’re here to keep them alive.”

“And we will.”

She looked over at him.

“Thanks for coming with me.”

He leaned over, kissed her forehead.

“Always.”

They sat in silence.

The two bodyguards of U.A.

Invisible to most.

Essential to all.

A/N: They never wanted her power. They just didn’t want her to use it. Now? Too late. [Y/N] Midoriya isn’t just strong—she’s untouchable. Karma’s not just her match—he’s her mirror. Together, they aren’t classmates. They’re contingency plans. You don’t have to like them. You just have to survive long enough to realize you needed them. The ghosts are watching. And they don’t miss.

— Author, absolutely unwell over rooftop kisses, sibling detachment arcs, and U.A. accidentally housing its own secret endgame duo.

Taglist: @feral-childs-word, @trashlanternfish360, @astro-girly1, @suneaterscape, @thatcatladywrites, @arislia, @kittzu, @ottjhe, @tinybrie, @wpdarlingpan, @ryuushou, @simpingpandas, @lettucel0ver, @moonxmio, @sirenetheblogger, @xzmickeyzx, @ironsaladwitch, @lithiumval, @starsdotalk, @fortunatelydifferentqueen, @ocean-mochi, @bunniotomia, @sept3mberchild, @sweetheart4you, @mayhem-k

Let me know if I missed anyone

[pnutbutter-n-j-elyy]

Free VCHA TW: Mentions of Suicide, Eating Disorders, Unconsentual Surveilence and Self-Harm

I don't even know where to start...

My heart absolutely breaks for VCHA right now.

Hearing about everything they’ve been through- the self-harm, the gained ED's, the surveillance, the suicide attempts- it’s devastating.

Especially when those girls minors as well.

No one, especially young girls, should ever have to endure this kind of pain just to chase their dreams.

The fact that KG is filing a lawsuit to terminate her contract says so much about the conditions she’s been facing.

This isn’t just about one group or one company- it’s an industry-wide problem.

And let me preface-

before anyone starts directing all their anger at J.Y. Park, it’s crucial to understand that he isn’t the one pulling the strings- especially in the subsidaries.

Yes, he’s the face of JYP Entertainment and a prominent figure in the industry, but he’s not micromanaging every decision or daily operation involving artists like VCHA. Decisions about trainee management, promotional schedules, or group dynamics are typically made by a network of executives, managers, and staff within the company. J.Y. Park might set the tone as a founder, but the way the system functions extends far beyond him.

Instead of focusing on hating or blaming one person, we should direct our energy toward challenging the larger system. This isn’t just a “JYP problem”- it’s an issue ingrained in the ENTIRE entertainment industry, where idols are often seen as products rather than people.

Real change requires dismantling the exploitative practices and structures that allow mistreatment to happen, no matter which company is involved. Let’s shift the conversation to fight the system that perpetuates this harm, rather than focusing on an individual who is only a visible part of it.

These are kids debuting in hyper-competitive, high-pressure environments, with their lives micromanaged for profit. The secrecy VCHA endured pre-debut only adds to the emotional strain. I hope this lawsuit opens more eyes to the toll this industry takes on these artists.

This year alone has been a disaster for the industry. There have been countless reports of idol abuse, mistreatment, and even deaths linked to the extreme pressures idols face. The tragic situation with VCHA is just another example in a long line of issues that need to be addressed. The exploitation of minors and idols in general in the K-pop industry is a problem that can’t be ignored any longer. It’s beyond time for a widespread reckoning, where the industry shifts its focus from maximizing profits to truly caring for the well-being of its artists.

I hope KG’s lawsuit, along with the attention that this case is receiving, opens more eyes to the toll the industry takes on its artists- especially those who are still so young.

These idols deserve more than just our admiration; they deserve our empathy, our support, and a system that treats them as people, not products. My heart goes out to KG and the rest of VCHA, and I pray they find the healing and support they so desperately need.

They are worth so much more than the system that’s failed them.

#FreeVCHA #ProtectOurIdols

(tags are to spread views quicker)

[artsekey]

I'd been seeing videos on Tiktok and Youtube about how younger Gen Z & Gen Alpha were demonstrating low computer literacy & below benchmark reading & writing skills, but-- like with many things on the internet-- I assumed most of what I read and watched was exaggerated. Hell, even if things were as bad as people were saying, it would be at least ~5 years before I started seeing the problem in higher education.

I was very wrong.

Of the many applications I've read this application season, only %6 percent demonstrated would I would consider a college-level mastery of language & grammar. The students writing these applications have been enrolled in university for at least two years, and have taken all fundamental courses. This means they've had classes dedicated to reading, writing, and literature analysis, and yet!

There are sentences I have to read over and over again to discern intent. Circular arguments that offer no actual substance. Errors in spelling and capitalization that spellcheck should've flagged.

At a glance, it's easy to trace this issue back to two things:

The state of education in the United States is abhorrent. Instructors are not paid enough, so schools-- particularly public schools-- take whatever instructors they can find.

COVID. The two year long gap in education, especially in high school, left many students struggling to keep up.

But I think there's a third culprit-- something I mentioned earlier in this post. A lack of computer literacy.

This subject has been covered extensively by multiple news outlets like the Washington Post and Raconteur, but as someone seeing it firsthand I wanted to add my voice to the rising chorus of concerned educators begging you to pay attention.

As the interface we use to engage with technology becomes more user friendly, the knowledge we need to access our files, photos, programs, & data becomes less and less important. Why do I need to know about directories if I can search my files in Windows (are you searching in Windows? Are you sure? Do you know what that bar you're typing into is part of? Where it's looking)? Maybe you don't have any files on your computer at all-- maybe they're on the cloud through OneDrive, or backed up through Google. Some of you reading this may know exactly where and how your files are stored. Many of you probably don't, and that's okay. For most people, being able to access a file in as short a time as possible is what they prioritize.

The problem is, when you as a consumer are only using a tool, you are intrinsically limited by the functions that tool is advertised to have. Worse yet, when the tool fails or is insufficient for what you need, you have no way of working outside of that tool. You'll need to consult an expert, which is usually expensive.

When you as a consumer understand a tool, your options are limitless. You can break it apart and put it back together in just the way you like, or you can identify what parts of the tool you need and search for more accessible or affordable options that focus more on your specific use-case.

The problem-- and to be clear, I do not blame Gen Z & Gen Alpha for what I'm about to outline-- is that this user-friendly interface has fostered a culture that no longer troubleshoots. If something on the computer doesn't work well, it's the computer's fault. It's UI should be more intuitive, and it it's not operating as expected, it's broken. What I'm seeing more and more of is that if something's broken, students stop there. They believe there's nothing they can do. They don't actively seek out solutions, they don't take to Google, they don't hop on Reddit to ask around; they just... stop. The gap in knowledge between where they stand and where they need to be to begin troubleshooting seems to wide and inaccessible (because the fundamental structure of files/directories is unknown to many) that they don't begin.

This isn't demonstrative of a lack of critical thinking, but without the drive to troubleshoot the number of opportunities to develop those critical thinking skills are greatly diminished. How do you communicate an issue to someone online? How do look for specific information? How do you determine whether that information is specifically helpful to you? If it isn't, what part of it is? This process fosters so many skills that I believe are at least partially linked to the ability to read and write effectively, and for so many of my students it feels like a complete non-starter.

We need basic computer classes back in schools. We need typing classes, we need digital media classes, we need classes that talk about computers outside of learning to code. Students need every opportunity to develop critical thinking skills and the ability to self-reflect & self correct, and in an age of misinformation & portable technology, it's more important now than ever.

[wolfylady]

Salvation

Summary: It started with a look and then a smile. She was just another name on a continuous list of rotating faces. But then she smiled and it wrecked his world. He would lie, cheat, and kill, just to keep her in his orbit.

Trigger Warning ⚠️: Obsession and Manipulation

Word Count: 621

Chapter 1: The First Smile

Enjoy!

Story Poll!

Series Poll!

The first time John Price saw her, the world didn’t tilt. It didn’t shift. It snapped.

Clean. Silent. Immediate.

It started with a smile.

One he hadn’t earned.

One he didn’t expect.

One that detonated something buried deep in his chest like a forgotten landmine.

She stepped onto base with a duffle slung over her shoulder, boots caked in dust, stride purposeful—measured. A transfer from MI6, if the morning report had anything useful in it. Her name barely registered then. Just another addition to the Task Force. Another operative shaped by war and secrecy.

Until she smiled at him.

Not out of protocol. Not forced.

It was real. Warm. Uncalculated.

He was standing near the edge of the training field, arms folded, half-listening to Soap and Ghost bicker over a faulty sim round. The sun was high. Heat clung to the concrete. Standard chaos on base.

And then she walked into view—sharp-eyed, tightly wound, her stance reading like someone who knew how to follow orders but hated doing it. Her file would say discipline, structure, performance metrics. But her mouth said otherwise.

That mouth—God, it curved too easily.

She caught his eye.

Held it.

Smiled.

And just like that, he forgot whatever Ghost had just said.

It wasn’t like the others.

It wasn’t the stiff respect of a subordinate.

It wasn’t the flirtation he usually shut down cold.

It was recognition. Familiarity without history. Like she saw him—not just the rank, not the legend, not the weight of all his years—but him.

And then she was gone.

Turning to speak to Gaz, laughing at something stupid. Probably a joke. Something light and forgettable.

But her laugh chased him for the rest of the day.

He told himself it was nothing.

A flicker of interest in a sea of rotating faces.

But he felt it.

All damn day.

During debrief, during comm checks, during sparring evaluations—her voice echoed. Her name stayed on his tongue like a habit he hadn’t formed yet.

That smile sank in like a blade beneath his ribs.

He didn’t sleep that night.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again. That smile. That impossible warmth. And it made something in his chest feel unstable.

Like he’d swallowed something live.

At 01:13 hours, the glow from his desk lamp cut through the dark.

Her file lay open across the table.

Name: Crowley, Veronica Elise

Callsign: CROW

Rank: Sergeant First Class (E-7)

Branch: SAS, Tier One Operator

Former Affiliation: Secret Intelligence Service (MI6)

Clearance Level: COSMIC TS/SCI

Languages: English, Russian, French, Spanish

DOB: 14 January 1994

Age: 30

Height: 5'6"

Place of Birth: York, England

Blood Type: O+

Religious Preference: Non-disclosed

Next of Kin: Crowley, Daniel (Brother)

He read everything.

Deployment history. Former handlers. Every operation with her name in the margin. He studied commendations, psychological profiles, redacted summaries with words like precision and unstable potential and asset recovery.

He traced her path from intelligence to black ops to special recon and finally, here.

To him.

It should have been enough.

Knowing her record. Understanding her skill set.

Filing her under “high-performance operator” and moving on.

But it wasn’t.

Because he didn’t want her service history.

He wanted her tells.

What made her pause in a fight.

What songs she played when she thought no one could hear.

What she dreamed about when the war faded from her eyes for a moment.

He told himself he just needed to know.

So he could get her out of his head.

If only it were that simple.

Because when he finally shut the file and turned off the lamp, his hands were still shaking.

And in the quiet, the memory of her smile haunted him like a ghost.

wolfYLady: Just got into Call of Duty—and wow, I’ve got brainrot bad. So naturally, I decided to write this. I'm planning a whole series centered around obsession with Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Keegan, and König. The main character is basically a self-insert (y/n) placeholder—so have fun projecting. I just love the idea, in fiction, when something so simple as a passing smile, or kind word, can just bring them to their knees. Shout out to Bluegiragi and Kathy Ifnt, whos amazing artwork have singlehandedly doomed me to a life of crippling COD brainrot, I am now feral for all their COD work. If you can, go support them, and we can all join a "COD but make them slutty" support group.

Chapter 2 🔜

Link to: Ao3

Master List of Twisted Sin Series🔜