Ruminating on the way Tolkien wrote hope and goodness has been such a Thing lately.
He wrote hope as this thing as everpresent and untarnishable. It’s the sun that cannot be poisoned like living trees, the light in the sky that is not a tower that could be cut down. It’s the sun that is alive and not a thousand, thousand light years away as a reflection of something beautiful that might already be dead and the darkness has not caught up to it yet.
Hope the way Tolkien wrote it is a living thing that races to show the light to every creature, that they may do with it what they will.
The sun does not set forever, and it doesn’t not burn forever at it’s zenith to wear down all that live and must have both light and sleep.
Hope is the thing that can be counted upon, even at a distance or under the watch and away from the light.
Hope is the sun that shines behind the clouds and past the storming mountain.
Hope is the star that cuts through the choking smog.
Hope is the gentle moon that soothes that dark and casts the soft light for the weary to see by.
Hope is the thing that carries the weak and the weary through the sorrowing dark into the brighter day, and lends them the strength to endure and the hardiness to take the violence of the reality of victory that came true - not without losses - without breaking under it.
Hope is the renewed strength in the hand that carries the sword and the heart that longs for the peace to lay it down.
Hope is the silly, foolish thing that sense nine people across the continent to walk straight into the enemy’s Capitol stronghold with the instrument of his greatest power and his final defeat… all nestled around the neck of a kind and gentle hobbit.
When I was at the natural history museum, the fossil section had stickers on the glass to engage children - things like "Flap your arms like a pterodactyl" or "Measure your hand against the mosasaurus." However the first of these I encountered, which I found alarming and threatening without context, was a sticker reading "Struggle like you are stuck in a tar pit"
I feel like more bright colors, an exclamation mark, or a more whimsical font choice would've also helped here to indicate that it is a Fun Activity For Children. Instead it felt like getting instructed in my inevitable fate by a road sign
btw it's so fucking stupid you can be anxious physically in your body even after you've decided mentally you don't care. I'm supposed to be in charge here
The cops very clearly planted evidence on him because they had to make an arrest because all eyes were on them and whoever actually did the deed was making them look stupid.
Why would the real killer hero have kept the weapon on his person and traveled two states over while carrying it and a manifesto in his bag, conveniently turning the crime into a federal matter? The same guy whose bag they found in a park, filled with monopoly money? Why did the police turn off their bodycams, take Luigi's stuff, drive a block away, turn their bodycams back on, go back into the restaurant, and then arrest him?
From the moment of his arrest, even left-of-center media has been presuming his guilt without examining anything (e.g. calling him "the killer" instead of "alleged" or "accused") and then when I say he didn't do it, the nearest person chimes in with some quip that tells me they think he did do it but should go free anyway. Don't get me wrong, I would have the same attitude if he had done it. But he didn't. It makes me feel like the only sane person in the world, even among my staunchly leftist friends.
Synopsis: Bakugo doesn't know how to get your attention, and he doesn't want you to notice him for his brute ways—leading him to posting things on his story that he hopes you'll be interested in.
You've never noticed Bakugo's lingering gaze towards you in class—well how could you? You'd never know unless you have eyes at the back of your head since he sits behind you. Then again, you didn't notice either when his voice goes softer when talking to you during group projects.
He initially thought you were just dense, but you noticed immediately when someone from the support course started crushing on you—so why have you not noticed his crush on you?
He couldn't help but get lost in his thoughts as he stared at the ceiling of his dorm room. Maybe he's already blown his chance because you saw him as some sort of brute.
For what may be the first and only time, Katsuki Bakugou, one of the most promising student-hero in Japan, felt caught up because of a crush.
It was so stupid. He's not the type of guy to bottle up his emotions. If anything, he's the opposite with his explosive personality. It felt so restrictive to stay quiet about his thoughts.
He isn't asking for much. Just a glance, a smile, and maybe a conversation. The smile doesn't even have to be towards him! Just a smile in his direction!
Maybe... Maybe he doesn't even like you! Yes, yes—he's just a little infatuated right now.
He thought about it for a moment, if he could get advice from someone.
Shitty-hair probably doesnt have any experience with girls.
Pikachu might have some, but he'd die before going to that guy for advice.
Mina? Nah she would tell you.
"Everyone's so goddamn useless," Bakugo groaned as he burried his face in a pillow, pushing so hard one might mistake it for suicide by suffocation.
Oh who was he kidding... He totally has a crush on you.
In a beat his phone buzzed with a notification. He didn't immediately check it, taking his sweet time suffocating himself out of sheer frustration.
Finally, he lazily opened his phone to see—and boy does he regret not checking sooner.
It was a notification of you and your like to his Instagram story—which is him playing the drums to a song in the background.
: I like that song too!
Bakugo quite literally felt his world quiet down for a moment, as if presenting him with a chance, a solution on how to get closer to you.
It felt embarrassing, almost—to try and get your attention through posting on social media. But hey, a guy's gotta try.
Bakugo read your chat through the notification over and over, contemplating on what to reply. He can't seem too desperate, but he can't push you away either, but he also can't be bland. How annoying!
Finally, he opened your chat to reply. His hands hovered over the keyboard for a while before hitting send.
Dynamight: i dont like that song. it was Pikachu's idea to cover it.
Yikes, too cold.
: Oh that's a shame.
: Well, you didn't seem like the type of guy to like that kind of genre anyway.
He stared at your chat longer than he should've. A minute passes—he wants to keep your conversation going for longer, but he's out of replies.
It'd be suspicious if he started asking questions or be too nice... But then again, he does want you to notice him.
Dynamight: tf is that supposed mean?
Dynamight: you should stop listening to crappy music
Forgive him, he's racking his brains to not sound desperate.
: What's your idea of good music if your taste is so superior?
Bakugo chuckled as he read your reply. He might be going insane, but he swears he could hear your voice through the screen.
Dynamight: *spotify playlist link*
Dynamight: no need to thank me for blessing you
Since you noticed him via that Instagram story, he started posting more and more.
It was subtle at first, just the usual stuff he'd add to his story. An ugly picture of his friends, a game, a manga page he found cool.
Then it started to become... Performative.
He heard from Mina that you liked sunsets, so he started posting them more often. All the little things that reminded him of you went to his story. Even the random flowers he walked pass in the streets.
Along with that, he started posting more pictures of himself, at the gym, during drills, and random fitchecks—hoping dreaming you'll compliment him.
The bakusquad definitely noticed the change, especially Mina, who was more observant and better at reading people than the others. They all had their suspicions—but they were all sure on one thing—Bakugo was trying to get someone's attention. The question they couldn't find the answer to was: who?
You, however, didnt seen too interested, as you'd only like his stories once in a while and never reply.
Bakugo was going insane trying to think of what would get you attention. He tried posting drum covers again to artists he knows you like, yet to no avail, his effort were met with only a like.
Even in class it was almost the same. You and him weren't close at all, but in a class of only 20 students, it shouldn't be that hard to have an interaction.
He'd be lying if he said he wasn't overthinking it sometimes. That maybe he was too rough and arrogant in your first chat, that maybe he had driven you away.
If so, he was done! If you're not going to notice him with all the effort he was making, maybe you're simply not interested.
That was it, he's not going to post anymore stories or be performative for your attention. He felt stupid he even tried that method in the first place.
A week passes and instead of his usual story every other day, it reduced to basically zero. No one can pinpoint the reason, but it's visible Bakugo has become more irritable in class—not until report cards were issued and his grades was on top.
He randomly posted it on his story—his report card with scores all above 90, and kirishima's, with scores better than his previous grade. He captioned it "hardwork pays off. Even though tutoring @RedRiot was harder than actually studying."
He felt pretty proud of himself, and for once, he posted something not for anyone's attention but rather, his own gratification.
Barely an hour passes after he posted his story when he gets a notification... From you.
: Dude, you gotta tutor me!! Im actually failing T°T
Maybe Bakugo hasn't gotten over his little crush afterall.
Pairing: Derek Morgan x Gideon!Reader
Summary: In which, Gideon's eldest daughter is the only woman that hasn't fallen immediately at Derek's feet.
OR the three times you held your ground and the one time you didn't (which changed everything.)
Themes & Warnings: slight violence ig, FLUFF, reader is slightly hard to get and just like her daddy, Gideon being a supportive dad but also a supportive WORK dad, just heart warming fluff basically with a side of AGGRESSION
The BAU bullpen was a study in controlled chaos, but for you, it was a second home. The scent of stale coffee and old case files was as familiar as your father’s aftershave. You were bent over a map, tracing a pattern with your finger, your brow furrowed in the same way your dad’s got when he was piecing together a particularly difficult puzzle.
“Anything?” a smooth, confident voice asked from your left.
You didn’t look up. “If there was, I’d have announced it, Morgan.”
Derek Morgan leaned against your desk, a charming smile playing on his lips that had disarmed countless witnesses and coaxed confessions from the most hardened criminals. It had zero effect on you. You continued to stare at the map, your posture radiating a focused intensity that was a carbon copy of Jason Gideon’s.
That was the crux of the issue. You were Gideon’s daughter. His eldest. And you were the only woman in the vicinity of Derek Morgan who hadn’t so much as stumbled when he turned on the charm.
Your teeth gritted as the man persisted, the heat of his body bleeding into yours from the proximity. It didn't help that the air circulation and heating in the old building didn't perform very well, so it was even easier to identify how truly close Morgan was.
“You know, most people find my presence at least a little distracting,” he teased, trying another angle.
This time, you did look up. Your eyes, the same shade of steady, knowing blue as your father’s, met his. “I’m not most people. And if you don't step away in the next two seconds, I'm--”
Defeated, but not deterred, Morgan held up his hands in surrender and retreated to his own desk, shooting a look of pure frustration towards your father’s office. Through the glass, Gideon was watching the exchange, a faint, almost imperceptible smile on his face. He gave Morgan a slight, knowing shake of his head before turning back to his own work.
It had started as a game for him. A challenge. The new, fiercely intelligent analyst with the legendary profiler’s last name and his piercing, analytical eyes. He’d offered to get you coffee, complimented your profiling notes, and once, after a tough case, he’d placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. You’d merely glanced at the hand, then back at his face, and said, “Your concern is noted, Agent Morgan. The geographical profile, however, is still incomplete.”
You were like a brick wall. Impenetrable, far from transparent, and far too stubborn. It just so happened, though, that Derek Morgan was a very persistent man. And when he saw something he wanted, the instinct doubled.
The first major rejection was in the precinct gym.
You were preparing Spencer for his yearly physical evaluation (he'd asked you to, you weren't just being cruel), which including sparring this year. To bite off more than the poor guy could chew, he chose the most formidable opponent on the team to spar with.
The air in the precinct gym was thick with the smell of sweat and old rubber mats. Reid, looking like a startled fawn in oversized sparring gear, was valiantly trying to remember the combination you’d drilled into him.
“Okay, Spencer, remember,” you said, your voice calm and instructive. “Left jab to distract, right cross with your body weight behind it, then drop and sweep. It’s about using their momentum, not your muscle.”
“Their momentum, not my muscle,” he repeated, a mantra against the impending doom.
The doom, of course, was currently stretching by the heavy bag, his biceps flexing in a way that was frankly obscene. Derek Morgan had sauntered in, drawn by the commotion, and his eyes had lit up with predatory interest.
“Need a real partner, pretty boy?” Morgan called over, a grin spreading across his face. “Can’t have Gideon’s little girl doing all the heavy lifting.”
You didn’t even glance his way, adjusting the strap on Reid’s headgear. “We’re fine, Morgan. But thank you for the unsolicited commentary.”
Morgan, undeterred, moved to the edge of the mat. “C’mon. One round. Let me show you both how it’s done. I’ll go easy.”
You turned, glaring straight into his face with that familiar Gideon stubbornness. Without even glancing at Spencer, you spoke to him crisply.
"Pay close attention, Spence. This is exactly what I wanted to teach you."
Your voice was cool, analytical. You finally turned to Morgan, a glint in your eye that promised nothing good for his ego. "Alright, Morgan. One round. Show us what you've got."
Morgan's grin returned, full of bravado. "Don't say I didn't warn you, sweetheart."
The two of you squared off. Morgan moved with his characteristic panther-like grace, light on his feet. He threw a few testing jabs, which you deflected with ease, your stance solid and unyielding.
"See, Reid?" you said, your eyes never leaving Morgan. "He's leading with his shoulder. Telegraphed from a mile away."
Morgan’s eye twitched. He feinted left and came in with a powerful right hook. You didn't back away. You ducked under it, swept a leg behind his, and used his own forward momentum to send him stumbling past you. He caught himself before he fell, but it was undeniably clumsy.
"Excellent example of over-committing to a strike," you commented to Reid, as if narrating a nature documentary. "All that force, and nothing but air to show for it."
A low growl rumbled in Morgan's chest. This time he came in fast, aiming to grapple. You let him get close, and as his arms wrapped around you, you dropped your weight like a stone, executed a perfect hip throw, and planted him flat on his back on the mat with a resonant THUMP that shook the floor.
You stood over him, not even winded. "And that," you said to a wide-eyed Spencer, "is how you handle an opponent who relies solely on brute force. Any questions?"
From the doorway, a slow, deliberate clapping sound broke the silence.
All three of you turned. Jason Gideon was leaning against the doorframe, a steaming mug of tea in his hand, his expression one of profound amusement.
"Beautifully demonstrated, sweetheart," he said, his voice soft and fatherly. "You used his weight, his pride, and his predictable aggression. Textbook."
Morgan groaned from the floor, covering his face with a glove.
"Reid," Gideon said, nodding towards the door. "I believe Garcia has a new database she wants to show you. Something about geological survey maps."
"Right! Yes! Databases!" Reid stammered, scrambling to his feet and all but fleeing the gym.
Gideon walked over and offered a hand to the prostrate Morgan. With a sigh, Morgan took it and let the older agent haul him to his feet.
"You saw the whole thing, didn't you, sir?" Morgan grumbled, brushing himself off.
"From the moment you sauntered in here, convinced your biceps would do all the talking," Gideon confirmed, taking a sip of his tea. He looked from Morgan's bruised ego to your stoic, victorious face as you walked away to the showers.
He clapped a hand on Morgan's shoulder. "Let me give you some advice, Derek. Free of charge." He leaned in slightly, his tone conspiratorial. "Chasing after my daughter is a lot like profiling a particularly clever unsub. You can't just rush in. You have to be patient. You have to study the patterns. And for God's sake, you have to leave your ego at the door. It makes you sloppy."
He gave Morgan's shoulder a final pat and turned to leave. At the door, he paused and looked back,
"Oh, and Derek?" Gideon added. "If you ever tell her I said this, I'll deny it... but she gets her stubbornness from her mother."
With that, he was gone, leaving Morgan in the silent, humbling aftermath. Morgan thought about you, really thought about you -- the woman who had just systematically dismantled him both physically and psychologically -- and let out a breathless, incredulous laugh.
The second time, it was a bar night with the team.
Derek had never seen you like this. The crisp, professional analyst was gone, replaced by a woman who was all laughter and loose, wild curls. Your dress was a dark, shimmery thing, tight and short, a world away from your usual tactical pants and blazers. You were holding court at the pool table, soundly thrashing Elle with a series of impossibly tricky bank shots, a glass of whiskey dangling from your fingers.
The entire team was in various states of relaxed revelry, but Derek was stuck, his beer forgotten, watching you. This was a new profile, one he was desperately trying to compute.
"Eight ball, corner pocket," you announced, your voice bright with confidence. You leaned over the table, the line of your dress riding up, and executed the shot with a clean clack. The ball sank without a sound.
Elle threw her hands up in defeat, laughing. "She's a shark! A goddamn shark!"
You laughed, a real, unguarded sound that hit Derek right in the chest. This was the crack in the armor. This was his chance.
He made his move as you went to get another drink, sidling up next to you at the bar. "Didn't know you played," he said, leaning against the polished wood, turning the full force of his smile on you.
You took a slow sip of your whiskey, eyeing him over the rim of the glass. The professional wall was down, but a new one, just as formidable, was in its place. Amusement. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Morgan."
"Maybe I'd like to," he said, his voice dropping into that low, intimate register that usually made women melt. "Let me buy you that drink. We can… talk."
You set your glass down with a definitive click. "Talk?" you repeated, a sly grin playing on your lips. "Okay. Let's talk. You see that guy at the end of the bar? The one in the leather jacket trying way too hard?"
Derek glanced over. "Yeah?"
"He's been scoping out the place for the last twenty minutes. His shoes are too nice for this neighborhood, his watch is a fake, and he's checked his phone seventeen times. He's waiting for someone, and it's not a date." You turned back to Derek, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "Now, what did you want to talk about? The geopolitical implications of his choice of counterfeit Rolex?"
Derek stared at you, his charmingly offered drink suddenly feeling very foolish in his hand. He hadn't been trying to profile the room; he'd been trying to get a date. And you, even in your downtime, were still a profiler to your core. You had taken his romantic overture and turned it into a mini-BAU briefing.
He was so thrown he couldn't even form a response.
You patted his cheek, the gesture patronizing and yet, somehow, incredibly endearing.
"Nice try, biceps. But if you want to get a drink with me, you're going to have to be a lot more interesting than that."
You slid off the barstool, leaving him standing there, utterly deflated. In the same moment, Reid slid into the seat you'd left, trailed by your very own father. No doubt to rub it in.
Derek groaned internally, dropping his head into his hands. "Man, don't say it. Just don't."
"I wasn't going to say anything," Gideon said, his voice the picture of innocence. He signaled the bartender for two more drinks -- a beer for Reid, another scotch for himself.
Reid fidgeted, picking at the label on his bottle. "So... that looked... um..." He glanced from Derek's dejected form to your retreating back, searching for the right word. "Uncomfortable."
Derek lifted his head to glare at the younger agent. "You think?"
"Well, yeah," Reid said, his voice earnest. "She patted your cheek. People usually only do that to babies and... well, puppies they find mildly irritating but harmless."
Derek stared at him. "Reid, that is not helping."
"Right. Sorry." Reid took a quick sip of his beer.
Gideon accepted his scotch, a slow smile spreading across his face. "She called you 'biceps'," he stated, the amusement in his voice now a tangible thing.
Derek winced. "Yeah. I heard."
Gideon chuckled, a low, warm sound. "She only gives nicknames to things she finds... noteworthy. Inefficient, perhaps, but noteworthy." He turned his head, his eyes -- the same steady blue as yours --locking onto Derek's. "You're getting through, son. You're just doing it the hard way."
With that, Gideon clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture that was both commiserating and slightly patronizing, then stood and guided a still-fidgeting Reid away from the bar.
Derek was left alone with his foolish-feeling drink and the echoing, patronizing pat on his cheek. Biceps. Not "Morgan." Not "Agent." Biceps. He looked down at his own arms, then back at you, a slow, determined grin finally breaking through his defeat.
Noteworthy. He could work with noteworthy.
Thirdly, there was the incident on the case.
As was so common, the case being dealt with was a man who was preying on young women. Since you were the youngest (and easiest on the eyes), you were the bait to draw the man out.
You walked down the dark, rain-slicked alley, the puddles soaking into your cheap fabric heels. Your service weapon was a cold, reassuring weight against your ribs, secured in a bra holster. The comms unit in your ear hissed with static, then Morgan's voice, tight with a tension that had nothing to do with protocol.
"Okay, I see you. You're doing great. Just keep walking to the end of the block. He should be approaching from your left."
His voice was different. Stripped of its usual smooth confidence, it was raw, almost strained. You could hear the protective urge in every syllable, and it irked you.
"Morgan, my vitals are steady. Stick to the script," you murmured, your lips barely moving.
A beat of silence. Then, "I am. Just... be ready."
You reached the predetermined spot under a flickering streetlamp. Right on profile, a figure detached itself from the deeper shadows to your left. He was bigger than his file photo suggested, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger.
"Hey there, sweetheart," the unsub slurred, stepping too close. "You look lost."
In your ear, Morgan's breathing hitched. "He's on you. Team, move in. Now."
But the unsub was faster than anticipated. He lunged, not with a weapon, but to grab you, his hands closing like vices around your upper arms.
A spike of adrenaline, sharp and clean, shot through you. But it wasn't fear. It was focus.
Before the tactical team could even breach the alley mouth, you moved. You didn't try to pull away. You dropped your weight, yanking him forward and off-balance. As he stumbled, you brought your knee up hard into his groin. He grunted, his grip loosening, but he was heavier, his momentum too great. He fell forward, his full weight crashing down on you, slamming you both onto the wet pavement.
Your leg, trapped beneath the tangle of bodies, bent unnaturally beneath you, giving way with a sickening, internal crack that was louder than the thunder overhead.
A sharp, involuntary cry was torn from your lips, but your training held. Even through the blinding white-hot pain, your arms locked around the unsub, keeping him pinned against you in a desperate grapple, denying him the chance to regain his bearings or reach for a weapon.
In your ear, the comms erupted. "She's down! She's down! Go, go, go!"
The crushing weight vanished as the unsub was torn from you with a sudden, violent efficiency. The sharp click of handcuffs echoed in the rain-drenched alley, a sound of finality. With the immediate threat gone, the adrenaline that had been holding the pain at bay receded like a tide, and the full, brutal reality of your injury crashed over you. A sharp hiss escaped your clenched teeth as you curled forward, instinctively cradling your leg. The world narrowed to the white-hot fire burning below your knee.
Then he was there.
Derek Morgan didn't run; he appeared, as if the space between you and him had simply ceased to exist. He dropped to his knees in the filthy water, his suit pants be damned. All the bravado, the teasing charm, the frustrated pursuit -- it was all gone, washed away by the rain. His face was pale, his eyes dark with a concern you'd never seen in him before.
"Hey, look at me," he said, his voice low and urgent, his hands hovering over you, to help but terrified of causing more pain. Raw and real. "Where does it hurt? Just your leg? Talk to me, honey."
"Leg," you managed to grit out, your voice tight. "It's... it's broken, I think."
"Okay. Medic is on the way. Just hold on." He shrugged out of his suit jacket, his focus entirely on you. He didn't care about the scene, the team, the secured unsub. Gently, careful not to jostle you, he tucked the jacket around your shoulders, his hand lingering for a moment on your arm, a stark, warm contrast to the cold pavement. His thumb stroked a soothing pattern over your soaked sleeve, a gesture of such innate, unprotected tenderness that it made your breath catch almost as much as the pain did.
The rest of the team formed a perimeter, but they gave you two space. Reid was on the radio demanding an ETA for the ambulance. Hotch had a firm, grim grip on the now-cuffed unsub.
It was your father who finally approached, his stride quick and sure, the professional mask firmly in place, though his eyes betrayed a storm of paternal fear. He knelt on your other side, his presence a familiar, steadying rock.
"Medic is ninety seconds out," Gideon stated, his voice calm and authoritative. He looked at you, his gaze sweeping over your injury before meeting your eyes. The pride was still there, but it was fierce and pained. "'Atta girl. You held him. You did everything right."
Then his gaze shifted to Morgan. Derek didn't even look up, his entire world reduced to the space you occupied. He was murmuring low, reassuring words, his attention absolute. Gideon watched him for a long moment, seeing the shattered composure, the raw vulnerability. He saw the game end, right there in that alley.
Reaching out, Gideon placed a firm, grounding hand on Morgan's shoulder. "Derek," he said, his tone softer now. "The ambulance is here. Let them through."
Morgan flinched as if startled, finally tearing his eyes away from you to look at Gideon. In that look, there was no challenge, no rivalry. There was only a shared, desperate understanding of what truly mattered. The third wall had not just been cracked; it had been utterly demolished, leaving nothing but the truth lying broken between them.
You finally let Derek in on a Thursday morning.
There was no case, no urgent paperwork, but the BAU was never truly free of stress. This particular strain was personal. Derek had been on medical leave for a few days, a fact that chafed at him like a too-tight collar. In the team's last case, a lucky shot from an unsub had caught him in the side, the body armor absorbing the worst but leaving him with a deep, painful bruise and cracked ribs that hindered his job, his usual strength, and his usual saucy personality.
You'd been tasked -- by your father, of course, with a look that was more plea than order -- to make sure he was good. After all, it had only been four days since he was discharged from the hospital.
You knocked on his apartment door softly, crossing your arms and waiting for a response.
The knock on his apartment door was a sound Derek almost didn't hear over the low thrum of his own frustration. He wasn't used to being on this side of the door, the one being checked on. He pulled it open, his movements still careful, guarded.
He expected Garcia, maybe, with a casserole and enough bubbly energy to power Quantico. He did not expect you.
You stood there, arms crossed, not in your usual work attire but in soft-looking jeans and a simple sweater. No files, no professional mask. Just you.
"Gideon," he said, surprise flattening his tone.
"You're supposed to be resting," you stated, your eyes doing a quick, professional sweep of him, taking in the slight pallor of his skin, the way he held his torso stiffly.
"Could say the same to you. It's your day off."
"Dad said you were stubborn. I came to see for myself." You didn't wait for an invitation; you stepped past him into the apartment. It was neat, masculine, but the throw blanket on the couch was rumpled, and a half-empty glass of water sat on the coffee table next to a bottle of painkillers. Evidence of his forced inactivity.
He closed the door and leaned against it, watching you. "And? Living up to the Morgan reputation?"
As he lifted his hand, you spotted his bandage. Slightly tinted pink. Needing a change. Ignoring his question, you raised an eyebrow.
"When's the last time you changed your bandaging?"
The deflection was so perfectly, quintessentially you that Derek almost smiled. The world could be ending, and you'd still be focused on the procedural inaccuracy.
He glanced down at the bandage on his side, the pink tint a clear sign of neglect. "I don't know. Yesterday? This morning?" he admitted, the lie evident in his voice. He'd been trying to ignore it, along with the dull, throbbing pain.
"You must like being on leave. An infection would keep you there," you stated, but there was no bite to it. Instead, you moved past him with a purpose he knew well. "Where do you keep your supplies?"
"In the bathroom. Cabinet under the sink."
You returned moments later with a fresh roll of gauze, medical tape, and antiseptic. You pointed to the couch. "Sit."
For once, Derek Morgan didn't argue. He sat on the edge of the cushions, watching as you knelt in front of him. The air shifted. This wasn't a medic or Garcia playing nurse. This was you, your focus entirely on him, your hands gentle as you peeled back the old bandage.
He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.
"Sorry," you murmured, your touch becoming even lighter. Your brow was furrowed in that familiar way, the same intense concentration you gave to a geographical profile. But now it was directed at him, at the ugly, bruised skin and the stitched-up wound.
You worked in silence for a minute, cleaning the area with a careful, clinical efficiency. The only sounds were his slightly ragged breathing and the rustle of medical wrappers.
"You know," he said softly, his voice a low rumble, "for months, I thought you didn't have a single nurturing bone in your body."
You didn't look up, carefully applying the new gauze. "I don't. This is just basic field medicine. Any competent agent would do the same."
He laughed, a short, pained sound. "Sweetheart, there is nothing 'basic' about you." His hand came down, not to stop you, but to cover yours where it rested against his skin. Your movements stilled. "And this doesn't feel very clinical."
You finally looked up, meeting his gaze. The proximity was different now. It wasn't a challenge or an invasion. It was intimate. The mask was gone from both of you. His hand came to your face, stroking your cheek with soft warmth.
"You have to take care of yourself, Morgan. Team needs you back."
His thumb stroked gently along your cheekbone, his expression softening at your words. "The team, huh?" he murmured, his voice low and intimate. "Is that all?"
The air crackled between you. You could feel the warmth of his hand on your face, the steady weight of his gaze. All the banter, the deflections, the walls you'd so carefully built -- they felt flimsy and pointless now.
You let out a soft breath, the last of your resistance leaving you. Your shoulders relaxed as you leaned ever so slightly into his touch.
"No," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "That's not all."
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, one that reached his beautiful brown eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. It was a look of pure, unadulterated triumph, but it was softened by a profound tenderness you'd never seen directed at you before.
"Didn't think so," he said, his thumb still making those soothing circles on your skin.
You rolled your blue eyes, though it held no actual contempt. The lack of bite in you was an admission of defeat, a forfeit. Your hands carefully secured his new bandaging in place before you crawled up beside him, thighs pressed together.
The shift was seismic. One moment you were the stoic medic, the next you were curled into his side, your body a warm, solid line against his. Derek let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, his arm instinctively curling around your shoulders to pull you closer. He was careful of his ribs, but the need to hold you was a physical ache.
"You know," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion, "maybe I'll have to get shot a lot more often to get this kind of attention."
You shook your head against his shoulder, a soft, genuine laugh escaping you. It was a sound he'd only heard in fragments, never directed fully at him. It was better than he'd imagined. "Don't you dare," you said, your voice muffled by his shirt. "Once was more than enough."
You adjusted your head on his good shoulder, and he rested his cheek against your hair.
"I won," he sighed softly, a smirk coming onto his face. "Knew I'd soften you up. If anyone could. I was starting to doubt myself."
A huff of laughter left your lips.
"Oh, you won, did you?" you asked, one eyebrow arching in that familiar, challenging way, but the effect was ruined by the way you were still curled into his side.
"Damn right, I did," he said, his voice brimming with a smug, victorious warmth. "The great Gideon fortress. Impenetrable. And I, Derek Morgan, found the secret passage."
"You didn't find a secret passage," you corrected, poking him gently in his uninjured side. "You repeatedly threw yourself at the front gate until it got so annoyed it let you in just to make you stop."
His laughter was a rich, full-bodied sound that made you smile in spite of yourself. "Semantics, sweetheart. The result is the same. I'm in." He tightened his arm around you, his expression softening again. "And I'm not going anywhere."
Your eyes met his again, faces inches apart. It was a stilling feeling, finally touching something that you'd wanted so much for months. You could feel his breath on your lips, mint and cinnamon. The silence was pregnant with need, with intention, with something else too.
Before you could stop them, you uttered two words you thought you'd never say to anybody, let alone to Derek Morgan.
"Kiss me."
An exhale left his body.
"Yeah?" The single word was a hushed, reverent thing, laden with a shock so profound it stole the air from his lungs. His brown eyes, usually so full of confident fire, were wide, searching yours as if he needed to be absolutely certain he hadn't hallucinated the two words that had just fallen from your lips.
A slow, devastatingly handsome smile began to curve his mouth, the kind that promised a thousand different futures. "I thought you'd never ask."
He didn't need another invitation. He closed the minuscule distance between you, his hand cradling the back of your head as his lips met yours.
It wasn't a chaste, questioning kiss. This was the culmination of months of frustration, challenge, and buried longing. It was heat and certainty, a claiming and a surrender all at once. His mouth moved over yours with a practiced confidence that should have been arrogant, but felt instead like a perfect, long-awaited answer. You could taste the mint and cinnamon on his tongue, a hint of the coffee he’d been drinking, and something uniquely, essentially Derek.
One of your hands fisted in the soft fabric of his t-shirt, holding on as the world tilted on its axis. The other came up to rest against the stubble of his jaw, feeling the muscle work as he kissed you with a depth that left you breathless.
When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing heavily, foreheads resting together. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide.
After a long moment, you spoke again, your tone laced with wry amusement, but still breathless. "Dad's probably sitting in his car outside, making sure I don't strangle you."
Derek's chest vibrated with a quiet chuckle. "Nah. He saw you come in. He knows." He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of your head, the gesture feeling more natural than breathing. "He knows you're safe with me."
You tilted your head back, your Gideon-blue eyes searching his. All the walls were gone, leaving only a soft, certain warmth. "I know," you whispered.
And in the quiet of his apartment, with the city humming softly outside, the great Derek Morgan finally felt like he'd won the only prize that had ever truly mattered.
When people argue that food from Chinese and Mexican restaurants in the US are not 'real' representations of that culture's cuisine ignore the historical reality that these dishes were developed by diasporic communities striving to recreate the flavors of home with available resources. Such criticism frames adaptation as a loss of authenticity, rather than recognizing it as a sincere and evolving expression of culture by people separated from their homeland.
@rosesforshoto saw your size kink blurb and went into a fugue state
“hate when guys say that ‘you can take it’ shit.” you’re just tipsy enough to admit this to shouto. even though you shouldn’t tell him, not when the breadth of his shoulders can be seen in your peripheral. he’s so big. heat rips across your face.
“why’s that?” shouto, polite and deadpan as always, no matter the subject matter.
“because they always just stick it in with minimal prep. expecting you to adjust.”
shouto crinkles his nose in disgust. he’s a lot more expressive these days, but that’s a new one.
he's silent for a while, and you briefly contemplate sinking into the floor.
"they're missing out," he finally says. when he catches your eye, he's smiling. one full of mischief, like he can't believe some men could truly be so stupid.
despite your protests, he tucks you to bed shortly after. you feel how intently his eyes watch you as he hands you a glass of water, swallowing the pills he keeps in the cabinet specifically so you don't feel like shit the next day.
he likes taking care of you, and you like letting him.
"night, sho."
when he's certain you're asleep, he responds.
"night, love."
he leaves you on the futon because it's the only thing he can do in good conscience. he wrenches the shower to the hottest setting. steam hot enough to peel paint fills the bathroom. water pours down his back as he brackets both arms on the wall.
he'd be so gentle with you. steadily working you open, keeping you preoccupied with kisses. fuck, he wants to kiss you so badly. he wants to feel you cum around one finger while you gasp and keen in his mouth.
you'd need at least four orgasms before he felt comfortable with you taking him. maybe even five. his hands twists around the head of his cock. one more stroke and he'll be painting the wall. shouto squeezes his balls, groaning into the crook of his elbow and the shower wall. they're full and tight, aching at the slightest touch.
he'll give you six, he decides. his fist works harder. six orgasms with his tongue, his hands, his mouth.
and then he'll be able to work you down onto his cock, inch by inch, until all doubts of "taking him" are dispelled from your mind.
“Haha remember when murder-hornets were gonna be a thing? What a nothingburger.”
Yes, because the Washington state government activated like a sleeper-cell and ruthlessly, systematically hunted them down and annihilated them.
“Y2K came to nothing amirite?”
Yes because an army of software engineers working around the clock, losing sleep, and busting ass till the last minute prevented it from happening.
“Remember the hole in the ozone layer?”
You mean the one that was fixed through rigorous world wide government action?
One of the root problems of our society is a refusal or inability by media to articulate that all those “it’s gonna be an apocalypse” disasters were not disasters because we collectively did something about them.
The good news is this is actually quite correctable. I maintain my firm belief that we as humans are capable of solving almost all of our problems, when we decide to do so.
And I still think that’s going to happen. I don’t know when or how, but I do know that abandoning hope won’t help bring it about.
And I refuse to let the cynics own a chunk of my heart.
