#I only vaguely remember it I loved it as a kid

[nerissamaes]

TW: drug use/overdose

The first girl I loved in a way I now know is irrevocably queer died of a heroin overdose. When we still knew each, we stole moments in the hallway, and over text, always dancing on the line of a relationship that felt like a death wish. Both of our parents were homophobic, abusive , and the few queer friendly teachers at our high school were so overloaded with students who needed support, and with less than vague threats from admin, that even if there was support for us theoretically, there really wasn’t in practice. I don’t think either of us really knew how we felt, not really, but we would share music, quiz each other on science facts, and talk about our favorite things. She would always tell me she was never smart enough to be my friend, but bio was her favorite subject, and she never misremembered any of the facts I read her out of my AP bio textbook. She loved rap music, and reading, she hated her job, and she had the most pretty smile, this little self satisfied smirk, every time we caught each other’s eyes across the lunch room, even though she’d dissolve into the biggest puddle of blush if she was even remotely close to me. She had two pet rats, she’d show them to me on calls a lot, and she loved them so, so much. Her friends weren’t supportive, they actively encouraged her relapses so matter how hard we worked on her staying clean, nothing ever stuck. They didn’t know about me. Her parents didn’t either.

She called me one night. Scared out of her mind. She knew as much as I loved her I didn’t like being around drugs, she tried so hard to keep them from me, but she had accidentally used too much. She was overdosing, at least on the verge, and she didn’t know who else to call. Her friends would write her off. I tried my hardest to talk her down, she tried her hardest to convince me it wouldn’t hurt to do just a little more. Nothing was working, I knew she could get like this but I’d never seen her this frantically wanting to use. I’ll never know why she was so upset that night. I didn’t know where she lived but I knew I had to do something so, oh so sickened by myself, I threaten to call an ambulance if she didn’t stop. She was so far gone she never noticed I didn’t know where she lived. She begged me not to because of what her family would do if they found out. Not just about the heroin, of course, but about me, too. I threatened until she stopped. I sat with her as she sobbed and begged for forgiveness while she came down. Of course I forgave her.

After we hung up, she never spoke with me again, too embarrassed and upset with herself for putting me in that situation, is my best guess, though I’ll never really know. About five years later, I found out from a mutual friend that she died suddenly, most likely an overdose. I had heard through him that she was in and out of rehab, that it didn’t seem to be working well but it seemed to be helping somewhat. Obviously not enough.

I tell this story here partially to have a space to remember her, but also because of the material conditions of our situation, and to describe what one of these moments felt like, especially to a child. She would most likely still be alive today if there was any infrastructure in my hometown to help gay kids in bad households. If queer kids weren’t the most hot button topic of small town Americana even when I was a kid, I could’ve said something to someone who could not only empathize, but have resources to help as well.

There exists a future where we could’ve loved each other in the open, and we both could’ve had genuine support for our respective addictions. But instead, my mom attends school board meetings with the intent of getting trans kids kicked out of schools, convinced there’s litter boxes in the bathrooms and GAC surgeons on hand in the nurse’s office, ready to operate at the littlest insecurity. Instead, a beautiful, wonderful woman is six feet under, needle in arm, having never gotten to say or hear I love you to another woman the way she wanted. Because dead queer kids are more palatable. Because when we’re addicts, with our dead queer friends hovering over our shoulders, it’s so much harder for us to find each other, to connect, to survive, let alone thrive.

I grew up in a world where the only good queer person is a dead one. I see glimpses of that world occasionally, whenever I end up back with my parents. But I also see her, in the bright eyes of every newly out queer kid I meet while TAing. I see her in the faces of the queer women in my life I’ve come to love with my whole heart. And so I suppose, from one effective queer elder who will always hold a bit of a queer kid who never got to be a queer adult with them like a kiss on my cheek, to every queer kid who might stumble upon this feeling the same way we felt in the moments of that overdose I just want to say:

I see you, I’m proud of you, and I know she would be too. Collect your stolen moments, your highest highs, your deepest loves, and hold them close, because the world that wants us dead can never truly take that from you, even if it takes some of us too soon. Those moments mean everything to us, not just us who actually experience them, but us as a whole community. Queerness is real, radiant, and beautiful and you deserve to have and hold that for yourself and with other queer people, no matter who we’ve lost along the way, so hopefully we don’t have to lose anyone else too soon eventually.

[notlongtolove]

to get it anyway

a steel case to the face. that's the last thing you remember seeing. spencer’s voice, shouting your name. gunfire in rapid succession. you remember hearing sirens. maybe. you’re not entirely sure. hands, trembling, cupping your cheeks.  then, nothing.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: fluff, hurt comfort

content: slight mentions of stitches and wounds. bau!reader gets hurt during a case and spencer is worried out of his mind—maybe even worried enough to confess his feelings for her???

word count: 2.3k

note: love the linked poem... also need someone to confess their undying love for me rn rn rn (also is this considered fluff? im not too good w tags)

a line: He cradled your head in his hands, shielding your body with his own when the gunfire went down. His world tilted on its axis—Instinct overtaking reason.

the final sour cherry we kept politely pushing onto each other’s plate, saying, No, you. But it’s so good. No, it’s yours. How I finally put an end to it, plucked it from the plate, and stuck it in my mouth. How good it tasted: so sweet and so tart. How good it felt: to want something and pretend you don’t, and to get it anyway. - cristin o’keefe aptowicz

A steel case to the face. That's the last thing you remember seeing. Spencer’s voice, shouting your name. Gunfire in rapid succession. You remember hearing sirens. Maybe. You’re not entirely sure. Hands, trembling, cupping your cheeks. 

Then, nothing.

Spencer’s pacing down the hallway, his hands restless at his sides as he calls out for the doctor who’s only just walked out of your room. Before he can get far, he feels a hand clamp down on his shoulder, firm enough to stop him in his tracks.

“Hey,” Morgan says, his voice low. “Hey!” he says again, louder, forcing Spencer to look at him this time, “You gotta slow down.”

“She—she was hit. In the head!” Spencer twists under his grip, his eyes darting toward the room where you’re lying behind a closed door. “Do you know how fragile the human skull is? She could have a concussion or—or intracranial bleeding, or—I need to—”

“What you need to do—is calm down,” Morgan interrupts. His tone is stern, leaving no room for argument. “You pacing and panicking? That’s not helping her. And it’s not helping you. You’re worried. We all are. I get it.”

But Spencer isn’t just worried. He’s terrified. He’s bone-deep, mind-numbingly terrified. You all get hurt sometimes—Occupational hazard. Duh. Everyone knows that. But it’s rare for any of you to actually end up warded in the hospital, rarer for it still, to be a two-hour wait with no definitive answers. The doctors had been maddeningly vague: We’ll let you know as soon as possible. No reason to worry. But how could he not?

“Don't tell me to calm down, I—” Spencer’s voice cracks. His chest feels tight, constricted. “Even small blows can cause severe brain damage. Nobody knows how fast—how fast neurons can start to—”

“Reid,” Morgan repeats, his grip not letting up. “They checked her. Twice. You saw it yourself. You saw them go in. I promise you—They’re on it.”

Spencer doesn’t reply. He doesn’t tell Morgan that 3.6% of hospital deaths occur because of medical negligence—A staggering 1.8% of those linked to head injuries. Doesn’t tell him how many journal articles he’s read on misdiagnosed head trauma or the cascading complications that can go unnoticed until it’s too late. The numbers run through his mind unbidden anyway.

“I’m gonna let you go now,” Morgan says carefully, studying Spencer’s face. “But you gotta stay calm, kid. You hear me? Hotch is already looking.” 

Spencer forces himself to look where Morgan’s nod directs him. Hotch is speaking to a local officer at the end of the hallway, eyes already darting warningly towards them. “I’m calm,” Spencer mutters, though his chest feels like it’s caving in and his breaths are shallow and his heart is pounding so hard he thinks it’s a wonder Morgan can’t hear it. Nothing about this feels calm at all. Not even remotely. 

He drags himself to the bench in the hallway reluctantly. As it turns out, sitting does little to settle him. His leg bounces uncontrollably and he bites at his nails, a nervous habit he hasn’t indulged in since childhood. Old habits resurface when the mind is in distress, he recalls. He doesn’t even glance up when Morgan comes by again with a peace offering in the form of a cup of coffee. Not even when Hotch had come to pass on his well wishes, a pressing call waiting for him back at the bureau. 

The minutes crawl by and Spencer counts each one. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty. At ninety-three, a doctor finally approaches. Spencer bolts upright, standing so fast that his head spins a little. You’re stable. Visitors are allowed. Two at a time. He barely registers anything else that the doctor says.

You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.

The sharp antiseptic smell hits him first. Then it’s you, eyes blinking blearily as you try to grab a cup of water from the overbed table. The motion makes you wince and Spencer is at your bedside in an instant, his knees bumping gently against the frame as he leans down. 

“Stop I—I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” he says softly, scooping up the cup before you can strain yourself any further. 

“Thanks, Spence,” you whisper, your voice hoarse. You take the cup from him with a weak smile and lift it to your lips for a small sip.

Spencer’s gaze flits involuntarily to your temple. Stitches, eight of them, subcuticular running sutures, from what he can see. They start at your hairline, tracing a clean path down just shy of your cheekbone. He tries to tell himself it’s a good sign—clean wound edges, minimal scarring expected. He wants to say something but the sight of you, pale lips, fragile in the oversized hospital gown, usual biting sarcasm and saccharine teasing nowhere to be found, makes his heart ache. 

“How do you feel?” he finally manages. Even he knows it's a stupid question the moment it leaves his lips. 

“Like I got whacked in the face.” Ah, there you are.

Spencer chuckles meekly though ​​his attempt at lightness falls flat when he catches sight of the stitches again.

“S’not as bad as it looks,” You say tiredly, noticing his line of sight. “The nurse told me it was barely a concussion. A mild one at worst.” 

“Oh yeah? Would’ve been nice to know ‘bout two hours ago,” Morgan interjects, cutting into the quiet moment. Spencer startles slightly, having completely forgotten he was there. “Pretty sure our poor boy wore a hole in the tiles from all his pacing.”

The flush creeping up Spencer’s neck is immediate, spreading to his cheeks as he goes a little crimson. Regardless, he’s thankful for the soft laugh it draws from you. Eyes crinkling, lips curved. You look a little more like yourself now, even if the weariness hasn’t fully dissipated. It makes Spencer feel a little fuller, a little lighter. 

Spencer’s liked you since the first day he met you. 248 days ago, to be exact—But it’s definitely not like he’s kept count or anything. 

He thought he’d like you when he read over your application file. You’d cited winning a local checkers tournament at age 11 as one of your ‘greatest accomplishments to date’.

He knew he liked you when he caught you trying to explain the concept of gravity to Henry at his fourth birthday party using a juice box and a cookie.

When you quoted Aristotle in an attempt to convince Hotch to get a new coffee machine for the unit? Spencer was certain he’d fallen in love right then and there. Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work. Doesn’t it, Spence?

“Aw, Spence,” you coo softly, your voice carrying that honey sweet lilt he’s grown so fond of. “M’fine. Really.” 

For a fleeting moment Spencer almost believes you. Because the way his heart flutters when you reach over to squeeze his hand in reassurance makes him think he’s the one who should be hooked up to those machines instead. Your thumb brushes gently over the back of his hand and Spencer feels his breath hitch, swallowing hard. He swears he goes a little dizzy for a moment so he promptly takes a seat in the chair by your bed.

“It’s good to see you awake, pretty girl. You really had us worried there for a minute,” Morgan says. Spencer nods fervently in agreement. After a beat, Morgan just can’t seem to help himself, adding, “Well, some of us more than others.” Spencer’s certain Morgan’s thoroughly amused by how flustered he is—More so that you seem blissfully unaware. 

“I’ll leave you two to it.” Spencer pretends not to notice the pointed glance and shameless smile Morgan throws his way. “Don’t let this one fuss over you too much, though. He’s got that down to an art form.” The door clicks shut behind Morgan, and the room grows quiet again, save for the faint hum of the machines and the soft rustle of sheets as you shift slightly in bed.

“Do you remember anything? Before? After?” Spencer asks. He’s painfully aware of how your hand hasn’t moved from his. 

“Not much,” you sigh, your eyes downcast. “Lots of shots… shouting.”

Spencer nods grimly, his jaw tight. If he were being honest, he didn’t remember much either. The moment he saw you go down, his mind had gone blank, aside from the fuzzy static screaming in his ears. He’d lunged toward you as your body crumpled to the ground. The scuff on his pants and the sting of his elbow attest to that fact. His knees had scraped against the concrete as he cradled your head in his hands, shielding your body with his own when the gunfire went down.

His world tilted on its axis—Instinct overtaking reason.

FBI protocol was clear: never abandon your weapon, never turn your back during active gunfire. Subsection 28A, paragraph 2, page 36. Spencer knew it by heart. (He knew the entire handbook by heart.)

But Spencer also knew that if it ever came down to it, he’d take a bullet for you without hesitation.

“I remember you,” you admit softly, your voice a little stronger as you glance up at him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

“M—me?”

“Mhmm,” you hum, “I remember you calling my name. You holding me.” A faint smile tugs at your lips. Your fingers trace gentle circles into his palm as you sigh, “I only remember you, Spence.” ​​It sends a flip through him, right down to his toes—He short circuits. 

“I care about you,” Spencer blurts. His mind feels foggy, his words slipping out before he can overthink them. “Like, really care about you.” He winces internally. Filler words? Really? But with the way you’re looking at him—kind, expectant, devastatingly patient—he can’t seem to summon anything better. 

“I like you,” he tries again, his voice just a tad firmer. “A lot. More than I probably should. I—I really like you,” he adds in a rush. Real smooth, Spencer. 

You tilt your head, biting your lip to suppress a grin, and Spencer hopes you can't feel how sweaty his palms are.

“I know,” you say simply.

“Y—you do?” His voice comes out shakier than he likes.

“I do. Kinda guessed it from the teasing and stuff.”

Silence.

It stretches just long enough for Spencer to start panicking. He’s briefly comforted by the fact that even mild concussions can cause memory lapses and wonders if there’s any other way to make you forget this humiliating confession. 

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, rushing to fill the quiet. “I’m being insensitive. You’re probably overwhelmed enough as it is—I shouldn’t have—”

“I like you too, Spencer,” you say softly, cutting him off. 

“You—you do?”

"I do," you nod unabashedly, utterly unflustered. “I have for a while now, actually.”

His eyes widen. “You have?”

“Yes I have, and I do, I really like you too,” you say with a sheepish smile, laughing. “But if you keep making me repeat myself you’re gonna give me the headache the doctors keep saying I'm lucky not to have.” 

“S’not funny,” Spencer mutters, but he smiles anyway. The brightest smile he’s had today. Maybe even this week. Possibly even this year. “Don’t joke about that. I was really worried.”

“I know,” you reply warmly. “Something about pacing holes into the tiles, if I recall.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, a boyish laugh slipping out. He hadn’t imagined this moment unfolding in a hospital room, of all places. To be honest, he hadn’t imagined this happening at all. 

You’ll probably be out in three days. Maybe two if you’re lucky. He’ll ask you out then. Properly. Dinner at that Thai place you both love. A trip to the library you’d mentioned two months ago but never got around to visiting. He’ll take you to the park where he plays chess every Saturday. He’s going to do it all. The thought makes him absolutely giddy. 

Unbeknownst to the two of you, outside, Morgan hasn’t budged. Not an inch. He’s standing by the blinds, peering in through the narrow sliver. The panicked clatter of heels on the tiled floor announces Garcia’s arrival before she’s even turned the corner. Her face is the epitome of panic, teary eyes wide with worry.

“How—how bad is it?” she blurts, her voice shaking. “Oh god, did she make it? Reid called and—”

Morgan silences her with a gentle finger to her lips. “Shhhh. She’s fine.”

“Fine?! But—But Reid said something about brain trauma—and her neurons and—”

“Babygirl, you and I both know how he gets when it comes to her,” Morgan chides, “Nurse said it’s barely a concussion.”

Garcia lets out a deep, shaky breath, her shoulders sagging dramatically as relief washes over her. “Oh, thank god,” she utters, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh, I’m gonna kill that boy, d’you know what he told me?! He said—” 

“Hold that thought,” Morgan says, cutting her off with a smirk. “Our boy genius is a little… preoccupied right now.” He steps aside slyly, gesturing toward the blinds. “Take a peek. You’ll thank me later.”

Inside, Spencer has moved his chair closer to your bedside. One of his hands holds yours securely, fingers interlocked now, while the other traces soothing circles along your forearm. His smile is blinding, proud even, as laughter fills your face. When you shift, a strand of hair falls across your face, and Spencer gently brushes it aside, his hand lingering on your cheek.

Garcia visibly melts at the sight. She lets out a soft, adoring sigh as Morgan starts to steer her gently down the hallway.  “You know, when I told you last week that she wouldn’t know Reid liked her even if it hit her in the face, I didn’t mean it literally,” she quips, amused. 

“I know babygirl, I know,” Morgan chuckles, shaking his head as he places a hand on her shoulder. “Now, come on. I think I saw some jello in the cafeteria.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you so much for reading! likes, comments or reblogs are very much appreciated!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: magnets by niki soft spot by keshi

[littleapocalypsekitten]

I went looking for Presidential debate memes and my Gen-X ass was not disappointed.

[clegfly]

Y2FyZWxlc3NuZXNzCgpub3VuCgpmYWlsdXJlIHRvIGdpdmUgc3VmZmljaWVudCBhdHRlbnRpb24gdG8gYXZvaWRpbmcgaGFybSBvciBlcnJvcnM7IG5lZ2xpZ2VuY2UuCiJtb3N0IHJvYWQgYWNjaWRlbnRzIGFyZSBjYXVzZWQgYnkgY2FyZWxlc3NuZXNzIG9uIHRoZSBwYXJ0IG9mIG1vdG9yaXN0cyI=

Okay I’ve been posting too much silly Puter stuff lately. Party’s over people

[icewindandboringhorror]

I occasionally wish to reach out to old friends/acquaintances I haven't spoken to since high school/some other even earlier time in my life, but I have SOOO little social energy even for required tasks (like making dr phone calls or etc), I never have any leftover for extra ones, and it would be very odd to message someone I haven't spoken to in like 5 years out of the blue but then take 4 entire months to respond back lol.. My natural curiosity with nostalgia/collecting details of the past/etc. (literally if I were born a little earlier I would definitely do scrapbooking or something lol) is very strong, but, alas, not strong enough to beat out the Social Issues Demons apparently

[xxplastic-cubexx]

hello!! i just want to tell you that your art is so goddamn scrumptious, you are literally feeding my xmen brainrot and I find myself smiling when i see your art come across my feed. I love how you draw charles, pretty privilege and post (lets be fr he's serving every time)

i hope you always have fantastic brainrot and id kiss your blessed hands for giving us the gift of cherik and charles xavier, you are literally an icon

hope you have a great day ahead of you and more!! you deserve it !!

well i'ma absolutely have a wonderful mornin after readin this AWWWW thank you so so much !!!! i haven't been postin xmen long, so it's been really heartwarmin seein the warm reception to my work in the wonderful tags people have been leavin on my posts- and especially gettin to answer the lovely asks y'all've been sendin in (❁´ ▽ `❁) !! im glad people also like my goofy text posts and esp quotes from my brother he really has no right being so funny at the most random times

i hope to be xmen posting a while: ive got at least 60 years worth of stuff to look through and ongoing, so i dont imagine my interest'll wane anytime soon :]] !!

[genccide-archived]

Making myself sick thinking of how much Genos loved his family,,,

[robotsafari]

im gonna feel bad for all the kh fans who followed me once i hyperfixate on something elsWRONG!! ONLY THE STRONGEST FOLLOWERS SURVIVE !!!!!!

[lilac-melody]

Hm hm~

[inbabylontheywept]

my grandpa was a good man. and it really wasnt his fault - recreationally lying to kids is a proud family tradition - but he told me, once, that cutting a worm in half resulted in two worms.

i think he said it so i'd be more morally okay with fishing? i actually dont remember the context.

point was, he told me this, and he understimated (by a very large margin) how much i liked worms. i was a worm boy. very wormy. and after hearing that, i went home, and i dug through the garden, flipped over every rock, did everything i could to gather as many worms as i could, and then i uh.

i cut them all in half. every worm i could find. all of them. with scissors.

i then took this pile of split worms, and i put them in a box with a bit of lettuce and some water and stuff and went to bed expecting to double my worms overnight. i have math autism, so i had a vague understanding that if i did this just a few times in a row, i would eventually have a completely unreasonable amount of worms.

i was very excited to become this plane's worm emperor.

(i think i was...six?)

anyway, i did not become the inheritor of the worm crown. i instead woke up to a box of dead worms and cried. a lot. i got diagnosed with panic attacks as a teenager, but i think i had them as a kid, i just had no idea what they were. i was kind of processing that a.) i had killed what i had assumed was every single worm in my yard, and thus would have no more worms, and b). i was going to like, worm hell.

(six year babylon spent a lot of time worrying about god.)

so i kind of freaked out, and i climbed a tree, because god can only smite you if you're touching the ground (?) and i sat up there mostly inconsolable until my mom came out and asked, hey, what's up? what happened?

so i explained to her that i had killed all of the worms, forever, and was also Damned, and she took me to the compost pile, and we dug for all of five seconds and found like twenty more worms.

the compost pile was full of worms.

she then told me that a). there were more worms, and we could put them back under rocks and stuff and recolonize our yard and b). that one day, i would die, and go to heaven, and be able to talk to the worms face to face. that i'd be able to tell them all that i was very sorry, and that i killed them on accident, driven only by excessive Love, and that she was positive they would forgive me because worms have six hearts and no malice.

at that point, i think i was sixty percent tear-snot by weight, and i had no choice but to gather enough worms that i could hug them. which my mom helped with. and then after that she helped me put some worms back under each rock.

and for my epilogue: i spent a significant portion of my childhood in trees. and for many years after, even when my mom didnt know i was watching, i would catch her giving the space under the rocks a light spritz with the hose. not because she loved worms.

but because she loved me.

[rin-may-1103]

Just a Bite.

Master Post | Next

Danny stared out at the busy street from behind his dumpster.

or well, not his dumpster, but it might as well be his considering how many nights he's spent sitting behind it like some rabid raccoon.

Two months ago, he would have been sleeping in his own bed. His glow-in-the-dark stars vaguely lighting up his room in soft luminescent colors. The sound of Jazz snoring in her sleep just a room over, his parents still milling around in the basement.

he would have just finished fighting the box ghost and collapsed onto his bed, the sound of his home lulling him to sleep.

Oh, how things can change in a blink of an eye.

No, instead of sleeping on his bed with his cartoon ghost sheets and NASA poster covered room, he's out here in some random dirty city, sleeping behind dumpsters.

dirty, grimy, rusty dumpsters.

"did you hear?" some lady dressed in a light blue summer dress asked, turning to look at her friend as they started to walk past. "Mr. Wayne donated another lump sum to that charity." she huffed, shaking her head like she had just said the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard.

her friend stopped in the middle of the alley opening, her graying hair splaying in an ark as she twisted to face the other women. "my word! again? what the hell is that man thinking?"

the woman huffed, then smirked in amusement. "it's like he's shouting for the world to hear how desperate he is for attention. he thinks if he donates enough money to those scoudrails they'll love him or something. With how he's acting lately, it's like he wants all the street rats to barge into his home asking for money, food, and clothes."

her friend clicked her tongue in disgust, "I'd believe it. he has so many kids now, it's like he's running an orphanage. someone, anyone really, with black hair and some tragic story could walk right in and not even be noticed. they'd blend right in with the others."

"I heard it's genetic, his father was the same way before he met Martha. Bruce's blood son, Damian I believe, acts just like his father. the boy's been spotted taking stray cats and dogs inside. It wouldn't surprise me if the paper posted about him convincing his father for another sibling at some point."

the women then turned and started to walk away, their conversation slowly bleeding into the surrounding city ruckus.

Danny leaned back, resting his head against the crumbling brick behind him.

walk right in and not be noticed? wouldn't that be grand. He had heard of Mr. wayne and his gaggle of black-haired children. What were their names again? he could have sworn Sam told him before, in one of her rants about rich society.

Richard Grayson was the first, Danny remembered because Tucker had been making none stop dick jokes for a few hours. Danny didn't understand why the man would willingly go by Dick, but then again, who was he to question someone's name when he fights ghosts like Skulker and Technis on a daily basis?

Next was... Jason? Sam had mentioned there was a whole conspiracy theory of how his death was a cover-up. how all the unsolved crime community swore it was Bruce who killed the kid, that or the kid had some terminal illness that Bruce didn't want the media to know about.

thennnnnn-

Danny glanced around, trying to dig through his memories of Sam's rant. Dick: the orphaned circus act taken in the night his parents died. he's romanie? maybe, Danny wasn't too sure on that one. Jason: taken off the streets, one of his parents was out of the picture and the other one died of a drug overdose.

and then there was..... Tim! Right, Tim, the one who was Mr. Wayne's neighbor before his mother died and his dad went into a coma, then died later on. right, right. he was the known tech genius, the one who took over the company while Mr. Wayne stepped back for a while.

there were others? like, four others? Damian, the lady said he was the blood son sooo, that would imply he was the only bio kid.

who else was there? hmmmm.

well, either way, Danny's tired brain agreed with the women. someone, anyone, who looked vaguely like the other kids could walk right into the house and no one would notice.

it was a bad idea. a terrible one really. but. Danny was hungry.

he's been sleeping behind dumpsters for a few weeks now, he hadn't had anything good to eat in forever, and he was tired. (not as exhausted as he was back home, but still tired. who would have guessed he'd sleep more while homeless?)

he wasn't going to steal from people, his core wouldn't allow him to. and well, he's pretty sure Dan would have stolen already, so there was no way Danny was going to. not unless his life was at risk, and well? it wasn't right now, so no stealing.

but this? walking right into a house and blatantly taking food? right in front of them?

it wouldn't be stealing if he just flat-out didn't try to hide it. they'd be able to stop him and send him away. heck, he doubted he'd even make it past the front gate before they turned him away.

...

was he really going to do this?

...

yes, yes he was.

standing up, Danny started making his way out of the alleyway and over to the tall building with Wayne's name on it. It was a good place to start, maybe he could even find one of the kids and walk with them. or, even better, he could find Mr. Wayne and walk with him. he liked that better than following some kid around.

suddenly, a car honked right next to him, the window rolling down to reveal a tired and disheveled man behind the wheel. glancing up, Danny made eye contact with the taxi driver.

the man yawned and gestured for him to get in, already speaking before Danny could decline. "Mr. Wayne! Your father," yawn, "Father already paid for me to take you home. just hop in."

Danny blinked then glanced around, looking to see if the Wayne the man was talking about was around. nope. turning back, Danny spotted a green sticky note on the back seat.

well, alright then. guess he was getting into the taxi and doing this after all. Clockwork obviously approved if he messed with the timing of things.

Next

[hello-eden]

In Plan Sight

Jason didn't know what he expected when he woke up but it wasn't this. 

that was a small dark-haired girl that looked to be about 4 years old sitting on his couch. Jason has a vague memory of her being there last night but he was very tired and assumed it was one of the street kids that he lets crash in the safe house sometimes.

 Jason slowly walks up to her trying to get into her line of sight so he doesn't spook her. she looks up at him with green eyes he feels like he recognizes but can't quite place.

“you need to help me find my mom,” the young girl says with a conviction that you don't usually find on four-year-old's voice. 

“Did you get lost or are you in danger” Jason wants the kid to have just got lost.

 “Mom said to run and to go to vigilantes in Gotham and they take me to my dad. I don't care about my dad, I want my mom.” so dangerous it was than. Jason really hopes the mom is alive 

“Do you know anything about your dad” Jason questioned. 

“Mom says he's nice and smart and that he would love me if he got to know me but he also is a little bit stupid sometimes so don't hold that against him.” The girls stumbled over some words like she was trying to remember what her mother said. 

Jason suddenly remembers he does not know her name. “What's your name kid.”

“ Eleanor Danielle Nightingale,” the kids sounded so excited to be able to say their full name. 

Honestly Jason was expecting the kid to say a nickname but having her full name is probably better.

 “How about I make you some breakfast? Have you been sitting on the couch all night?” Jason said as he looked over the couch. There was a smaller bag that was probably full of her stuff on the side of the couch closest to the window.

 “I took a nap,” Eleanor says in her tone making it seem like she thought it was obvious. “and I want pancakes.”

“ Well lucky for you I have just the stuff “Jason turns around and heads to the kitchen to start making the pancakes.

—-------------------------------------

 Jason got Eleanor set up into his guest room. 

Jason looked her up while she was in the bathroom after breakfast. He didn't find anything other than a birth certificate with her full name under a Dahlia Nightingale.

Dahlia Nightingale is even more of a mystery; her age was about 17 when she gave birth with a look similar to her kid which is unsurprising but any history is entirely unknown. All Jason is getting from this file is what her allergies are and her blood type. 

Eleanor or Ellie as she insisted on being called has only been to about two doctors appointments both having to do with getting her shots. no information on this mysterious father and absolutely nothing on Dahlia Nightingale.  The family is very obviously hiding which means there's a higher chance of her mom being dead. Jason hopes at least one family member is alive at lest to take care of the kid.

[iamred-iamyellow]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Santa Tell Me

♥ masterlist | request rules | 12 days of ficmas

♥ featuring: franco colapinto, lewis hamilton, charles leclerc, carlos sainz, lando norris, and oscar piastri

♥ synopsis: christmas traditions/activities with the drivers

♥ as always none of the pictures are mine

♥ warnings: swearing and vaguely suggestive content !!!

♥ a/n: second day of ficmas !

❅ ── 𝑭𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒐 𝑪𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐

-your boyfriend Franco has zero pr training and is pretty chronically online. unfortunately for you he came across one of those tiktoks of a girl dressing herself in wrapping paper to the Santa Tell Me lyrics: "oh I wanna let him unwrap me, get on top of him by the fireplace" and suggested you should do it.

"you look amazing mi amor" he laughed as you stepped out into the living room. you were dressed in wrapping paper with a white bow tied around your waist, per his request. once the video was done recording Franco slipped his hands onto your waist, crinkling the decorative paper in the process. "¿Deberíamos hacer lo que sugiere la canción?" (should we do as the song suggests?) he asked while biting his lip and looking between the couch and the fireplace. "this was the only reason you wanted to do this, wasn't it?" you raised a brow. "(eh)...si," he smiled causing you to laugh.

-speaking from personal experience, a latino family christmas can be a huge event. be prepared to meet family members he doesn't even know himself

-KING of joke gifts. probably gets you a duolingo premium membership and his own merch

❅ ── 𝑳𝒆𝒘𝒊𝒔 𝑯𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒕𝒐𝒏

-gives you the most thoughtful gifts you've ever received. whether it's expensive or not; he'd buy you a planet if he could.

-christmas vacations are a must. you travel everywhere you can in every break. bonus points if roscoe can tag along.

-to lewis christmas is all about giving back. donating to charity, helping out with F1a, and of course, building bee houses.

-seb added you to a small group chat called “family christmas” and invited the two of you over for holiday. they really did see you as family (or maybe his kids just wanted to see your dog)

❅ ── 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝑳𝒆𝒄𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒄

-the Leclerc family Christmas will definitely be something you look forward to in the future. all the mismatched colors clashed in the most harmonious way the minute you stepped through the door. the tree was covered with ornaments, two red ferrari ones front and center, and there was enough ribbon to fill a small isle in a craft store

-they even had a stocking with your name on it

-you were probably forced to wear a matching ugly christmas sweater for family photos

“alright,” pascale said, shooing everyone from the frame. “one with just the happy couple!” “maman…” charles sighed with a smile, shaking his head. “charles! we’re making memories here!” “yeah charles, we’re making memories.” you giggled.

-after the holidays you most likely took a longggg vacation with pierre and kika

❅ ── 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒐𝒔 𝑺𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒛

-expensive expensive gifts. channel, LV, dior? you name it he got it.

-you told him it was such a sweet gesture but you didn’t really need all of those luxuries.

-in response: remember that pink thong with chilli's that valtteri gave to him? yeah, this christmas he gave that to you.

-in all seriousness he loves the winter break. his love languages are physical touch and quality time, so you can guarantee he’ll spend as much time as possible with you. tons of cuddles and his phone will definitely be on silent.

-christmas dinner? no no no, christmas pancakes.

❅ ── 𝑳𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐 𝑵𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒔

─ lando is much more hot girl summer than winter bimbo so the two of you probably spend a lot of your winter in sunny areas like ibiza.

-for the week of christmas eve however he flew the two of you back to England in order to do all those classic winter things.

-gingerbread houses! except he’s probably eating all the frosting behind your back AND eating the house as you make it.

“lando!” you gasped dramatically as he broke off a side of the gingerbread roof and bit into it. “what?” he laughed. you peered inside the open house, two tiny cookie people inside. “you’re destroying their home.” he grabbed one of the gingerbread men and bit off its leg with a taunting smirk.

❅ ── 𝑶𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓 𝑷𝒊𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒊

-you forced him to listen to justin bieber’s christmas album while you decorated the house and had a heated argument over whether home alone 1 or 2 was better

-if your not oscar’s close family, you cannot reach him during christmas. he’s spending time with the people he loves, therefore he’s off the grid (pun intended)

-ice skating king. he’s honestly shockingly good at it despite not not doing it often. he’s definitely that one guy who can do all the tricks

-like lewis, he gives the most endearing gifts ever. he’s the most wholesome boyfriend

-dressing up his dogs together! you got them these soft sweaters and tons of christmas treats for them. it resulted in the cutest pictures and even a feature on @albon_pets

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

taglist; @sainzzreputaticn @theseerbetweenus @yawn-zi

[thewitchblue]

"Are you... reading Twilight?"

You had asked Jason, who broke into your apartment while you were gone grocery shopping. He only gave you a hum and continued reading as you set your grocery bags on your kitchen table.

You watched him turn the page and felt a sense of dread. It was your copy from when you were 13 years old. It had notes and doodles in the margins. Did he read your notes? Of course he would. He reads the annotated versions of Jane Austen he has for fun. Why wouldn't he read your notes? The world seemed to be against you this day.

You were so mortified you didn't even hear him laugh at a doodle you had of Edward biting a dog with the word "nom" next to it. He was almost done with the book.

You've only been dating for a handful of months. Would the notes break up your relationship? You don't remember the majority of them.

You haven't touched the trilogy since school, and you originally didn't even want to read it. The social pressure from your friends became to be too much, and it felt like a religious experience at the time.

You had forgotten about the book entirely in the years you've had it crammed in a bookcase next to the rest of the series, which, with great horror, you saw he also pulled out to read.

"Don't tell me you're enjoying the book."

You said in disbelief. The memories run through your head of your blushing cheeks at simple words on pages while the girls ganged up on you to ask which team your on. What team is Jason on? Or has he read this before behind closed doors? He shrugged and simply replied,

"I am."

You wanted to bolt out the door, but you had melting limited addition candy cane ice cream in your grocery bag.

Instead of running away, you bravely start putting away your groceries with your eyes trained on Jason. He seemed to genuinely enjoy your trashy romance book that's so incredibly dated. This is so bizarre to you. He's a fan of the classics and loves books that he can revisit without cringing.

The book appeared partially destroyed by the abyss of your backpack with a torn cover and a broken spine, but it drew Jason's attention. Of course, it would draw his attention. He always said a well loved book is one you take everywhere. A book with a broken spine and torn cover is going to make him curious.

He never had the normal teenage phase, so he's never read the book. He was curious, and he was rewarded so far. He understands now why teenagers like the trilogy so far.

You decided to break into the ice cream. You tensed at every page turned. What did you write in there? You tried to remember. You vaguely remember writing "yummy muscles" on a page. You cringed. Oh, the horrors of a horny teen.

The ice cream was as delicious as you expected it to be. How could you look him in the eyes ever again? Will he tell the whole family? You were stress eating.

Jason finished the book and went to pick up the next one, but you plucked it out of his hands before he could open it and grabbed the final book as well.

"I'm seriously going to throw these in the shredder."

Jason smirked at you. He enjoyed your little doodles and notes. It was as if he was meeting you when you were kids. He pointed out,

"I think they are too big to shred, pipsqueak."

You pouted, which only made him more amused. He pulled you into his lap and kissed your cheek. You huffed,

"I can still try."

He laughed. You were so adorable. He might have to embarrass you more. He murmured to you,

"I especially enjoyed your note of 'delicious dog meat.'"

You groaned and held your face in your hands, making the books fall to the floor. You hated your past self in this moment. Why did you keep those books? For Jason to show up and read them?

The feeling of dread eventually went away the more he kissed you. You filed away the fact you can know for a fact Jason read Twilight now, and part of you wondered if he'll spiral into the hellscape of fanfiction as a result. You are going to burn those books.

You like to think you ended up with a better love story than Twilght. Sure, you may be dating a zombie instead of a vampire or werewolf like teen you had wanted (if we can have Superman, we can have a sexy vampire or werewolf), but your zombie is perfect in his own ways.

[sweetteainthesummerx]

packing it up!

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

nhl masterlist !

series masterlist!

pairings: popstar!reader x quinn hughes

warnings: fluff, suggestive content, i also changed one word in the lyrics to fit the fic better

summary: summer at the lake house, and quinn realizes how completely in love with you he is.

song: packing it up by gracie abrams

word count: 2.1 k

notes: ideas from this ask!

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

quinn glances at you from the rented car, your hair blowing angelically around your face. he thinks you're the most beautiful woman he's ever seen, even as you grimace and unstick your locks from your lipgloss.

his hand is heavy and warm on your thigh, your much smaller hand tucked over it.

he's both nervous and excited: you're the first girl he's ever brought to the lake house, the only one he's ever loved like this.

when quinn and you finally pull up to the lake house, luke and jack run out to greet you guys.

they offer hugs and brotherly kisses on the cheek to you, jack's girlfriend following close behind, the two of you reuniting with a squeal, chattering about some reality tv show.

his parents are at the door, hugging their oldest and his mom pulls you into a tight embrace too. jim tucks you under his arm, wanting to show you his new grill.

ellen and jim, who along with the rest of his brothers, met you at the hughes bowl game. technically, his mom had met you over facetime a week after you'd made it official.

at first, he could tell that she'd been a little wary of your public status and insane amount of fame but after getting to know you and seeing how much you cared for her son, she'd accepted you into the family with open arms. his dad liked you from the beginning, because you made chocolate chip cookies and looked at quinn like he hung the moon.

that night is busy and full of chatter, months worth of catching up finally done. you head up to shower and bed first, and jim slaps quinn's back as he gets up from where he was playing video games with his brothers for a drink of water.

"she's good for you son. don't let her get away," he grins, and quinn laughs, shaking his head.

"i don't plan to, dad. don't worry."

nearly an hour later when he drags his heavy feet up to his room and opens his door, he sees you and is suddenly wide awake.

you're on his bed, wearing a set of pink cotton pajamas, the thin and sparse material almost as soft as your skin under the warm over head light. you glow, you're prescence temptingly familiar.

he leans on the frame of the door just to watch you in your element.

your pretty, smooth legs are crossed, propping up your guitar as you softly pick at the strings with quick-practiced fingers and hum under your breath.

the first ever time he'd listened to you sing he'd realized that you were probably a genius. he'd never really been into music all that much as a kid, but he vaguely remembered you on the television at his friend's house and seeing posters of you everywhere.

at such a young age, you'd been famous, making millions of dollars and working with huge brands; yet here you are, hair still a little damp and looking like one of his teenage wet-dreams.

oh, if only 16-year-old quinn hughes could see this. actually, he'd probably be yelling at himself to join you on the bed.

"hey, baby." he murmurs, and you look up, smiling with tired eyes.

you let him set your guitar carefully into it's case, and he offers you soft kisses that make you giggle and squirm before he goes to the bathroom to wash up.

you're under the covers when he returns, and he crowds into you, shoving his face into your neck and breathing the familiar smell you your skin and bodywash.

he pushes his head into your chin as you laugh, soft voice saying something about acting like a dog, but he doesn't care.

he wants to merge into one with you, as weird as it sounds. being close to you physically is almost not enough. he feels like he can't breathe and that you're fresh air all at the same time, affection for you clogging thick in his throat.

you rub his scalp and his temples and his bones melt, his weight flattening you to the mattress.

he knows he's too heavy, but he can't bear the thought of moving even an inch from you, so his hands finds the curve of your waist, lifting you easily so you're chest to chest, your body like a weighted blanket on him.

"goodnight, quinny," you press a kiss into the little space in between his clavicles, the little dip pale under the stream of moonlight through the crack of the curtains.

he returns the favour to your guitar-calloused fingertips, and the two of you breathe in tandem as sleep finds you.

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

the next afternoon, after a big breakfast and a lazy morning, all of you usher out to the boat, eager to catch any droplet of that good, good michigan sunshine. ellen sends you all off with a cooler of drinks and sandwiches.

after quinn sets down the cooler and the other boys are figuring out the logistics of the boat, he tucks his big hands under your armpits and lifts you onto the wobbling vessel easily.

you kiss his cheek in thanks, and once everyone is settled down, jack's girlfriend whips out a humongous bottle of sunscreen and begins to slather her boyfriend down.

quinn sighs as you fill your hands with the sun cream, and turns grudgingly, back muscles shifting under pale skin.

he hisses as the cold liquid, his fingers coming to smack at the side of your thigh playfully when you laugh.

he helps you apply it too; you push at his head when his hands wander and you flush a sunburnt pink.

through out the day, as jack, luke and quinn take turns driving and wakeboarding, you tanned with jack's girl, planting yourself on your boyfriend's lap whilst he drove and tucked yourself on the seat with your book.

as the sun was setting and the boys were still insisting on wakeboarding, the music from the speakers was blasting music (once in a while, one of your songs would come on, and the whole boat would cheer, much to your embarrassment) as you nestled into your seat between quinn's legs, your back pressed up to his bare chest.

it was chilly on the water, quinn's hoodie and body heat around you your only source of warmth.

luke complains about all of the pda as the four of you laugh at his whining, and quinn rubs your goosebump-littered thighs.

you sigh happily, utterly exhausted but so, so content.

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

quinn watches from his seat on the couch as you and his mother, the two most important women in his life, laugh together while cooking dinner.

ellen tells you something, and you giggle, glancing at him. he realizes he's grinning unconciously.

honestly, his mom is probably roasting him or telling an embarrassing story, but he doesn't mind. it's oddly domestic seeing you with his family, and he's delighted how well you fit in.

later that night, as the you settle in for bed, he asks what you were talking about with his mom.

your eyes glitter with adoration as you cup his jaw. he leans into your touch, his own hand resting over yours.

"you," you tell him so earnestly, and his heart fills with so much love.

three words rest on his tongue, but you yawn sleepily, tucking yourself into his side.

he lays awake for a few moments, the words heavy like a treasure box full of gold, ready to burst at any moment.

he is so, so in love with you.

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

three months later, when the air in vancouver is bordering on brisk, and when he finds you wearing his sweaters more often than not, you sit him down after dinner, passing him your laptop.

"i have something for you," you tell him nervously. he doesn't like seeing you unsettled, so he sweeps his thumb over your cheek until you relax.

he presses play on the video, and an acoustic guitar starts playing.

your angelic voice joins in, and he automatically bites back a smile.

i hope that you get everything you could ask for the cold side of your pillow, a real break for once good peppermint tea with cool wind on the drive home with no traffic for miles, for spring to come

the video fades into what he thinks are snippets of your first few months together immortalized on your camcorder: him ordering your coffee, walking in stanley park in the early march, him tying your skates on your third date, him driving, relaxed with the windows down on the way to the lake house.

i swear that i wasn't looking for much but that's just when you happened that's right when you happened got so damn close to packing it up but that's just when you happened and then you happened then you happened

it hits him at the chorus: this song is about him. you wrote a love song about him. he looks at you, and you're a little pink, still fidgeting. he hopes that his awe-struck expression is enough for now, because he has no words.

now i'm red in the face, and shy all of a sudden you move, i move, it's something, you fit perfectly and replace every game, you push none of my buttons and hold me through the morning, kinda new for me

the next clip streams seamlessly onto the screen. it's taken shakily through a screen door, the two of your figures swaying in a slow dance on the porch, the sun rising on the docks in the distance.

he relishes in how good the two of you look together, how right.

as the chorus plays, you tell him, "i think your mom took that,"

and he laughs voice broken with emotion, because of course his mom could tell how absolutely devoted he was to you.

i hope that you get my dark sense of humor sunsets in the summer with your family don't stop talking to me, maybe stay here forever we could die here together, I'd do it happily

around the campfire, the grainy-filtered camera pans to each member of his family, everyone laughing and chattering as they roasted marshmallows. the sun was a pretty orange against the purple-pink backdrop of the sky.

i'll hold you, i'll know you i'll never leave out the back door and i'd love to complete you hope you get all you could ask for

he watches with teary eyes a video of the two of you on the boat, in your own world. you're wrapped up in his hoodie and his arms as he rests his cheek on your head. he says something to you, and you throw your head back laughing, leaning back onto his shoulder.

'cause i swear that i wasn't looking for much but that's just when you happened that's right when you happened got so damn close to packing it up but that's right when you happened mm, then you happened

the last clip is of him, wearing a thin shirt and shorts, back to the camera. he's standing on the docks, hand reaching behind him to you.

your hand, he recognizes, slips into his perfectly and he turns, a devastatingly smitten look on his face as he looks to you.

when the music ends, he's pouting a little to keep from crying.

normally he doesn't get emotional easily, but you make it so easy for him to be vulnerable.

you smile, a little wobbly but gorgeous as ever as he tugs you onto his lap, burying his face into your neck.

he's sure you can feel his teary eyes and warm cheeks, but he doesn't mind.

"thank you, thank you," he mutters into your skin, clearing his throat when his voice cracks, "no one has ever done...anything like that for me before."

"you like it?" you ask, delighted.

"i love it, sweetheart," he tells you, kissing every inch of you he can.

those three words are back on his tongue, and if he's honest, they never left.

"i love you." he tells you steadily, his voice gravelly from the sheer force of his feelings.

you gasp a little, and he shakes his head: how could you ever doubt that he loves you with his entire being?

between tear-wet kisses and sweet, feather-soft caresses, you tell him you love him too.

he's never been too good with words, at expressing how he feels, but for you?

he'd tell you he loves you every single day.

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

[chheolie]

dad seokmin forgot to keep his promise

seokmin was having one of those days where he planned to spend the entire afternoon entertaining his son with the most outlandish games he could think of. full of enthusiasm, he turned on the toy fire truck, which started zooming across the floor with its lights flashing and siren echoing throughout the room.

"look at this, buddy!" he exclaimed, excitedly, calling his little one over to watch the toy in action.

but to his surprise, his son, sitting on the floor with a surprisingly firm look, just crossed his arms and put on an expression that looked way too serious for a three-year-old. his little lips pushed out into a dramatic pout, as if he was experiencing the worst day of his life.

seokmin raised an eyebrow, confused, trying to decipher the unexpected reaction.

“is he mad about something? or maybe he just doesn’t like fire trucks anymore?” he thought, watching his son curiously.

determined to keep trying, he brought the truck closer and attempted to get him excited again.

"let’s put out the fire, son!" he said in an upbeat tone, waving the toy from side to side, trying to make it as fun as possible.

to his complete shock, the little boy, still with his pout intact, kicked the truck with his chubby foot, sending it sliding across the rug until it bumped against the couch leg. the kid’s angry face only grew, and the pout? somehow, it looked even bigger.

seokmin had to try really hard not to laugh. he felt his lips tremble with the urge to let out a chuckle, but he held it back. he didn’t want to make his little one any more upset.

"okay, my love… you don’t want to play with the fire truck," seokmin said in a softer, more paternal tone. "how about we go for a walk outside?" he suggested, smiling as if it was the most amazing idea ever.

the boy looked at his dad with a mix of disapproval and stubbornness, then turned his face away, crossing his arms even tighter.

seokmin sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling clueless. he tried everything he could think of – he even offered to go outside and watch the “big trucks” his son usually loved to see, but nothing worked. feeling at a loss and a little desperate, he finally picked up his phone to call for help from the real expert: his wife.

with quick fingers, he typed a message, and soon his phone buzzed with a reply.

seokmin: babe, help.

he saw the typing bubbles pop up and then the message appeared.

seokmin: i think i just became our son’s number one enemy. 😩😩

y/n: 🤨 really? why?

seokmin: he won’t talk to me. won’t play with his favorite fire truck, doesn’t even want to go outside…

y/n: did you ask him why? maybe it’s something important

seokmin: babe… he’s only three. how’s he supposed to know how to explain what he’s feeling? 🥺

y/n: 🙄 ASK HIM, seokmin.

seokmin was ready to finally fix the situation, but he couldn’t resist asking his son one more time, now that the little boy seemed a bit less upset.

"son, did daddy do something wrong? why are you so upset?" he gently held his son’s tiny shoulders. "is there anything daddy can do to make you not be mad anymore?"

the little boy looked at him, still pouting, and said in a slightly teary voice, "you… you pwomised… stwawbewwy ice cweam… and you fowgot!"

seokmin had to cover his mouth to hide his laughter. of course, it was about food! and he vaguely remembered mentioning something about ice cream the night before, but with all the excitement and games, he’d completely forgotten.

"oh, son… i’m really sorry! daddy forgot about the ice cream!"

seokmin quickly grabbed his phone and texted his wife, almost as if he needed her to witness what he’d just discovered.

seokmin: babe, he said it

seokmin: i promised him strawberry ice cream after lunch, can you believe it? 😩😩

almost immediately, her reply came in.

y/n: really? i’m a witness.

seokmin: i forgot i’d promised that 😳

seokmin: but… how could he remember that? he’s just a baby!

y/n: he’s your son, seokmin. your legacy: selective memory for sweets and pizza.

seokmin: 😅😅😅😅😅

y/n: give him his ice cream before he packs his bag to run away from home.

laughing at the thought of his son packing a bag and searching for a new home that took ice cream promises seriously, seokmin headed to the kitchen to prepare the long-awaited treat. he grabbed a small bowl, added a few scoops of strawberry ice cream, and went all out: strawberry syrup, colorful sprinkles, and of course, a cherry on top. he carried the bowl back to the living room like it was a trophy, still imagining which uncle his son might ask for refuge with. maybe vernon? surely he wouldn’t forget a promise.

"here it is, buddy! your strawberry ice cream, with everything you deserve!"

the little boy, now with bright eyes, immediately dropped his pout and grabbed the bowl with both tiny hands, amazed by what he saw.

"yummy!" he said, fully focused on the ice cream and visibly happy.

seokmin crouched down beside him and asked hopefully, "so… do you forgive me for forgetting?"

the child nodded, but he was so engrossed in the ice cream that seokmin wasn’t sure if the forgiveness was genuine or just temporary. the ice cream was clearly priority number one.

he quickly sent another message to y/n.

seokmin: he forgave me…

seokmin: but i’m not sure we’re totally okay yet… i think his heart’s still divided between the ice cream and the grudge.

y/n: hahaha, i’m glad for you, babe.

seokmin watched as his son enjoyed the ice cream, and with each spoonful, the little boy let out a happy “mmm!” while seokmin watched, relieved to have made things right.

when his little one finished, he held up the empty bowl and grinned.

"was it good?" seokmin asked, smiling back at him.

"good, good!" he replied with his sweet little voice and eyes shining with joy.

suddenly, the boy got up, handed the bowl back to seokmin without much ceremony, and ran over to the fire truck still sitting on the floor.

"wooo woo woo woo!" he started imitating the fire truck siren with excitement, waving his dad over to join the game.

seokmin wasted no time. he ran to the kitchen to put the bowl down and, in seconds, was back in the living room, ready for the new mission to save the world. he pretended to put on an invisible firefighter helmet and gave his son a salute.

"firefighter seokmin reporting for duty!" he announced with a determined, goofy expression. "what’s the emergency, chief?"

his son held onto the toy truck, looking at him with serious little eyes.

"fire! big fire! daddy, come!" he shouted, running around the room with the truck while seokmin followed, pretending to turn on a siren.

the house transformed into a "fire station," and the two of them spent the next several minutes saving stuffed animals from the imaginary blaze.

seokmin: babe, we’re friends again

seokmin: we’re playing firefighters

y/n: alright, mr. firefighter, don’t make promises you won’t remember to keep

seokmin: 🫡🫡🫡