#and you can just tell that like. these are kids. these are literal kids telling the whole internet about their life using whisper memes-

[shellybortpresents]

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents? mom yes, dad no.

02: Who did you last say “I love you” to? husby <3

03: Do you regret anything? so much, lol but i'm doing the hard work to let it go, because some things are beyond addressing at this point. in other instances i did my best, and i still feel bad. both get me nowhere, so i do the work. hopefully, one day, it'll work :)

04: Are you insecure? not really, anymore. i guess slightly, sometimes... mostly in situations where i'm dealing with men who i can tell hate women and something important needs to get done. that's always hard. but in general - not really. insecurity is a huge life waster, and i spent enough time insecure in my youth.

05: What is your relationship status? insanely happily married <3

06: How do you want to die? in my old age after a long long happy life, in my husband's arms.

07: What did you last eat? coffee and toast

08: Played any sports? softball when i was young. i was so good at it.

09: Do you bite your nails? no, gross.

10: When was your last physical fight? never. i don't do that.

11: Do you like someone? i like almost everyone.

12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours? no, i'd probably die. i've come close, but i doze off for small increments within days... i can't fully stay awake.

13: Do you hate anyone at the moment? just the dictator cheeto, and most men online.

14: Do you miss someone? my perfect angel niece <3

15: Have any pets? in my heart - still 6. currently in my arms - 2 </3

16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment? extremely sick. i've had covid for 14 days and i'm just getting worse. i think i have bronchitis or the beginnings of pneumonia.

17: Ever made out in the bathroom? lol ohhhhhhhh yes <3

18: Are you scared of spiders? more so than most things.

19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance? 100% yes.

20: Where was the last place you snogged someone? oh gosh, it was 15 days ago, so i can't remember, but probably my hubs in bed before i woke up sick.

21: What are your plans for this weekend? sleep, and protect our kids during the 4th fireworks and fall out. we hate it.

22: Do you want to have kids? How many? no answer, no answer.

23: Do you have piercings? How many? just ears, 4. hoping to get my nose done... maybe on my 50th bday :)

24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)? it was always english/reading/literature. i was reading and comprehending at a college level in 1st grade. i failed practically everything aside from english, music, and photography, haha

25: Do you miss anyone from your past? no. i've made peace with those i did, and gotten back in touch with those i couldn't live without. i'm very happy with my life right now, i've done a lot of really hard work.

26: What are you craving right now? sleep. peace. health.

27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart? oh yes. i was being honest - i have many regrets.

28: Have you ever been cheated on? yes. more so than not.

29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? yes.

30: What’s irritating you right now? being so sick it literally hurts to breathe.

31: Does somebody love you? many people do and i'm so grateful <3

32: What is your favourite color? lavender, mustard yellow, blush pink, sky blue... they all swap places as my favorite.

33: Do you have trust issues? yes. one of the many things i work hard on in therapy.

34: Who/what was your last dream about? i was performing with renee rapp. it was so fun. for some reason i woke up coughing so hard i spit out some blood, no joke. i seriously need to go back to the e.r. but i'm so tiredddddd.

35: Who was the last person you cried in front of? my husband.

36: Do you give out second chances too easily? yes, but i'm working on it.

37: Is it easier to forgive or forget? forget. i really have to do the work on forgiving. i tend to be way too hard core about that. it's a flaw.

38: Is this year the best year of your life? in most ways, no. it's been the hardest year of my life. but that may also make it the best. plus, i'm still alive. so isn't every year of life the best? <3

39: How old were you when you had your first kiss? 12. then 20 for the next one. the first one was with a boy i loved so much, i didn't want anyone else to touch me for soooo long.

40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked? no. never. will never, lol. the world doesn't deserve that, haha

51: Favourite food? my mom's lasagna, and pizza. also french bread with really good butter goes sooooo hard. and chocolate.

52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason? no. i believe in action and reaction. i do believe some things happen because destiny exists, but definitelyy not everything.

53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night? watched funny videos and played the times games with my husband whilst cuddling our kids, just like every night <3

54: Is cheating ever okay? Absolutely never. there's is never an excuse for disrespecting someone. all things can be done in kindness... even the hardest and most inconvenient things. grow up. be brave. take responsibility for yourself. don't be an a-hole. that's a young person's game.

55: Are you mean? as a default - no. when i feel extremely scared and threatened - i can be.

56: How many people have you fist fought? zero.

57: Do you believe in true love? 100%

58: Favourite weather? 68 degrees, by the ocean, wearing lots of layers, and hopefully it'll rain for part of the day <3

59: Do you like the snow? yes. but not driving in it. it scares me to death because of a situation that happened in 2023.... we literally almost died in a snowstorm. never again.

60: Do you wanna get married? i didn't, no. but then i met the right person, and it's been the best decision i ever made.

61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby? no. i don't think "babe" or "baby" are cute. it's infantilizing and uncomfy and lazy.

62: What makes you happy? more things than i could ever list, but the tops are my hubs, my kids, my niece, my friends, coffee, beach, movies, and gardening.

63: Would you change your name? no.

64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed? nope, i do it a thousand times a day :) or, i will again, when i'm better.

65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? have a very strange talk with them, cuz they're gay.

66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around? of course. i can fully be myself around ALL my friends. they wouldn't be my friends if i couldn't.

67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to? my husband. what are these questions? from an 11 year old? haha

68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? my husband.

69: Do you believe in soulmates? no. but i do believe we're perfect for each other.

70: Is there anyone you would die for? i would die for most people <3

70 horrible questions ... Fuck it

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents? 02: Who did you last say “I love you” to? 03: Do you regret anything? 04: Are you insecure? 05: What is your relationship status? 06: How do you want to die? 07: What did you last eat? 08: Played any sports? 09: Do you bite your nails? 10: When was your last physical fight? 11: Do you like someone? 12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours? 13: Do you hate anyone at the moment? 14: Do you miss someone? 15: Have any pets? 16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment? 17: Ever made out in the bathroom? 18: Are you scared of spiders? 19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance? 20: Where was the last place you snogged someone? 21: What are your plans for this weekend? 22: Do you want to have kids? How many? 23: Do you have piercings? How many? 24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)? 25: Do you miss anyone from your past? 26: What are you craving right now? 27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart? 28: Have you ever been cheated on? 29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? 30: What’s irritating you right now? 31: Does somebody love you? 32: What is your favourite color? 33: Do you have trust issues? 34: Who/what was your last dream about? 35: Who was the last person you cried in front of? 36: Do you give out second chances too easily? 37: Is it easier to forgive or forget? 38: Is this year the best year of your life? 39: How old were you when you had your first kiss? 40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked? 51: Favourite food? 52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason? 53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night? 54: Is cheating ever okay? 55: Are you mean? 56: How many people have you fist fought? 57: Do you believe in true love? 58: Favourite weather? 59: Do you like the snow? 60: Do you wanna get married? 61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby? 62: What makes you happy? 63: Would you change your name? 64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed? 65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? 66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around? 67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to? 68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? 69: Do you believe in soulmates? 70: Is there anyone you would die for?

[robinavich]

hey, siri | jack abbot

synopsis: you become privy to some abbot-sponsored healthcare fraud

w.c: 3k

ao3

an: this literally isnt even the fic ive been working on for weeks. I assume this is in the godlight storyline? not sure if I'm gonna do anything with this. is there anything here. might delete it. it's unclear. i'll delete it at a later date. this will never get finished. you are nothing to me

You’re half-slouched over the counter—on-call, because apparently that’s a thing that wasn’t in the job description on Indeed—glasses perched on the tip of your nose.

Pinned to the desk, the EMTALA medical screening exam form struggles under your elbow, lines crinkling with every movement like it’s physically trying to escape from your abuse. The corners curl upward, creased and folding, preparing to leap off the desk and report your treatment directly to the Bar Association.

It’s the kind of betrayal only paperwork is capable of—narc-like, obvious, and absolutely not HIPAA compliant.

Your lips lift in a soundless sneer, glaring down at the paperwork.

…manifesting itself by acute symptoms of sufficient severity such that the absence of immediate medical attention could reasonably blah blah blah…

One little insurance checkbox tells you to go kill yourself.

An Emergency Medical Condition IS present.

Below it, the same answer negated.

An Emergency Medical Condition is NOT present.

At the bottom, Jack Abbot, M.D. is signed, the form ready for submission with one stroke of your pen.

A small mhm escapes you as you clear your throat and shuffle the papers in front of you, fingers busy carding through the snitching form, smoothing out the crumpled pages before tucking it behind the next, restoring them to numerical order like that will make your choice easier. It’s a god-awful hand. Even you can recognize that.

Fingers interlace and fold neatly before you.

Your leg starts to bounce anxiously, eyes cutting to the doctor next to you.

And then back.

One small hand reaches out and clicks your pen, loading a round in the chamber.

It hovers over is NOT present.

You set it back down. It’s finally becoming clear why Robby fucking hates admin. Because truly this is fucking stupid. Why does this stupid piece of paper get to just decide that someone doesn’t have the right to life.

As the seconds creep past, your poor neck muscles rebel against the effort of holding your head up, letting gravity tug it down incrementally from where it’s slumped in your hand.

“It would be so easy to just…materially misrepresent the record right now,” you murmur, mainly to yourself, but your target audience is just anyone who will listen.

Abbot’s neck creaks as the fatigue-burdened bones slowly turn his head in your direction, eyes pleading.

“Sweetheart, it’s three in the morning,” he begs softly. “What the fuck does that mean, honey?”

“Like,” you shrug, not knowing how to will out words not snug in a cocoon of mitigation. “You ever think how easy it would be to just check off the wrong thing?”

Jaw flexing rhythmically while he digests your words, the doctor looks back at where his own charting is holding him hostage. He almost scoffs. “You ever think about how fast they’d disbar you?”

Your hand lolls sideways against your palm as you muster a crooked grin.

“You make enough money for the both of us, it’s fine.”

“What, and bank roll your little,” his hand flicks, as if he could materialize and itemize your bank statement midair, “designer matcha habit?”

Tired eyes squint at him sideways, the form before you momentarily forgotten. “Oh, please. You’ll grunt, and then hand me your little card, and then smuggle me into the building with some half-assed consulting badge you printed in the breakroom.”

His eyes cut to you, glinting.

Considering.

“No,” the words drop to a promise, scraping down your spine. “I’ll make you work for it, kid. Properly.”

From where your hand dangerously keeps you upright, your head slips and nearly hits the table. Catching yourself just in time, palm pressed hard against your forehead, you pray there’s a shadow dark enough in this world to hide how wide your eyes have gone.

But you’ve never heard a better incentive to destroy your career.

You could work for it.

You could be a housewife. Take a Pilates class. Breakfast ready for him every morning. Wake up before he comes home. Look pretty and be ready for him to fuck you. Anything you say, Jack.

That’s obviously so fundamentally who you are as a human being.

Rational brain presents an argument to the court. How long have you been working for this career? What was the outstanding balance on your loan this morning?

Both tremendously great points.

Lizard brain—smelling suspiciously of gasoline—presents a counter argument. It shrugs, tosses a lit match into the courthouse, and coos, yeah, but imagine how hard he’d fuck you in all the shiny jewellery he bought.

You clear your throat.

Actually, fuck this little checkbox.

“Okay, how bad could the fine be? Like three dollars?”

“That’s not my area—that’s supposed to be yours, actually, sweetheart,” soft, like he’s reminding you. Bastard. Rougher, “But I think it’s more than a damn Baja Blast.”

“Good on you for knowing the price of a Baja Blast, old man.”

His eyes slide shut and when they reopen they’re looking at the ceiling as if trying to find some patience God hid in the tiles. The man is really just trying to make it through the night.

Obediently perched on the edge of your chair, you patiently wait for his laugh.

Silence settles softly.

“So, do you, like, hate me or…?”

“No, honey, but you are currently the only thing standing between me and my job.”

As if that’s your fault. You weren’t the one who wrote into incomprehensible law, hey, let’s make sure companies can dictate who is sick enough to receive medicine. yes they stand to make a profit. no I don’t care.

“Okay, I’m sitting, but whatever.” You grab your phone, and flick it open, the confidence of your motions like you have God on speed dial. “Let’s ask the real expert, huh?”

Already knowing you’re not serious, he looks back at his chart.

“Hey Siri,” you ask, pitching your voice all fake-curious, eyebrows up like you’re genuinely about to learn something. “What’s the vibe with falsifying medical data so patients get care they don’t qualify for?”

Jack doesn’t even glance up from the chart he’s pretending to update, head sliding forward to squint at the computer screen. Tired exasperation threads his words.

“We did it a couple months ago and it was fine, so please be my guest.”

Your smile freezes halfway through its mocking curve. The words land between your eyes, gently rocking your head backwards.

Siri quietly reports her findings in your hand.

“You did what?” you ask, because surely that didn't mean what those words meant.

Jack doesn’t even turn to you. He just shrugs, all nonchalant and been there done that, as though what he just confessed wasn’t a felony charge. 

“Our jobs,” he says simply.

Simply.

Like our jobs covers the live ethical grenade he’s just tossed at your feet.

You’re not even sure why you feel surprised.

You look at him, and then back down to your glowing phone where Siri very unhelpfully displays medical malpractice attorneys near you, and then back up to Jack.

In fact, you’re sure you’ve seen Jack Abbot’s handwriting neatly printed in the bottom right hand corner of more flagged-for-legal-review, suspect paperwork on your desk than you’ve seen the scrawl of the actual chief attending on any paperwork that you didn't force him to sign at gunpoint.

All things that slip under the radar if you’re not looking for them. Supplies routed through different departments. Procedures using medical devices that cannot be accounted for in inventory. Repeated requisition forms requests with supplies that never officially get used.

If you wanted to be a villain—if you wanted to ensure that those barriers to care stay reinforced with steel—you could. You could dig in and report every instance where something doesn’t add up. But you sign off and forward to insurance. You haven’t taken a real math class since high school, so whatever.

It’s one thing when you’re not expected to know the numbers and the facts. It’s easy to turn a blind eye. It’s another thing when you do know the facts.

And, unfortunately, you’re fluent in words.

“You lied?” you repeat slowly, peeling the syllables apart in an attempt to reveal the sin wrapped in bureaucratic red tape. You swear you can hear the backfire of your brain short-circuiting.

“Not lied,” Jack corrects, finally looking at you again. Two large hands spread like life leaves no alternative other than mild felony. “We rephrased reality.”

Then, softer, earnest, “We helped someone. It’s fine, sweetheart.”

Your lips move of their own accord, absently mouthing we rephrased reality, the sentence unfamiliar and clunky on your tongue. You know you knew all of those words individually, but put together and presented like this, it’s just not clicking. Is it a new language? Is Jack into ConLang?

Rephrased reality?

Who is this fucking guy?

The vision fires like a bullet through your brain—a brief, crystal-clear image, of a man wearing safety goggles and an I have an idea demeanor.

Ginger guy? From MythBusters?

You’re fucking dating ginger guy from MythBusters? 

You push gently off the floor, the wheels of your rolly-stool shouting their dire need for WD-40 with every pass.

However, physics was also not a prerequisite for law school, so naturally, you miscalculate both force and distance, your not as gentle as you thought push sending you haphazardly knocking into his frame. You ricochet backwards several inches and hands fly up to scramble for hold on his shirt. His palm lands on your thigh, warm and steady, anchoring you exactly where he wants you.

“Careful,” he mutters. “Wouldn’t want to make anyone here do their job.”

And that felt suspiciously like a jab. Bitch.

“Jack, if you’re serious,” your voice—straightforward and devoid of all humor that typically resides there—lowers to a whisper that he shifts closer to hear. “This is malfeasance. You’re talking about fraud.”

Conspiratorially matching your low volume, he huffs out a laugh—half disbelieving, half impressed by your ability to effortlessly move from his light-hearted girl to someone who uses malfeasance in conversation. “Minor infraction. Good fraud.”

“While I don’t doubt it was,” your mouth hangs open as you pause, inhaling a stuttering breath to keep your composure, “good fraud, you’ll notice it still has the word fraud after it.”

“Kid, it’s fine. It’s not that deep.” A corner of his mouth twitches, too amused for your liking.

You scoff, frustration mounting. “With a brain as shallow as yours, nothing is.”

Where did he even learn not that deep?

Your head snaps up to his, brows furrowed. “And why are you talking like that? Who taught you that? Stop that,” you order in rapid succession. “Stop distracting me with your— your,” fingers wiggle in the air, face disgusted, “newfound child lexicon.”

He catches your hand mid-flail and folds it into his own. His other hand stays heavy on your thigh, thumb brushing idle circles that say stay put.

“I’m not doing that.” He was. “I have a weathered man lexicon.” He does not.

Jack’s tongue peaks out and swipes at his bottom lip.

“She was a kid,” he says earnestly. “She was pregnant.”

“Are we talking, like, how you call me kid, or, like, a kid kid?”

“Fourteen.”

It’s your turn to blink—slow, like maybe if you close your eyes long enough, the sight of him lounging there, genuine and morally flexible, will vanish and take his small confession with it.

But it doesn’t. He’s still there when your lashes lift again—calm, infuriatingly calm, watching you unravel with the same patience he probably uses to falsify half the fucking paperwork in this godforsaken department.

Slowly, it escapes you, taut and under your breath, dwindling composure fraying edges of the sound waves, “Oh my God, you’re using the past tense.”

“She didn’t die.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know that?” you snap out between gritted teeth.

He’s just out there running circles around red tape with a perfectly straight face.

Like some sort of superhero.

A superhero who knows that you can only bend the rules where you know they’re weakest.

You breathe in, exhale every ounce of composure you have left, and narrow your eyes—zeroing in on the word that’s still rattling around like a loose screw.

“You said we?”

His shoulders move a fraction and you jab your finger into his chest.

“Shrug again and I’ll bury you under whatever version of reality you want, Abbot,” you warn.

His mouth opens like he’s going to explain, closes, then opens again.

Finally, he just says, “Robby.”

You blink.

Yeah. That checks out, actually.

But, like, in theory, though—you didn’t think he would actually ever do it. Yet, a stubborn, ridiculous part of you swells with pride. That’s your freaking day shift attending.

And now you’re actually kind of pissed at the night shift attending.

“He what?” The words slowly slip out of you, voice soft with incredulity. “You what? Y’all what?”

“You know,” he muses, ignoring your questions altogether. “I’m starting to think you were joking with that Hey, Siri thing.”

“Of course, I was joking,” you hiss out. “Why would I not be joking about that? Do you know what my role is here? What I get paid to do?”

You jab a finger at your own chest for emphasis next—your badge, heavy with Hospital Counsel, rattling the bars in its cage pinned to your ribs. Your entire job was to make sure this doesn’t happen.

Your eyes narrow.

Slightly leaning forward, you pin the doctor with your stare.

“You two keep this shit to yourselves. You take that and you— you bottle that up. You die with it,” you command, your voice low but firm. “Not even God should know, that’s how fucking good you should be at keeping this to yourselves.”

The last word snaps out sharper than you mean it to. It echoes a little in the too-quiet room. Jack doesn’t flinch, just sits there on that stupid rolling stool, eyebrows lifted slightly like he knows you’re not done yet.

You shift your weight, jaw still tight, eyes flicking off to the side—anywhere but his face. There’s a pulse of silence where your mind scrambles to stick to your training: Report. Reprimand. Get the compliance team.

Wash your hands.

But it doesn’t. It stalls.

You shift your weight marginally, eyes darting to the side.

If you don’t report this, you’re technically involved. So, really, now, you're implicated and you don’t even know what for.

Your spine, held stiff by principle and policy, loosens under the thought. Curiosity edges in, dragging your kicking-and-screaming legal training by the ear, shushing it with a sly little hey, girl, at least hear the man out. 

It floods through you, itching under your skin.

You really want to know what that whole story is.

Man, part of you wants to see where it goes so bad, you can practically taste the disciplinary action on your tongue. False binary is a fallacy, sure, but, like, you’re already in it now. Might as well be all in.

And, like, come on—this is Jack. You’re not gonna throw him under the bus. You love Jack. The man came over on his only day off and built you an Ikea bookshelf because you asked him what do I do with that little metal L? Which, for the record, you knew what to do with that metal L. 

And also, he can’t just drop that information on you and not finish that explanation. You’ll fucking kill yourself if you don’t get the rest of it. And you’ll do right when it coincides with his shift, just so he can deal with the trauma and the paperwork.

And also also, like, why do Abbot and Robby get to have a cute little secret? You wanna be in Secret Club. You can keep secrets. You’re so fucking good at keeping secrets.

You deflate a little, resignation further unwinding your spine.

Tongue pressing against your molars, your head dips down and your eyes flick side to side, scanning the corridor for any wandering admin or first-year resident who might overhear and rat you out.

You should report this. You should walk away.

But you don’t.

Because you know him. You know him the way you know your own heartbeat—constant, wildly inconsistent in what it wants to eat, sometimes too loud in your ears when things get overwhelming. But always there. You know the crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he’s trying not to laugh at you. You know the weight of his silence and the difference between the kind that means leave me alone and the kind that means please sit next to me until it passes. You’re not married, but he’s it.

And he knows you too. He doesn’t flinch when you’re difficult. Doesn’t waver when you’re tired or sharp-edged or messy. He just stays.

And because under all the ethics and the contracts and the squeaky-clean policy talk, you live for this. The forbidden little confessions no one else gets.

The volume of your voice lowers under the hum of the department.

Someone coughs down the hallway.

“But, uh…You know, God gets off at, like, eight-thirty this morning, so, like…if, maybe, you wanted to tell God without, like, potential legal repercussions,” you tap your fingers together, steepled in front of you. “I think she would really like to know what— uh, what you’re talking about.”

Jack’s eyebrows climb on his head. “Would she, now?”

“Yeah,” you say, sucking your teeth. “Yeah, that’s why, um, they do confession.”

“Confession, huh?” The man across from you narrows his eyes, lips twitching. “That’s part of the job, though, right? So wouldn’t she be working?”

You think for a second.

That’s a good point, God would have to be on the clock to hear confessions. He could do pro-bono work, you suppose. There’s a lot of paperwork involved in that, though, and you’re sure he has, like, mass suffering to preside over.

“Yeah, well,” you wave your hand in the air, dismissing your inner-monologue. Maybe Abbot should be the lawyer. You’re obviously fucked. “Overtime.”

“Oh,” he says, tone pleasantly surprised. “God’s clocking overtime on the night shift?”

You nod, a little too quickly to hide your curiosity. “I mean, the union reps keep trying to shut that shit down, but,” you click your tongue, waving your hands vaguely at the divine hassle, “the angels are striking again, so…all hands on deck, there.” 

A short, forced classic angels, am I right? chuckle escapes your otherwise stoic face.

Then you shrug, nodding sharply again, and crossing your arms over your chest.

And then you swivel a little in your chair, your nerves jumping at the potential for drama.

“And, like, imagine, all those centuries of listening to claims— uh, murder confessions with nothing fun to break the monotony,” you say, almost pleading at this point.

Abbot shifts his jaw, the ghost of a grin flickering. “Sure. God probably doesn’t get enough hot goss.”

“Exactly, girl, so spill,” the words fly out of you, desperate. You pause, reining yourself in. “Uh, later. After— after eight-thirty. And also…” jerkily, your index unfurls and points to the ceiling, “to God.”

A flicker of something crosses his eyes—a little tired, partly entertained, and extremely fond at your flailing attempt at a theology lesson. His mouth curves into that rare, careful smile he never wastes on anyone else.

“Amen, honey,” he mutters.

Oh, he’s enjoying this way too much.

His gaze flicks upward, brow furrowing just slightly as if he’s consulting some internal filing cabinet labeled How to Pin You with Felony Charges. The warm hand resting on your thigh raises slightly, his index finger spinning a single, slow loop on the cloth, physically rewinding a VHS tape only he can see.

“Hold.” He says it low, an order. He pauses the invisible tape with a slow, deliberate sweep of his fingers, then lets his hand drift lower, palm curving around your leg. His thumb presses in, eyebrow lifting a fraction at your breath catching. “I want to make sure I’m understanding you correctly.”

“God gets off at eight-thirty, but he’s pulling OT to listen to my sins,” he recounts lowly, “while you, no relation, also get off at eight-thirty. Now, are you billing hospital time or holy time while my soul’s on trial?”

You press your lips together, left hand coming to rest idly on our cheek while you attempt to think—something getting increasingly difficult with every moment his palm sends warmth shooting up your leg.

“Can we do, like— maybe like, uh— like a divine double shift situation?” you ask.

He tilts his head forward slightly and his hand tightens around your leg, but says nothing.

You swallow, feeling the silence stretch between you.

“Yeah, I’ll admit that one got away from me,” you concede.

The silence grows. Does this guy even blink?

You pivot tactics then.

Slowly, you slink your foot around his metal one, and roll yourself closer, slotting one leg between his. Leaning forward, you begin to reclaim your personal space and launch a counter-attack on his. 

His arms brush yours.

“Holy time, obviously,” you whisper, looking up at him through your lashes. “I’m God’s strongest soldier. I deal with you every day.”

[lemonfizzyy]

A lot of my fellow Dick & Dami enthusiasts want Dick to be Damian's biggest supporter from day one... personally I don't and that is because of the before and afters you can do are PRICELESS:

Before (One month in):

Damian: "You are unworthy of your title and a disgrace to the man you falsely claim as father."

Dick, cold: "You do realize you need me, right? Because when you say things like that it implies you have anywhere else to go if I decide to take Robin away from you. I'd advise you to play nice."

Damian: "How delightfully heavy-handed ...Tell me, how do you expect to be an adequate replacement for my father if you can't even handle the truth of your unfortunate existence?"

Dick: "By employing ungrateful little brats apparently."

After (Ten months in):

Damian: "Every minute I spend with you I can feel my braincells dying off. You are like an antivirus for intelligence; your physical presence wards off the very notion of competence."

Dick, immediately grinning: "I know. It's called the Dumbening Effect and I've already infected you with it. You're being dumbened by the second."

Damian: "'Dumben' is not a word, Grayson. You're utterly ridiculous."

Dick: "The best words-"

Damian: "Are not real, yes. I am aware of your inane proverb. Let me out already."

Dick: "Alright, alright... Get out of here, you little rugrat."

Damian, getting out of the car: "Finally."

Dick: "Oh and Dames?"

Damian, stopping: "What?"

Dick: "Have a good day, okay? Call me if you need me."

Damian:

Damian: "...I will. Goodbye."

Before (One month in):

Dick: "Let me make it perfectly clear that we do not kill. Ever."

Damian, under his breath: "Tt, this again."

Dick: "You work with me, you play by my rules. Do you hear me?"

Damian:

Dick: "Do you hear me?"

Damian: "...Fine, yes. We will play by your cowardly rules if it maintains your fragile ego."

Dick, gritting his teeth: "...Glad we're on the same page."

After (One year in):

Damian: "Richard, you're home! Come quick, I have something to show you!"

Dick: "Oh? What's u-"

Dick:

Dick: "...Another cat? Really? Where are you finding these?"

Damian: "Isn't she the finest specimen you've ever seen? I was walking Titus and she quite literally fell onto my head!"

Dick: "Right... and what's your pitch this time?"

Damian: "Well, there really is no alternative. I have to foster her for the time being as she is greatly malnourished. Of course, I will provide her to a worthy home the very second she is healthy."

Dick: "Look, that's super sweet and all but you know the rules, and there are rules for a reason. I'll be sniffling for weeks and Alfred will be cranky if she pees anywhere and..."

Damian, seriously: "Richard. Please."

Dick: "Kiddo, I really can't..."

Damian: "....Even for me? Your Robin?"

Dick:

Dick: "...................Oh, ALRIGHT. A week and then she's gone, okay?"

Damian, smiling: "Thank you."

Dick, fondly sighing: "Just go feed your cat already."

Before (One month in):

Damian: "I'm growing weary of your desultory and meaningless charade as Batman, you've abso-"

Dick, snapping: "Do you think I WANT to be here? Do you think I WANT to go out every night wearing what my dad DIED in?? Picking up after a snotty little assassin whose head is too far up his own @$& to listen for two seconds?!"

Damian:

Dick:

Damian:

Dick:

Dick: "....Look, I-"

Damian, backing away: "Save it. It's clear my presence is unwelcome and that it has been from the very start."

Dick: "Kid- wait."

Damian: "Goodbye, Grayson. I can't say I enjoyed our time together."

After (Two years in):

Damian: "Do you....... Nevermind."

Dick: "No, no, what is it?"

Damian: "...Do you- Do you think I'm... hard to love?"

Dick: "No, kiddo. You're incredibly easy to love. Like riding a bike. Like breathing."

Damian: "...That feels disingenuous."

Dick: "I don't know what to tell you. It's the truth."

Damian: "I know my behavior, Richard. I was an incorrigible child. I am one."

Dick: "Now that feels disingenuous. You've grown a lot, Dami, and even before you did you were still such a good kid."

Damian: "I certainly did not act like a 'good kid'."

Dick: "It was just a tough situation, bud. You were scared and angry, so you dealt with it the only way you knew how. Having a hard time doesn't make you unlovable."

Damian: "...You are too forgiving."

Dick:

Dick: "......So are you, little robin. So are you."

[thatonegrimm]

Saja boys when you tell them you're pregnant?

Thanks for your request! 💖 Here you go!💌

🌙 Saja Boys x Reader — “I’m Pregnant.”

-----------------------------

🧿 Jinu 

He blinked.

Then blinked again.

You watched him process. He didn’t gasp. Didn’t jump. Just stared at you like the sentence had glitched in his brain.

“I’m pregnant,” you repeated.

“…With… mine?”

You gave him a look. “Yes, yours.”

His face turned red. Like all of it. Even his ears.

“Oh,” he said faintly. “Oh, that’s—um—”

He sat down on the floor.

“Are you okay?” you asked, alarmed.

“I’m great,” he said weakly. “Just—processing. And also deciding whether I should cry or immediately start reading parenting blogs.”

You knelt beside him. He took your hand, stared at it like it held the world.

“Are you happy?” you asked softly.

He looked up, eyes glassy.

“I’ve never been more terrified,” he whispered. “And I’ve never been more in love with you.”

-----------------------------

💪 Abby 

You didn’t get halfway through the sentence before he yelled.

“Wait—really?!”

You blinked. “Yeah, I—”

He picked you up.

Fully. No warning.

Lifted you like you weighed nothing and spun you around before you could finish the word pregnant.

He was already crying.

���You’re serious? We’re gonna have a baby?!”

You laughed against his chest. “Yes! I’m serious!”

He stopped spinning, then set you down gently like you were made of glass.

“Okay. Okay. We have to buy things. We need a name list. Oh my god, I’m going to be a dad.”

You kissed his cheek, and he froze again.

Then grinned so hard it almost hurt to look at.

“I’m gonna be great at this,” he whispered.

And you didn’t doubt it for a second.

-----------------------------

📚 Mystery 

You waited until the apartment was quiet — no shadows twitching, no distraction. Just you and him, sitting close.

“I’m pregnant,” you said softly.

Mystery didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

His eyes locked on yours.

Then: “Say that again.”

“…I’m pregnant.”

He exhaled slowly, blinking once like it helped him ground himself.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

He stood. Not away — toward you.

Knelt down. Rested his forehead against your knee.

And whispered, “You’re… carrying something we made.”

You brushed his hair back.

“Does that scare you?”

“No,” he said. “It humbles me.”

You felt the quiet joy radiating from him — warm, slow, and infinite.

-----------------------------

💋 Romance 

Romance noticed something before you said a word.

You were glowing. Not literally, not magically — but that softness he hadn’t seen before had returned.

And he froze.

“Wait.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait what?”

He stepped in close, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re glowing.”

“…Okay?”

“You’re glowing. The way you did the first time you said you loved me.” His voice dropped. “Are you—?”

You smiled.

He gasped.

“No way.”

You nodded once.

He grabbed your face, kissed you hard, then shouted, “I knew it! I knew I smelled joy!”

“…What?”

“Nevermind.” He held your face. “You’re radiant. You’re magnificent. You’re giving me a child. You absolute miracle.”

You giggled. He started crying. You both fell onto the couch tangled in laughter and kisses.

-----------------------------

🔥 Baby 

You didn’t expect him to react calmly. But you also didn’t expect him to choke on his drink.

He coughed violently, sputtering water across the table.

“I’m sorry—what?!”

You crossed your arms. “I said I’m pregnant.”

“With my kid?!”

“Obviously with your kid.”

He stared at you.

Stared at your stomach.

Stared back at you.

Then went completely still. Like rebooting.

“…Oh.”

You gave him a moment.

Then he sat down slowly. “That means… I’m gonna be…”

He didn’t finish. Just looked up at you.

And whispered: “You really think I can do this?”

You knelt, took his hands.

“I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else.”

His fingers trembled.

Then he laughed — loud, overwhelmed, teary — and pulled you into the tightest hug of your life.

-----------------------------

M-List

[vlovann]

Okay, so this comment section keeps instantly deleting my responses about real life experience with the education system and it’s getting annoying. You cannot truly learn perspective if people who have legitimate points are silenced by a filter.

I AM SCREAMING THIS BECAUSE IT IS IMPORTANT:

IF YOU’RE GOING TO TALK ABOUT IGNORANT PEOPLE USING THE EDUCATION SYSTEM AS A SHIELD FROM LEARNING NEW THINGS, YOU NEED TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE NUANCE OF THE SITUATION:

THE US EDUCATION SYSTEM IS A LEGITIMATE EXCUSE. They ARE victims of the system, just like you!

REFUSING TO BREAK THE CYCLE IS NOT.

These are SEPARATE ISSUES that have DIRE, SPIDERWEBBING CONNECTIONS THAT CAN TRAP ANYBODY.

TURN YOUR ANGER TOWARDS THE SYSTEM AND THE CONSERVATIVE PARENTS WHO PERPETUATE IT, you’re WASTING ENERGY ARGUING WITH THESE LOST SOULS ON THE INTERNET.

HERE’S WHY (FROM MY EXPERIENCE AND MY PARTNER’S WHO IS A TEACHER THAT TRIES TO BREAK THE CYCLE):

• EMOTIONAL INTELLIGENCE AND EMPATHY ARE NOT CURRICULUM.

- IT’S NOT EVEN A JOB REQUIREMENT FOR THE AUTHORITY FIGURES.

- SCHOOLS WILL ALLOW CHILD ABUSERS TO REMAIN EMPLOYED AND PROMOTE THEM, BUT PUNISH AND FIRE TEACHERS WHO GENUINELY CARE FOR THE WELLBEING AND DEVELOPING MINDS OF CHILDREN. OFTEN PEOPLE WHO ARE PARENTS THEMSELVES, which THIS POINT ALSO APPLIES TO. YOU DONT NEED TO SHED YOUR BIASES AT ALL TO BE IN ANY POSITION OF AUTHORITY. IN FACT, MOST OF THE TIME, PEOPLE ARE TAUGHT TO BE APATHETIC.

• YOU ARE NOT TAUGHT SENSITIVITY BY DEFAULT:

- RACE: IN-DEPTH HISTORY AND THE AWFUL THINGS THAT HAVE BEEN DONE AND ARE STILL HAPPENING, WHAT PEOPLE OF COLOR GO THROUGH ON A DAILY BASIS, GIVING KIDS A SAFE SPACE TO TELL THE CLASS ABOUT THEIR EXPERIENCES AND ASK QUESTIONS AND TALK ABOUT IT AMONGST THEMSELVES. WHY CERTAIN THINGS ARE UNACCEPTABLE OR APPROPRIATION, HOW YOU CAN BE A GOOD ALLY AND STAND WITH THEM.

- CULTURES: INDIGENOUS of the WORLD, PAGAN, LITERALLY ANYTHING OTHER THAN CHRISTIANITY. THE AWFUL THINGS CHRISTIANITY HAS DONE TO THEM AND STILL ARE. HOW YOU CAN STAND FOR THEIR RIGHT TO EXIST. AGAIN, GIVING KIDS A SAFE PLACE TO STAND UP AND TALK TO EACH OTHER, ASK QUESTIONS.

THIS IS ON PURPOSE because SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND STATE IS A FUCKING LIE. CHRISTIANS CONTROL INFORMATION, REGARDLESS OF WHETHER THE TYRANNICAL RELIGION IS TAUGHT IN SCHOOL OR NOT. I have SEVERAL posts about this topic.

- IDENTITY: QUEER HISTORY INCLUDING ANCIENT HISTORY, LITERALLY THE FACT THAT WW2 ALSO AFFECTED THEM (this isn’t taught even in some Holocaust museums) WHAT IDENTITIES THERE ARE. AGAIN, GIVING KIDS THE SAFE SPACE TO TALK ABOUT THEIR EXPERIENCES, ASK QUESTIONS, ETC. IF YOU READ THIS SO FAR, you know the rest.

CLUBS ARE NOT ENOUGH.

- DISABILITY: THE AWFUL THINGS THAT SCIENCE HAS DONE TO PEOPLE WITH DISABILITIES, INVISIBLE AND VISIBLE, CREATING A SAFE SPACE FOR TALKING ABOUT EXPERIENCES AND TO EACH OTHER.

THESE SHOULD ALL BE REQUIRED, BUT THEY AREN’T BECAUSE IT DOESN’T FIT THE NARRATIVE OF THE GOVERNMENT AND MOMS OF LIBERTY WOULD HAVE A BITCH FIT ABOUT IT AND SHUT IT DOWN.

• YOU ARE TAUGHT BY DEFAULT:

- NATIONALISM: “Our country is the best country. We did these “bad things” for a good reason. There is no other side of the story because:”

- PROPAGANDA: “Look at the actual bad things these monsters did to deserve this. This country that’s smaller than us was going to kill everyone in our country first. We did this because they did it first, but we did it better. They’re evil, even the civilians that had nothing to do with it.”

- BULLYING IS OKAY IF THE AUTHORITIES AGREE WITH IT, DON’T DO ANYTHING, OR YOU DON’T GET CAUGHT.

- IF YOU FALL BEHIND, WE’RE NOT TO BLAME. YOU ARE JUST LAZY. YOU WILL NEVER AMOUNT TO ANYTHING.

- You are brainwashed with what they want you to know and that’s IT.

• THE US EDUCATION SYSTEM IS BUILT LIKE A FACTORY.

- THE GOVERNMENT, SCHOOLS, AND EMPLOYERS ALIKE VIEW ANYBODY OUTSIDE THE WOMB AS A NUMBER. YOU AND THE BRAINWASHED.

- You get up — ass crack of dawn, go to school, sit down for 8 hours. Eventually, you’re not allowed to go outside. You get 30 minutes to eat if you have the lunch money to. You go home and you still have work, taking time away from family or being a kid a.k.a your development and good night’s sleep.

• YOU ARE ONLY ENCOURAGED TO USE YOUR BRAIN IF IT ALIGNS WITH NEUROTYPICAL FUNCTIONALITY AND CONSERVATIVE EXPECTATION.

- Meaning you can only use your brain if you think like they think.

- If you function differently, you’re not human, you cannot speak, you cannot move on. You are either held back or we are not giving you the help and accommodations you need.

• IF YOUR GUARDIANS AT HOME ARE NOT TEACHING YOU CRITICAL THINKING SKILLS, THIS IS A WHOLE OTHER LAYER THAT I CAN DO A SEPARATE POST ABOUT.

- If they are not externally exposing you to different experiences, different cultures and ideologies, or information you wouldn’t be taught in school, you aren’t learning SHIT about life or caring about others.

- And BELIEVE US this is EXTREMELY common.

THE SYSTEM FAILS EVERYONE. CONSERVATIVE PARENTS FAIL THEIR KIDS. THESE ARE THE ONES TO BLAME.

~~~~~

It is nearly IMPOSSIBLE to change the minds of ignorant people. What you CAN do is:

• Use their use of the education system shield to relate to them and see if something can click in their minds that this list of reasons is exactly why they should be looking things up and learning on their own.

OR, if they can’t:

• Disengage

OR

• Provide a resource that they most likely won’t look at and then disengage.

AND

• Exercise your own right to stand up for inclusive education and educators that are actively trying to improve the lives of all kids. Put the frustrations of talking to these people towards protesting against oppressive educational practices, support and get involved at progressive schools, teach your own kids if you have them or if you want to have/adopt them in the future, siblings, any kids you’re around enough how to think critically and dissect the information they are fed in schools and how to stand up for themselves and others. We need it now more than EVER.

If you are not at least doing something to break the cycle and you too are just arguing, then you are no better than them.

~~~~~

P.S: If YOU had cool, progressive schools with a ton of resources, or teachers, GOOD FOR YOU 👏🏻 Just know that, while it absolutely should be, THAT IS NOT STANDARD. Your experience is NOT the majority. That is RARE and they’re probably being different on purpose, cutting corners, teaching you positive or important things such as these against protocol or in spite of, and shielding and taking the brunt of a ton of systemic bullshit for their students. That makes you lucky as hell.

we need to legalise learning for adults

[verityasian]

UNCLE JJ X JACKIE . . .

>>>headcanons

>>>JJ who’s basically a big child than an uncle

>>>feat his poor girlfriend Y/N who essentially has to babysit two kids

He Is Not Babysitting. He’s Just Hanging Out with His Best Friend.

JJ: “Babe, it’s not babysitting, she’s my goddaughter. We’re just vibing.”

You walk outside and find them duct-taping a leaf blower to a skateboard.

You: “You’re a grown man.”

JJ: “A grown man with VISION.”

Who’s the Child? Trick Question: It’s Both.

Jackie: “Let’s jump off the shed!”

JJ: “I already cleared the trampoline. Let’s go for the kayak.”

You, dragging a mattress to the ground beneath them: “I am not getting sued today.”

Matching Temporary Tattoos That You 100% Did Not Approve.

They both walk into the kitchen like:

“Check it out! We got flames on our forearms!”

You: “That’s a Sharpie.”

They Have a Secret Handshake. It’s Eight Steps Long.

Includes: chest bump, tongue out, yelling “POGUES FOR LIFE” and then falling backwards dramatically.

You: “Can y’all just do a fist bump like normal people?”

He Uses Her as an Excuse to Buy Toys for Himself.

JJ: “Babe, this Nerf gun isn’t for me. Jackie said she needed backup.”

Jackie’s in the background strapping on goggles like she’s about to storm Normandy.

He Can’t Say No to Her. Ever.

Jackie: “Can I have ice cweam for dinn–uh?”

JJ: “Absolutely.”

You: “She’s five.”

JJ: “And she’s making strong dietary choices.”

She Rides on His Shoulders Like It’s Her Birthright.

Grocery store? Shoulders.

Beach? Shoulders.

Funeral? He almost did it before you gave him a look.

They Play “Good Cop, Chaotic Cop.”

Jackie: “You stole my teddy!”

JJ: grabs sunglasses and points at another child “Tell me who took it. We’ll handle it like Pogues.”

You: “No one stole anything. You both dropped it in the toilet.”

She Paints His Nails and He Acts Like a Superhero About It.

JJ: “See this glitter? That’s Pogue war paint, babe.”

You: “That’s unicorn sparkle pink.”

JJ: “And I wear it with honor.”

JJ Starts Fights With Rafe On Her Behalf.

JJ: “Don’t talk to her like that, Cameron. She’s a literal princess.”

You: “JJ, he asked her to use a fork.”

They Have ‘Rival’ Treehouses.

Jackie’s is full of stickers, glitter, and snacks.

JJ’s has a flag that says NO GIRLS ALLOWED (unless you’re his girlfriend or Jackie).

You: “So no girls?”

JJ: “It’s metaphorical.”

JJ Gets Jealous When She Hangs Out With ‘Uncle Wafe’

JJ: “Oh, so now she wants gucci glitter and designer dollhouses?”

You: “You bribed her with Pop Rocks and a BB gun last week.”

JJ: “And that was heartfelt.”

Every Game Turns Into a Competition.

Coloring = competitive.

Trampoline = who can flip higher.

Uno = bloodbath.

He’s Very Protective. Like, Alarmingly Protective.

Kid at the park says Jackie’s dress is “weird”?

JJ: pulls you aside “You think it’s too early to teach her how to throw hands?”

Every Sleepover Ends in Disaster and You Cleaning Up.

There’s glitter in the microwave. The dog is wearing a tutu. JJ is asleep with marker on his face.

You: “Did anyone brush their teeth?”

Jackie: “JJ said toof-paste is a scam.”

JJ: from under a blanket “IT IS.”

He Cried the First Time She Called Him “Uncle JJ.”

Immediately turned away and said he had “allergies.”

You: “You’re literally sobbing.”

JJ: “She’s just… really tiny and she trusts me, man.”

You Catch Them Having Deep Conversations at 2 A.M.

JJ: “Sometimes life’s about falling and getting back up.”

Jackie: “I fawwed because I was twying to fwip off the couch.”

JJ: “Same.”

He’s the Cool Uncle Who Teaches Her Dumb Tricks.

You find her with her shoelaces tied together “for speed.”

JJ, proudly: “Taught her that one myself.”

You: “Great. She’s stuck to the couch.”

He Tells Her All the Pogue Legends Like They’re Fairy Tales.

JJ: “And then I ‘borrowed’ an ambulance to bust your dad out of jail and—”

You: “You busted the wrong person.”

JJ: “Don’t ruin the lore.”

He’s Her Hero. Even If He’s Kind of a Disaster.

He calls himself her protector. Her partner in crime. Her honorary big godfather for life.

She calls him “My JJ.”

And when she says it, JJ goes quiet, presses a kiss to her forehead, and doesn’t say a word for a long moment.

Just smiles.

🩷 Bonus 🩷

You, watching them knock over an entire tray of cookies together:

“You’re both grounded.”

JJ, with Jackie on his shoulders and matching sunglasses:

“No regrets.”

🍼 Uncle Wafe’ headcanons 🍼

[minlighted]

💡 Secrets, Stares & Sibling Instincts

Bang Chan × 9th Member!Reader (Hyunjin's twin sister) 👀 Secret Relationship · Fluff · Light Angst · Group Dynamic 📏 ±1900 words

Masterlist

Requests are open!

There was an unwritten rule in Stray Kids: “No dating in the group.”

Not because anyone forbade it, but… it felt like a risky leap. Too close, too vulnerable. Too much room for drama or hurt feelings.

But you and Chan had fallen before you knew it.

First glances. Then late-night conversations on the rooftop of the dorm. Then his hand on yours, and you not letting go.

You weren’t just any member.

You were Hyunjin’s twin sister. Same age. Same intensity on stage. But where he was dramatic and poetic, you were more… down-to-earth. Quiet when you had to be, fierce when you could be.

And Chan? He saw in you exactly what he needed when the world got to be too much.

So it happened.

Secretly. Softly. Seriously yet playfully.

The relationship had been going on for three months now. No one knew. Or… you thought so.

Because that morning, Hyunjin stared at you a little too long during breakfast.

“Why are you suddenly sitting on the other side of the dorm table?” he asked suddenly.

You almost choked on your yogurt.

Chan looked up from his coffee, perfectly neutral.

“Excuse me?” you said, deliberately slow.

Hyunjin narrowed his eyes. “I can feel things.”

Jeongin whispered to Felix, “What is he feeling now?”

“Betrayal,” Hyunjin answered serious.

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe you’re just hungry.”

But Hyunjin really felt things. He saw the little things.

Like how Chan touched your back for a moment when you left the dance studio. Or how you lowered your voice when you spoke to him. Or how you and Chan were always paired up for games, like it was a coincidence.

It was a regular Tuesday night. Everyone was in the dorm. You were sitting on the couch with a blanket. Chan was sitting diagonally next to you — not next to you, of course not. But just close enough to touch your pinky with his, hidden under the blanket.

You thought no one was watching.

But Hyunjin was always watching.

“Chan?”

Chan looked up. “Hm?”

“If you hurt her, I’ll ruin your career. Get it?”

Silence.

Chan’s eyebrow rose. “What… do you mean?”

Hyunjin pointed his chopsticks at you. “My. Twin. Sister.”

You were shocked. “Wait a minute—”

“You guys are so bad at sneaking around,” Hyunjin sighed. “I literally grew up with her. I can tell by her eyebrows.”

Felix: “What can you tell by someone’s eyebrows?”

Jisung mumbled, “When they're in love, apparently.”

You felt your heart pound. But Hyunjin looked straight at you, serious but calm.

“I’m not angry,” he said softly. “I just want you to be happy. And for him to respect you.”

You looked at Chan, who was now sitting right next to you. His hand found yours under the blanket — openly.

“I do,” he said. “Always.”

Hyunjin nodded slowly. “Then it’s okay. But still, one mistake and I’ll publish your old rap lyrics from 2013.”

Chan groaned. “Why are you so creepy?”

“Family instinct” Hyunjin said proudly.

You were sitting alone on the balcony when Chan joined you. No words, just the sound of the city.

“He’s not as scary as he acts,” you said.

Chan leaned against you. “You can be, if you have to.”

You smiled.

“We don’t have to do it secretly anymore.”

Chan looked at you, serious and soft at the same time.

“No. But I thought the secret thing was exciting too.”

“Then we’ll have to find new ways to make your heart race.”

“Easy,” he said. “All you have to do is smile.”

[samhadjblog2]

Just because the tech improved considerably since the 80s, writing has not. The only difference is that it’s laden with political nonsense, dumb memes and ‘lolsorandom’ humor that makes the occasional anime bugeye-surprise and faceplant scenes feel innocent.

How is the show "Laden with political nonsense" the series isn't talking down to anyone, nor do's it preach to the audience. Nor is the show laden with "Lol memes". The series is focus on exploring the cycle of abuse. And if you look back at the original series each episode ended with a marketable plushy character literally telling you the message of the episode.

And it’s not that nostalgic people hate new things. They love new things. IF the new things are actually good. Which sadly isn’t true 75% of the time. 

Sure there is a lot of bad remakes and revivals, however the new She ra is actually a pretty solid series in of itself.

There are some 80s-90s classics that are drawn and written better than things you can find nowadays, because back then quality was important and people still cared about it back then. There’s an occasional error or outdated bit, but it doesn’t define the entire show as a whole. Cartoons such as Rescue Rangers come to mind. Gargoyles, etc.

And there are show's that great today as well. Because guess what quality is still important as well as cared about the project they are making. And the new She ra series is an example of this.

Now you look at all those countless reboots of cartoons that back then used to be popular, piggybacking on said popularity but completely wrecking everything the original had to offer. Character designs, personalities, backstories and whatnot are all just...thrown out the window and replaced with something the design artist and writer(s) felt “more appropriate”. Deviating so hard from the original, you can’t help but ask yourself one question.

Here's the thing though, the original She ra cartoon from the 80s is far from a master piece. Its a cheesy corny series meant to sell toy's to kids. Its art design was awful with so many clashing designs, you these generic Marvel heroes interacting with elves and pixies from Hanna-Barbera cartoon all with set pieces that either take place in a Dr.seuss book or just 80s metal poster. And it all clashes with one another, meanwhile the new show's art style is something takes these clashing elements and harmonizes them by having this more pastel colored world with characters that have more sharper designs. The original show was a campy series that had very stiff animation and very cookie cutter characters with basic personality's. Meanwhile the new show actually has more interesting characters. (Seriously look at Catra in the new show and compare her to her more annoying 80s counter-part).

“Why didn’t you make something ORIGINAL, then?”

Because studios are more interested in making reboots,remakes and revivals and are not interested in original series.

(having a boy-head with the hair so firmly and flatly pressed onto the top of her skull that there’s zero volume and looks more like some kind of mullet), ...though apparently 70% of those images are actually fembois XD

She really doesn't have a boy-head. And if you look at her hair it isn't that flat. And if you look at the other images you can see these design a lot better.

[shutupineedtothink]

No no no no you don't get it Suzanne did not close the door on Hayffie in SotR, she threw the door wide open for the movie.

Haymitch and Effie having some kind of romantic relationship is not canon in the books. It just isn't. It's subtext at best. Even the fact that they could be friends is pretty subtext. But Haymitch and Effie having some kind of romantic-friendship-situationship-relationship in the movies is like 97% canon. It's right in front of our eyeballs. Woody Harrelson and Elizabeth Banks were 10 toes down for that ship and we all knew it. (Bless them)

SotR provides ample material to support the beginnings of this relationship in the film, even alongside Haymitch and Lenore Dove. The makeup box scene? Are you kidding me? The woman could not have written a better meet cute for the two of them to play out on screen. Her flying in to his launch room at the last minute to fix his clothes and the locking eyes moment before he goes up into the arena? Movie magic if I ever saw it. I can already picture how they would shoot it to emphasize their connection (whether either of them likes it or not at this point).

Post games theyre suddenly the only relationship of any kind left standing once everyone else Haymitch cares about dies or he pushes them away. She's literally the only one left that means anything, that shows him any kindness, even as short-lived as their relationship is at this point. That makes them the emotional anchor for the end of the film. It’s unlikely but they could even show us moments from the 24 years they worked together since that’s canon now and still insane to me. (Suzanne gave them so much history!!! How is anyone not seeing this is a goldmine?)

Finally for the epilogue, it's written in such a way that you could easily tweak it to show Haymitch and his geese, and Effie somehow enters the scene. In my head, she’s visiting him since I don’t think they would ever have the kind of relationship where they’d live together all the time. At first I thought maybe they talk about the geese and how they mate for life oh wait no they don’t, but then I thought maybe Effie just says something along the lines of I heard you told them your story. Haymitch- yeah. Effie- Was I in it? Haymitch- of course you were. Etc etc. I don’t have it all figured out but the point being there’s a real opportunity here to make this both of their origin stories because of how their roles in the films play out.

There’s almost an equal opportunity here to shine the light on Effie’s background and motivations, and how she was basically put in her role as escort by accident (I’m still not over this) almost just as much as Haymitch was chosen against his will for the games.

But anyway, back to my original point. Do I think Suzanne wrote the book with the movie in mind? Maybe not, but she knows how this works by now. And she knows the differences between her Haymitch and Effie and the films’ Haymitch and Effie. Her version of the story does not include Hayffie in a straightforward way, but that doesn’t mean the films have to follow that to the letter. In fact, they’ve already deviated far from it in the original trilogy by keeping Effie in District 13 for Mockingjay, the KISS, etc.

As I’ve said a million times before, this is how adaptation should work at its finest. Giving the opportunity to tell a slightly different story based on the context and opportunities given by the adaptation medium. In this case, that involves 3 previous films that set up these characters and the actors’ choosing to make subtext text. All the ingredients are there. I’m so intrigued to see how they get put together.

[xoxolaw]

+ 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗥 𝗗𝗜𝗔𝗥𝗬

in which a quiet visit to her room turns into something else entirely. Hyun-tak finds her diary, and with it, the truth he never saw coming.

+ 𝗚𝗢 𝗛𝗬𝗨𝗡-𝗧𝗔𝗞 𝗫 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥

CH 5 , CH 6

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

March 14th, 2025

Dear Diary,

A lot has happened recently. And by a lot, I literally mean a lot! Everything feels too loud and too heavy — and I think my heart’s been sitting outside my body this whole week, because I can feel it bruise every time I breathe.

Hyun-tak got injured.

Badly.

I don’t even know how to explain it without my hands shaking. His leg — his knee — it got injured during a fight. With Seong-je.

I hate him so much! I swear to god, if I was strong enough I would have beaten him. If only I didn't get bored of taekwondo and quit just after a few months as a kid.

But I guess taekwondo also doesn't help much against people who like to play dirty. Seong-je was just looking for a reason to be cruel again — because that’s what he does, right? That’s what he is. A mean, mocking, overgrown bully who doesn’t know when to stop.

I don't know how to even write it. Hyun-Tak loves taekwondo so much. That's like his second personality or maybe even the only personality he has. But turns out... He won't be able to continue anymore.

It means everything to him. When I saw him lying on that hospital bed — hooked to IVs, hair a mess, his eyes fluttering open with that foggy kind of pain — I swear, Diary, I wanted to scream. Not cry — scream.

And when the doctor said, “We’ll need scans to confirm, but there’s a chance he won’t be able to compete again,”

my vision blurred.

Just like that. A chance. Like his dreams were a coin toss now.

Geum. Seong. Je.

I hate him.

I hate him.

I don’t care if hate is a strong word — it doesn’t even feel strong enough right now.

But I saw the look in Seong-je’s eyes when I found him afterward, leaning against the school gate like nothing happened — like Hyun-tak wasn’t lying in a hospital bed, trying not to cry in front of his mother.

He smirked, Diary.

He looked at me and smirked.

So I lost it.

I don’t even remember what I said — it all came out in a blur of tears and fury and shaking fists. I screamed at him. Shoved him. Told him he was a mockery of everything good in this world. That he was cruel and small and rotten to the core.

I told him that if he ever touched Hyun-tak again, I’d make sure he wouldn’t be able to walk either.

And do you know what he said?

He said,

"Calm down, princess. It’s not like your precious Gotak died."

I nearly slapped him.

No.

I should have slapped him.

But instead I walked away — because if I hadn’t, I think I would’ve broken. Not him. Me.

Because this whole thing has broken something in me.

I visited the hospital that night. He wasn't in his bed so I panicked a little. But then the nurse told me that he went up to the rooftop. My feet practically flew up the stairs.

He was sitting near the edge, hunched over with his hood up, one knee bent, the other stretched out and wrapped in bandages. The wind was cold. Too cold. But he wasn’t shivering.

He looked like he belonged to the night sky.

I stood there for a while. Just watching him from the stairwell door. He didn’t see me. His back looked... small. I don’t know how to explain it.

He’s taller than me, stronger than me in every way — but in that moment, he looked like a kid again. Like the boy who used to climb trees and then freeze halfway down because he was scared to fall.

I walked over slowly. He didn’t look at me.

So I sat beside him. Not too close — just enough that he’d know I was there. He looked at me. Then he said, “You didn’t have to come.”

But I did. God, I did. What was he even talking about?? If I didn't come, then who would??

Dumbass.

I wanted to tell Hyun-tak that it wasn’t fair. That he didn’t deserve this. That he didn’t have to pretend like it didn’t hurt.

But I didn’t say any of those things. We sat in silence until I heard some sniffs.

At first, I thought maybe the wind had made his nose cold, or maybe I imagined it. But then I saw the way his hand moved — just a little — like he was trying to wipe his face without letting me see.

And my heart cracked right there.

Because Hyun-tak doesn’t cry.

Not in front of people. Not even me.

He always acts like he’s too tough for that. Always shrugs everything off with that familiar “Tch,” like feelings are just something you can kick out of the way and keep walking.

But tonight, he couldn’t hide it.

And I think that broke me more than anything.

I didn’t say a word. I didn’t want to embarrass him. I just reached over and — very slowly — rested my hand over his, the one he’d used to wipe his face.

He flinched a little.

Then he turned his face away.

But he didn’t move his hand.

He let me hold it.

Just like that.

His fingers curled a little, like maybe he was holding on back.

We didn’t look at each other. I didn’t need to see his face to know what was happening. That silence? It said more than any words could’ve. I could feel the weight of it — the grief, the loss, the anger — the fear that maybe, this time, he couldn’t just brush it off and keep going.

He whispered something. I’m not even sure I heard it right.

“I don’t know who I am… if I’m not doing this.”

And that’s when I wanted to cry.

Because I know who he is.

He’s the boy who stood up for kids getting bullied. He’s the one who always walked me home even when I said I was fine. He’s the one who gave me his scarf and the better half of his lunch. He’s the one who always showed up, even when he didn’t say he would. He’s Hyun-tak.

And I wanted to say all of that.

But the words just stayed in my throat.

So instead, I gave his hand a squeeze.

And that was it. That was all I could do.

Sometimes I wish I could do more.

But maybe that was enough.

I love you, Hyun-Tak.

-Y/N

(hoping to someday tell him everything I have been holding back)

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

Hyun-tak sat frozen.

The page hadn’t moved. His eyes hadn’t blinked. His thumb trembled faintly on the edge of the paper, holding it open like it might slip away from him if he let go for even a second.

That last line. It hit him like she’d whispered it into his ear. He could hear her voice in his head—quiet, steady, so close it made his chest ache.

His hand instinctively moved down, resting lightly on his right knee—the one still stiff under his jeans, the one the doctors kept talking about like it wasn’t part of him anymore.

He remembered that night. Not the hospital walls or the IV lines. But her.

How she’d looked under the pale rooftop lights. Her expression trying to stay calm, but her fingers were gripping his hand too tightly. He remembered thinking she was warm. So warm.

And wondering if it was okay to lean into that.

He hadn’t let himself.

Not then.

And maybe not now either, because his heart was thudding so loud it felt like it was caught in his throat.

He had to swallow hard, lips parting like he was about to say something—even though there was no one to hear it. Just the silence of her room, the faint rustle of a curtain, and her words. Her truth, pressed between paper and ink.

And suddenly, all the quiet memories started screaming:

The way she used to mimic taekwondo stances behind the teacher’s back — all elbows and bad posture — just to make him laugh.

How she always looked at him during tournaments, never at the scoreboard.

The time she ran after his bike with a bandaid because he scraped his palm falling, yelling, “It’s pink but it still works!!”

The way she always sat next to him. Always.

How her hand fit inside his jacket sleeve when it got too cold.

And how he always noticed.

He’d brush it off, like it didn’t mean anything. Like it was just habit.

Like she was just habit.

But now…

He let out a shaky breath and rubbed his face with both hands, like that could slow the spinning in his head. His fingers dragged through his hair, then dropped, landing back on the diary.

So many pages.

All of them about him.

Every word from her younger self to now — it was him.

Him in the margins, him in the moments, him in the in betweens.

His chest tightened.

Because—

Maybe he had, too.

Without even realizing it.

Without ever saying it.

He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. The softness of her pillow behind him. The golden glow of her lamp.

Everything here had her warmth.

And it overwhelmed him.

He closed the diary carefully, this time not because he was done reading—but because he was too full.

His palm hovered over the cover for a moment before pressing down like it needed to be held.

Because he was scared of what would happen if he opened another page and saw more.

And even more scared of what would happen if he didn’t.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, the smallest of cracks in his voice.

Then, after a pause, almost a whisper—

“…Why didn’t you just tell me?”

But even as he said it, he already knew the answer.

Because maybe…

he wouldn’t have been ready to hear it.

Not then.

Maybe not even now.

But he was listening now.

And the one thing he knew, clearer than anything else?

He didn’t want to lose her.

Not her voice.

Not her truth.

Not her.

+ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥'𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 + 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

I LOVE THIS SM 😭😭😭

+ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

@keizvn @soobinbunnie5 @chaywkk @l5byrinth @inom17 @randomheyl @coffee-ii @mizxuqii @dna-black-and-blue @kyungjunnies @maxinehufflepuffprincess @deboizzzstay @coolasiangal123 @intoanothermind @satoru2716 @chenlegendj @changbinkisser @xh01bri @jww-sjzyeirie @thebatapex @itzcandy @ryeounistic @ruruyinn @ashayein @bblgeum @tojirin @lov3lylyn @urmazah

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

Actually despondent that now in addition to desiring Yokohama fic, I desperately crave The Adventures of Midoriya Izuku, Normal U.A. Student. Why is this kid so ruthlessly competent and crazy??

The funniest thing is that I'm not sure he's ever once realizes how feral he comes off to literally everyone around him. Like he probably thinks of himself as a dweeby nerd who's done an awesome job of pretending to be a rising young hero. Meanwhile, everyone around him is just going, ah yes, there's my good friend izuku. If you need alcohol, drugs, or someone locked in an underground bunker dead, he would absolutely be my first choice Could you talk a little about that, if you like?

Also if you want you share any other stories of izuku's attempts to gain practical experience, pleaseeee feel free. They are so funny. (I feel so bad for aizawa, who is at any time between 2.5 and 0 years away from understanding his insane student.)

So, I think I talked about this a little with my Daredevil fics, but I have different “versions” of characters depending on which fic they’re from. They all have the same core traits, but they’re all slightly distinct from each other because of their disparate experiences.

Pez turned into this surprise sleeper hit for me because this Izuku became one of my favorite Izuku’s based on how fucking feral and competent he is. Aizawa is worried about what he is Doing at literally all moments of the day because it quite literally could be anything. I adore him.

There’s this part in chapter 5 where Izuku is like “I committed to winging it at this school” and that is effectively what he has been doing this entire goddamn time. He has no idea what a normal high school experience is. He has since lost almost all respect for authority and thinks of rules as the things he gets around for necessity and love of the sport. You are 100% right that he thinks of himself as a sort of dweeby nerd and everyone else is like “I am actually terrified of him and how he lives.”

Izuku in pez has been “yes anding” his way through this high school experience. He thinks of what must be done And Then He Does It. He figures out if he can actually do it while he’s doing it. Fuck it, let’s see.

To a degree, the entire Dekusquad is viewed in the same light, because they are almost always on Izuku’s same bullshit. Todoroki is his ride or fucking die, Iida tells himself that he is there to supervise, Uraraka needs an outlet for her own violent tendencies, and Yaoyorozu is doing this for the love of the sport. And they also have no idea how unhinged they are. Their echo chamber is populated exclusively by them, all insane.

Fundamentally, Midoriya Izuku is someone who dug up land mines to turn himself into a makeshift rocket without advance planning or hesitation for what was, at the end of the day, a school obstacle course. He lives and dies by the immortal words “fuck it, we ball.” He is completely unaware that other people do not live this way and everyone else is too afraid to tell him.

All jokes aside, Izuku’s feral hyper competence in pez is partially the result of 1) Mirio and 2) Stain.

When Izuku first started helping Mirio train, he locked the fuck in harder than he ever has in his entire fucking life. Quirks are a huge boon to heroics, but it’s also a bit of a crutch. Heroes rely on them. Quirkless heroes wouldn’t have that option.

Mirio and Izuku developed their physical abilities and practical skills to a degree that very, very few heroes ever even attempt. Izuku always knew that a Quirkless hero couldn’t afford to be mid tier. Mirio would have to be better than every other person in the room to even have a chance. Izuku learned right alongside him.

But that just explains the hyper competence. The feral rule breaking is because of the aftermath of Stain.

Aizawa is as hard and as strict with his kids as he is because he does not want them thinking the rules do not apply to them. That’s how you end up with heroes who abuse their power. But Izuku and Todoroki specifically came into UA with an engrained belief that the rules only applied to them.

It is, again, Aizawa misunderstanding the issue with them. He doesn’t want them going off on their vigilante bullshit because they are going to be responsible for upholding the law and need them to respect it and understand it applies equally to them. But the law has never applied equally to Izuku and Todoroki. The rules have always existed to hurt them.

Izuku and Todoroki both grew up in abusive situations. When Izuku’s classmates hurt him, spewed hate at him, destroyed his things? It was fine. Izuku’s too sensitive. He’s just trying to get people in trouble over nothing. But if he so much as raised his voice? People would come down on him like a sack of bricks. Rules exist for a reason, after all. Izuku should understand that he doesn’t get exceptions.

Todoroki grew up getting beaten by the number two hero. He watched as doctors and police and his father’s employees turned a blind eye to the number two hero. But he couldn’t break his dad’s schedule without getting punished. If he started to suffocate under it all and ran off just so he could have even a second to breathe? He got picked up and dragged back and lectured by whatever hero or cop who caught him about how he should know better than to worry people and how it’s selfish to have caused this much of a fuss and he needs to be better.

And he’d sit there boiling in his own anger knowing that this devotion to the fucking rules would dry up the second it drifted towards applying to his father.

Stain sort of affirmed for Izuku and Todoroki that nothing had really changed. They broke the rules due to absolute fatal necessity. If they hadn’t done what they did, Iida and Native would be dead. They fought for their fucking lives and for the lives of the people with them.

And when they got back, they got lectured for it. They had done everything wrong. They should have picked differently. The police would never approve because they made the wrong call.

But, notably, they still got an exception from the rules. They escaped punishment. But not because they had done the right thing, no. They should have let stain kill Iida and Native both. But they’re such promising young heroes, so let’s not let this misstep trip them up.

They didn’t want to escape punishment because they were suddenly of the same category of exceptional, worthwhile person who had always kept their boot on their fucking necks. They wanted them to recognize that they made the right decision.

And then they got back to UA, and Aizawa called them out in front of everyone for making a bad call. And they were like “oh, okay. So nothing’s changed.”

The rules are arbitrary and capricious. They exist to hurt them. When people are granted exceptions, it’s not because there’s a good reason. It’s because they’re the Right Kind of Person. As a result? Izuku and Todoroki’s respect for the rules is nonexistent, and they’ve infected the rest of the Dekusquad with this attitude to an extent.

The Dekusquad doesn’t actually break rules for the sake of breaking rules. They just don’t respect the rules because the rules have been consistently applied contrary to their own ethics. They don’t break the rules that matter. But if there’s not a compelling reason to follow a rule? Fuck it, who cares. The rules don’t matter anyway. They’ve never mattered when they were the ones getting hurt.

A list of the bullshit Midoriya Izuku had done in his time at UA in the name of practical experience that has given Aizawa anxiety or would if he knew about it, abridged:

While in his first year, he and Mirio did a week-long bomb-defusing symposium during a school break for an experiential learning credit. UA students need some kind of emergency response practical credit and most people do a triage course and cross it off the list. But the national police academy also accepted hero students in their yearly course and Mirio and Izuku were like “oh fuck yeah” and signed up.

All Might signed off on this because he thought this was a wholesome activity for young people everywhere and no one told Aizawa. All Might is the spiritual team dad of the Dekusquad because he is the one most likely to say “that sounds like a wholesome activity for young people everywhere” and sign off on it

Bombs are just less of a thing nowadays. They’re obsolete. It’s like how black powder cannons aren’t so much as used because there’s better alternatives. Random people were getting born that could cause an explosion a just by sneezing. And they were cheaper and easier to hire than building a bomb, harder to track, and less likely to be discovered by a metal detector or police investigation. Bombs are still enough of a thing that very major cities maintain dedicated bomb squads but smaller cities do not. Tokyo, New York, Hong Kong, London, they have bomb squads. Anything smaller and they don’t have the funding for it, and bombs are rare enough that this hasn’t been a problem.

As a result, Izuku and Mirio are two of three people in a sixty-mile radius who maintain a bomb defusing license. The third is a seventy-three year old ex cop with a hand tremor.

They all find this out because some wannabe bank robber ends up deciding to go the bomb route because the cops wouldn’t expect it and then has to call them crying because he also doesn’t know how to turn that thing off.

Aizawa finds out that Yagi that fucker gave Izuku another reason to run towards explosions when like nine police cars pull up on the UA lawn and desperately ask for Midoriya Izuku, licensed bomb technician, because Mirio is fuck knows where doing underground spy shit and the seventy-three year old already had his half cup of coffee for the day and could not survive a game of operation, let alone a bomb

Izuku has to defuse this fucking thing with three judgmental ghosts trying to backseat drive this bomb refusal, Aizawa trying to calm himself down at the police line, and the entire Dekusquad having to be repeatedly told that they can’t just wait in the room with the bomb for Izuku to finish because they have an appointment at the mall to take a formal family portrait and Iida hates to be late

To a certain degree, the entire Dekusquad is Like This. None of them have any goddamn clue how to behave like actual children and their efforts towards experiencing normal childhood frivolity culminated in the Pizza Underground. They carved a convoluted path out of one of the most secure campuses on the planet because they had no idea how the fuck to be kids and that seemed like a normal way to start

That being said they actually had some of their best fucking times when they were sneaking out on the Pizza Underground. They didn’t use it for vigilantism—Aizawa was likely to find out about vigilantism, and they never wanted to compromise the route. They actually used it to just goof off and have fun.

The Pizza Underground is another reason in a long list of reasons why the rest of Class A is vaguely distressed by how hardcore Dekusquad is. The rest of the school is vaguely distressed by how hardcore Class A is, and the Dekusquad are the concerningly locked in ones amongst them. All of Class A knows they have a way in and out but they don’t know what it is

All Might is like 17% responsible for Dekusquad’s insanity because he takes a larger hand in Izuku’s life than the other’s students’ lives and is trying to be a good team dad for his pseudo son and his friends. But the thing is All Might is also completely insane and his agency hates him for good reason. He spent multiple decades evading his own safety nets so he could have secret mind game conflict bullshit with his nemesis without having to tell his own agency. All Might keeps taking Mirio + the Dekusquad out for “fun team building activities” which involves lessons on losing tails and variations of hunting each other for sport through Tokyo with paintball guns. He takes them for ice cream at the end and ruffles their hair

When Mirio was training for his licensing exam, he and Izuku convinced Nedzu to buy circus equipment for the school because 1) Izuku read old Batman comics and knew about Dick Grayson, and 2) they watched old pre-Quirk cirque de soleil videos and were like “that’s it that’s the vision.” Their fighting style is this ungodly mix of Krav Maga, Jujitsu, boxing, Muay Thai, aikido, and circus bullshit as a result

There’s a gif in the last chapter where Todoroki and Izuku tackle Iida to the ground shouting “Get down, Mr. President” which is based on that internet game where you and all your friends put fingers to your ear like you’re the secret service hearing something in your ear piece and the last one who hasn’t done it yet is the “President” who gets tackled by his “secret service agents” who are shouting “Get down, Mr. President.” Todoroki found a post about it online and brought it to the rest of the Dekusquad claiming that it would help them train their situational awareness. Iida said, “that sounds like a worthy goal” and has been tackled 76 times since. Iida is always Mr. President.

The Dekusquad keeps trying to go on vacation together and every single time it devolves into an international incident. The precedent that began with I-Island persisted. Aizawa stopped approving their group overnight leave requests until Momo floated a trip to her family’s private island and Aizawa approved because he figured it’d be safe enough since there were literally no other people on the island. Villains picked that night to try and steal expensive art momo’s family kept on the property and the Dekusquad locked the fuck in and terrorized those poor adult villains.

The Dekusquad is planning a two week post graduation trip through Europe and Aizawa is breathing into a paper bag. Technically they’re not His Problems by then but there is not a doubt in his fucking mind that he is going to be receiving a 3 a.m. from the Swedish authorities who want to know what’s wrong with them. He Doesn’t Know Okay.

[paperclips37]

so it's frank's first day back at the pitt, right? what if he has a breakdown during his shift and mel is there for him? 🥺🥺

Is it bad that I found this one fun?

Sorry Frank! Thanks @mateo-diaz!

---

Somewhere between the 3 random drug searches, constant disapproval and suspicion from Robby and the smell of burn flesh Frank doesn’t so much snap and dissolves.

There had been a massive fireworks related fire downtown because of course it had to happen today.

A self hating part of Frank’s brain wondered if Robby had set July 4th as his return date just to break him entirely. His final humiliation.

Over 150 people with a wide variety of burns, spanning the hole spectrum of possible burns. Santos had even vomited at the sixth degree burn. He’d followed suit. Somehow that had felt like a bonding moment. She’d only looked at him with mild pity.

It was the kid.

Same age as Tanner, same hair and friendship bracelet who would be lucky to survive the night that has him loosing touch with reality.

Frank sees that one of the nurses – newer ones – Dana, Princess and Perlah would never- has left the drug dispensing unit open and unlocked on the screen. And him all alone with it.

It would be so easy. The Pitt was an absolute circus, people screaming and crying. The team yelling medical orders back and forth. He could go get what every dark part of his brain was screaming for.

Relief.

Wash away his pain like a baptism.

It takes everything in him to not move. He can’t move away. But he takes that as a very hollow victory.

‘Langdon?’ He can hear someone looking for him. ‘Has anyone seen Langdon? I have a Le Fort Fracture and he is always the best with those fuckers.’ Frank is frozen. Unblinking staring at the cart. Was the universe telling him there was no hope? That no matter how hard he fought to stay sober he was going to get sucker punched with a trigger. The voice is only mildly irritated. Not dismissive or angry. Just annoyed that they can't find him.

‘He was here a moment ago. I’ll find him.’ Weirdly something in him defrosts slightly. The other voice, familiar and deep. These two voices lack the suspicion and horror at his presence that he’s dealt with from almost everyone else today.

‘Good and get him to walk you through the reset King.’ Abbot. The slightly heavier gait registers.

‘Doctor Langdon?’ His hands twitch. The only part of him able to move. Her voice is quiet, doing her best not to draw attention to her search. The curtain slips open, but just enough for her to slip in.

‘Doctor Langdon?’ Mel steps up next to him, not touching him but close enough that he can feel her warmth. ‘Is everything okay?’ She knows it not. He can feel the sweat soaking through his scrubs. With his thawed arm he pointed at the cart. Mel adjusts her glasses as she examines the open and unlocked device.

She steps over and closes everything quietly. His next tox screen was due. He wouldn’t blame Mel if she went and got someone immediately. She doesn’t. Mel turns to him a genuinely sweet but a little sad smile. It’s like she seen this before. Not for the first time he wonders about his former mentees life outside of this place.

‘I didn’t... I swear to god I didn’t....’ The panic attacks hits him like a freight train. The change from the slightly hesitant, easily overwhelmed young doctor to this much more self assured and decisive woman doesn’t take him by surprise. Her instant handling of him. Quite literally grabbing him by the elbow and guiding him towards the staff room.

People would talk. Let them.

‘Doctor Langdon, just take some deep breaths okay. Just breathe.’ Her hand gently guides him to a chair. Mindful of his still aching back. Gripping his shoulder. ‘You are perfectly safe.’

‘I could have- Jesus how I wanted to take and-’ A sob cuts through his chest. Would this be the rest of his life? Just waiting to see if he ever falls off that ledge? Maybe he should have left medicine.

‘But you didn’t.’ That broke through his fog. Blinking back to reality. Mel is kneeling in front of him, her hand still resting on his shoulder. Her dark eyes meeting his head on. There was something in her eyes. Something he hadn’t seen in anyone in almost a year.

Trust.

Mel King trusts him.

Even after he has violated almost every rule, any standard held for medical professionals and she still trusts him.

Just who the fuck is Mel King?

Frank hopes he gets a long time in her orbit to figure that question out. And to live up to this faith she has in him.

Maybe even grow to deserve it.

[the-actual-literal-worst]

Actually, the fun thing is that I can choose to never shut up, so here's some fun (read, actually horrible) things that happened in my old dance program (both the private studio, and in high school arts class). - Me and another trans dancer approached our choreographer with some costume issues and she jumped the gate with "they're unisex costumes, what's the problem?" and when we specified that wouldn't be able to bind underneath them (the straps would've shown), she unblinkingly said "Oh, just use ace bandages- they're strapless and nude!" ya know... the thing that literally every intro to binding safety guide tells you not to fucking do because of rib and tissue damage?...(this was also advice she had given to the girls who complained about not being comfortable not being able to wear a bra on stage) - We took a girl (no older than 10) into our studio after she was kicked out of a more classically focused one across town. Apparently, the other studio had refused to let her take their classes because she was "too fat to make a good dancer". That poor girl was CRUSHED and she and her mother were so hesitant reaching out to us because the chance we would be just as cruel (the one thing we really had going as a studio was that we didn't tolerate body shaming). - A friend of mine, who worked part time teaching at our studio, got caught vaping AT SCHOOL (a separate entity entirely), and LOST HIS JOB because "the kids he taught were getting old enough to be in school with him, and he proved he couldn't be a good role model for them." There wasn't a criminal charge, he simply got suspended and couldn't make it to class, so our choreographer found out- and he lost his job over his "delinquent lifestyle". - Another one of the student teachers (who was 13 at the time), was teaching the younger classes (3-7 year olds) UNSUPERVISED when she broke BOTH her feet at the same time in a botched leap during class. She was screaming and crying in pain, the kids were screaming and crying in fear, and the closest teacher was supposed to be half a mile down the road in a DIFFERENT building. They got very lucky that one of the adult teachers was at the main studio in between classes, or else the only option would've been for unaccompanied primary schoolers to run through town and get help from someone who knew what to do. This was a "quirky" story we all told/got told. Something we laughed at, and used to scare kids into learning the proper way to land their leaps. They even kept her recital picture from that year on the wall- of her posing in her wheelchair, smiling like nothing was wrong. And this was just the dance program. We had a joint musical theatre class that features highlights such as: - One of our directors telling me that if I didn't put effort into creating an accent that was less "regional" that I'd never find work (absolutely crazy thing to say to a high schooler taking an elective course.) - That same director, upon seeing one girls self harm scars, simply commenting "you better have that covered before the show". - Sexual harassment that ended in MULTIPLE long term teachers being fired And this is frankly the tip of the iceberg. This is just some of the stuff about TEACHERS, I've got a million more stories about students- and I promise: anyone else in a performing arts program could meet or beat these in a heartbeat. And I cannot stress enough how much you just think it's all normal while it's happening. Now that I'm out the other side I can look at it all and go... hmm... maybe this wasn't the nurturing environment we thought it was...

the ballerina to tradwife pipeline must be studied

[mmmnoney]

First writing go easy on me but I so would take request and I have more coming😉

Rindou as your friend who secretly loves you and the only other person to know is his brother who sees the way he looks at you as if he discovered a new star in the sky.

Rindou as your friend who takes you out to eat because “every girl should be spoiled every now and then” which he wanted to add the word beautifully but was too shy to admit you’re attractive.

Rindou as your friend who doesn’t tell you about his gang stuff because he thinks it would make you like him less but realizes keeping stuff from you would do just that.

Rindou as your friend who listens to you rant about all the guys that just run you over, don’t cherish your feelings, or the things that make him crazy about you itself and his brother just looks at him with pity because he just knows how down bad he is for you.

Rindou as your friend who gives Ran and anyone else who flirts with you the nastiest glare and you just assume it’s because he doesn’t want anyone playing with your feelings.

Rindou as your friend who you ask if you should go out with this guy and says only if it feels right just for you to be confronted by his brother Ran how Rindou truly feels about you.

Rindou as your friend who just looks at you shocked when you tells him his own feelings and ask why he hasn’t confessed.

Rindou as the guy who has loved you since you guys were kids whose only response is kissing you slow until you’re out of breath to show you just how much he has wanted your lips of his.

Rindou who is now your boyfriend and literally can’t keep his hands of you whether it’s holding hands while walking or touching you all over while behind doors.

Rindou who is now your boyfriend who loves to show you off and any of the lipstick prints that you think he bought you it for the sole purpose of showing it off on his face.

Rindou who is now your boyfriend and wants to make sure that you guys go on atleast one date a week either so he can see you get all dressed up for him or so he can once again show you off.

Rindou who is now your boyfriend and hardly if ever bought up the topic of sex because he didn’t want you to feel like it was something necessary.

Rindou who is now your boyfriend and swears up and down to all his friends that he is going to marry you even if you guys are lovesick teenagers that go one step at a time.

Rindou who gets down on one knee and practically begs you to marry him and makes a joke about you being the first one to make a move and that was the first push he needed to never let you go.

[knowledgeableknitter]

Something Just Like This

A song-inspired one-shot. Pairing: Bucky Barnes (circa FATWS) x Female (unnamed, just "she/her")

Word Count: 3.5k

Summary: Bucky Barnes constantly puts himself in harm's way, convinced that suffering is his only way to redemption. However, when a mission leaves a young soldier on the brink of death and Bucky himself seriously injured, he must face the consequences, not just for himself, but also for the woman who loves him. With her support and reassurance that she desires him, not the super soldier, Bucky decides to take a different path: one focused on being present, finding peace, and embracing love.

Trigger warnings: Marvel level violence; blood/bleeding mentioned; the tending of wounds; pregnancy alluded to; hurt/comfort; one swear word; female’s hair can be put in a loose bun?; mention of a church in metaphor?

Author's note: I have had this song stuck in my head imagining Bucky for AGES. Like quite literally MONTHS. So I finally wrote it. And here it is. I hope you like it!

I have no clue how to actually link songs, so the song is "Something Just Like This" by The Chainsmokers and Coldplay.

Masterlist

I've been reading books of old, the legends and the myths. Achilles and his gold, Hercules and his gifts Spider-Man's control and Batman with his fists And clearly, I don't see myself upon that list

It was supposed to be simple.

In and out. Secure the target, intercept the shipment, keep the body count low.

But missions never stayed simple for long.

The night stank of smoke and scorched metal, thick with the scent of gunpowder and burnt rubber. The heat of a recent fire hung in the air like a second skin. Sirens wailed in the distance, a broken chorus of warning too late to matter. Shouts ricocheted off the graffiti-scarred walls, every sound sharp. Somewhere far behind him, someone screamed, a jagged, human sound. He was too far to help and too late to matter.

Bucky didn’t flinch. He couldn’t afford to.

His shoulder smashed into the edge of a steel loading dock as he twisted sharply, using his metal arm to shield a teammate from incoming fire. Pain flared through his side as a ricochet bit into his suit, slicing through the Kevlar like paper. Blood bloomed hot beneath the fabric, sticking to his skin.

Doesn’t matter. Keep moving.

A sudden explosion split the night, painting the alley in garish orange and white. The force of it cracked nearby glass and sent flames licking skyward like the fingers of hell. Bucky ducked and pivoted, metal arm absorbing the impact of a falling railing as he dragged a soldier clear of the wreckage.

His vision blurred as sweat stung his eyes. His breath came in ragged gasps, ribs throbbing with each one, bruised or cracked, he couldn’t tell. Every muscle screamed. His left knee gave a little more with every step. He was a patchwork of pain, barely stitched together by adrenaline and stubbornness.

Steve would’ve had this wrapped up in fifteen minutes.

The thought hit hard, fast, unwelcome. A knife between the ribs.

Steve would’ve dropped into the chaos with that damn unshakable calm, shield in hand, orders barking out like gospel. He would’ve rallied the team, defused the ambush, neutralized the threats, and walked out clean. Hell, the punk would probably have smiled for the press on the way to the hospital.

But Bucky had never been that kind of man.

He was a knife in the dark, no more than a ghost with blood on his hands. He didn’t make people better, he just tried not to make things worse. 

But tonight, nothing felt like enough.

A flash caught his eye, and he already knew he was too late.

He saw the glint from the rooftop just as the sniper fired.

The shot rang out, sharp and cruel. It hit the young agent ahead of him, Miller, he thought, straight through the side. The kid dropped mid-stride, legs folding beneath him like paper.

Bucky spun too fast, his boot slipping on the blood-slick pavement. He hit the ground hard, and pain surged through his injured side, white-hot and blinding. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself up, ignoring the scream in his ribs.

The sniper was gone now. 

All that remained was the acrid smoke, the ruined street, and the bitter taste of failure on his tongue.

He reached Miller in three limping strides. The kid was still conscious, though barely. His eyes fluttered, unfocused. Blood poured through his fingers, bright and too fast.

Bucky dropped to his knees and pressed down on the wound, hands slick and shaking. His voice cracked as he muttered the usual nonsense: Stay with me. You’re gonna be fine. Come on, kid. Just hang on. Maybe they were lies, but they were all he had.

The medics were minutes out. It may as well have been hours.

And especially now, with the boy’s blood pooling beneath him, that voice in his head wouldn’t stop whispering:

Steve would’ve saved him.

Bucky clenched his jaw, eyes sweeping the rooftops, the flickering firelight casting twisted shadows over the wreckage. His hands trembled. Not from fear, but from fury and helplessness. From the old, aching shame that never really went away.

He was too slow. Too damaged. 

Too much of a weapon, and not enough of a man.

He wasn’t built for symbols or speeches. He wasn’t hope. He was what came after hope had failed.

But maybe, just maybe, if he threw himself hard enough at the next fight, hit the wall fast enough, gave enough of himself…

Maybe then, he’d matter.

Maybe then, he’d be enough.

Even if it tore him apart in the process.

He stayed there until the medics arrived, hands red with blood, adrenaline draining out of every pore. His limbs felt hollow and his chest burned with every breath.

When they took Miller away, alive, but unconscious, Bucky didn’t wait for orders. He didn’t wait for a debrief or a pat on the back.

He just walked.

Alone and limping, swallowed by the smoke and shadow. He was a ghost among the living.

And beneath the dull roar of the sirens and burning rubble, he heard it again…

Not good enough.

Not good enough.

Not good enough.

***** 

But she said, "Where d'you wanna go? How much you wanna risk? I'm not looking for somebody with some superhuman gifts Some superhero, some fairy tale bliss Just something I can turn to, somebody I can kiss"

The bathroom was quiet, the special kind of hush that only comes after chaos. The overhead light was off, leaving the space bathed in the soft yellow light of the hallway nightlight. It was dim and warm, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. It was the same light she always left on for him. It was his beacon and her quiet promise: I’m still here. Come home.

Bucky sat on the closed toilet lid, hunched forward, jaw clenched against the dull fire still burning in his side. Blood had dried in dark, crusted streaks down his ribs, turning rust-colored as it flaked against the curve of his abdomen. His tac suit hung loose around his waist, half-unzipped and shredded, the fabric torn where shrapnel bit through.

She knelt between his legs on the cool tile floor, knees bare, hair pulled back in a messy knot, sleeves pushed past her elbows. The med kit lay open beside her, its contents spread with practiced efficiency: gauze, antiseptic, butterfly closures, tape, and gloves she never bothered putting on.

Her hands were steady.

His weren’t.

Bucky’s left hand rested gently against the curve of her thigh. Not to reassure her, but to anchor himself in a grounding touch. His hand on her was a silent, desperate plea: Stay here. Stay with me. Don’t let go.

She didn’t flinch at the blood. Didn’t ask what had happened or how bad it had been. She just worked, cleaning the wounds he hadn’t realized were there until the adrenaline wore off. Her focus was clinical, but her touch was tender, familiar, and intimate.

He watched her work with the same reverence he once gave battlefield strategy. He saw the line of her frown and the slight tension in her brow. His eyes trained on the way her fingers moved: neither hurried, nor afraid, just careful.

He should have said something. Anything.

But it was easier to stay quiet and pretend the shaking in his bones was just from blood loss and not shame.

The sting of antiseptic made him flinch involuntarily. She lifted her hand instinctively, pressing it lightly to his sternum for calming pressure.

“You didn’t call,” she said, her voice low, nearly a whisper.

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

She looked at him then, and he immediately regretted it. Not because she was angry, she was never angry when he came home. Her eyes were calm, level. But not the comforting kind of calm. It was the kind of calm that settled in right before everything cracked.

“I always worry, love.”

He swallowed against the tightness rising in his throat.

“I messed up,” he said after a beat, the words scraping out of him like gravel. “I thought I had it under control. Thought I could handle it. But I wasn’t fast enough. Another kid got hurt. I couldn’t stop it.”

Her fingers paused, the cotton pad suspended just above the wound. The silence between them thickened.

“I keep thinking,” he continued, the words dragging, “if I were more like Steve… this wouldn’t keep happening. He would’ve seen it. Reacted faster. Saved the kid. Hell, he wouldn’t have let him run ahead in the first place.”

She didn’t speak, just set the cotton pad aside with a quiet, decisive motion. It wasn’t in anger or dismissal, she was just… done.

“You know,” he added, eyes dropping to the tile between them, “sometimes I think the only way I’m worth anything is if I throw myself into the fire first. If I can’t be perfect, then maybe I can at least be the shield. Take the hits so someone else doesn’t have to.”

She exhaled, slow and deep, like she was forcing herself to stay grounded.

Then she reached for a bandage, peeled the backing, and pressed it gently over the wound. Her fingers lingered there, far longer than necessary, fingers warm against his cooling skin.

“Useful,” she said softly, testing the word like it didn’t belong. “Perfect.”

He looked at her then, and she met his gaze without flinching.

“I didn’t marry you so you could die trying to live up to someone else’s legend,” she said, voice calm but heavy with meaning. “I didn’t fall in love with a soldier, or a symbol, or a story.”

She touched his face then, cupping his jaw, the pad of her thumb brushing the rough stubble along his cheek. Her hand was so soft. She was so human. So alive.

“I married you because you remember how I take my tea. Because you hum off-key when you think no one’s listening. Because you curl up like a cat when you sleep on the couch and starfish so wide you leave me no room in the bed.”

He let out a weak, cracked sound, half laugh, half breath.

She smiled faintly. “I didn’t want a superhero. I just wanted you. I want the man who eats dry cereal out of the box and insists he doesn’t snore even though he definitely does.”

Her thumb traced the faint scar near his temple. He leaned into her hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“I don’t need a super soldier,” she whispered, her voice thick. “I need you. I need you to come home breathing and be mine.”

His grip tightened slightly on her thigh, metal fingers trembling now.

Then, softer, but firmer, her voice like steel wrapped in silk:

“If you die out there chasing perfection, trying to be someone you’re not… what does that leave me with?”

Bucky didn’t break in any visible way. No sobs or collapse. But something inside him gave way. It splintered like old wood under too much strain. All the guilt, the shame, the weight of failure cracked beneath her truth.

He leaned forward until their foreheads touched and just breathed with her. Their eyes closed, and the silence holding him steady.

Just this moment, this woman, this heartbeat.

He wasn’t perfect.

But she never asked him to be.

She just needed him alive.

And slowly, carefully, like a man learning how to live again, Bucky let himself believe that might be enough.

*****

I want something just like this

Sunlight poured through the slats of the office blinds in narrow golden stripes, casting soft, shifting patterns across the surface of Sam’s desk. The warmth of it lent a sense of calm to the room, a small oasis of quiet in the otherwise sterile hum. Outside the window, the low murmur of city life crept in faintly: the rise and fall of voices, the distant thrum of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter or siren. It felt so distant from the blood, dust, and shrapnel that had defined so much of Bucky’s life.

Bucky sat across from Sam, posture upright, shoulders squared, more out of habit than necessity. The light caught the edge of his vibranium knuckles where they rested loosely in his lap. His side ached with every breath beneath the bandage and taped over butterfly stitches, but he didn’t let it show.

Sam leaned back in his chair, a slow movement that betrayed both caution and curiosity. “You sure about this?”

Bucky nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ve been sure for a while.” He hesitated for just a moment, then added, “I just needed to stop pretending I wasn’t.”

Sam tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. He didn’t look skeptical, just thoughtful, as if weighing the truth beneath the words. “You’re not burned out, are you? If this is about that last op—”

“It’s not just that,” Bucky interrupted gently, his voice low but steady. “It’s everything. I’ve spent so much of my life reacting. Running toward the next fire. Trying to undo everything I’ve done, like there’s some tally I can balance out if I just throw myself at enough danger.”

Sam didn’t interrupt this time. He just listened.

“I don’t want to break even anymore,” Bucky said. His gaze drifted down to his scarred hand. His metal thumb absently traced a faint scar. “I want to build something. I want to be there when she wakes up. I want to make her tea and complain about her awful pop music and fix the leaky sink before she even notices it’s broken.”

He looked up again, quieter now. “I want to be present. For her. For us.”

The silence stretched comfortably between them. Sam studied him for a long beat, his expression unreadable behind the sunlight shadowing his face.

“She deserves more than a man who limps through the door half-alive every other week,” Bucky added.

Sam’s mouth curved faintly, less a smile and more an acknowledgment. “She say that?”

“No.” A wry huff of breath. “She said she just wants me. That if I keep trying to die perfect, it doesn’t leave her with anything to hold on to.”

Sam leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “Damn.” Sam huffed, then gave it serious pause. “She’s right, though.”

Bucky nodded, jaw clenched against the emotion tugging at his throat. She was right. And it was terrifying, how deeply her words had stayed with him. I need you. I need you to come home breathing and be mine.

He drew a breath, steadying himself. “I still want to be involved. I’m not walking away from the work. I want to train new recruits. Help with intel. Tactical planning. Just… no more front-line missions. No more bleeding out in some alley in Prague wondering if she’s going to get a folded flag instead of a phone call.”

Sam leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the desk. His voice softened. “That’s fair. And it’s overdue.”

His eyes met Bucky’s. “You more than earned this life, Buck. It’s about time you get to live it.”

The words landed like a stone dropped in still water, rippling outward, quiet but irrevocable. Not a grand declaration or a command. Just a truth Bucky had spent decades not believing he was allowed to hear.

He nodded again, slower this time. “Thanks, man.”

Sam grinned, standing up to give Bucky a hug goodbye. “Go on home to your girl.”

As Bucky turned toward the door, Sam called after him, voice casual but meaningful.

“Oh, by the way. The kid, Miller? He made it. Medics said it was close, but what you did out there kept him alive long enough for them to save him. Good work.”

Bucky stopped in the doorway. The words hit harder than they should have, reverberating in the space like a bell struck in a quiet church.

For a moment, he just stood there, back to Sam, hand resting lightly against the doorframe. His breath caught, then released slowly. Not a sigh, but something quieter. A pressure eased off his chest, like an old wound finally healing.

The knot that had been coiled in his gut since that night, tight, cold, and constant, unwound just a little. He hadn't let himself hope the boy would make it. Hadn’t let himself believe that maybe this time, it hadn’t ended in failure. That maybe, this time, he’d done something right.

He closed his eyes for half a second. He drew in a breath that finally felt easier and fuller.

The guilt didn’t vanish like a miracle, but it softened. And in its place, something unfamiliar stirred.

Relief. Not just that Miller lived, but that he had helped him live.

He didn’t say anything. Words would have felt too fragile for the moment, but his shoulders, always drawn just a little too tight, eased.

He nodded back at Sam once, jaw tight, throat thick.

And as Bucky stepped into the hallway, the sunlight following him was like a quiet promise as he walked toward home.

*****

I want something just like this

She was curled on the couch when he walked in, the soft creak of the front door breaking the quiet hum of the evening.

Late afternoon light spilled through the living room windows, warm and hazy, casting long stripes across the hardwood floor. The air was laced with the faint scent of lavender and something sweet from the candle burning low on the side table. A half-finished cup of herbal tea rested on a coaster near her elbow, its steam long since faded.

She sat with her legs tucked beneath her, one blanket-wrapped foot peeking out from under a knitted throw. Her hair was swept up into a loose bun, wisps falling around her face. A book lay open in her lap, pages gently curled from the warmth of her hands.

She looked up at the sound of the door, blinking as if surfacing from somewhere deep and quiet.

“You’re home early,” she said, her voice soft with pleasant surprise.

“Yeah,” he replied, stepping inside and closing the door behind him with a quiet click. “Got a surprise for you.”

She set the book aside and stretched slowly, arms reaching overhead with a little groan of contentment. The hem of his old T-shirt she was wearing lifted slightly, revealing a sliver of her stomach before she padded across the room barefoot.

“Does the surprise involve dinner?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because I would kill for something smothered in cheese.”

He snorted, amused. “No murder necessary.”

From behind his back, he produced a small bouquet, simple but thoughtful. Pale yellow daisies mixed with fresh lavender, the kind she always paused to admire at the weekend market but never bought for herself.

He watched her eyes light up like he’d handed her the moon.

“Bucky…”

“There’s more,” he said, his voice softening, slowing.

She tilted her head, lips parting, waiting.

“I talked to Sam,” he said. “I’m stepping back. No more front-line missions. No more nights where I come home bleeding and you patch me up like you’re a nurse on the front lines.”

Her breath caught.

“I want to be here,” he continued. “Every single day. I want to burn grilled cheese and fall asleep during bad movies. I want grocery runs with you and to argue about tile colors and starting tomorrow I’m going to fix that stupid leaky sink you keep reminding me about.”

He stepped closer, the flowers cradled in one hand, the other hand lifted, gentle fingers brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I want a future. With you.”

Her eyes shimmered, brimming with emotion, and a single tear slid down her cheek.

She didn’t speak.

Instead, she surged forward, burying herself in his arms, warm and breathless, her embrace fierce with relief and love. He caught her without hesitation, one arm locking around her waist, despite the additional pain it caused in his side. It was worth it to hold her close. His other hand slid down between them, resting on the soft curve of her stomach.

And she stilled.

Pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.

“You knew?”

“I had a feeling,” he said, voice thick with wonder. His thumb brushed over the soft cotton of her shirt. “You stopped drinking coffee in the mornings. And your scent, it changed. Just a little. I knew something was different. I didn’t know for sure, but… now I’m really glad I did this before I knew.”

She covered his hand with both of hers, gentle and protective.

They stood like that for a long moment, fingers intertwined, foreheads nearly touching, holding not just each other, but the quiet promise of everything to come.

The room around them was nothing extraordinary. A lived-in space of cozy throws, coffee rings on coasters, and mismatched mugs in the sink. But it was one they built together, one evening, one morning, one tiny decision at a time.

No legend, no mission. Exactly what they both wanted.

Something just like this.

This is my first one-shot, and it's also my first song-inspired fic!

Seeing my little writings reach people is the highlight of my day, so please let me know what you think!

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods Hello my Friends! Since this is my first one shot, and you all asked to be tagged when I only had the New Avengers series, please let me know if you want to be notified for the series ONLY, or for everything (if you don't reply, I'm gonna leave you on for everything, fyi)! No worries if you only want the series - I'm happy to accommodate you either way! ❤️

[that-rq-menace]

“Also also, if they, especially teens, decide they want to star in p0rn, they should have that opportunity” did you deadass just say kids should make cp if they want to, holy fucking shit

Are you deadass saying they're not allowed to? Each and every teen? What gives you power over their bodies? They're human beings, too, with free will and wants and wishes. And if you won't allow it, they will do it just to stick it to you. I have seen and done so many, many, many times. I am not exaggerating. If you make it okay, you can make it safe. They will just do things behind your back, potentially putting themselves at risk because they don't want to tell you.

If I had a teen who would want to make porn, I am going to let them as long as they're being safe. They will come to me to ask for help and I can talk to them about being safe.

Shut that door and your children will do things behind your back, making them significantly more vulnerable to potential bad actors and bad actions. Like actual sex offenders. If they're allowed to make it with their peers, adults don't even have to come anywhere near the process. I am totally open for salutations that allow them to make it for themselves and their peers while not allowing adults near it, if that would be your concern.

Aside from that, if teens are allowed in porn, CP stops being a thing, at least from a certain age. It would just be P.

I really don't get how this is such a bad thing? I am literally advocating for equal rights and to end discrimination based on age. Are y'all actually reading what I am saying or do y'all just want to be outraged?