#and I used that thing for like three years)

[musashi]

I would like to know the MCR lore please and thank you.

SEPTEMBER 11TH, 2001

new jersey based cartoonist gerard way is commuting through new york city for an interview at a popular animation company

Uh Oh Sisters.

a few miles away from ground zero gerard watches the second tower fall and messages everyone he knows like quit your job join my band

bullies his little brother into learning bass

MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE is formed. main players are gerard, his brother mikey, and two guitar legends named frank iero and ray toro

gerard has since gone on record saying that the powerlessness he felt in watching an attack happen on american soil inspired him to create something. he could not just stand by and do nothing. he had to find a way to connect with people and overcome that fear.

together MCR releases their first record:

I BROUGHT YOU MY BULLETS, YOU BROUGHT ME YOUR LOVE

the only album that isn't particularly concepty. very Hardcore.

skylines and turnstiles was the first MCR song ever written, the first lyrics of which spell out the message the band so badly wanted to communicate-- "you're not in this alone."

the entirety of the song is about 9/11

the biggest throughline in bullets is complicated & toxic relationships, often using monsters like vampires and zombies as mataphors and motifs

"vampires are a standin for alcoholism" is kind of a reocurring thing in MCR lore as a whole

the one thing about this album that is pretty definite story-wise is the tale of the demolition lovers, highlighted in the last song on the album

the demo lovers are on the run from the authorities, likely in some sort of bonnie and clyde sitch. in the end, they are gunned down in the desert and die in each other's arms.

this final note leads into...

THREE CHEERS FOR SWEET REVENGE

it's 2004. MCR releases their second album, widely regarded now to be a cornerstone of the early 2000s scemo movement & aesthetic

black button downs with blood-red ties. red eyeshadow, nude lips, and THICK guyliner. catholicism.

you've seen it. i know you've seen it.

ignore the blonde guy back there.

three cheers chronicles the story of the demolition lovers. they are on the cover. you have seen them.

the man awakens in purgatory, searching for his lost lover. there, he meets the devil, who tells him that if he wants to reunite with her, he must bring him the soul of one thousand evil men.

Okay I Believe You.mp4

after all that killing, the man begins to lose sight of himself. he kills 999 evil men when the devil appears to him once more, and tells him that with all this blood on his hands, the last evil man he must kill is himself.

a few years pass. this album is a big hit with The Freaks but at the moment MCR are not exactly "big" outside of alt music circles. everything changes in 2006, but a little bit before that...

THE PARAMOUR MANSION

gerard fucking way, at this time severely mentally ill, believes wholeheartedly in suffering for ones art

posts the whole band up in a haunted mansion that has certifiably driven several past residents insane

gerard suffers from chronic nightmares in this mansion where he witnesses his loved ones dying over and over. he records himself recounting this and puts it in a song called sleep.

the band have designated "heavy rooms" where they scream and yell and cry and get out all their demons. gerard leaves deranged post it notes all over his. one of these notes reads "we are all a black parade"

mikey's mental health gets so bad in this place that he becomes violently suicidal and has to check himself into a clinic

allegedly, gerard writes "famous last words" about mikey's struggles.

before he leaves mikey is insane about a song they're working on called disenchanted. there are stories of him just whispering it into his bandmates' ears at night.

this whole experience just sucks for everyone, but unfortunately for me wishing better for them, we get one of the greatest rock albums of all time out of it.

THE BLACK PARADE

jesus fucking christ

chronicles the story of a dying cancer patient looking back on his life and realizing he was kind of an asshole.

he committed war crimes, drank his sorrows away, and treated his lover like shit.

as he lies there dying in his hospital bed he realizes he is burdened with regret and wants to redo everything and change.

a core tenet of this album is that death comes to you in the form of your fondest memory. THE BLACK PARADE is a manifestation of this--as you might have heard, when the patient was a young boy his father t

the parade he saw as a child returns to him, cloaked in black, and guides him toward the afterlife.

he maybe resists death and his allowed his second chance. up to you!

when MCR toured this show, they did not tour as MCR--they toured as The Black Parade. i was there. in 2007. they came on stage and said "we are the Black Parade."

remember this for later!

this tour was, i shit you not, a full theatrical performance unlike anything you would ever see in that era.

the album begins with the patient about to flatline. they wheel gerard out on a hospital gurney.

seriously, please watch this

just watch the first like minute if you don't wanna watch the whole thing. PLEASE.

you need to understand the above wasn't some special thing they did for this taped live show. they did this EVERY night. i saw this happen.

the show ended with huge amounts of black and white confetti falling from the ceiling, the same confetti from the music video for welcome to the black parade.

THEATRICS. i called gerard a cartoonist at the beginning of this writeup. but at this time he had also written and published an original comic no one besides MCR fans had heard of or read.

that is certainly not the case any longer.

point: gerard way is a storyteller. and it shows in this tour.

at the beginning of this era, gerard sheared his long beautiful hair short and dyed it platinum blonde to give off the effect of being sickly. the people who don't know them from the revenge era usually know them from this one.

you've most certainly heard the song that skyrocketed them to stardom. i don't know what else to say about it. it is lauded for a reason. i did not know at the time of it releasing that i would become an anthem of my childhood heart and soul, and a whole generation of misfit alt kids with scars on their wrists. but it is The MCR Song for a reason, and that is because it is definitive--dark, heavy, black-coated music... about how you cannot lay down and die, motherfucker. the world is hell! your heart will break! GET THE FUCK UP! FIGHT, YOU BASTARD! YOU HAVE TO FIGHT!

that is, above all else, what MCR writes music about. remember that.

rather unfairly, this is also around the time the media started painting them as a suicide cult brainwashing troubled teens into suicide and self harm.

the (sort of) last song on the black parade contains the lyrics "i am not afraid to keep on living."

here is my show last night singing those lyrics. you should listen. skip to 2:40 for the good part. i am there amongst the sea of voices, my whole body shaking with sobs as i struggle to get the words "i am not afraid to walk this world alone" out.

beyond the Concerned Parents, much of the rock scene rejected MCR due to their unabashedly authentic, earnest, and yes, emo selves. at the time, MCR could not be defined as emo--but emo would eventually reshape itself as a genre around them.

MCR was also unapologetically queer in a time where it was not safe to be so. gerard and frank would kiss with tongue on stage and wear makeup. gerard would sing about kissing men and wearing dresses. they are all married with wives and children, and while gerard is nonbinary himself, they've said time and time again that this weaponization of queerness was literally to get dudebro homophobes to leave their show.

these people would shout the f slur at gerard and he would limp his wrist and say thank you honey. it ruled. it was 2006, that was not something you did.

the biggest and most important culmination of the pushback that came with MCR's stardom is coincidentally my favourite post-reunion MCR performance of all time.

here, they play reading & leeds, where an incredibly rowdy crowd of hard rock, hypermasculine dudebro types throw rocks and bottles on stage the whole time. all the while, gerard smiles down at them like a playful trickster god on high, singing i wouldn't front the scene if you paid me and give me all your poison and you're running after something that you'll never kill and fire at will.

god.

eventually, they would officially "kill" the black parade (the band) off at a final show in mexico. this would lead into another tour where they played as themselves, titled "the black parade is dead!"

things go quiet for a few years. and then...

DANGER DAYS: THE TRUE LIVES OF THE FABULOUS KILLJOYS

gerard: please let me write a comic. i have to write a comic. i need to write a comic. i must write a comic.

gerard writes a comic, and everyone is cool with passing it off as a rock album.

CALIFORNIA: IN THE DISTANT FUTURE YEAR OF 2019. five years prior, the analog/helium wars decimated the landscape and shifted control into the hands of Better Living Industries (BLind for short) a dictatorship localized into the bounds of futuristic Battery City. resisting this monochromatic, controlling government are the Fabulous Killjoys: colourful outlaws in sick ass sentai costumes that roam the desert and fight for liberation.

the sound is completely different. gone are the emo/gothy undertones and romantic, dark aesthetics. we are punk rock as shit, now, and we're going to blow up the government.

gerard dyes his hair bright red. he does this a month after i do the same. that has nothing to do with the lore, it still just makes me lose my mind to this day.

asshole stealing my drip. we even had the same fucked up haircut.

anyways, here's where we are now:

the music videos tell a cohesive story. the album tells another one. a comic releases alongside it all, telling a third one. they all kinda sorta interpret the story in different ways, but it is still the most high concept and well-built world that MCR canon has. this era's aesthetic was so delicious that mentally ill transgenders on tumblr are still RPing it and writing fic to this day.

at this point, MCR reaches a strange kind of impasse where they are simultaneously at the peak of their career and less relevant than ever. they're entrenched in celebrity culture. mikey is cheating on his girlfriend. gerard is anorexic and drinking. shit's not the greatest.

at the same time, a lot of their former fans are not crazy about the new sound / aesthetic

an MCR song gets on glee. this is, in large part, considered The End for a lot of people.

US politics are important here: Obama's in office. things are looking up. the culture of the country is shifting. and that begs the question... why did the world need MCR?

the world needed MCR because the world was at war under a republican president. the world needed MCR because the twin towers fucking exploded into flames. the world needed MCR because the future was bleak and scary, and they had to do something. and they did something. and the something was done.

it was done.

it was over.

MARCH 23RD, 2013

It's over.

They break up.

They work their solo careers. They live their lives. They have kids. Gerard becomes a pretty legendary comics writer.

The end.

A year later, on an album containing some unreleased music / b sides, they release their final song, on an album titled May Death Never Stop You.

"Fake Your Death."

It's the only song MCR has ever written where the message could not more clearly be "Give up. It's done."

I choose defeat. I walk away.

I can't listen.

I don't listen.

It hurts too much.

Life goes on.

LIFE GOES ON

as gen z grow up and discover music, a beautiful second wave of my chem fans enter the space. overwhelmingly, we learn in time that MCR's greatness is not a product of the cultural moment or nostalgia--i begin to see hundreds of tiktoks of teenagers in the mid 2010s lamenting being born in the wrong generation because i missed seeing MCR live.

the elder emos comiscerate. the g note meme is born.

watch a couple compilations. notice how all the teenagers are wearing the same MCR shirt? that's because it was the ONLY official merch available for ages after they broke up. whenever i see that shirt, it's like an arrow in my heart. it's a signifier of someone who came in late, and there is nothing more beautiful than that to me. the music is good. intragenerationally, you understand that, too.

the way brothers have cited one of their biggest inspirations ever to be the smashing pumpkins. mikey went on record saying once that the smashing pumpkins is everything they wanted to be.

people begin to overthink this.

the timeline of the smashing pumpkins is as follows: they were together for 12 years, broke up for 6, and then got back together.

mcr was together... for 12 years.

if they got back together after a 6 year hiatus, the year would be... 2019.

2019, the year that the killjoys raised up their lasers toward the oppressive and fascistic government.

WHICH COULD MEAN NOTHING

2019.

45 begins his 3rd year in office.

This is, in case you didn't know, going very poorly.

Halloween. The MCR socials... change their pfp.

more symbols trickle in on their insta story. something is being teased/promoted. we expect it is likely just a re-release, or some more unreleased music, or a merch thing for the spooky season.

some people can't help remembering a little while back, though... when one of the jonas brothers said that he heard MCR rehearsing in the same venue as them. how odd that was, considering MCR broke up.

when frank was confronted about this, he rolled his eyes and answered in the same negative he always did, obviously tired of hearing it all these years.

"man, that rumour's like a broken clock."

YES. YES IT IS.

out of fucking NOWHERE, the MCR reunion is announced.

they do this on halloween night--when the veil between the living and the dead is thinnest. remember this.

i don't want to try to put into words what the energy of this show is like. all i can do is BEG you to watch the multicam cut of it. i am begging. i am pleading.

six long years of no MCR. six long years of new fans mourning what they didn't get.

and look. just LOOK at that sea of fingerless gloves and black t-shirts. look at that sea of people dressing like they did when they were teenagers, alongside teenagers who weren't there to see it but are now living their dreams of doing so.

look at gerard's dad getup. look at how much healthier and happier he looks. look at how overjoyed everyone is to be there.

the medley at the beginning. the curtain falling. im not okay (a secondary emo anthem to wttbp) heralding the dawn of a new era.

the audience chanting mikey's name as he plays the final bassline of the kids from yesterday.

ADDITIONAL LORE: MCR more or less always plays the same song for their encore--helena. this is because the last line of helena is meant to be their parting words to their audience, so long and goodnight.

they do not do this here. the final song they play, aptly saved for last, is welcome to the black parade.

the final words of which, are, of course

WE'LL CARRY ON

take a good look at gerard's california 2019 getup

any witch worth their salt will tell you that's a sigil on his arm. specifically, it's a witches' wheel, which can be translated.

the way a lot of witchcraft works is through intention. you put an intention to an object, and the magick flows through that intention.

when translated, this wheel spells out my chemical romance.

another part of spellcasting is the idea of 'charging' a spell. there are many ways to do this, depending on what you're trying to manifest, but to put a sigil on your body with a clear intention and wear it to a massive gathering of energy, like, say, a room full of people all singing the lyrics to that intention in perfect unison...

well. that's damn near ritualistic, in fact, i daresay it's...

A SUMMONING

after several smaller teasers throughout the week, the official MCR youtube releases this video. i will not explain it to you. i am demanding you watch it, given everything i have just explained.

this is the video that announced the reunion tour. a 13 minute long love letter to the fandom, told through the eyes of one of us. rife with easter eggs, theatrical as can be, and, most notably of all, ending with this:

the sigil, charged. glowing with energy from the fandom in that california venue, who used their passion and power to revive my chemical romance from the dead.

my chemical romance will tour in 2020. barring extenuating circumstances, there is nothing that will stop them from playing their music for us one more time.

YES THERE IS

it turns out being in a fascist government means that sometimes a deadly infectious disease will spread unmitigated and shut down the world.

it turns out that when the killjoys said "die with your mask on" they were a little too on the mark.

OKAY, REDO.

2022.

it is still not safe to go to concerts, but the world does not care about public health or disabled people, so they keep doing them anyways.

mcr reunites, and releases a new song called the foundations of decay. it could not more clearly be about their legacy.

the branding for the new tour is themed around this concept of decay and rot. flies specifically are a huge theme. before each show, the beating of fly wings in massive numbers echoes like static throughout the stage speakers. the fans collectively name this "the swarm"

what this tour lacks in cohesive theming it makes up for in sheer fun. gerard wears a different outfit every night. he does a lot of drag. they spraypaint messages on the drum head--some nonsense, some sentimental. you should watch the strange aeons video about this where she goes through all of them, as well as all the funny shit that happened on the tour.

the vibe of this reunion was very much 'let's have as much fucking fun as possible.'

it was. it was fun. and it was fun enough that they took all the money they earned from these massive reunion shows, put their heads together, and said let's fucking do it again.

PRESENT DAY: THE GLORIOUS NATION OF DRAAG

you are here.

randomly one day in november 2024, MCR announces A FUCKING STADIUM TOUR, appropriately named "long live the black parade"

curiously, the theming of this tour looks decidedly... not black paradey.

the strange, not-quite-russian lettering is a fucking conlang unique to this era. it starts showing up in all the various promotional videos they release.

"It has been seventeen years since The Black Parade was sent to the MOAT. In that time, a great Dictator has risen to power, bringing about "THE CONCRETE AGE”; a glorious time of stability and abundance in the history of DRAAG. His Grand Immortal Dictator wishes to celebrate our rich and storied culture, fine foods, and musical entertainments by welcoming you to these great demonstrations of power and resolve. And lending voice and song for the first time in six thousand two hundred and forty six days, their work privilege ceremoniously reinstated, will be His Grand Immortal Dictator's National Band... The Black Parade. Long Live Draag"

here in the nation of Draag, the Grand Immortal Dictator has revived The Black Parade from the dead, forcing them to play their album in its entirety, wear their silly little outfits, play their silly little nostalgia anthems.

all the while, intending to use them as a mouthpiece for his pro-war, oppressive propaganda.

the stadium show is HIGH THEATRICS. only one venue knows the storyline of it so far!

LUCKILY FOR YOU I WAS THERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

last night, me and 30 thousand other emos watched as the black parade danced for us, corpses reanimated. gerard shambled and slurred his way across the stage, all the while being watched like a hawk by an imposing government agent who handed him documents and told him what to say and do.

every audience member was given a sign that said yea or nay. at one point, we were asked to vote on if we should allow 4 new elected officials into the government.

the audience overwhelmingly voted yes. gerard commanded their execution, and they were shot on the b stage in front of us, their corpses dragged off by the MOAT.

throughout the setlist, the band begin to fight back. gerard resists the government in increasingly big ways, refusing to be their zombified mouthpiece. when this reaches a head, they pull the band off the jumbotron and start playing quiz shows and ads for groceries.

during mama, the curtain pulls back to reveal military tracking & specs. blueprints for a missile launch. the whole stage flashes red and begins to burn. new lyrics are added, and gerard presents the imposing suit man with a dagger.

during disenchanted--which had not been played live in 17 years--the stadium was bathed in a sea of blue light from fans taping paper to their phone flashlights in tribute to the underloved song. all the while, a Draag politician speaks of duty and justice and obligation to one's country.

we're taken to a launch station in the middle of a wheat field. as famous last words is playing, we watch the missile be fired.

the carnage that ensues is the sole background to a lone acoustic guitar that's been on stage the whole night, untouched. ray comes out and begins to play it, and it's hard to tell what it is at first until the rest of the band joins in--

an acoustic version of The End. the first track on the album, which we have already heard. it is a funeral procession, and gerard understandably always sings it bombastically and high-energy to welcome the audience. this time, his cadence is mournful and slow, desperate and wailing.

the show begins anew. we listen to the same song, once more.

the suit man has, for reasons unbeknownst to me, changed into a pierrot-looking clown costume. sensing resistance, he gives chase to gerard, who at this point in the song is singing the lyrics SAVE ME! GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!

all the while, there has been a chalk outline ominously carved out in the middle of the stage.

the clown and gerard fight. the dagger from before stabs gerard, punishing him for his insolence. bleeding out on hands and knees, he drags himself to the chalk outline, singing lyrics to another song--we'll carry on. We'll carry on.

he collapses into place, freed of the dictator's control, allowed to finally rest. the rest of the band members are dragged offstage by uniformed men. subversively, mikey--who has thus far been the kenny mccormick of MCR lore--escapes. ray is dragged off, shredding wildly the whole time. he refuses to stop playing until he cannot any longer.

the clown dances around to Blood, which is a hidden track that was at the end of the black parade. it is a perfect fucking song for a clown to dance to, especially when that clown is covered in the blood of the guy he just murdered. at the end of the song, he rips his shirt open to reveal a bomb strapped to his chest, and kills himself in a satisfying blaze of glory.

all the while, that same confetti from the original black parade tour is falling down around us all.

when i saw the black parade tour in 2007, i cannot explain how i knew this, but i had this feeling... they're holding back.

my father said to me that night, commit to memory everything you just saw here. you will never see anything like that again.

my dad was fucking wrong.

thanks for listening!

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚖𝚊𝚖𝚊 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which a family was made unconventionally

You were twenty when you had Zion. That number still rings in your head sometimes… twenty. Barely past girlhood, still growing into your own bones, and suddenly responsible for another life. You remember the hospital lights and the coldness of the delivery room floor when you had to walk barefoot across it at four in the morning because your water broke early. You remember the silence of the father when you called, your fingers shaking, asking him to come. And you remember the even deeper silence afterward, when he never did.

You grew up in Hartford, Connecticut. UConn basketball was in your blood long before you knew how to spell “Taurasi.” Your dad used to carry you on his shoulders at Gampel Pavilion games and say things like, “You’re gonna be the next Sue Bird,” even though you were more interested in drawing hearts in the condensation of the arena glass than you were in picking up a ball. But still, you knew greatness when you saw it. You watched Maya Moore’s fade aways with wide eyes. Watched Breanna Stewart play like gravity didn’t apply to her. Watched a baby faced Napheesa Collier step onto that court like she already owned it.

Fast forward three years and some change, and you’re twenty three, living in Dallas, working part time at a local youth sports center and taking freelance graphic design jobs when Zion’s asleep. You’ve got a routine now. Every morning it’s cereal and cartoons. Every afternoon it’s a trip to the park or a store run you probably can’t afford. And every evening, during basketball season, it’s dinner on the couch and a Wings game on the TV.

Zion is three now, with big brown eyes and a mop of curls you haven’t had the heart to cut yet. He has your stubbornness, your sense of humor, and, unfortunately, his father's penchant for climbing furniture like gravity’s a myth. You’ve never told Zion much about his father. Never needed to. You’ve poured every ounce of your love into that boy, and most days it’s enough.

Paige being drafted to the Dallas Wings felt like a cosmic alignment. You watched the draft on your phone while stirring spaghetti sauce, wiping your hands on your sweatpants when her name was called. Zion was on the floor playing with his toy cars when you gasped and laughed and whispered, “No way.”

He looked up. “What happened?”

You picked him up mid-stir, bouncing him gently against your hip. “She’s coming here, baby. Mommy’s favorite player. We’re gonna get to see her play.”

He blinked up at you, like he didn’t fully understand, but smiled because you were smiling. He’s always been like that, your moods, soaking in your joy like it was sunlight.

You scraped and saved for tickets. Not floor seats, but close enough. And when the Wings played the Liberty on a Saturday afternoon in June, you dressed Zion in the tiny navy blue Wings jersey you bought secondhand online and took the train to College Park Center like it was a mission. He held your hand the whole way, bouncing on his toes, repeating her name like a chant, “Paigey, Paigey, Paigey.”

You corrected him once, “Paige, baby, not Paigey,” but then gave up. It was too cute.

Inside the arena, Zion’s eyes went wide. It was his first professional game. The energy, the buzz, the loudness of it all, he clung to your leg at first, unsure, until the Wings hit a three and the crowd erupted and he started clapping with sticky little fingers. You lifted him into your lap. The announcer called her name. “Paige Bueckers with the assist—” and Zion pointed to the court and screamed, “THERE SHE IS!”

You blushed. “Yes, that’s her,” you said, laughing. “That’s Mommy’s girl.”

He turned to you. “Your girl?”

“Favorite player,” you clarified quickly. “That’s what I meant.”

The Wings won by six. Paige had a double-double, ten points, twelve assists, and every time she touched the ball, you swore your heartbeat picked up like a reflex. There was something magic about her. Still that same lightning bolt from UConn, but sharper now. Older, more confident. You watched her as if you didn’t already know every stat. As if you weren’t already hopelessly, irrationally gone for someone who didn’t know you existed.

After the final buzzer, Zion begged to stay.

“I wanna meet her,” he said, tugging your arm.

You didn’t have any VIP pass or meet and greet, but a small crowd gathered by the edge of the court near the player tunnel. Some people held posters. Others wore Bueckers jerseys. You hoisted Zion onto your hip and moved closer, your arms sore but heart full. He leaned against your shoulder, his little arms wrapped around your neck. You stood on your toes, hoping maybe, just maybe, she’d walk by.

And that’s when he wiggled down. Before you could stop him, he ducked beneath the rope and darted past a security guard distracted by someone else. Your voice caught in your throat.

“Zion—ZION!”

But he was already sprinting toward her. His little legs pumped like pistons, jersey flapping, curls bouncing. You were frozen for a second, sheer panic gripping your spine.

Until Paige turned. She saw him. You watched her eyebrows lift in confusion just a second before he reached her. And then, God, she caught him like it wasn’t the first time she’d been tackled by a toddler mid-arena. Like she’d been waiting for him.

You watched her crouch down to his level, listening intently as he pointed around like he was trying to find you. She looked up, eyes scanning the crowd, until her gaze landed on yours.

You will never forget the sight of Paige Bueckers holding your son in her arms, walking toward you, confusion and curiosity softening her features, a crooked smile tugging at her lips.

“Hi,” she said, her voice half-laugh, half-breathless. “I think this one belongs to you?”

Zion grinned at her, proud as anything. “That’s my mommy.”

You flushed, reaching out to take him, but Paige didn’t let go right away.

“He told me he was looking for his mommy,” she said, eyes still on you.

You opened your mouth to say thank you, to apologize, to say literally anything, but Zion beat you to it.

“Are you my mama too?” he asked innocently, blinking up at her.

Paige’s face froze. “Uhm, what?”

He giggled. “Mommy said you were hot. She said you should be my mama.”

You could feel the heat crawl up your neck, all the way to your ears. “Zion,” you hissed, “what the—"

But it was too late. Paige was already pink from the neck up, blinking rapidly, her lips parting like she was trying to find the words.

You cleared your throat, trying to laugh it off. “Okay, that’s… wow. I am so sorry.”

Paige held Zion a little tighter, but she was laughing now, too, genuine and surprised, a hand over her mouth as her eyes crinkled. “That might be the best thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You shook your head, face still burning. “He’s very… honest.”

Zion beamed, clearly proud of himself. “Mommy watches you all the time. She gets happy when you’re on the TV.”

You stared at the floor. “Okay. Thank you, traitor.”

And Paige looked back at you, eyes bright with something you couldn’t name, like maybe this day wasn’t ending how she expected either.

“I’m Paige,” she said, though you obviously knew that.

“I know,” you replied, smiling nervously. “I’m… Y/N. This little menace is Zion.”

She nodded, shifting him gently into your arms. “Nice to meet you both.”

You thought that would be it. A funny story. A blushing exit. But Paige didn’t walk away. She lingered and you swore the moment stretched a little longer than it had to.

You adjusted Zion on your hip, his arms wrapped loosely around your neck, his body already going slack the way toddlers do when the energy starts to crash after a long, overstimulating day. His little Wings jersey drooped on one shoulder. He blinked slowly, resting his cheek on your collarbone, oblivious to the emotional havoc he’d just unleashed.

Paige hadn’t stopped smiling since the words left his mouth.

She stood there for a second longer than she needed to, like she was still working through what just happened, like she wasn’t quite ready to leave yet. And then she cleared her throat and gently pointed toward the side hallway.

“The players’ lot is that way,” she said. “But if you parked nearby, I can walk you?”

You blinked. “Oh, I took the train. I live like… twenty minutes away.”

Her eyes flicked to Zion, still barely awake. “That’s a long ride with a sleepy three year old.”

You gave a little shrug. “We’ve done worse.”

There was a pause. Paige glanced over her shoulder toward the tunnel where security was trying to guide people out, then back at you. “My car’s in the lot across the street. You can wait with me if you want. Just for a bit. Until it clears out.”

It wasn’t an offer you expected. You looked at her, really looked, at the way she stood, tall but not intimidating, hands shoved in her hoodie pockets, hair tied up, and just a little flushed in the cheeks. And for some reason, you didn’t say no.

So you nodded. “Sure. Yeah. That’d be nice.”

She led the way, and you followed her out a side exit, security letting her pass with a wave. The evening air outside was warm, a sticky kind of Dallas heat that made Zion stir and mumble something in his sleep. Paige reached out instinctively to tuck the jersey back up over his shoulder before you even noticed it was slipping. The gesture made your breath catch.

“He’s cute,” she said, walking a little slower so you didn’t have to rush. “Like, really cute.”

You smiled. “Thanks. He’s… exhausting. But yeah. He’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

“How old is he?”

“Just turned three.”

She nodded, thoughtful. “So you were… what?”

You nodded back. “twenty, yeah. That was a year. He wasn’t planned. And his dad… didn’t stick around.”

Paige didn’t flinch. Didn’t say sorry, or frown, or try to smooth over the awkwardness. She just nodded again, like she heard you, and you felt something settle in your chest. It had been a while since anyone let the truth just… sit.

“Do you get to watch many games?” she asked as you crossed the street.

“On TV? All of them. He knows your name better than he knows mine.”

Paige laughed, the sound soft and disbelieving. “He called me ‘Paigey.’ That was new.”

“I’ve corrected him, but he insists it’s better.”

You reached the parking lot and found her SUV tucked neatly in the corner. She popped the trunk open, revealing an organized chaos of duffle bags, water bottles, and a shoebox filled with snacks. Zion stirred again, whimpering.

You gently bounced him. “Shh, baby. Almost home.”

Paige moved instinctively again, grabbing an oversized hoodie from the trunk and handing it to you. “It’s cold. He might want something on the ride.”

You hesitated. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” she said. “But I want to.”

Your fingers brushed as you took it, and it sent a weird jolt up your arm. You were too tired to pretend it wasn’t there.

Zion blinked awake for a second, saw Paige, and instantly smiled. “Mama?”

Your cheeks flamed again. “Zion…”

But Paige, to your surprise, smiled back and whispered, “You’ll be home soon, buddy.”

You stared at her, unable to stop the grin that crept onto your face.

He closed his eyes again. You lowered him into the stroller you kept folded by the station—an old, worn store brand that had gotten you through airports and long days at work.

When you looked up, Paige was still watching you.

“So,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck, “you really said I was hot?”

You groaned. “He wasn’t supposed to say that out loud.”

“Is it true?”

You looked at her then, really looked. Sweat damp hair from the game still clung to her temples. Her jaw was sharp, her eyes tired but glowing, and she had that posture athletes get when they finally exhale after a win, like she’d given everything and somehow still had more left.

And yeah. You were tired too. Too tired to lie.

You nodded once. “Yeah. It’s true.”

Her lips quirked. She didn’t look smug. Just a little stunned.

“Well… you’re not so bad yourself.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Flirt with the single mom you just met.”

“I’m not flirting,” she said quickly, and then reconsidered. “Okay, maybe a little. There was another pause. “Can I give you my number?”

You blinked. “What?”

“In case you ever want to come to another game. I could leave passes. Or…” she hesitated, “we could just talk. No pressure.”

You didn’t answer right away. The heat of the moment made your skin buzz. This wasn’t how your nights usually ended. This wasn’t in the plan. And yet…

“Yeah,” you said, digging for your phone one handed. “Okay.”

She typed it in herself, then sent herself a message so you’d have hers. When she handed your phone back, she gave you a look you couldn’t quite name.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” she said.

“You were amazing,” you said softly.

“You kind of stole the show.”

She chuckled. “Zion did. I was just collateral.”

You checked your watch. The train was coming soon.

“I should head out,” you said.

Paige nodded. “Text me when you get home?”

You smiled. “You got it.”

As you walked away, Zion half-asleep again in the stroller, you turned back once to see her still standing there, hands in her pockets, watching you go.

And somehow, you already knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

The first message came three hours after you got home.

You’d barely managed to carry Zion up the stairs without waking him, had just changed into your oldest T-shirt and collapsed on the couch with a bowl of cereal you hadn’t had time to eat before the game. Your feet were throbbing. Your body was sore in ways only single motherhood could explain.

Paige: just checking you got home safe

You stared at the screen for a long second, heart thudding in your chest. The smile came slow and wide.

You: we did. barely made it off the train without him falling asleep on the floor lol

Paige: i’ve been there sometimes my teammates act like toddlers

You laughed quietly, tucking your feet beneath you. For a few minutes, it was just back-and-forth, small jokes, slow unraveling. You told her Zion called every player on the team “Paigey” now and refused to believe you when you corrected him. She told you she hadn’t stopped thinking about what he said, “are you my mama?” and admitted she’d laughed in the locker room until tears rolled down her face.

Paige: i meant it, btw about you and zion coming again if you want

And something in your chest softened, something you didn’t even realize was still tense. You typed slowly.

You: we’d love that. but only if you’re sure it’s okay. i know you’ve got a whole life going on.

Her response came quick, no hesitation.

Paige: you’re not a distraction you’re… a really good part of my day

You didn’t have the energy to analyze what that meant. Not yet. But it stuck with you. Echoed even after you put the phone down and curled up beside Zion in his tiny bed, his warm little fingers tucked into your shirt.

Three days later, she sent a voice memo. Her voice was quiet, almost shy.

“Hey… we’ve got a closed practice Friday morning. No press, no crowd. Just the team and coaches. If you’re free, I could leave your name at the door?”

You listened to it four times before answering.

And that Friday, you found yourself standing courtside at the Wings’ practice facility, Zion in your arms again, clinging to you with wide eyes. He wore a new Paige Bueckers jersey, a real one, not the off-brand secondhand one from before. This one had arrived at your door two days after the game, wrapped in blue tissue paper. There was no note, just a card with a single letter. P.

You didn’t ask how she got your address. You just smiled and thanked her the next time she texted.

Now you stood on polished wood floors while Paige jogged warm up laps with her teammates, glancing your way between drills. Zion pointed every time she passed.

“There she is!” he whisper shouted.

You kissed his temple. “You gonna say ‘hi’ this time, or are you gonna run again?”

He giggled. “I’ll be good.”

Paige peeled off after the next lap, jogging toward you with flushed cheeks and messy hair under a sweatband. She looked impossibly good. Like she belonged in motion.

“Hey, superstar,” she said, ruffling Zion’s curls. “Nice jersey.”

He beamed. “You gave it to me!”

Paige mock-gasped. “How’d you know it was from me?”

He shrugged. “You’re my mama.”

You buried your face in your hand. “Zion…”

Paige just laughed. She crouched beside him, balancing on the balls of her feet. “You know what? I don’t mind if you call me that. Just maybe don’t do it during a live broadcast, okay?”

Zion nodded solemnly. “Okay.”

You looked at her then, your eyes meeting over his head. Something passed between you—an ease, a warmth that had bloomed faster than you expected. You wanted to ask her why she was being so kind. Why she kept showing up. But instead, you asked something else.

“Sure we’re not intruding?”

Paige stood, brushing off her knees. “You’re not intruding. You’re exactly who I hoped would come.”

And the thing is, she meant it. You could tell by the way she lingered just a moment too long before jogging back to the huddle. By the way she looked back, twice, as if to check that you were still there.

Practice ended an hour later. Players walked by with nods and smiles, clearly briefed on who you were, Paige’s people. You weren’t sure how to feel about that, but Zion soaked it up like a sponge. He high fived Arike and DiJonai. Sat on the floor playing with a foam basketball ZaZa had handed him. Ate a granola bar from a bag Maddy shared without asking.

And then Paige was beside you again, towel around her neck, sweat still clinging to her arms. She looked tired but happy.

“You doing anything for lunch?” she asked.

You hesitated. “Uh…”

“I was thinking maybe we grab something lowkey? There’s a taco place down the block with a patio. Zion might like it.”

Zion perked up. “Tacos!”

You looked down at him, then back up at her. Her face was open. Gentle.

So you said yes.

And that’s how you ended up in a quiet corner of a patio restaurant, Zion coloring on a paper placemat while Paige watched him like she couldn’t believe he was real. Like she was seeing a life she’d never thought to imagine, and maybe wanted to learn how.

She asked questions. About your work. About what Zion liked. About what your days looked like. And when you mentioned how tired you always were, she reached across the table and touched your hand, just once, a brush of fingers.

“You’re doing amazing,” she said, and the way she said it made your throat tight.

You didn’t tell her that no one had said that to you in over a year. You just smiled, nodded, and let yourself believe it, for once.

The next meeting started with a casual invite. Or at least, that’s how she said it.

“Nothing fancy,” Paige texted on a Tuesday afternoon. “We’ve got the day off, and I thought… maybe you and Zion could come by. Just hang out. I’ll order in. He can watch cartoons. You can relax. No pressure.”

You stared at the message for longer than you meant to.

It wasn’t a date. She hadn’t called it one. But it felt like a step—a careful step toward something you hadn’t dared hope for.

You texted back a simple yes.

By the time Friday rolled around, Zion was talking about “Paigey’s house” like it was a second home he’d been to a hundred times instead of zero. He insisted on wearing the same jersey again, peanut butter stain and all. You tried to convince him to wear the new hoodie Paige had dropped off the last time you saw her, it was his size, soft as clouds, with her number embroidered on the sleeve, but he was stubborn.

“She likes the jersey.”

You didn’t argue because he wasn’t wrong.

Paige’s apartment was on the north side of town, tucked in a complex that probably had a gate code and a waiting list. When she opened the door, she looked effortlessly casual, soft gray sweatpants, a white tank, hair tied into a messy bun that only made her look more put together.

And the moment Zion saw her, he squealed.

“Mama!”

You cringed. “Zion—”

But Paige just laughed, crouching to scoop him up like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’re getting bolder, little man.”

He nuzzled into her neck, arms around her like he belonged there. And watching them like that, watching her hold him with ease, one arm under his legs, the other steady at his back, you felt something shift in your chest. Something you weren’t ready to name yet.

She motioned you inside with a tilt of her chin.

“Shoes off,” she said. “You’re in my turf now.”

The apartment smelled like sandalwood and clean linen. There were basketballs stacked neatly against the wall, a basketball net hanging on the corner of the TV, and surprisingly, a bunch of children’s books on the coffee table.

“I grabbed those in case Zion got bored,” Paige explained, following your eyes. “I didn’t know if he liked to read.”

“He does,” you said, setting down your bag. “That was really sweet of you.”

She shrugged like it was nothing. But it wasn’t. You’d never met anyone who prepared for your son’s presence. Most people tolerated him. Paige… considered him.

Cartoons played softly while Zion curled up on her couch, wrapped in a fuzzy throw blanket that matched her home’s calm aesthetic. It wasn’t long before he started to blink slower, heavy lidded. Paige sat beside him, stroking his curls absently, and you sat at the far end of the couch, watching them in quiet awe.

“He’s a good kid,” she murmured, not looking at you.

“He really is.”

She turned her head then, her eyes meeting yours over Zion’s head.

“I mean it,” she said. “You’re doing all of this alone. And he’s… he’s kind. Gentle. That’s all you.”

Your throat went dry. You didn’t know what to do with the way she said it—like you deserved credit, like someone had finally seen the work you poured into every unglamorous day.

“I’ve had help,” you whispered. “A little. My mom, sometimes. And videos for every toddler related disaster.”

Paige smiled. “That is undefeated.” A beat of silence settled. “I’ve never pictured myself as a parent. Not really. Basketball takes so much. It takes… everything.”

You nodded, understanding too well what it meant to be consumed by a dream.

“But if I ever do…” she continued, “I think it’d feel something like this.”

You didn’t know what to say.

Because the way she looked at Zion sleeping in her lap, like he was the first quiet thing in her life that ever made sense, didn’t feel casual. And the way she looked at you a moment later, when he shifted in his sleep and curled deeper into her side… that wasn’t casual either.

You leaned forward, arms on your knees, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

“Why us, Paige?”

She blinked. “What?”

“You’ve got the whole city at your feet. You could be anywhere. With anyone. Why are you here… with me?”

She didn’t answer right away. She looked down at Zion, then up at you.

“I don’t know,” she said, honest. “I just… feel better when I’m around you.” You stared at her. She shrugged a little. “Is that weird?”

“No,” you said quietly. “It’s not weird.”

Paige reached out then, slow, tentative. Her fingers brushed your hand on the couch cushion between you. Not a full hold. Just a touch. An anchor.

Neither of you moved for a long time. Zion snored once, very softly. Paige laughed under her breath, the sound vibrating in her throat.

You didn’t kiss her, but you really wanted to.

Something in the way she looked at you, the ache, the stillness, made you think maybe you didn’t have to. At least not yet. There was no rush. No expectation.

Just a promise, hanging quiet in the space between your hands.

Zion slept like he belonged there.

Curled into Paige’s throw blanket on her couch, cheeks flushed, limbs flung out like he’d never known a day of stress in his life. He hadn’t even stirred when you stood to carry him down the hall to the guest room Paige had quietly prepped, sheets washed, stuffed animals lined along the pillows, nightlight already plugged in.

“He can nap in my room if that’s better,” she’d offered, scratching the back of her neck, voice soft. “Or… here. Whatever feels safest.”

You chose the guest room. But not because you didn’t trust her. Because it mattered that she’d given you the choice.

It was after midnight when you finally stepped into her kitchen. Paige was standing at the counter barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows, a mug of something steaming in her hands. She didn’t startle when you walked in. Just glanced over her shoulder, smiled a little, and turned back to the sink.

You leaned against the doorway.

“He’s out,” you said.

“Figured. He ran the gym today.”

You both laughed quietly.

She handed you a mug. Chamomile. You didn’t ask how she knew.

The light above the stove was the only thing on. It cast the room in a golden hush, shadows soft around the edges. You stood there beside her, elbows touching, mugs warm in your hands, neither of you speaking for a minute.

“You scare me a little.”

You turned your head. “What?”

She wasn’t looking at you. Just staring into her cup.

“This… you,” she clarified. “Zion. All of it. It feels too good. And too… possible. I don’t usually let things feel possible.” You didn’t say anything. Let her speak. “I’ve been careful my whole life,” she said. “Careful with my body. My reputation, my name, even my feelings. Because everything I have can disappear with one headline. One injury… one moment.”

Her voice cracked there, just slightly.

“And then you showed up. Out of nowhere. With this kid who calls me his mama and looks at me like I already belong to him. And you—” She finally looked at you. “—you just feel like home.”

It hit like a wave.

Not just her words. But the truth in them. The rawness. The way she said it like she couldn’t help it. Like it had been building in her chest since the first time Zion threw his arms around her neck and called her family.

Your mug clinked softly as you set it down.

“I’m scared too,” you said. “Every day. I wake up wondering if I’m enough. If I can raise him right. If one more thing will go wrong. But with you…” You stepped forward. “…I don’t feel alone.”

The silence stretched. She swallowed, once. Her eyes dropped to your lips.

And then she kissed you.

No warning. Just her mouth brushing yours, tentative at first, as if afraid it would break something, and then firmer, steadier, like she couldn’t bear to stop.

Her hand found your cheek, thumb curling against your jaw. Your fingers wound into the front of her hoodie. You leaned into her like you’d been waiting to breathe again.

It wasn’t a fireworks kiss. It was a homecoming.

And when she pulled back, eyes half-lidded, forehead resting gently against yours, she whispered it, “I don’t want this to be temporary.”

You closed your eyes. “Then don’t let it be.”

She kissed you again, smiling this time, soft and breathless and the next hour melted like sugar between your hands. You didn’t sleep together. You stayed up, curled on the couch, her head in your lap, your fingers carding through her hair while Zion slept one room over and the world stayed quiet for once.

And in the morning, at exactly 7:03am, Zion padded into the kitchen in his socks, rubbing one eye.

He saw Paige at the stove, making pancakes, hair a mess, and stopped in his tracks.

“Are you married now?”

You choked on your coffee.

Paige looked over, wide-eyed, spatula frozen mid-flip.

“What?!”

Zion blinked. “We slept here. You made pancakes. That’s what happens on my cartoons.”

You dropped your forehead onto the table.

Paige just started laughing. Deep and loud, no attempt to hide it.

She turned to him, flipped a perfect pancake, and said, “I think we’re getting there, buddy.”

You groaned into your hands.

And somewhere under your embarrassment… you smiled.

It had been eight months since Zion ran across the court and called her Mama.

Eight months of playdates at Paige’s apartment. Nights where you all fell asleep tangled on the couch, shows playing to no one. Mornings where she’d drop by unannounced with coffee in one hand and a coloring book in the other. Weeks of sharing dinners, messy drawings, quiet hands over yours while Zion dozed between you.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, the three of you stopped feeling like a surprise and started feeling like a rhythm.

You were still “Mommy.”

Zion never confused that. You were the one who cut his grapes, who kissed his scraped knees, who knew how to find his missing sock even when it was stuffed in the freezer for reasons he refused to explain. But Paige… Paige was something different.

Not a replacement, but a balance.

He calls her “Mama” now. The way some kids might say ‘Titi’ or ‘Auntie.’ But with weight behind it.

You hadn’t told him to. She never asked for it. He just… said it one day over a bowl of cereal and didn’t even blink.

“Mama, I can’t find my shoes,” he said while she dug through your hallway closet one early Saturday morning, looking for the basketball he wanted to bring to the park.

Your hand paused on your coffee mug.

Paige froze for a half-second too, then smiled so quietly it almost broke you.

She didn’t correct him. You didn’t either. And neither did he.

The Wings had a home game the next week. Paige offered you tickets, like always. But this time they were front row. Zion’s name was on the list at the gate. The usher handed him a custom lanyard that said MAMA’S MVP in glittery blue letters. You nearly choked on your laughter. Paige had definitely made that.

You wore your best jeans and a Wings hoodie Paige had left in your dresser drawer like it belonged there, which by now, it kind of did. Zion insisted on wearing his jersey and his ‘lucky Paige socks.’ Which were just Wings socks with her number written in Sharpie on the toes.

As the team warmed up, Zion bounced beside you, clutching a sign that said GO MAMA. It was half glitter, half marker. He made it himself.

When she ran out onto the court and saw it, her face cracked into a grin so full and wide it practically lit the arena. She pointed. Put a hand over her heart. Blew him a kiss.

The crowd didn’t get it. Not yet. But you did.

The game was close. Paige played like her sneakers were on fire. Zion sat with a bag of popcorn in his lap, yelling “Let’s go Mama!” so loudly the fans in your section started calling her that too.

“Who’s mama?” a guy behind you chuckled.

Zion spun around, beaming. “Mine!”

You didn’t look back. You just smiled, leaned down, and kissed the top of his head.

When the final buzzer sounded and the Wings had the win, you scooped Zion into your arms and started down the court steps. He was already bouncing, yelling, “Can I go hug her? Can I go hug her?”

Security let you through with a nod.

Paige saw you coming and jogged over, sweaty, glowing, chest still rising and falling. Zion wriggled down and ran the last few feet, crashing into her legs like he always did. She picked him up, spun him once, then settled him on her hip like she’d done it a thousand times.

You caught up a moment later, breathless. “He insisted.”

“I hoped he would.”

She leaned down and kissed your cheek, soft and warm and not at all subtle. A few cameras clicked. You didn’t flinch.

And that’s when the Jumbotron caught you.

It had zoomed in on Paige holding Zion and you standing beside them, your hand brushing her back, his fingers twisted in her jersey. The arena cooed, actually cooed, before the screen flashed with a big, cartoon heart.

Paige blinked up at the screen. You blinked too.

And Zion, half laughing, shouted toward the rafters, “That’s my mama and my mommy!”

You buried your face in your hands. Paige laughed so hard she almost dropped him. The crowd lost it.

And when she looked over at you again, her eyes bright, her smile soft, she leaned in close and whispered against your temple, “Should we tell him we’re not married yet?”

You smiled back. “He already thinks you live with us.”

Paige grinned. “Well… I practically do.”

And you didn’t argue. Because she wasn’t wrong.

She held Zion tighter. You slipped your fingers through hers. And the next time the crowd cheered, it wasn’t for the scoreboard.

It was for the three of you.

The house was too quiet without Zion.

You’d been preparing for this moment for months, buying little velcro shoes and Paw Patrol lunchboxes, writing his name in Sharpie on every tag. You even practiced school drop-off with him, walking around the neighborhood holding hands, pretending to say goodbye at the corner before he’d run back into your arms and shout, “I’m not going yet!”

But now it was real.

First day of pre-K.

He stood in the entryway in light-up sneakers, a tiny backpack slung over one shoulder, and his jersey on underneath his hoodie. A special one Paige had made for him, stitched with ‘LIL Z #5’ on the back and the ‘P Buckets’ logo embroidered on the sleeve.

“He’s gonna make me cry,” Paige whispered from behind you, her voice already thick.

You turned and found her standing barefoot, hoodie half zipped, her hand pressed to her mouth like she didn’t trust it not to tremble.

“He hasn’t even left yet,” you teased.

“But look at him.”

You both looked.

Zion was spinning slowly in a circle in the middle of the living room, mumbling to himself about show and tell and “cool shoes” and “no nap time because I’m a big kid now.” He had no idea how quiet the house would feel without him. How much space he took up just by being happy.

Paige stepped beside you, her hand brushing yours. “Can I drive?”

“You sure?” you asked, arching a brow.

She nodded. “I want to.”

Zion insisted on listening to the Hamilton soundtrack. Paige unbuckled him in the school parking lot, smoothing his curls, checking his backpack twice. You handed him his snack bag. He grabbed it, turned to Paige, and held out his arms without a word.

She hugged him tight.

“Okay, Mama,” he said into her shoulder. “I’m ready.”

She froze and you saw it. Saw the way her breath caught. He’d said it so easily. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. “You’re ready?”

He nodded. “You and Mommy are picking me up, right?”

You stepped in and kissed the side of his head. “Of course we are.”

He looked between you, beaming. “Okay.”

He turned and ran toward the doors with his backpack bouncing, his tiny jersey peeking out from under his jacket. The teacher on duty smiled and took his hand, guiding him inside. He didn’t look back.

You didn’t expect Paige to cry. She didn’t expect it either.

But as the door shut behind him, she wiped under her eyes and whispered, “That’s our kid.”

You wrapped your arm around her waist. “He is.”

She leaned into you. “Even if he never came from me… it feels like he was always mine.”

You nodded. “You feel like that to him, too. That’s all that matters.”

You both stood there for a long moment, just watching the door.

Paige pulled out her phone. “Can we take a picture?”

You blinked. “Of what?”

“Us,” she said. “Like this. First day. So we remember.”

So you took it, just the two of you, in front of the school sign, arms around each other, eyes a little misty but hearts full.

Paige posted it later that afternoon.

[neellscapsule]

a son's love

summary | being bruce wayne's fiancée isn't easy, especially when he's been with hundreds of women before you. the good thing is you have your son with you, and he won't let anyone walk all over you.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic dick grayson x kent!reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, reader tries her best. bit of angst. protective dick grayson agenda

word count | 5.1k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. this can be read as part 5. you'll the other parts on the masterlist.

taglist |  @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @radenxd @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01 @shqyou @mei-simp @serendippindots @sirlovel @aixaingela @pjmgojo @antixsocialx2 @nisarelle @realiliumfr @gojoswaterbottle @connnn @jjoppees

THE DRIVE WAS SUPPOSED TO TAKE JUST OVER TWO HOURS.

“Two hours, twelve minutes if we’re lucky,” you’d said confidently that morning, balancing your travel mug of coffee in one hand and double-checking the last of Dick’s overnight bag with the other. Bruce had given you a look over the top of his own mug—black, no sugar, no soul.

“This is Gotham,” he replied. “We’re never lucky.”

And he was right. The drive stretched past three hours thanks to construction on the interstate, a four-car pileup near the city limits, and the classic Gotham exodus that happened every Friday when people remembered the rest of the state was quieter, cleaner, and didn’t smell like concrete and stress.

But you didn’t mind. Not really.

Bruce drove. One hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gearshift. Aviators on. Hair slightly ruffled from the wind when he’d checked the tires that morning. Dick sat in the backseat, legs crossed under him, surrounded by snacks and his favorite blue hoodie zipped halfway up. You rode shotgun, one knee tucked under you, elbow out the open window, and your hand in the wind.

The car smelled like leather and your favorite lavender-scented travel wipes. Summer was in full swing now, which meant sunlight poured across Bruce’s arm, and the sky outside was that clear, humming sort of blue that Smallville did better than anywhere else.

It had been just over a month since Dick moved in. A few months more since the press release about the engagement hit the Gotham Gazette like a slap to the face. The article had used the words “bewildering” and “suspiciously convenient” in the same sentence. And that was one of the nicer ones.

You were born and raised in Smallville. Gossip there was practically currency. You learned early that it wasn’t about stopping the talk—it was about not letting it decide how you walked through town. In Gotham, it was louder. Glossier. Paparazzi, editorials, entire segments of talk shows dedicated to who wore what ring and whether or not you were pregnant. But it didn’t get under your skin.

Bruce had handled it exactly the way you expected: with the emotional range of a damp napkin and the subtlety of a live grenade.

“They’re saying it’s fake,” he’d told you one night, pacing your shared walk-in closet while you were still in a towel post-shower. “They think you bribed me. That you are a gold digger.”

He had said it as if it was the biggest offense of his life. You’d blinked at him, toweling your hair.

“They also think we got secretly married last month and that I’m already pregnant with twins. And that I’m secretly a soy sent to take all the billionaires down.”

That one got an actual sound from him. Somewhere between a scoff and a strangled laugh.

You’d shrugged. “People talk, Bruce. Small town, big city, it doesn’t matter. Back in Smallville they thought Clark was a government clone for three years because he grew six inches over a summer and got good at baseball. People just... need something to say.”

“I hate it,” he’d murmured, dropping onto the edge of the bed beside you.

You’d reached out and threaded your fingers through his. “I don’t. Because I know it’s not true.”

But the talking wore at him in ways it didn’t wear at you. And that was how you found yourself here—on the open road with the windows down, a smiling eight-year-old in the back seat, and your fiancé muttering about tractors under his breath while trying not to let the GPS recalculate a fifth time.

“You okay back there, bug?” you asked, craning your head toward the back seat.

Dick grinned up at you from where he was cradling his tablet. “Yeah! This is fun!”

“Still think so after three hours in traffic?” Bruce asked, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

“I’ve been on longer trips,” Dick replied with a shrug. “Circus trains. Sometimes for days.”

That sobered Bruce a bit. Your fingers found his on the console between you and gave them a quiet squeeze.

Things had settled since Dick came come. The good kind of settled. Mornings were softer now, fuller. You’d wake up beside Bruce—something that still made your heart flutter in a completely unfair way—kiss his shoulder, brush your teeth while he stood behind you half-asleep, his hand on your waist like a paperweight keeping you tethered to the moment. Alfred made breakfast with quiet efficiency. You packed Dick’s lunch and walked him to the car like a suburban sitcom. He complained about math homework, asked if he could start karate (“we’ll talk about it”), and still hadn’t lost the habit of sleeping with one foot sticking out of the comforter.

“Well, this train stops soon,” you said, voice light again. “You’re going to love the farm. It’s huge.”

“Yeah?” Dick leaned forward a bit. “Like, how huge?”

You smiled. “Like, ‘can’t-see-the-end-of-it-even-on-your-bike’ huge. My parents run everything. Dairy cows, chickens, goats, sheep. A few horses. And acres and acres of crops.”

His eyes widened. “Real cows?”

You turned in your seat fully now, facing him. “Oh, yeah. Big ones. Brown ones, black-and-white ones. One with a weird splotch shaped like Florida on her side. And they moo at the sunrise like clockwork.”

“Can I pet them?”

“If you want.”

“Do they bite?”

“Only if you get between them and food.”

“That’s... fair.”

“They’re friendly,” you said with a shrug. “They’re like large dogs that smell like hay and don’t know how to be quiet.”

Dick laughed. “I’ve only seen cows in books. And elephants in real life.”

You smiled gently at that. “Yeah? Ever fed a goat?”

“Not unless you count the time a clown goat stole my hat.”

You blinked. “. . . A clown goat?”

“Circus stuff,” Dick said vaguely. “You wouldn’t get it.”

You turned to Bruce. “Did you get that?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

You caught Dick smiling in the rearview mirror again.

“Are there really pigs?” he asked, leaning forward between the front seats, seatbelt cutting diagonally across his little chest.

“There are pigs,” you confirmed with a grin. “Loud ones. One of them’s named Sugarfoot. She’ll be your best friend if you bring her scraps.”

“Scraps?”

“Like leftover food. She’ll eat anything but especially likes peach peels and toast crusts.”

He gawked. “What about... circus peanuts?”

Bruce’s brow furrowed from behind the wheel. “What are circus peanuts?”

“They’re gross,” you said flatly. “Don’t feed anything those.”

Dick giggled and leaned back again, kicking his feet lightly. “What about the horses?”

“Three,” you nodded. “Two workhorses and one very old, very cranky pony. Her name’s Miss Patty. She’s missing a tooth and absolutely will bite you if you try to pet her before she’s ready.”

“That’s awesome,” Dick whispered reverently, like a kid being told he was about to meet a dragon.

You smiled, curling one leg beneath you in the passenger seat. “We got the nicest sheep as well. His name is Buttons.”

Bruce’s voice was amused. “You’re making these names up.”

“Swear I’m not,” you said, holding up a hand. “Buttons has been around since I was in middle school. He likes music. Especially banjo. My dad says he’s the reincarnation of an old musician.”

“That explains so much about your family,” Bruce muttered.

“You love my family.”

He glanced over at you, lips quirking. “I do.”

You pecked a kiss on his lips, giggling softly at the yuck sound that came out of Dick’s mouth.

“But for real,” you said, resting your chin on the back of the seat now, “the farm is something else. My mom makes fresh cinnamon rolls every morning. Dad insists on teaching people how to ride horses, even if they say no. And Clark will probably show up before dinner even though I told him not to.”

“You think he’ll bring Lois?” Bruce asked.

“God, I hope so. He’s less weird when she’s around.”

“Clark’s weird?” Dick asked, surprised.

You shrugged. “Farm weird. You’ll see.”

Bruce turned off the main highway and onto a long, winding road that started to look more and more like Kansas the deeper you went. The trees shifted. The air changed. That thick Gotham tension peeled off your shoulders slowly, like a winter coat you didn’t need anymore.

“Was it boring?”

“Sometimes. But mostly it was simple. Peaceful.”

“What did you do?”

“Well... I helped with the animals, especially in the mornings. Fed the chickens, gathered eggs, milked the cows when I was old enough.”

Dick looked scandalized. “You milked cows?! With your hands?!”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You drink milk every day.”

“That’s different! That’s bottle milk. This is cow milk!”

“Same milk, baby,” you mumbled, grinning. “But it’s not so bad. You’ll see.”

“Do you have a tractor?”

“Of course.”

“Can I drive it?”

“No.”

Dick pouted.

Eventually, the city gave way to rolling green. The horizon stopped being broken by towers and started bending into soft hills and pastures. You felt your heart shift in your chest, like it always did. It wasn’t homesickness. Not exactly. It was more like the ache of something familiar, calling softly from the bones.

You turned your head slightly, watching the familiar mailbox come into view. KENT, it read in bold white letters. Weathered but proud. And just beyond it, the long dirt road that led to the farmhouse—a two-story white structure with a wraparound porch and a rocking chair that hadn’t stopped creaking in twenty years. A barn just beyond. Sheds and silos and tractors and fencing. And wide, wide skies above it all.

“There it is,” you said.

Bruce slowed the car as he turned up the long path, tires crunching against the gravel. Dick pressed his face to the window.

“Whoa,” he breathed.

You smiled.

“Welcome to the middle of nowhere, baby bird. See those fields?” you pointed. “My old man plants corn there. Over there’s wheat. And the far side? Pumpkins, watermelons, whatever’s in season.”

“There’s so much space.“

“I told you.”

Your ma was already outside. She waved wildly, apron fluttering behind her, and your dad stood beside her, one hand raised in that steady, solid Kent way.

Bruce parked the car. Before he could even put it in park, Dick was unbuckled and scrambling out of the back seat, eyes wide.

“This is like five circuses!” he shouted.

You opened the door and stepped out, your feet crunching into gravel. “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” you muttered to yourself. “You can cry later.”

Dick made a noise that sounded like joy and disbelief all in one. He pointed at a chicken. “It’s real!“

“Yes,” you said. “And she doesn’t like being chased, so be gentle.”

Bruce chuckled.

Your mom reached you first and wrapped you in a tight hug, murmuring something about your hair being longer than last time. Then she pulled back and cupped your face, eyes glassy.

“You look happy,” she whispered.

“I am,” you said.

And then Dick stepped forward, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes wide and uncertain.

You turned and gestured. “Mama, Dad—this is Dick.”

Your mother’s face softened immediately. She crouched a little and smiled.

“Well, aren’t you just handsome as all get out,” she said warmly. “We’ve heard so much about you, sweetheart.”

Dick blinked. “You have?”

“Of course,” crouched down in front of him, sticking out a hand. “You’re all she talks about.”

You blushed lightly. “Lies.”

“True lies.”

Dick looked at the hand. Then at you. Then shook it, awkward but firm. “Thanks for letting me come.”

“Come?” your mom laughed gently. “This is your home too, honey.”

Dick blinked. He didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

The next few hours passed in a blur of warm air, fresh lemonade, and laughter. Dick met every animal. He held a baby goat like it was made of glass. He shrieked when a pig sniffed his leg. He got pecked by a chicken once and then demanded a rematch.

Now the golden sky outside was dimming into dusk, the air carrying that peaceful hum only Smallville evenings could offer—the buzzing of insects, the slow rustle of wheat fields, a distant owl, and the occasional stubborn squeal from Sugarfoot the pig. She hadn’t stopped begging since Dick gave her a crust from his sandwich.

You were at the sink helping with dishes when the familiar whoosh of displaced air passed through the open window over the stove.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. But you did turn around to open the door.

“About time!” you called, grinning.

“We had to stop for pie!” Lois shouted back, sliding off Clark’s back like a practiced gymnast. “Clark heard about a new bakery halfway between here and Metropolis and wouldn’t shut up about it!”

“I brought two kinds,” Clark offered, sheepish but proud.

You hugged him first—tight, firm, grounding. His arms came around you like always, anchoring you to the world.

“Took you long enough. Ma’s been asking about you since breakfast.”

“I brought her Lois. That should buy me a couple forgiveness points,” he replied, kissing the top of your head.

Lois got you next, rolling her eyes. She always smelled like expensive lipstick and newsroom ink. Her hugs were fierce. Comforting. “What he means is, I had to remind him it was tonight and that showing up in his suit would probably give the local mailman another heart attack.”

You laughed, hugging her back as tight as you could. “God, I missed you.”

“Missed you more.”

Dick was on the floor at the edge of the kitchen, playing with the old box of mismatched toy soldiers and tiny animal figurines your dad had kept since your childhood. He froze when he looked up.

He lit up like the sun, then turned and ran straight at Clark with his arms open.

“Uncle Clark!” he shouted.

Clark looked stunned for all of a second before catching him, arms easily wrapping around the boy, spinning him once like a leaf.

“Hey, buddy,” he said, laughing. “You’ve grown at least two inches since I saw you!”

“I’ve been drinking milk,” Dick explained seriously. “And I do jumping jacks.”

Then, he kissed Lois’s cheek and smiled proudly when she ruffled his hair and told him he would be as tall as Clark in any moment. He watched them go, and finally landed his eyes on you.

You watched the moment land. The way his eyes narrowed. How his brows furrowed. He leaned in close and whispered, “I have to tell you something, but you need to promise that you won’t say anything.”

You pushed your fingers to your mouth, closing an imaginary zipper.

“Uncle Clark is Superman.”

You coughed gently, biting back a smile. “Is he now?”

“I can tell,” he whispered quickly. “He landed like whoosh, and he’s huge, and his hair does the same thing, and—he’s totally Superman. I have been keeping the secret because I think he doesn’t want any of us to know.”

“Well,” you said softly, kneeling beside him, “that sounds like a pretty big secret to keep, huh?”

Dick nodded gravely, like a knight being sworn into sacred service.

You gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Then I guess it’s lucky it was you who found out.”

Dinner was loud. Warm.

Your mom cried once—not dramatically, just a soft wipe of the corner of her eye when Clark passed her the potatoes and said it was good to be home. Your dad kept pouring lemonade, Bruce buttered every roll within arm’s reach, Lois recounted a dramatic story about a senator’s toupee, and Dick sat between Clark and you, asking questions between every bite of sweet corn and meatloaf your ma had been slipping into his plate.

Clark answered every single one with patience, wit, and affection. He always had been the best at that. The best at listening like a child’s voice was the most important sound in the world.

Bruce stayed quieter. Not silent—just watchful. He always did that when he felt like the odd man out. You bumped his knee under the table when he got too still. He nudged you back, then took your hand and played with your ring under the table while Dick explained to Clark the entire backstory of a tv show he had been watching lately.

Later, after dishes were stacked and your parents had excused themselves to bed—your mom insisting you didn’t have to clean up, and your dad offering Clark a jar of pickles “for the trip back”—the house settled into that soft nighttime rhythm you hadn’t felt in years.

The windows were open. The breeze cool. Fireflies blinked lazily across the yard.

Bruce had gone out back to check the barn doors, quietly making sure everything was locked and squared away for the night. Lois sat with Dick at the dining table, a worn deck of cards between them as she taught him how to play gin rummy, her voice low and conspiratorial.

You stood at the sink, rinsing out the last pie plate, when Clark appeared beside you, rolling up his sleeves.

“I was wondering when you were going to come help,” you teased.

“I had to wait until the real work was done,” he replied, nudging your hip with his.

You bumped him back.

Together, the two of you worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Clark scrubbed. You rinsed. A few crickets chirped. A dog barked in the distance.

“You’re really happy,” Clark said eventually, his voice soft.

You glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at you—just scrubbing gently at a stubborn pie crust.

“I am,” you replied. “It feels... real. It’s good. Hard sometimes. But it’s good.”

He nodded. “I can see that.”

You dried your hands slowly, glancing toward the table where Dick was now dramatically laying down his cards and grinning at Lois like he’d conquered Rome.

“He’s amazing,” you whispered. “He’s so smart. So sweet. And God, Clark, he’s been through so much. And he still smiles like that.”

“You’re good for him.”

“So is Bruce.”

Clark chuckled. “I never thought I’d say that. But yeah. He is.”

You leaned your head against your brother’s shoulder for a moment, letting the comfort of shared history settle around you.

“And that kid loves you.”

You looked to the side, where Dick was showing Lois a card and laughing too loud.

“Yeah,” you said. “I love him too.”

He kissed the top of your head. “You’re doing amazing.”

You leaned into him. “Thanks, Clark.”

Outside, the porch creaked quietly—Bruce returning. You met him at the door, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, moonlight painting silver along his jaw.

“All clear?” you asked.

“Miss Patty stared at me like I owed her something,” he muttered. “Otherwise, yeah.”

You stepped closer and wrapped your arms around his waist. “She thinks you’re competition.”

Bruce kissed the top of your head. “Not anymore. I know better than to cross her.”

You leaned back enough to look up at him. The soft porch light caught the shadows under his eyes.

“You okay?” you asked.

He hesitated. “I thought coming here would help me get . . my mind off the headlines but . . .”

“I know.”

You didn’t need to ask what kind. It was always the same. Headlines with too many adjectives. Panel shows questioning your motives. Online threads tracking the price of your dress from the engagement party you didn’t even know someone photographed.

“I’m used to it,” you whispered.

“You shouldn’t have to be.”

You tilted your face to look up at him, your fingers sliding beneath his sweater, brushing against his shirt.

“I grew up in Smallville,” you said softly. “The mailman knew when I had a crush in fourth grade because I started checking the mailbox three times a day. There isn’t a rumor I haven’t heard. This is just... louder.”

His jaw tightened. “You deserve peace.”

“I have it,” you said. “Right here.”

He looked down at you then, eyes dark in the evening light, and kissed you—soft, slow, like it was the first time. Like he wanted to memorize your mouth. You sank into it, arms curling around his neck, your body finding his like it always did.

When you pulled back, you whispered, “You’re not alone, Bruce.”

“I know,” he said, kissing your forehead. “I still don’t know how I got this lucky.”

You kissed him then. Gentle. Lingering. His hand settled on your waist, anchoring himself to you like he always did when the world tilted too far.

Lois’s voice called from the dining room, “He beat me again! What kind of child prodigy are you raising?!”

Dick laughed. Loud. Carefree. Happy.

And later, when the house finally fell quiet, the dishes done, the windows closed, the fireflies fading, and Bruce locked the last door—Dick found his way into your old room, clutching his pillow and blinking sleepily.

“Can I sleep with you?” he asked.

You were already brushing your teeth in the little bathroom. Bruce nodded without hesitation.

That night, like he did sometimes in Gotham, Dick curled up between you both—tiny limbs sprawled out, the safest place in the world sealed between two steady heartbeats, mouth half-open in sleep. Your hand brushed gently through his dark hair.

Bruce reached over Dick’s shoulder and caught your fingers.

“Goodnight,” you whispered.

“Goodnight,” he murmured, lips brushing your knuckles.

Dick sighed in his sleep and reached for your arm, pulling it around his chest. You fell asleep with your son tucked in your arms, the man you loved at your side, and the world outside silent for once.

And somewhere beyond the quiet, the wind whispered through the wheat fields, soft and low and sweet.

You were home.

The soft click-clack of your keyboard was the only sound in the office, apart from the muted hum of the coffee machine down the hall. It was late morning, and the light streaming through your windows painted gold streaks across your desk. Your day had started like any other—Bruce in early meetings, Alfred sending an affectionate reminder about your vitamins via text, and Dick at school with his lunchbox packed neatly by your hands.

You were mid-email when your personal phone rang.

Which was strange. No one ever called your personal line during business hours—everyone knew you were Bruce Wayne’s secretary, and your work phone was practically glued to your hip. The personal number was only for family. For emergencies. For home.

Your hand paused over the keyboard as you glanced down, heart already climbing. You didn’t recognize the number, but something inside your chest twisted—tight and immediate.

You answered quickly. “Hello?”

A pause. Then:

“Miss Kent?”

The voice was smooth, professional, and unfamiliar.

“Yes,” you said, already straightening. “Speaking. Who is this?”

“This is Principal Langley from Gotham’s Private Elementary. I’m calling about Richard.”

Your stomach dropped.

You stood up, eyes locking on your office door like you could somehow see through it, as if your sudden anxiety might pull him into the room. “Is he okay?”

“He’s physically fine,” she said gently, and the pause that followed was the kind you’d learned to dread as a Kent—too long, too careful. “But he’s... He won’t stop crying, and we haven’t been able to get him to calm down. We thought it best to call you directly. It might be best if he went home for the day.”

You didn’t ask any more questions.

You just grabbed your coat, pressed the intercom button to inform that you were stepping out, and left. You didn’t bother calling Bruce. He was in the middle of a presentation with WayneTech’s board. He’d find out later. Right now, this was yours to handle.

Wayne Enterprises was exactly twenty-one minutes from Dick’s school if you took the express lane, which you did, and which only shaved it down to fifteen. Still, every second burned. You barely registered the passing streets or the honks or the occasional curious driver doing a double-take at the sight of Bruce Wayne’s secretary barreling through Gotham traffic like her heart was in her throat.

Because it was.

The front office staff was polite—too polite, too composed for what your bones already knew. You could hear it the moment you stepped in. Not the sound itself—Dick was quiet now—but the absence of noise, like every child in the front building had learned silence by association.

When they led you to the principal’s office, you saw him.

Hunched in a chair too big for him, feet not touching the floor, his backpack clutched in his lap like a lifeline. His face was blotchy. Red. Tear tracks down both cheeks. His eyes were glassy and exhausted. He looked up the second you stepped in, and the way he stood nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

“Sweetheart,” you breathed.

He didn’t say anything. Just ran to you.

You crouched to catch him, arms wrapping tight, your whole body curling around his.

“Oh, baby,” you breathed, holding the back of his head. “I’m here. I’m here.”

He didn’t talk. Just sobbed into your shoulder, shaking like he’d been holding it in too long. You rocked him gently, hand stroking down his back, murmuring soft comforts against his hair.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered. “You’re okay now. I’m here.”

It took time. You didn’t rush it.

Eventually, the sobs became sniffles, then long, shaky breaths.

You thanked the principal quietly, took his hand, and led him out. He held your palm like he never wanted to let go.

Outside, on the front steps, you knelt beside him, brushing the damp hair back from his forehead. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“That’s okay,” you said gently. “You can talk when you’re ready. Or not at all. I’m just glad you called me.”

He nodded, still sniffling. “I didn’t mean to cry so much.”

“You can cry as much as you want, bug. That’s allowed. You don’t have to be brave all the time.”

“I wanted to be good,” he whispered. “I didn’t want you and Bruce to send me back.”

Your heart shattered so quickly it left splinters.

“Oh, Dick,” you breathed, pulling him back into your arms. “We would never. Never, never. You’re ours. You hear me?”

He nodded, pressing his face into your collar.

You took him to work.

There was no way you were leaving him alone, and Bruce—currently locked in a board meeting on the twentieth floor—had made it explicitly clear that your judgment was the final one when it came to Dick.

So, that afternoon, Wayne Enterprises had its first unofficial “Take Your Child to Work” day.

You tucked him into your office, laid a soft throw blanket on the carpet, and gave him your emergency sketchpad—the one you kept in your desk for stress-doodling during long calls.

He flopped down stomach-first, crayons splayed around him, drawing with fierce focus. His face was still swollen. His eyes tired. But he looked calm now. Grounded.

Safe.

You worked quietly, pausing every few minutes to peek at him—still there, still okay. He showed you a picture he drew of Buttons. You promised to hang it on your office wall.

Everything was steady. Everything was soft.

Until the shouting started.

It wasn’t loud, exactly—but the tone pierced through your focus like a knife. You frowned, looked up, and heard it again—a sharp, irritated woman’s voice cutting through the hallway like she owned the floor.

“...I don’t care what Eloise said—he’ll see me!”

You stood, pushed open your office door, and stopped.

Security was gathered in front of the elevators. Eloise, the sweet lower-floor receptionist who adored you, stood awkwardly between two suited guards, trying to reason with someone neither of them could seem to wrangle.

A woman. Tall, stunning, tan, and furious.

You knew her. Of course you did.

Carla Vrenzi.

One of Bruce’s old companions. A supermodel with a temper, a flair for melodrama, and an ego that could crack titanium. You’d taken her call many months ago—her voice shrill and furious through the speaker, hurling curses because Bruce hadn’t called her back. You remembered the way she spat his name. The way she hung up on you.

And now she was here.

Your heart dipped.

She spotted you almost instantly.

“Oh,” she sneered. “You.”

Eloise turned, clearly panicked. “Miss Kent, we were trying to escort her down—”

“Don’t bother,” the woman snapped. “Miss ‘Personal Assistant,’ huh? Is this where Bruce keeps you now? Like a little lapdog? Is that why you spread your legs—because you were tired of faxing his schedules?!”

You stiffened, spine going taut.

Eloise looked horrified. “Ma’am, please—”

“You’re nothing!” Carla screamed. “A secretary! A poor little hayseed pretending she’s a Wayne! I’ve worn shoes more expensive than you!”

“Miss Kent,” Eloise repeated urgently. “Please go back into your office.”

Her face twisted. “You think that ring makes you anything? You’re a novelty act. A toy. Do you know how many of us there’ve been? How many women he’s tossed aside like—”

“Stop it,” you said quietly.

She didn’t. She took a step closer. “You t6think you matter? A farmer’s daughter with a clipboard and good hair? You’ll be gone in a year. Maybe less. You’ll wake up one morning in that big house, and he’ll be gone. And you’ll still be nothing.”

The floor felt like it had dropped from beneath you.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t flinch. But you felt your stomach twist, a cold coil of shame and doubt rising.

And then—

“HEY!”

Dick’s voice cracked like lightning.

He stood in your doorway, small but unshaking, fists clenched at his sides, nose wrinkled in absolute fury.

“Don’t talk to my mom like that!”

The hallway fell dead silent.

Carla turned, startled.

“I don’t care who you are!” he shouted, stepping in front of you with a look on his face that was half fury, half fire. “You don’t talk to her like that!”

The woman blinked. “Excuse me—”

“She’s amazing!” he yelled. “She’s kind and smart and funny and she makes the best waffles ever and Bruce loves her a lot! And I love her!”

“Kid—”

“And you’re mean!” he yelled, cheeks flushing, eyes brimming but not crying. “You’re mean and stupid and nobody wants you here!”

The whole hallway went silent.

You didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. Because your eight-year-old son had already said everything.

Carla opened her mouth again—but the security guard beside her had had enough. “Ma’am, you need to leave the premises. Now.”

She huffed, sputtered, still fuming. But she turned.

Dick didn’t move until the elevator doors closed behind her.

Silence lingered.

And then Dick turned back to you, his chest rising and falling fast. His mouth opened like he wanted to apologize, perhaps for screaming, but you pulled him into your arms before he could say anything.

Tight. Fierce. Real.

He clung to you like he had at the school—only this time, he wasn’t broken. He was angry. Protective.

Yours.

You buried your face in his hair, tears welling in your eyes. “You called me your mom.”

His arms tightened. “I meant it.”

You swallowed hard. “You’ve never said that before.”

“I didn’t know if I could.”

You pulled back, just enough to look him in the face.

His cheeks were blotchy again. But this time, it wasn’t from sadness. It was from fire. From love.

“You can,” you whispered. “You can call me anything, bug. Anything you want. But that was the nicest you could have called me. Made me the proudest woman on Gotham. On Earth!.”

He smiled through the tears. “I think I liked calling you mom as well.”

You laughed and cried. You kissed his forehead as the hall slowly resumed normalcy, your coworkers sneaking glances, eyes wide and glassy.

But it didn’t matter.

Because in that moment—in that warm, golden, real moment—you were exactly who you wanted to be. Not Bruce’s fiancée. Not the secretary. Not the girl from the farm.

You were Dick Grayson’s mom. And that meant everything.

[indouloureux]

chewing gum

— david!superman/clark kent x fem!reader

— synopsis: a lot of things can kill you: a burglary, a building falling on top of you, and clark kent's personal vendetta– cigarettes. 

— a/n: back after a while :D 

"how many cigarette breaks do you need in a day?"

you shove the cart back in your pocket as you sit back down on your chair. clark kent's curiosity makes you huff in bemusement.

he's turned in his chair so he's looking at you, blazer tight around his biceps, which you found–up until now–startling given his sheepish and clumsy persona. but his looks made up for it; blue eyes that look like a mosaic when the sun shines on them, a smile that can make a man look both handsome and pretty at the same time. a face like his deserved a good body.

the first two buttons of his undershirt are unbuttoned, a telltale that he's relaxed for today rather than losing himself in revisions.

"on a good day, two in the afternoon, one in the evening." you reply, toeing your heels off and kicking them beneath your desk.

"and on a bad day?"

you finally turn your chair towards him in favor. "four in the afternoon, around two to three in the evening."

clark sucks his teeth in, tapping his pen on his desk. his dimples grace his cheeks like they're kisses from angels. "smoking kills, y'know?"

"so i'm told."

"lois wrote an article about smoking," he points his pen at her, head tilting down to look at her direction from above his black frames. "i should send it to you."

you scoff, bemused at his fact and lean forward to place your elbows on your knees. "lois lane? famous journalist known for covering scandals of infamous politicians and humbling superman, wrote an article about smoking?"

"it's true!" lois pokes her head up from her computer, smiling at you. "it was some of the ones i wrote during my internship."

"you ever tried vaping?" jimmy suggests, sitting down on clark's desk, who's not so pleased at the sudden presence of an ass being placed on where he usually worked, showing it in a frown. "i've been vaping for years and i'm healthy."

your nose scrunches. "are you though?"

clark uses his feet to drag his chair towards you, tumbling forward slightly given that he barely fits in the office chair. you blush at his sudden approach, leaning back on your own chair to try and ease yourself when he settles beside you, a curl joining the clump of hair over this forehead. then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out something green, and pulls out a thin, rectangular gum covered in tinfoil.

"try chewing gum," clark says. "maybe that'll help you quit."

"you want to help me quit?" your brow raises. "you don't think i've tried doing that for the past five years? you're cute, kent."

"come on!" he encourages, taking a gum out of his own and popping it in his mouth. "maybe you've been doing it wrong."

nonetheless, you take the gum he offers and chew it, mint engulfing your mouth and lightly burning your tongue. "nicotine gum helps, not regular gum."

you don't know whether or not oblivion is one of clark's quirks. you think it is, as he leans closer, close enough you smell the mint off his breath, but far enough to respect proxemics. his glasses sit crooked on his nose, and his pretty blue eyes stare down at you like he actually cares about the ashes that char your lungs.

"how 'bout i find an alternative way to help you quit, hm?"

"like what?"

"don't wanna tell you," he finally leans back. "sometimes unconsciously doing it helps you quit."

"he actually has a point," lois interjects, sipping from her coffee before continuing, "not realizing you're in the process of quitting will help you continue it."

clark taps his fingers on his thighs. "i'll reward you, too."

your ears perk up at the mention of a reward. please be a date.

"you're not gonna let me know that as well?"

"nope."

"fine," you take your pack and shove it in his hand, chewing the gum in your mouth obnoxiously he visibly grimaces. "if your method doesn't work, you owe me dinner."

—

clark's method, did in fact, not work.

or whatever his method was.

maybe it was through the email he sent you about baked mac n cheese that urged you to make one of your own, or another one about how cleaning your bathroom also cleanses your spirit. he'd sent a lot of articles since work ended, and somehow, you've done it all in a span of five hours.

it did not help you take your mind off of smoking.

you think clark's method was trying to get you to do a lot of things enough to distract you from actually thinking of smoking. and if it is that, well, he failed.

you text clark. your method failed bud. you owe me dinner.

on the bright side, you get to go to dinner with clark kent. you just hope he's not too oblivious and decides to invite lois and jimmy thinking it was a group date.

so you take the pack you hide in your bedroom drawer and stride out of your apartment and up the rooftop. when you reach the open area, you stand by the edge and prop a cigarette between your lips, roll the fuse of the lighter, and cup a hand in front to stop the wind from blowing it away.

you wonder where clark's sudden interest at helping you quit had stemmed from. because lois, despite having written an article about smoking, had never offered to help you quit (because she had vices of her own). jimmy vaped more than you smoke. but clark, after being your friend for years, his sudden urge to help you quit makes you form thoughts only a younger you would:

that he's helping you quit because he likes you and doesn't want you to die so you two could get married and move back to smallville.

now that teenage thought warms up your cheeks even more. but as much as you wanted that, addiction does have its way of tying a rope around your dreams and dangling it from its fingertips away from your reach.

smoke escapes your lips. and then, a sudden quick breeze.

"so the smell came from here."

you yelp, dropping the cigarette off the ledge. you gasp and lean over to watch the poor thing clash on fire exits and plummet onto the sidewalk. you groan in dismay, turning around with your hands into fists.

superman is standing on your rooftop. well, more like hovering lightly, with his cape dancing with the wind, his suit clean, unbesmirched from the lack of misdeeds for the past few weeks. you gape a little, at the sight of metropolis' very own savior, who is standing upon you with a soft smile you'd think he's known you for a while.

"superman," you greet. "you made me lose my cigarette."

"that's good." his arms cross, finally lettimg his feet settle on the ground, yet he remains towering over you. "you should lose all your cigarettes."

your eyes narrow, and something feels like clicking in your brain. and then you remember that clark has an unusual friendship with superman— something he and lois like to banter about since they have opposing views.

"are you clark's method?"

"hm?"

"clark sent you here to help me quit, didn't he?" superman seems to stammer, as if caught off guard. his body relaxes a little, like he deflated out of your sudden realization. "tell him it's not working. although, since you're here–"

"i only speak to clark for interviews." his hands raise to stop you from pulling out your phone. "i'm only here to help you quit."

"i'll quit if you let me interview you."

"we both know that's a lie."

you curse beneath your breath. he approaches you, walking with such courtesy that you feel slightly ashamed from how you were talking to him. superman stops only a foot away from you, allowing you to rest your back on the wall.

"did you know that more than 7 million in the world die from smoking?"

you laugh a little at his conversation starter. "did clark send you one of lois lane's articles?"

"indeed he did," he walks closer and eventually settles beside you, copying your posture of relaxing against the wall and placing his elbows on the ledge. "so why are you smoking?"

you look up at him, unbeknownst that he'd already been looking down at you, city lights adding specks on his blue eyes. you lick your lips and taste the faint tobacco that's left on the crevices of your bottom lip. superman tilts his head like a curious puppy.

"it helps me relax." you reply. "being a journalist is hectic enough. can't imagine what it's like if i was a journalist in gotham though."

your jab at the city makes him chuckle. "you know, there are other ways that can help you quit."

"like what?"

"chewing gum."

you laugh again, but his brows furrow and his mouth smiles just a little from confusion. his arms cross, tilting his body to face you a little.

"what's so funny?"

"did clark tell you to say that?" you giggle, sniffling from the cold and laughter. "nicotine gums, to be precise. but he's already helped me with that method and it didn't help me at all. he's also sent me a lot of articles that got me doing things, but it eventually led me into thinking of smoking. so maybe he sent you here as a last resort."

superman pouts. "i wouldn't think of it as a last resort—"

"so what is it? are you gonna give me a motivational speech about how i have more in life, or trying to die at a young age would stop me from claiming my dreams?"

he huffs like he's exasperated at your sarcasm since your first encounter a few minutes ago. "i could just follow you whenever you take your cigarette breaks and take the pack from you."

"that sounds fun, but i don't think you'd want to add another journalist to the list of people who hate you, right?"

"i wouldn't want to. that would just hurt me." he puts his left hand over his heart, clasping his right over it. "i can't have you hating me now, can't i?"

this blush was different– not from the cold, or the previous thought of marrying clark kent, but from his bold comment. you huff out a shy laugh, placing your palms on the ledge and pushing yourself up to sit on it. superman panics a little, his hands immediately darting up to save you. but:

"i'm fine!" you assure him. "i've learned to balance myself."

you shiver from the breeze's constant caress beneath your thin sweater. superman notices. he looks away from you for a split second, a quick beam of red light and then smoke on your peripherals, and suddenly he's shamelessly taking your hands and putting them in his.

hot. him and his hands are hot.

"figured you were cold." he chuckles, dimples forming beside his lips.

"really?" you bemuse, smiling softly. "thanks though, i forgot to bring my sweater—"

suddenly, from constantly kicking your dangling feet, you unconsciously push yourself off the ledge, falling backwards. air suddenly pushes past you, a sudden drop on your pelvis, and fear drumming through every nerve of your body.

luckily, superman is quick to take a tight grip of your hands in one hand, and the other on your back. you hover both from the side of the building, his face so close to you that his nose bumps against yours. you don't hear the pack of cigarettes falling off the pocket of your sweatpants, but you do hear your heartbeat in your ears and superman's light panting from shock.

his grip on you is tight like he thinks you might die, and your legs find themselves wrapping on one of his leg.

his lips look soft and maybe they are. and you can't pinpoint where you've seen those eyes before other than the fact that it looks like an ocean with the sun beaming over it. superman slowly brings you back on the rooftop, old cement meeting your feet.

"thought you've learned how to balance?"

and your eyes never leave his, just enough to not notice that he's reaching for something behind his back and shoves something in between your close faces.

a chewing gum.

you look down at the tiny tinfoil between his fingers. "w-where did you keep that? you don't have pockets—"

"just take it."

"did you keep that in the garter of your underwear—"

"take the gum," he says, annoyed. "and please don't smoke anymore."

you take it off his fingers and open it, popping it into your mouth. he nods in appreciation, and you wonder if this was the same gum clark offered you earlier.

—

"i take it my superman method didn't work?"

clark never seems to startle you despite his sudden appearance at the office's rooftop. you turn, cigarette between your middle and index, seeing him shove his hands inside his pockets sans blazer. you sigh sornfully, like you're sad you've disappointed him.

"it's not lit," you say. "not yet."

"throw that away."

you whine and his brows raise, so you do. you throw it off the ledge and immediately reach for a pack of gum. clark's lips pull downwards in interest. "gum, huh?"

"i've been chewing them since this morning." you say sheepishly. you offer him. "want one?"

"sure." he takes it off the box, the tinfoil looking tiny in his fingertips. "how was your encounter with him, though?"

interesting. "kind of meh."

clark scoffs, like he's the one who should be offended. "meh? what the freak, dude?"

"i mean he saved me from falling off the ledge, i'll give that to him." you blow a bubble and pop. "he's really hot, though."

the tip of his ears turn red, and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. clark approaches you, trapping you between the ledge's railings and his ridiculously buff frame. your head tilts up. "give me your pack."

"but clark." you whine petulantly.

"please?" he puts his open palm between your chests. "look. i've lost a lot of people growing up, including my dad." his eyes soften, the sun revealing the crystals in his eyes. "and... you're really important to me, and i can't lose you early, too."

your heart aches at the sight of a sad clark kent, who's hair falls the same way his mood does. you reach for the pack in your pocket and put it on his palm, which his fingers immediately clasp around. and then you straighten:

he says you're important to him.

"clark, what do you mean i'm important to you?"

clark suddenly stammers, blinking rapidly; his nervous quirk. "oh! i-i- um-"

mint evades your mouth in a way that thrills you, and you wonder what it's like for him. clark's blushing profusely and you giggle, putting a hand on his chest. "can i have a cigarette so you could take me out to dinner?"

he shakes his head. "n-no. uh, i'll just take you to dinner." clark manages out an embarrassed smile. "by the way, my method worked."

your smile drops. "what method?"

clark walks away and crushes the pack in his fist before throwing it off the ledge. you follow him with large strides, disbelief radiating off your heel. "what method, kent?!"

a/n: the method was chewing gum. reader says it didn't work at first, but clark manages to actually make it work for her.

[holmoris]

DAS WEINER WAGON update: it's (almost) finished, finally. Now everyone can see the vision:

400w solar, 200ah battery (ratchet strapped to some bits of rubber and a palette, which is bolted to the chassis) 1500w inverter, autotransfer switch. The whole thing functions as a gigantic UPS for the entirety of my workspace (that RV, which is less a functional RV and more a thing I gutted and turned into a gigantic desk + couch + storage closet on wheels) which pulls ~650w at max when the GPU's doing stuff and all three computers are on. If the battery goes dry it just seamlessly flips over to wall power until it fills again (which hasn't happened yet in the first 2 days of usage, hooray summer). The solar build itself is a couple years old but I had no feasible way to actually get it anywhere near the RV before DAS WEINER WAGON and didn't want to actually install it as it's just a temporary workspace while I save up money to move. Also, lithium batteries are terrifying and I don't want them anywhere near me or my stuff due to the problems they cause if they go bad. That's kind of a big issue. If I'm not there and leave the GPU training a model during the day the total draw's about 370w which is entirely covered by the panels when they're in full sun. Overall the net result is going to probably be dropping the power bill substantially all of which goes straight into the moving fund. Whee. If I can figure out some way to add another side assembly that folds flat for travel I might be able to stuff another 200w on to max out the charge controller. Might be able to go completely off-grid powerwise after I move with that if I get a second battery to fill the empty space next to the first one.

Not pictured:

The insane amount of time I put in making sure it was waterproof and jiggleproof; especially over by the inverter (going to print a plastic cover for that wiring anyways)

The entire thing got sanded and painted but then the cats tracked dirt all over it so it's got dirty cat prints all over

The unfinished cantilever on the panel frame itself. The whole assembly is mounted on hinges so it can nicely tilt up to the optimal angle to catch the morning sun but currently I don't have the hardware to mount the supports on the high side so it's just sitting on some RV supports for now.

The little front cabinet with the actual power outlet/inlet which is otherwise empty save for a piece of wood with the two remotes for the inverter/charge controller mounted on it so I can turn everything on/off without actually going into the main compartment. Going to set up an esp32 for moisture/temp monitoring sometime this week and throw the display for that in there too because I can't overstate how paranoid I am about anything in there getting wet. It'd really be nice to figure out the protocol the charge controller uses too so I could read the voltage/charge over http, maybe that'll happen eventually.

The incredibly silly dragon vent cover that's going on the cable inlet/outlet when I get the filament for it (as demanded by a family member) which actually will function really well as a rain guard (Raz from Psychonauts has nothing on my hatred for water damage)

The other half of the interior; which currently is empty other than a 12v fridge running off the solar stuffed full of drinks. Dunno what to do with that half really; it's probably just going to be storage. Maybe the computers will wind up out there eventually, but I like using the GPU as a space heater (hooray efficiency).

[moonlit-imagines]

Headcanons for dating Clark Kent

Clark Kent x reader

warnings: spoilers + alcohol and violence n such

a/n: 😏 im in a flow state rn

prompt: anonymous: “Hello! If I may ask, what are some hcs of Superman/clark as a bf? Much thanks!”

you met clark in college while he was studying journalism

he was always kind and gentle, some of the most attractive qualities in a man

everything about him was a green flag

“would you ever want to study with me sometime?” -clark after class

“as long as you bring the coffee” -you

“well in that case, would you write down your coffee order on here for me?” -clark, handing you a sticky note with emojis printed on them and you giggled “my ma got those for me”

you guys had frequent study dates until finals, but clark took forever to actually ask you out. literally you didn’t go on a real date until after finals that semester

after that you guys were THE couple. the sweethearts. inseparable.

clark never really showed interest in parties or drinking, he liked the simpler, quieter things

but he didn’t mind being dragged along every once in a while though

“i just dont like the taste” -clark turning down a beer bc he cant get drunk and he was bad at acting it

he was your biggest cheerleader

“you’re gonna do great, keep your head up!” -clark

“thanks clark, but it’s just picking up our takeout order?” -you

his parents adored you soooo much they were the sweetest people in the world you met them over winter break one year and they gifted you a novelty ornament with yours and clark’s names on it and made you hang it on the tree yourself as an “initiation ritual” lol

“you’re apart of the family now!” -martha coming to hug you as tight as possible

“let them breathe, martha” -john

“ma, you’re embarrassing me!” -clark

“oh, nonsense, i’m just welcomin’ my future child-in-law to the kent family. aint that right, dear?” -martha

“oh, yes, i feel very welcome, thank you” -you “now, i’d love to see some baby pictures of clark”

“have i got the book for you!” -martha

it was over winter break that you found out clark’s big secret when he used his ice breath to put out a small fire in the kitchen

“too much grease in the pan, pa!” -clark

“ah, the grease makes the bacon taste better. then you cook the eggs in the same pan, it’s fine” -john

“it’s not fine if the house burns down” -clark

*you standing in the living room in shock because he forgot you were present and used his powers without even thinking since he was home*

“what just happened?” -you

*cue horrified expression from clark*

“you’re keeping secrets from your partner, clark?” -martha

“no, ma, i was keeping the secret, there’s a difference” -clark

“well, no need for that anymore, y/n’s apart of the family” -martha

“okay, seriously, what just happened?” -you

clark finally explained what/who he was to you and apologized like a million times for not telling you sooner

and he begged you not to leave

which never crossed your mind he was just super anxious about it

you told him you understood why he’d want to keep it a secret and you weren’t mad, you wanted to know more

“well a lot of things are starting to make sense now. i was wondering how you managed to get across campus so fast when your classes were so far apart” -you

“yeah…don’t tell ma and pa about that, please” -clark

they didn’t like when he almost exposed himself as an alien. last thing they needed were the feds at their door

you and clark soon graduated and decided to conquer metropolis together

first order of business was to find a new coffee shop to frequent

“there’s one around the corner. it’s the apartment” -clark

“it doesn’t have great reviews online” -you

“o-kay, there’s another one three blocks away. a nice morning stroll?” -clark

“hmm, is it safe enough to walk in the morning?” -you

“well, i think if you’re walking with your boyfriend who has super strength and can fly you’re statistically pretty safe” -clark

“ohhh, i almost forgot” -you, kissing him on the cheek

you guys got a nice little starter apartment and decorated it…as best as you could

“no, we are not putting your mighty crabjoys poster in the living room!” -you

“what?! they’re a great band, why cant we have them in the living room? we don’t have anything else to put on the walls” -clark

“clark you cant be serious” -you

“crabjoys are going on the wall” -clark

you lost that battle. for now.

once clark started his job at the daily planet, he would come home a little stressed

took him a while to find his footing

but you did your best to cheer him

“i got your favorite movie and some popcorn!” -you

“oh, my god, i love you so much” -clark hugging you almost too tight

he loved cuddling on the couch it was such a soft intimate thing for him

he’d throw popcorn at you if you stopped paying attention to the movie

“i’ll clean it up dont worry” -clark

he loves giving kisses all over your head but he MELTS if you kiss him on the cheek or forehead hes so silly about it

breakfast for dinner woop woop

“i made breakfast for dinner!” -clark

“again?” -you

“yes but i picked up your favorite fresh fruit so you cant be mad” -clark

“i’m not mad! but we are having pizza tomorrow night” -you

“deal” -clark

he lifts all the heavy furniture while you vacuum

you visit him at the daily planet sometimes and he is always so excited when he sees you. like he hasn’t seen you in years.

“y/n!! guys look, my partner’s here!” -clark meeting you halfway through the room just to walk you back to where he was

“nice to see you, y/n. we still on for drinks friday?” -lois

“you know it!” -you

“can i come?” -jimmy

“only if you don’t flirt with y/n again” -lois

“cant help it, it just happens” -jimmy

“wait, jimmy flirts with you?” -clark

“no! no i dont!” -jimmy

“clark! what have i told you about bringing your partner to work!” -perry “good to see you, y/n”

“you too, perry” -you

“perry? he let’s you call him perry?” -jimmy

“yeah, i mean, i don’t work here?” -you

oh yeah you brought lunch you and clark went and hid in the breakroom to eat

it was his favorite chinese food dish

“you’re not getting bored, are you?” -you

“of what? of you? no! of course not, why would you ask that?” -clark

“just of life. things have been pretty quiet since we moved here” -you

“no way! we try something new every weekend! last weekend we tried that escape room, that was fun!” -clark

“yeah, except when you used your x-ray vision to speedrun it!” -you

“we made record time, our picture is on the wall in their lobby now!” -clark

yeah but you had a feeling he wanto shake things up

he walked you down to the daily planet lobby and said goodbye with a kiss and an “i love you”

and when he got home he talked about the next new thing you’d try, which was a fusion restaurant

metropolis was actually so interesting and fun compared to what you guys came from

but one day your life was turned upside down when clark revealed himself to the world as superman

you were scared and excited and freaked out all at the same time

“superman? couldn’t get anymore creative than that?” -you

“i think it’s just fine—simple and to the point” -clark

“clark, you’re wearing underwear on the outside of your suit” -you

“it is not underwear, it is a stylistic choice” -clark

“alright, well, the rest of the suit looks great” -you as clark approaches “love the little curl you got going on up here”

“thanks, i did my hair myself” -clark as you reached for his face to kiss him

“i can tell” -you

he lifted you off the ground when he levitated off the ground a little

and after that, superman was the guardian of metropolis

it was cool at first. a little scary.

but it could get lonely sometimes

especially when more and more supervillains started to reveal themselves

and clark would have to rush out to save the day

he’d always make it up to you, though

“i got your favorite pastry from that bakery you like!” -clark after defeating another enemy

“apology for leaving the restaurant last night?” -you

“yes…” -clark

“apology accepted” -you

on quieter nights when you guys actually got some sleep, clark was always the big spoon

it was a little protective, but also very comfortable

he’d play with your hair and scratch your back while you relaxed

and he’d talk about your future together and how great things were and his plans as a journalist

if you ever needed to vent about work or life he’d be there to listen

“yeah and then this absolute monster from marketing was trying to explain how my job works” -you

“what a loser!” -clark

“i have some stronger words than loser” -you

“let’s not use those words” -clark

you were taken to the fortress of solitude once. too cold

you were shown the message from his parents and the robots and all that

“clark it is freezing can we go home now?” -you

“yes of course” -clark

he made you hot cocoa

and everything was relatively fine until “the hammer of boravia” incident where clark lost his first battle

and you were watching the news in horror

“clark, you almost died!” -you

“nuh-uh. look, im fine!” -clark

“you are so not fine! what happened?!” -you

“well the guy was really strong. i got to the fortress on time, though. krypto helped!” -clark

“kara’s dog helped? the dog that never listens and destroys everything in his path?” -you

“thats the one” -clark

you’d already met the “justice gang” and upon seeing them again in metropolis when the big fire breathing lizard dinosaur monster thing attacked, kendra came to gossip with you

AFTER everyone was safe of course

“so he lost to that hammer guy?” -kendra

“i guess so, yeah. weird, right? i mean, he healed himself but that guy kind of kicked his ass” -you

“weird. and how’s he taking the loss?” -kendra

“oh he’s ‘fine’” -you with air quotes

“of course he is” -kendra, sarcastically

with the distraction of the giant evil fire lizard thing, little did you know lex luthor was at the fortress of solitude trying to find a way to stop superman once and for all

and suddenly the whole US government was gunning for him

“i have to turn myself in y/n. that way i can clear my name” -clark

“no you don’t! do not do that, that is the worst plan” -you

“it’ll be fine. i’ll just explain to them that i never saw the second part of my parents message and im not here to conquer the earth” -clark :)

“don’t like that plan, let’s go into hiding” -you

“i’ll be back before you know it, trust me” -clark

you went to lois for help

“he WHAT?!” -lois

she came to help you out with the justice gang

“guy can you just like. be helpful please. for once?” -you

“y/n, i am so helpful. im a green lantern!” -guy

“no, they’re right, you’re so not helpful” -lois

lois was becoming your ride or die fr

“guy, my boyfriend is literally being held prisoner by the government, can you get up and move?” -you

“he’s a big boy, he can handle himself. definitely doesn’t need his little partner going to save him” -guy

“man im gonna—” -you, charging

“you’re not gonna beat up a green lantern, y/n, let’s get out of here” -lois, holding you back “we’ll key his car on the way out”

mr. terrific decided to help and by that point you were soooo exhausted you were just worried you’d never see clark again

“so is clark usually like…clark at home or is he more super-y at home?” -lois

“i mean, superman and clark have almost zero differences. just the glasses really” -you

��where’d you meet?” -michael

“college” -you

“did he tell you he was an alien or did you find out on your own?” -michael

“uhh, i saw him put out a fire with his ice breath at his parents house when i was visiting for christmas, actually. why are you guys asking me questions about clark?” -you

“just curious. he’s odd” -lois

“in a good way” -michael

“so he really is just that nice?” -lois

“yeah but he’s got a little attitude too” -you

the clark gossip went on the whole trip but you made sure to add how nice and sweet and amazing he was

when you got to the military base you were shocked to see the portal he was led to

“he’s in there?! terrific, you have to get him out, who knows what’s back there!” -you

“that is the plan, y/n” -michael

when clark finally escaped he was pretty roughed up, but when he saw you he was panicked

“y/n? y/n, you shouldn’t be here, it’s not safe! luthor…he’ll kill you to get to me” -clark

“shh, everything’s fine. we’ll figure it out” -you

you gave lois directions to the kent family farm

and tended to clark in terrific’s ship

you had his head in your lap and brushe dyou hands through his hair, which always eased his troubled mind

he’d teeter in and out of consciousness and recognize you

“i love you” -clark

“i love you, too” -you

“i love youu” -clark

“yes, sweetie, i love you too” -you

“love you!” -clark

“you’re gonna make me throw up” -lois

“i’ll make dinner tonight. and i’ll probably even buy you a ring. nice one. big diamond” -clark

“okay, clark, rest your eyes” -you

“he ever talk about proposing before?” -lois, giggling

“nope. let’s pretend he didn’t” -you

“me and jimmy will make sure he does it right” -lois

“oh, great” -you

you got to the kent family farm and immediately greeted your “soon to be in-laws” and got clark settled, easing their minds and letting them know everything would be okay

and they used this rare impromptu visit to catch up with you

“y/n, dear, how are you two? is everything good in the big city? how is your new apartment? are you hungry? let me make you something to eat!” -martha

you sat by clark’s bedside all night and when he woke up he was so glad you were okay

“i’m not the one who almost died!” -you

“well, how was i supposed to know he had a guy that could make his hand into kryptonite?” -clark

“well, that’s why we don’t turn ourselves into the government and let ourselves be led into a portal to a pocket dimension where hundreds of people are being held prisoner by lex luthor!” -you

“honest mistake, could have happened to anyone” -clark

then it was the big choice between the black hole about to swallow metropolis and the war in boravia

metropolis took priority since the place was being torn apart, you and lois flew back in terrific’s ship much to clark’s dismay

“that’s our home, clark. i have to go back and help in any way i can” -you

you stuck with the daily planet crew and hopped on the “lets take down lex luthor” train

and caught a glimpse of clark flying around every few minutes

you felt queasy and not from standing in flying spaceship that lois was driving like a crazy person

“you think we’re all gonna die in this black hole?” -you

“if you keep talking like that, yeah probably” -jimmy

“superman’s gonna save the day, i know he is!” -cat

“thanks, cat. i need your optimism” -you

clark was getting his ass handed to him by “other clark”

and you were soooo having a panic attack

“i think my apartment building was just ripped in half” -you

“you can stay with me, plenty of room in casa olsen” -jimmy

“jimmy!” -lois

“what? clark can too, wherever that guy is” -jimmy

“he’s visiting his parents” -you

“bet you wish you were too, not flying around in this giant ball” -jimmy

when the dust finally settled, you were mortified by the damage in metropolis, but so glad clark was okay

“i thought you were a goner” -you

“nope, still standing. thanks to krypto here” -clark petting krypto

“good boy, krypto!” -you, petting him

he slobbered on u a little

“maybe we should take a vacation sometime soon” -clark

“don’t mess with me, clark. that’s all a want after this crazy week” -you

“then it’s done, we’ll have a nice relaxing vacation” -clark

“oh, you’re the best” -you, running into him for a hug

“i’m glad you’re okay, y/n” -clark

“glad you’re okay, too. that was terrifying” -you

“wanna get out of here?” -clark

“please” -you

Bonus:

“your cousin is home” -4

“kara!!” -you

“hey, hey! missed you bunches” -kara, stumbling into a hug

“i wish we could go get drinks together, sucks you can’t get drunk on earth” -you

“you could always come to another planet with me! the parties are sooo fun” -kara

“nope. absolutely not. nope” -clark

“oh, come on! y/n would love it out in space. wouldn’t you?” -kara

“i wouldn’t know quite yet, now would i?” -you

“see? they wouldn’t even know! totally means we should go” -kara

“worst idea ever. no offense” -clark

taglist: @summersimmerus // NEW DC TAGLIST — DC UNIVERSE REBOOTED — SEND AN ASK TO BE ADDED

[redrage71890]

Backing Voice (Yan! KPDH x Fem! MC) Part 4

Synopsis: Sorting out ways to help Rumi's voice one day leads to the discovery of an emerging demon boy band. Their song hypnotic as they hastily gain fans all around. HUNTR/X being less than happy with the results.

Genres: Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn, Yandere

CW: None

Prologue, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Word Count: 3.6k A/N: Hi I took a break and might have forgotten a few plot points whilst forgetting to write them down before hand :D

————————————————————

"Girls! *huff* I'm sorry I'm late! I got caught up with someone..."

Bursting through the door of the empty restaurant (Y/N) apologises first without thinking. Seeing the three girls at a small table as they long forget their food.

Zoey and Mira gleams seeing the (f/c)nette, though Rumi looks more surprised. "(Y/N)! You made it." Zoey waves at her as the manager awkwardly waves back, taking a seat in between Mira and Rumi.

"Again, I'm sorry..."

"Hey. Its alright. We haven't really started eating anyway."

"No. Its not only that. What happened during rehearsals, I didn't mean to sound mean o-or dismissive of you girls. Its just stress for me. But! I p-promise I'll be better and I'll be there to back you girls up no matter what."

(Y/N) puts on a confident smile for the girls, a fluttering sensation flowing through their hearts at the rare sight. Zoey breaks the silence by giggling at the feeling in her chest. (Y/N) not particular sure why the black-nette started giggling but joined her nonetheless.

"But. Back to before." Cutting off their giggles with a more serious expression. "I'll be honest here, its going to be hard to reschedule the live show because of the sudden cancellation."

"We got that impression from Bobby earlier..." Mira states.

"I...I'm sorry guys. My voice, its in trouble."

'Trouble? That's new.'

"Wait, in trouble? Then why did you push up the 'Golden' release?"

"Because we're so close, and its so important." Rumi states. But her tone and words made (Y/N) curiously think more.

'So close?'

"Okay, how do we handle this? What do we tell the fans? Maybe we should call Celine?"

"I don't advice that. We know what she'd say."

"Oh, right."

"We are hunters. Voices strong. Your faults and fears must never be seen."

Zoey and Mira reciting what their predecessor echoed at them. (Y/N) furrowed her brows at the phrase.

Her and her mother were never one to follow that motto. Mother in particular despising it. It being forced upon her as she tried to hide all her faults to the point of breakdowns and frustration. It always made her searing patterns appear.

"Rumi, why don't we take a break? We'll skip the Idol Awards this year and-"

"No. No way. Its our most important show. Its when we strengthen the honmoon for the entire year. We can't skip it. We just can't. Not when I'm so close."

‘Close to what? You’re not telling us something Rumi. Though….isn’t that ironic…’

What’s (Y/N) to say about secrets when she herself hasn’t been completely honest. But when has anyone ever been completely transparent. It’s not like every secret needs to be spilled just because someone wants to know. We have a right to keep things to ourselves.

Though in this case, Rumi’s secret might become a massive headache for them.

”Hey, we’ll get through this. We can get through anything. Together.” Zoey’s encouragement bringing on a slightly more relaxed expression on Rumi.

”Okay. We have two weeks to fix Rumi’s voice. Any ideas?”

”I do have one idea.”

”Just one?”

“Shoot, Zoey.”

”Okay, actually, 57, but let’s start with my favourite. Don’t worry. It’s totally legit.”

Shrugging her shoulders and leaning on her elbow against the table, (Y/N) watches the girls listen to Zoey explaining some of her ideas.

She won’t outright say it in the moment, but some of these ideas boarded along the lines of obvious scams and false promises. As much as Zoey at times annoyed (Y/N), she didn’t have the heart to tell her the likely truths.

“(Y/N), why aren’t you eating? We ordered plenty for you.” Zoey questions their manager. “O-Oh, right. Sorry I’ve been a bit lost in thought recently.” Brushing off their stares she picks up her utensils and began digging into her food.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Mira asks with a more worried frown. Zoey and Rumi holding similar expressions with more concern.

Seeing as she can’t get herself out of this conversation, she just sighed and stopped eating. “(Sigh) I’m not getting away from this, am I?” Averting her gaze up to meet the three sets of eyes on her. “Okay then. I….had another….one of my episodes. Right when Rumi left rehearsals...”

Uttering those words, the hunters all clung to her body in a tight yet comforting hug. It’s not been the first time this happened. Well. More like the third time this happened.

The first time was after their debut, a quite public breakdown occurred back stage. It was embarrassing to be seen by the staff. Her mother was the one that told the girls of her anxiety attacks.

The second was right before the tour started. The sheer amount of organising, meetings and calls she did was breaking her mind out of pure exhaustion. The girls found her hyperventilating in the bathroom on the dirty tiles with her attempted eyeliner dripping down her face.

And now, marks the third time.

Well, they technically weren’t there for this one.

A private meltdown with no one to hear or comfort her.

"Never apologise for experiencing that. We should be sorry for not being there for you." Mira gently pats her (f/c) hair.

"Please don't be afraid to come for us! We will always be there for you!" Zoey cries out clinging to her back.

"Yes, (Y/N). Let us know if anything troubles you. We'll do anything to help in anyway!" Rumi adds hugging her side.

The three hunters felt guilty for there actions. Not being there for (Y/N) hurt them. They hate seeing her so stressed. The girls really wish their lovely manager would confined in them more.

Unfortunately though, their said manager just really needed a breath of fresh air that's currently being crushed out of her lungs.

"G-Guys....y-you can let go n-now..."

————————————————————

After a big hugging session putting the four of them to sleep, the girls dressed in their best disguises and went out in the streets of Seoul. (Y/N) was glad she managed to sleep for a whole night for once. But she still wished she slept in her own bed and not on the couch with the girls.

Donning her classic baggy attire but with a cap obscuring her eyes. Ignoring the face mask as she got the feeling it wasn't necessary. Though she also remembered Jinu and his buddies putting on a show today. Just before leaving she stuffed the flyer in her pockets as a reminder.

But as of now, she follows the girls to make sure this guy Zoey recommends doesn't do anything.

Though hearing what Zoey is saying makes her want to divert them away as fast as possible.

"He's got this special tonic. Apparently, it can heal anything from sore throats to relationship problems."

'Oh you don't say!'

"Ssh! Quietly, Zoey."

"Why are there so many people today?"

(Y/N) noted how populated the area is at the moment. Of course the girls are worried about being seen and finding their disguises online. Our girl especially would rather not be seen on any post.

"Down that alleyway."

Diverging their path from the busy streets, they stood at the foot of an old hanok building refurnished to a clinic with an LED sign with the name 'Han 의원'.

'Yeah... this seems totally legit...'

"Yep, about as legit as I expected."

"Glad to know I'm not the only one thinking that." Mira smiles her way unknowingly.

"Earth and herby. Smells legit to me."

"Yay! That's the spirit! 가자 가자 가자!"

"Hurry, before someone sees us."

Entering the building the girls are greeted with the appearance of a usual doctors front desk/office. Though catching the eyes of our manager and Rumi was a wall lined with numerous signed framed pictures of the doctor and what appears to be celebrities. Seemingly other idols.

Though one picture caught her eye.

A group of four boys giving each other a back hug whilst leaning on the others shoulders, with the doctor strangely at one side gesturing to them. Those faces were oddly familiar.

Dragging her out of her head was the sound of the doctor entering. Standing up to bow and greet the doctor as he urges them to sit.

"You need no introduction. So, a problem with your voice."

"Yes. So we need one of your awesome tonics. Something that will work super fast."

"Okay, let me see."

(Y/N) automatically knew they guy ain't legit. Not bothering to do a proper examination of her throat and instead just staring at her with bulged out eyes.

"I see. I see.... No. Actually, I don't see. Very strange. You have lots of walls up."

"Whoa! He's so good, right?"

"I dunno about that Zoey..." Muttering to herself while messaging her temples.

Rumi scoffs at the comment but Mira quickly affirms that she indeed, does. Denial is not exactly on her side today.

"I'm just trying to stay focused."

"Focus is good, but focusing on one part leads to ignoring other parts, making you separated, isolated."

Her brows raised at the observation. Her own experience agrees with the statement. Mira and Zoey quickly agreeing with the doctor and stating their own views of the sometimes emotionally closed off workaholic known as Rumi. Their leader.

'This does not feel like a doctors appointment. If anything, its just a guy stating out obvious traits and iss-'

"Quiet, yet vocal. A mind racing with thoughts unheard. Silenced by those around, only eager for something else."

She didn't realise the doctor was pointedly staring at her.

"W-What?"

"Yeah, what are saying to our dear manager!" Zoey exclaims clinging onto her side.

"Z-Zoey. Its fine. P-Please let go." She asks of the eager girl, the said giving her some sparkly puppy eyes before letting go.

"How does this help me get my voice back?"

"As I said, to treat the part, we must understand the whole."

"(Groan) That's great, but I thought we were here just for your tonics."

"Just give us the voice juice."

————————————————————

Whilst the girls were waiting for the tonics, (Y/N) decided to wait outside for them. She trusts them enough to get the tonics, as much as she isn't fond of them.

That picture on the wall seemed oddly familiar.

'Where have I seen those boys from...'

With her time as a manager for HUNTR/X, she's seen and met a fair share of trainees and idols. Perhaps that is why they seemed familiar. But even then, nothing noteworthy comes up when she saw their faces. Man she wishes she could remember where she saw these guys.

Shaking her head to try and ward off these strangely curious thoughts.

'This shouldn't be occupying my brain as much as it should. I should be thinking about another song to sing for tomorrow night, I have another pacifying to d-'

"Oof!"

"Sorry, are you alright?"

So caught up in her mind that she ended up wandering out of the alleyway. Clashing bodies with a strong built guy and falling to her knees by accident.

"Y-Yeah, I'm f-fin- Oh. You're the guys I saw with Jinu last night." Meeting the familiar short pink haired friend of Jinu. The said male had his eyes widen slightly before turning down back to normal. A glint of mischief in his eyes with a thought.

"We never fully introduced ourselves, I'm called Abby." Bowing his head slightly as a greeting whilst helping her up.

"I'm Romance, Jinu mentioned me last time we saw each other." The longer pink haired male comes up from behind and leans on Abby's shoulder.

"I remember that."

"The one pouting behind me is our maknae, Baby Saja. And the last with the long fringe is Mystery." The mentioned maknae side-eyed Romance from his confirmed pouting face.

(Y/N) felt a chin resting on her shoulder, feeling the fluffy silver grey hair of Mystery tickling her face and neck. His close contact sent an uncomfortable shiver down her spine. Glancing her gaze down slightly, she can see the slight run-through of purple patterns across his exposed face, a quick reminder on what they are really.

Moving her shoulders up forces Mystery off with a sad pout on his face from the action.

"Well, its nice to meet you guys. Aren't you performing today?" She questions with a shiver to her body, still uncomfortable with Mystery's strange 'greeting' to her.

"Why yes, we are. Are you sticking around to watch us?" Romance asks with a flirtatious wink.

(Y/N) already decided she was going to watch them, purely to see what kind of concept her and HUNTR/X are working against. Though the pastel clothing was enough to tell her. Now its a matter of curiosity.

Shrugging her shoulders while stuffing her hands in her pockets. "I don't see why not. I'm actually also waiting for some friends, so I may as well kill some time."

"I'm so glad to hear that!"

Turning up her attention she sees Jinu pushing past the other boys (who don't look that happy with the action), an excited expression etching onto his face upon seeing her. His presence calming her shivers ever so slightly.

"I'm gonna assume you were organising your stage Jinu?" Crossing her arms and putting on a more professional tone. She may consider Jinu a new friend, but that doesn't mean he's off the hook as a demon yet.

His reason for being on the surface is enough to raise suspicion.

"Your powers would be of great use, considering you guys don't seem to have a manager in sight. (muttering) Even I don't think a company is willing to sign you and debut you the same year, let alone week." Her muttering went under their ears, replaced with shocked expressions to hear that she knows of their faces behind the disguises.

Jinu awkwardly chuckles, sort of amused by her bluntness, but is still heavily questioning how she knows this. "(chuckle) You have no fear in what we are, do you?" Leaning closer to her ear, his voice sending another nervous shiver through her body.

Taking a short breath in before leaning closer to his ear. "Why would I fear someone who doesn't hold such malice in his eyes."

The male had a thrilling shiver go up his spine. Not only from the proximity, but the words from her quiet melodic voice.

"I only see shame and guilt."

————————————————————

"WHERE DID (Y/N) GO?!"

"I DON'T KNOW?!"

The three girls were panicking upon coming out of the clinic, their box of tonics in hand. They were cheering about helping Rumi's voice, but stopped when they couldn't find their dear manager.

"Did anyone find where she went?"

"No?! We were inside for honmoon's sake!"

"Oh no! She might have been taken by demons! No she must be so lonely and-"

"What is going on?!"

Swerving their head around, they see (Y/N) with a confused face seeing their panicked state.

"My god...I thought you guys found a dead body or something. There is no need to yell for me, you don't want to be attracting ANY attention. Right?"

Her firm strict tone being a quick reminder of what role (Y/N) has played ever since their debut. A more strict version of Bobby with her hands in the creative process. Even when she wasn't fully comfortable with the girls yet, she still managed to steer them in the right direction when avoiding scandals and demos for songs.

"Y-Yeah...sorry (N/n)." Zoey frowns apologetically.

Sighing to herself like her mother usually does when she breaks a vase.

"You guys are the ones that said you wanted to stay out of sight." Her muttering causes guilty expressions to pull on the girls. "Don't worry about that now. I should be sorry as well, considering I just walked away without an explanation." Forgiving the girls for this is easier than letting it drag on more.

Rumi and Mira were about to provide an explanation for their panic, but their ears were picking up the faint sound of an instrumental beginning to play in the background.

"Wait. What is that?"

Rumi's question urges the girls to pop their heads out of the alleyway. Only to see a strange pink smoke beginning to form near the centre of the busy area. The backing instruments sounding positive and bubbly as it went on.

Adjusting their disguises, they make their way towards the commotion.

"Hey, hey"

"Hey, hey"

"Hey"

Five silhouettes can be made out in the smoke, all striking poses before the pink suddenly disappears to reveal the performers.

"Don't want you, need you"

"Yeah, I need you to fill me up"

"Masigo masyeo bwado"

"Seonge chaji ana"

"Got a feeling that, oh, yeah (Yeah)"

"You could be everything that"

"That I need (Need), taste so sweet (Sweet)"

"Every sip makes me want more, yeah"

"Its those stupid jerks again!" Rumi exclaims. "Wait. You know those guys?" (Y/N)'s confusion evident but is ignored by the sheer number of people gathering around.

"These guys are a boy band?" Another question Rumi exclaims. Irritation growing in her more.

"Lookin like snacks 'cause you got it like that (Woo)"

"Take a big bite, want another bite, yeah"

"Neoui modeun geol nan wonhae, wonhae, wonhae"

"Neo malgon modu pyeonhae, pyeonhae, pyeonhae"

"Whеn you're in my arms, I hold you so tight (So tight)"

"Can't let go, no, no, not tonight"

"That jerk stole one of my pouches!" Recounting her tonics upon seeing Jinu drinking one.

(Y/N) deciding to question later why Jinu decided to intentionally or not, magically send back an ahjumma with a hip thrust.

"Jigeum dangjang nal bwa sigan еopjana"

"Neon naekkeoya imi algo itjana"

"'Cause I need you to need me"

"I'm empty, you feed me so refreshing"

'A drop?'

"My little soda pop"

"You're all I can think of"

"Every drop I drink up"

"You're my soda pop"

"My little soda pop"

"Cool me down, you're so hot"

"Pour me up, I won't stop"

"You're my soda pop"

"My little soda pop"

The chorus infectiously going around the crowd with shoulder movements galore. Bopping their bodies to the earworm worthy song. Not even Zoey or (Y/N) were immune to the rhythm.

As much as Rumi and Mira glare for them to stop, their bodies couldn't deny the contagious beat.

"It is annoyingly catchy, though."

"Its infectious."

Romance and Baby Saja sending out kisses of hearts into the ground, physically knocking out those hit.

"They can make hearts out of thin air?" Mira's questions go unanswered, but (Y/N) can think of ways to reply.

But reflecting in the sunlight, catching the hunters eyes, was the faint purple patterns running through their arms and the hint of gold in their dreamy irises.

"(Gasp) They're demons!"

"Magicians! Demons. Obviously demons."

"My little soda pop"

"Uh, make me wanna flip the top"

"Han mogeume you hit the spot"

"Every little drip and drop, fizz and pop, ah"

"Soreum doda it's gettin' hot"

"Yes, I'm sippin' when it's drippin' now"

"It's done? I need a second round"

"And pour a lot and don't you stop"

"'Til my soda pop fizzles out"

"Dang they're good."

"Incredible. But a demon boy band? Why?"

"I don't care. A demon's a demon. We kill them." Rumi and (Y/N) stops Mira before anything can happen.

"No, its too public."

"Do you want everyone to grill us into being cancelled?"

"What if they try to kill these people?" Mira's reasoning is valid from her perspective. But everything around them says otherwise.

"It doesn't look like they're gonna hurt anyone." Zoey's observation being noted by (Y/N), seeing as the five boys helping out a few people struggling with little things.

"Kkum soge geuryeowatdeon neo"

"Nan jeoldae nochil su eopseo"

"Neol wonhae kkok"

"I waited so long for a taste of soda"

"So, the wait is over, baby"

"Come and fill me up"

"Just can't get enough"

"Oh"

"In fact, it almost seems like they're nice demons?"

"Demons are never nice!"

Seeing the girls rush over to destroy the very things the demons touched. Panic washing over with her usual professionalism masking it. Purchasing another hotdog for the girl with the right amount of sauce and giving the children smaller gifts in replacement for the destroyed ones, giving them all a soft smile in comfort.

'Think before you act, girls.'

"You're all I can think of"

"Every drop I drink up"

"You're my soda pop"

"My little soda pop (Yeah, yeah)"

"Cool me down, you're so hot"

"Pour me up, I won't stop (Oh, oh)"

"You're my soda pop"

"My little soda pop"

The sudden appearance of a stage large soba can was a choice, in (Y/N)'s opinion. But the wave of pastels and illusionary magic is what set her off.

Pushing her way through the crowd to catch up with the girls, she found her way near the front.

'I see what's going on...'

"Ooh, ooh"

"Ooh, ooh"

"You're my soda pop"

"Gotta drink every drop"

Striking their ending poses, Jinu looks down at the crowd, meeting the (f/c) and gold gaze with his brown ones. Smiling softly at her before diverting his attention.

"That's it for now. See you tonight on everyone's favourite variety show. Saja Boys love you!"

The demon boy band disappearing in a puff of smoke.

The three hunters grew more irritated at the easy work the demons have accomplished by just performing once! Determined to end this boy band as fast as possible.

(Y/N) on the other hand had other thoughts.

'Well then, if you want to play like this Jinu, I hope you know what's coming for you.'

*Ding*

Her phone vibrated with the indication of a text message. Opening up her messages to see the new text, reading made a small sigh release from her mouth.

Jinu: Hey (Y/N), lets meet up tonight. I'll meet you at the place we met.

————————————————————

Edit: I took a break and I managed to fall down into my Record of Ragnarok phase again whilst also watching the new Superman movie (really good I recommend). Also if anyone wants to be tagged, pls ask in the recent parts bc it just makes the list a lot easier to find and compile.

Tags: @kitsune-05, @the-bookish-artist, @apelepikozume, @shoopershtar, @ravvilicous, @valeriele3, @vikc, @lasa27, @chipster-321, @greensunflowerjuna, @napbatata, @that-one-girl2020, @tagmepls, @thoughtfulbananaduckcroissant, @minepugs, @crescent-z, @colorfulgardenerduck, @poem-bee, @deityofprocastinating, @0-undead-0, @gremlinartstudio, @jessica-mcd, @strayharmony943, @fruityg0rl, @cherryblossomfox, @aominehaven, @kyxmlii, @ssaischilling, @sweaterkitty-fluff, @historygeekqueen, @satansdaughter123, @theall-seeingone, @nvmkyuu, @amenabii, @julianne1024, @doggyteam2028, @nisarelle, @theall-seeingone, @hi-itsmee28, @celesteelysia, @maritheillusion, @levifiance, @kangsae-byeokfan, @hornehlittleweeblet12, @scara-simp69, @fancyhawk45, @shqyou, @enerofairy, @futuristicdefendorfart, @scentwombatarcade, @eliengoddes, @irethepotato, @sra7riddle-malfoy, @jessica-mcd, @koda-lupinn, @yoursleeparalysisdem0n, @tsukimoon-chan, @ityourguy, @elaemae, @neverending-animelove, @type-ink, @pandafuriousa60, @mazzk1ng, @theall-seeingone, @rorotvt2025

[yasministration]

apartment hunt - remus lupin

remus lupin x potter!reader secret relationship au summary: when sirius reveals he's moving out of the potter household to fleamont and euphemia, you and james decide to reveal to him some exciting news wc: 1k+

The living room is completely silent other than the occasional sound Euphemia Potter makes as she sips her tea. You sit facing her, next to the fireplace as she flips over to the next page of her book, humming quietly. It’s been difficult, this past week, trying not to say anything. You and James had discussed moving out of the manor and finding a flat with Remus and Sirius — you liked the idea, but was it too soon? Neither of you even had jobs yet, and the security of living with your parents was nice.

It’s time for you to say something. You know Sirius hadn’t told your parents yet, but your mum would be able to keep things between you. At least for a little while.

Euphemia lifts her eyes from her book, finding you squirming on the rug. She lifts her eyebrows at you. You open your mouth, then promptly shut it. She shuts her book, setting it aside. Your mother only looks at you, waiting patiently for you to begin speaking. So you do. “Sirius told James and I that he’s thinking of moving out.”

“Oh.”

“He and Remus are going to move in together.”

“Oh.” Euphemia pats the spot on the sofa next to her, and you scramble up from the floor to join her, nervously chewing at your bottom lip. “And?” She prompts, lifting her mug to her lips again. “They’ve basically extended the invitation to me and James. Not extended, but-”

“You were always invited.” She finishes for you. You nod slowly. “What are you thinking?” You sigh deeply, moving your gaze to the fireplace again. You carefully pick your words, curious for your mother's opinion without revealing too much. “I- we don’t even have jobs yet, and I don’t know if I want to move out so soon. You know, we’ve just been at Hogwarts for seven years, and I like being around you and dad.”

“Honey, if you move out, it doesn’t mean you won’t see us. I’ll be expecting you for dinner every night.” You smile at your mother’s words, recognising the genuineness in them.

“If we move in, me and Remus will share a room.”

It’s your mother’s turn to smile, and one of her hands reaches out to brush some hair away from your face. “Yeah? How does James feel about it.”

“At first he was, you know, the usual James. But he’s okay with it. He says he gets how much we love each other, and he knows the relationship is really serious. And if I ever get sick of Remus, I can hide in his room. I just- I just don’t want to do this if I have any doubts.”

“And do you have any doubts?”

“Not doubts. But, worries. In general. I’d like for us to all find jobs before doing this.”

“You’re just like your father. He’s always been a worrier.”

“What did you just call me!?” The mock offended voice that cries out comes from the door to the backyard. Your dad and James are making their way into the house, and your mother raises her eyebrows at the sight of brooms in their hands. “I thought we agreed that brooms stay outside.”

Your dad pushes his broom into James’s chest, and your brother scurries back to put them in the shed. When he returns, you notice how flushed his face is, and how his shirt clings to his back, spots of sweat seeping through the fabric.

“Where’s Sirius?” You ask, waiting for the third man to show up. James runs a hand through his sweaty curls, a grin on his face. “Guess.”

“Is he showering?” Your mum assumes, and James points two finger guns at her in victory. But then soft dabbing of feet on the stairs reveals that Sirius is out of the shower. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, clutching a letter in front of him.

“Um, I have an announcement to make.”

“Sirius, love, we know you’re gay.” Your dad says, and you giggle joyfully, pressing a hand to your mouth when Sirius glares at you. “Come sit down, honey.” Your mother says, and all three men obey her words, taking a seat in the living room. James settles on your retired spot on the rug, and your dad stretches his limbs as he sits on an armchair.

“I’m moving out.” Sirius says, and your eyes go wide. You didn’t think he’d do it so soon. “Well, when I find a flat and everything. But, yeah, uh, I got an internship with Ollivander.”

“Ollivander!?” You cry, rising from your place on the couch and snatching the acceptance letter Sirius held. You quickly scan through it, jaw dropping lower and lower as you realise he is telling the truth. “Sirius, Ollivander never takes interns! Like - ever. Wow, congratulations” Sirius grins, face flushing brightly when you lean down to wrap your arms around him proudly.

The rest of your family follows immediately, standing up to give him celebratory hugs. Sirius wrinkles his nose when James hugs him, and he mutters “You seriously need a shower, mate.”

“Yeah, alright, come on.” James wraps and arm around Sirius’s shoulders, and with one last glance to your parents, you follow the two boys upstairs, into James’s room. The door shuts behind you, and you linger in front of the closed doors, shifting your weight from foot to foot. You glance towards James, who looks at you quickly before turning his gaze towards Sirius again.

“Uh, you know, if the invitation is still open, I think we’re gonna join you and Remus.” Sirius grins unbelievably wide, and he jumps up from the bed, glancing back and forth between you both. “Yeah,” You confirm, “And I think sooner than expected too. I got accepted for an internship at the Magical office of Law. It starts at the end of summer.”

“Yeah, and my auror training does too.”

“Auror training? Your internship? You guys both-?” Sirius cuts himself off with a loud laugh, jumping up and down with his arms extended. He pulls you into a hug first, releasing you from his grip only to hug James. “Does-does Remus know?”

You glance down at your feet, nodding guiltily. “Yeah, I told Remus.”

“When did you tell Remus!?” James cries, head snapping towards you.

“Like two minutes after I told you.”

“I see how it is.”

“Our parents don’t know though.”

“Does this mean we can start apartment hunting?”

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @amatoanima, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @superlegend216, @treefairy-28, @kitkatkl, @rory-cakes, @juliet-f017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @why-am-i-like-this18, @theoraekenslover, @animalcrossingshameless, @azure-drag0ness, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @matcha-kitty13, @thenasoneshots, @cakiebleh, @slytherin-princess-x, @daydreamandforget, @bxuzi, @dlljdhsh, @5sospenguinqueen, @aouoo, @spider–girl, @fandomhoe101, @user010380, @simp-for-fiction, @selenewowww, @paytonluvxx, @sharkers00, @joonbread, @rhettsluvr, @iluvhrj

[mocharacha]

-Sharks in The Shallow End-

💕: Bang Chan [Dad!Bangchan ] x Reader[ Mom!Reader]

✍️Synopsis: Parenting is Teamwork. Especially when Y/N and Chan juggle family life and upcoming birthday party preparations for their energetic toddler, as they balance work, parenting, and their relationship, they find joy in the simple, everyday moments that make their little family special.

🔢Wordcount: 3,8k

📖Genre: Marriage AU, Family AU, Domestic Fluff, mildly suggestive ❗Warnings: The romantic/sexual innuendos are mild and non-explicit. food mentions, parenthood/parenting themes/ mentions of family planning and pregnancy, Chan calls the reader "sweetheart", reader is called "eomma" by the kid, mentions of sharks

☕A/n:  This started with imagining Bang Chan holding a toddler while also holding a grocery bag, biceps, and forearms…. Can you blame me?

Reader is an Event Manager (who recently started working part-time again) and a former idol! Chan (now music producer for the new Generation of Idols), their son, Dae-min is a toddler and likes sharks.

-[Masterlist]-

The distant squeak of the semi-broken shopping cartwheel told you that Chan and Dae-min weren’t far off, that and the race car noises, your toddler omitted from their lips, while your husband pushed the cart through the aisles of the grocery store. 

You glanced up from the instructions of the vanilla butter crème mix, checking the ingredients you needed to add, and decided to add it to your shopping. Just in case, a backup if your homemade recipe didn’t work in the early August heat.

It was Sunday, barely past noon and since your husband was home and not stuck in the studio producing the newest hit for the recently debuted girl group, you decided to use his muscle strength to get the monthly groceries done early before you got busy during the week to prep for your little boy’s big day next weekend.

The bouncy castle would arrive the day before, and the grandparents were flying in the same day to help with preparations. You need to check on the guest rooms and possibly call the pool guy to confirm the water quality by Wednesday, and also deep clean the second freezer.

Party planning had been your livelihood before you had Dae-min, and what use would that be if not for your son’s birthday party?

“Sweetheart,” your husband’s voice got you out of your planning reverie, overthinking, he calls it. He had momentarily stopped turning the grocery store into the Formula 1 Grand Prix and looked at the Items in your hands, “Are we almost done? It’s his nap time soon, and we have yet to have lunch…”

“Right,” you said dropping the Items in the carts and ran a hand over Dae-min messy curls he got from his father, “we don’t have any freezer items that could go bad…so I was thinking we could get some of that rotisserie chicken from the shop outside …and Dae can start his nap in the car on our way back…”

Chan's eyebrow rose for a moment. “Rotisserie chicken?”

“Yeah, hadn’t had that for a long time…”

His lips tugged into a sheepish smile, amused, “Sounds good, babe.”

A few moments after paying, your little family settled into a cozy booth nestled in the corner of the food court. Now that he had won the Grocery Aisle Grand Prix, the almost three-year-old suddenly discovered another urgent sensation: hunger. And once that realization struck, there was no stopping him.

Dae-min, once he spotted the chicken rotating, kept yelling, “Uncle Bboki, Uncle Bboki” flailing his limbs around with wild enthusiasm, conducting a chaos orchestra….

” Uncle Bboki, Uncle Bboki!” 

Uncle Seungmin probably had taught him that…

As you reached for Dae-min’s toddler legs, which were bicycle-pedaling now, as he still kicked to join his father, to fit into the horrendously impractical kids' seat. 

Whoever designed them didn’t think that kids thought sitting down to eat was the worst thing on earth.

Chan got your guy’s order, of chicken, drinks, fries, and…coleslaw, you didn’t remember telling him that you wanted some…but he somehow knew you’d like.

Dae-min’s excited eyes glowed when he saw the spread, ignoring the chicken for the fries his appa was cutting into smaller pieces for him, holding out his arms, pudgy hands opening and closing in rapid motions that matched his kicking feet, “Gimme Gimme Gimme”

“Bahng Dae-min, how do we ask appa nicely?”

“Appaaaaa” Dae said, lengthening the last syllable sweetly and using a combination of his boba eyes and dimples, “may I please have Flies!”

Chan chuckled at his mispronunciation.

“Yes, Baby, you may have Flies.” he mirrored his inflection and added, “I’ll give them to you once they are cool enough so you can eat them.”

You use the time to get on your phone to put some things from your mental checklist into your notes app. There was still so much to do and organize before Dae-min’s first day, and in addition, you had to coordinate something for an upcoming wedding of a client until Thursday, too.

Getting back to work as an event manager after having an active child that kept up most of your brain’s capacity captive…that and the heat of summer was making the cogs in your brain turn even slower.

A cool touch to your cheek made you come back into reality, and you saw Chan holding a cold drink to your face

“She’s back again…” he smiled, and put the drink in front of you, with a small command, “hydrate…” Before pulling off part of his chicken for Dae-min, “Y/n I don’t want you stressing so much, darling…. Remember, it’s going to be fine…we outsourced a lot of the side dishes to our friends…my parents are going to help with the prep… Dad’s even said he’s gonna prep the barbecue…you know that he doesn’t let anyone else go near his meat prep.”

“Yes…I know“ you said starting to eat from your chicken, dang this tasted good, “But it’s Dae-mins’s first birthday, he’ll actually remember.”

“Yes…” Chan added and pushed the coleslaw towards you, “but I also want you to enjoy the day…and not crash, after our guests left on the sofa like last year….”

He sighed, “I’m helping you this year…remember that…we all are….. Hyunjin and Jisung even volunteered to do the Balloon Arch.

“They are gonna fight like they are their pre-debut selves again.”

“They are adults…they can handle arguments now.”

“Well… They’re gonna cry…..just warning you…”

“I’m used to dealing with crying…. Aren’t I buddy?” he glanced at his son, who looked up, clearly not having a clue about the conversation they had just had, but nodded, beaming because it was his dad he was looking at. 

“Yes, appa…. May I have Uncle Bboki?” he gestured to the chicken.

Chan laughed, “We really have to stop letting Seungmin teach him those things when he babysits.”

As predicted, his belly full, Dae-min fell asleep just as he was buckled into his car seat, despite his protest that he wasn't tired at all, another thing he got from his dad. Chan showed you the demo of the newest song he was working  on the way back, wanting your opinion on the matter.  You left the AC in the car running while bringing in the grocery bags with Chan, the heat outside making you start to sweat.

“Sweetheart, why don’t you go inside and start putting things away while I get the last bags and Dae…..get inside you look like you’re melting…”, he said and tapped your behind for good measure, “I got this…”

While putting away the groceries, your mind drifted back to lunch, the taste of the chicken still lingering in your mouth, making you want more; maybe you should go back there tomorrow.

“Say babe…” You said when you heard the shuffle of Chan getting back into the house, “We used to have this chicken a lot a while ago….why did we stop having it again?”

You lifted your head and watched as your husband came into the room, Dae-min nestled against his neck on one arm, while he patted your son’s back. In his other hand, he carried grocery bags, carefully balancing as he moved.

His Muscles? ….bursting

Him?…..subtle flexing

The veins in his forearms?….popping.

Your brain?..... rotting

He caught your gaze, and the corners of his lips twitched into a smile. “Care to help me out so I don’t drop our son?”

“Y-you’d never do that anyway,” you murmured, but took the bags from his hand so he had it easier to carry Dae.

“Never,” he said sincerely but softly, shifting so Dae drooled on his shirt and not into his neck, “I’ll be right back…” He said, and then went to put his son down in his room.

Halfway through the groceries, you decided to fix a refreshment and put pineapple and watermelon into the mixer to get some juice.

The buzz of your phone, a confirmation about the delivery and setup of the bouncy castle, and the people around you made you go into planning mode again. You still had to get the party favors for the few kids that would be there from Dae-min's playgroup, and had to make sure that the members of Stray Kids also got some shark-shaped water guns Dae-min carefully selected to be part of the favors.

A gentle hand on your lower back called you back to reality, “Daydreaming again, my sweet?”

Chan was back and set the baby monitor on the kitchen counter.

“Yeah, sorry, I think this weather is doing something to my head…” You said and offered him a glass of freshly made juice.

“Yeah, you looked kind of thirsty…” he smirked and sipped. “This is nice…especially after the food…” He glanced over the shopping, half of it already put away, “Let’s get this done…”

It was a comfortable quiet with the two of you putting away the chaos, tag teaming in silence, only occasionally disrupted by the sipping of juice.  You caught his glances, watching you with a careful interest, probably trying to catch you in the moment of daydreaming again.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, pushing back the hair that fell into his face.

“Lunch,” you said honestly, “The chicken was so delicious.”

Chan laughed, “Dae said the same thing when I tucked him into bed….glad we don’t need a DNA test to prove he is yours.”

“Good since he is a mini-you…” You murmured, “Ditto-copy dimples and all...”

His eyes softened when he looked at your son in the image displayed on the baby monitor. Dae turned in his sleep to hug his Sharkplushie, which he recently got.

“He was pumped to go swimming in the pool with you,” you murmured, wrapping an arm around Chan’s waist, digging your nose into his back, “So better be ready to hop in after his nap….

He turned around, arms embracing you, “Aren’t you gonna join us?”

 “You and I know that we bought this house with a pool for you and you only…. I might dip my feet in, but you and your son are part aquatic animals after all….”

“Sharks…” Chan smiled, dimples showing, “Daeminnie insists.”

“Right… Sharks”

A  while later…

You sat on the little piece of carpet right by the coffee table in the living room, laptop between your legs, hair up in a bun, and some files scattered around you like petals in spring. Your work phone, regularly buzzing with updates, and next to your private one, receiving messages now and then from people who ask if they could help you out in any way.

Naa you were good, AC in the house plus sitting to proximity to the cooling tiles….a drink…you were fine, this was fine. The tapping of little (and big)  feet let you know that your son and husband were making their way over to you, and you glanced up to look at Dae, in his post nap glory, dressed and ready for his pool afternoon with his appa. Behind him, in hot pursuit, Chan, swimming trunks on, as per usual, was allergic to any type of shirt in the vicinity of the house. 

Not that you minded. 

You ogled.

God forbid, a girl had hobbies.

“Dae-min-ah,” Chan said, struggling to get the clasp on Dae-mins swim vest to open, “Come here so I can put this on you buddy…”

“Nooo…I can swims…harabeoji taught me,” the toddler insisted. Fair, having your swimming coach grandfather teach you since he was small was a bonus.

“It's not about ability, Daeminnie …but about safety.”

“But its…its…” Dae stopped his little mind trying to find the words to formulate the issues he was having with the garment, lips pouty, and you saw that he was struggling to find the words in both Korean and English. 

“Deep breaths, Sarang,” you gently encouraged him…” What's wrong with the vest?”

“It does this…” Dae-min said, his thumb and pointer finger moving towards each other like a crab’s claws would. “Here!” he added, pointing below his armpit and neck.

“Oh, it pinches you,” you said and took the jacket from Chan’s hands, overseeing the straps, then held it out in front of Dae. “Yeah…this might be a little tight….I think you grew again….”

“With the amount he eats,” Chan kneeled to observe the size issue with you, “You are growing so quickly you might stop being fun sized buddy…”

“Snack time is important,” Dae-min defended himself, kicking his feet, “Can I go into the pool now?”

“Not yet, Buddy…” Chan looked at you,“ I think it's time….. I know the surprise was for his birthday but… I’d rather buy him something else next week than have a toddler that's too hyper to go to bed tonight because he didn't get his energy out during his swimming time….we have plans tonight…”

You sighed, ignoring the blush caused by Chan uttering the last sentence in a very Christopher way, “Yeah, we might as well…. I just have to remember where I hid it….”

You tried to remember where you had hidden Dae-min's birthday presents from the curious toddlers' hands…there were several places in the house, but your mind wouldn't let you access the memory storage.

“It’s either in the sock drawer in our closet….or behind the pasta….” Chan helped. “That’s where you last stored the Christmas presents….”

“Right….it's in the sock drawer… Keep him occupied and happy.” You snapped your finger and moved to retrieve the item. 

Chan saluted. 

When you returned a few minutes later, your husband and son were breaking it down to the sound of Baby Shark, the cursed song that has been on a loop in this house ever since Dae-min was small. No wonder he loved Sharks so much.

“Look Dae-min-ah,” you said, holding out the vivid blue swim fin swimming aid, “This can help you stay afloat in the pool and looks…

“Awesome!” Dae-min yelled out, beaming, “I can be a real shark now!  Hunt appa!”

“Right…but remember no biting…” you chuckled and moved to put it on him, “This will be a little different from the vest Sarang….so you need to get a feel for it in the water….its usually for big kids but appa and I know that you can swim well and would tell us if you get tired or feel weird right.” “Safety first,” Dae-min parroted the phrase he had heard lots of times, but the wiggling of his toenails told you how excited he was.

“Remember, appa will keep you safe,” you said, adjusting the strap of the swimming aid.

“Always,” Chan added, ruffling Dae-min's hair…” Now sun protection….I’ll get you while eomma gets appa’s back…what about it?”

“You could just wear a UV shirt, you know…” You sighed but reached for the sunscreen nonetheless.

The joyful screams and splashing distracted you from your work, so you eventually succumbed and closed the laptop, put away the work phone, and came out to sit in one of the lounge chairs after fixing a snack for your boys.

When you got out, you were balancing a tray with an assortment of snacks. 

Dae-min was in hot, sharky pursuit of his father, paddling through the pool with fierce determination. As soon as he reached him, Chan scooped the boy up and, with a grin, tossed him gently a few feet away, back into the water. Dae-min landed with a splash, erupting in gleeful giggles.

 “Oh no, you almost got me…” Chan cried in mock horror. “These shark-infested waters are terrible!”

“Would the sharks mind a little refreshment?” you asked, hands on your hips and dipping your foot into the water. “I got blueberries, watermelon, and goldfish crackers.”

“Shark-min likes goldfish,” your son exclaimed, and paddled himself to the shallow end of the pool to the edge and lifted his arms,  “eomma….uppies?”

You grabbed a big towel before kneeling and lifting him out of the water, embracing him in Turkish cotton.

“Did you have fun?”

He giggled, pressing a kiss onto your cheek, curly hair dripping with pool water as he shook his head like a dog, trying to get dry, “Lots …appa didn’t have a chance, I am too fast…”

He made race car noises again, gesturing wildly.

“Your appa is getting old,” you nodded, carrying Dae-min over to the lounge chairs, and sat down to pat him dry.

“Betrayal by my own wife and son,” Chan said, getting out of the water, the UV tank he somehow bothered to put on, clinging to his body.  When he caught your gaze, he smirked, and did it even more slowly, and you realized that it had been for this exact moment he put it on in the first place.

“How did he do?” you said after Dae was busy devouring his snacks, and you made sure Chan got the wrap you plated for him. “With the new aid and all”

“At first, it was a little strange for him to move…. This gives him a lot more freedom to move than the vest, but he’s a tough guy and tried it out, and it worked. Usually, kids older than him have trouble swimming with that…. He’s a great kiddo…but I am biased.”

He sighed, running his hand through his hair. It was getting long again.

Yeah, you are biased too…

Later, after some snacking, rest, and reapplying sunscreen, the boys returned to their aquatic habitat while you watched from the safety of your lounge chair. Eventually, you went inside to start preparing dinner while Chan and Dae rinsed off by the pool. After dinner, you tucked Dae into bed for the night.

His eyes were fighting to stay awake, arms tight around the shark plushie.

“Eomma….may we have Uncle Bbokki again when I wake up…and play sharks with appa?” he murmured, squishing the plushie to his chest, “and cuddles with eomma…. Sharks are cool…”

He kept babbling until his breaths slowed into that familiar rhythm that told you he was fast asleep for the night.

Baby monitor in tow, you made your way back to the kitchen, where Chan was cleaning up the dishes from dinner. He looked up from the plate he was putting away.

“That was quick…he usually takes longer.”

“Baby Shark was exhausted,” you said with a yawn, and stretched, “He kept babbling on how much fun today was…”

“Yeah, he does that,” Chan chuckled, “His tired babbles are the best…only second to yours.”

“I don’t babble when I’m tired…”

“Sure Y/n…”

You rolled your eyes, glancing around the kitchen, “Damn…you’re all done…”

“What can I say… I am efficient…” he reached out to pull you close by your belt loops, “I see someone else being very tired…”

“It’s the weather….” You yawned against your will. It was hot, and the fatigue made you want to just crawl into bed…. Maybe you should do afternoon naps too…Dae seems to like it.  That sounded like a good plan for tomorrow. Work from home, getting some rotisserie chicken again, then napping…

Chan’s eyes observed you carefully, “Are you thinking about chicken again?”

Your eyes widened, caught  “Yeah…Dae wants a do-over of today…chicken and pool.”

“Sounds good…” your husband chuckled and nuzzled your neck,  “But now I want attention and cuddles from my wife…you keep being distracted and not paying attention to me.”

“Gosh, you are so much like Dae-min…same pout…”

“Meanie….” he murmured against your neck, “And no, he might look like me, but he is like you…. Proof one...you both are obsessed with rotisserie chicken. Proof two, I’m obsessed with both of you…Proof three….you both snort the same way when you laugh.””

“Now you’re the one being mean,” you said, wiggling out of his grasp, giggling, and snorting when his tight hold proved true.

“See…and now I need your attention,” Chan moved swiftly to pick you up to carry you to your bedroom. “I was thinking since we have a visual mini me…how about a mini you next…”

“I just started to get back working again,” you laughed, squeezing his arm.

“Boo, work is bad for your health…quit…” he complained, finally setting you down on your bed and stepped a bit away.

“Says the workaholic,” you reached for him, your hands opening and closing in rapid motions, …then paused because Chan was looking at you. Again, curious and calculating. 

“Say…sweetheart….you asked me earlier today…why we didn’t have rotisserie chicken for the longest time…” 

“Yes….it really was a long time ago we had it…and at the time pretty frequently….when was it…” 

The energy shifting into something uncertain made you nervous, causing you to fold your hands in your lap. 

“You’re a smart girl…try to remember…”

You tried to fight through the discombobulated swirl of thoughts. It had been a while… and that particular rotisserie chicken? You’d only had it when Dae was tiny… wait, no…. Dae hadn’t been born, actually…not yet.

Oh.

“This was a craving I had when I was… pregnant with Dae…” you murmured, more to yourself than to him, rubbing the soft fabric of the duvet, “I craved it quite often actually and suddenly didn’t anymore when he was born….”

Your hand paused mid-motion, eyes widening as the realization hit. 

You slowly lifted your head to face him.

Chan had dropped to a casual kneel in front of you, arms resting loosely on his knees, eyes studying your face. A knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he gave a single, slow nod, “Yeah…”

“You think?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, uncertain and breathless.

He pushed off the ground and sat beside you, his expression softening as he put an arm around you, grounding you against his warmth, “I’m assuming... the fatigue, the distractedness,” he said gently, rubbing your shoulder. “Could be a coincidence...but we should make sure.”

Your pulse quickened. You stepped back with a nervous laugh, your hand going instinctively to your belly, “I’m gonna check in the morning… I think I still have a test!”

Excitement tangled with a thread of fear, and a swirl of nervous energy bubbled up in your stomach.

“We just got out of the diaper changing age….Dae finally sleeps through the night…. Are we ready to do it all over again?

“With you and me...we’ve got this,” he said softly. “Us against the tantrums and the chaos and...whatever else comes with it. We’ve had plenty of practice in that department.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling with quiet hope, and added, “I’m secretly hoping for a girl next…”

A sudden doubt clouded your mind, “What if it's just a coincidence? What if I am not…”

Chan’s lips curved into a sly smile as he leaned in closer to kiss you behind your ear. “Then we’ll just try… we’ve had plenty of practice in that department too...”

You snorted, he laughed, and pulled your head into his lap.

“One way or another, “Chan mumbled, stroking your hair. “We got this….”

The quiet stretching around you, air filled with future possibilities. More little feet running, grocery aisle Grand Prix, plushies, giggles, lullabies, and dance moves to nursery rhymes.

Chan let out a happy sigh. “Sounds like our shark tank might have a new little fish soon.” 

And you were excited about it.

-[ Reblogs, comments and/or keyboard smashes are appreciated]-

[docrobinavitch]

force of nature, pull of gravity | part three

dr. robby x f!attending!reader force of nature masterlist masterlist content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, the entirety of this fic navigates grief in depth, death of mentor (adamson), death of child/family member, suicidal ideation, swearing, canon medical events, alcohol, smoking (marijuana), mentions of drug use, angst words: 10.7K synopsis: robby and reader put their issues aside as they navigate pittfest, but they're never very far. as things begin to taper off, they discuss the future a/n: hooo baby welcome to the third and final part of force of nature. this one almost killed me. i hope you love it. please note that i fucked with the canon timeline heavily. as promised, we leave off on a happy and hopeful note i think! anyway, please come yap to me about all your thoughts about them i would love nothing more. i'll still be thinking about them for quite a while. <3 syd

It didn’t feel like any of it was real. It had felt like that for about six months now, since March, when everything shut down. Except, of course, the hospital.

You don’t remember everything, it only came in snapshots. Like a damaged film reel, it played in and out, the blanks filled with static. Your therapist explained that not being able to remember was your brain’s way of protecting you. Without your permission, your mind had filed things all the way in the back, in a safe you didn’t have the key to. You alternated between being grateful and being angry. After all, those were your last few months with Adamson. You both wanted to remember everything and desperately wanted to forget.

What you remember most about that period of time, the worst of it, before the rollout of the vaccines, were the feelings. The anger, the fear, the grief. But mostly, the loneliness of it.

You were with people all day long, but not really. Masks and goggles and hazmat suits and gloves keeping enough distance between everyone. A touch on the shoulder that didn’t reach skin. A squeeze of the wrist but no warmth from a pulse. You couldn’t tell when someone was smiling or not. It was as if someone had wrapped the world in wool, muffling everyone from everything that made you human. 

The first time you got sick and the test lit up positive for Covid, it felt like a moral failure of some kind. 

You spent the next couple of weeks secluded to your apartment, at the mercy of your own hypervigilance, constantly checking your pulse ox and heart rate and fever. Anything that might indicate you were worsening. 

But you were fine, in the end. It stayed relatively tame for you. Which made everything feel so much worse when you watched Dr. Adamson deteriorate just a month later.

“He’s gonna be fine.” You and Robby would repeat back and forth to one another almost every hour after he had been admitted for having difficulty breathing.

But then the treatment wasn’t working, he was getting worse. Robby had to put him on ECMO. And you and Robby stopped talking. Stopped seeking each other out for reassurance because it was obvious what was happening and neither of you could say it aloud.

You regretted that most, now. That you had let him stop talking to you.

Today seemed determined to drag all of those feelings back to the surface for you. Especially the feeling like none of it was quite happening. You were worried you might fully untether from your body in the face of this fucking mass casualty. You had no idea what you were going to do now, now that you had kissed Robby in the ambulance bay. Now that he had finally admitted that he was in love with you. Your head was spinning. 

But there wasn’t time for you to spin out, because now they were preparing for an MCI. And Jake was there and not answering his phone. And Robby had that look on his face, like he did when the EMTs rolled Adamson into the Pitt four years ago. Like he was absolutely terrified, but his brain was already skipping past that feeling to find a solution. 

It was this look that terrified you because it usually meant he thought he was the only one capable of finding that solution and he would block everyone else out to get that result.

“Hey,” You caught his wrist in your hand as you walked back into the ER, instinctually ran your thumb over the tattoo there. You could feel his pulse racing under your touch. He paused, looking down at your hand and then back up, meeting your eyes, “I’m here.” 

You said, just as a reminder. Despite whatever trainwreck had just occurred between the two of you, you needed him to know he could lean on you right now in whatever capacity he needed to get through this.

He nodded, “Yeah,” He grabbed your hand and squeezed it lightly, “Yeah, me too.”

When Abbot walked into the ER, immediately, you were relieved at the sight of him. The tightness in your chest eased when he squeezed your shoulder. The both of you listened as Robby gave his speech to the staff about what was happening and what was about to happen, jumping in if either of you thought it was necessary.

“You and Robby doing okay?” Jack asked quietly.

You turned to look at him and shook your head, “I don’t know.” You swallowed, “And I guess since I’ve told him, I should tell you as well, that I… accepted a job offer at Presby.”

He stared at you for a moment, “What a fucking day.” He shook his head, arms crossed over his chest, “Alright. We’ll talk about that later.”

You stuffed some eleven blades in your pockets after Robby handed you the Primary Triage MD vest. “You know the drill?” He asked, handing you the belt with all the different color wrist bands.

You nodded, taking the belt from him and strapping it around your waist, “Assess based on mental status and pulse strength. Mental status, AVPU, alert, response to verbal, response to pain, unresponsive. Pulse next, radial, femoral, carotid.”

You weren’t new at this, but repeating the textbook instructions back to him soothed your nerves. The adrenaline rush whenever you knew a bunch of traumas were headed your way. 

“Excellent,” He said and managed the smallest of smiles. And for a second, it felt like he was a senior resident again and you an intern. Before everything got complicated. “I’ll help you get started.”

You followed him out to the ambulance bay and almost immediately, a car pulled up with gunshot victims. You and Robby don’t need to speak to each other as you spend those ten seconds per patient, this is where the two of you had always worked best, side by side on patients. It’s the one place you trusted each other implicitly, where there was no gray area between you.

After getting three patients triaged and moved inside in about thirty seconds, the two of you shared a smirk and a high five, Robby wrapping his hand around yours and keeping it there.

“Bet they can’t triage that fast at Presby.” He said softly, hitting you fully with his big, woeful brown eyes.

You scowled at him and pulled your hand from his, “Don’t look at me with that face.”

“What face?”

You gesticulated towards his face with your hands, frustration clear in every movement, “Your fucking kicked puppy face.”

He titled his head, frowning, but there was a hint of amusement in his expression, “This is just my face.”

“Well it’s fucked up.” You said, looking away and towards the road, waiting for more incoming.

“My face is fucked up?” Yeah, that was definitely amusement in his voice.

You sighed, “You should go inside, they need you in there. Send out Shen to help me.” You felt his stare on you, hot and heavy, “I’ll come get you if I see Jake.”

He watched you for a moment longer before you heard him leave, the ambulance bay doors sliding open and closed.

His absence had your pulse racing again until all you could hear was the pounding of blood in your ears and the slow crescendo of the approaching sirens.

***

Robby was out to dinner with Janey when his phone rang. As he fished it out of his pocket, Janey sighed, and he knew whether or not he answered it he had already lost.

He and Janey had been together a year and a half when your niece drowned. At first, Janey was gracious whenever Robby had to cancel plans or came home later than usual because you were having a hard time. But as the weeks and months passed she became less and less forgiving.

Robby couldn’t really blame her. He knew he was being an awful partner, putting the needs of his friend above his girlfriend. He tried asking Jack to keep an eye on you instead occasionally, but Jack himself admitted he couldn’t quite get through to you the way Robby could. And lately your behavior had grown more erratic and unpredictable to the point where Adamson had forced you into another leave of absence. 

The conversation between the two of you had been muffled through the family room door, but Robby had still gotten the gist of it. You were snapping at patients, often putting yourself in unsafe situations on purpose. It was obvious you wanted to physically endanger yourself and Adamson wouldn’t tolerate it in his ER. He told you to take your leave and get help while you were out. You wouldn’t be welcomed back until you got a handle on both your behavior and your grief. You had stormed out of the ER, tears of frustration rushing down your cheeks.

That was three days ago and Robby hadn’t heard from you since. At first, he thought it might have been best to give you space, but then he really started to worry. And now his phone was ringing and it was an unknown number.

He gave Janey an apologetic look, but she waved him off, and he was already out of his seat to pick up the call.

“Is this Dr. Robby?”

He rubbed at his beard anxiously with his free hand, “Speaking.”

“Hi, darling, sorry to bother you. It’s Mrs. Carpenter from 57B.” 

Your neighbor. He had forgotten he had given her his number the last time he was at your apartment, in case of emergency.

 “I haven’t seen her in a few days, but the last few hours she’s been blasting that Fleetwood Mac album and she won’t answer her door. I can handle the noise,” She said quickly as he tried to interrupt to apologize, “but I’m starting to get worried about her and I know you have a key.”

Already, he was nodding, “Yeah, of course. I’ll be right over.”

Hanging up, he sighed and ran a hand over his face. He really, really, shouldn’t be running at the drop of a hat to your apartment. Not when he knew it was going to upset Janey.  

But even as he thought it, that he should stay with Janey, he could see the faraway look in your eyes you’d had for months now. The nails chewed to the quick, cracked and bleeding. The bruises beneath your eyes because of the constant nightmares. 

He heard the arguments he and Janey had had about you over the last few months. Her saying you weren’t his responsibility. But it didn’t feel like that. Hadn’t felt that way since your first day of residency when he cleaned up the cut on your forehead. When he said he would make sure you got through the day and you had looked at him like no one had ever offered you help before.

He did feel like you were his responsibility, and if you slipped through the cracks now, he wasn’t sure he could live with that.

Robby hadn’t even opened his mouth to explain to Janey that he had to go when she was already shaking her head in frustration, “She’s not a child, Michael, she’s a grown woman–”

“She’s going through some shit right now–”

“Everybody’s going through some shit!” She scoffed, “Look, I… I understand that she’s your friend, that you’ve been friends a long time. And I love that you’re such a supportive, giving friend. But I–I’m sorry, I can’t keep being your second choice.”

Robby looked at her sadly, “You’re not my second choice.” He insisted.

She tilted her head slightly, “If you walk out to go to her right now, I’m sorry, but we’re done.”

He sighed and dropped his head, rubbing a hand down to the back of his neck, “Can’t we talk about this later?”

“No,” She said softly, “I’m tired of talking in circles with you. It’s time for you to make a choice. And I think we both know what choice you’re going to make.”

He looked back up at her. He wanted to be angry with her for giving him an ultimatum, but the truth was, they both knew it wasn’t a choice to him. He didn’t know how to choose anyone who wasn’t you. He could no longer imagine his life without you in it.

He sighed, “Janey, I don’t… I don’t want to end it like this.”

“Then don’t.”

He looked down at his phone and then back up to Janey, “I have to go check on her.” He said softly.

Janey nodded, like she had been expecting that answer, “So go, Michael.”

“I’m sorry.” He said, and he meant it. He didn’t want to hurt Janey, but you needed him. 

So he showed up at your apartment that night, banging on your door and calling your name for minutes. No answer, and you were blasting Rumours very loudly. Eventually, he called out that he was letting himself in and used the copy of the key you had given him to open the door.

The apartment was a mess. Clothes strewn haphazardly, empty takeout containers stacked on top of one another on most surfaces. A coat was draped over the record player which Robby moved so he could turn off the music.

You were nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t like you to leave your apartment in such disarray. You liked order, control. He had never known you to leave a dirty dish lying around. It was unheard of for a coat to not be on a hook or clothes left outside their proper spot in your drawer or closet. It scared the shit out of him to see it like this, it felt like a very blatant projection of your current mental health.

With the music off, he called out your name again, but still no response. However, he heard the shower running and followed the sound to the bathroom.

He knocked a few times, but there was no response and he started to panic. When he jiggled the doorknob, he expected it to be locked, but it was open and he pushed it ajar. He was prepared to find the worst, but you were fine, physically anyway.

The shower was running, but you weren’t in it. Fully clothed, you stood on the toilet, head out the open window, a lit joint between your fingers.

You turned to look at him and your eyes were bloodshot, from the drugs, or from crying, he couldn’t tell. For a second, he felt relief, but then he was annoyed. He had left Janey, ended things with her for good, for fear something was really wrong and you were just fucking getting high.

“Is there a reason you won’t answer your fucking phone?” He asked gruffly.

You took a drag from your joint, and watched him as you held the smoke in your lungs, before slowly exhaling in his face, “It’s in the other room, why the fuck are you here?”

He scoffed, “Because I’m an idiot, I guess.” He shook his head, “Mrs. Carpenter said she had been knocking on your door for a while and you weren’t answering, I thought–I don’t know, no one had heard from you in a while.”

“Well,” You jumped off the toilet, “I’m alive, as you can see, so you can go.”

He plucked the joint out of your hand, “Where did you get this?”

You made to grab the joint back from him, but he held it out of your reach and you scowled, “I bought it off Marcus, the guy who lives at the end of the hall. Now would you stop killing my peace?”

“Is that all you bought from him?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. You were pretty high and had also drunk a whole bottle of wine earlier, so you weren’t positive, but you thought you knew what he was implying, “Are you… are you asking… if I bought pills?”

He stared at you silently, jaw clenched.

“Is this a fucking joke? You’re joking?” Still, he said nothing. You scoffed, “Robby, I’d never do that. You know that.”

He shook his head, “I don’t know that. You’re scaring the hell out of me,” His voice broke, “I thought when I walked in here I was gonna find your body.”

You sighed, “You’re being very dramatic.”

“Am I?” He bent his head to meet your eyes, “Can you tell me honestly that you haven’t thought about it?”

You couldn’t. Since your niece had passed you had been in a sort of fugue state and when you weren’t fully dissociated, you wondered what the point was of anything. What was the point of being an emergency medicine doctor if you couldn’t save your goddaughter? And if you weren’t an emergency medicine doctor, who were you? You had allowed your career to dictate your entire adult life so far and all you knew was being good at medicine.

But maybe you weren’t very good at medicine at all, because when it mattered most you failed.

So, yeah. You had thought about buying the drugs. You had thought about going up to the roof and not coming back down. You had thought about getting in your car and heading for the ocean. But you were still here.

You broke Robby’s stare and stepped around him, turning off the shower and walking to your kitchen. You grabbed two glasses from the top shelf and a bottle of bourbon, poured each of you a generous glass and pushed one towards Robby.

He shook his head, “I don’t want any. I want you to talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say?” You asked softly, too exhausted to fight.

Every line of his face was etched with desperation as he looked at you and shook his head slightly, “That you’ll stop punishing yourself like this,” He gestured to the alcohol, to the disaster that was your apartment, “You can’t keep going like this, it’s unsustainable. You need help. You need to figure out how to forgive yourself.”

You swirled the amber liquid around your glass, “I don’t know that I can.” 

He took the glass from your hand and pushed it away, taking your hands in his instead, “Look at me,” He said softly and your bloodshot eyes trailed up to his. His thumb made gentle circles on the back of your hand, “You can,” He said slowly, “But you have to want it. For you.”

You weren’t sure you did want it. You didn’t think you deserved to want it. But even through your drug and alcohol induced haze, you could see Robby was scared and desperate. Seemingly, at the prospect of losing you. Maybe you’d want it for yourself one day. Right now, you just wanted him to stop looking at you like that.

“Okay.” You said softly.

“You mean that?”

You nodded, “I mean it.”

He pulled you into a hug, sighing in relief as he rested his head on top of yours, “Tomorrow, we’re going to find you a psychologist. Tonight, I’m going to clean up your apartment and make you something to eat, okay? Why don’t you go lie down?”

You pulled back to look up at him, “Really? You’re going to make me something to eat?”

He smirked, “What, you think I can’t do it?”

You shrugged, “I am intrigued at the prospect, but my expectations are very low.”

He laughed and released you from his arms, “Well, we’ll see. We can always order takeout if I fuck it up.”

He burned a sauce so badly you had to throw the whole pan away, apologizing to your neighbors for the smoke alarm. Robby’s face was beet red with embarrassment as he apologized to you over and over, but you laughed so hard you snorted. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed like that.

He stayed the night and you fell asleep on the couch. When you woke up, the Sun was just beginning to peek through the blinds. A blanket was draped over you and Robby was asleep on the other end of the couch. It was the first time you hadn’t been woken abruptly by a nightmare in as long as you could remember.

***

When you heard Jake’s voice coming from the back of a pickup truck, you sprinted immediately to him, “Jake?”

There was so, so much blood all over him you thought your knees might give out at the sight of it. 

“It’s not mine,” He said, tears streaming down his face, “It’s Leah’s. She was shot in the chest. I–I’ve been putting pressure on it, but there’s so much–”

“No, that’s– That’s good, bud, you did good.” You leaned over his girlfriend who laid unconscious in his lap and searched for a pulse, found the barest flutter of one at her carotid.

It didn’t look good. In fact, you thought her heart would probably stop within the next minute or so. There was too much blood, the bullet looked like it maybe had gone right through her heart.

“She’s gonna be okay, right?” Jake asked, voice breaking.

You took a deep breath, “Are you hurt?”

“I–I don’t know, maybe my leg?” 

Quickly, you put a red wristband on Leah and a yellow on Jake and started taking off your bright orange vest that indicated you were Primary Triage MD, “John!” You shouted, and almost immediately, Dr. Shen was beside you, “You take over as Primary Triage, I’m bringing these two in. You good?”

“Yeah,” He said, strapping the belt of wristbands around his waist, “Yeah, I got it.”

Nurses helped you get Leah on a gurney, you shouted at someone to put Jake in a wheelchair and bring him in, ignored his frantic shouts to come with you. You didn’t have time. You hated leaving him like this, in distress, but Leah was likely seconds away from no longer being able to be resuscitated. 

“Robby!” You called out as nurses were already opening an intubation kit. You heard Robby behind you before you saw him, too focused on securing Leah’s airway, “This is Jake’s girlfriend, Leah. Jake’s fine, I think he might have been shot in the leg.”

“Okay,” Robby said, and you could hear in his voice the worry warring with what he was seeing in front of him, “Okay, you go take care of Jake, I’ll take Leah.”

You had finished the intubation and another nurse had climbed on the gurney to begin CPR. They had lost her pulse, “I… I don’t think she’s gonna make it.” You said softly to Robby, voice wavering slightly.

“Let me worry about that.”

You glanced at him and recognized immediately the tunnel vision he was having. This was the problem he was determined to solve and you worried it was not solvable, “Robby–”

“Jake.” He said shortly, “Go. I’ll call you if I need you.”

You did not like this. You did not like it one bit. But you backed away, turning your attention to the rest of central that was a flurry of activity and zeroed in on Jack, “Could you keep an eye on Robby?” You asked as you passed him, “He’s working on Jake’s girlfriend who I think had a bullet tear through her heart. He has that goddamn savior complex chip on his shoulder today and I’m worried it might break him when she doesn’t make it.”

“Yeah, I got him,” Jack said, looking up briefly to spot Robby, “Jake–?”

“He’s fine,” You said quickly, “I’m gonna go patch him up now, I think he just took some bullet fragments to the leg.”

Jack nodded and bumped his fist to yours, “I’ll shout if I need you.”

You smirked, it was nice to be working with Jack again. It had only been a few shifts, but you missed the banter and the the way the two of you had worked so seamlessly together, “Same here.” You said, and then you headed to find Jake.

***

It was a while later after you had patched Jake up and made your way back to the red zone after promising to check up on Leah. Immediately, you saw Robby, still working on Leah, hopeless faces all around him.

“Was looking for you,” Jack said, coming to your side, “He won’t let her go.”

“Fuck,” You sighed, heart sinking.

“He’s wasting resources–”

“I know,” You said quickly. You knew what he was doing, because it was what you would have done. What you had begged Robby to do years ago when your niece came in and he insisted she was gone. It was what you and Robby had done together when you put Adamson on ECMO. “I know.” You repeated, more to yourself the second time.

“He thought he had the pulse back for a few seconds, but when Emery came to check it was gone again.”

You swallowed, “Okay, thanks.” You patted him on the back before heading over to Robby, biting hard on the inside of your cheek.

“Robby,” You said softly when you were close enough. Briefly, you exchanged a look with Dana who subtly shook her head at you, “Robby, I think that’s enough.”

He looked up at you and gave you a quick shake of his head, “No, no she’s right on the edge, we can still get her back–”

“How long has she been down?”

“People have had their hearts restarted after being without a pulse for thirty or forty minutes.”

“Not when a bullet has torn through it. Not when there’s that much blood loss.” You said quietly, “I know you know she’s gone. If you’re not calling it because you don’t want to tell Jake, I can do it–”

“No,” He shook his head and sighed, “No, I–I can do it.”

You waited and watched while he did one last pulse check, voice shaking as he called time of death, marked it on her wrist chart, and covered her up. 

“How’s Jake?” He asked, turning back to you. 

Your eyes searched him, looking for new and infected wounds. You knew they were there, hiding just below his skin. Knew it like you knew your own.

“He’s fine. There was a lot of bleeding, but it was all superficial. I debrided and wrapped the wound. He’s sitting on a gurney now to keep the wounded leg elevated.” 

He nodded along as you spoke, but you weren’t sure how much he really heard beyond the fact that Jake was fine. You reached for his hand, hoping to ground him, but at the brush of your fingers he pulled away, “You should get back out to Triage.”

You frowned, “Shen’s got it–”

“No, I want a more senior attending on triage. Please.” He threw his bloodied gloves away and walked away before you could say anything else.

It was frustrating, watching him walk off like that, knowing he was teetering on the edge. Wanting to follow after him, knowing you couldn’t. He had to tell Jake himself, and then you’d be there to pick up the pieces. Like you always were.

One last time, you told yourself. Just one more, then you could let him go. You’d let him go, it was what you should do, what you needed to do. It was too late for third act love confessions, things were too broken between you. What happened in the ambulance bay didn’t change anything, but you could be there for him one last time.

“Hey,” You grabbed Dana gently by the arm as she passed you, “You’ll come get me if… If Robby seems…”

She nodded, “Yeah, of course, kid.”

You gazed off back in the direction Robby had disappeared into for one last moment before heading back to the ambulance bay.

***

Someone was knocking at the door. It pulled you from the edge of sleep back into full consciousness. You waited for a few moments as you woke, lying on your back in bed, hoping you had imagined it or he had left.

Because you knew who was at the door. You had fought with him earlier on shift. He was snapping at residents and nurses, and then he had snapped at you. 

“You need to fucking get it together. You do not speak to me or anyone else like that—“

“I don’t need another fucking lecture from you, alright? I shouldn’t have raised my voice, understood. I’m sorry, can we please move on—“

“No, Robby,” You laughed incredulously and ran a hand through your hair, “We can’t move on because you insist on staying stuck on the same fucked up carousel ride.”

He shook his head, “This isn’t about Adamson.”

“Oh, give me a break. You think I can’t see that trying to fill his shoes at the same time you’re grieving him is tearing you apart?”

“It’s not. I’m fine, I can handle it.”

You sighed and looked down at your shoes, “I can’t do this anymore. I won’t enable your self destructive behaviors, I’ve asked you over and over to see a goddamn psychologist and you don’t listen—“

“That’s because I don’t need a psychologist.”

“Then explain to me why you keep showing up to my apartment in the middle of the night fully in the throes of a panic attack?” He wouldn’t look at you, jaw clenched and staring off stubbornly in the distance, “You need professional help,” You said quietly, “And if you’re not gonna get it then I can’t keep doing… Whatever this is.” You gestured to the space between you.

He shrugged, “Fine. Are we done?”

You stared at him for a moment and then sneered, “You don’t think I mean it.”

He sighed and looked down at his feet, hands shoved deep in his pockets, “I didn’t say that.”

“Okay,” You scoffed, “Don’t show up at my door tonight.” You said and began walking away.

“Won’t be a problem.” He called after you.

But now there was someone knocking at your door. You waited, counted to thirty and back down again, but the knocking continued.

“Motherfucker,” You murmured and swung your legs over the edge of your bed, forced your feet to move to the door. You looked through the peep hole and saw Robby, head bent towards your door, fist resting against the wood.

Sighing, you unlocked the door and opened it just enough so you could see him, “What are you doing here?”

He looked up at you, eyes red rimmed and glassy, his chest heaving in and out, uneven breaths, “I’m sorry.” He choked out.

You ran a hand over your face, “I asked you not to do this.”

“I know, I know, I–I swear I’ll do whatever you need me to, I’ll call the psychologist in the morning, please.” He reached for you, his fingers settling on your hips, “Please.”

Every time he did this, every time he showed up, a wreck at your door, you remembered how he showed up for you when you didn’t want to be found. When you were intent on destroying yourself and everything around you. He had reached an unflinching hand down into the cold dark abyss of your grief and hauled you out. It wasn’t lost on you that he’d saved your life that year.

You didn’t know how you could refuse him.

You blinked away the wetness in your own eyes and pushed the door open further, lacing your fingers with his as you did. After closing and relocking the door, you led him to the couch, turning on a single lamp as you sat down, pulling him after you.

Robby immediately laid his head in your lap and you stroked his hair, his beard. Between his hyperventilating and sobs, he whispered apologies and promises into the bare skin of your thighs. It felt like a well choreographed dance at that point, your reassuring touch and his contrition. 

When his breathing slowed and quieted, you squeezed his shoulder lightly, “Let me make you some tea.” 

He sat up and trailed after you as you went to the kitchen. When you filled the kettle with water and turned it on, you braced your hands against the counter, facing away from him. It was hard to be with him like this, knowing how many times he had come here just like this, apologized and made promises he wasn’t going to keep. You were tired and worn down and still trying to come to terms with your own grief. 

He came up behind you as you waited for the water to heat and wrapped his arms around your waist. “I’m sorry,” He kept repeating, peppering kisses to your shoulders. You weren’t sure why he was still apologizing. Perhaps because he knew he was just going to do it all over again a few days from now and he was trying to get ahead of it.

He pushed the straps from your tank top down and began sucking lightly at the skin, his beard scratching against your skin in a way you were all too familiar with, that sent goosebumps down your arms.

“Robby…” You said lowly, because you knew you should stop him. You knew what came next, when you’d be powerless against his touch and his kisses, all grievances forgotten.

“Please,” He murmured against your skin, “Let me do this, let me make it better.”

You swallowed hard and then turned in his arms. You placed your hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him away, “Tea first.” You said softly, and then turned back to the kettle, waited for him to step away from you, waited for your pulse to settle with the absence of his touch.

Once the tea was steeped, you pushed his mug toward him and warmed your hands around your own. You could feel him staring at you from across the counter, but you wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“Do you remember when Gemma died and I refused help for months and months until Adamson removed me from the ER?”

He was silent a moment, and then you heard him clear his throat, “Yes. Of course I remember and I know what you’re trying to do. This is different.”

You looked up at that, head tilting curiously, “Really? How so? Because Adamson isn’t here to kick you out?”

He sighed, “No, because I’m not endangering patients.”

You nodded, “Maybe not the way I was. Maybe not right now. But eventually the grief and the hurt will grow so big you won’t be able to keep it from spilling over into everything. Your family, your friends, your work. It’s inevitable.”

“I already said I would call the psychologist in the morning.”

You looked back down at your mug, “I think we both know you only said that so I’d let you in. Like you always do.”

Neither of you said anything for a while after that, until finally, Robby broke the silence, “Let’s go to bed.”

You nodded, let him lead you to the bedroom. His careful hands undressed you, pulled you into him, kissed you in the dark until your lips were raw and aching. Foreheads bent together, he pushed himself into you. The sex was so good sometimes, you allowed yourself to forget. You loved his hands, the way he touched you, the way that he gripped your hips so tightly when he was about to come it left marks like ripened plums.

For a while after, you’d feel better, his arms wrapped around you as you drifted into sleep.

But then, the morning would come and Robby would leave silently. Forget everything he had said to you the night before. And the cycle would repeat.

You didn’t know how else to reach him. Part of you thought maybe if he just loved you the way you loved him, he would've gotten better by now. It was what had gotten through to you, the thought that you were worrying him, that he was scared for you. You didn’t want him to feel like that. And eventually you realized you didn’t want to feel that way forever, either. But it had been his concern that pushed you over the edge.

It didn’t seem to affect Robby that you were upset. That you felt alone in your own grief because you were so busy trying to make sure he wouldn’t drown in his.

It made you feel like a failure. So you stopped trying to reach him. You let him in when he showed up at your place, held him and let him take you to bed and you stopped asking him to go to therapy. 

If he tried to pick a fight at work, you stopped taking the bait. You just… checked out.

It wasn’t long after that he turned his attention to Heather. 

It devastated you, but it also felt a bit freeing. You felt like it gave you permission to fully push him out and close the door, knowing there was someone on the other side of it with him. 

Perhaps it was unfair to Heather, to unknowingly burden her with that, but you could feel yourself slipping. Your therapist was starting to gently suggest that if something didn’t change, she would have to recommend an inpatient program.

So you fully disappeared from Robby’s life.

***

Robby was missing. You had come back inside as triage was starting to quiet and you thought they might need more hands inside.

You had gone to yellow to see what the new kids were up to and had walked right into Mohan giving a guy a burr hole with an IO.

You had stopped short, wide eyed as you watched, “Holy shit.” You breathed as she extracted some blood and the man began to regain consciousness.

All heads turned to you in a panic.

Mohan immediately launched into an anxious explanation, “There were no attendings, he would’ve died—“

“Samira, relax. It’s fine, it’s excellent, even. You did what you had to to save a life. Just maybe… Don’t mention this to Robby, yeah?”

She gave you a small smile, “Won’t be a problem. Nobody can seem to find him anyway.”

You frowned, “What do you mean?”

“Nobody’s seen much of him since they took Leah to pedes.”

You shook your head, “Okay, um, are you guys good over here? Nobody’s dying?”

They all looked at you blankly like a bunch of little ducklings until Samira said, “I think we’re okay, you go find Robby.”

You gave them all and their patients another once over, not entirely convinced by their silence, and then started quickly walking to pedes.

What greeted you on the other side of the pedes door stopped you short. Robby was on the floor, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks as he clutched the Magen David that hung on a chain around his throat in a shaking hand. He was murmuring something to himself in what sounded like Hebrew.

It took you a minute, but you recognized it as a prayer. You had heard him recite it only once before, shortly before he had extubated Adamson. Shema, you thought he’d called it the first time you asked. A declaration of faith. A plea for protection. 

Immediately, you turned back to the door, pulling the privacy curtain in front of the glass door.

Then, you sat on the floor next to him, said nothing, but put a hand on his leg and waited. After a moment, he turned to you and buried his face in your chest. It surprised you, the way seeing him like this seemed to have your walls springing a leak. The emotions you’d kept at bay for most of the day began to push forward.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” He said over and over into your chest, knotting his hands into your scrubs and pulling you impossibly closer.

You weren’t sure who the apologies were meant for. For Leah. For Adamson. For you. All he had wanted, you knew, was to be forgiven. He couldn’t or wouldn’t forgive himself and so needed everyone else to.

“It’s okay,” You said, voice shaking as you brought a hand up to cradle his head to your chest. You pressed a kiss to his head, “You’re okay.”

You held him like that for a couple of minutes, until his breathing settled enough, “We have to get back out there.” You said quietly.

“I don’t think I can.”

You sighed through your nose, “What happened? With Leah?”

“I told Jake,” He sniffled and pulled away from you, rubbing the tears from his face with the heels of his hands, “And he blamed me. And I know what you’ll say, that he didn’t mean it. That he loves me. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? The logic of it?” He raised his hands between the two of you, “Everything I’ve ever loved in my adult life I’ve broken with these two hands. Adamson, you, now Jake.” He lowered his hands and shook his head, “I’m done. I can’t do it anymore.”

You bit your lip as you tried to find the words, “You’re framing everything the wrong way. I know you’ve heard it a thousand times, but there was nothing else you could’ve done about Adamson. And besides, I was there too. I helped make those decisions. Do you blame me for what happened?”

He looked at you sadly, “Of course not.”

“What makes you any more culpable for what happened than me? Because it was your hands that physically extubated him? That’s silly.” 

He ran a hand over his face, “And what about you, hm? Can you say you don’t blame me for all the pain and suffering you’ve endured the last few years? More than that, even?”

Your eyes softened as you examined each line of his face, each freckle. It was true that he had been the source of a lot of hurt in your adult life, but he had also been a lifeline. 

You raised a hand to his cheek, brushed your thumb tenderly over his cheekbone, “There have been many times over the years where your friendship was the only thing standing between me and a black hole.” You swallowed thickly, “I would do it all again just for the chance to know you.”

His face threatened to crumble and he reached a shaky hand to the back of your neck, pulling you to him until your foreheads touched, “I would, too.” 

“We have to go back out there.” You said softly after a few moments.

He nodded, “Yeah. Fuck.” He pulled away and rubbed at his face.

You rose to standing and he followed suit, both of you going your separate ways outside of pedes without so much as a goodbye.

***

You nearly physically collided into Janey when you were heading to the ambulance bay to check on triage, your hands immediately reaching out to steady her, “Oh, shit–Sorry–Janey?”

She smiled tightly at you and you dropped your hands, “Hi, Y/N.” Her words were terse and sharp, but you dismissed that as just stress from the crisis that had unfolded over the last few hours, “It’s been a while.”

You nodded, “Yeah, um,” You gestured over your shoulder, “I can take you to Jake, he’s doing alright, but–”

“Could you just take me to Robby, please?”

She was avoiding making eye contact with you, which you thought was strange. Lips pressed in a firm line and shoulders tensed. It was true you hadn’t seen her since her and Robby had broken up, but you didn’t remember her being so cold to you before. 

“Uh, yeah, sure.” You swallowed, “Just wait by the hub, I’ll be right back.”

Once you brought Robby to Janey, you went behind the hub towards Dana.

“Seems like Janey still holds a grudge, huh?” Dana said, smirking at you from over her glasses.

Things had finally slowed down enough that they could catch their breath and start getting the emergency room back up and running. You cracked open a can of Diet Coke and took a sip as you turned to Dana.

You frowned at her, “Why would Janey be holding a grudge against me?”

Dana’s smirk widened, “It is so exhausting sometimes bearing the entire historical archive of this emergency room on my shoulders.”

Scowling at her, you waited, “Well?”

“Why do you think Janey and Robby broke up?”

In truth, you didn’t think much about Janey and Robby’s relationship anymore. It was one of Robby’s longer relationships and as such, you had tried to bury your feelings for him six feet under while they were together for fear that it would be the one to take him away from you for good. Besides which, Gemma had died while they were still together, and in the months that followed your memory was pretty fuzzy.

“I don’t remember,” You said slowly, “I don’t remember much from then other than my crushing existential dread.”

She looked at you sympathetically and patted your hand lightly with her own, “Maybe you do remember how Robby was with you nearly 24/7 for a while after Gemma died. Because he was worried for you.”

You shrugged, “Yeah, sure. I think 24/7 might be exaggerating, though.”

“Well, it was enough that it bothered Janey.”

You narrowed your eyes at Dana, “Are you implying that they broke up because of me?”

“Sweetheart,” Dana shook her head, “Robby made the choices he did, it wasn’t your fault. But the way he told it to me was that he was out to dinner with Janey, someone called worried about you and Robby was going to go to you, but Janey made him choose. Said she was tired of being second choice and if he left they were done. So Robby chose you.”

You blinked at her and then turned your attention to where Robby was talking to Janey, “He said that?”

“Yeah, kid.” Dana sighed, “Janey thinks she lost him to you.”

You scoffed and turned back to Dana, “Well, joke’s on her I guess, because we both lost him.”

Dana shook her head as you walked off toward another patient, watched Robby’s head turn to follow your movement as you walked by him, “I don’t know about that, kiddo.”

***

Robby was, quite literally, too close to the edge. The moon cast shadows on the roof of PTMC as he looked out over the Pittsburgh skyline. It was early enough that he could still hear the rush of the cars below and the faint call of sirens. He had just got done notifying Leah’s family and he couldn’t breathe again. All he knew was that he wanted it to stop. 

He didn’t want to tell another family he had failed to save their loved one. He was tired of having to hold the whole ER together, he wasn’t sure he could keep teaching incoming doctors when he didn’t think he deserved to keep practicing medicine himself. He wanted so badly to keep them all from making his mistakes, but the fuck of it all was that he thought that was probably inevitable. That it was a necessary evil to become a doctor.

He wanted to stop letting you down, but he thought it was too late for that. You were leaving and it was his fault. No matter what you said earlier, even if you really didn’t blame him, it was unforgivable how he’d treated you.

And a small part of him thought, as he looked over the edge, that things would be better without him. Maybe they’d make you head of the department. It was what should have happened in the first place anyway. PTMC wouldn’t lose you as a result of his failings. 

Then he heard the soft padding of your footsteps behind him, a gait he could recognize anywhere, in his sleep, in the busiest train station.

You leaned over the railing behind him and sighed, “Wish you wouldn’t stand so close.” You said quietly.

“I’ve seen you stand closer.”

You huffed a laugh, “Always a competition with us, isn’t it?”

“No,” He said, “Not anymore. I’m done.”

There’s a beat of silence, then, “That’s a scary fucking thing to say when you’re on the edge of a roof.”

“Yeah, well, it’s how I feel. Isn’t that what you’ve always asked me to do? Talk about my feelings?”

He heard you blow out a long breath, “The police found the shooter, I don’t know if you heard. It wasn’t David.” He didn’t say anything, so you continued, “Thought you’d want to know. You were right about him.”

He huffed a laugh, “Yippee.” He murmured, heavy with sarcasm, “Doesn’t fucking matter. People are still dead.”

“No one else could have gotten our department through a mass casualty like that with only six fatalities. Except maybe Adamson.” A beat of silence passed between you, “PTMC needs you. I need you.”

He heard the note of fear and desperation in your voice, “You don’t need me. You’re leaving. Because of me.”

“It’s not because of you–”

“Bullshit.”

You sighed, “I’m leaving to prove to myself that I… That I can do it on my own. Without you. I need you. I’ll probably always need you or want you in some capacity. PTMC is home to me, but only if you’re here.” You inhaled a shaky breath, “I’m leaving, just for a little while, because we’re destroying each other. And we both need to heal without the other. You’ve only ever wanted me when things were bad, when you were falling apart. You might not want me once you get your shit together.”

He turned to face you finally, leaning his forearms on the railing next to you, “I can’t imagine a time when I won’t want you. My only problem has ever been wanting you too much.”

You looked at him sadly and shook your head, “It never felt that way to me.”

He watched you carefully, noted the way the breeze blew a piece of your hair into your face. Without thinking, he reached out and gently tucked it behind your ear. His fingers lingered and then traced a path down your neck before he dropped them back to the railing. He nodded, “I know that. And I’m sorry.” He sighed, “But you’ll come back to the Pitt?”

“I hope so,” The corners of your lips tugged up slightly, “Depends on if you really mean it. About getting professional help.”

“I mean it.” He said, “Do you think…” He paused and cleared his throat, “Do you think you’ll ever want to give it a real chance? You and me?”

You swallowed and looked down at your hands, “I don’t know. It’s difficult for me to imagine being with you in a way that isn’t painful.”

He closed his eyes against the wave of hurt that sent through him. It was his own fault, he knew. He had had any number of opportunities to tell you how he really felt over the years. But he had hidden from it like a coward.

“I’m not… I’m not saying never,” You said slowly, “I love you,” You reached your hand forward, running your fingers gently along his jaw, through his beard, “And I’ll always be here whenever you need me. But I… I don’t want to put us both in another situation that’s… unsustainable.”

“I love you, too.” He covered your hand with his own, keeping it anchored to his cheek, “I understand.”

“Will you come down now?” You asked quietly and he heard the way your breath caught in your throat as you said it.

He stared at you for a few moments, committing the image of you up here with your eyes that glinted in the moonlight to memory. The way the softness of your hand felt against his skin. He wasn’t sure when he’d feel your touch again, if ever. The thought sent an ache through him.

“Yeah,” He sighed, “Let’s get out of here.”

***

Six Weeks Later

You and Robby hadn’t spoken since you left the Pitt four weeks ago. Even before that, the conversation had been sparse. You had helped get him a referral to a therapist at the same clinic as your own therapist. You knew he had been attending sessions because you occasionally ran into him to and from your own appointments. But you would mostly just nod at each other as you crossed paths. 

Now that you were gone, the day shift felt emptier. He longed to text or call you, but held back each time.

“What’s stopping you from reaching out?” His therapist had asked during a session.

Robby shrugged, “She doesn’t want me to.”

“Did she say that?”

“I–Well, no.”

His therapist had nodded and jotted down some notes, “Do you think it’s possible that the real obstacle is that you’ve always used her as a method to punish yourself and you’re just continuing the pattern of behavior by not reaching out?”

That had stunned him to silence. And he still thought about it now, a couple weeks later, as he walked around the Pitt. He saw your ghost in every corner of this place.

When he walked into the staff break room that day, Perlah and Princess had a bunch of sticky notes around them and looked up in horror when they saw who had walked in.

He smirked, “What’s this? Recent betting pool?” He looked over the sticky notes, “I don’t remember any pools since the ambulance was stolen.”

Perlah looked at him nervously, “Uh, no, it’s uh– It’s an old one.”

He picked up a neon green sticky note that read Marriage. $100.

Robby frowned, “This looks like Adamson’s handwriting.” Princess and Perlah both just stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to say, “How old is this?”

Princess elbowed Perlah when neither of them spoke, “It’s from around 2018 or 2019,” She sighed, “There was a stupid bet going around about you and Y/N. We… We were gonna revive it when she came back to the day shift, but…”

But you were gone now.

Robby blinked and waved around the sticky note, “And Adamson was part of it?”

Princess smirked, “He was one of the first to make a bet.”

Robby reread the sticky note, “He thought we were gonna get married.” He said softly, “Can I keep this?” 

Princess and Perlah both nodded and then Robby headed out to the ambulance bay, the sticky note with Adamson’s handwriting still in his hand. 

With his other hand, he pulled out his phone, waited for his Face ID to unlock before opening the Phone app and clicking on his Favorites. You were at the top of his list and his thumb hovered over your contact picture as he stared at the sticky note.

Do you think it’s possible that the real obstacle is that you’ve always used her as a method to punish yourself and you’re just continuing the pattern of behavior by not reaching out?

He didn’t want to punish himself anymore. He wanted to be worthy of good things, of you. Adamson thought he was deserving of good things, as evidenced by a years old sticky note. You had thought so, too, once upon a time.

He pressed his thumb against your name and brought the phone up to his ear.

“Hi,” He said when you picked up, closing his eyes at the sound of your voice, “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” You said slowly, “Sorry, is–is everything okay with you?”

“Yeah,” He said, running a thumb over the old sharpie ink, “Yeah, I just, I wanted to hear your voice. Is that okay?”

There was a moment of silence, “Yeah, of course. It’s nice to hear your voice, too.”

“How’s Presby?”

You gave a short laugh, “It’s not home, but it’s alright. I’m adjusting.”

He hummed, “There’s always a place waiting for you here, you know?”

“I know.”

He cleared his throat, “I’m off on Sunday and I was wondering, if you’re also off, if you’d want to just– I don’t know, grab a coffee, go for a walk or something. Catch up.”

You’re quiet for a while and he told himself it would be okay if you said no. If you didn’t want to see him.

“I’d like that,” You said softly, “But, just to be clear, I am accepting a platonic coffee date, yes?”

He smirked, “Yes. I just want to see you.”

He listened as you took a deep inhale, “You sound better. Therapy’s helping?”

“I think so, yeah.” And he means it. He is starting to feel just a little bit better.

“Have you called Jake?”

He bent over his knees, resting his head against his free hand, “I have, yeah.”

“And?” You asked after a moment of silence.

“It’s still not great, but he said he’d be willing to come to a therapy appointment with me. To try and start sorting it out.”

He heard you sigh in relief, “That’s great, Robby. I’m… I’m really proud of you.”

He smiled and felt his eyes water. He was so happy he had called you.

The two of you slipped into an unspoken tradition, walking side by side through the park by the river, mostly on Sundays, or whenever your schedules lined up. It was easy and it was fun and for once it wasn't heavy with unspoken grief and trauma. If something triggered a conversation about Adamson or Gemma, for the most part you were both able to navigate it without fighting, without shutting down.

Until six months have passed since you left PTMC and Robby’s walking you all the way back up to your apartment.

“Um, do you…?” You looked at him almost shyly, a flush working its way up your neck. It’s so ridiculous to think that you might have been nervous around him, it had a smirk stretching across his face, “Do you wanna come in?”

He wanted to, badly. He was overjoyed that you seemed to want his company as much as he wanted yours. But the two of you were in a good spot right now and he was so scared he might fuck it up.

Robby had stuck Adamson’s sticky note to his fridge when he had gotten home that day as a sort of unspoken goal for himself. He wanted to marry you one day, if that was something you also wanted. His therapist had told him that if he did want that, he was going to have to do things that scared the shit out of him sometimes.

Like go into your apartment when invited, even if he worried he would make a mess of things again.

“You have to learn how to trust yourself again or you’ll stay stuck here in the same patterns, shackled to your self doubt and unable to move forward.”

He swallowed, “Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”

You lasted all of two minutes before he was pushing you against a wall and kissing you. His hands were almost frantic as they touched you, but he kissed you slowly and thoroughly, almost tenderly.

It had been years since he had been able to kiss you without there being some fight or other tension looming above you. It felt freeing that all he felt now was love and longing.

He took you to the couch, undressing you as he did and you were moaning into his mouth, grabbing at his shirt and running your fingers over the skin there. He laid you down on the couch and pulled his shirt over his head, watched the way your eyes traced down his chest hungrily.

“I missed you,” He murmured, lowering himself over you again, palming one of your breasts in his hand.

You hummed and arched your back into his touch as he watched one of your nipples pebble beneath his thumb.

“I’ve been thinking about this, about being able to touch you again, from the moment you left.” He panted and kissed his way down your chest, your stomach, until he reached the tops of your thighs.

“Me too,” You sighed, and then his mouth was on you, hot and needy, “Fuck, I missed you.”

He’s surprised to find that he still knows just what you like, exactly how much pressure to apply, how fast he needs to go to bring you to the edge. It’s muscle memory, like performing a medical procedure he hasn’t done in years, his hands still know what to do, but his brain is three steps behind. Your hand knotted in his hair and he watched eagerly as your hips bucked up and into his mouth until you’re coming and he’s sucking up every last drop of you.

When you caught your breath, you sat up and pushed him onto his back. He was happy to lie back and watch you and in fact, he relished the way you looked at him. Kissed every patch of his skin you could reach, an adoring look in your eyes. He thought he had to have been an idiot to have never noticed the way you looked at him before.

You sank down onto him, both of you sighing in unison as you adjusted to the stretch of him. “You okay, honey?” He asked breathlessly, gripping your chin in his hand.

You nodded and rolled your hips. It had been years now since he’d slept with someone and the sensation of you around him, just that slow grinding of your hips, had him seeing stars, “Jesus fuck.” He swore.

You sped up your movements slowly and he helped move you up and down, gripping your hips as you pressed your hands to his chest. He could feel that you were already barreling straight towards another orgasm, your walls pulsing around him, and that was fine, because there was no way he was gonna last much longer.

“Can you touch yourself for me, sweetheart?” He asked breathlessly, “I want to watch you touch yourself. Want you to come with me.”

Your eyelids fluttered open as you processed what he said, and still grinding down on him, you circled your fingers over your clit, “That’s it,” He sighed, “Just like that.”

Your moans grew louder and your hips moved faster and faster. You looked euphoric as you tumbled over the edge again and you were so fucking gorgeous, he was immediately coming, swearing as he did.

Both of you trying to catch your breath, you folded forward, laying down against his bare, sweat slicked chest. He ran a hand over your hair as you settled, watched the rise and fall of your breathing, and was overcome with such tenderness for you his chest ached and his eyes watered.

“I love you,” He said quietly, tears caught in his throat, “In case you were unsure, I still love you.”

You pushed yourself up slightly so you could see his face. Your cheeks were flushed and sticky with sweat, “I know,” You said and smirked, “I love you, too.”

He kissed you again, sighed as your fingers came up to scratch at his beard, “Could I take you out to dinner next week? Only if… If you’re ready. I want to try to do things right, this time.”

You nudged your nose against his and bit your lip. This was dangerous, this hope that was building in your chest. But he was trying, was going to therapy, was voicing his feelings as he was feeling them. Was doing all this for himself, but also for you.

“Yes,” You pushed your lips forward to give him a quick peck, “Take me out to dinner, Michael.”

He smiled against your mouth and thought again of that sticky note on his fridge. One day, he’d show it to you. That was a promise he wouldn’t break.

[deadpoetskin]

SHE DOES, MINE

SYNOPSIS: Damian Wayne has never been the kind of man to fall in love halfway. And when he loves, he does it with all the ferocity and devotion of someone who was trained to safeguard what he holds most dear So when the girl he loves shines—he makes sure the world never dims her PAIRINGS: Aged Up! Damian Wayne x Reader TAGS: Alternate Universe, Romance, Fluff

🜼 :: i've seen too much alpha male content on tiktok i had to write this masterpiece to calm myself

🜼 :: i get that this might be ooc for damian—like i said, i'm not very familiar with the canon material yet—but i don't care because this is my fic and i can do what i want with it

🜼 :: i wanted to post this before part three of my tim fic just 'cause that one isn't quite done yet. i'm not yet satisfied with the way i've written it so this is a little something to have while you guys wait for that one.

There’s something in her—

Something radiant.

It’s not loud or dramatic.

Not desperate or flashy.

It’s just… bright.

The way she walks into a room and transforms it, like someone opened the windows and let the sunlight in—suddenly everything feels warmer, clearer, alive.

Damian fell in love with that brightness.

And the moment he did?

He made it his job to protect it.

One Year Ago

He showed up on her window balcony with a dislocated shoulder and a look that said: don’t ask.

So she didn’t.

She just opened the window, said, “You’re bleeding on my basil,” and went to get the first aid kit.

They weren’t dating then. Not really.

He was Damian Wayne. She was the girl who sat beside him in class—lip gloss always perfect, boots too pretty for Gotham grime, with a knack for saying something ridiculous and making it sound profound.

They met in a Philosophy 101 elective.

He thought she was an idiot for quoting Barbie.

She thought he was repressing sixteen years of rage and probably slept with his fists clenched.

Both were right.

But they also partnered on a debate project, complained about their annoying classmates, and kept running into each other at increasingly inconvenient moments.

He’d show up to class with split knuckles and a stitched lip, and she wouldn’t ask. She’d just pass him an ice cold water bottle, slide her hoodie over for him to use as a makeshift ice pack, and keep talking like nothing was unusual.

One time he came in with blood drying beneath his collar. She only raised an eyebrow, moved her takeout box closer to him, and said, “The garlic bread is still warm.”

When he disappeared for five days and returned, knocking on her door—limping, face paler than usual and shoulder stiff—she didn’t ask where he’d been. She just opened her door, pointed him to the couch, made soup, and put on a movie he once mentioned he enjoyed.

He stopped showing up anywhere else after long nights. Only her window.

They weren’t supposed to fall in love. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love

There were too many unsaid things between them—too much shadow in his world, too much light in hers. He carried weight in his shoulders like he was always bracing for war. She wore joy like armor, all sunshine and clever comebacks, like she could survive anything as long as she stayed golden.

But he kept coming back. For her. For the way she patched him up in glittery pajamas and brewed him coffee the way he liked it. For how she met every argument he made—disarming his logic with a well-placed “actually”—and still managed to be gentle about it, like she was offering correction with a ribbon tied around it.

For the way she made being brilliant look fun—and made him feel things he wasn’t supposed to. Things he didn’t have the time or luxury for.

It drove him insane.

He called her infuriating. She called him dramatic.

He kept coming back. And she let him.

Eventually, he told her. About Robin. About the League. About the fact that he wasn’t just bruised from bar fights, but from chasing actual death through rooftops and gutters.

She blinked. Took a breath. Then asked, “So that’s why you’re so bad at texting back?”

He stared.

She handed him his coffee. “Cool. That explains a lot.”

Now

Damian Wayne doesn’t do anything halfway.

Not in battle. Not in love.

So when it came to her—there was never going to be anything halfway about it.

He calculated the risk, weighed the consequences, and still handed her the keys.

He didn’t accidentally fall in love.

He didn’t casually let her into the Bat-side of his life.

And he’s sure as hell not going to keep living under the same roof as his gossiping, nosy, emotionally invasive brothers when he could be waking up next to her in a place of their own.

So yes.

The only logical next step?

Move out. Take her with him.

“Damian. Baby. Love of my life. Please do not fold my dress like it’s a tactical vest.”

She didn’t even look up from her side of the room, where she was carefully organizing makeup into a padded case like it was crown jewels. Damian, meanwhile, was frowning over her favorite silk dress, currently flattened into a rectangle.

“It wrinkles when you pack it like that,” she said, tone calm but pointed—clearly watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“It’s more space-efficient,” he said flatly, still folding.

“It’s Dior.”

“That doesn’t make it less wrinkle-prone.”

She sighed, standing up and crossing the room to peel the dress from his hands. “This is why you’re not allowed near my closet unsupervised.”

“I rescued a civilian diplomat in less time than it’s taking you to pack makeup,” he muttered, watching as she delicately re-folded the fabric with a practiced roll.

“And yet here you are,” she said softly, “ still showing up for me anyway.”

He flies her to the new place—not because it’s far, but because he likes the way her eyes light up when he does things like that. Private jet. Window seat. Her favorite drink already waiting.

The residence is technically still in Gotham.

Discreet. Reinforced. High above the noise.

A penthouse—three levels of clean lines and curated light. 

The kitchen looks like it was designed for a cooking show.

There’s library already holds all her annotated books, shelved just the way she likes them.

Their bedroom has blackout curtains, soft sheets, and her favorite throw blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

She’s silent for a long moment. Then:

“You decorated.”

“Tt. I’m not a savage.”

The adjustment, the rhythm, the quiet luxury of building something together.

It doesn’t happen all at once. But the space eventually starts to feel like them—like a home.

Damian, ever precise, takes to domesticity the way he does combat: intensely, instinctively, and with startling dedication. 

He remembers—too clearly—those nights she wordlessly cleaned the blood from his knuckles, nudged a warm bowl of fresh soup toward him, handed him a fresh shirt and didn’t ask questions.

Back then, he hadn’t known how to say thank you. So now, he shows it in the only way he knows how: by making her life gentler wherever he can. By handling the sharp corners before she gets near them. By protecting her from the quiet exhaustion she never complains about.

It starts small.

She’s humming—soft, distracted—while folding towels on a quiet Sunday afternoon.

Damian walks in.

Pauses. Frowns slightly.

“Beloved.”

“Hmm?”

“You shouldn’t be doing that.”

“It’s laundry. I’m not battling Deathstroke.”

“Still.”

Two days later, every piece of clothing she owned—including ones she didn’t remember buying—was folded, hung, and steam-pressed in perfectly color-coded rows.

No explanation.

Just a silent housekeeper named Marta, who appears twice a week like clockwork.

“Why?” she asks later, a little amused.

“Because you were humming,” he says simply. “And your voice is better when you’re not tired.”

She doesn’t cook. Unless you count heating water for tea.

Every morning, she wakes up to a pre-set breakfast bar tailored to her weekly cravings.

Avocados? Already sliced.

Eggs, soft-boiled for exactly six minutes? Naturally.

Chocolate-dipped strawberries on Tuesdays? Of course.

She once jokingly asked for pancakes shaped like bats.

The plate was waiting the next morning—complete with tiny edible batarangs. 

“You know I can cook, right?”  she once mumbled, more puzzled than insistent. 

Damian, without looking up from his tablet, “You could also write a thesis in glitter gel pen. Doesn’t mean you should.” 

She doesn’t grocery shop. She’s never had to. 

The fridge is always stocked. The pantry never dips below half. The fruit is always fresh, the snacks never stale, and somehow, everything she loves appears just before she realizes she’s craving it.

The exact brand of instant ramen she lives on during final?

Local lemonade she swears tastes better than store-bought?

Her favorite brand of oat milk that always sells out?

It’s just there. Always. As if the universe anticipated it

—or Damian Wayne.

He’d hired a private grocer before they even moved in. Arranged deliveries on a rotating schedule. Commissioned a smart inventory system that flagged replacements before she noticed anything missing. 

There’s no grocery list taped to the fridge, no scribbled reminders on the counter, no panicked “we’re out of milk” moment. It just… never happens.

“Did you go to the store?” she asked once, squinting at the restocked shelf of her favorite jam.

“No,” Damian said. “The store comes to us.”

She doesn’t clean.

Not because she’s lazy.

Because Damian has built a life where she simply doesn’t have to.

The housekeeper arrives exactly when they’re out.

The vacuum runs on a silent schedule while they sleep.

There’s a scent diffuser system that releases calming scents like warm vanilla and fresh linen. 

The kinds of scents that say: You’re home.

She tried to vacuum once.

He unplugged the cord without a word, handed her a cup of tea, and delegated the task to Marta.

“This feels excessive,” she said once, laughing.

“No,” Damian answered. “It’s called priorities.”

“Priorities?”

“Yes. You have better things to do than chase dust bunnies.”

She huffed a laugh. “Like what?”

“Being brilliant. Annoying me. Tending to your garden of plants you call your children.”

“Your attention is a resource I refuse to waste on dust.” he said simply.

The only time she ever picked up a broom was to threaten Jason with it.

She asked him once.

“Is this a power thing?” she’d asked, curled in his lap on their couch.

“Are you trying to take care of me because you think I can’t?”

He had looked at her then, calm and deadly sincere.

“No. I’m taking care of you because you shouldn’t have to waste your time doing menial things. Because your time is valuable. Because your mind is extraordinary. Because I can.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just rested her head against his shoulder, eyes soft.

“You know I’d do the same for you, right?”

“I know,” he murmured, brushing his fingers through her hair. “That’s why I won’t let you beat me to it.”

“You protect the city,” she tells him once. “And I don’t even do the dishes.”

He looks at her like she’s lost her mind.

“You protect me.”

He said it like a fact.

And she didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll her eyes or argue like she usually might.

It was ridiculous. Over the top. The kind of thing people say in movies, in poems, in love songs whispered between verses.

But the thing about Damian Wayne was—

To him, her happiness wasn’t a luxury. It was a metric. A criteria for what was worth her time, her effort, her energy.

If it drained her, it was cut. If it bored her, it was handled. If it made her pause too long before smiling, it was gone by morning.

“But Damian—”

“If it doesn’t make you happy,” he said, quietly, forehead pressed to hers, “it doesn’t belong in your day.”

One of the things she does do—without fail—is wait up.

Damian came back with blood on his sleeve and exhaustion in his bones. The patrol had gone longer than expected, and the gash across his arm told her more than any debrief ever could.

She met him at the balcony window, arms crossed, your expression sharp with worry poorly disguised as irritation.

“We are having words,” she said firmly.

“I neutralized a threat—” he started, voice hoarse.

“No,” she interrupted, stepping forward and grabbing his uninjured wrist. “We are having nourishment, then words. In that order.”

He grunted something unintelligible, but didn’t pull away. Let her guide him out of his boots. Let her steer him to the kitchen. Let her fuss over him even as he rolled his eyes and muttered that he was fine.

Damian Wayne might be a soldier, might be lethal, might have faced down warlords and monsters—

But in her hands, he was just a man who needed soup, stitches, and someone to tell him not to bleed on the countertop.

And she always did. Every time.

“You disobeyed a direct girlfriend command,” she said, dabbing antiseptic on his scrapes and bruises. “I should revoke your forehead kisses.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” he grunted.

She simply leaned in, kissed his brow—gentle, lingering, a silent promise—and whispered, “Next time you come home bleeding, I will.”

It makes her happy, he knows.

To help.

To protect him the way he protects her.

To be part of this secret thing that is his, and now, theirs.

And because he has her…

He trains harder. Fights harder. Smarter. Cleaner.

He fights with her voice echoing in his ear, and with the knowledge that if he slips—if he falters—it will scare her.

“You did good tonight,” she says after every patrol. “Come home safe. That’s all I want.”

So he does.

Because she keeps him steady.

Keeps him from going too far, from losing himself in the mission.

From the silence that used to follow him home.

It was the first time she’d ever hosted anything in their penthouse.

She’d sent the invite on impulse, halfway through raiding the pantry for snacks. Damian hadn’t said anything when he saw the group chat name pop up. He only raised a brow and muttered something about “surviving one evening of meddling.”

The Gotham Partners Support Group™ hangout? snacks, drinks, and possibly unsolicited love advice

KORI: absolutely, i will bring flowers!! KON: on my way as long as no one makes me play charades DICK: lies, you love it

She laughed out loud reading it, already half-buzzing with excitement.

Kori’s heels click against the polished marble, echoing softly through the open space.

Kon lets out a low whistle when he sees the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Dick stops in front of the kitchen island, eyebrows raised. “Is that real marble?”

Tim pretends not to be impressed, but his fingers haven’t stopped tracing the edge of the built-in espresso bar for five solid minutes.

There’s music—soft. Lighting—warm, romantic. Scents—floral and calming.

And in the middle of it all is her, radiant in pink silk shorts and a cardigan she didn’t button up all the way, offering fresh lemonade in glasses that chill themselves.

Kon accepts his with both hands, eyes wide as he takes in the curated calm of the space.

“This is what you live like?” he asks her, somewhere between awe and disbelief.

Tim doesn’t look up from where he’s adding a lemon slice to his own glass. “This is what Damian insisted she live like.”

Kon whistles low. “Damn. I get it now.”

Kon finds the in-house massage chair. Within seconds, he’s flat on his back, eyes closed, muttering something about never leaving.

Dick discovers the balcony garden—rows of herbs, sun-warmed terracotta, and a vine-draped bench with a throw pillow. He whistles low, brushing his fingers over the rosemary. “Didn’t know Damian had a green thumb.”

“He doesn’t,” she calls from the kitchen. “I do. He just bought the balcony.”

Kori, meanwhile, opens the walk-in pantry—and promptly gasps. “You have an entire section just for different kinds of honey??”

“I like options.”, she beams.

Jason hasn’t even shown up yet, and already the place is buzzing.

Kon’s half-asleep in the massage chair, murmuring threats to anyone who tries to make him move. Dick is crouched in the garden corner, dramatically sniffing potted herbs and assigning them names with far too much confidence. Kori’s opened three jars of honey for “taste-testing purposes” and is now trying to convince Damian to try the lavender one on toast.

Tim is loitering by the drinks counter, drink in one hand, the other typing furiously on his phone, pretending not to laugh at the chaos around him.

And through it all, she’s just laughing—at ease, perfectly unbothered—as Damian leans against the kitchen island behind her, watching it all unfold with a look that says: this is his personal hell and also he’s never been happier.

They gather around the low table in the lounge—pillows everywhere, soft throws tossed over laps, bowls of popcorn and fancy chips within reach, half-finished drinks sweating on coasters. Laughter echoes off the high ceilings, warm and unhurried.

Kori nudges her with a grin, eyes sparkling.

“So you really don’t cook?”

“Nope.”

“Or clean?”

“Not once.”

“And Damian doesn’t mind?”

Before she can answer, Damian—seated beside her, legs crossed, perfectly composed, fingers idly brushing her knee—scoffs.

“Mind? I’d be offended if she tried.”

Jason, fork in hand, lazily gestures toward her as he leans back into the cushions.

 “So what do you even do in the penthouse all day if you’re not cooking, cleaning, shopping, or doing laundry?”

The question wasn’t malicious. Just curious. Playful, even.

Damian answers before she can—calm, certain, unapologetic.

“She studies, she writes, she drives me insane by reciting musicals.”

Tim snorted into his drink. “You’re spoiling her.”

“She deserves it,” Damian said simply.

Jason raised a brow. “What’s she ever gonna do if you’re not around to handle everything?”

“Thrive,” Damian repeated—cold, final. His gaze didn’t waver. “Because I’m building her a life where she can.”

Damian leans back, calm and unaffected. “I don’t understand why her not doing chores surprises you. My mother never lifted a hand to sweep a floor in her life. And no one dared question her capability.”

Dick raised a brow. “Your mother also runs an empire of assassins.”

Damian doesn’t miss a beat. “Exactly. And she never wasted time on tasks that diluted her strength.”

Because Damian Wayne may live under Bruce’s roof, fight under the Bat’s symbol, and protect Gotham’s streets—

But the foundation of his worldview?

That was all Talia al Ghul.

“I grew up watching people serve my mother. Not because she demanded it, but because her time was valuable. You don’t train the world’s most dangerous woman to hand-wash her robes. You let her focus on what makes her extraordinary.”

His gaze flicked to her, sitting beside him—pink silk and soft joy wrapped in confidence.

“So I made sure my beloved—who is, in her own right, extraordinary—lives the same way.”

Kori nodded slowly. Kon glanced her way, thoughtful.

Damian spoke without hesitation. “Why would I ask the person I love to waste time on things I can pay others to handle—when she could spend that time with me, pursuing her passions, or simply existing in peace?”

Dick leaned back, arms crossed, mulling it over. “So it’s not spoiling her.”

“It’s honoring her,” Damian corrected, voice calm but absolute.

Jason scoffed, grinning. “And here I thought you were just whipped.”

Damian raised a brow. “Oh, I am. Fully. Willingly.” A pause. “You should try it.”

Everyone stared at him for a moment. Then:

Kon let out a low whistle. “Honestly? I get it. She glows in this place. Like she owns the world.”

“She does,” Damian replied, calm and certain. “Mine.”

And somehow, that was the final punctuation.

ARCHIVE

divider: @enchanthings

[badaxefamily]

For the most part you're thinking about it too much. There are a lot of things that really aren't going to work if you try to apply logic, and the audience has more fun if they just ignore it. The things you mentioned aren't the only things that are odd, the characters also don't age despite career mode spanning three years, and various characters having spent what seems to be a decade in highschool. There's also no indication of how the umas get their names. They just kinda have them.

Another thing to remember is that while the intro implies the horses are reincarnated, the people of the Umamusume world aren't aware of this and wouldn't have any reason to be surprised by the gender of the umas. To them, "uma" means a human girl with a tail and different ears. Even the kanji they use for "horse" is different:

For fictional beings, perhaps those are some other equine like a donkey? Who knows. The race names are taken from real-life races though, and the only way CyGames can use the names of the horses is if all the racing people are happy. That means they have to use real race names, and respect the horses' lineages (which is why there's no explicit romance). The horse and jockey image you're referring to is probably a race logo. I don't remember it offhand though.

this is literally the only major change to history in the umamusume timeline mentioned or implied

[narcjsistx]

please I have such a good request that I think is funny. After chapter 307, imagine Reader asks Sae if they can buy a pet bunny and he instantly tells her no, and she’s asking why not and he’s like “ No 😐🥀” but like, crack. It can be smau or fic I FEEL IT WOULD BE SO FUNNY THO

i usually don't make written fic requests, only smau ones, but this one really made me laugh. so here we are guys

✶ 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

it felt strange to have SAE ITOSHI at home for more than three days in a row — strange, but definitely pleasant. the spanish tour had just ended with great results, and that gave him the chance to finally relax a little, in the quiet of his home

it was nice to actually be able to hug him, and not just send a message he’d only read hours later in his hotel room. it was even nice just to spend time together in the same room, too

sae genuinely thought these days would be the best of the month — finally free to train only when he truly felt like it, and most of all, finally able to spend time with you after months of random flights for equally random, short-lived visits

he thought the days would pass by peacefully, with you

big mistake, sae itoshi.

"babe, can you watch the video i sent you?"

"okay. which one of the last... fortytwo?"

it wasn’t anything new to see that many videos waiting when he opened your chat. it was a habit you had since the very beginning of the relationship, and honestly, he didn’t mind it

"you’re not funny! it’s not fortytwo, c'mon..."

"fortysix."

"... just watch the last seven"

opening the chat, the number of bunnies that appears before his eyes is disgustingly disgusting. he sees all kinds: short fur, long fur, white, black, brown, long ears, short ears. his throat tightens almost automatically as he looks up — only to find you already standing in front of him with your phone in hand, with that face that, ever since you two got together, has never once been told no. he sighs bored, as you throw yourself down next to him on the couch, holding your phone right up to his face. instinctively he wraps an arm around your shoulders to pull you closer — but he’d throw that bunny on your screen as far away from him as humanly possible

"look how cute it is! it’s looking for a home, it’s up for adoption at the center near our hom—"

"absolutely not."

you turn surprised, lowering the screen slightly. you press your lips together like you’ve just received the worst news of your life, and sae already regrets having answered so coldly. it’s just that he can’t understand how such a cute animal could have the name of a jerk — the ultimate jerk, the very ultimate jerk

"... you don’t like bunnies?"

oh, he’d definitely like them more if they didn’t remind him so much of that barcha jerk — so jumpy and damn tall. sae clears his throat, moving the screen away from his face

"i don’t like bunnies"

"why? they’re so innocent, they don’t need much attention, and im home most of the time anyway"

"i don’t like them because they’re messy, they smell, they pee everywhere, and they ruin dreams that have nothing to do with them—"

"... i don’t think they do that?"

sae raises an eyebrow, then runs a hand through his hair — just to calm himself down a little. you look at him with that look, the one that’s been his downfall for years now. suddenly, your face is replaced by iglesias’s, and for a moment, sae is completely speechless. only when your actual face comes back into view he let out a sigh of relief, a very long one

"i just don’t think it’s the right pet for us, considering my job and the fact that you want to start university. don’t you think maybe... i don’t know, a dog would be a better choice?"

"but i want a bunny"

"yeah, and i’d like to be a striker, but things don’t always go the way we want"

"i don’t see how that has anything to do with what i said..."

"im just telling you to listen to me, trust me. bunnies are evil"

you give him a bit of a look, then slump against his shoulder with a pout. sae starts running his fingers through your hair, fully aware that maybe — just maybe — he’s won this battle, a battle harder than the one against barcha a few months ago

"i already had a list of names ready"

sae sighs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. the gesture doesn’t quite erase your pout, but your eyebrows are furrowed just a little less. hearing the list can’t possibly cause another mental breakdown… right?

"alright, let’s hear it. what were you thinking?"

"OKAY SO… since we’re in spain, i thought of a spanish name. everyone gives their pets human names, but i want to stand out… with building names. i was thinking of… catedral, colegio, cine, estadio... maybe even tienda, iglesia—"

oh, no bunny will ever cross the threshold of this house as long as sae is alive. neither human nor animal

[tcifob]

A special note from Christen to you, The Reimaginers:

They say athletes die two deaths.

On August 14, 2022, Tobin Heath played her final match. Goodbye football, hello purgatory. While not knowing when death may take us terrifies civilians and athletes alike, for Tobin, the hardest part of this journey may have been not knowing that it had already come. 

When Tobin calls my cell phone, an image that a fan drew of her juggling a soccer ball pops up on my screen. The ball has been attached to her foot since she was four years old. If she ever lost it for the next 30 years, she’d hunt it down so fiercely and so competitively, it scared opposing players and teammates all the same. A game face so mean, it’d make you wonder if she was truly having fun. But don’t be fooled. She was, indeed, having fun. 

What I learned about Tobin early and often was that while she herself believed and insisted that she was playing for the love of it, football was something more. The ball was a lifestyle. An identity. A reason for being. With the ball at her foot, she learned to dream… to believe in herself. She learned the power of hard work and the magic of teamwork. As a young girl, she escaped her family troubles on wet grass pitches in the forests of New Jersey. She learned focus and friendship. She learned how to play the long game. The pillars of football became the pillars of her life. 

When it was time to leave home, the ball introduced her to the first group of peers that ever understood her. Growing up, she never knew there were others like her. Gals that dreamed of greatness. Those damn Tar Heels. They gave her the best years of her life. She left college with infinite memories, unbreakable bonds, and three national championships. She spent countless hours training in a dark stadium after it was long closed and locked. 

Over the next few years of her life, football showed her love. It came in the form of God’s greatest gift to us all: Women. Living near her aunt Loraine in Atlanta for the last year of her life. Sneaking through the window to see her first girlfriend. Her mother’s pain about it, prayers over it, and then acceptance. Romantic dates in three languages under the Eiffel Tower, accompanied by God’s second greatest gift to us all: Baguettes. 

And then, there was Portland. A place so special that for the first time since being away from her family, she finally felt at home again. In Portland, she built the first women’s soccer fandom in the world. As 20,000 fans hooped and hollered while she nutmegged defenders, she showed them that women are great athletes. They showed her that what she did had value beyond her. Monetary value. Societal impact. The promise of progress. She saw that her lifelong love of the ball was worth something more in this world, and that passion would take care of her for the rest of her life. If you go to Portland today, you’ll find dogs and children named Tobin. And a generation of young people that will only ever know a world where women are celebrated in sport.

Much of this — the friendships, the dark stadiums, the baguettes, the dogs, the NWSL Championships (yes there were 2) — won’t be widely remembered. When somebody speaks of Tobin, they’ll talk about one thing: the golden generation of the U.S. Women’s National Team. The team that she joined at 17 years old, when she was all teeth and calves and cockiness. The team that she helped win 2 World Cup and 2 Olympic Gold medals… where she just may have grown into her teeth and out of her cockiness. I have no notes on the calves.

They’ll definitely remember those larger-than-life wins. Off the field, people will remember how hard Tobin fought for the USWNT to be valued, to win equal pay. Yes, they know we won that. And yet, one of the most important legacies of the equal pay fight is that they also saw (the winningest) team (in the world) struggling and losing. And in those painful moments when we were losing, Tobin’s stubbornness and evenhandedness and unending loyalty were just as defining of that time as the headiness that ultimately came when we busted through all the barriers and shattered every ceiling trying to hold us down. This drive, this sense of purpose, this unshakable belief, are some of Tobin’s greatest strengths. 

Tobin Heath knows about winning. She’s always won. And she learned it and taught it in the best locker room in the world. How laughing, dancing, yelling, crying and sharing contribute to greatness. She knows how to learn from the competition, as well as she knows how to squash them, humiliate them, and come out on top. She knows the importance of leadership, but even more so the importance of creating space for others to shine.

And so, perhaps her greatest contribution was not a win at all. It was carrying the torch — a culture — in the pursuit of greatness for all to see and follow. She messages each player that gets her first USWNT cap. She advocates in the biggest rooms with the highest stakes for folks to invest in women’s sports. She studies the tactical nuance of the game to a degree that few will ever understand. To keep pushing our game forward. To keep carrying…

How do you say goodbye to something you’re not ready to let go of? Tobin didn’t. She said no. When the doctor in Manchester called in March 2021 with news of a career-ending injury, she didn’t accept it. Instead, she rehabbed relentlessly—scraping, fighting, clawing her way back onto another Olympic roster. She got the treatment. Took the injections. Signed with her childhood dream club: The Arsenal. Still: NO.

She cried. Loaded and deloaded. Scanned. Tried again. And again. She pushed through one final season in Seattle on limited minutes, but enough to score a last, defiant goal against LA at BMO Stadium. The home crowd couldn’t help but cheer. No. No. No. There’s no measure for the effort an athlete puts into overcoming injury. No limit to the will…until, finally, there is. It was too soon, and she hadn’t seen it coming.

Tobin was the one who told me that athletes die two deaths. And Tobin Heath won’t play soccer again...

But because of her, so many will.

- July 13, 2025

[the-fanss]

Threads - Part 1

Saja boys x Soulmate! Reader

Ever since I can remember, I have been able to see threads connecting people to each other. Jokingly as a child I would always call them 'the string of fate' but maturing is realizing that nothing like that was true. Everyone is connected in one way or another and the brighter the color, the stronger the connection to the person. Idols have thousands or millions of faint threads connected to them which is something I'm used to seeing nowadays especially working as an event manager for music shows.

"The girls just finished their last song and should be coming below stage in just a moment, make sure to have water at the ready." I say talking into a small earpiece. Bobby standing next to me checking social media numbers and getting giddy about the girls' amazing show clips on tiktok. Bobby works hard but the fans work harder.

"The show went very well despite the delayed start" I say to Bobby and he looks up from his phone.

"It really did! I am so sorry for the delay earlier but the entrance was spectacular -" He starts then the elevator opens revealing the girls who are on a energy high. "Did somebody say water? Water Now!" Bobby says and immediately the girls are given water.

"Good work ladies, it's always a pleasure working with you" I say following along with the girls they all three turn and Zoey hugs onto me happy to see me again.

"(Reader) it's been so long! We haven't seen you since last tour, you've been so busy." Zoey cries hugging onto my arm. I've worked closely to them for the past 5 years since their debut and it's been a pleasure and working in this field I have met enough idols who are very entitled; thankfully the girls haven't let the fame get to their heads too much... besides not taking breaks.

"I'm so sorry Zoey, things have been crazy with scheduling events. You guys are about to be on break after tonight so how about we do something then?" I respond smiling slightly.

Zoey perks up at that and me saying that catches Mira and Rumi's attention as well. "Would you be open to going to the bathhouse or a movie night at ours?" Mira asks letting exhaustion seep through a bit.

"Yeah please have a movie night with us (Reader) we haven't seen you in forever" Rumi starts seeming to be in a very energetic mood despite having just performed.

"Well I can send you guys my free time so we can set something up" I say laughing a bit. "But I have to go now and make sure everyone leaves the stadium and head home."

"Bye (Reader)!" All of them say as I walk away and I wave saying goodbye to the girls and Bobby.

Finally done, I can finally relax at home and not have to worry about any fans or managers trying to schedule music events or anything of the sort. 'I should take a small vacation' I think to myself walking to a corner store to get a small treat after working hard the past week. It is the start of summer so a bunch of idol groups are debuting and releasing albums for a "hot summer song" and because of that I've been working overtime many nights and just need a break at this point.

Leaving the store I am just scrolling through my phone while walking and I accidentally bump into someone's shoulder causing me to drop my phone and managing to throw the other person off balance a bit. "Oh my god I am so sorry... sir.." I say trailing off as I look up and see that the person in front of me is fairly attractive. Light blue hair, baby face, twink build, but very sharp eyes. However, what caught my eyes at first sight is that he doesn't have threads... none at all. None that are faint in color or anything, just nothing. He looks at me sort of in a daze and shakes himself out of it as if he remembered something.

"Yeah pay more attention next time" He says and starts walking off,

It does take me by surprise a bit but whatever, the people you meet at night on the street won't always be the nicest. Shaking off the interaction is easy but shaking off the fact that there were no threads is harder, that isn't normal. It's as if he is a clean slate of nothing. Maybe he just moved to the area but even then he would still have faint ties...

As I walk away I don't notice the man's eyes following me as I am lost in thought about the very brief interaction. Nor do i notice how there is a change in his eyes, a very brief flash of gold and slits.

DING

"Rumi... do you not know what a break is?" I say rolling my eyes at a notification on my phone about Huntrix releasing a song just now.

~Elsewhere~

"Jinu.. something interesting happened." A blue haired man says walking into a building that most definitely was not theirs earlier that night.

"How interesting is interesting" A man who is only half paying attention to the bluenette who just barged into their apartment with no warning.

"A woman bumped into me while I was out trying to figure out where you want to show us off and she smelled... off." That caught Jinu's attention. "Off how?" Jinu asked more so worried about someone catching them right off the bat.

"She had a human smell but the smell was earthly sweet in an addicting way."

"Baby, we have to stay focused. Humans smell, we are just going to have to get used to it." Jinu says relaxing a bit relieved that nothing had actually happened. However, Baby couldn't get the interaction out of his head.

Notes: Hi everyone! Thank you for reading the first chapter of this series. I have plans and I promise things are going to get moving soon. This was more so to get you familiar with you as the main character. If you want to be tagged or leave feedback please feel free to! -Luka

Taglist: @libdarkheart

[evandorkin]

On Depression

I get messages from some folks about my work helping them get through some difficult times, and I'm almost always asked not to respond to them publicly. I am a goofus and I haven't figured out how to message folks privately, but I don't like to not reply, even if folks say it's okay to not respond. Briefly, as someone who has been dealing with their own anxiety and depression issues my entire life, I am thankful if my work provides any sort of relief or distraction or solace to anyone wrestling with the same things. I have been in therapy three times in my adult life, my current therapist, who I have been seeing steadily for about six years, has done a lot for me in helping me deal with my emotional situation. I am also on medication. Therapy can be expensive and hard for some people, it can also be frustrating to not connect with a particular therapist. It's not a magic bullet, the same goes for medication, more or less. I've discussed my anxiety and depression sometimes in my comics, most openly in Dork #7, which is partially about a breakdown I had in the late 90s. I still deal with the same issues. Before I got back to therapy years ago I went through a very horrible time and at one point tried to harm myself -- fortunately, I'm inept with knots and all I did was collapse on the floor. I also used a helpline one night where I was spiraling badly and it helped me get through it before I could do anything drastic. I'm currently dealing with a bad bout of depression but I'm able to push through it, knowing it can and will end at some point, and I want to be here to take advantage of that when it happens. I want to stay curious about what happens next, I want to be here for those I feel responsible for, for my friends and family, my readers, my cat, Winky. I want to make more comics, read more comics, see things, maybe go places if life allows. Some days I can barely get out of bed, but that doesn't happen as often as it used to. If I wasn't here I wouldn't know about all of you out there enjoying the Eltingville Club, and get to answer your questions. If you are feeling like you don't want to be here, please consider using one of these helplines, or turning to someone who can help, or seek treatment. Anything other than trying to stick it out alone and risk spiraling. We are not at our healthiest when we are depressed, which I know sounds obvious, but it's why we should never make important decisions about our lives when depression has us in its grip.

Again, I'm not a therapist or mental health professional, just a fellow traveler. Here's two lifeline numbers if anyone needs them. Take care of yourselves out there.