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ultrakeystotheheartblog · 6 years ago

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Not So Alone (Part 2) (Teen Titans x Reader)

Part 2 of 2

Request: Requested by multiple people.

“Uhm, your teen titans imagine was?? so great?? I would totally love a sequel omg (only if u want obv)”

“Omg please I just read the fic and want a sequel too so badddd you don’t have to if you don’t want to but I’d be super hype to see it and read and scream because the first parts great” - @laneygthememequeen

A/N: I’m back! I’m not dead! And I am definitely going to write an update some time soon to explain everything that’s happened, but for right now I’m just gonna go ahead and say thank you again for all the positive comments and support that the first part received. I wasn’t expecting so many people to enjoy it, so I was over the moon at the response. With that said, I hope you all enjoy this part too ♥♥♥

(PS: This was the imagine that got the most votes, so the final part for my Jason Todd fic will be coming next! And, uh, It’s already turning out like a novel guys, prepare yourselves).

Warning: Swearing. Little bit of angst, but mostly a whole lot of fluff.

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You can’t help but feel that something is not quite right today.

Things are quiet.

Too quiet.

There’s no bouncing music or flashing video games, no arguing, no laughing, no daily echoes of training or disastrous calamities unfolding in the kitchen. No doting, friendly teammates to regale you with their presence (as what’s been the norm for the past few weeks while you’ve begrudgingly, slowly, began to heal from your injuries). No, the Tower is practically, for lack of a better or less ironic term, dead. And has been for most of the day—a husk of boredom and loneliness and one too many pieces of cold, leftover pizza.

Not to mention that looming cloud that’s followed over your head, a suspicious kind of quiet that’s been pressing in all around you like a swarm of invisible hands, seeping into the very foundation of the room. It’s been keeping you teetering on the edge of a pinpoint for literal hours—your fight or flight response practically grinding its teeth in preparation for an inevitable...something. And all the while you sink further into the entertainment room’s monstrous, curved couch and try to focus on ‘relaxing’.

Ha.

You’d be more relaxed if you knew where everyone disappeared to.

But alas, you do not—no matter how much the urge to snoop is (and you so want to snoop), because that’s not what friends do. At least, you think it’s not. You have to admit, it’s been a long time since you’ve considered anyone a friend, but you’re trying. Trying to let go of the past. Trying to be vulnerable. To be good. To be open. And you very much find yourself liking all the ensuing, chaotic changes in your life recently. But you’re rusty and unsure, and always, always, waiting for some other shoe to drop.

You don’t want it to.

You really don’t want it to.

But sometimes you wonder if it would give you some sort of relief from all the waiting—if that metaphorical shoe just got it over with already and put its ugly, metaphorical foot down. So you could breathe without all this pinchy, backwards kind of guilt you’ve been storing up inside for years, waiting to finally punch out into the world like a nest of angry wasps. Like you should feel bad for wanting to be a part of something....something more.

You’ve always hated just waiting for something to happen. But here you are now; alone, completely over-thinking the meaning of life, and left to stew in a concoction of sulky feelings that leaves you nauseous in a way you’ve worked so hard to forget.

So.

With your sore legs propped up onto the coffee table for comfort, you just continue to glare at the blank TV screen and watch your faded reflection in the shine of the glass, biting bitterly into the last of the pizza crust from the plate balanced in your lap.

ZuZu (as declared by Star the morning you’d first woken up—words tripping in a rush of excitement and a stream of breathless chatter about some sort of inspiration from an earth movie—while she gently sits the little creature into your lap with a ceremonious flourish of her arms) flops onto their belly to find a more comfortable position beside you.

Their front legs tuck underneath their bulk, long, spiked tail curling around their body in looping circles, before they come to rest their head on your hip, staring intensely at the leftover crust between your fingers.

They’re about the size of a small dog, heavy and wide, with the hybrid body structure of some sort of lizard and a...well, a bear. Their face is coated in silky auburn fur, snout ridged and twitchy, large heavy-lidded, expressive pink eyes set deep in their sockets. The majority of their torso and back legs are scaled and shiny, while three stripes of that autumn colored fur zigzag down their back, their front legs thick and capped with massive fuzzy paws and hooked dark claws. But the most distinctive features are the large, pleated creases of skin which usually lay folded back against their head and neck.

A frill, like you remember seeing once, adorning a lizard from some travelling petting zoo. It’s supported by long spines of cartilage connected to each side of their jaw bone, and when spread to encircle the entirety of their head, is lined in pink and filled with bright orange scales.

Beast Boy called it a ‘deimatic display’ that first day, a behavior or reaction of patterns and colors used like a defensive bluff—akin to beady eyes on the back of a moth’s wings or selective changes in the body pattern of a cuttlefish—manipulated to startle, display a warning, or distract predators. But it seems ZuZu is able to use it a bit differently—a slight alien twist to the reaction, which allows them to communicate solely through a language formed by varying flashes and multitudes of color.

You’ve all been scrambling to figure out the meanings behind each display lately, trading yes or no questions with the creature at any given point throughout the day, before documenting any noticeable details in the Tower’s staggering, inexhaustible database.

Red, you’ve found quickly, suggests that they’re annoyed, or angry, or generally, exceedingly, unhappy about something. Yellow, on the other hand, simply implies content in the most peaceful sense. And pink? That’s become their version of taunting—something smug and annoyingly self-assured, which seems to be their more….colourful version of resting bitch face.

You grunt at the heavy weight of ZuZu’s head as it presses more firmly against bruised muscles and skin, hidden away beneath the cozy, cotton sweatpants you’d wrestled from the bottom of your closet. It doesn’t keep you from slipping deeper though, into the clouded memories shrouding that first dreamlike morning after finally waking.

Robin—grinning, more relaxed then you’d ever seen him, and already lying back in his spot beside you on the bed—had leaned over when Star finally took a moment to find her breath, voice dipping low as he casually filled in the most obvious, glaring blanks in her story. He explained how they’d come upon ZuZu while rushing you back to the tower for medical attention—left behind by their master, defensive and shaking, and hidden away beneath the burning hot rubble from unlucky buildings crushed during the Jump City attack.

You can vaguely recall those creatures and their part in the invasion, as you hold the curious, unwavering stare of your new housemate. You pinpoint a fuzzy recollection of hundreds of similar alien hybrids, large percents of them being used as cannon fodder against the city’s responding defense—some sort of attack dogs or bloodhounds originally breed for what seemed to be an unparalleled sense of incoming danger. And a lethal aptitude for sniffing out and marking targets, even in the most extreme of circumstances. All to make the invading attack’s that much more…. precise.

Equally as shaken and heartbroken, both Starfire and Beast Boy insisted on giving little ZuZu a home, one without the need for cold masters and needless sacrifices.

Robin admitted that it took some convincing to get him to agree, but that he caved to them rather quickly, like the truly soft-hearted dork you know he is on the inside. The one, you’ve been noticing, that is no longer carefully tempered behind masks both metaphorical and literal (like those you’d learned to cultivate for yourself, to ensure your own survival among the flocks of good and evil in this world)—all veils of enigmatic charm and cool leadership, strategy and logic.

(While for just as long, you had mused, you refined your wall of sarcasm and teasing, and strained, plastic smiles. Even as fate saw it fit to laugh and thrust you into the role of cosmic punching bag in both a figurative and literal sense).

Because Robin is never really one to deny a safe haven to someone, especially an orphan, in need.

And it’s not too hard to understand why.

It’s one quality you’ve only caught glimpses of, before the attempted invasion and one too many near-death experiences changed everything.

Your once positive opinion on lizards.

Your practical, humanly limitations regarding the ability to eat your weight in cold, cheese pizza.

Your mostly cynical take on all the possible wonders of this life.

Your team and their conduct—their outreach of friendship, their measure of trust and willing openness towards you.

Your place among them. Your.... the need for the permanence of those masks.

All while you’ve been learning to come to terms with this warm, slowly blossoming….strange feeling of finally belonging.

ZuZu shifts to find a different angle, and then they’re sliding their head further into your lap, situating themselves just underneath your hovering hand. Your sullen gaze darts down to examine them again in the cresting evening sunlight, their lithe body bathed in an orange light that softens the harsh lines and edges of bluish-green scales, until they’re all but glittering like some magnificent, stain-glass fish below rippling water.

Shit, they’re so wonderfully unique, maybe too much so, for a world that tears down all that’s different in the name of fear (and this you know all too well). They’re intelligent and hardheaded, and kind of an absolute dick if you’re being honest. But you can’t help but feel close to the little creature, and hope, however possibly (awfully) misguided, that it’s at least somewhat mutual. After all, for all their rough edges and guarded, worldly acceptance, they were learning to fit in here—just like you.

The flash of a long, forked tongue startles you from your thoughts, and you catch sight of it in your peripheral, snapping out towards the piece of half-eaten crust in your hand before you can even process where it’s suddenly emerged from. You jerk away clumsily on reflex, letting the crust plummet back to the plate in your lap as you lean to the side, trying to avoid the persistent little alien. You hoist the plate up and out of their reach at a safer distance—though not without a twinge of pain that bursts like fireworks in your shoulders.

You glare down at them in admonishment.

Well then.

Earlier sentiment revoked, actually.

ZuZu narrows their intensely bright eyes right back at you, their frill rising from their neck like the hackles of an angry dog. The trim pleats of skin folded there flutter in anticipation before finally sweeping open with the rippling, fluid grace of a hand-held folding fan. The pretty scales lining the exposed frill change colour almost instantly when they hit the open air, flaring a deep red when you stick your tongue out at ZuZu in an act of childish defiance.

Yeah, someone’s no longer a happy camper now, are they? Well, join the club, pal.

You can’t always get what you want. Because no matter what you do, life just likes to screw you in the—

It takes a total of three, distracted seconds.

The offending tongue snaps out at an impossible length to hit the surface of the plate. It’s like some cartoon frog catching a fly that’s far enough out of reach to be considered natural, the appendage wrapping around one end of the half-bitten crust, before proudly reeling it back down into a waiting mouth. Their jaw snaps shut again with an audible click of teeth, and they swallow their prize whole and much too slowly, flashing you a fanged smile that gives you the creeps.

Or you do, you find yourself bitterly amending in the wake of defeat, especially when you’re a terrifying space gremlin with freakish mouth biology. Why are you even awake again today?

You sag into the couch cushions with an unexpected wave of soul-weary tiredness, a full body and mind exhaustion creeping upon the fringes of your being, though you’d been fighting it off rather successfully for most of the month.

You lower the empty plate to sit on the surface of the coffee table—while grumbling under your breath about the reigning injustice of such snack-stealing gremlins in your midst—and lean even more precariously forward. Much farther than you normally would consider doing without others around, but you persist in you reach, getting a good grip on the propped up crutch you’ve left leaning against the table.

You struggle to your feet then, deciding to leave the main living room to find something more productive to do (rather than wallowing and getting your food pilfered from beneath your slowly healing, broken nose). ZuZu watches you silently from their cozy napping spot, gaze tracking you as you begin to hobble around the couch on your way from the room. You toss a half-hearted, parting wave to Starfire’s first adopted friend—a chunky, gooey, mutant moth larvae dubbed little Silkie, snoring away beneath an open side table near the couch.

It’s good going, until something unexpected flutters down from the ceiling with the grace of falling snow—just as you’re about to cross the threshold into the hallway. Your gaze follows the swirling path of the shiny, red and black length of foil as it lands near your feet. A candy wrapper.

Huh.

Strange.

You pause in your journey and peer down at it for a moment, bewildered enough to take a full step back before finally looking up to retrace its fallen path.

And okay, so in hind sight, you kind of wish you hadn’t left the couch.

A single, suspiciously green, bat drops like a stone from the ceiling once it’s seen, swooping down over your head with a panicked flutter of leathery wings. You shout and unashamedly curse like a drunken sailor, ducking in surprise to further avoid the little needle talons that brush across the top of your head. Beast Boy turns human once he clears your form and hits the floor, once again completely, frustratingly, naked when he hops up to his feet.

He tries to quickly console you, only to jump back in order to dodge the fear-driven swing of your crutch.

“Hey! It’s just me!!” He exclaims, hands held out towards you. You sling your cast over your eyes and wonder just how bad it would be if you bleached them clean of the searing, full-frontal image that lingers just behind them.

“WEAR PANTS.” You demand in alarm.

“They’re not comfortable!” He complains. Eyes still tightly shut, you shake your head and gesture wildly at him, throwing out your plaster covered arm to wave it around in loose, frantic circles. “PANTS!” You insist in a higher voice. “Fine!”

He mutters something else, low and displeased under his breath, and then goes to dig out a familiar non-descript bag you’re used to finding at random—usually full of extra clothes and stashed around the tower, or other frequent hangout places around the city—hidden away within the grassy, potted plant next to you both. You choose to ignore the obvious sass he’s exuding in protest, cracking open an eye just a bit to make sure he’s following through.

He smoothly tugs his purple and black uniform free from the depths of the shiny leaves, wrangling on the bottom half with a pout as quickly as he can, and before you know it, he’s already shrugging the fabric up over his narrow shoulders.

(Though to your satisfaction he’s careful of the stitches still lining his spine). You sigh in relief, “Just—oh my god, what were even you doing up there in the first place?!”

Beast Boy works his mouth in silence as though he can’t find the right words to explain at the moment, bottom canines glinting as he squints up through the fluorescent lights and tosses the empty bag to rest beside the plant. He seems to be thinking hard about his answer (you hope), his gaze dropping to you after a few seconds of awkward, disbelieving silence. He shrugs, apparently deciding it’s appropriate to simply respond with a pair of finger-guns and a strained grin. “....hanging around?”

…..

You think you’re starting to miss those dragon-tailed, sumo alien’s from space-hell.

Your shoulders slump as the pent up energy from your frustration and sudden scare seeps from your body all at once. You groan, lifting your crutch up to point at him, the tip barely brushing against his chest. “You’re dead to me.” You proclaim lightly. Beast Boy rolls his eyes, and after securing the clasp on the back of his suit with a small chuckle, reaches out to gently lower the makeshift weapon. “Oh, come on—”

You don’t wait for him to finish, moving to hobble around him and retreat to your room. You shouldn’t have gotten up today. Nope. Call it a bad feeling. Something is going on around here and you are getting the hell out while you can. He slides into your path immediately, cutting of your escape with a smooth glide across the hardwood flooring. You narrow your eyes, shuffling to move around him again. He meets you like before, lunging closer still with each attempt to counteract your movements. You huff and stare him down, feeling like a Spanish bull in the ring, ready to charge the moment you see an opening. “BB, move.” You warn lowly.

He throws out his arms to either side of him, blocking your way when you take a threatening step forward. “Can’t do that.” He chirps, puffing out his chest to seem more confident in his current position, while beginning to look as though he’s starting to regret his life’s choices, what with the way you’re gaze is cutting into his very soul. (Positively icy. You’d practiced that, rest in peace).

But he doesn’t move.

You frown and glare at him suspiciously, forcing your heavy limbs to cooperate with you for a moment. You take a step to the right, and as expected Beast Boy mirrors your movement, but your body isn’t as fast as you remember it. And he knows it. You careen to the left to try and complete your fake-out, but Beast Boy anticipates the slow sway of your body, following the uneven momentum like a puppet on strings to block your way yet again.

He reaches out to steady you when you wobble, legs shaking with the sudden quick strain on your knees, and you wince at the flair of pain. Crappy broken body. You shake him off angrily, more upset at yourself then at him, and strike your crutch against the floor with a wave of strength (propelled simply by the heated frustration you feel festering in your chest like icky, wriggling worms). “Beast Bo—Gar, I’m serious.” You hiss in annoyance, ignoring the ricocheting twinge of pain that shoots up into your shoulder at the action.

“Believe it or not, so am I!” He defends, hands flying to his hips.

“Debatable.” You snap back.

“Rude.”

“Twenty bucks on (Y/N).” A new, deeper voice declares with obvious amusement. You spin to face the living room again, Beast Boy peeking around you to get a better view. Cyborg and Starfire are standing before you, having appeared out of thin air and quiet as can be, the latter of the duo looking as though she could just burst with excitement. More than usual. Cyborg’s gaze cuts to you when he notices the way you’re staring at her in confusion, putting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently to sooth the absurd tremble of her body.

Okay. Double suspicious.

They’re dressed in casual clothes; Starfire in high-waisted, purple shorts and a stylish pink sweater that hangs off her shoulders, her wild red hair tied back into a ponytail and her feet bare, smile wide. Cyborg is donned in sweatpants and an old blue and yellow football jersey you think might have seen better days once, newly buffered limbs gleaming under the lights. Beast Boy pursues his lips and squints up at his friend when he catches sight of the teasing smirk Cyborg trains on him.

“Thanks, dude.” He responds as sarcastically as he can. Starfire spins to face Cyborg with glee, hands clasped in front of her.

“Friend Victor, I too wish to attribute money to the outcome of this argument.” She reveals enthusiastically, leaving you to trade an exhausted look with Beast Boy at the spiraling situation. Cyborg’s grin grows larger, and he winks at you both before giving Starfire his undivided attention.

“Okay.” He relents, staring down at her curiously. “Bettin’ on (Y/N) then?”

Starfire pauses, nose crinkling as she considers the question. “Can I not take part of the betting for both?”

“No, Star, it doesn’t really—” Cyborg begins, sighing with reluctance when she only continues to look up at him expectantly. “You know what? Sure.” He amends with a shrug, rubbing at the back of his head. Starfire claps her hands excitedly and laughs, her feet lifting from the floor in her in a rush of elation.

“Glorious!” She exclaims. You almost miss it when Cyborg turns away from her, but you’re able to barely catch the sly way she throws a wink at you too, the quick gesture leaving you reeling in amusement.

Oh shit, what a hero.

You can definitely appreciate a good swindle win you see one. And that was great.

You slump against your crutch and chuckle tiredly, massaging your forehead with the tips of the fingers peeking stiffly from your cast, before raising your arm up to draw their attention.

“Alright, seriously, what’s going on with you guys today? Where’ve you all been? Some secret club within our secret club?” You question fervently, on a new mission as you hobble closer towards them. “I have to admit, I’m kind of offended if that’s the case.”

“Oh, you know, out.” Cyborg says much too casually and unhelpfully for your liking, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweats. Simultaneously, Starfire responds much too quickly.

“In my room!” She declares loudly, unable to stop herself from flinching at the sharp, wide-eyed look Cyborg cuts her. She mouths an apology at him and flashes you a sheepish smile, tapping the tips of her index fingers together.

Oh, something is definitely going on. Not on my watch, secret keepers of the crypt.

You squint at them, “Sure. I’ll believe that. But why do I suddenly have a five-foot-furry shadow? One who doesn’t seem to know the concept of the word shame?”

Beast Boy gasps as though he’s never been so insulted in his young life (okay, so you may have possibly taken it a little too far that time. But in your defense, there’s a lot of stressful things going on right now, and the bat thing may have thrown you a little too far over the edge), scurrying around you to passionately wave a random, uh, peace sign in front of your face.

Wait, what?

“Five-foot-two.” He stresses firmly, wiggling both fingers for emphasis. You lean your weight on the single crutch keeping you gloriously upright, reaching out to tug his hand down with a groan.

“So not the point, batboy.”

“Hey! Bats are cool!”

“Ha! You know what else is cool?” You question sarcastically, nestling your casted arm against your chest as you lean forward to regard him with an arched eyebrow. “Not scaring the living shit of a person who’s already legally died twice from heart failure.”

Beast Boy concedes to your logic with a grimace, no doubt fighting off a burst of vivid memory on the subject.

“Point taken.” He agrees.

Cyborg pads over to you with a muffled laugh, giving your upper back a hearty, friendly slap that propels you forward a few steps. “Aw, B.B.’s just doing his job. Lighten up, (Y/N/N).”

You stumble with a strangled sound and work to regain your balance yourself through burning muscles, gripping the handle and uprights of the crutch as tightly as you can. You always forget how strong he is. And sometimes, though not often, so does he. Cyborg winces, flexing his fingers while he graces you with an apologetic smile. You raise an eyebrow at him; eyes locked intently on his face, as though you could simply reach into his mind and know all with a simple blink, and subtly tilt your head towards Beast Boy.

"And that means I can't leave one single room?"

"It was more to keep you busy." Cyborg admits with a grin that makes you all too nervous.

Okay, red flag. Were you sweating? You might be sweating. They weren’t the…vengeful type, right? It’s not really your fault you tend to stress eat. Though….

"What are you all planning?" You ask again, unconsciously scanning the corners of room behind them for your two missing team members. Why do you feel like you’re about to be ambushed? Starfire hops forward like she’s stepping on air, looping her arm through yours and shaking it gently as she leans into you. Then she begins to drag you forward the smallest bit.

"Something wonderful!” She responds in that giddy way of hers, green eyes simmering with something impassioned and restless when they focus on your dumbfounded expression—fire brimming from her touch and her very being. She leans in closer and continues in a secretive whisper, which you think was meant to be soothing at some point between her thought process and strange execution. “But you must come to the roof to see it, my friend."

The….roof?

What’s so special about the fucking—

Oh.

….

Sonuvabitch.

To be completely honest, you knew it would somehow end like this. Betrayed by a moment of weakness and reduced to seething shame and broken trust, only to be real-life ghosted and then unceremoniously Mufasa-ed by your own team. A dramatic, imminent doom of Disney proportions. Ugh, what an embarrassing way to go. You really shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning like some normal, model citizen with an inane urge to contribute to society. What an idiot.

Still….maybe you’re just being a little over-dramatic here. Heroes usually have non-murdery morals, don’t they? Which is a big step up from your last group of…yeah….they weren’t even close to friends. Still, you can never be too careful these days. Right? Right.

You pull back from Starfire, trying to sound teasing as you respond, while barreling through your baseless internal panic and sprinkle of sugar-riddled guilt. How do you always get yourself into these messes?

"Is this the part where you throw me from the top? For finishing off the leftover cake without telling anyone?"

Beast Boy’s jaw drops.

"That was you?!"

Of course it was.

You laugh nervously and much too awkwardly to be convincing while you scramble to backtrack, "What?! Of course not!"

It was so good.

Starfire looks kind of horrified at your earlier insinuation about the roof, and she pulls away from you completely, eyes wide and unbelieving. She gasps, "We would never!"

Cyborg’s eyebrow shoots up as he studies your reaction. He frowns, lifting a hand to rub at his chin with an exaggerated sweep of his arm—as though he’s taking a moment to think more deeply about the matter—his metal fingers clunk-ing in the blanketing silence when they meet the thick, metal plate covering it. He sounds playful when he speaks up, and you know he’s not taking the news as hard as Gar currently is.

"Well, now you've given me a lot to think about." He says slowly, amusement thick in his voice and vibrantly pulsing beneath his already crumbling, disappointed façade.

You wonder when it was exactly—when you’d unconsciously began to find his eagerly outspoken and protective spirit, his overly intense and personal pride (in all manners of technological tinkering and projects), and awful, awful acting, somewhat endearing. Maybe it was around the same time you’d grown rather fond of Beast Boy’s organic simplicity with life or perfectly-timed wit, his endearing, steadfast spirit and dorky, down-to-earth charm (though you would deny any accusation that says otherwise, pretending to find his endless stream of puns nothing but annoying).

Or Starfire’s unfathomable warmth and, mostly smothering, overzealous passion in all things, no matter how small—a burning, extraterrestrial sun with a warrior’s soul and an open heart. Or Raven’s sarcastic calm and quiet disposition, a hopeful kind of darkness—as encompassing as it mystifying—which brings peace in ways one wouldn’t expect or think they needed.

Or Robin. Noble and kind, brooding, insufferably stubborn, Robin—with an annoying competitive streak that rivals even you. Your outwardly, fearless friend and leader, a little birdie who keeps you from slipping back into your cold, old ways while still wanting to be a part of something better. To be a Titan. Time and time again. And—

Ah, fuck. You’ve gotten so sappy lately.

Near death experiences are the worst.

You roll your eyes at Cyborg, regardless of that grating, growing itch of sentimentality crawling up from your chest and into your throat like a rock, all the while fighting down the upwards twitch your lips.

"Oh, shut up.” You mutter, ducking your head so he won’t see as you move to hobble past the group back into the centre of the living room. “Even though I'm at my weakest right now, it doesn't mean I won't fight you."

Cyborg drops his arm and laughs, "I don't doubt it."

Beast Boy ducks around him; sparing no time as he shrinks down to the form of a chattering, green squirrel. Without breaking stride, he dashes towards your slowing figure, leaping forward to scale the rungs of your crutch.

You jump at the sudden weight and list sideways, the vibration of his hurried ascent and the clattering of his nails against metal throwing you out of your concentrated state. You lean back too fast in surprise, catching the back of the couch with the underside of your cast to keep yourself somewhat upright, and wait with a raised brow as he moves to pull himself up onto the crutch pad at the top.

"Besides, you proved you’re anything but weak when you kicked Death’s ass! Multiple times.” He chirps proudly, settling back onto his little hind legs to stare up at you, bushy tail twitching and dark eyes round and glinting when they catch the light. “You're a survivor. Always have been.”

You grin, feeling satisfied that he finally seems to be more…relaxed about your injuries now (as opposed to the annoying, but much appreciated, panicked mother-henning you’d experienced throughout the first few weeks back on your feet). You have a sneaking suspicion Cyborg had a hand in this recent development—bless his beautiful, understanding soul—and you make a mental note to treat him to a pizza night soon. Or just hug him really, really tight in relief.

You heft your cast from the couch to hold out two fingers towards Beast Boy.

"And always will be." You agree. He reaches out with a shrill, happy squeak, tapping a front paw against them in a painfully adorable semblance of a high-five. Starfire joins you by the couch and lays her hand against your upper back, right between your shoulder blades, the swelling heat of it soothing the ache and strain of your poor muscles. Her gentle touch slides up, mindful of the bruises still splattered like patchwork across your skin, until you feel her lightly squeeze your shoulder.

"Very much like the warriors of old from my planet." She tells you softly, a smile pulling at her lips when your eyes dart up to look at her. It’s then you realize that all three of them are now looking at you rather expectantly, attention solely trained on your face as the room falls into an eager kind of silence. One that is quick to twist your abdomen into fluttering, nervous knots.

Right, you think with a start, there was something about the roof—something they wanted me to see. You hesitate (is it getting hot in here, or is that just you self-combusting?), gaze jumping to each of your friends in turn. They continue to stare you down with purpose, waiting for your consent to be dazzled and thoroughly surprised, before you catch the barest hint of movement in your peripheral vision. You glance down at the back of the couch, wanting to scream your frustration to the sky, when you take in the wide, furry face peering back up at you.

Oh, not you too, ZuZu. You traitor.

She locks those intelligent eyes on you. He glowing pink gaze is intent and reprimanding, and god, you’re actually—silently, awkwardly—getting told off by an adorable lizard-themed care bear, who hails from the far reaches of infinity and beyond the known galaxy. What has your life come too? And the worst part is you don’t think you’re strong enough to—oh, goddamit. Peer pressure is a bitch.

"Alright.” You relent with a groan, throwing ZuZu a pointed, disgruntled look (which she simply counters with a glowing pink frill and mischievous wink, a move that has you breathing deeply to avoid just chucking your crutch across the room in defiance of it all). You turn to gesture at the others, “Fine. Let's get this show on the road then."

Beast Boy leaps down from the top of the crutch before you’ve even finished talking, his tiny shape shifting into the much larger form of a tiger once he touches down (more gracefully than you’d expected him to). He gives a little throaty growl in excitement, circling in place to get his bearings. And then with a sudden focus that makes you laugh, he’s bounding in a rush to slink between Cyborg and Starfire—his gaze already intensely trained down the hallway that leads towards the elevator.

"Sweet! Now you’re talking!" He exclaims with a swish of his tail, pausing only for a moment to throw a look back at Cyborg, the familiar imitation of a fanged grin even more terrifying with larger, sharper teeth on display. "Dibs on the donuts!"

Uh, donuts??

Cyborg groans and scrubs a hand over his face, stepping forward with his other hand outstretched, as if he could keep his excited friend from moving with just sheer force of will. "No! You don't get to just—Gar!"

Starfire tilts her head and watches until Beast Boy disappears around the curve of the hallway, "You have to admire his will power up until this moment." She points out, reaching out to brush a soothing touch to Cyborg’s shoulder.

He gives her a solemn nod in agreement. "...true." "Hi, yeah, still confused." You slowly iterate, when it’s clear they’re going to say nothing more on the manner, and looking hilariously haunted, just stare out into the middle distance like some kind of dramatic dork-asses. You can’t help it though—you want answers. You’ve been officially intrigued (donuts are always a good sign and nothing will convince you otherwise) and that cat-damning curiosity in you can never be quieted for long, so help you.

“Are we still going to the roof?”

Cyborg is the first to shake himself to attention, and he swings around to look at you with a knowing grin that tells you’re probably about to regret opening your mouth again. Probably. You guess?

…..

Okay, so you might be already exhausted enough now, with all this moving about and floundering, moral turmoil, to deal with any mysterious roof meetings and their possible consequences—and there’s no truly hiding it, or just burying it away for future you to worry about come morning (damn, why is past you always such a dick?).

Which leaves you decidedly awash in a ‘My mind is an emotional dumpster fire and all I want is to hibernate for forty years’ kind of way, unable to completely distinguish the nuances of your feelings on anything happening within a 10 foot radius.

Especially since you’d….broken that quiet morning after the attack, finally reconciling with a screeching realization you’d been pushing back for years—even with all that damaged purpose, all that strength and determination and precious time you’d flooded into looking after yourself and only you, instead of worrying about others and how they might screw with you this time, you’d left yourself open anyway. Unwillingly, accidently, raw—like an exposed nerve adrift in the cosmos and crying out for relief.

Someone in power must have had mercy on you at last though, because you have friends. Good friends who are good people. And you love them in your own rough-around-the-edges way (is that the right word here? Love? You hope that’s the right word—it feels like the right word); but there’s no chance you’re ever going to tell any of them that. It’s become too embarrassing to even think about in your own mind, let alone out loud where they could actually...hear you.

But you’re not going to let all your personal baggage stop you now. Not while there’s the promise of donuts anyway.

Yeah, your priorities might need a little sorting out.

"Come on." Cyborg says, already treading backwards in the direction Beast Boy had gone. Starfire zips past you with ease, cutting around the corner like a fish would dart through deep water.

Her laugh echoes through the hall as she vanishes from sight, "Oh, this is going to be such a joyous occasion!"

Cyborg takes his time to snicker at the nervous grimace on your face. But you valiantly choose to be the bigger person here (no matter how much you want to knock your head against the nearest wall and see if your middle finger still works within the stiffness of a cast), simply rolling your eyes as you hobble to catch up to him around the bend in the hallway. He slows his pace without a word until you’re following closely at his side.

“So why aren’t we taking the elevator?” You inquire, watching as the thick metal doors slide past in your peripheral. It’s then you spot the other two loitering around by the door to the stairs.

The plot thickens.

Cyborg struggles to squash his playful grin, “Occupied.”

“By...”

“A second surprise. Now come on.” He diverts smoothly, waving his hand over the sensor for the door once Beast Boy and Starfire step away to make room for you both. It slides open from left to right with a mechanical hiss, and you peer in to the brightly lit stairwell with a raised brow. The glaring, white fluorescent lights are already giving you a headache.

“How do you expect me to get up the stairs?”

“Easy.”

“Oh, really? Easy? What are you even—”

The world shifts like a seesaw in your vision and you can barely comprehend the next few seconds: the way Cyborg stoops low enough to knock out the backs of your knees, the simultaneous rush of weightlessness—a fluttering, dizzying drop in your stomach that stalls the very breath in your chest—or even the jumbled burst of restrained laughter and disapproving click of a tongue which dissipates almost as soon as it starts.

And you tip backwards into his arms with flailing limbs and a startled yelp as you’re gently scooped up, hanging shocked and boneless until he swings you up to cling onto his back like some sort of panicked koala. Cyborg laughs more boisterously as you lose your crutch in the commotion, grip loosening in your surprise until it slips entirely from your hold and vanishes from reach, the telltale clattering of metal against ground echoing from somewhere off to the side.

“—goddammit, Vic!” You gasp when the world stands still again, sucking in air for your breathless lungs. “A little warning!”

He simply cups the back of your knees and holds your legs tightly over the ridged, triangular slab of metal casing his hips, slowly straightening to his full, giant height again. It gives you a moment to throw your arms around his neck for safety and squeeze with all your reprimanding might. Cyborg turns to look at you with a teasing smirk you’re all too familiar with, before stepping further into the doorway.

“Comfortable there, Grumpy?”

“You’re the worst.” You announce without any real bite, leaning back to scan the floor for your missing crutch. It doesn’t take you long to realize that Starfire has already rescued it, hugging the dented metal pole to her chest with a look of determination. She catches your relieved gaze over Cyborg’s shoulder and nods as if reassuring you that she’s got everything handled now, gently patting the cushioned padding at the top of the crutch.

And then her eyes eagerly snap to Cyborg.

You can’t see his face from your vantage point, but you think he’s relaying permission with the way he tilts his head towards the stairs. Both Starfire and Beast Boy rocket forward in any case, barely sidestepping around you in their race up the first flight of stairs. Cyborg follows them without hesitation, and you can hardly wait another moment once your little group hurriedly passes the third floor, before the mystery of the roof becomes too intriguing to avoid any longer.

“So...are Rob and Raven in on this too?” You carefully begin, speaking to no one in particular but hoping someone might answer you anyway. “Cause they've been more mysterious than usual.”

"Grumpy and observant. You know…you'd make a pretty awesome detective too—give Dick some healthy competition around here." Cyborg returns in an innocent manner, which you know for a fact is bullshit. So you lamely thump a fist against the point between the heavy, metal plating circling his neck before it tapers down into his chest, and grumble your displeasure.

"Annnd you're dodging my questions, big guy. Again."

Cyborg says nothing this time and simply uses the firm hold he has under your knees to toss you up a few inches, jostling you free from your comfortable koala cling as though he`s trying to readjust your position. Only you know that’s not what he intended at all—evidenced by the irritating way he starts to laugh while you groan at him and shimmy urgently at his back, trying to right yourself from the haphazard tilt you’d landed in.

"Ugh! I miss being able to walk up a flight of stairs like a normal person!" You whine, bonking your forehead against the smooth, climate-controlled casing covering the back of his head, the vibrations of his full-body laughter rattling straight through you.

Beast Boy goes still ahead of the group, front paw hovering above the next step up. That unsettling tiger grin as he turns to regard you is the only warning you get before the inevitable.

"Eh, I wouldn’t trust these stairs though,” Beast Boy drawls with terrifying purpose, “They always seem like they're…up to something."

Starfire pipes up from her place hovering beside you and Cyborg in perfect comedic timing, her eyes narrowed in contemplation.

"Well yes, up to the roof—oh...that was..."

Yeah, Kori. Damn.

He waits in the ensuing, hollow silence of the stairwell for a reaction, gaze expectantly darting from person to person until you don’t know whether to laugh or just get mad.

....both?

Alright, okay, here’s the thing.

Though you may have...secretly....begun to appreciate Garfield’s endless arsenal of jokes and puns as much as that next person (you’ve got a reputation to uphold after all), that....was not so good.

You’d face palm if you had complete confidence in your upper body strength as of late, but you definitely do not—especially after that embarrassingly sad attempt to escape to your room earlier (feat. the interference of your awkwardly unexpected, five foot-two bodyguard). And you’d very much like to keep securely clinging for your life atop mount ‘Victory’ Stone instead, rather than somehow (ridiculously) finding some way to slip from his back and fall to a more permanent death down the tower’s two-hundred stairway to hell.

So, you’ll just lock away this existential breakdown for another day and move on. Be the bigger person here, again.

....

Or.

"I think I'm starting to miss the coma." You deadpan with unabashed pettiness (because you’d actually had to listen to that with your own two ears), refusing to give him even the slightest satisfaction of a job well done.

Step up your game, Gar.

You can pinpoint the exact moment Cyborg winces with regret for his friend—his chin dipping down, the glowing blue machinery encasing half his skull whirring with a soft, discomforting humming like he’s finally reduced to just screaming on the inside.

"Oof,” He eventually adds through a long exhale. “I've heard better stuff from you, man."

Beast Boy sniffs in displeasure at your less than positive reactions, "Yo, give me a break; I'm still getting over the pizza thing."

You heft your body up straight to stare him dead in the eyes and lift your unbroken arm, wiggling your fingers over Cyborg’s head in a teasing way. "Let it haunt you for the rest of your daaaays~"

You don’t think you’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing a hulking, green, murder cat roll its eyes so hard before. But there it is—in all its uncanny, cartoon-like glory. Beast Boy shakes his heavy head and resumes slinking up the stairs, leaving the rest of you to catch up while he throws another line over his shoulder, in a way you know is meant to be a playful declaration of war.

"Which reminds me...” He purrs slyly, “….what did the ghost say when it arrived at the party?"

Starfire taps at her chin in thought, "Ummm hello?”

Beast Boy’s enthusiasm swells with her genuine attempt, and he turns to coax his best friend into answering as well.

"Not quite. Come on, Cy, this is all you dude."

"Can I get a—"

"Victor don't you dare!"

Cyborg merely hums at your desperate interjection, "Uh-oh full name. That's never a good sign."

"Oh!” Starfire’s expression lights up in a way you’re entirely used to by now, and she leaves your side on the flutter of a giddy laugh, hovering quick up the next few steps. She smiles down at Beast Boy once she reaches him, titling her head as he looks up at her with an animated flick of his tail.

“I believe I know this one. May I?" She quietly gushes, twirling to lounge back gracefully in the air beside him. His head bobs once, long and slow, still flashing that sharp grin.

"Dazzle me, Star."

"Can I get the Boo-ya!!?"

"HA! Yeah, that’s wassup!"

You thunk your head against Cyborg’s shoulder this time, wincing at the brief pulse of pain from pounding metal against skull. "Oh my god, are we there yet?"

"As a matter of fact..." Cyborg mysteriously trails off, hopping up the last step to the top landing of the stairway. You peek up in interest and immediately want a better look when you see that the access to the roof is propped open the slightest bit, squishing your cheek against Cyborg’s as you lean forwards with the anticipation of it all. It’s easy to spot the flickering movement from just beyond the door—shadows moving fast from one end to the other. Is someone already there?

You suck in an anxious breath when Cyborg lowers himself to one knee and releases his hold on you, carefully helping you dismount from your cling, and Starfire is all too eager to return your crutch, pushing it into your arms and waving you forwards. Your friends let you nudge open the door then without another word, following you out as you bravely take your first few steps and—

…..

You think you might’ve blacked out for a moment in shock.

Beast Boy circles your legs as you silently take in the state of the roof, rubbing against them with a gentle brush of his body before he exclaims, "Surprise! Did we getcha??"

You blink a few times to get your bewildered mind working again. Because out of any possible scenario you could have—and did—invent within your imagination….it was nothing like…well, this.

The smell of hot food wafting through the summer-like air reaches you first, and you’re drawn to admire what is definitely Starfire's touch in your unexpected surprise.

There are two tables set up across the roof directly ahead, side by side and pushed flush against the lip of rectangular ledge boxing in the space. Each wooden surface is filled with cutlery, food and drinks in jade colored bowls and glasses, and adorned with fun, rainbow coloured table cloths—the cheap, plastic kind you’d find from a dollar store—and regal centre pieces among the clutter. These consist of wreaths with beaded jewel strings and alien metal shapes, forms that remind you of branded symbols you’d once glimpsed from the hilts of her homeworld weapons.

There’s a fancy new boom box sitting on the ledge, just to the left of the food tables. It’s silvery and shiny in the late evening light, akin to the small heap of patterned presents sitting below it, or the bouquets of metallic balloons weighed down by sandbags in each corner of the roof.

Cyborg’s own creative touch is more quiet, but still obvious in your racing mind, reflected in the large blue and white fairy lights the size of your fist, strings of them hooked beneath the ledge and spaced along the entire perimeter of the roof. They remind you of mini lava lamps—slowly swinging, each casing filled with swirling, pulsing energy, casting loops of light and shadow which dance across the sleek stone of the rooftop ground.

Your gaze finds four, dark green bean bag chairs next, moved from the game room to sit in a circle further down the left side of the roof. A neat, tent-like canopy, reminiscent of Raven’s more gothic looking style, is set up over them and affixed with steel piping, made of sheer dark sheets in purple, blue, and black—a cozy, magical lounging spot that makes you long for the calmness and dark that only sleep can bring.

You slowly turn to your right, noting that access to the elevator on the other side of the roof is surprisingly clear for once, the usual pile of rickety telescope gear stored away to make room for dancing. And through an odd urge to cast a look behind you, you easily catch sight of the cute, homemade banner dangling above the door you’ve just stepped through, green and bubblegum pink letters scrawled across a white strip of poster board: Party Like It’s Your Birthday!!

You recognize Beast Boy’s handwriting the moment your eyes trace the first few letters.

It takes you a moment, still staring out at the culmination of your surprise, to realize that it all clashes terribly, although you don't find yourself caring in the slightest. It’s beautiful and endearing and makes sense to you in every way that matters—and you wouldn't have it look any other way.

Huh…look at that.

You're actually getting a hang of this sappy feelings thing. "Uh, wh—I…what's all this for?" You finally manage to sputter out, once your friends go back to watching you with those barely contained grins and expectant gazes. Even Raven, already in the midst of final preparations, standing by that glorious canopy as she methodically smoothes out wrinkles in the overlapping fabric—both manually and magically—is smiling shyly at you over her shoulder. Her dark, purple-colored eyes are carefully mapping out every hitch in your expression.

Like the others, she’s dressed more casually than you’re used to seeing around the tower; ripped dark-washed skinny jeans with a cropped tee to match and clunky, black combat boots, a leather choker that looks uncomfortably tight around her neck. But the most unexpected difference has to be when you realize what she’s missing. Her signature, purple-blue cloak has been swapped for a hooded, bomber jacket—black with gold zippers and detailing, and one size too big. It’s so strange a sight that it’s actually….kind of weirding you out a little.

Starfire grasps the wrist of your cast and gently tugs you forward, guiding you further into the organized mayhem that was once the tower’s roof. "The happiest day of birth to you my friend!"

Oh. Oh.

Now this is awkward.

"It's my…birthday?" You ask dumbly. Beast boy’s tiny head, that of an adorably, fluffed up squirrel monkey this time, pops up from the depths of a bowl sitting on the first food table—like some knock-off whack-o-mole game (and wait a goddamn minute, when the hell did he even get there?). His little hands grip the lip of the bowl as he chatters through crunching pretzels.

"Duh! At least yeah, I think so…uh, right?"

You clasp a hand to your forehead when you remember the date and groan, "No, no, you’re right, I think it is. Crap, I feel like I lost an entire year."

Starfire’s whole body slumps at your reaction, floating down until her feet touch ground.

"You are unhappy." She concludes sadly.

Aw, cripes, why are you like this?

"NO! No, Kori, I'm happy!” You hurriedly reassure her, “I just....I haven't really celebrated it in a long time. I never had anyone to..."

They hear your unspoken implication clear enough and offer you sad, little smiles—varying degrees of empathy seeping through into their expressions. Empathy. And not pity. Not judgment. Just compassion from people who understand it all.

An alien princess far from home who embraces difference and is learning to choose a life for herself, a half-cybernetic football star who had to learn when to let go and walk a new path in life, a troubled half-demon not wanting to be defined by the past or her heritage, a metahuman menagerie of animals fighting the pull of loneliness while still finding strength in his friends, and an orphan circus boy turned vigilante—given not only a second chance to make a difference for others, but unwavering hope as well.

Your own Breakfast Club of heroes.

"Well now ‘ya have us." Beast Boy says with serious resolve you haven’t often seen when it comes to your loyal jokester, the others agreeing simultaneously as he bounds closer in small leaps from across the table. There’s a painful clenching in your chest at their sentiments, and although it feels like you’re on the verge of a heart attack, it’s a good kind of hurt that brings relief to your entire being.

Because thinking it is one thing, but hearing it out loud dregs more emotion to the surface than you ever thought you had—makes it all the more real. You swallow thickly and try to keep composed through another monumental shift in your perceptions.

"I know." You return softly. Starfire takes your hand and holds it firmly in hers, mindful of the strength in her grip.

"And you are indeed truly....happy?"

Well, that’s a heavy question.

You never truly belonged anywhere, in the past. Too unnatural for everyday civilians, too angry for heroes, too kind for villains. You never understood why no one could just let you be....something in the middle.

But now, you think you’re finally learning that happy is something you can be, even while half-existing in that kind of grey area. So you squeeze her hand in reassurance and take a page from Beast Boy’s book—you attempt to lighten the mood.

"I will be once we get this party started." You tease, pulling away to turn on the boom box and click through stations in search of something party worthy. With that, the others move to disperse; Starfire and the boys already picking through the food tables with interest, while Raven briefly ducks beneath one to retrieve an opaque, plastic storage tote.

It’s blue and more than decently sized in her arms, but she carries it easily and without a word to the bean bag canopy, sitting (legs crossed and back perfectly straight) to methodically sift through its contents.

Starfire waves you towards the food tables once you settle on a popular radio station known for their mix of genres and artists—a little something for everyone hopefully.

"Come then, you must partake in some of this delicious food. I tried earth recipes." She proudly tells you, scooping up some sort of rice dish to wave under your nose as though hoping to entice you further. It smells pleasant, of grilled vegetables and egg, but all your attention has latched onto a single word that equally intrigues as it concerns you.

“Tried.” You echo, leaning to balance on your crutch and free up your unbroken arm. You press a single finger against the rim of the dish in her hands, lowering it down and away from your face. Starfire looks a little sheepish as she curls an arm around the ceramic, rounded dish and fits it into the crook of her elbow to rest, lifting her own newly freed arm to sweep a lock of hair behind her ear. A nervous tick.

She hugs the dish even closer, “There were…the incidents.”

“Nothing you couldn’t handle.” Raven adds from afar. Starfire leans around you to beam at her welcome encouragement; seeming as though she’s already seconds away from just fly-tackling her into a vice-like hug—a very Starfire act of affection.

Which you should probably redirect now, if you want to keep that beautiful canopy standing.

"Everything smells great, Star. Thank you. In fact..." You select a spoon from the first table and a tiny serving plate, before gesturing in silent question to the dish still in her arms. She’s ecstatic at your offer, extending it to you at once with bright, shining eyes. You carefully ladle out a few spoonfuls of the rice mixture, and with a playful cheers and raise of your spoon, you taste your first dish of the evening.

"Oh shit, that's good." You groan in surprise.

"Oh wonderful, I knew you would enjoy it!"

Beast Boy whoops eagerly from the centre of the second table, crouching among a spread of simple desserts. "Wicked! I call the donuts next!"

Cyborg anticipates his movement before you can, firmly squashing a hand against Beast Boy’s monkey head to keep him from leaping towards an open tray. Beast Boy whines openly at the injustice.

"Dude, come on, be cool!"

Ah, now that makes sense.

Starfire sighs and returns the tasty rice dish to its rightful place, hesitating only to shoot you an apologetic look as she steps towards the commotion. But you just smile in understanding, gesturing for her to go on and deal with the boys before they decimate all of her hard work.

And now it’s probably a good idea to clear the blast zone.

You make a rather slow beeline for the front entrance of the canopy, lowering your body down to sit in the place Raven silently offers you by shifting pointedly to the side—content to be off your feet for a moment. Raven picks up on your underlying curiosity though, the second you glance at the box still under her scrutiny, her gaze cutting up to regard you with the slightest touch of amusement.

You observe the way she tips her head, a pulse of darkened magic lighting up around the mysterious container, and it slides in a short burst to rest in front of you.

Well, well, what do we have here?

You peer down into the depths and react too late to stifle your gasp.

It’s filled with boxes of classic party games and entertainment, stacked upon each other in neat little towers along the inside: video game cartridges and two portable games devices, a deck of cards, Connect Four, Cluedo, and yep….that's definitely Twister, oh my fuck (you may be a little over excited for this. Which is strange for you...considering you can't even remember the last time you've ever so passionately, deeply, viscerally, wanted to roll out a stupid, colorful tarp and contort your body into unhealthy positions), a wooden board and an accompanying game-piece tin for Checkers, Pictionary, Monopoly, Jenga, Uno, the Game of Life (aaaannd too real with this one actually, might be avoiding that), Guess Who?, Snakes and Ladders, as well as games you hadn't seen since your earlier days of childhood—Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots and Hungry Hungry Hippos (meaning your small child self is living right now).

Only one person knew about this, knew about your stupid birthday-candle wishes from the short, hopeful part of your childhood that's since been eradicated by harsh realities; the longing desperation to make any kind of worthwhile connection, to know love or be wanted outside of a means to a quick pay-day.

To swing with others at a crowded park, to play games and join clubs, or have a sleepover with greasy food and late night truths—to be free (and you blame this emotional vomit entirely on exhausted, blabbermouth you, spilling your guts in a tired stupor while sharing stove-top hot chocolate in the kitchen at 3 a.m. Feeling vulnerable when he'd quietly shared his own frustrations with the role of leader and recent disconnect with his father, letting you lament in return about never getting the chance to just…be a normal kid. Something he understood. Something he remembered).

Oh, Dick Grayson.

You are the best of us.

You shake your head clear of any vivid memories, reaching in to unearth the Twister box and hold it up to admire its magnificence in the rapidly fading light. "So.” You start in what you hope is a casual enough tone, exchanging the box for another to seem busy. “You put all of this together, huh?"

She shrugs, "We figured you could use some...fun. After everything that's happened."

You grin and fish out an exceptionally old classic next, pointing the vibrant box of colourful, caricature hippos at her. "I didn't think this was your kind of fun, Rae."

"It's not.” Raven admits bluntly, floating the game from your hands despite your protest and back into the storage container with a challenging raise of her brow. “But I can enjoy the value in it. And in spending time with my friends."

(You don’t do enough of that. Why don’t you do enough of that?)

"Pfft are you going soft on us?" You say, weakly avoiding eye contact while wrestling away the any more intrusive thoughts and stabs of related guilt.

You watch her fight the beginnings of a smirk, "I could ask you the same question."

"Oh man, that's disgusting even for you B.B!" Cyborg grouses suddenly in the distance, and you’ve never felt so relieved for a distraction in your young life. Your friend is standing in front of the farthest food table when you look over, his hands on his hips and a frown of disapproval trained on something among the mass of dishes and delicious smelling cuisine.

You find out why when you follow his line of sight, your body and gaze lifting a tad to seek out what’s happened—and you can’t say you’re all too surprised with this inevitable development.

Beast Boy is laying, dramatically draped, across the tray of donuts he’d been denied earlier, monkey toes wriggling to dispel powdered sugar from between them.

"Let me live my life, man." He jokes between fistfuls of sweet pastry. Cyborg makes a grab for him in retaliation and he jerks back out of reach as if fully expecting this outcome, throwing himself to the side in a graceful dodge.

"Halt! Oh please do watch out for the—"

In his flurry of movement—kicking out his legs for momentum and rolling head over feet to a neat stop a few feet further down the table—Beast Boy accidently whacks the side of another bowl near the edge, the dish teetering dangerously on the precipice of destruction.

But Starfire is always quick on her feet. She lunges for the bowl and makes the catch before it can fall victim to the laws of gravity (those you’re already painfully aware of), cradling it safely in her arms and sighing in relief as she cordially lifts it in your direction.

"Do not fear! I have saved the mac of the cheese!"

"Though it has its moments." Raven deadpans, flipping up her hood with a shake of her head.

"Speaking of moments…is this a good time for a dramatic entrance?"

Starfire whirls around unearthly fast at the familiar voice, the echo spiking through the low, near constant beat and rhythm drifting from the speakers of the boom box—none of you having heard a door open or close, or even a single footfall drop onto the roof.

"Robin! You have made it!"

Alright.

You know he’s practically a ninja (because it’s what he’s been dutifully trained to do), but you still think this deserves a hearty what the hell anyway.

How long has he even been standing there?

Though before you can reflect too deeply on the matter, you find yourself bearing witness to Robin’s handling of the fly-tackle hug. To his credit, he takes the sudden, colliding weight like a champ; a short laugh ripped from him at the initial breath-stealing thump, and he stumbles back to restore his balance without falling on his ass.

You can tell that he’s definitely a pro at this by now.

He gives her a generous, friendly squeeze before they part, turning his attention back to the rest of his team. It’s then you fully take in how he’s dressed; slim-fitting jeans, a dark blue tee, a solid, gray flannel shirt over top—unbuttoned and left hanging open, long sleeves rolled up at to his elbows—and red converse.

His knee is still in a brace, a black watch with a stiff Kevlar strap fastened around his left wrist, its face square and rimmed with silver. And from your place you can even study the state of his dark hair—soft and without gel, but noticeably mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it all day.

"There's our fearless leader!” You warmly call out, letting Raven ease you helpfully to your feet so that you can welcome your newly arrived team member. You lightly bump your cast against his shoulder once you reach him, and then again just to be annoying when he nudges your arm away the first time (but not without a fond roll of his eyes).

With less distance your gaze finds thin, pink marks left like badges on his skin, the stitches having already healed and dissolved from under his chin and across his collarbone, his blue eyes a little hazy in their focus.

All in all, he looks tired up this close, in small ways you might overlook in passing—his grin beginning to wilt just at the upper corners of his lips, dropping eyelids and subtle bruising under his eyes, and the barest smudges of oil left neglected on his person; freckle-like specks across his jaw, staining the toes of his converse and the collar of his t-shirt (that particular one looking especially dark and ingrained into the fabric, like he’d hastily blotted at the spot in a rush and then gave up half-way through)—though you wouldn’t guess it from his posture.

He’s all squared shoulders, a confident lift of his head and a soft, delighted glint in his eyes despite the heaviness you’d noticed before. He’s proud even in the face of exhaustion, so you elect not to bring any attention to it.

“I was beginning to think Batman whisked you off back home for some clown-punching and father-son bonding." You continue impishly, mimicking his mentor’s cowl by placing an index finger on either side of your head. You bounce them up and down in a tease.

"No, that was last month.” Robin reminds you dryly, pressing his lips together to keep from smiling. He jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the open elevator door he’d obviously emerged from. “I was actually just finishing up some final touches on an old friend of yours."

Huh. O…kay?

"Ominous." Cyborg offers before you can voice your own confusion, settling back against a food table with a deviously knowing smile.

Best Boy huffs with palpable disappointment instead, climbing swiftly onto the ledge behind his friend. He scuttles around a portion of the roof to sit beside the thumping boom box, while still taking time to throw out his own affirmation on the matter, before shifting back into his human form and swinging his dangling legs to the beat of the current song.

"Yeah, way creepy, dude."

Robin frowns, “I was being mysterious!”

Cyborg seems to be enjoying this immensely for some reason, leaning forward and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, don’t.”

“Damn. Don’t hold anything back.”

“Do not worry, Robin.” Starfire remarks with a pat to his shoulder, “I still find you the mysterious.”

You try to stifle your sputtering laughter as Robin sighs in defeat, reaching up to touch her hand in wordless thanks. He motions for you to stay where you are then, swiping his finger across the face of his watch. It lights up blue like a touch screen, and something large and humming (a machine?) darts from the inside of the elevator.

The futuristic motorcycle that slides to a near-silent stop in front of you is like something right out of Tron. There’s a high leather seat and bullet-proof windshield among sleek, rounded black metal and glowing, magnetic green lights. They detail the length of the body like racing stripes, circling around the headlights and up into the shape of a triangle above them, as well as lining the inside rims of its large, treaded wheels (two in front and one in the back). The padded, silver handles poke through the front casing like devil horns.

It’s a familiar, wrenching image—one you could only dream of seeing again after the brutal attack on Jump City.

"Lucy!” You burst out instantly, and much to the Robin’s immense enjoyment, hopping forward in your excitement to reach your beloved cycle. You trace your fingers over the glowing triangle, pressing your palm to the leather seat with stinging, blurry eyes. It feels warm. Alive. “Oh my crap, you resurrected my bike!"

Cyborg gently pats the cycle with pride, "Rob and I spent weeks trying to fix her up. Finally got all the parts working again."

"You—this is—holy shit."

"Glad you like it."

Robin throws an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side, pretending not notice your muffled sniffling like a super-star best friend. "Happy birthday, (Y/N)." He mutters, loosening the fancy watch so he can clasp it around your unbroken wrist in a nimble flourish.

Cyborg pumps his fist in the air when you choke out a disbelieving laugh, victoriously striding to the centre of the roof to proclaim:

"Well, what are we standing around here for? Let's get this thing started!"

“Oh yes, let us start the celebration my friends!”

“Eh, sure.”

"Party people!" Beast Boy cries out in agreement, finally leaping down from the ledge.

"Alright, Alright. You don't have to tell me twice." Robin chuckles, gesturing for the others to go ahead with the festivities. He stays to hover around you though, and is suspiciously quiet at first, simply stepping around you and your newly built cycle to pluck a can of soda from a food table. He idly brushes away condensation with a broad swipe of his thumb, waiting for the others to further disband around you both.

When the coast is clear, evident by the way he glances from side to side, he turns towards you with his head down, popping the tab on the can and taking a heavy gulp. You raise a brow and wait, more than aware of his tendency by now to try and constantly torture you with the value of patience. He purses his lips in thought, before he finally meets your gaze with a playful twist to his usual smirk.

“So, hey.” He begins somewhat offhandedly, drumming his fingers across the surface of the table, “We should take a team picture at some point. All of us. Like a…memory of tonight’s occasion—if you want.”

You shouldn’t make it this easy for him—because he’ll never stop teasing you about how quickly you caved—but you find that you truly do like the idea. He just doesn’t need to know how much at the moment. So you settle on feigning tired reluctance, hoping (fooslishly) that he doesn’t see right through you.

“It wouldn’t hurt, I guess.”

“You guess?”

….

It’s really annoying when he does that.

You pout at the light amusement in his tone and follow his earlier path to the table, seizing a donut in a moment of pure impulse from the tray Beast Boy had previously vacated. You feel satisfied when you notice that it’s one of the unfortunate monkey feet ones, and then thrust it into Robin’s free hand.

He must have been around long enough to see the offense for himself, because his nose crinkles in distaste when he registers what you’ve given him, letting the tainted pastry dangle from two fingers.

Sweet revenge.

You dole out smirk of your own.

“Eat your donut, dick.”

*****************************************************************

It’s well into the evening, sunset colours already fading calmly from the sky, when Robin parks himself next to you on the ledge of the roof, smoothly swinging his legs over and dropping to sit with a long sigh of relief. Huh…it seems like someone definitely had a longer day today than they let on.

And honestly? Mood.

You tap him with the rounded bottom of the crutch lying across your lap, throwing him a cursory glance and a smile in greeting. But he doesn’t respond the way you expect him to, no. Instead, you’re surprised to see that rare, relaxed grin of his already peeking through all of the obvious exhaustion.

"What are you smiling about, Grayson? You're creeping me out." You muse gently, brow arching at the amusement that grows all the more in the curl of his smile. It’s like he’s proudly uncovered some great secret in the time it took you to voice your thoughts, and is now going to make you work for a satisfying answer. Which, you have to admit, isn’t a very unusual outcome when it comes to your friend and his bat-crazy mentor.

Heh.

Gar would love that one.

"Oh, you know…nothing too important.” Robin counters with a non-committal shrug of his shoulder.

Uhhh, yeah, that’s not comforting in the slightest, you decide.

You narrow your eyes at him and poke at his upper arm accusingly, “You’re never really this terrible of a liar usually.”

“Well, usually isn’t now.”

You pause to let his utter nonsense sink in.

“Are all detectives this uselessly cryptic or is this just a you thing?”

“I think it’s a family thing actually.”

“That I believe.” You laugh, gripping tight to the edge of the concrete ledge with one hand as you lean forward to admire the twinkling darkness of the water far below—a beautiful, convoluted gloom in the beginnings of silver moonlight. You catch his lingering stare in your peripheral when you shift, an odd amount of softness there you’re not exactly used to seeing directed your way.

“What?” You ask again in exasperation (and maybe a tad more overly sharp than you wanted). He only winks when you turn to get a better read on him, and looking much too smug and unconcerned, tips his head back to study the distant, firefly-like pinpricks of light just now glittering through the encroaching dark above you.

There’s a blissful beat of silence between the continuously wafting smells (of heavy spices and cheese and the lingering sweetness of fancy chocolate) and the nearby ambient sounds of your friends locked in an intense game of Jenga (their laughter and conversation—Raven is definitely on a roll by the sounds of it—the clinking of cutlery and plates, and the low, near-constant pop music blanketed beneath it all), and then—

“Welcome home.” He says quietly.

You stare at him a moment longer; hesitant, flustered, warm—like some kind of utter punch-drunk goober—until your gaze slips mercifully back to the sky, drawn in by the trembling might of the stars far out of reach.

And you let the moment sit within the unexpected, peaceful calm his voice brings, unbroken without a sarcastic quip or cynical remark, just this once. A moment to find value in.

Because this is your family, or….what you’d always imagined one to be.

So, even though you’d never truly been privy to a lot of happiness before this—this tiny, momentous moment right where you need to be; sitting on the roof ledge of your home—you find your own sense of peace in thinking that here and now, if there ever was a happy place in this life for you—

This is it.

478 notes · View notes

mrsren · 6 years ago

Note

Pansy and Neville drabbles #51 , #37 and #19 please and thank you.

This is written for SleepyGrimm, who is just one of my favorite people, and I so hope you enjoy this. It's....long. 3500 words, and hot off the presses. I'll upload to FFN & AO3 in the morning because I'm tired. I might have overdone the drabble...so here, have a oneshot, my lovely friend. The pagebreaks are probably fucked up. Pairing: Neville Longbottom x Pansy Parkinson. "I wish I could hate you." "Is there a reason you're naked in my bed?" "I've seen the way you look at me when you think I'm not looking." Following the war, he didn’t hold with the ideology that everything was going to fall into place. As nice as that would have been, it was wholly unlikely. No, he was used to everything going completely fucking sideways. For a moment, the summer really, he thought it was routine. He visited his parents in St Mungo’s. Alice Longbottom liked to hold his Order of Merlin, and he was content to leave it to her. Frank gazed at it, his eyes glassy with the briefest look of recognition, and Neville couldn’t imagine not leaving it to the two individuals who taught him what being a hero was all about. It only made sense, didn’t it? He wasn’t expecting much from returning to Hogwarts. He’d already gone through his seventh year once as a warrior; he wasn’t sure how to repeat it as a student. He imagined he would still keep one eye over his shoulder, his wand gripped tightly in his hand. There were some horrors that could not be scrubbed away by fundraisers, galas, and galleons. Gods, the money — he couldn’t stand it. The Ministry was in the thick of it these days. Officials were either slamming former Death Eaters - those who could escape a Kiss - or the families thereof with fines, or they were giving their thanks in monetary value. Neville donated the money he was awarded before taking out a spot in the Daily Prophet with the single quote: Change Not Currency. As much as he liked to think it was witty, it really wasn’t. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~His grandmother was overjoyed when he received what he hoped to Merlin was his last Hogwarts letter, and a pin fell onto the dining room table. It was scarlet, and gold, the same colours he’d been sported for years now. Head Boy, he mused before glancing at the letter. His counterpart was Hermione. As if he’d thought it would be anyone other than her. His grandmother set to talking about him - never to him, it felt these days - of his accomplishments. Slaying Voldemort’s snake, his ruddy Order of Merlin, and now Hogwarts’ Head Boy. He could feel the bile rise in his throat. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~The first week was the hardest. The Sorting Ceremony was painful as only a fraction returned. Ron and Harry were noticeably absent, already in auror training. Hermione sat at his side, her enamel pin shining proudly at the front of her robes. It was the smallest class he’d ever seen sorted, and it was a damn shame. As they ushered students to their dormitories, Neville stopped to help a small Slytherin who had seemingly been left behind. “Hi, sweetheart,” he murmured, crouching down. His fingers brushed against the ancient stone of the castle. “Lost?” She nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. “Unfortunately,” she muttered, bitter. “I was with my brother. He’s in third year and he promised he wouldn’t let me get lost. Little liar.” Neville chuckled. “I’m sure he just got separated. I’m Neville, what is your name?” Blue eyes widened and she hid her face behind tendrils of blonde hair. “Everyone knows who you are. You cut off the snake’s head.” He snorted. “Heard about that, did you? Did they mention I have the tendency of tripping over my own two feet?” She looked positively aghast. “Well...no. They didn’t put that on your chocolate frog card actually.” Right, he forgot about his likeness on the cards, a moving photo of a moment that truly wasn’t sorted for children. She continued. “Oh, Merlin! What if you’d tripped during the Final Battle? What if you’d landed on the sword?” He blinked. He actually hadn’t thought of that. “Good thing I didn’t. Let’s get you to the dungeons.” Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “Is it really so gross down there? Oh, my name is Leana.” Neville smiled as she held on to the fabric of his sleeve and he led her through the winding staircases, and into the dungeons. Of course, he couldn’t go any farther. “Parkinson!” he barked, recognizing the familiar curtain of black hair. She pivoted on her foot to face him, her dark eyes narrowing as her mouth set into a thin line. “Yes?” All he really saw was the woman who attempted to give Harry to Voldemort. Neville glanced down at Leana, who was bouncing on the balls of her feet. Right, be the example, house unity. He sighed. “Leana got lost. Would you please show her to her dorm?” Parkinson gave a stiff nod, and stepping forward to take the young girl’s hand was the closest she’d ever been to him. Neville didn’t turn to leave until he was alone in the corridor. Old habits died hard, but he was struck by a thought - She really wasn’t deserving of the cruel nickname Pug-Faced Parkinson anymore. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~They had Potions together. Followed by Defense Against the Dark Arts. In a gross twist of fate, they were permanent partners for the year. “Don’t catch the cauldron on fire.” she hissed in Potions. “Missed your step there,” he smirked when he cast a jelly legs hex at her in DADA. It wasn’t the best way to spend to back to back hours, but - He found himself looking forward to them way back when he didn’t realize it. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~Neville almost - should have, he corrected - gave her attention when he caught her out after curfew. At the tail end of his rounds, she should have been grateful he was the one to come across her in the Astronomy Tower rather than Hermione. It was a shifting point, but neither of them mentioned it. The next would remain the same with the verbal sparring she would win in Potions and the literal sparring he was getting quite good at. She was crying, her shoulders barely shuddering as she hung her head. Parkinson didn’t say anything when he silently sat beside her, his legs mirroring hers as they dangled off of the side of the stairs. “Are you going to give me detention?” she asked. Parkinson didn’t wipe her eyes. She only glared at him, daring him to poke at her. At the shake of his head, she froze. “Why not?” “Do you want me to give you detention? I mean, I wouldn’t be against it, but we all need a place to hide sometimes, don’t we?” He expected her to snap at him, to tell him how he was too whimsical in his thinking, too soft-hearted. She murmured, “I’m not hiding.” Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the level beneath her. “I don’t hide.” Neville dipped his head. “Of course not. It was rude of me to assume.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~It carried on, but now their routine was out of order. His eyes drifted to her in between classes, even as she never spared him a second glance in the corridors, and meals in the Great Hall were the worst. She wasn’t eating, but he wasn’t in the position to point it out to her. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~During another moment, he’d traded rounds with Hermione for good, in the Astronomy Tower, she was forthcoming. “Why did you come back?” he asked, legs tucked beneath him. She shrugged. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and there were purple rings beneath her eyes. Clearly, she wasn’t sleeping. “I wanted to prove I had nothing to be ashamed of.” It sparked his curiosity and he rose his head to glance at her. “Are you ashamed?” “Yeah.” she replied, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “Why did you come back? From what I hear you could have gone on for whatever. All of you could have.” She didn’t have to say who she meant. Neville had given it a lot of thought over the eight weeks they had been back. He still didn’t have a straight answer. “I’m not sure. I think part of it was that I’m comfortable here. I want to go through auror training like my parents, but...this is more than you wanted to hear, isn’t it?” She surprised him. “No, I think I’d like to hear it.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~He didn’t ask her to Hogsmeade, no matter how it looked. And it definitely wasn’t that he would have minded if they had gone to Hogsmeade together, but this - fuck, they always ended up with the other it seemed. “Butterbeer?” he asked when she slid into the booth across the table from him. Her cheeks were stained. Neville wasn’t at all used to the sight outside of midnight, outside of whispered meetings. “What is it?” “Slytherins,” she moaned to herself quietly. “They’re out for their own skin, not mine and —” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “What happened?” Parkinson’s head snapped up at the harshness of his voice. “What’s it to you, Longbottom?” He didn’t offer a reply. She sighed. “Malfoy is just being a ponce. He was going to visit the Astronomy Tower as well last night, but he saw us.” He tilted his head to the side. “Is it a problem for you that you’ve been seen with me?” Neville asked. His heart rate had picked up as he waited for her reply. Her pale lips parted. “No,” she replied quickly, shaking her head. “He’s just…” she trailed off. “He isn’t dealing with the new term all too well and I’ve always been a pillar for him. But now I’m not.” “You’re barely able to be there for yourself.” Neville pointed out, not unkindly. “He can’t expect you to put him before yourself.” She shook her head. “He doesn’t, but he believed if I needed anyone that I would go to him.” Funny, though he liked the thought of it, he hadn’t considered that he was the metaphorical pillar for her. Really, he was only a bit selfish and she saw him as more than the guy who lopped the head off of a snake. “What did he say?” Her breath caught. “He mentioned that I was the one who tried to hand over Potter and that I was only trying to be so close with a Gryffindor to put myself in a better light. His house rivalries are very much still present.” Neville took a long drink from his tumbler before setting it down. “Is that why you’re around me?” She scowled. “You know what, if that’s what you really think, I think I’m better off on my own!” In hindsight, he could have phrased it better. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~He could time it to the exact second Parkinson became Pansy, that just another Slytherin became a pretty black haired girl with pale pink lips, and eyes that were dark enough to resemble the night sky they often stared at. “Neville!” she screamed as she walked into Potions the following Monday. He spluttered and dropped his wand into the bubbling cauldron. “Bollocks.” he muttered. “What?” Neville snapped, squaring his shoulders and towering over her as she jabbed her wand into his sternum. Their peers were watching partly in amusement, partly in anticipation. Her eyes flashed. “Draco has been in the hospital wing all weekend.” He nodded. “I heard. Unfortunate thing, really. Bloke should really watch himself.” “You hexed the shite out of him!” she shrieked, a smile curving both sides of her lips that he was so fixated on. “Huh,” he murmured. “You’re right. I did do that.” And then her head tipped back as she laughed. Oh, he was fucked. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~At Christmas, he did ask her to Hogsmeade. Unofficially of course. She rolled her eyes and told him they were getting firewhiskey instead of butterbeer. She was dressed nicely. Wearing a dress that cinched around her waist, and a pair of heels, Pansy dared passerbys to say anything about them. His eyes were drawn to the necklace that fell to her breasts. Somehow he was pretty sure the placement was intentional. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~“I wish I could hate you.” Pansy told him when she came back from the holidays. “But I don’t, not even a little.” They sat shoulder to shoulder in the Astronomy Tower. He thought it was curious how a place that held so many bad memories had turned into one of his favorite places. The admission stung. “Why do you want to hate me?” Pansy didn’t meet his eyes, but she laid her head on his shoulder. “My father wants to plan a marriage for me.” He nodded, laying his head against hers. His lips brushed her hair. “Is that what you want?” “It doesn’t matter.” “It does.” he rumbled, smoothing his fingers against her spine. Her shoulders slumped. “I can’t do anything to stop it. Lately, it’s all he talks about in his letters. I’m no fool; I’ve never expected him to care about how my term is going.” He blinked, and bit his lip. “What if I promise I won’t let him marry you off?” She sat up so quickly he nearly bit the top of her head. Hissing, she massages her scalp. “Are you mental? You couldn’t —” Neville shrugged, smiling. “I could. Haven’t you heard? I’m the guy that killed the snake.” Pansy didn’t grin often, but gods, when she did. “You hate when people mention Nagini.” she paused. “How would you stop him?” Quietly, he opted for making her laugh rather than discuss the worst things. But at the end, before they parted ways, she murmured, “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not looking.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~Valentine’s Day. She wasn’t quite his girlfriend, but she was more than his friend. He wasn’t sure what to refer to her as when he’d spent nearly all of his nights with her discussing anything from herbology to the war to the future and to what was waiting for them when they graduated. All Neville really knew - and he didn’t like to admit it - was that she was important to him. She was beautiful, funny and far too intelligent for him. So when the day came, he ate his breakfast nonchalantly, occasionally looking across the Great Hall. An owl delivered the parcel, swooping low and dropping a rectangle box in her lap. She opened it carefully, tugging on the scarlet ribbon. Pansy smiled, lifting her head and meeting his eyes from across the room. It was all very cliche, but he thought it was worth it to see her chat excitedly as Daphne Greengrass turned to her. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~“Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?” The words left his mouth before he could decide to not sound like a bumbling third year. She grinned, sitting on her knees and letting his sheets fall from her chest. “Well, if you must know,” Pansy said wickedly, “I thought that since you were kind enough to buy me something, you deserved to see me wearing it.” “I did earlier —” She crooked a finger, motioning him toward the bed. “I know you saw it earlier, fool. I meant you could see me wearing only it.” The bed dipped below his weight. Neville had imagined kissing her more than he would like to admit. Were her lips as soft as they looked? Would she be harsh and demanding, or would be let him take the lead? It was the second. His fingers cupped the nape of her neck, threading through soft strands of her hair. Pansy whimpered as his tongue traced the seam of her lips. He laid her backward, his hand slowly sliding between her breasts. “More.” she demanded. He chuckled. “There’s my witch.” Her nipples stiffened below feather light touches. Her back arched prettily when his tongue flicked over them. If she noticed he was inexperianced, she didn’t mention it. His fingers found her clit, slipping between her folds and rubbing. Neville paid attention to just how she liked it, the pace, the way she mewled and threw her head back. He liked to lessen the pressure just to see her squeeze her eyes shut and listen to short pants of, “Neville, please, I’m so —” Watching her fall apart was exquisite from the vantage point between her thighs, his mouth on her cunt while she writhed beneath him. Pansy crawled to her knees, still shaking, and didn’t wait for him to kick his trousers off. Instead she straddled his hips while his sat with his back to the headboard, his hands gripping her hips while she slid down her cock. He would never tire of the way her head fell back, exposing the hollow of her throat, and the way she rolled her hips against his. “Merlin,” she gasped. Neville tightened his arms around her waist, slowly picking her up and pulling her down, fucking her torturously slow from under her. He took one nipple into his mouth, flattening his thumb against her sensitive clit. “One more just for me?” Neville rasped when she told him she couldn’t possibly come again. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~He hadn’t paid attention to the reactions of the students when Pansy grabbed his hand in the corridor. Nor had he bothered when she grabbed him by the lapels of his robes and snogged him in the middle of the corridor. He was rather dazed really. “Not that I’m complaining, but what was that?” She made a ‘hmmph’ sound while she folded her arms across her chest. “Girls stare at you.” “Do I have something on my face?” he asked. Pansy looked like she could hex him. It wasn’t far from the realm of possibility and he took a step back. “Like you’ve said, they remember that you’re a war hero, and that you’re rather fit now. I’m not a war hero.” His features softened. “You’re fit.” She swatted his chest. Neville tugged her close, looping an arm around her middle. “You’re lovely, and the best part of my life. If anything, you’ve made returning for this term worth it.” Pansy mumbled something against his chest. “What?” “It’s not important.” she replied, her red cheeks betraying her lie. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~She sat on his bed, her shoes kicked off, while she chewed on the end of a sugar quill. “Are you still planning to enter auror training?” The sight of her plump lips around the sugar quill was detrimental to his sanity, and his throbbing erection. Neville cleared his throat. “Yes, but I think only long enough to capture the Lestranges.” Pansy’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t even thought of that.” “There’s no need to apologize. I don’t think I want to be an auror for the rest of my life. What do you plan to do?” She swallowed. “I was thinking I might like to be a healer. Father is against the idea since he wants me to marry and stay home to pop out heirs. Can you imagine? All he wants is for me to lay on my back and get properly knocked up.” The topic hadn’t come up in months. It made him angrier the second time around. “Marry me?” he blurted. She giggled. “What?” Neville’s face was surely red. “Nothing.” he stammered. Pansy leaned across the bed to kiss his cheek. “I know what you meant. It’s just rather adorable to see you blush. You don’t have to marry me, not yet anyway.” She winked. “Eventually?” he joked, but there was a very real hope that crossed her face. And just as quickly, it was gone. “Pansy?” “Yeah?” “Nothing.” It wasn’t the right time. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~The right time turned out to be the last day the would set foot in the castle as students. “What are we doing here?” she asked, gazing over the railing. Simple answer: this was the place that brought them together. He couldn’t forget it, not even it was the site where their former headmaster had fallen. “Neville?” He cleared his throat. “I wanted to come here one last night. We’ve spent most nights in my dorm now.” She nodded. “Spit it out.” “What?” Pansy rolled her eyes. “You’ve never been too clever. Not to mention you’ve been muttering to yourself all day. If you have something to say, then just tell me.” “I want it to be perfect.” She gave a short laugh. “If it’s coming from you, it’s perfect.” Pansy said. He arched an eyebrow. “That’s sappy.” Pansy threw her hands up. “You’ve rubbed off on me, I guess you coud say then.” She was all smiles as she stepped toward him. “And to be fair, I think I’ve been waiting on this for a long time.” He had it planned, the flowery prose to describe just how much she meant to him. But then his mind went blank. “I love you.” he murmured, pressing his lips to her forehead. Her hands slid up his forearms. “I know.” Pansy pressed her lips to his throat. “I’m so fucking in love with you it scares me sometimes.” she paused, pulling away to look at him. “Are you going to tell me about the keys to the flat in London, or do I have to wait for that too?” He grinned. “Cheeky.” Not for the first time, or the last, he was wrong. Things did fall into place.

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anitabyars · 6 years ago

Text

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Divorced. Single dad. Traded to a losing squad.

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After talking to Kenan for the last few minutes, and looking under his hood, so to speak, I’ve found that he’s a classic. They don’t make them like him anymore, and if I don’t change the subject, change the course of this conversation, I’ll fool myself that we don’t have to keep things simple and that we could be more than just friends, not just for the summer, but for a long time to come. As long as I’d like.

“Okay,” I say, switching gears without a clutch and pulling a tie off another of Amanda’s racks. “I think that shirt could work really well with this tie.”

He doesn’t look at the tie I’m holding up, but keeps his eyes fastened on me. He’s not playing along. I’ve boxed myself into a corner with him. And the quarters are too tight. His scent. His warmth. His intelligence. His thoughtfulness. He is pressing in on me, overtaking my good intentions in all the ways I never thought a man could.

“Try this on,” I say, blindly shoving the mint green shirt at him.

When I look at him, he’s already peeled one shirt off and is reaching for the one I chose. I didn’t think this through. Didn’t forecast that Kenan changing from one shirt into another would mean his naked chest. I lose my train of thought and all my chill. Besides my mouth dropping open at the sight of the sculpted terrain of his chest and abs, I give no other indication that he affects me. Taut, bronze skin stretches across his broad shoulders like supple canvas pulled over a frame, the foundation of a masterpiece. He’s a big man. Not bulky, but instead chiseled to the specifications of a master sculptor: arms roped with muscles, biceps like rocks under skin glowing with health. The forearms Chase raved about are lined with veins and sinew. And I die for a great chest. I’ve never seen one more spectacular than Kenan’s.

Two words.

Male. Nipples.

Jesus, my mouth is literally watering at the thought of tasting them, sucking them, licking them. And if that pectoral perfection weren’t enough, the two columns of muscles, four each, are stacked over his lean stomach arrowing down to a narrow waist and hips. I can’t look away. I lick my lips, imagining how he would feel under my mouth. How I’d lick around his nipples and drag my tongue down that shallow path bisecting his abdominal muscles. I’d slip that belt off and sink to my knees. Unzip those pants and take him out. God, hold him in my hands and then take him all the way to the back of my throat. I’d choke on him. A man this big . . . I’d be so tight around him.

“Lotus,” Kenan says, jarring me from my torso trance. “Should I go ahead and put this shirt on? Or did you need a little more time?”

I snap a glance up to his face, embarrassed to find him laughing at me. Oh, God. I’m as bad as Amanda. I turn to leave, but he catches my elbow with a gentle hand and turns me back around, walking us behind two of the racks. He bends until he’s almost eye level with me.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says, searching my face intently. “I’m glad you like my body.”

“I didn’t say I . . .” My words trail off at his knowing grin. “Okay. So you have a nice body. I work in fashion. Do you have any idea how many great bodies I see on a daily basis?”

“I’m sure many,” he says, his smile still firmly in place. “I can’t speak for any of them, only for the way you looked at me.”

“And how do you think I looked at you?” I ask defensively, forcing myself not to look away.

In the quiet that follows, his smile fades, and heat replaces the humor in his eyes. “You looked at me the way I bet I’ve looked at you every time you walk into a room,” he says, the timbre of his voice rolling over my sensitive skin like a caress. “Like I would eat you if I could. Head to toe, everything in between.”

“Kenan,” I protest, closing my eyes on a groan. “We said friends. We said simple. This is not how you start a simple friendship.”

His large hand cups my jaw and lifts my chin. I open my eyes, blinking dazedly at him. I wasn’t prepared for how his touch makes me feel. How I instantly crave more of it; want to lean into the warmth; to turn and trace his lifeline with my tongue. Tell him all the things I could discover just from reading his palm and looking into his eyes.

How can such a large hand feel so gentle, like it’s capable of treasuring, cherishing?

“Okay, Lotus,” he says, regret and reluctance woven around my name. “Simple. Friendship.”

About Kennedy

A Top 25 Amazon Bestseller, Kennedy Ryan writes about women from all walks of life, empowering them and placing them firmly at the center of each story and in charge of their own destinies. Her heroes respect, cherish and lose their minds for the women who capture their hearts.

She is a wife to her lifetime lover and mother to an extraordinary son. She has always leveraged her journalism background to write for charity and non-profit organizations, but enjoys writing to raise Autism awareness most. A contributor for Modern Mom Magazine and Frolic, Kennedy’s writings have appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul, USA Today and many others. The founder and executive director of a foundation serving Atlanta Autism families, she has appeared on Headline News, Montel Williams, NPR and other media outlets as an advocate for families living with autism.

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My Review!

5 ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Phenomenal! Kennedy Ryan never ceases to deliver something completely unique, unforgettable, thought provoking, completely addictive, and completely mind-blowing. I was utterly mesmerized, by the characters and this story that enraptured me with its emotion, anticipation, hunger, frustration, conviction, and vitality. Beautifully penned this book is a insta-must read, and one you wont be able to put down.

You do not want to miss this one. Obsessed. That’s how I felt while reading this book. Every page was better than the previous one. Just try to put this one down. I dare you.

I voluntarily read and reviewed an advanced reader copy. All thoughts and opinions are my own.

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plxyboi-blog · 5 years ago

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Massachusetts Daily Collegian | Matt Shadeed will not slow down

New Post has been published on https://healthy4lives.com/massachusetts-daily-collegian-matt-shadeed-will-not-slow-down/

Massachusetts Daily Collegian | Matt Shadeed will not slow down

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Matt Shadeed’s weight room is governed by a few non-negotiables.

It’s July, a sweltering summer day in Amherst, and the Massachusetts football team is three days out from fall camp. After some light work on the turf, the UMass defense has a quick lift to finish out the day, but before things get rolling, somebody shouts, “hallway!”

Non-negotiable number one: attitude and approach.

“Everybody’s got stuff going on,” Shadeed says. “Academics, tutors, training room appointments, practice, meetings; when these doors open, we want you to attack it like it’s the most important thing in your life. Because when everything you have on your schedule or your task list or in your daily life becomes the most important thing you have to do, and you knock it out with this ferocious attitude and this hair-on-fire work ethic and energy and enthusiasm that pours into other people, all the stuff that you think is so hard to do and complete that can be overwhelming, they become very simple.

The entire defense tears out the double doors on the near side of the weight room, shouting and jostling and slapping the door frame on their way out. Out of sight, somewhere through the halls of the glistening FPC, they start to chant, the din growing louder and louder.

Peyton Ryan, by trade the UMass women’s soccer team’s starting goalkeeper who moonlights as a strength and conditioning intern, knows what’s coming, thus she provides the warning; “you might want to take a step back.

A few seconds later, the Minutemen come charging through those same double doors into the weight room, a mass of bodies at full sprint, converging at the one open area at the center of the room. It’s a literal mosh pit, with Chief Keef’s “Love Sosa” blasting through the sound system, and at one point linebacker Tyris Lebeau is raised above their heads — this apparently happens a lot — never breaking rhythm or stopping the dance, and his teammates nearly hurl him into the HVAC system that crisscrosses the ceiling.

They return him to the Earth, and the moment Matt Shadeed calls them to gather, they gather. He runs through brief instructions for the day — he says they should know today’s workout by heart, anyways — and every point is met with a collective, emphatic “yes sir!”

Non-negotiable number two: enthusiasm.

“Everything we want to do in that room and in this program and in this building and in these kids’ daily lives revolves around enthusiasm, and we say it in all caps,” Shadeed says. He shouts the next word. “ENTHUSIASM! Because when you’re enthusiastic about things, it’s the measuring stick of how important something is to you. If you attack this piece of your day like it’s the most important thing on your agenda, you’re feeling great about yourself, your confidence is high, now you move to the next thing, you carry that energy with you into the day.”

Shadeed breaks the huddle, and before they get going, one player screams in his face and shoves him into the wall. Shadeed shoves back, screams back, and they jostle and shout as the players start to mob him, smiles all around. It’s the time of their lives.

They break into three groups and receive a bit more individualized instruction from the other strength and conditioning coaches in the room — Clayton Kirven, on loan from the hockey team, and Joel “the Wiz” Reinhardt, Shadeed’s lead assistant — while the man himself wanders over to the iPhone hooked up to the sound system. The moment Kirven and Reinhardt are finished, Shadeed cranks the volume back up to 1; Waka Flocka’s “Grove St. Party” hits the speakers and the madness resumes, the sound shaking the walls.

Non-negotiable number three: body language.

“That’s part of our environment, body language has to be at a premium all the time,” says Shadeed. “You saw that in there: nobody’s sitting down, nobody’s standing around, no hands on hips, nobody’s feeling sorry for themselves. We don’t do that, we don’t believe in it. Body language screams what you believe inside your heart, so if your body language looks like crap, I’m uninterested, this isn’t that important, I’m just ready to get it done and get out of here, well that’s not going to help us win football games. That’s a non-negotiable, we don’t talk about it, we don’t negotiate, we don’t talk, it just is what it is.”

Are the guys locked into the workout? Absolutely. Does the dancing ever stop? Not really. Shadeed moves counter-clockwise through the weight room at a brisk pace, stopping briefly at each station to coach one guy through a set, to tweak a little technique, to make sure the morale stays up. It’s chaos, but it’s calculated chaos, of which Shadeed is the composer.

Even when he pauses for a teaching moment Shadeed never stops moving, never stops coaching, never stops shouting. He’s a ball of energy with seemingly no end, even when the workout draws to a close and he’s rapping every word to Meek Mill’s “Dreams and Nightmares” as the players grab a protein shake on the way out.

It’s 45 minutes of pure, unmitigated lunacy, and it’s exhausting to watch from the outside, let alone to coach and control.

As the defense exits, Shadeed starts tidying up some of the equipment. The offense will be in in a half hour.

Collegian File Photo

Somewhere between a South Carolina Krispy Kreme and Columbia Metropolitan Airport, Shadeed’s phone buzzes.

The Baylor women’s basketball team is hours removed from a blowout win over No. 18 South Carolina in December of 2018 — the Lady Bears would go on to win a national title a few months later — and the team is on the way to the airport, fired up after coach Kim Mulkey treats the team to celebratory donuts.

Shadeed flips his phone over and sees a text from Walt Bell. It’s one line: “Are you out of the football strength coach life forever?”

Bell and Shadeed met at the University of Southern Mississippi, the former a wide receivers coach and the latter an assistant strength and conditioning coach. It was Bell’s first full-time job, Shadeed’s second; they were only together for a season at Southern Miss, 2011, with Shadeed spending two years at Ole Miss and Bell heading to North Carolina. By 2014, they’d reconvened at Arkansas State, and within two seasons Shadeed had made a lasting impression.

It was the culture piece for Bell, the way that culture improved with Shadeed’s presence. How they worked, how they carried themselves — he just had a way about him.

“I think more than anything else, just watching so many kids have such exponential growth in their lives in terms of how they did everything was unbelievable.” Bell says, “Especially at Arkansas State, how many of those guys flourished, so many kids that we had been told couldn’t do this or couldn’t do that, they were ‘bad kids,’ just how many of those kids flourished under coach Shadeed was incredible.”

Bell moved on to Maryland and later Florida State, and Shadeed eventually ended up at Baylor, but Bell always had one name in the back of his head for what he calls the most important hire for a football coach.

“Every step along the way. That’s something that we had talked about, like hey, if this ever happens, if I’m ever fortunate enough to become a head football coach, you’re the guy I want,” Bell says of Shadeed. “It’s been in the plans for a long time.

“I would not have taken the majority of jobs in college football if he wasn’t coming.”

When Bell sent that text, he was on the verge. Within 24 hours, he’d be named UMass’ head football coach, and he had to know Shadeed was coming with him.

“I forget the exact wording,” Shadeed says, “I think I said ‘nah, what you got?’ And we started talking from there.”

Shadeed has a different sort of energy, an infectious presence, the kind of coach that enters a room fired up and has a way of spreading that feeling. After that workout in July — and after most workouts, really — he’s somehow above even his own baseline energy, talking at a million miles an hour and never pausing for a breath, speaking without commas in his sentence structure.

“How you do anything is how you do everything,” he says, “So when you get up in the morning and you rip the sheets off and you crank the shower up and you brush your teeth like it’s the most important thing in the world and somebody’s going to pay me a million dollars if I brush my teeth better than I ever have, well, then, get after it. If you really love what you’re doing, and you have a platform to inspire kids like we do every day, I mean, come on. How can you not be fired up to do this?”

Once Shadeed read that text from Bell, the only other person left to convince was another person he met at Southern Miss: his wife, Emily.

Matt and Emily only met briefly at Southern Miss, the age gap putting things on the backburner for a bit. Matt was a senior, soon heading off to LSU as a strength and conditioning intern, and Emily — she was Emily Lee then — was a freshman, aware of him but not hooked quite yet.

It took a few years, a handful of mutual friends reconnecting them soon after Emily graduated in 2012. They both have friends near Emily’s hometown of Ocean Springs, Mississippi, a beach town in Jackson County on the Gulf Coast, and a night out with their collective group did the trick.

Matt’s notoriously bad with his phone, more of a face-to-face type of guy, someone who struggles with the daily expectations of texts, FaceTime calls, phone conversations — but he couldn’t get off the phone with her.

Work is Matt’s holy ground, and he adheres strictly to a routine; in bed by 9 p.m., ready to rock at 4 a.m., but Emily was keeping him up until midnight.

“I’m just like ‘what is wrong with me?’” he says. “I never go to bed this late, but I’m going to bed this late for her.”

Matt was an assistant at Ole Miss at this point, between stops at Southern Miss and Arkansas State, and sometime after that first meeting post-graduation — Emily thinks it was the following weekend, Matt’s convinced it was the weekend after that — he made the five hour trip from Oxford, Mississippi to Ocean Springs, nearly the length of the state, to take her to dinner.

“And knowing now what I know about their lives in the football world,” Emily says, “how they have no time and the time that they do have they just want to sleep, the fact that he drove five hours just for dinner… it was good. Long-term, I think it worked out okay.”

They went to dinner at Chef Scott’s Sushi in Ocean Springs, about a mile from the beach, the food gone in 30 minutes but the conversation taking another three hours. The post-dinner activities? Two hours of laser tag.

They were engaged by July of 2014 and married by May of 2015, and it wasn’t long before they were expecting their first child. Emily’s pregnancy wasn’t so smooth as her due date approached, dealing with preeclampsia — high blood pressure, a pregnancy complication that can be potentially dangerous for both the mother and the child — having to be induced three weeks early, with a grueling 23-hour labor in front of her in February of 2016.

“I don’t know if I would’ve made it out alive without Matt, and that is no exaggeration,” Emily says. “I feel like every woman says this, like ‘I wouldn’t have survived if my husband wasn’t there,’ but I really don’t know how I would have done it without him. He just was always by my side, rubbing my back, asking what I needed, and he just handled it with such grace. It was really a good insight to how he was going to be as a father and as the leader of our family, he just took control in the room and took care of me, took care of the baby afterwards, but that’s just Matt.”

Emily calls the whole ordeal “dramatic” as she sits on the steps up to the bleachers at McGuirk at the end of practice in early September. The Shadeeds’ son, Bear, scurries across the turf, his father in tow, Matt clearly not the one deciding where they’re headed. He’s three-and-a-half now, a week away from starting preschool — Emily says she’ll start crying if she talks about it too long — a little blond firecracker of a kid who’s become a staple at practice.

“He’s ready, he’s more than ready,” she says. “I think he’s bored at home with me, and he’s getting to that age where he’s just ready to spread his wings, and it’s time.”

Emily’s a bit of a stay-at-home mom during the week. She’s a wedding photographer, with a majority of her clientele still based back in Mississippi and she heads back down about once a month to shoot a wedding — it’s a nice little setup, she can bring Bear with her and leave him with family in Ocean Springs for a couple of days — but she’s full-time mom while she’s in Amherst.

She didn’t really need much convincing in the end, with the opportunity to join Bell in building a program from the ground up an exciting prospect for her husband. A self-proclaimed “beach baby,” Emily’s spent most of her life in Ocean Springs or elsewhere down south, so she’s not exactly accustomed to snow.

Soon after he was hired, Matt came up in December to get settled and figure out their living situation, with Emily and Bear staying with family in Mississippi until February. Matt packed up the entire house in Waco, Texas, on his own in six days — the concept of paying movers seems insane to him — and drove a Penske truck all the way up to East Pleasant St. in Amherst.

“I’d rather just do it and get a semi-workout and put some cash in my pocket instead of paying somebody $8,000 while I sit on my couch and watch a movie for three days,” he says, a hint of incredulity in his voice, as if hiring movers is an absurd idea. “Just give me six days, I’ll work twice as fast and twice as hard and I’ll get it done and I’ll save the money, so I just did that. I was literally in Waco after Christmas for like six days, by myself. I’d get up in the morning, eat, move, move, move, move, move, eat lunch, move, move, move, move, move, eat dinner, move a little bit, and go to bed.”

Thom Kendall/UMass Athletics

A few weeks later, Matt finished up a Friday session in the weight room in late February and flew from Hartford to Atlanta to meet up with Bear and Emily — Matt’s father had helped them make the trip from Mississippi — to make the drive up, packing Emily’s Chevy Tahoe with whatever was left, plus Bear and the dogs: Addy, their pitbull, and Blue, their choc lab.

They made about seven hours of progress on Saturday and decided to stop early and find a hotel somewhere in Tennessee, Bear and the dogs getting a bit cranky with about 11 hours to go. They left at 8 or 9 a.m. on Sunday, and then the snowstorm hit.

“We were going 35 on the Interstate the whole way,” Emily says. “I’ve seen snow before, just like skiing with family growing up, but nothing like this. And we couldn’t stop and get a hotel because he had workouts at 6 a.m.”

They pulled into Amherst around 4 a.m., and after quickly unloading a few things, Matt took a brief shower, drove the Tahoe to the FPC, took a half hour nap in his office, and ran lifts at 6 a.m., with every ounce of energy and intensity as he always does.

“And we crushed it,” he says.

They’re settled now, and a little over nine months since that text from Bell, Shadeed’s role has continued to grow within the program — Bell calls him a great communicator, a great motivator and above all else, a great teacher. Bell talks a lot about what Shadeed does outside the weight room, beyond the programming and the technique and the nutrition.

“To me, that’s what sets Matt apart,” Bell says. “Weights are weights — every team in the country lifts weights, every team squats and bench presses and deadlifts and cleans, everybody runs, everybody gets tired, everybody goes in the weight room and works hard. Do the kids maybe do it with the intent, the attitude that’s required to improve? I think that’s where, on top of just the physical act of lifting weights, where Shadeed does a great job. But the culture piece is just as important.

“I see his job as 50-50 job: 50 percent of his life is dedicated to growing our bodies and physically developing them, and the other 50 percent of his job is to develop the mindset of our football team, and I think that’s where he excels.”

Shadeed seems wired a bit differently than the rest of us; where there should be blood running through his veins there seems to be some mixture of caffeine, beta-alanine and positivity, and Bell says he’s never seen his strength coach have a bad day. He’s never down, never reserved, never pouting, never complaining — it’s full go from the moment he walks into the FPC before 5 a.m. until he’s on the drive home after practice.

Bell says Shadeed’s biggest qualities are “two-fold: number one, he’s incredibly positive, he’s got a great attitude, and I think hopefully over the next two, three, four, five, six years that that starts to rub off on people in this building; number two, he’s incredibly mentally tough. I’m sure that in here, and in here,” Bell says, tapping his head and his heart, “I’m sure at some point he’s having a bad day, but he’s never going to let it show. He’s an incredibly mentally tough guy, he’s going to bring it every day, and that inspires me.

“There are days where as a football coach, you haven’t slept very much, you don’t sleep well, you don’t feel good, and he’s out there running around like a madman in practice, and you have no choice but to either match his effort and intensity, or look in the mirror and know that you let the team down because you didn’t bring it the way he did.”

A few days after the season opener against Rutgers, Shadeed sits in his office adjoining the weight room at the FPC, a UMass football t-shirt beneath a UMass football sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, traditional strength coach attire, an hour before the day’s first group lift. One of the players had just left Shadeed’s office after a long chat — he’s feeling iffy about his major and doesn’t want to get stuck on the wrong path — the sort of conversation he’s having more and more.

Those moments mean a lot to him; teaching moments, building young men, making an impact off the field and outside the weight room. Fatherhood has made him especially aware of that, his time with Bear shifting his perspective.

“I think I’m a little slower to be firm in certain situations, like dropping the hammer firm,” Shadeed says. “I feel like I’m much more empathetic, much more patient, much more careful of not so much the message but my tone. Just being aware of the time that I’m spending with guys, not on the floor or in practice or on the bus, because we get so much time with them, but like you just saw right here. [A guy] comes in and sits down, hey I need to talk to you about something. He’s stuck in a major he’s not sure he really wants to follow through with, and he comes to me for help.

“That type of stuff, really making sure that I’m not missing those opportunities and making sure that I’m here for it. Having a kid, it just makes you more aware of it, you know?”

Collegian File Photo

Having Bear was a bit of a reaffirming of purpose for Matt. He’s always been so career driven, so focused on “climbing that mountain,” as Emily puts it — once Bear came along, the career remained of utmost importance, the drive never changed, but there was suddenly that same focus on family.

“It’s been amazing,” he says. “I’ll tell you what: if you thought you had purpose in your life without it, you just double down on it, man, it’s crazy. Knowing that there’s a little set of eyes on you, watching your every move, that wants to be just like you, and literally depends on you to survive, it’s pretty special. Getting up in the morning and seeing him passed out in his bed with his little PJ Masks toys and he’s got his stuffed animals and I’m like, that right there is why I’m going to go to work today and try and be great.”

“It’s so great to have an opportunity to be able to do a lot of the same things we do with these guys, to be able to do a lot of the same things we do with these guys, to inspire and enrich and teach and grow young men, obviously 18- to 22-year-olds here, in my house it’s a three-year-old, but it’s a lot of the same principles, same methods. It’s really cool, man, it’s been quite the rewarding process.”

He shoots a quick text to Emily; it’s been a couple of weeks since she called the first day of preschool bittersweet, and today’s the day. Matt and Emily had picked up Bear a couple hours earlier, and she’s holding up surprisingly well. He’d been asking how she was throughout the morning, reassuring her that it’d be alright, and it was. The preschool staff told the Shadeeds that their son was running around on the playground all day, such a happy, energetic kid, which sounds about right.

“I’m just so proud of her.” Matt says. “We’ve been doing this thing by ourselves. Her family’s in Mississippi, my family’s in Alabama, it was just me, her and Bear. I’m working as a strength coach, you’re putting in long hours every week of the year, and she has been a staple in raising him. Three and a half years, it’s basically been him and her, him and her, him and her — nobody to be like hey, he’s having a bad day, or I need a breather, or I need to grocery store can you watch him, it was just her. So I’m just excited that she has some time to just be a human now. She has 12 hours a week now and she doesn’t know what to do with it.”

Over the next few weeks Emily and Matt will meet plenty of other parents and have to explain his name again, something they’re used to — a child named Bear doesn’t come along as often as an Emily or a Matthew — and not particularly shy about. It’s not a family name, he’s not named after legendary Alabama coach Paul “Bear” Bryant, a common question in Matt’s home state of Alabama. They couldn’t agree on a name for months, with Emily’s preference for a non-traditional name making things a little bit tricky. She’d love a name and he’d shoot it down, he’d love a name and it’d be too standard, and it took months to reach a resolution.

Emily has no clue where the name came from. They were sitting on the couch, Emily four or five months pregnant, and the name just came to her. Emily and Matt remember all of their major stories almost identically, and they both recall Matt’s reaction: “are you serious?”

“And I’m like here we go again, another name he doesn’t like,” she says. “And Matt’s like, ‘are you being serious? Bear?’ I’m like, ‘yeah,’ and he goes ‘I love it. That’s it. That’s the name!’”

They can’t imagine him having any other name, and to an outside observer it fits. He’s Bear, always has been, always will be. He’s always running around during practice, crashing into tackling dummies and trying to scale fences. His best friend in the world is Emma Paschall, Luke and Lauren Paschall’s three-year-old daughter, and the two are attached at the hip during practice.

“[Emma and Bear] actually didn’t even really meet until February and they’re already like brother and sister. They fight like brother and sister and they play like brother and sister,” Emily says. “They see each other every day because of practice, and when they’re not together they ask about each other the whole time. He’s asking about Emma the whole day, Emma’s asking about Bear, ‘are we going to see Bear today?’ They’re so funny.”

Emily comes to practice with multiple shopping bags filled with toys — Bear and Emma love the toy trucks, and spend most of their time playing in the gravel under the stairs at McGuirk. They rarely leave each other’s sight, and routinely come running onto the field after practice wraps, their fathers often giving chase.

“Together, they’re a fearsome twosome,” Bell says. “They get after it, they like to have a good time.”

When practice ends, Matt Shadeed the coach gives way to Matt Shadeed the dad, as he chases Bear around the field before they meet Emily, Lauren and the other wives behind the south end zone. Matt will chat with some players as they leave the field for the day, but his focus has shifted for the rest of the night.

“I think the biggest thing when you see him with Bear — when he’s with Bear, he’s with Bear,” Bell says. “He’s 100 percent invested, he’s playing with Bear, it’s dinosaurs, there’s Octonauts, there’s PJ Masks, their building blocks, they’re wrestling — I think he has a great way about him to compartmentalize the task at hand, and when it’s time to be a dad he’s an unbelievable dad, when it’s time to be here he does his job a million miles an hour.

“Maybe we have a bad day at the office, he’s going to go home and he’s going to have a smile on his face and he’s going to have a great time with Bear and Emily.”

Emily grew up in a broken home, her father absent from her life, and finding the right man to raise her children was really important to her. Matt’s been that: dedicated, caring, loving and enthusiastic beyond reason.

“I am so lucky to have him as a husband, and I truly mean that, but Bear is so lucky to have him as a father,” Emily says. “I’ve always thought the greatest gift I could give to my future children was to marry somebody who was just going to be a really great dad, and Matt has just exceeded all my expectations. I truly couldn’t pick a better man on Earth to be a father.”

Matt has one real flaw as a parent: he cannot stop buying toys for Bear, and it’s driving Emily insane.

“I threaten him before he goes to the store, like I will take the credit card away if you buy Bear one more toy,” Emily says. “He has a problem. He can’t stop buying toys, especially Legos. He’ll go to a gas station and come back with a Lego set, like ‘oh the gas station had these by the register.’ He has a Lego problem.”

Bear’s going through a big Octonauts phase at the moment, a British children’s cartoon about undersea explorers, so the toy collection has had some recent non-Lego additions. Still, Emily’s about three Lego sets away from losing it.

“Listen, if we’re out, and the Legos look good, and you want some Legos bro, and you want to build because that’s something that we can do together and we can bond, I want to do that,” Matt says. “It’s not like we’re aimlessly walking through Walmart and cleaning up the store every Friday, but if we’re walking through there and he’s well-behaved and he’s had a good day — something about the Legos man, it just calls me over there, and we’ve got a fairly serious collection at our house. Legos are actually relatively cheap, you can buy the bags with the little sets for like $3, so we tend to hit some Legos if we go to Target.

“But yes, I have a slight problem.”

Thom Kendall/UMass Athletics

Back in April, on a freezing spring day in Amherst, two big red circles — think giant hula-hoops, big enough to fit 15-20 players — were set out on the sidelines, one on each side of the field.

Every now and again a whistle would blow and the players had to sprint to one circle or the other, with up-downs the consequence if they didn’t do so correctly.

What does “correctly” mean? Nobody really knows. It didn’t seem to have that much to do with how quickly anyone got to the circle, and the theory among the assembled media was that Bell, in his fourth or fifth official practice in charge, just wanted to see who’d do it without being told why.

As the routine wears on, some players start to lag behind, and a bearded figure comes flying across the turf. It’s nearly two hours into practice, temperature dipping below 30 degrees with the wind chill, and he’s in shorts and a longsleeve t-shirt, knees coming up high, arms pumping, at a dead sprint and screaming.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” he shouts. “Move! Move! Move!”

How anybody could possibly have this much energy at the end of practice in freezing weather is unclear, but that’s Matt Shadeed.

“You’ll hear him say it: if it’s not worth overdoing, it’s not worth doing,” Bell says.

“How you do anything is how you do everything, and he only does things one way.”

Amin Touri can be reached at [email protected], and followed on Twitter @Amin_Touri.

#Nutrition For Pregnancy

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kizardofkoz · 7 years ago

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Life Robbers

My now-middle-child sits three feet from me, wearing a ridiculously cute alligator pajama top, holding a juice box of apple water (yes, this apparently exists for the crunchy parents’ juice-box solution), completely transfixed on, and interacting with Diego and Dora - or the two most annoying voices on television, while he is naked from the waist down, sitting on his training potty.

When he stands, there is a red horse shoe around his bottom from sitting on the training potty for so long. And we wait. He drinks liquids, and we wait. There are the remnants of blue face paint and silver glitter on his left cheek from a birthday party yesterday afternoon, which looks more like he spent a rager at Studio 54 last night - because if we had a kid who did that, it would be this one. He drinks more liquids. And we are still waiting. He has no idea what he’s doing but he’s so damn cute doing it. Blair is the embodiment of effervescent joy mixed with hilarity, roaring, and fuzzy, light. Potty training is definitely challenging, but this moment is actually quite amazing.

I am present and I am grateful.

For now.

I feel like I am continuing to have the same theme and conversations repeating in my life right now. I read once how God will keep giving you the same lesson over and over again until you learn it. Well, I’m finally listening to you, Oh Beautiful Relentless One, so you can cut the crap, because I’ve got it:

Life Robbers.

*Side Note: At this chapter in my life, it takes about an entire day to write, edit, and post one essay, because, damn, life. It is now 3:01pm in the afternoon. The two youngest are napping, the oldest is enjoying a day and overnight with cousins at Gemmy & Pop Pop’s, and I feel I have probably a precious 30 minutes, 1 hour max, to pump this bad boy out. The REAL reason I write this excerpt, is to say: Friends! Blair has successfully peed AND Pooped in the potty! Holy shit!!! (Emphasis on the later) The excitement I have felt the first time my sons have peed or pooped when potty training, is possibly one of the biggest highs of my last 5 years. I don’t even care if that is pathetic because to me it was pure elation. And it is equally as amazing to see your child so proud of himself. And by proud of himself, I mean also very excited because he knows if he poops he gets a cupcake.

I am trading in size 6 diapers for type 2 diabetes, and I am perfectly fine with that.*

Anyways!

LIFE ROBBERS:

Life Robbers are the thoughts and feelings of pain, disdain, disappointment, and jealousy because you feel you, your life, your possessions or job, are not enough.

We get so hyper focused on enough, and more, and how much income, how much house, what kind of car, obsessing over clothing, shoes, obsessing over our children’s clothing and shoes, the new rug, instrument, gadget, vacation, what gym, what school we send our children to, what nice restaurant we go to celebrate after getting into that school, what amazing meal to order, what freaking mattress we go to sleep on and what white noise machine we need playing in the background as we are trying to fall asleep, looking at our phones, surveying and measuring ourselves against other people’s parades and photos of all of the things they had obtained, and we are subconciously seeing who’s winning. And the answer is no one.

As a culture, we are spiraling one another into a complete obsession of what will make us happy only by comparing ourselves to what seems to make everyone else happy, and we have become this massive ouroboros.

We look at what our neighbors (Facebook, Instashit, etc.) are doing and buying and vacationing and experiencing, and then we can’t help but feel like we aren’t happy or successful enough. And the crazy thing is, the very people we are comparing ourselves to, have quite possibly done the exact same thing to us. And I have literally allowed hours and afternoons be robbed from me because jealousy is a beast. And she’ll rob you blind.

I didn’t even know I was unhappy until I had gotten on Facebook.

And I know I am not alone.

*Side note, it is now FOUR DAYS LATER. ! In this case, my life and time have been robbed by, life and time. And work and boys and nursing and meals and one really hard workout that my legs are still paying for, a dinner with some new friends, lots of sausages (you can interpret that in any way you want and it’s likely accurate) and zero alcohol. !!! Mama’s gone back hard-core, on the Paleo wagon. I’m driving that bad boy. Or perhaps, I’m pulling that wagon behind me as part of my daily W.O.D., while I sweat, cry, and shake from muscles that are so confused by my 5 year pattern of pregnancy, getting into shape, repeat as desired. And those damn simple carbohydrates that I worship during pregnancy, happen to be the #1 enemy of baby weight. So now I have to act like I don’t even like them anymore while I consume all things protein, veggie, and coconut. Except for Saturdays. CHEAT DAY. When my heart rate and insulin levels try to match my enthusiasm.

Donuts, champagne, cheese, or pizza?

OR?

ALL!!!

FOR BREAKFAST!!!*

ANYWAYS!

I have been having repeating conversations with other women in my life about this same struggle of feeling like crap because our lives aren’t measuring up to what we think they should be. Or often, we didn’t realize they weren’t measuring up until we saw someone else’s.

I am so guilty of putting wealth and things on a pedestal. I don’t know where this comes from, but one of the saddest, deepest parts of me is so enthralled by sparkly, beautiful, interesting, vapid, material things. I do, however, also possess this marrow that also craves minimalism, ease, wants to live off the land and wear nothing but linen and hemp. I will say, I actually feel like my *style* rather reflects these two worlds, in what my husband likes to refer to as “global glam” when he’s being kind, or “art teacher chic” when he’s being honest. In his defense, I’m always about two strands of turquoise away from being the woman that you picture listening to NPR while painting watercolor in her library.

So unfortunately, the More-ness-Life-Robber-Beast comes in many other forms, not just the insatiable need for material things. A girlfriend opened up about the hurt and jealousy she felt when she saw a group of friends from her past had met up without her. That all-too-familiar feeling of 6th-grade ache and agony sucked time, energy and happiness from her day. Which is so ashamed, because this girlfriend is one of the most caring and selfless people I have ever met, and that group should have felt robbed of the joy of getting to hear her laugh.

And all of this, I believe, is a byproduct of the gash damn social media bullshit.

This was not an issue for our mothers and I think that is part of the disconnect in our generations. They have no idea what it is like trying to be an adult woman and parent in the world that has Nothing But Exposure to:

The grossly demonstrative overshare of what everyone else is doing (which people tend to naturally only share the best parts)

Status, wealth, and luxury, and how the middle class can, could, and should be striving to obtain this - or at least exhaust ourselves trying

A complete myriad of blogs (Why, hello there!), articles, journals, websites, and endless information of how to live, raise thriving children, and exist in this world that is constantly trying to tell us that what we have is never enough and shame us for feeling like that, at the same time.

We praise metallic Birkenstocks, Farm-raised-anything, rose gold everything, exercise, Madewell, and mindfulness, all in pretty much the same breath. Or Prayanama.

It is completely exhausting and we are the byproduct of this technological avenue of awareness -- and it makes me even more scared for our children, and what type of technology will exist then, and what kind of pressure that will place on their lives, hearts, and relationships.

We are already robbing their lives every time we show them that we value things, our phones, and our money, more than we do them.

And Ourselves.

So what do we do?

(*I DON’T TOTALLY KNOW*, but let's just start by being honest...)

1. Get Off Facebook. Get off Instagram. Take a step back to breathe again, and reset the priorities for our lives. I took an unplanned week off of Facebook a week ago, as did another girlfriend. Each day I felt lighter and happier. I had no idea how often I reach for my phone to kill time on that damn app. I was way more content with my life, not comparing my lack of vacations or experiences this summer to others. And I wasn’t trying to capture the perfect photo of the favorite moment of my day to share. In the morning when nursing, instead of scrolling through my feed, I prayed. Holy shit what a novel idea.

I was free. And it felt amazing.

(I have also since returned to Facebook, but already use it much less, and I feel way more relaxed and removed -- which is exactly how I want to feel when regarding media and the internet. And AI.)

2. A few weeks ago we stayed home from church for a reason I can not remember but I’m sure it was completely valid. To redeem our souls, we decided to spend a little time reading, meditating, and praying. Pretty positive we were 1 for 3. It’s not like gestating boys.

However. My husband read this to me and it was one of the most profound, overwhelmingly reverberating passages I have ever come across in my life.

The Encheiridion (or Manual)

by,

Epictetus (FANCY!)

Of things some are in our power, and others are not. In our power are opinion, movement toward a thing, desire, aversion; and in a word, whatever are our own acts: not in our power are the body, property, reputation, offices, and in a word, whatever are not our own acts. And the things in our power are by nature free, not subject to restraint nor hindrance: but the things not in our power are weak, slavish, subject to restraint, in the power of others. Remember then that if you think the things which are by nature your own, you will be hindered, you will lament, you will be disturbed, you will blame both gods and men: but if you think that only which is your own to be your own, and if you think that what is another's as it really is, belongs to another, no man will ever compel you, no man will hinder you, you will never blame any man, you will accuse no man, you will do nothing involuntarily, no man will harm you, you will have no enemy, for you will not suffer any harm.

What I feel this is so brilliantly saying, is that we are released from the pressure of responsibility or obsession that we feel to make our lives as perfect as possible. The idea of “the body” not being in our power is a beautiful and mind blowing philosophy, yet echoes the several moments in the bible when we talk about how our “flesh is weak”.

And I feel this so poignantly puts how I have been feeling:

We can be free.

Other people’s possessions were never ours, so why give them the power to weigh us down? We no longer need to feel the weight or pressure of what others have acquired or obtained because we have no ownership over it.

I truly belive by choice and practice, we can have freedom from:

A.) Jealousy and worry, that we don’t have enough, or the newest, most interesting, cool, or clever, etc. bull shit.

B.) The universal need to gratuitously exhibit our lives. It kills me to think that someone ever looked at my photos or life and felt jealousy or longing.

Our affluence isn’t the kind that brings valuables into our lives, but our riches are the kind that make our lives valuable.

(Like what I did there?)

I have a husband who loves me, even when we can’t agree on the importance of excel spreadsheets.

I have three healthy boys that are the cutest and hardest creatures that I have ever encountered.

I have a house with a working air conditioner the St. Louis summer. And sometimes fall and spring. And likely the winter.

And I have a tribe of girlfriends that are perhaps one of the best daily displays of God’s love, humor, and armor for me.

I am actually implausibly wealthy.

At the same time, I have loads and loads of laundry that needs to be washed, folded, and heaven forbid, actually put away.

I have a baby that 95% of the time, can not nap longer than 45 minutes because of his horrible reflux and gas.

We have a backyard that is likely 70% identifiable and unidentifiable species of weeds and plants we did not plant, or that we neglected and they took over - which, I get it, they earned that real estate.

There are very likely at least three things that are rotting in my fridge at any given moment.

I am scared of switching to my fall schedule where I will *mom all day* and then teach piano lessons until 9:00pm at night.

I am scared of paying for the preschool tuition for our older two boys and how that will undeniably affect the rest of our month / lives.

I am scared that the part of me that has struggled with weight and body image issues since I was 8 years old will still be anxious and unsatisfied when I’m 80.

Will we ever live in a bigger home where I can have my own, physical, studio for my business?

Will money ever not feel tight?

Are we raising our boys to be empathetic, kind, compassionate, and confident - while instiling the responsibility and maturity to know how to possess and demonstrate those virtues?

Will Blair’s hair ever change? I both really hope it won’t, and I also really want him to have friends.

These things, these are also my Life Robbers.

The bone in me that is industrious and strives for success and hustles and runs businesses, it is the same bone that lies awake at night worrying about all of these things and so much more.

And I fear it’s starting to break from the pressure.

So now, when I am online, and I start to feel the sensations - usually beginning with a heat and tightness in my throat, a bit of lightness in my head, and an uncomfortable weight in my chest, I will recognize that jealousy, hug her, and let her go. Because that ungrateful wench has never really done anything nice for me anyway, even when I bought her so many beautiful things.

Or at night when I want to cry from the anxiety of imagining how I am going to make our future work with my lesson schedule and being able to both afford all of the opportunities and activities that will spark my children - make them feel excited, strong, and proud, and how will I ever attend a practice, game, or performance when I am stuck behind a piano bench because of my work hours, especially when I need to work to pay for the very practice they are attending... I will take that anxiety, embrace her as well, and exhale her back into the night.

First like a dragon, and then like the ocean.

All of these concerns, while they are in my periphery and path, they are not completely in my power.

And I daily and hourly remind myself that there is a Greater Power that I can breathe my faith, energy, and concern into.

And I know I no longer want to sacrifice minutes, hours, or days to my Life Robbers.

I absolutely no longer want to sacrifice a single minute of sleep to a Life Robbers.

Because this mama has way more important things to focus on.

Like pretending I am going to do laundry.

And potty training a bubble.

And even after all of that, I still post my photos. Because, tradition.

Imma need this cookie and lightning bolt to match my shirt, 100%.

Sorry, Brix. You get a slumber party with cousins, we get delicious ramen.

Steve’s eyes, Brix’s lips, Satan’s gas.

Christmas pjs in July? I’m sorry, do you not like to party?

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