#I have some but...need something different

[madamechrissy]

Arrogance and Affection - taglist

art in the banner by @scarlettismm on x

Pairings - Satoru Gojo x F! reader

Summary- There is just one man you cannot stand, infuriating you even as your family is vacationing in the pretty English countryside before the season starts, and that man is Mr. Gojo. From a high up family of great means, a life vastly different from the provincial life you grew up with, he is by all means 'the catch of the season'. He's arrogant, he's irritating, he's pretentious - as all the ladies flock to him, you hold just no interest - but the thing you don't know is he's hopelessly in love with you.

Contents/warnings- Cute and full of witty banter, lil bit of enemies to lovers, Satoru being a little arrogant hottie, fluffyyy, smut at the end - gonna be a long oneshot! (Based on Pride and Prejudice, Gojo is basically Darcy)

A/N- this is a oneshot to go with my mootie @lily-bisque's adorable summer bash event!

Preview below, taglist opennn- should be out soon! <3

Mr. Gojo leans against the pillar, watching as you quite literally frolick around the dance floor on the arm of another gentleman. After making sure to let him know what you think of him. Your carefully coifed hair bounces as you dance along with your friends while the set changes, hands joining as you all dance in a circle, your eyes catch his for a moment, he makes sure to quickly look away.

"She told me I'm arrogant," he complains to Mr. Geto, who is sipping on his crystal glass of brandy next to him. "And she told me I'm conceited, would you believe that!?"

"Ah, no indeed, Satoru. You, conceited?" Satoru glares, narrowing his blue eyes at his 'best friend' Suguru now. "Perish the thought!"

"Oh, you could at least disagree with her?"

"For telling the truth?"

"Tch," Satoru sighs now, jaw tensing when he looks back at you, having single handedly made him furious and further intrigued, with your bratty, witty little mouth. "She could have been kinder, doesn't she know she has my heart?"

"Have you told her you even like her, let alone are utterly infatuated with her?"

"No!? Why would I?" Suguru rolls his violet eyes, snatching up a glass from one of the butlers, handing it over to him.

"You look like you need it," Satoru indeed does need a drink, slipping his hand against the coat pocket, where that letter he's had for months sits. "What is it?"

"I may have penned her a letter, letting her know all the reasons she should desire me," he grins, and Suguru snorts. "What!?"

Your eyes catch his again, spinning in a gentleman's arms, he's kind and sweet and not at all infuriating like Satoru Gojo is, but for some reason, you can't stop thinking about him. You can't help but want the man that drives you insane - not that you'd ever admit it to him.

"Is something wrong, Miss?" Your partner asks, you shake your head and smile, while Satoru's bright blue eyes burn holes into your back.

"Just a little parched is all," you murmur, he offers to get you a drink, a hand on the small of your back, while you try to clear your mind of Mr. Gojo's arrogant words.

"Should I do more than list these reasons," Satoru asks eagerly, unfolding the letter now. "Should I include all the reasons I'm amazing?" He smirks, and Suguru pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Good luck with that, Gojo."

[reidrum]

countertops | c.k.

A/N: superman (2025) brainrot has consumed me so here is this. i love that silly nerd

summary: in which the kitchen counter is used for eating

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, fem!reader, prn no plot, munch!clark, fingering, praise kink, clark is down bad

wc: 1.3k *smacks the back* this baby only has smut

Clark breathes his entire body into you as his hands roam the spanse of your back, holding you steady against him while his lips take solace in every crevice of your face. He’s placed you on the kitchen counter—his favorite place to keep you to compensate for your differed heights, but also because it keeps you in one place. You could move if you wanted to, he’d let you instantly. But he knows you won’t, not when he drinks you in like a fine wine and handles you with the care of a glass necked bottle.

Your moans and breathless whines only spur him on to press against your body, rolling his hips in a dire effort to become one with yours. The length of him presses and goes in a single brush, with your own hips trailing desperately after to meet again.

“Clark,” you breathe, “need more.”

“Yeah? What more?” he mumbles, lips marking a path down your neck.”

“You know what.”

“Hm, gonna have to be more specific about that, honey.”

You whine, “Don’t be a little shit.”

He nips at your shoulder as you let out a yelp, “Such dirty language, you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“No, I’d like to kiss you with this mouth. But I’d like your mouth to do other things. Amongst that.

“Very bold,” he teases, “didn’t know three months would make you this demanding.”

“Lotta things you don’t know about me, Kent.”

“Not yet, but I will.” he kisses you soundly on the lips, letting himself linger to you for as long as he can. Which arguably, is a long time, but for as long as he can really means for as long as you can. “Now be a good girl and tell me what you want.”

“Clark,”

“What? Communication is good, you can’t get all shy on me now. I have heat ray vision, I can’t read minds.”

You mumble something incoherent into his neck, you hope there’s some superpower of his that can pick up on it.

“What was that?”

Darn.

“I said, I want you to…” you trail off.

He sucks hard on a particular spot, “To…?”

You moan loudly, “Jesus, will you go down on me? Please?”

A shit eating grin splits his stupid face, you can feel every line against your skin. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it darling?”

You don’t get a chance to speak your witty comeback when you feel his fingers trace over the center outline of your trousers, silencing any and all thoughts that aren’t Clark Kent. He applies more pressure as he trails a heavy finger up and down your core.

A languish moan leaves you, “Clark, please.”

“Shh, i got ya,” he coos, “just relax.”

He deftly undoes your buttons and effortlessly lifts you with one hand while he helps you tug both your trousers and panties down. His lips find yours again and your hands snake around his shoulders to pull him even closer to you. Your fingers tangle in his hair and knot in the strands, pulling upwards in that way that you know really riles him up for you. Evidenced by immediately after said action as he detaches from the kiss and abruptly drags you to the ledge of the kitchen counter, only anchored to it by your ass that Clark is so sad he can’t handfully grab.

Sloppy kisses trail down your neck and into your chest, making no efforts to stop anywhere but his intended destination. Clark’s large hands hold your hips down to the counter as he finally sinks to his knees before you, looking up between your parted legs with a face so wrecked you hope he puts himself out of misery soon for his sake. And yours.

His height even at his kneeled position puts him at the perfect angle at eye level with where he needs to be. Clark has always been grateful for his gifts, entirely more so for his heightened olfactory senses that allow him the divinity to indulge in the scent of you and how that much closer to the Gods he feels on his knees before you like a devoted follower.

And like a devoted follower, he will go wherever the divine tells him he is destined for. And right now, that is between your legs.

Clark leans in slowly, never breaking eye contact with you as he approaches your core. His tongue flattens against you in one swift and intentional movement, the warmth of it all flooding your senses and making your eyes roll back into your head.

“Fuck,” you whine.

His tongue licks a long stripe from bottom to top slowly, letting it circle around the bundle of nerves practically begging for his attention. He doesn’t speed up—only practiced, achingly teasing, strokes that have you seeing stars.

You tangle your fingers in his hair again, in hopes it’ll spur him on enough to move faster. But Clark is a patient man, a tempted one for sure by the way his hands grip down on the top of your ass where he’s holding you, but patient nonetheless.

He dips his tongue between your folds and travels down to your opening, prodding inside and then moving back up to your clit. Clark repeats that set of actions for too long of a time to count, long enough to send you into delirium, long enough to know that you would slide off the counter like jello at any moment if he were to let go, and long enough to have you teetering on the edge of bliss torturously.

You’re not sure when he decides to finally take mercy on you, but he speeds up his ministrations and graciously inserts a finger to your core. Two for good measure.

You tighten your grip on his head, “Clark, oh my god.”

He moans shamelessly into your core, like he’s enjoying this more for his own sake than yours—he is, in case there was any room for doubt. He drinks you in like a thirsted man who just discovered an oasis, his fingers rhythmically moving in and out of you. You clench down on his fingers hard when they hit a sensitive spot within you, his name rolling off your tongue in sacred mantras.

Clark releases from you momentarily, his fingers never stopping their pace. “Close, baby?”

And god, you wish you had some sort of photographic memory or way to immortalize this moment forever. Because the vision of Clark Kent on his knees for you—looking devastatingly wrecked at how even a second away from you is wounding him, covered in you—is one you truly wish you could keep for the rest of your life.

“Y—Yeah, I’m close.” you whimper.

He dives back into you with a mission, stopping at nothing to get you there. You writhe in his arms and he exerts little to no effort at holding you steady as he continues his attack (lovingly) on you. His fingers speed up ever so slightly, curling upwards to hit that spot in you that brings you right to the brink.

“Come for me, honey.” he mumbles into your cunt, burying his face in you as much as he possibly can.

Your peak hits you all at once, loud and crashing into every atom of your being and immediately ceasing into complete bliss and quiet as Clark gently works you through your high. His fingers finally slow their pace and he continues lapping at you until the overstimulation gets to you and you forcibly push his head away.

Clark sits on the floor while you’re still up on the counter, legs slightly bent while he rests an elbow on one knee. The other arm comes up and drags across his glistening mouth, effectively wiping away all traces of you onto his dress shirt sleeve.

You pant heavily, “Jesus,”

“What?”

“You’re really hot.” you blurt out, blame the post orgasmic endorphins for your lack of filter.

He smiles like an idiot, “Yeah? How hot?”

You hop off the counter and land straddling his lap, “I can show you?”

He rises to his feet and picks you up on the way up, “I think that’s a good idea.”

[thatdisasterauthor]

Thoughts on the Grand Canyon Lodge?

Firstly, all thoughts are my own and not tied to my employer etc. etc. etc.

With that out of the way, I understand the sadness and the frustration and the disappointment that such a lovely place (and so many other buildings) burned down. But I have long said that when it comes to disaster losses, we need to be more accepting of the impermanence of things. Nothing lasts forever, and it's okay to mourn things when they're gone, but that's life. You can't let it consume you. The lodge burning down doesn't mean you can't remember all your favorite times there, or that there won't be a way in the future for people to make new memories in the same place. It's not the first time the lodge has burned down, after all!

Now, as for the anger and blame that's being hurled around about the response to this fire: everyone needs to cut it the fuck out. A building is not worth the lives of the people out on those firelines. They did what they could against a fast moving, massive wildfire that was started by natural causes, but in the end nature won out. There is only so much you can do in those circumstances, especially with historic wooden structures.

This is not the end of tourism on the North Rim, it's just a change. Something new will come, and what that is will be an important conversation between the NPS, the local communities, and other interested parties. For everyone who loved the Lodge and other things that were lost to this fire, I urge you to (in a few weeks, when things have calmed down a little) reach out to your local NPS office and volunteer groups and elsewhere to see what you can do to help. There's going to be a lot to do, and as we all know departments like NPS are really hurting right now due to all the governmental chaos.

Now, on a more personal note, here's what I would like to see happen going forward:

Rebuild the Lodge with the latest fire safety standards in mind while maintaining the original look and feel as much as possible, and explain it. Put up permanent placards around the new lodge explaining why different materials were chosen, why design changes were made, etc..

Where possible and safe, leave some evidence of the fire's effect on the original building. Maybe don't put a new roof on one of the semi-outdoor areas, and leave the burned beams, IDK. Put placards there too.

Involve the local community in the recovery process. You know those stands where you slot your phone in and then take a picture and email it in to a scientific study to monitor the growth of plants or something? Put those up everywhere and use the submitted photos to post about the rebuilding and regrowth process and show timelapses and all that. And do other things, like working with local companies and really highlighting their contributions.

Have a memorial wall somewhere in the new lodge where people can leave pictures and write down their memories of the old lodge. Embrace the grief.

Give a way for tourists to learn about and participate in the recovery process as well. Maybe community replanting areas they can visit, or have ranger led hikes where everyone gets a seed shaker of local seeds.

Signage signage signage. Put signs explaining the fire ecology of the area, what happened with this fire, how things regrow after fire, all of that.

Make sure to have tons of fire safety information everywhere. Not just how to avoid human caused fires, but how to stay safe if you are out exploring the area and a fire starts.

Sell fire safety related items in the shops.

Sooooo, yeah! Those are my thoughts.

[formulafanfics13]

bestie oh my god im going feral for the oscar piercing story, i need you to write one about lando sooo bad the things i would give😩😩😩

Wanna see? - LN4 🔥

Masterlist

summary: lando's always been a tits guy. everyone knows it. but when his girlfriend gets her nipples pierced, something inside him just snaps. suddenly he's obsessed. can't stop touching, squeezing, sucking. and when he absentmindedly gropes her in front of half the grid? all hell breaks loose.

warnings: nipple play/obsession, nipple piercings (f), public touching, exhibitionism, deeply unhinged lando, soft dom energy, chaotic driver reactions, explicit language, zero shame, possessiveness, boob worship, mildly feral

It happened on a Thursday. A normal, quiet, post-race Thursday.

You came back from a solo day out, climbed onto Lando's lap in nothing but his t-shirt and underwear, tugged the shirt down with a little grin, and said, "So, don't be mad... but I did something."

He blinked.

Then you pulled the fabric up. Just enough. Two little bars of silver glinted at him.

His mouth actually dropped open. Like a fucking cartoon character. "Oh," he said. And then again, lower, breathier. "Ohhhhhh."

It was over after that. He became a different man. Ferocious. Obsessed. A full-on nipple slut. It wasn't just in bed. That would've made sense. But no, it bled into everything.

He'd casually reach down and cup your boobs while you brushed your teeth. Tug on the piercings while you waited for pasta to boil. Kiss them through your shirt when you were mid-conversation, eyes still on your face like nothing was unusual.

You'd be wearing a hoodie and he'd still find them. Like they were homing beacons. "Can't help it," he'd mumble. "They're shiny."

He'd hold you after sex, one hand mindlessly squeezing a tit while he scrolled TikTok like it was a stress ball.

One night you caught him talking to them. He was drunk. In bed. Laying on your chest. "Leftie's a little more sensitive, huh? But Rightie? She's a fighter."

You threw a pillow at him. He kissed both nipples as apology. Then sucked them again just for fun.

And then came the chaos.

You were at a private dinner in Monaco, some pre-event thing for a sponsor, only drivers and partners, no press, just a massive round table filled with every brand of F1 male chaos: Max, Oscar, George, Alex, Charles, Carlos.

You were perched on Lando's lap, legs thrown over his thigh, because the seating was tight and you liked the view.

You were mid-convo with Alex and George, something stupid about espresso martinis and sim racing, when you felt it.

Lando's hand. Cupping your boob. Just resting there. Casual. Except you were in a white top. And he was very clearly rubbing his thumb across the piercing.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

You went stiff.

Max noticed first. "Bro."

Lando blinked. "What?"

Max gestured vaguely at your chest. "Are you... are you fondling her right now?"

Oscar choked on his drink. George froze mid-bite. Carlos blinked. Charles was already shaking his head.

Lando just looked down at his hand. Then at your tits. Then shrugged. "They're pierced."

Max looked appalled. "So?"

"So I have to touch them."

George looked at Oscar. "Is he okay?"

"I don't think so."

"They're pierced," Lando repeated, like it was a legal clause. "You don't not touch them when they're like this."

He lifted your shirt just slightly. Just enough to show the shadow of silver glinting through the fabric. "See?"

Max groaned. "Put them away, man."

"They're beautiful," Lando said dreamily. "I think about them constantly."

You were frozen. Face hot. Heart racing. But his grip was soft. Gentle. Like he didn't even realize he was doing it.

Carlos muttered something in Spanish that sounded like a prayer. Alex was wheezing.

Oscar leaned over and whispered, "This is not our Lando."

"He's gone," Charles agreed. "Fully lost."

Lando was still staring at your chest. Then he looked up at the group. "Wanna feel?"

The table exploded. You slapped his chest. "Lando!"

"What?" he laughed. "They're pierced!"

"They are still my tits!"

"I love your tits."

"No one is feeling them!"

Max stood up. "I'm getting more drinks."

George followed. "Make it two."

Oscar looked at you, wide-eyed. "Blink twice if you need help."

You just buried your face in Lando's neck, mortified. He kissed your temple and whispered, "You started this."

You groaned. "I'm getting you a nipple piercing next."

He grinned. "Promise?"

Later that night, he crawled into bed, pulled your shirt up with reverence, "Still can't believe you did this for me."

You sighed. "I did it for me."

He licked a stripe up your left nipple. "Still."

[manycolouredglass]

here's to a forever with you

author's note: you can thank tobin heath retiring for this one. be grateful it's not pure angst and it's actually kind of fluffy. wives!pazzi with a couple of rascals, paige is announcing her retirement. some angst, but i promise it's all very bittersweet, with emphasis on the sweet. this is really more inspired by dt and penny than anything else. i'm going to entertain a bunch of my delusions for this one. seriously. delusional. i'm gonna need everyone to suspend their disbelief. don't worry, this is all set in the very far future.

wc: 5k

tw: swearing and children

paige leaned back on the warm leather, tipping her head to the bright, spotless sky. her eyes gently closed, as she listened to the chains creak next to her and felt the grass brush the top of her feet. the swing she was on rocked back and forth softly, like it was trying to let her mind slow down with it.

she remembered when she convinced azzi to get this swing. it was one of the bigger ones, one that looked like a bench swinging from two ropes, and paige was convinced that it would be the perfect addition to their backyard. azzi had brought up that they had a whole mini playground set for the kids that included two regular swings that worked perfectly fine. paige had just smiled and said that this was different. she knew she didn't have to try that hard, azzi already had on that lopsided smirk that meant that she was going to agree with whatever paige suggested but was pretending she was stricter than that.

really, paige had simply wanted something that was constantly in motion like she was. she wanted a place that would keep moving even when she stopped.

paige had had two knee surgeries in the last five years and she felt that fact every day. when she was younger, she thought she would know that she had to stop playing because she physically couldn't do it anymore. she didn't expect this.

it took so many more hours to stretch and prepare her body for another bruising game. and all the the training to keep her in top form was costing her moments in her life that she couldn't get back. she wanted to bend down and pick up her kids without her knees screaming at her. she wanted to crawl across the bed and blow annoying raspberries into her wife's stomach. she wanted to walk the dog with her family without every step punishing her.

basketball was slowly taking things from her life. she didn't want to wake up one morning and find everything gone. she didn't want to resent the game that saved her life. so she knew.

this was it.

one last season.

_____ ___ _____

azzi had retired a couple seasons earlier. she had numerous business plans in the work and she had wanted to spend more time with their kids, so she knew it was time to let it go. some people might have thought it was easier for her. they assumed that azzi didn't live for basketball, not like paige did. but azzi had spent the last 3 decades shifting her veins into the perfect shooter, into a body, mind, and soul built for the game. she had sacrificed so much and she had found so much joy in it. none of it was ever going to leave her gently.

everyone else had seen her small smile and gentle wave after she had officially announced the retirement. but paige had been there when she finally broke down in the restless night, tears soaking through paige's sleep shirt. she just held her, rubbing small circles in the base of her neck, whispering easy truths like "you're still the best player in the nation."

no one knew how hard you had to fight to let something like this go.

paige thinks it might kill her slowly.

she slid open the back door and padded into the kitchen. azzi was at the sink, washing some strawberries. multicolored light shines through one of their stained glass windows, bouncing off azzi's curls and creating a sort of halo around her head. an angel, paige thought. which wasn't a surprise, she's been thinking that since she was 15. an angel, fallen from heaven, who chose her from some reason. yeah, she knows she's lucky.

azzi turns her head at the sound, gently smirking. "you done wallowing, bueckers?"

paige didn't respond with words, just walked up behind azzi and wrapped her arms around her waist, letting her forehead fall onto azzi's shoulder.

azzi's skin was so warm and soft, tinged with the scent of salted caramel and something so entrancingly azzi. if she could choose where she wanted to die, it would be right here.

paige inhaled, reaching for the words she never thought she'd have to say. felt them slice their way out of her.

"az...i think this season is it for me."

azzi stopped moving, breath catching. she turned slowly in paige's arms, tears already pricking in her eyes. paige let her hands move upwards, pulling azzi closer. azzi was looking at her like the ground was shifting from underneath them, and paige just knew that azzi understood every single feeling burning in the back of her throat. it was terrible, but paige was so grateful that their hearts were so intertwined that they broke together too.

she felt azzi's hands on her cheek, thumb swiping gently at the tears streaming down her own face.

"baby."

"i gotta let it go, and i don't know how. i don't know how to do this, az."

"well, the first thing is, you don't have to do it alone. we're here for you. i'm here for you."

paige closed her eyes and let azzi coax her somewhere her body felt a little lighter.

"the second thing is, you don't have to do anything right now. we can take this slow as you need to."

her thumb stilled, and paige opened her eyes to find azzi looking at her with so much love, it almost knocked the air out of her lungs. the first time paige saw that look was when they won the natty together, like the love and pride was spilling out of her so fast she couldn't stop it.

"i am so proud of you, p. you're the strongest person i know."

"you're the strongest person i know. couldn't do this without you, babe."

the sound of feet pattering down the corridor broke the two lovers out of their reverence, and paige felt an involuntary smile sneak onto her face.

"mama, mommy!"

paige reached down and picked up maya, their youngest, nuzzling her nose in the side of her cheek. maya let out a bubbly giggle at the motion, and paige's heart grew two sizes larger.

"mommy, stop."

paige gently tickled the sides maya's stomach, letting every laugh stich her soul back together. "never, peaches."

their eldest, jordan, latches herself on azzi's leg and azzi doesn't even blink, just reaches for the washed strawberries on the counter.

"want some, baby?"

jordan tilts her nose up and shakes her head aggressively, always with a touch of drama.

azzi side eyes paige. "like mother, like daughter."

"my kid twin would pick trufru over real fruit, so i don't know about that."

azzi doesn't justify that with a response, just crouches down and feeds jordan a strawberry. some of the juice from the fruit stains jordan's cheek, in that way only kids can get sticky substances in the most random of places. azzi licks her thumb, swipes at jordan's cheek, and places the softest kiss there.

paige doesn't think she'll ever get used to watching azzi raise their kids. it's everything she'd ever wanted when she was 17, lying next to azzi and staring at the ceiling, hoping that whatever this feeling that strangled her heart when azzi was near would disappear. but it only got stronger and more insistent until finally, she caved. and god, is she so thankful she did, because she doesn't know what she did to deserve every dream she ever had, all alongside the girl that changed her life with her smile and her jumpshot.

maya decides that she hasn't had enough attention yet and grabs at paige's cheeks with her tiny hands.

"oof, peach, i can't talk."

maya does not care. "so squishy."

paige sighs. "death by human stress ball. it's a good way to go."

azzi hands her a strawberry as jordan tries to climb up the counter and reach the bowl. they needed to get that kid into some kind of sport to burn off a little of that gremlin energy. paige isn't a saint, and she hopes a little selfishly that jordan'll latch onto basketball, just like her.

"you're so dramatic, bueckers."

paige drops a kiss on azzi's lips. "only for you, fudd."

"ewww, mommy."

yeah, she could get used to having more of this.

_____ ___ _____

there was nothing quite like the chase center arena. this place truly lived and breathed basketball. paige could feel it in the walls, just like she feels it in her bones. there was a reason they called it ballhalla. it was heaven for a player like her.

she never expected to end up on the valkyries team, but azzi had got traded there in her 3rd year, right when paige's contract finished. the timing was too perfect not to try. plus, she really did love purple. (azzi looked really good in the uniform, which isn't really that significant cause she looks good in every uniform.) by some miraculous grace of god and an insanely talented representation team, they managed to completed a complicated three way deal that resulted in paige ending up in the bay. she sent her agent a way too expensive arrangement of sweet wines and smelly cheeses.

the valkyries had reunited the backcourt that everyone had only got to witness for one season at uconn, and it created a lot of buzz. paige couldn't help looking at the headlines and worrying that the dream that their uconn selves had lived was too much for their present selves to carry. she knew how quickly the media and the fans could turn on you if you didn't deliver and she didn't want any of the extra sound to warp what she had with azzi.

but azzi, in all her infuriatingly solid calmness had simply looked at her and said, "it's still us, p. they can say whatever they want to, but we'll still be the best backcourt duo in the nation."

paige looked up at her. "still riding till the wheels fall off?"

azzi smiled. "always."

all the useless chatter was proven wrong anyway, as it always was. paige and azzi still had that undeniable chemistry on the floor, the same chemistry that drew two young players together on that usa basketball team. the same chemistry that made people think, it's not just basketball, it's like their souls are always looking for each other.

paige and azzi had taken the valks to the semi finals that first year, and won the championship the next.

she still remembered how big azzi's smile was that day, dimples so deep you could've hidden a star in there. there was champagne clinging to her eyelashes, laughter curling in the air, and if paige could've frozen time, this would've been the second she chose to live in. she had tried to kiss every inch of azzi's skin that night, forever chasing the taste of winning together.

there was a mural of the 2031 team that had won it all for the first time on the walls of the chase center. paige had found herself staring at it multiple times over the years, still remembering that smile. today, on the first day of her last training camp, was no different.

someone came up from behind her, hooking their arm around her neck and dragging her down. paige looked at her side and was met with flau'jae johnson's signature sideways smile.

"come on, old ass. gotta show the rookies what the w is made of."

"you're literally only one year younger than me,"

"yeah, but you've been here forever and have won like a thousand chips with that wife of yours. pretty sure that makes you much older than me."

"that makes no sense."

"shh, bueckers, just accept it and move on."

paige shakes her head and throws open the gym doors. most of the players were already starting to settle in and warm up. well, here comes the hard part.

she had already told natalie about her plan to retire and the coach had just smiled and hugged her like she knew what paige was going to say before she even walked through the door. paige had cried for the third time that day. now the next step was telling her team.

coach blew the whistle and everyone formed a circle in the center of the gym. natalie began with her regular training camp spiel that paige had heard at least 50 times in her life, so she took the chance to look around at her newer teammates. she immediately recognized mila bazzell, napheesa collier's daughter and the valk's first draft pick. the kid had a deadly jumpshot that was almost as pretty as azzi's and a fadeaway that was pretty impossible to guard. she was soaking in every word coach was saying, with the same determined expression her mother used to wear when she was wrestling for a shot in the paint.

paige remembers when mila was just a little kid, cheering courtside for her mama. and now she was here as the future of the valkyries team, someone who could keep up the team's reputation for clutch dagger shots and the unguardable middy. flau'jae still had a couple good years of being the dynamic player that she always was, and dom malonga, the clinical legend in the paint, was sure to create some incredible plays and offer some much needed veteran presence.

this was the team she was leaving behind. they were going to be okay. more than okay.

"alright, that's all i've got. before we get started, paige has an announcement."

paige blinked at the sound of her name, slowly realizing that everyone was looking at her. here goes nothing.

"right. hi everyone. i am so excited to be playing with each and every single one of you. i've been on this team for most of my career and i'm really proud of what we've built here. i wish i could be a valk for the rest of my life, but the ball has got stop bouncing sometime."

flau'jae gasped. "paige, you're...?"

she nodded. "this is going to be my last season in the w. guess you were right, johnson. i am getting too old for this."

the whole gym was quiet. paige tried to keep her smile from wobbling.

flau'jae was the first to move, rushing to hug her. "goddamnit, paige."

everyone she played with last season quickly followed suit, all dogpiling on top of her into a giant group hug. paige could see natalie starting to tear up and then her own vision started to blur with her own tears.

damn. she had a bet going with azzi on whether she was going to cry today. she hated doing the dishes.

eventually, everyone let her out of their vice grip and natalie started barking out some drills, directing people to their positions. paige took her place at the perimeter, rock in her hand like it was always meant to be there.

dom elbowed her side playfully as she walked by. "one last season, huh?"

paige smirked. "let's make it a good one."

_____ ___ _____

her last season was a pretty good one, ending when they lost the fifth game of the semi finals series against the lynx, led by sarah strong. paige couldn't think of a better person to lose to.

paige had dropped 35 pts and 8 assists, a season high for her, and the entire team had played well. it just wasn't in the cards for them. she would have loved to add a seventh championship to her resume, but she was also secretly a little glad they didn't win. paige had shared every single one of her major career accomplishments with azzi. the natty, her six championships, and every gold medal was fought for by her side. paige didn't want to find out what winning without azzi felt like.

she watched as the lynx held onto each other, jumping up and down like they had already won the chip. and even though she lost, all she could do was smile. this was her last game of professional basketball, and it was so much fun. she was going to miss this so fucking much.

"paige, you recorded a season high in tonights game. how does it feel to lose despite your stellar performance?"

twenty plus years in the league and the questions still haven't gotten any better.

"honestly, i feel okay. sure it was a loss, but it was a well fought one. my team played some pure, unselfish and beautiful basketball tonight, and that's what i'm going to remember. they really made this game a good one to end it on."

the reporter stared at her. "...to end it on?"

paige smiled. "this was my last professional game. i'm officially retiring."

the entire arena exploded.

mics and cameras came rushing up to her, and paige suddenly regretted her decision to make this a surprise. this was one of those moments when she wished cd's media training stuck a little harder.

after a good thirty minutes, paige finally managed to disentangle herself from the media brigade and sneak away to find her favorite people waiting in the tunnel.

jordan and maya were both renacting parts of the game for azzi, or at least jordan was and maya was trying to copy everything her sister was doing. both of them had purple glitter sprinkled throughout their hair, valks merch on their tiny bodies, and purple 5s painted on their cheeks.

jordan noticed her first. "mommy!"

paige drops to her knees (yes, it hurt) and both kids barrelled into her. jordan let go of her almost immediately, full of excitable energy, while maya was happy enough clinging to paige's chest.

"mommy, you were so good out there. and that shot you made when there were three people around you but you just turned around and swish."

jordan punctuates the sound by jumping a little and flicking her wrist, a passable imitation of paige's own form. paige simply smiles at her daughter and hoped the love didn't leak out of her eyes again.

"you know mommy always hits those shots. isn't that right, middy princess?"

paige looks up and locks eyes with her wife, who was wearing her #5 jersey. azzi always looked good in whatever she was wearing, but paige was always a bit obsessed (and slightly feral) for when she wore paige's number.

azzi loved to show up and show the world who she was here for, and paige loved that about her. maybe a little too much.

she stood up and wrapped her free arm around azzi's waist, letting her head fall into the crook of azzi's neck. paige always found herself here after the big moments, folding herself into azzi and letting her carry the weight for a bit. azzi lifted her hand to cradle the back of paige's head. paige felt azzi's next words more than heard them.

"you were so good out there, p. so beautiful."

"i missed you next to me. i always do."

azzi moves back so she could look paige in the eye. "i missed being there with you."

paige let out a small hum, and leans over to leave a soft, lingering, kiss on azzi's cheek. she feels something tugging on her shorts and she looks down to find jordan's big doe eyes that were a carbon copy of azzi's looking up at her.

"can i make a shot in the basket? i wanna make one just like you."

paige hands maya over to azzi and reaches for jordan's hand. "of course, peanut."

it takes her a second to hunt down the game ball, which was already stolen by the lynx team in the middle of their celebration. she pulls jordan into the middle of the paint and hands her the rock.

"do not let go of the ball until i say, okay? no matter what."

jordan nods at her, face full of determination, which paige matches immediately. she gently moves jordan in front of her.

"ready?"

jordan holds the ball up, ready to shoot, but before she can, paige grabs her waist and hoists her onto her shoulders. jordan lets out a laugh and paige gives herself a mental high five.

"mommy, this is not how you make your shots."

"trust me, this way is better."

jordan tries to glare at her but it comes out looking more soft and squishy than she probably intended. paige pointedly ignores it.

"come on, peanut. make your shot."

she throws the ball at the basket with virtually no form, and still, miraculously manages to get it to hit the rim. the kid might have some natural talent after all. paige looks around for her wife who was currently trading funny faces with maya.

"azzi! rebound please!"

azzi spots the ball before she spots them. she scoops up the ball and hands it over to jordan, whose hands start fidgeting immediately

paige rubs one of jordan's legs. "peanut, you've got this."

azzi sees the hesitation in her daughter's eyes and recognizes it immediately. she's seen it in the mirror too many ties to count.

she steps a little closer. "breathe, baby. it's just us. just focus on the ball and the basket. nothing else matters."

jordan closes her eyes for two seconds, and opens them. she sets up her shot more confidently and lets it fly.

azzi smiles before the ball even falls through the basket. "look at you, baby. best shooter in the nation."

paige bounces jordan on her shoulders, relishing in every giggle her baby girl lets out. "i think the best shooter is still your mama, but if you keep practicing, i'm sure you'll beat her."

azzi lifts jordan off paige's shoulders and sets her down. "i know you will."

_____ ___ _____

"so i don't know if anyone remembers, but azzi and i won uconn's twelfth natty together, our first title out of seven. the most championships in wnba history, by the way."

azzi's probably rolling her eyes at her right now.

"everyone's asked me about that day, about that season, at least a thousand times over my career. makes sense, it was the fairytale ending to my college career, 5 years full of injury and obstacles that finally led to what everyone wanted most. but what i remember the most was azzi the night before. the way she looked me in the eye and said 'we're winning it tomorrow. i am not letting you leave here without a natty, paige bueckers.' "

paige blinked, trying to stop herself from being transported back to that hotel room when azzi had looked at her so earnestly and promised her everything.

"to those who know azzi, y'all know that she can kind of get in her head about these kind of things, but that night there was no doubt in her face and i knew, if she had to take down the entire south carolina team herself, she would. which she basically did end up doing."

"i fell in love with azzi's game first. the way she was so calm and collected on the floor, completely unshakeable. a monster on defense with the smoothest game i'd ever seen. and of course, a shot that's taken my breath since i was fifteen. i've never lied when i said she was the best player in the nation. she was back then and she is right now. just as a fan of basketball, watching azzi play has been one of the greatest things i've ever witnessed."

"then i realized that her heart was the same way, so strong and steady and unbreakable. her consistency was what got me, the way she showed up in the same way, every single day, no matter what. she made everyone around her better just being herself, grounded in her ability and her faith in her team. she was kind in the way that made everything easier, flow better. she was magic. and really there was no hope for me after that. i was gone."

paige smiled at azzi, wide and unforgiving, and azzi ducked her head, blush creeping in by her ears. so cute.

"she was my dream girl, gorgeous and could beat me in a shooting contest. i was always going to marry her."

the crowd cheered.

"today, we're hanging up the jersey of one of the best to play the game, probably the greatest shooter it'll ever see. it has been such a honor to watch you achieve every dream by your side. and i am so excited for the future that we're still building together. i love you so fucking much, az."

paige needs to wrap this up before she starts sobbing into the mic.

"here's to the princess. let's give her a bow."

the crowd erupted at that, everyone standing to their feet. paige walked over to azzi, handing over the mic before placing a small kiss on her lips. there were a tear running down azzi's face which paige wiped away.

"had to make me cry, huh?"

"wouldn't have been the perfect jersey retirement with some waterworks."

azzi got up to go to the floor, and paige took her seat, lifting maya into her lap and giving jordan a high five.

she mumbles into the mic while finding her position. "why did i let paige go first, now i gotta top that."

the crowd laughs lightly at that.

"don't worry, you've seen paige and i in media together. i don't like to talk as much as her, so we won't be here for much longer."

paige feels a laugh punch out of that, azzi's dry humor constantly surprising her.

"in 2013, gary knox went to a game at hopkins high school and saw a twelve year old paige play. he then tweeted that one line that we've all seen, 'remember the name: paige bueckers.' he even included a picture of paige in a very fashionable orange headband and that signature smile of hers."

azzi smirks at her when she notices the way paige cringes. paige just wishes everyone would stop bringing up the way she looked in the 2010s.

"that was the first time someone went online and acknowledged paige's greatness, but it would be far from the last. paige's name has been in the same sentence as the word 'goat' since her freshman year. and she's proven again and again, with her championships, gold medals, various accolades, that she deserves the label."

"but what i remember isn't how she was the greatest of all time. it was how she was the greatest person of all time. she was always the first to check on her teammates, always willing to drop everything to make sure that they were okay. she stood up for the people she believed in and the people who believed in her. out of everything, what everyone who's met paige remembers about her is her beautiful soul and kind heart."

azzi stopped, taking a deep breath. her voice was a bit more vulnerable after that. she looked directly at paige, tears brimming her eyes.

"the valks had actually reached out to me a two years ago and asked if they could retire my jersey. but i told them to wait until you retired because this is where i want to be for the rest of eternity. right next to you. 535 forever, watching over the team we helped build together."

"paige madison bueckers, the love of my life, the mother of my children, and my basketball goat, you really are one of the best of us and it is one of greatest joys of my life to have my jersey retired alongside yours. thank you for everything, baby."

paige can't help herself after that. she rushes towards her wife, wrapping her in the tightest hug she could and burying her face into the crook of azzi's neck. both of her kids follow suit, tucking their tiny bodies in the small spaces between paige and azzi.

they just held each other.

the crowd fell away entirely, leaving only two jerseys, 5 and 35, hanging overhead.

_____ ___ _____

sunlight streamed in through the window, harshly dragging paige to wakefulness.

she grunts, sitting up with the gracefulness of a baby hippo. goddamn, would it kill azzi to close the blinds every once in a while she thinks, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

the bathroom door bursts open and out walks the very girl occupying her thoughts. azzi had on a cream blouse that was tucked into a matching pair of slacks, all perfectly tailored. white had always looked absolutely delectable on azzi's caramel skin and paige can feel her brain short-circuit at the sight. not to mention, she's wearing her number 5 necklace that always make paige think mine, mine, mine.

"good, you're awake."

paige just looks at her kind of dumbly. "huh."

"i've got a meeting in thirty, so i'll drop maya at daycare. jordan's got basketball camp today, so you need to get her breakfast and drop her off. then i need someone to pick up maya from day care, and pick up some food for dinner tonight. got that?"

it is too early in the morning for this. "uh, huh."

azzi pecks her cheek and paige leans into the touch like she always does. she grabs her stuff and leaves to deal with maya who has somehow already started to cry.

paige kicks off her blankets. "man, i thought retirement would be more relaxing."

[lexus-k4]

"Nu-uh"

"... The fuck you mean nu-uh?!?!"

- - - - - - DP X DC IDEA/PROMPT

Danny- minding his own business as the ghost king looking to be in his mid twenties, despite being a good enough age to be considered an elderly of elderly civilians, because his status as a half a made him stop ageing physically when he reached his mid 20's. Now out grew his friends and families, and only has Dante(evil reformed Danny) and Ellie(Danielle, the clone) left as family. Also part one of the first hero's to ever exist before the JL even formed and before Batman and what not. And Vlad turned out not to be a half a just a human who was slowly turning more and more liminal till he died eventually too, he did have a longer life though.

Also Danny- reached his limit of being able to keep his sanity and live in Amity, so decidedly going on a world wide tour with Dan(Dante) and Ellie to visit all sorts of places. And also decidedly, staying in some places for a good few years because of their love for the place and finding something new to keep themselves sain.

Also, Also Danny- An extreme polyglot with his two only siblings left, who have the most widest and randonest set of skills from all of the world.

Dante- finding out he has a love for the arts, like painting, photography and fashion and is talented at them, but keeps the tough guy act out of habit and weirdness if he suddenly starts acting friendly.

Danielle- finding out her passion is for sports and sciences. Has the ability to apply for the Olympics in a few of her favourite sports but doesn't to not draw attention and has a masters in civil and mechanical engineering.

All three of them- a good amount of decades have passed after jazz and their friends died of natural causes (old age) and explored more of the world than one person can do in a life time, of course not paying for travel fees and taking advantage of their smarts to make fake identities, work and living visas and so on.

In gotham: Tim and Duke looking into a missing persons report filed for three siblings, for a certain super- superhero, because he is currently off world and bats left it to them.

Duke: uhhh, Tim?

Tim busy looking at his phone doom scrolling waiting for facial recognition to finish loading: hmm?

Duke: what did you say the siblings names were again?

Tim: uhh. Registered as Dante, Daniel and Danielle- Wise, born in California moved to metropolis when they gained emancipation from their parents Jacqueline and Malcom Wise because of neglect who died when the youngest child turned 20, 5 years after their emancipation. Why?

Duke: .... Uhh, well. I don't know what's happening, but the face rec is done. And. Well... There is like a 100 different results. All the same face and first names just different surnames and different origins on nationality?

Tim finally looking up: huh?

Tim and Duke doing more research.

Tim: okay. So what have we got so far?

Duke: we know that their names are most likely Dante, Daniel and Danielle, they each have about 5 different identities each. All following a similar story of either dead parents, emancipation, orphans or something to excuse guardianships. All three are extremely smart AND talented- which might I add is unfair- but all that spans across every identity. The only identity that is inconsistent is the one dated back to being , possibly their original identities as Fentons, the children of The DR's. Fenton. Who died a good long time ago along with their oldest daughter Jazzmin Fenton.

Tim: okay... So... Immortals maybe?

Dake: maybe? We need to tell Bruce. And Clark.

Tim and Duke- reporting their findings to Bruce and Clark respectively. Continuing their search when suddenly getting a ping that there is a new identity under the similar faces.

The 3 siblings in gotham:

Danny: okay. So. New life. What are the plans?

Dan: I'mma work in Fashion. Make some money. And a photography gig on the side.

Ellie: I'mma apply for gotham U. I hear they have a great stem coars and excellent sports facilities. And I saw a cute cat cafe down the street, might apply to work there.

Danny: okay, okay. Solid. I might go for gotham U too. Probably gonna try the Aerospace engineering coarse, I hear gotham has great engineering classes and the sylibus has updated since I last checked. And might apply for work at a enrichment center. Been meaning to get some more exercise lately.

Dan: okay. Ellie, what's the status on money?

Ellie: still got money left over from the inheritance from Vlad and our parents. Like, I mean, they got a lot from their patents. And they had a lot of them too. Besides we keep applying for jobs so we keep earning too.

Danny: okay then. Here's to our new life as Nightingales.

Some times in the future after Tim and Duke got some of the Bat family involved and tracked down the siblings. Who quite obviously could tell they were there, cornering them on a roof.

Red Robin: so. The Nightingales. Mind telling us why you guys have about 6 different identities?

Signal: first your children of doctors. Then your British, then your from the baltics with a english mother. The list goes on.

Ellie: I don't know what your talking about but that ain't us. We're just 3 orphaned kids who are living quite well in life and-

RedHood: orphaned or without a guardian like the other 5 times, and have degrees in God knows how many subjects.

Dan: ... (Whisper shouting) I told you we should've changed the story. And out looks.

Batman: look, we don't want trouble, we just wanna talk. And maybe we can figure out something so that-

Danny devoid of sleep because he developed an addiction to the coffee from the place Ellie now works at: NU-UH!

Stunned silence.

Dan and Ellie holding laughter in.

Nightwing snickering in the back with RedHood turning away trying to calm down and not laugh.

Oracle listening in: The fuck does he Mean 'NU-UH'?!?!

Batman just tired from all this shit:the fuck you mean Nu-uh?!

Danny crossing his arms pulling a face and changing his voice to 'duh' sound: Nu-uh.

Shenanigans ensue with all the bats and birds in either stunned silence or uncontrollable laughter. Dan and Ellie recovering in half laughs dragging Danny away and escaping the scene.

They get chaced down almost every other night by the bats and birds, finding one way or another to get the word 'Nu-uh' in before Batman can even speak.

---

Batman: look, er just want to-

Dan, Danny and Ellie pulling out a sign from seemingly nowhere whith the word 'Nu-uh' written in bold colourful bubble writing on it. Then escaping after handing it to Batman.

---

Nightwing: please. We just want to talk-

The 3 siblings stood Silently listening.

Nightwing: I... Huh?

Dan: go on. We're listening.

Nightwing: but... I... Where is....

Radhood: what this birdbrain is trying to say, is, are you not gonna find a way to say your catchphrase before disappearing?

Ellie: nah. We ran out of unique ideas on how to deliver the message. The glitter bomb was my favorite.

Dan: the paint bomb was mine.

Danny: I'm still embarrassed at the fact that that was what my sleep deprived brain said. But the writing with knocked out criminals was my favorite.

Dan: heh, that was my idea.

Ellie: the glitter and paint was my idea.

RedHood: holy fuck... I guess we should just be glad their not villains.... If they were wed be doomed...

Dan: uhh.... Wellll.....

Signal: what's that meant to mean. Your not villains. Right? Please. Don't tell me you are. Why. God why can things just be simple. FOR ONCE! PLEASE!

Ellie: no. Not villains. Not really. But Dan, is a reformed villain. But that was like. Decades ago. So your fine.

Dan: besides. I only became evil because my mind got infected by a creepy old fruit loop.

Danny, Ellie and Dan all simultaneously shivering in disgust: ugh...

. . .

Red Robin: ... I'm too tired for this. I need a coffee...

. . .

Batman: how would you kids like to live in a mansion? Or maybe become vigilantes?

All the bats and birds other than Batman groan simultaneously with some muttering about adoption obsessions.

Dan:...

Danny:...

Ellie:...

. . .

Dan: FRUITLOOP!

Danny: FRUITLOOP!

Ellie: FRUITLOOP!

[moratorya]

· ➳ [𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐌𝐏: 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄]

jason is…particular about his kitchen.

he treats it with great care, always making sure that everything is clean, impeccably ordered, and in fine working order.

in fact, he even has very specific lists of who can and can’t enter his kitchen.

his brother, dick, is vehemently on the ‘no entry’ side, along with a steph. there are tentatives—a damian, a cass, a duke—and then there is the ‘if you find them in here, fucking run away’ with a tim scratched firmly in the column. you find it hilariously endearing, because there are scribbles of complaints next to the names in various different coloured pens, but jason is adamant.

his kitchen is his kitchen. there needs to be order in there. you’ve even seen him commit to armed assault when he found one of his brothers—you can’t tell them from each other yet, as embarrassing as that is—in there, and you swear that the kid shrieked when he got tossed out the window.

“don’t let him back in,” jason had ordered to you, and you had nodded, holding back a massive smile. the kid had crawled up the side of the wall as if his fingertips were adhesive, and pouted on your couch for the rest of his visit.

you, though, is hard to tell. your name is not in any of the columns, and that puts you in an awkward spot.

do you go in? are you allowed to make your waffles for breakfast? will jason also throw you out the window?

jason would never put his hands on you like that, you know. but it’s his kitchen. he’s literally threatened to stab his youngest who threatened back the same thing in there. it’s precious to him. you don’t want to do anything that might make him upset.

the two of you are still early in your relationship, testing the waters, shyly asking to come over just in case the other is busy. you won’t ever admit it aloud, but it makes you so fucking giddy every time you open your door to see jason rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly with a well-loved book in his hands, asking, “date night?”

so yeah. you don’t want to fuck this up. he’s the best guy you’ve ever met, so you can’t fuck this up.

this is why you’re standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen of jason’s apartment, staring into the empty kitchen like sort of ghost haunting the room. jason’s t-shirt reaches down to your thighs, and you tug at it self-consciously as you ponder the pros and cons of entering.

on one hand, you’re super hungry. and jason enjoys your cooking; he always flusters you with compliments when you’re at your apartment and you make him breakfast. 

on the other hand, this is jason’s kitchen. the small list of authorised personnel, stuck to the fridge on a magnet, very distinctly does not have your name on there.

okay. maybe you just go in, try and look for some snacks? that way, you haven’t actually cooked anything. surely jason’ll find that okay. 

“what’re you doing, lurking around like some thief?” 

you screech, jumping in your own skin, hand seizing at your thumping chest. “jason!” you hiss, turning around to see him right there behind you, amused beyond all limits. “what did we say about creeping up on me?”

“not to,” he agrees, and reaches out so he can pull you in by the waist. “but you were just being so cute, babe—creeping around like this isn’t half your home anyways.”

“jason, it’s your kitchen,” you reply, punching at his unfairly sturdy chest, “i’m not just gonna walk in like i own the place.”

he raises an eyebrow. “what were you doing in here anyways?”

“i’m hungry,” you admit, sighing as he tucks you underneath his chin. he knows that this kind of hug always makes you melt, that bastard.

“then make something,” he says, gesturing to the stove. “you make a killer cheese toastie, don’t you? i even bought you three different fucking types of cheese so you’d be able to make it at my place.”

you perk up. “cheddar, swiss, and gouda?”

he presses his lips to your temple as he hums in affirmation. the vibrations make you giggle. “can’t believe you woke me up because you were scared to use my kitchen,” he mutters, but he’s smiling.

“hey,” you smack his even more unfairly bulky bicep, “how is a girl supposed to know if she can use her boyfriend’s kitchen if her name’s not on the list?”

jason trails after you as you pull out of his embrace, reaching out to open the fridge for you. your eyes instantly go to the three stacks of cheese, and your mouth starts watering already.

“what list?” jason asks, genuinely confused, closing the fridge gently once you’ve gotten everything you needed.

you jab a finger at the piece of paper right in front of the two of you. “this one,” you deadpan, before moving to the stove.

jason doesn’t follow after you this time, squinting at the scrap paper in the dark. “what list?” he repeats to himself, bewildered, “what does it have to do with you?”

you reach over to flick on the light, both of you groaning as the bright white lights beam on. “gotta change that to a yellow bulb, babe,” you say, shielding your eyes.

“yeah, yeah,” jason grumbles, “i know. oh shit—you mean the kitchen shaming list? why’d you be on the that list?”

“the what list?” it had a name the whole time?

jason laughs, gliding over with far too much grace for someone of his stature, and he slots himself home with an arm around your waist and your back pressed against his chest. he leans his chin on top of your head as you start the stove, waiting patiently until you’ve got the pan safety on top of the flame before speaking.

“that’s just to shame tim,” jason explains, grinning into the crown of you head, “and everyone gives him shit for it. i just find it funny that he has to keep his toes behind the line whenever he’s over.”

“i’m not on it, though,” you point out, cutting a piece of salted butter and placing it on the pan. it hisses deliciously, and you can’t help but relish in the scent. “how was i supposed to know that i could use the kitchen?”

jason hums, grip tightening around your waist. “what d’ya mean? of course you can use it. it’s my kitchen.”

your brows furrow as you place your pieces of bread on the pan. “yes, i know it’s your kitchen, that’s the whole point?”

“no, no,” jason says, suddenly spinning you around so your back rests against the kitchen counter behind the stove, and he’s caging you in, arms pressing on the counter top. he’s also frowning. “that’s the point, though. it’s my kitchen, so it’s your kitchen. isn’t this how it works?”

“huh?” 

he points at you, and then points to himself. “what’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine. i thought we made that clear just the other day?”

you stare. “jay, i thought you just wanted a bite of my donut!”

“and i did,” he says, equally serious, “but it’s more about the principle than anything. you know that anything i know you have a claim to, right? even the whole—” he waves abstractly, and it’s unexpectedly cute on him. “—night life thing, y’know. not that i’d really advertise for you to step into my suit, but hey, i think a female red hood is kind of hot. whatever you want.”

you blink up at him, a smile tugging against your lips. “whatever i want? what if i want to be a female nightwing?”

“okay,” jason scowls, “maybe not everything. but you get me, yeah? i wouldn’t keep you around if i wasn’t gonna share all my shit with you.”

“even your kitchen?”

jason smiles, and he leans down to press a soft kiss against your nose. “’specially my kitchen.”

god, you love him. it’s been not even a year but you love this man to the ends of the earth.

“offer still stands for the red hood thing,” he says, grinning cheekily.

“i wouldn’t fit,” you say with a laugh, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“b could make you your own suit,” jason says dismissively, hands sliding from the bench to hold you tightly by the waist, “as long as you wanted it. hell, i’d make it for you if you wanted me to.”

you laugh, and you reach up to lace your fingers behind his neck. “i think i’ll leave the vigilanting to you,” you muse, massaging the muscles, making his relax underneath your fingertips. “but you should probably leave the cheese toasties to me—i think the butter’s burning.”

“fuck,” he blinks, and immediately, you’re swung back into your position by the stove, jason covering your back with a gentle comfort, “sorry, babe, totally forgot.”

you simple smile, shaking your head, and quickly move to flip your now quite-toasted bread, trying to soak up as much butter as you can with the softer side. “all good,” you murmurs, a hand reaching to cover his massive one around your waist. “hey, it’s not too bad.”

“i’ll eat anything you make,” jason says quietly into your hair. “even if it’s burnt and probably rife with carcinogens.”

“i’d never feed you anything with carcinogens in it,” you reply, offended, reaching for your cheese. jason’s arm is longer, and so he reaches it first, fingers brushing against yours as he hands it over to you.

“thanks,” you say gently, giving him another pat. 

he nods, nestling his nose into your neck. “you know that i love you, right?”

the giddy feeling is back. you squeeze at his knuckles, and he tightens around your waist in response. “i know,” you reply. “i love you too.”

“good.”

then, after you’ve layered all the cheese with the right amount each, he watches as you close the cover to the pan and turn the heat down. he presses in even deeper into your neck, making you squirm as his stubble tickles at your skin.

“i’m yours, right? and you’re mine?” he whispers.

“yeah,” you turn, and hook your arms around him. you look up, and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “i’m yours, and you’re mine.”

jason todd taglist tagging: @profoundgreenturtle

general taglist tagging: @c4xcocoa @megumisluciouslashes @bbsaeko

[neellscapsule]

a ceo, a wedding . . . a robin?

summary | your brother's wedding was always quite expected by you. not so much like the petition your son has.

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

warnings / tags | fluffy, reader and bruce kiss so lovely in this it makes my heart explode, dick is the cutest child

word count | 4.3k

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

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. this can be read as part 6. you'll the other parts on the masterlist.

taglist | @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @radenxd @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01 @shqyou @mei-simp @serendippindots @sirlovel @aixaingela @pjmgojo @antixsocialx2 @nisarelle @realiliumfr @gojoswaterbottle @connnn @jjoppees @yall-imhere @sabrinaoppositee @nekotaetae @wendee-go @idiomaticpunk @fandomlover1235 @nommingonfood

TWO YEARS PASS AS FAST AS THE FLASH WHITING A BLINK.

You don’t even see it coming. One moment, you’re peeling Dick off the carpet of your office, cradling his puffy face after he declared you “mom” to a screaming supermodel. The next, you’re watching him tie a tie by himself in front of the long mirror in the hallway of Wayne Manor, his hair a little longer and his face a little leaner, like he’s already trying to stretch toward something bigger.

Ten years old now. He’s ten.

Double digits. Growing fast. Almost reaching your chest, which he proudly announced to Alfred last week with a finger pointed directly at your collarbone. And though he still sleeps curled between you and Bruce on the nights the wind howls or the manor creaks just right—those moments are rarer now.

He’s still your baby bird. But he’s also becoming someone. Someone good.

And the three of you live under the same high, gothic roof. The Wayne Manor, timeless and tall, with more windows than your entire hometown and a history that still gives you chills when you walk through the old library. But it’s home. Truly.

Because of them. Because of him. Because of all of you.

You spend most mornings waking at dawn. Bruce rises earlier—he always has—but he stays in bed long enough to kiss your forehead, press his face to your collarbone, murmur something sleep-warm about staying in with you for five more minutes. Dick drags himself out of bed only after Alfred threatens to remove the curtains, and you all manage breakfast together more often than not.

It’s quiet. Domestic. Real.

Which is why, when the papers start referring to you as the youngest executive director Wayne Enterprises has ever seen, you don’t flinch.

You don’t have time to flinch.

You’re too busy preparing your own morning meetings. Signing contracts. Rerouting wasteful divisions and restructuring outreach initiatives. Because Bruce did what Bruce always does—he saw you, he trusted you, and he handed you more power than anyone expected. Not out of sentiment. Out of truth. You earned it.

You still remember the day he gave you the title.

“CEO,” he said casually, flipping through paperwork in his office. “It fits you better than secretary.”

You blinked. “You’re serious?”

He looked up. “Of course.”

You sat back. “That’s… that’s huge.”

“You’ve been doing the work for months,” he said. “All I’m doing is making it official.”

You reached for his hand across the table. “I’m still wearing your ring, you know. You don’t need to give me a company to keep me.”

He smirked. “It’s not for you. It’s for the world. So they see what I already know.”

So you stepped into the role, high heels clicking across marble floors, all warmth in the middle of steel. You work harder than ever. But you’re fuller too. Of purpose. Of pride.

Of love.

But not every part of your life is centered on your life. No, no. You spend time on your friends as well: Diana and Selina, both so different yet so important to you. Although they are both very occupied persons, they reserve some time for you.

Well . . . Diana sees you whenever she's not training, or fighting against something terrible dangerous, which is not as much time as you would expect. But when you see her, you share a good tea, with a table full of food — because God knows that your friend has a stomach the volume of your own brother's — and laughing that attracts attention, despite that that may be because of how good the both of you look.

Motherhood sits you nice, what can you say?

Selina has a lot more free time . . . when she is not stealing from rich, old men . . . or being Catwoman. Because, yes, not only your husband, brother and best friend are people of the night, heroes, but your other best friend is a fantastical anti-hero type of vigilante.

But yeah, she spends quite more moments with you: at the office — snatches bites of your lunch, winks at your interns —, at the Manor, even going outside to simply share a coffee. Recently, she brought along a new friend.

A green friend that you very much know, but you prefer to keep quiet about the other identity.

It's not fair that Ivy is so interesting!

And, while you very much know about their whole relationship with Harley Quinn as well, you much keep outside of it, not wanting to get as close with Joker's girlfriend. You wouldn't do that to Bruce, not if she kept by that side.

You know better than to reach for someone who still dances too close to the Joker’s shadow.

Still, life is good.

You have your job. Your home. Your son.

And today, you have a wedding.

You grinned. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“Because I am!”

Lois’s hair was pinned in a perfect low bun. You helped her finish it yourself—quietly brushing, wrapping, then fixing a few strands when the hairstylist got a call halfway through. Her dress was classic—off-white satin with a soft curve at the shoulders and a wide, structured skirt that hugged her waist. She looked gorgeous. Radiant. And also a bit like she might leap out the nearest stained-glass window.

“Lois,” you said gently, “it’s Clark.”

“I know it’s Clark!”

“You’ve been together for over five years.”

“Exactly.”

You blinked. “You’re losing me.”

“That’s a long time to be with someone and still not be sure if you’ve properly traumatized them or not.”

You laughed and walked behind her, straightening her veil as it draped over her shoulders.

“Lois, he’s literally Superman.”

She sighed. “Yeah. Exactly. I don’t want to ruin Superman.”

You leaned down, pressing your cheek to hers, voice soft.

“You could never ruin him.”

She blinked quickly. “You think so?”

“I know so,” you said. “And I know because I’ve seen him fly straight into fires, fight aliens, take on the League of Shadows and Lex Luthor all before breakfast—but he gets mushy the second you call.”

Lois sniffed, clearly trying not to cry. “I don’t want mushy. I want stability.”

You handed her a tissue. “Then trust that you’re it.”

She dabbed under her eyes and nodded. “Okay. Okay.”

Then she paused.

“I didn’t forget to write my vows, but I forgot where I put them.”

“Top drawer,” you said without looking.

Lois gasped and opened the drawer. There they were.

You shrugged. “I know how you think.”

“You’re scary.”

You smiled. “I’m a mom.”

She leaned over and hugged you tight, her voice warm and fond against your shoulder. “You’re also my best friend. Thanks for not letting me implode.”

“Anytime,” you said, squeezing her back. “Now sit down and let me make sure your shoes aren’t going to kill you halfway through the aisle.”

The fabric shimmered—nothing showy, just enough to catch the light in delicate folds. The bodice was structured, elegant, sharp in a way only Lois could pull off.

“You look stunning,” you whispered. “Clark’s going to forget how to speak.”

“He already does that around me,” she muttered, gripping your hand tightly. “This time, it’ll be because I’m going to murder him if he bolts.”

“He’s not bolting.”

“You sure?”

“I helped pick the ring. He’s not bolting.”

She blinked, biting her lip.

You softened. “He loves you, Lois.”

“I know.”

 You kissed her cheek, told her you’d be back in five, and slipped out into the corridor.

The groom’s room was quieter, in that unnaturally still way men’s rooms always were before weddings—no nervous laughter or shrieking, just muffled movement, the sound of cufflinks, and Bruce’s deep voice talking softly to someone down the hall.

Clark sat by the window, eyes cast outward, fingers loosely pressed together.

You knocked gently before entering. “Hey.”

He turned instantly, smiling the second he saw you. “Hey yourself.”

You stepped in, shutting the door behind you.

“How’s she doing?” he asked.

“She’s threatening to flee. I think that’s a good sign.”

He laughed softly. “Classic Lois.”

You walked toward him, careful not to wrinkle your dress—long navy blue, open-backed, soft satin that hugged your figure in a way that had made Bruce audibly grunt when you’d stepped out that morning.

Clark stood as you neared. His suit was hanging by the window. He was shirtless, his hair slightly damp from a nervous shower, and there was a tie discarded on the floor like it had tried to strangle him.

You raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t exactly the image of a Kryptonian groom I had in mind.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“Uh huh. Look at me.”

He did.

“Lois loves you. You love her. You’ve already done the impossible together. This is the easy part.”

He swallowed. “What if I screw it up?”

“You already did,” you said with a grin. “And she still wants to marry you.”

He laughed—soft, real. You kissed his cheek. 

“You’re gonna be the best husband.”

Clark pulled you into a hug, arms tight. Familiar. Like home.

“You’re gonna make me cry on my own wedding day,” he murmurs.

“Then we’re even,” you whisper. “I already cried twice this morning.”

Sneaking off with your not-soon- to be husband is easy.

Bruce found you just before the ceremony, in the hallway outside the kitchen pantry. You raised your eyebrow as he pulled you in by the waist.

“This isn’t our wedding,” you whispered as he shut the door behind you.

“Which is why I thought it’d be safe to sneak a minute with my fiancée.”

You laughed as he backed you into the shelves, hands steady against your hips.

“You’re very inappropriate today,” you said, trying not to grin.

His hands slid down your back, catching at your waist, pressing you gently against the shelf. His mouth met yours like he hadn’t seen you all morning. Like two years of shared mornings and shared toothbrushes hadn’t dulled the sharp, desperate need between you.

He kissed your neck softly. “It’s your dress.”

You hummed. “You picked it.”

“Exactly.”

You turned and kissed him, long and slow, one hand curled around his tie. His lips moved lazily against yours, like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t. But Bruce always kissed like that when he was content.

When he pulled back, his thumb grazed your cheek.

“You’re glowing,” he murmured.

“You’re soft,” you teased.

He grinned. “Only for you.”

The old pantry cupboard is small, dusty, barely big enough for two grown adults—especially when one of them is built like a Greek statue and the other refuses to stop clinging.

“I’ve been watching you all day,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You light up every room you walk into.”

Your chest tightens, warm and full. “Is that so?”

“Mmhm. And you’ve somehow become even more beautiful since I last kissed you.”

You grin, pressing your forehead to his. “That was seconds ago.”

“Too long.”

The ceremony was beautiful.

Soft strings played as guests settled in.

Bruce sat with Dick beside him, both dressed in tailored navy. Dick’s jacket had a tiny robin pin you’d bought for him in secret—a quiet nod. He tapped it twice for luck before heading down the aisle with a little velvet box in his palm.

You watch him from your place beside Lois, heart clenching with pride as he focuses on every step, holding the rings like they’re sacred. When he makes it to the altar, Clark gives him a grateful wink, and Dick puffs up like a balloon about to burst.

He grinned wide when he saw you standing by the bride, mouthing, “You look so pretty, mom.”

You blew him a kiss. He pretends to catch it, then slips his hand into Bruce’s.

Lois was radiant. Clark was teary-eyed.

You watched your brother and best friend say their vows in front of friends and family, promising forever with laughter and love. And when they kissed, when the room erupted in cheers, when your father wiped a tear and your mother squeezed your hand—there was a glow in your chest that burned soft and golden.

You don’t think you’ll ever forget the way Clark looked at Lois when they kissed.

It’s the kind of look you’ve only ever seen once before—on Bruce’s face, the first time he watched you walk barefoot through the Manor’s rose garden, a glass of wine in your hand, laughing at something Alfred said. 

There’s something in it that strips away time, space, history. It’s not awe. It’s not even reverence. It’s something deeper. Something more anchored. It’s knowing. The kind of knowing that doesn’t shake, even when the world around it does.

The ceremony fades into the glow of golden-hour congratulations—tight hugs, kiss-stained cheeks, overexcited relatives taking blurry pictures with disposable cameras they barely know how to use. Someone pulls out a guitar. Someone else is already uncorking the second bottle of champagne. Kids chase each other through the wildflowers. The air smells like clover and frosting, and there’s something deeply sacred about it all, like time decided to stand still just for today.

And then the music starts.

Ma had insisted on hiring a local band. Clark helped with the sound setup early this morning, careful not to scorch the cables with heat vision. You remember watching him work with Dick on his shoulders, both of them laughing as they hung fairy lights around the barn door. Now, that very same barn has been transformed into a dance floor—strings of lights overhead, long folding tables lined with mason jars, centerpieces full of sunflowers and wild daisies. 

It’s not Gotham. It’s not Metropolis. 

It’s better.

It’s home.

The speeches come in between. Some of their colleagues talk first, your parents are next, and, finally, it's your turn. You rise slowly, smoothing your dress as you step onto the little platform. The string lights catch your hair and your smile, and for a second, you see yourself as everyone else does. 

Not just a Kent. Not just a Wayne executive. But a woman standing in her home soil, proud and strong, with her family in the crowd and the man she loves watching her like she’s the sun.

You clear your throat, voice steady.

“When we were kids,” you begin, “Clark used to read to me at night. I’d crawl into his bed with my stuffed bunny, and he’d pull out a book—sometimes fairy tales, sometimes Ma’s old college novels—and he’d do all the voices. He always made sure the hero saved the day. He always made sure the villain had a chance to be redeemed.”

You pause. The crowd leans in.

“I used to think those stories were just stories. But then I grew up. And I realized Clark was never reading them for me. He was reminding himself that the world could still be kind. That love could still win. That happy endings were worth fighting for.”

Lois’s lip wobbles. Clark’s head is down, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand.

You smile. “And now, I get to watch my big brother marry the love of his life. Someone who sees his shadows and calls them beautiful. Someone who doesn’t need saving—but lets him save her anyway, because she knows that’s how he loves. Lois, Clark… thank you. For giving us a fairytale. For letting us believe in it.”

You step down to thunderous applause. Bruce is already reaching for you as you return to your seat, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“You have a gift,” he whispers.

You smile. “So do you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You motion to the dance floor, which is now being cleared for the first dance. “You’re about to show me whether you can dance without stepping on my toes.”

Bruce smirks, but he stands.

“I accept the challenge.”

The first slow dance feels like honey.

You fit against Bruce like you were made for this—his hand at your lower back, your cheek resting lightly against his shoulder, your fingers tangled in his. The music swells around you, soft and rich, the kind of song you don’t know the name of but never want to end.

“I missed this,” he murmurs against your hair.

“We danced two weeks ago at the Wayne Gala,” you tease.

“That was for investors,” he counters. “This is for us.”

You tilt your head up, just enough to look at him. “So what does this mean, then?”

He smiles. It’s small, but the kind that reaches his eyes.

“It means,” he says, leaning in to kiss your forehead, “that I hope one day we’re on a dance floor like this, and it’s you in white.”

Your heart skips.

“I hope it’s you beside me,” you whisper, stunned by how much you mean it. “Always.”

Dick is spinning in circles on the edge of the floor, laughing with two of your younger cousins. He catches your eye and waves, cheeks flushed with joy.

Bruce leans in. “He’s going to sleep all the way home.”

“If he doesn’t pass out in the car,” you chuckle.

The music shifts again. A slow waltz. Ma cuts in to dance with Clark. Jonathan takes Lois’s hands with the gentleness only a father-in-law can muster. Couples rotate, change partners, laugh. The whole yard glows.

After a while, Dick taps your hip. “Can I have this dance, ma'am?”

You gasp, hand to your heart. “Sir! I would be honored.”

You and Dick dance slowly, swaying more than anything. He leads for the first few seconds, proudly trying to mimic what he’s seen grown-ups do. But when he missteps and nearly trips over your foot, he starts giggling uncontrollably, and you both fall into a rhythm of bouncing more than dancing.

His little hands are warm in yours, his smile endless.

“I did good today, didn’t I?” he asks.

“You were perfect,” you reply. “You brought the rings like a pro.”

“I practiced with Alfred,” he grins. “He made me walk up and down the hallway until I got it right.”

“I’ll thank him later.”

He grins, dimples deep. “Dad said I looked like a real gentleman.”

“You are a real gentleman,” you say softly, voice warm. “The best kind.”

Dick looks up at you. “Mom?”

“Yeah?”

He shifts, suddenly a little more serious. “Do you think… do you think someday I’ll be like Uncle Clark? Like… good?”

You stop moving. You crouch down so you’re eye-level.

“Dick,” you say carefully, taking both his hands. “You are already good. You’ve got the strongest heart I’ve ever seen. You care so much about people. You try every day. That’s what makes you a hero.”

He swallows hard. “Even when If I mess up?”

“Especially then,” you whisper. “Because you keep going. And that’s what makes you strong.”

He throws his arms around your neck, hugging you tight. Bruce watches from a distance, expression unreadable—but his eyes are soft.

You scoop Dick into your arms and twirl him once before setting him down.

“Now go get some cake before it’s all gone,” you grin.

He dashes off. Bruce steps beside you.

“He needed to hear that,” he says quietly.

“So do you, sometimes,” you reply.

He chuckles, but there’s something weighty in the way he slides his hand into yours.

And you—

You let the world blur. You danced. You smiled.

You existed, happily, in the moment where your brother had finally married the woman he loved, where your son had carried the rings like a knight, and where your heart—your big, aching heart—was full.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Dick tugged your fingers and asked if he could dance with Aunt Diana.

You nodded. “Be polite, bug . . . And try not to step on her feet.”

He ran off. You turned back to Bruce, who was still watching you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Ready to make our wedding the next one?” you asked, jokingly.

He smiled. “I already said yes two years ago.”

It started with silence.

The kind of silence that was too careful. Too constructed.

You noticed it when you came down from the upstairs study after three full hours of reviewing Wayne Enterprises expansion contracts. The clock had struck nine. The night air curled in through the windows in lazy waves, bringing the soft scent of pine from the woods, a trace of lavender from the garden.

The manor was still.

Too still.

You paused at the foot of the stairs, one hand brushing the carved railing. Alfred had retired early to sleep. Bruce had gone down to the cave to finish running forensics on a weapons cache recovered near Crime Alley. And Dick?

You hadn’t seen Dick since dinner.

You glanced toward the drawing room. Sure enough, there was a glow behind the partially cracked door. Soft. Sneaky. Suspicious.

You knocked with the same voice you used to ask if someone had broken a lamp.

“Sweetheart?”

A pause. Then the shuffle of socks on hardwood.

“It’s open,” came the voice of your ten-year-old son.

You stepped inside.

Dick was on the floor, lying on his stomach, blueprints and sketches spread around him like a storm of colored paper. There were rulers, string, an old math compass, duct tape, a flashlight, and what looked like Bruce’s grappling gun partially disassembled next to a cereal bowl.

You blinked once. Twice.

“Baby,” you said slowly, “why does this room look like a Gotham PD evidence board?”

Dick sat up cross-legged, cheeks flushed, notebook in his lap.

“I have a proposal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A proposal.”

He nodded firmly. “For you. And Dad.”

You crossed your arms. “Does it involve dismantling stolen Batcave tech?”

“No,” he said quickly. Then, “… not just that.”

“Uh huh.”

He stood up, cleared his throat, and held up a makeshift pamphlet.

It had a stick figure with a mask on the cover. It read: Sidekick Sttrategic Plan — Dick Grayson, Age 10 (almost 11).

You blinked again.

“… Okay. Go on.”

He straightened his shoulders, like he was preparing for a shareholder pitch.

“I want to be Dad’s sidekick.”

You stared at him.

He pressed on.

“I’ve done the research. And the training. You know I’ve been in the gym almost every night after homework. I can do fifty pushups. In a row.”

“I’ve seen you,” you said carefully. “They’re very impressive.”

“I read all of Dad’s old case files. The redacted ones. Well, except the ones with too much blood. Alfred said no.”

“Smart man.”

“I already know how to use the comms and the grid,” he continued, flipping pages. “And I’ve been practicing my flips. I’m faster than Bruce was when he was my age. And I can help.”

His voice cracked a little.

You softened.

He set the notebook down.

“Mom,” he said, suddenly quiet, “I don’t want to just watch anymore. I want to be a part of it. I want to protect people.”

You moved closer, kneeling in front of him. Your hands found his, warm and a little sweaty from nerves.

“Honey,” you murmured, “you’re already a part of it. You’re part of this family. You don’t have to throw punches to matter.”

“I know,” he said. “But I want to help. Really help. You and Dad do so much. You save people. You make Gotham safer. I want to do that too.”

Your heart tugged.

There was so much of Bruce in him now. But there was also so much of you. That stubborn conviction. That desperate need to make things right, even when the world didn’t ask it of you.

“You know it’s dangerous,” you said softly.

He nodded.

“And scary.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You should be.”

He looked up at you, blue eyes clear and wide. “But I’m not.”

You exhaled, eyes fluttering shut.

“Does your father know about this?”

He shuffled guiltily. “… No.”

“Uh huh.”

“I was gonna talk to him after you,” he mumbled.

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your mouth.

“I’m the warm-up act?”

“You’re the boss,” he said sweetly. “If you say no, there’s no point in asking him.”

You reached up, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Don’t butter me up,” you warned gently.

“I’m not!”

“You totally are.”

He smiled. Then, like it was sacred, he added, “You always tell me I’m brave. And I wanna be brave. Like you. And Dad. But I want to be useful too.”

“Dickie,” you said, cupping his cheek, “you’re the reason we even try.”

He leaned into your palm. You sighed, letting silence fall. And then, quietly, with a dry laugh you couldn’t hold in, you said:

“You look like a little robin when you puff your chest up like that.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Red sweater. Pointy elbows. All full of conviction and fluff.��

He stared at you. Then he lit up.

“Robin.”

You froze.

“No.”

“Robin! That’s it! That’s my name!”

“Oh, no, I was being poetic.”

“Mom,” he said breathlessly, “you named me!”

“That’s not what—”

“I’m gonna be Robin!”

You stood, both amused and horrified. “I’ve made a mistake.”

He tackled you around the middle. “I’m gonna be Robin! I gotta go tell Dad!”

“Wait, wait, wait!” you called after him as he bolted out of the room. “At least fix your spelling on ‘strategic’ first—!”

You found Bruce half an hour later in the Batcave.

He was hunched over a new cowl prototype, but the moment you stepped down the final stairs, he looked up.

“He’s very convincing,” he said dryly, setting his tools down.

You sighed and walked toward the console, arms folded.

“I should’ve known you were listening.”

“You were in the drawing room. The walls aren’t soundproof.”

You slumped into the nearest chair.

“He’s serious, Bruce.”

“I know.”

“He made pamphlets.”

Bruce arched a brow. “So did I. At twelve.”

You blinked. “What.”

“For my first pitch to Alfred.”

“… You made a business case for being a vigilante?”

“Yes.”

You sighed into your hands. “Of course you did.”

He leaned back, watching you.

“Do you want to say no?”

You looked up at him.

“Of course I want to say no. He’s a baby. He’s our baby. The idea of him dodging bullets and jumping off rooftops makes me want to throw up.”

Bruce nodded slowly.

“But?” he asked.

“But,” you exhaled, “I know him. He won’t let it go.”

“No,” Bruce agreed. “He won’t.”

“And if we say no… he might try anyway.”

Bruce didn’t answer. Because that was the truth. Dick Grayson, age ten, almost eleven, was already fearless.

And you couldn’t protect him by shutting him out.

So you stood, walked over to Bruce, and leaned against him with your head on his shoulder.

“If we do this,” you whispered, “we do it our way.”

“Absolutely.”

“No solo missions. No real combat until he’s ready. No special exceptions.”

“Agreed.”

You glanced up at him.

“You’re really okay with this?”

Bruce’s hand found yours.

“I’m terrified,” he said.

Then he smiled.

“But I think our little Robin just took flight.”

Dick insisted on a ceremony. Not a big one—just the four of you.

He had a fairly well-made costume, made of sturdy fabric, sewn by Alfred stitch by stitch.

You held back your laughter with the short pants.

But you still couldn't help but tear up a little, smoothing down the yellow cape that flew behind him with each turn. You caressed the R sewn on his chest—the one you'd put there, sitting cross-legged on the couch while Dick beamed beside you.

You took a photo. He posed like a champion.

And when the sun set, and the moon was high, and Gotham once again stirred in its shadows…

Robin joined the family business.

And your world—already full of love—somehow stretched even wider.

[m3mento-m0rii]

i love ur writinggggg

can u write for baby saja? like let’s say the reader gets mad over smt he said (like insensitive) and silent treatment? and like talking to all the members but him? but like eventually forgives (sort of like angst to fluff)

The Cold Shoulder—

1.7k words; Baby Saja x Reader Masterlist | Requests Open!

Baby isn't very good at expressing himself. Now, you're not giving him the chance to.

A/N: Hello anon! Thank you for requesting, and I'm so glad you like my writing <3 enjoy!

Baby was focused on writing something in a notebook—his notebook, the one he wrote his lyrics in. He had a concentrated look on his face, pen in hand, phone on the other as he brainstormed for the next Saja song.

Then there was you, talking next to him about . . . something. Honestly, he wasn’t paying attention. To be fair, he had to get this done; usually you were content with just being around him. Usually, writing came easily, usually, he had time for you, usually, he was at least half-listening.

Today was a little different, though.

“. . . well, anyway, as I was doing this project—Baby?” You called, noticing he was in his own world. Not a glance, a movement, some semblance of acknowledgement. You were already kind of in a rough mood, and his lack of attention didn’t help. “Baby.”

“Ugh, what.”

Flag number two.

“‘What’?” You echoed, your eyes sharpening just slightly as you watched him. “What do you mean, ‘what’? Are you even paying attention?”

“Not really,” Baby huffed, leaning back in his seat. “I’m kind of busy, (Y/N), and to be honest, you’re breaking my focus.”

“Breaking your focus? You’re the one who said I could come over in the first place!”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you were going to be like this entire time!” Like ‘this?’ Like what? You were being perfectly normal for a partner, at least you think!

“Maybe I wouldn’t if you actually acknowledged me the first time I said things. It’s always the same problems, Baby, you can be so unavailable. Sometimes, I feel like you’re not listening—!” You snipped, your lips twitching into a scowl at his words.

“Sometimes I feel like you talk too much! Can you just leave me alone?” He sneered, and then it was quiet. He didn’t even think, wasn’t even listening to your words, not until after he said his. His eyes widened and you almost recoiled, speechless. He almost reached for you, “. . . Hey, hold on, wait—”

But you were already getting up, heading out of the room. Baby could only watch. He inhaled heavily as the door shut a bit too heavy-handedly, his gaze returning to his notebook.

“. . . Fuck.”

Well. He got his wish.

»                                                      ⊱◈⊰

You were fuming silently, plopping down on the couch without a care as to anything else. You had tunnel vision; you could see red. You heard someone whistle lowly on the other side of the room, not even bothering to glance.

“Damn, didn’t your mother teach you better manners than that?”

Romance raised a brow at the poisonous glare you shot him, clutching his pearls. “Sheesh, what’s up with you?”

Really? You weren’t the type to air out your issues to people, even if you were friends. It just felt . . . wrong. You didn’t want to push it off onto them, but . . . Romance stared at you curiously, eventually moving seats to sit next to you. 

“C’mon, it’s okay. You look like you need to vent.”

“I’m just . . . annoyed,” You grumbled, hunching over. He cringed at your posture, crossing his leg over the other.

“Abouuut?”

“I mean, I just . . .” you groaned, not even knowing where to start without sounding like you were blowing it out of proportion. It’s fine, it’s fine. “Don’t worry about it, it’s okay. Can we do something?”

“He upset you that bad? Listen, I have better morals than THAT, I wouldn’t go that low—”

“Romance-!”

“oKAY I’m only messing with you,” he grinned, raising his hands in defense. “What do you want to do? Let’s bake something.”

You gave him a puzzled look.

“What? Can’t a man have hobbies?”

So you dragged yourself off the couch, pulling yourself over to the kitchen counter to look in the pantry. Romance tapped your shoulder, making your head tilt up to his. “Hey, chin up. Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay.”

You sighed, pulling out the cocoa.

You hoped so.

»                                                      ⊱◈⊰

Finally, he was taking a break. Not that he was any more productive than before. In fact, he was less productive after you left. The only difference was now he was hungry.

Baby stood up from his desk, reluctantly passing the chair that was usually reserved for you. He could smell something sweet, and he knew it was probably Romance or Abby baking in the kitchen again. So he walked out of his room and down the hall into the entrance of the kitchen, and he stopped.

He was right, it was Romance. And you.

Honestly, he thought you left.

You had a little smile on your face, and so did he as you both kneaded your own doughs. “You’ve never made your own bread before?”

Romance shook his head, cringing as he added more flour to make it stop sticking to his hands. “Never considered it. Guess you could say I’m more concerned with other types of dough.”

Baby gritted his teeth, hating how you laughed at his stupid joke. But what he hated more was the way it abruptly stopped when Romance noticed him.

“Hi, Baby,” he said casually, glancing up at him. Romance wasn’t expecting the glare. “Uh, I know you don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but we made some brownies,” he nodded at the counter.

Baby seemed to wait for you to say something, but you didn’t. You only kneaded the bread a little harder before deciding it was time to wrap it and let it rise. 

Still, you said nothing as you passed him.

He didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t that. Fine. He could play that game, too. 

Baby wordlessly moved through the kitchen, taking a bag of chips from the pantry (where you were also getting saran wrap), not sparing you a glance. Without another word, he left the kitchen.

Romance sweatdropped. “It’s that bad??” He whispered, looking at you. You only scoffed, covering your dough.

»                                                      ⊱◈⊰

The rest of the day continued similarly, with you never acknowledging Baby. He’d almost intentionally find himself around you, but you never interacted with him; not when Jinu was in the kitchen cooking and you were lying on Derpy, not when you and Abby were talking about what he should have been listening to, not when Mystery came and turned on something to take your mind off of it.

You didn’t know why you stayed.

Maybe to show that you didn’t need his attention to be over there. Maybe to prove that you could be happy without it. Maybe it was to rub it in his face that he didn’t get to spend time with her.

It all felt empty, though. A whole day of leaving rooms when he entered it and avoiding him when he was obviously trying to make you cave first, it all felt for nothing. Why were you doing this? Just to be petty, right? Now all you wanted to do was go home and cry, because you just wanted him to try. To try more. Wished he initiated things for a change, would tell you things first, wouldn’t be so . . . unavailable.

So you did go home.

You left your bag at your door and forced yourself along to your room, changing into some old, comfortable pajamas and falling onto your bed. You exhaled, breathing in your scent; not his. 

»                                                      ⊱◈⊰

He . . . didn’t mean it. He didn’t honestly mean any of that. Well, he supposed he deserved it, or at least, he asked for it.

At first, it pissed him off, watching you hang out with the other Sajas when you should be with him. And he was bitter, and he was jealous, and he decided that doing the same would be even treatment. That only got to him more. But two wrongs don’t make a right. 

So he thought about it, and he thought about it. Honestly, he couldn’t think of anything else. Which is how he ended up inside your apartment, approaching your bedroom door.

You heard a floorboard creak down the hallway. Gentle footsteps. A soft thud on the door as his palm pushed it open.

Baby didn’t use magic much for any little thing, not like the others, but this seemed as good of a time as any.

He stared at your form on the bed, rocking back and forth on his heels for a moment before stepping inside. “. . . Babe. Can we talk?”

You didn’t answer, and he only frowned. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Baby moved to sit on the edge of your bed, his elbows resting on his knees as he laced his hands together. “. . . Look, I’m sorry.”

Silence.

Even if that annoyed him, he continued, because . . . that was the problem in the first place, wasn’t it? Communication, his bluntness. “What I said was rude and . . . I know that as your boyfriend, you don’t deserve that—from me especially, but from anyone.”

You turned over slowly, and he glanced at you; your eyes meeting for the first time since the argument. Even in the dark, he could tell your eyes were a little puffy, and it made him feel worse.

“I just wish you were more open sometimes.”

“I hear you . . . I should have just told you that I needed to think,” he admitted. “Um . . . you don’t talk too much. I was just frustrated, and I shouldn’t have said that. Usually, I am listening, I promise. I’ll try—I will be better, okay? I do care—a lot. I just . . .”

“Struggle with showing it sometimes.”

“. . . Yeah.”

You swallowed thickly, the tension in your shoulders loosening with a breath. “. . . I’m sorry for snapping so easily, too. And I forgive you.”

“You shouldn’t apologize for that,” Baby bit his lip, fidgeting with his fingers. “It needed to happen. Are we . . . good?”

You extended your arms in peace offering, and he sank into you easily. The both of you sighed quietly, and . . . everything felt okay again.

“Can we watch the new episode of—?”

“About that . . .”

“You watched it without me? Okay, now that’s extreme.”

“It’s okay,” you smiled softly, reaching for the remote. “I’ll pretend that it’s the first time.”

Baby only grinned, pulling you closer to him. “We both know you’re a serial spoiler.”

But . . . he didn’t mind. Because that was you, and he wouldn’t change anything about you for the world. You weren’t paying attention to the show, instead finally drifting off after a stressful day. “Baby?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

Baby’s eyes widened just a little, his cheeks darkening in color. Still, he answered:

“. . . I love you, too.”

»                                                      ⊱◈⊰

A/N: Okay, I think that went okay! See you guys soon <33

—Captain Morii 🌤️

Morii's Business Class: @kpopmultistans @momentomoribitch

[librarygarten]

Saja Boys x Social Media Manager! Reader

The idea that these five somehow researched K-Pop and modern idol culture well enough to pull off their plan is hilarious. Jinu thinks "Save the Date" means an actual date, but understands how to manage an online fan club? I don't think so.

Jinu had come to an unfortunate realization… he was old. All of the Saja Boys were, really. Centuries in the demon realm were bound to make them a little out of touch with the times. Still, humans were predictable. They liked the same things over and over and over again. Heart throbs, cutesy guys, and the “perfect boyfriend”. All stereotypes they would use to bring the hunters to their knees and destroy the Honmoon. So why was social media so different!?

Jinu had studied the formulas, the algorithms, the statistics. It should have been easy to make a few posts about Saja Boys and leave the rest to sort itself out. But it wasn’t. He had even resorted to giving Romance control of their socials for a few hours before realizing what a horrible idea that was.

Which is what brought them to your office; a tiny little cubicle in an already cramped building. You were apparently some type of professional social media manager. The fact humans could be so obsessed with those silly accounts to need professionals to manage them was a ridiculous concept, but here they were, sitting in folding chairs that were honestly a little too small, finishing up the paper work to hire you to take control of the Saja Boys socials.

“That should about wrap things up.” You scan over the document one last time, noting the various members' names, the platforms, the follower numbers. You had to respect the hustle, at the very least. These guys only had one song out and they were milking it for all the publicity they could. They didn’t even have a manager as far as you could tell.

“Alright, then,” you open your phone and begin scrolling through your notes. “Based on how hard it was to find literally any information about you, I’m going to assume you’ve all already deleted any previous socials you had? Because stuff you said ten years ago can and will be dug up and used to cancel you if someone finds a reason to.”

“Oh, we didn’t have social media before. We should be good on that front,” Jinu smiles. That, you could believe. The posts on the Saja Boys official account were all… pretty dry. They read like something your grandpa would post, not the announcements for a hip new boy band's public appearances.

“Great. Starting from scratch,” you swipe through your phone some more, pulling up the pages you had prepared. “I’m gonna get each of you set up with your own accounts. People love it when they think famous people interact with them online. I assume you are all going for the obvious K-Pop stereotypes for mass appeal?”

“What?” Jinu looks a bit taken aback. The other four share looks of concern.

“You know, the common types of K-Pop idols that fans like?” You explain.

Five blank faces look back at you (well, four blank faces and one mass of bangs). You sigh.

“Perfect boyfriend, edgy guy, romantic, fan service,” you point to each Saja in turn, “And that dude’s literally named Baby. Either you guys are marketing geniuses or somehow fumbled your way into becoming the perfect boy band archetypes.”

There is a long pause.

You look at Jinu. Jinu looks at Romance. Romance looks at Abby. Abby looks at Mystery. Mystery just kind of sits there. Baby side-eyes you.

You are beginning to question if you should have taken this contract.

It’s Romance that saves you all.

“Exactly!” He smirks as he leans closer to you, resting his elbows on your desk. “My, aren’t you perceptive~.”

“That’s literally my job,” you say, pushing down the urge to gag. If he was going to be this insufferable the whole time you worked with the group, you might not be able to stop yourself from punching him.

“Glad to see we hired a professional,” Abby stretches as he speaks, the buttons of his frankly hideous Hawaiian shirt threatening to pop off. You wince, not looking up. Professional was a generous term. You had never worked with anyone even close to this famous. It was mostly businesses wanting to advertise or misguided twenty-somethings convinced they were going to become famous influencers. Why the Saja Boys had decided to use your services instead of a more well-known social media manager with experience in K-Pop idols was beyond you. Sure, you were significantly cheaper, but they should have been able to afford someone better, even with just the profits from Soda Pop.

“Yeah, sure,” you keep your eyes on your screen. If you were paying attention to him, you would see Abby visibly deflate ever so slightly.

“So sorry about them,” Jinu chuckles nervously and grabs Romance and Abby by the back of their necks, trying to force them into an apologetic bow. Unfortunately, because they're sitting down, he actually just ends up smashing their faces against their knees. “They’re not usually this…”

“Weird?” You finish the sentence for him. Baby scoffs. Or maybe it was a laugh. You can’t really tell. “It’s fine. I’ve dealt with worse. Now can we get to actually designing your accounts?”

“Of course!” Jinu releases Abby and Romance, who shoot him dirty looks before resuming their usual photogenic expressions.

Setting up their accounts was more trouble than it should have been. Apparently, none of them had phones. Or computers. Or internet access. None of them seemed to have any hobbies or interests you could put in their bios, and there was an uncomfortably long silence when you asked for their ages. Thankfully, making their fan club page was easy. A few pictures of the boys, a new color scheme, and a couple rephrased posts were all it took to make it match the aesthetic they were going for. Over the next week, you watched as the follower numbers steadily climbed, from a few thousand to over 50 million.

Then the Idol Awards happened.

“You should have led with the demon bit,” is the first thing you say when you see the Saja Boys again. Three of them were huddled in your office with the hoods of their jackets pulled low over their faces.

“We should have… what?” Romance furrows his eyebrows. He hasn't changed much from how he looked last week, bright pink locks sticking out from under his hood at odd angles. You're unsure how well his jacket will hide him from the public. 

“I get the whole scheme was to get fans with Soda Pop, but I'm pretty sure that plan would have taken less time if you just used Your Idol right off the bat,” you explain as you scroll through #sajaboys posts on your phone.

“You're taking the whole demon thing surprisingly well,” Mystery hums. His bangs still hang over half his face, but he's at least changed his hair from greyish-purple to black.

“What can I say, I'm a professional,” you grin.

“Why did you want to meet again? We're not exactly trying to draw attention at the moment,” Baby grimaces. His hair is also black now, and his oversized sweater is nowhere to be seen. His entire body posture had also changed. Instead of kicking his feet back and forth like a child, his sneakers were firmly planted on the floor, elbows resting on his thighs. He seemed more comfortable, you thought. This look suited him better.

“Why not?” You tip your head to the side, confused.

“Did you miss the part where we tried to feed a stadium's worth of people to a demon lord last week?” Baby scoffs.

“I did not. Nor did your fans,” you smile, “The concert is still trending across most social media platforms.”

“Wait, we're trending?” Romance gasps. “I thought the hunters made up some story about us being a fake band they had pretended to fight for their ‘new single’.”

“They did. And most people believe it,” you chuckle. Hunr/x’s social team had gone above and beyond doing damage control after their public breakup and reunion. According to them, the Saja Boys had been an industry plant for the Huntr/x girls to have fake beef with while Rumi’s voice recovered. You would probably believe it, too, if you hadn't been managing the Saja Boys’ socials. Even in your limited time with them, you had noticed more than a few oddities. They were kind of garbage at pretending to be human for extended periods of time, if you were being honest. You’re shocked you didn’t figure it out earlier.

“Then why are people still talking about us? We passed three trash cans full of our merch on the way here,” Baby raises an eyebrow and jabs his thumb over his shoulder to emphasize the point.

“Well, to put it bluntly, people thought your performance was hot,” you try to say with a straight face. You're glad Abby wasn't here to hear it. He didn't need a bigger ego.

“Hot!? We were trying to-!”

“Shhh!” Baby shushes Romance, then raises his head to glance over the walls of your cubicle. “Not so loud!”

“I am well aware of the circumstances,” you sigh, then turn your computer screen around to show them. “Here, just take a look at some of these posts. You'll understand.”

“‘That Saja Boys concert was so good I gave them a standing… ovulation’...?” Mystery reads the post off your screen, confused. “Do they mean ovation?”

“No,” you shake your head. The small bit of Mystery's face you can see turns bright pink. Baby leans over the desk to get a better look.

“‘His name may be Baby but I think Daddy suits him better’?” Baby reads the post with furrowed brows, slightly pausing between each word as if he's afraid to keep going. “What the hell is this?”

“Your fans. The entire internet is full of posts like these,” you explain, turning the screen back to its proper position. You read a few more posts “‘I'll let Abby be my sanctuary any day’, ‘Why are Baby's fingers so long all of a sudden. Not that I'm complaining’, and… actually I don't think I can legally read this last one out loud but you get the point.”

“We’re popular. So what,” Baby frowns. “We’re not the Saja Boys. That was never real.”

“Yes. You also never paid me,” you tap the contract on your desk with the tip of your pen, particularly the part where they agreed to pay you. It wasn’t a lot, but it would have paid the bills for a while. “So I have a vested interest in making sure you stay popular long enough to fulfill that obligation.”

“We’re not very liquid right now,” Mystery grimaces. You briefly wonder where they were staying. If they were from hell or wherever demons came from, you doubt they had a real place to live. Perhaps they pulled some demon magic shenanigans to get an apartment?

“Yeah,” Romance scans over the contract. He hadn’t actually bothered to read it last time. “Jinu took care of all that stuff.”

“And where is he?” You ask. You had been able to find the three demons before you through a combination of social media stalking, favors from friends, and sheer determination, but Jinu and Abby seemed to have disappeared completely after their concert the night of the Idol Awards.

“Pretty sure he gave his soul to that hunter,” Baby scoffs. He seemed personally offended.

You bury your face in your hands. If you wanted to get paid, you had some phone calls to make.

[nekonaps0]

i LOVE YOUR WRITING!!! i will say i am extremely heartbroken over that poll where lilia won over FWB leona 🥀🥀🥀 still loved that fic thooo but if you could find it in your heart to write that FWB fic i would do unspeakable things for that❤️❤️ thank you luv you

Undone

✦Leona Kingscholar x Fem!Reader

✦NSFW/smut, friends with benefits, unspoken feelings, pining!Leona, oblivious reader, tension, setup for later emotional chaos, possessive behavior, mutual emotional realization, soft aftercare

✦ well lucky you because all those fic I mentioned there are already written. I just couldn’t decide which one should I post first

You’d never really given it much thought before. Sure, you knew Leona was attractive, anyone with eyes could tell that, but he’d always just been Leona to you. Your friend. Your grumpy, lazy, nap loving, sharp tongued, secretly softhearted best friend.

The one who’d let you hang out in his room for hours, take over his bed, complain about your classes, or talk about anything and everything with little more than a grunt and an occasional sarcastic remark. You were comfortable with him, so comfortable, in fact, that tonight’s conversation had wandered into new territory without a second thought.

“I’m just saying,” you sighed, tossing a stress ball up and down as you lounged on his bed, “it’s kind of stupid how you basically need a relationship just to get laid.”

Leona, lounging on the bed with one arm behind his head, cracked open an eye.

You rolled onto your stomach, letting your cheek rest on your forearms as you stared at him. “I mean, sure, people hook up all the time, but it’s always complicated. Someone catches feelings or freaks out, or there’s some stupid drama. Can’t someone just have a little fun without drama?”

Leona didn’t respond right away. He was looking at you, but it wasn’t his usual lazy, half asleep look. There was something different in his eyes tonight, darker, unreadable.

You were too deep in your own musings to notice. “Maybe I should just get a hookup partner,” you muttered, half to yourself, chewing your lower lip. “Someone chill. No pressure. No strings. Just... some much needed relief.”

That pulled a snort from him. “You make it sound like you’re dying of thirst.”

You rolled your eyes. “I am dying, Leona. It’s been months.”

He let out a low chuckle, his chest rising slightly with the sound. “So what? Gonna go down a list of potential suitors at NRC? That’ll be a fun disaster.”

You paused. “Hmm... maybe. Let's see. Not Ace. He'd make it weird. Definitely not Sebek, he’d probably scream during.”

That earned a full laugh from Leona, deep and rich, echoing through the room. “You're sick.”

“Come on, be honest. You’ve thought about this kind of thing too, right? Casual, no strings stuff?”

His smirk dimmed slightly, eyes locking onto yours. “Of course.”

You sat up on your knees now, thoughtful. “I mean... who would be a good candidate?”

Leona watched you carefully, his tongue running over the inside of his cheek. Then, with a casualness that didn’t reach his eyes, he said “Why not me?”

Your brain short circuited. “...Huh?”

Leona shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “You want someone you’re comfortable with. Someone who won’t get clingy or jealous. Someone who doesn’t make things weird. We’re already close. Why not keep it simple?”

You blinked at him, heart skipping a beat. “You’re saying... we should hook up?”

“If that’s what you want,” he said, voice smooth but unreadable. “Friends with benefits. You get what you need, I get what I need. No strings. No drama.”

You stared.

You knew Leona was flirty sometimes, but this didn’t sound like a joke. His voice was too calm. Too measured.

Still, it made a strange kind of sense.

You were close. You trusted him more than anyone. And the idea of sleeping with someone without the awkward, fumbling stage of new attraction sounded... honestly, kind of perfect. Leona knew you. You knew him. And if he was okay with it.

“You’re serious?” you asked softly.

He looked up at you, eyes heavy lidded and unreadable. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

You hesitated.

Then nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

Something flickered behind his eyes too quick to name but he gave you a faint smirk and sat up, stretching. “Good,” he said simply. “We’ll take it slow. No pressure. Just…” He gestured lazily between you. “Whenever it feels right.”

You nodded again, unsure why your heart was pounding. From across the room, Leona watched you with a look you didn’t see, equal parts hunger and heartbreak. Because to you, this was convenience.

To him?

It was the only way he could have you without losing you completely.

•

It started with a couch.

A lazy afternoon, both of you bored and alone in his room. You were ranting about potions class, sprawled half on top of him. His hand had slipped under your shirt, pure muscle memory by now and then lips followed, teeth, tongue, breathy curses.

You didn’t even remember how it escalated. But that was the first time.

After that, it just… happened.

Everywhere. And anywhere.

His room. Your dorm lounge. A study room in the library with the door questionably locked. Behind the botanical gardens. Once, dangerously close to Ruggie’s room, where you had to stifle your laughter and gasps into Leona’s shoulder as his hand covered your mouth.

It was fun. Secretive. Addicting.

And at first, it was exactly what you both wanted, at least, that’s what you thought.

When one of you felt the need, it was easy. No fuss. No flirting needed. No sweet talking. No overthinking. Just a look, a low growl, a shared breath.

Then you’d go back to normal, as if nothing happened. No lingering tension. No awkwardness.

At least… at first.

It was around after two or three weeks later that something changed.

You didn’t notice it immediately.

Maybe it was because you’d been talking to Jack outside the cafeteria. The big guy had just helped you carry a stack of potions supplies, and you gave him one of your usual sweet, grateful smiles, thanking him and lightly touching his arm.

Then, out of nowhere, Leona had dragged you into the nearest unused closet and kissed you breathless against the wall.

You hadn’t questioned it. In fact, you’d enjoyed it. Thought it was hot being ambushed like that, his voice low and growly with want, his hands greedy.

“Couldn’t wait,” he muttered into your neck. “You look too good when you smile like that.”

You thought he was just horny. You didn’t think it was the smile at Jack that triggered it.

Another time, it was Ace. He made a dumb joke at lunch that had you cackling so hard, you nearly choked. Leona had been leaning against a wall nearby, lazily drinking a smoothie.

Twenty minutes later, you found yourself pinned under him in the greenhouse, the sun filtering through the leaves and his fingers tangled in your hair.

“You’re so loud sometimes,” he said into your throat, lips brushing skin. “People gonna hear how eager you are.”

You thought it was teasing. You didn’t realize he was still thinking about your laugh from earlier and who had caused it.

After that, the pattern became clearer… not to you, but to others…

The day things really started shifting was during a simple lunch with your usual group.

Deuce sat next to you, eating politely. Ace across from you, already being obnoxious. Epel had joined you today too, chewing aggressively on a chicken wing while adding his country boy sass to the conversation.

You were halfway through your sandwich, casually telling them about your latest “situation” with Leona because, at this point, it wasn’t a big deal or a secret. Just something happening in your life.

“so then he shows up at the library while Ortho tutored me,” you said around a bite, “and just leans over and whispers if I want to take a ‘study break.’”

Ace blinked. “Hold up. Study break? That’s code, right?”

You gave a one shouldered shrug. “Obviously.”

Epel nearly choked. “And ya went with him?! Just like that?!”

“Well, yeah. We’re friends with benefits. That’s the whole point, right?”

Ace raised an eyebrow. “Okay, yeah, but… isn’t it kinda weird how often he’s pulling you off like that? Didn’t you say it’s supposed to be casual?”

“It is casual,” you insisted, sipping your drink.

Deuce frowned slightly. “That sounds like jealousy.”

“What?” You blinked, genuinely confused.

Epel gave you a Look. “Y/N, you say he does this every time a guy so much as talks to ya.”

“Not every time…”

“Name five,” Ace said, crossing his arms.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again…

“…Jack. Ace. Deuce. That random merchant guy in town last week. And… Azul, maybe?”

Epel leaned forward. “Girl. That’s a damn pattern.”

Deuce nodded slowly. “I mean, if he’s getting possessive, that’s not nothing.”

You laughed. “He’s not possessive, guys. It’s Leona. He just gets… in the mood, sometimes.”

Ace exchanged a look with the others, then looked at you like you were the insane one. “Y/N. You’re telling us this guy who doesn’t care about anyone’s business suddenly appears every time someone flirts with you… and you think that’s normal?”

You furrowed your brows. “Well, yeah. I mean, we’ve always been close. Maybe he’s just protective or something.”

Deuce gave you a soft, concerned look. “Have you ever thought… maybe he’s in love with you?”

You snorted so hard you nearly inhaled your drink. “Leona? In love? No way.”

Ace rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Keep living in your delulu dream. Just don’t come crying to us when this ‘casual’ thing turns into a soap opera.”

Epel pointed his chicken wing at you like it was a sword. “You’re either the most emotionally blind person I’ve ever met, or you’re tryin’ real hard not to see it.”

You sat back in your chair, feeling weirdly unsettled.

Because now that they mentioned it… there had been a change. Leona had started showing up more. Calling you his herbivore with a sharpness that felt almost possessive. Growling under his breath when people flirted with you. Making sure he was the last one to walk you back at night. Even now, you thought about the way his eyes darkened whenever someone made you laugh, how his hands held you tighter, how his mouth lingered longer on your skin after.

You’d chalked it up to him being a Leona. Dramatic. Proud. Territorial, maybe. But… could it really be more than that? Could he feel something deeper?

You pushed the thought away.

You didn’t want to complicate things. You liked what you had. It worked. It was easy. And you didn’t want to ruin that by reading too much into his actions… right?

That night, Leona texted you.

Leona 🦁

You busy?

You

Nah. Just got back from dinner. Why?

Leona 🦁

Come to my room.

•

You stood outside Leona’s door a few seconds longer than usual.

That conversation at lunch was still stuck in your head, Epel’s chicken wing accusation, Ace’s wide eyed concern, Deuce’s gentle nudge that maybe, just maybe, Leona felt something deeper.

You hadn’t been able to shake it.

And now… standing there with your heart stuttering a little too loud in your chest, you realized you were nervous. Not just for the usual tension, the physical heat. No, this time, it felt different.

You didn’t know what to expect.

Still, when you knocked once and the door swung open with that familiar creak, everything inside you fluttered because there he was.

Shirt unbuttoned, hair tousled, emerald eyes gleaming under the low light. “About time,” he muttered with a half smile. “Thought you were ditchin’ me.”

You forced a laugh, trying to mask your unease. “Took the scenic route.”

But when he stepped aside to let you in and his hand brushed your lower back, all those strange, unsettled thoughts melted under the weight of his touch.

It was always like this with him. He touched you like he owned you, even though he didn’t. And you let him, even though you told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

The door clicked shut behind you, and the air in the room thickened with tension. He leaned against it for a moment, watching you. You could feel his gaze crawling across your skin like warm sunlight. There was hunger in it but something else, too. Something you couldn’t name.

You opened your mouth to say something maybe a joke, maybe to fill the silence but he was already moving.

Crossing the room in three long strides, he cupped your face with one hand and kissed you.

Hard.

Hot.

Hungry.

Your fingers gripped his shirt automatically, fisting the fabric, holding onto him like he might disappear. He kissed you like he couldn’t get enough, like he needed to taste every sound you made, like your mouth was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, lips tingling. “Leona—”

He growled, breath hot against your jaw, “I hope you’re gonna tell me you want this.”

You stared at him, chest heaving. Whatever lingering questions you had, whatever worries, the second he touched you, they vanished.

You didn’t want to talk. You wanted him. So you nodded, breathless. “I do.” That was all it took.

He walked you backward toward the bed, mouths fused, hands wandering. His fingers slid under your shirt, up your spine, deft and sure. He pulled it off and tossed it somewhere, his own shirt following. His mouth dropped to your collarbone, teeth grazing, tongue smoothing over the sting. The bed caught the back of your knees. You tumbled onto it with a soft laugh cut off when he climbed over you, pinning you with his weight, his lips trailing fire down your neck.

“Leona,” you whispered, arching into him.

He growled low, almost like a purr, as if your voice alone could drive him wild. Then he dropped lower. And lower. You froze when he settled between your thighs, hands gripping your hips like you’d vanish if he let go.

“H-Hey, what are you—?”

“You’ve been too smug lately,” he said against your skin, kissing down your stomach while his hands tugging down your pants lower then with one move he pulled it off and toss it away. “Need to remind you who makes you fall apart.”

You didn’t have time to argue. His mouth met your core, and you shattered. Leona was relentless.

Languid, confident, devastating.

He licked and sucked like he had all the time in the world. Like this was what he lived for. Like you were his favorite meal and he was savoring every drop.

You couldn’t even think. All you could do was cry out his name, curses, nonsense, your fingers buried in his hair, thighs trembling. “L-Leona, I’m—!”

“Good,” he rasped, voice low and full of pride. His sharp eyes looked up at you like he memorizing your every reaction, how you fall apart just because of him. “Let me hear you.”

And when you came, it was with a loud gasp and a rush of warmth through your veins, hips arching, body shaking.

He didn’t stop until you were completely undone.

He came up for air with a smug glint in his eyes, licking his lips like sin itself.

You pulled him up by the shoulders, dragging him into a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“You’re such an ass,” you whispered against his mouth.

“Mm,” he hummed. “But I’m your favorite one.”

You laughed breathlessly. “Shut up and fuck me.”

His grin was wicked. “As you wish.”

Clothes disappeared.

Sheets twisted.

Limbs tangled.

He entered you slowly, agonizingly, groaning into your shoulder like it physically hurt him to go that slow. “You feel too good,” he muttered. “Too tight… always do.”

You clung to him, nails raking down his back, matching his rhythm, gasping into his neck as he moved. Fast and deep.

Hard and smooth. Possessive and reverent.

It wasn’t just physical anymore. You could feel it in the way he touched you, how he held you like you were something precious, how his kisses dragged longer than necessary, how his hands gripped you like he’d never let go.

And just when you were about to fall apart again, just before both of you hit your peak, he buried his face in your neck and whispered, breath ragged, voice hoarse “Fuck… you feel so deam good… I want you… I want you…” and with a cracked, quite voice against your neck “Fuck…I love you…”

The room went silent.

Your heart stopped.

And Leona froze.

It wasn’t until after the afterglow, the quiet panting, the soft collapse beside you, that he realized what he’d said. And you felt the shift in him. How his body went tense. How he turned his head just slightly, like he was hoping you hadn’t noticed.

But you had.

You turned your head to look at him, eyes wide. “…What did you say?”

He closed his eyes, jaw tight. “Forget it.”

“No,” you said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. “Leona. Say it again.”

He stayed silent for a beat longer Then “I said I love you.” His voice was quieter now, rough around the edges. “Didn’t mean to. Wasn’t supposed to come out like that.”

Your breath caught.

Leona turned his face away, shame flickering behind his emerald eyes. “I know we said this was casual. And I meant it, at first. But you’re in my head all the time. And every time some guy so much as looks at you, I wanna rip his throat out.”

You stared, stunned.

“I didn’t wanna ruin it. Didn’t want to lose you. So I kept my mouth shut.” He looked at you then, eyes raw and vulnerable. “But I can’t do it anymore, herbivore.” He took a sharp breath and biting the inside of his cheek “I feel this way since the first time you curled up on my bed like you owned it.”

You felt like your whole world had turned inside out. Because suddenly, everything made sense. The way he touched you. The way he growled at other guys. The way he kept finding reasons to be near you, pulling you back to him, over and over. And most of all, the ache in your own chest.

The warmth that bloomed every time you saw him. The way your body knew his touch. How your heart fluttered every time he smirked your way, how you’d started waiting for his texts even when you weren’t in the mood for anything physical.How you felt safe with him. Wanted. Adored.

You reached out and touched his face, guiding him to look at you. “…I love you too.”

Leona blinked. “You…what?”

You laughed “I was just too dumb to realize it.”

He stared at you like you’d knocked the wind out of him. Then he leaned in and kissed you, slow this time. Sweet. Like you were something sacred.

When he pulled back, his voice was low. “So… what now?”

You smiled and tucked your face into his chest, tracing lazy circles across his skin. “We start dating. Obviously.”

Leona grinned against your hair. “Took you long enough, herbivore.”

•

The next morning, when Leona strolled out of his room with you trailing behind, both of you looking rumpled and smug, something felt different. It wasn’t just the sex. It wasn’t just the fact that you were holding his hand now. It was everything.

And when one of the Savanaclaw students passed by and muttered, “Damn, you were loud,”

Without even looking, Leona just smirked. “Jealous?”

The guy blinked and turned bright red.

You elbowed Leona with a snort.

He looked at you, eyes warm, then leaned down to murmur in your ear “Get used to it. You’re mine now.”

You didn’t even bother pretending you didn’t like the sound of that.

..............................................................................................................................

[tsuy4n]

The Artist Who Lives for the Plot

Warning/s: Fem!Reader, Mild language/swearing, Still Chaotic™, Verbal bullying disguised as flirting, petty drama, reader still very much suffering (comically), Unwilling reverse harem, Reader is done with them all (not really), reader needs sleep

[A/n]: A little calm before we spiral again 😌 Still the same day as the fire rescue, just some filler flavor and sketchbook chaos. Next chapter? More damage. Stay tuned.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 >Part 6<

Abby lingered outside of your room.

Slowly, inevitably, his lips curled into a smile. He didn't even try to stop it. He exhaled, shaking his head before glancing down at the object in his hand. The sketchbook.

Your sketchbook.

You handed it to him. Not Jinu. Not Baby. Not Romance. And definitely not Mystery, who felt like the favorite and possibly even closest to you.

Just him.

Abby grinned wider, his ego inflating by the second.

You liked him best. That had to be it. Why else would you let him be the first? Obviously, your taste was impeccable. Stunning. Refined. Tragic, really, that it took a near-death experience for you to admit it.

(Even if you hadn't technically said anything.)

He flipped the sketchbook open with a lazy flick of his thumb, smirking like he already knew what he'd find.

Time to confirm it, their (mostly Jinu) wild theories about blueprints for assassination, pages of data collection, maybe even labeled diagrams of their emotional weaknesses in comic strip format.

At the very least, a panel or two on how she planned to kill them.

But no.

None of that.

His smirk faltered. Then settled into something gentler.

These weren't schemes. Or secret weapon notes. Or a coded confession to Huntrix.

They were just… drawings.

Real ones. Good ones. Frustrated ones. Admiring ones. Art for art's sake.

"…Hah," Abby said quietly, a little too pleased with himself. "Told you she wasn't the enemy."

He clutched the sketchbook closer.

"I knew it all along."

Despite his words, he continued to look through the pages. Not because he doubted, but because he's curious.

These were your drawings, after all.

The first few pages were older, lined with haphazard doodles and messy pencil marks, as if you were racing thoughts before they slipped.

Some were half-finished, others just empty silhouettes. Characters in stories. Fantasies. Whole worlds, sketched in a haze of graphite and ink.

He paused at one that looked vaguely like a knight, then another of someone with a glowing arm. Magical girls. Monsters. A fox-eared barista.

Huh. These were just fictional things. All fantasy. Impressive, yeah—but not what he expected.

Kind of amazing, honestly. The detail. The shading. The style.

Still, for someone who got yelled at, tripped over, and harassed by him at least three times a day, you'd think he'd have at least one angry doodle dedicated to his face. Just one. Was that so much to ask?

A little disappointing.

Not that he cared. (He totally cared.)

He sighed. Just one more page, he told himself. Then he'd hand it off to Jinu and the others so they'd shut up about their "data-gathering spy artist enemy" theory or whatever insane thing they were cooking up.

He turned the page.

And stopped.

A familiar shape came to view. Broad shoulders. Lean frame. A shirt he definitely recognized—

"...Is that a pigeon head?"

He blinked then tilted the book as if from a different angle, it might suddenly become respectful.

It did not.

The shading was immaculate. The pigeon eyes sparkled with contempt. The little caption beneath it read: 'Soaring dumbass, probably eats gravel.'

He stared.

Then he laughed—sharp and startled, hand slapping over his mouth as if you'd hear him from across the house. He's literally still standing in front of your room.

You drew him with a pigeon head. That meant something. That meant everything.

He didn't know whether to be offended or deeply honored.

So he settled on: "Yeah. She totally likes me."

He flipped the page.

The next was a hastily drawn Baby with 'Most Likely to Die First in a Horror Movie' written under his face. Next to it was Mystery frowning at a ghost with a speech bubble: "Please stop haunting me. I'm busy."

Abby tried not to laugh. He failed.

The page after that?

Romance. Shirtless. Dramatically posed on a pile of books. Except one of his eyebrows was taped to his forehead like a glued-on caterpillar. You'd scrawled, "He wouldn't shut up about Greek myths so I gave him a tragedy."

"Oh my gah—" Abby wheezed.

There were more.

A doodle of Jinu staring at a calendar like he was calculating your death date. Baby in a clown costume. Romance crying because his tea was too bitter. Mystery. Just Mystery. But instead of arms, he had spaghetti noodles for limbs.

He was already moving to flip another page but then he heard footsteps.

Abby quickly slammed the sketchbook shut just as Baby and Mystery rounded the corner into the hallway. Both looked immediately suspicious.

"Why do you look guilty?" Baby said, eyes narrowing.

"I don't." Abby straightened. "I look smug. Which is my default."

Mystery didn't say anything but when he saw the sketchbook, he looked at Abby like he was hinting or accusing him of something.

"Oh, this?" Abby gestured with the book, conceited. "[Y/n] gave it to me. Advance payment she said."

"...You mean she didn't threaten you?" Baby asked flatly after sharing a look with his friend.

Abby's lips curved even wider. "No. She let me borrow it."

He held the sketchbook a little higher, like it was a trophy.

Baby narrowed his eyes immediately. "You're lying."

Abby gasped, scandalized. "I would never lie about a legally binding sketchbook transaction between two consenting weirdos."

Before Baby could point that irritatingly snobbish smirk of his, Romance entered the hallway holding a bowl of soup like it was a peace offering from a much cooler alternate universe.

He raised a brow. "What's this about?"

"She's staying." Abby said smugly.

All three stopped.

"She what?" Romance blinked.

"She's staying here." Abby smirked, voice practically dripping with self-satisfaction. "And gave me this as advance payment."

He lifted the sketchbook again, flipping it over in his hand for dramatic flair. "Which means, by the way, I am currently the most trusted, most beloved, and most artistically appreciated member of this group."

Baby scoffed. "She was probably delirious."

"Deliriously into me." Abby shot back, beaming.

Mystery's gaze shifted toward the door to your room. His stare was neutral but sharp, like he was calculating just how deeply he should be concerned.

Romance squinted at the book in Abby's hands. "...She gave you her sketchbook?"

"Borrowed." Abby corrected. "Lent. Entrusted. Gifted temporarily with intent to impress. The phrasing isn't important."

"You asked for it, didn't you." Baby muttered, his arms crossed.

"I was charmingly persistent." Abby said, playing along with him. There was no need to go into detail with that story to someone who's in denial.

Mystery tilted his head the faintest bit. "Did she threaten you?"

"Nope." Abby popped the ‘p’. "Voluntary. Consensual. You can ask her yourself."

He gestured for them to enter the room as if it was a dare to go into somewhere scary.

Then he points to Romance's bowl with flair. "Thank you for bringing the sacrament."

Romance looked deeply unimpressed. "I'm starting to think we should've let her burn you."

Abby didn't seem offended, his mood too good that it broke the meter.

Jinu appears from down the hallway. He blinked at them, already annoyed. "Are we having a meeting here or—?"

His words cut off when he saw the sketchbook in Abby's arms. He stopped walking, his eyebrows furrowing. "You didn't steal that, right?"

"For the last time." Abby groaned dramatically. "She let me borrow it."

He placed one hand over his heart. "Do I look like a thief?"

"Yes." Baby, Jinu, and Romance all said in unison while Mystery only nodded.

Jinu squinted, skeptical. "And she just handed that over?"

Abby flashes a toothy smile. "With the grace of a woman who knows quality when she sees it."

"...So she was hypnotized."

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, Jinu."

Mystery remained silent, but his arms slowly folded. He looked at Abby like he was trying to find the exact moment he lost all respect for him. (It might've been now.)

Romance sighed and gave up trying to rationalize it.

So naturally, they opened it.

Abby was chill so maybe whatever's inside wasn't horrible? No data collections or death panels. Probably.

And also, Abby was glowing. Not in the supernatural way (for once), but in that "I knew it" kind of way that came with unbearable levels of smugness.

Without another word, he opened the book again. (He refuses to hand it over) Though instead of the first page, Abby just resorted to continuing on where he left off.

Not that they knew.

The first page they saw was a drawing of Baby and Jinu yelling at each other—with you in the background holding a sign that read: "Both of them are wrong. I just don't have the energy to argue."

They flipped again.

There were more. Some ridiculous. Some terrifying. One had Romance and Baby in bunny suits dancing under a disco ball.

Another had Jinu mid-sneeze with a line that said 'Bless you, you cursed little man.'

Then came the sketch where Abby was floating outside your window with glowing eyes and a handwritten caption: "Ghost of Unpaid Rent."

He was labeled 'Menace, Grade A' in the corner, with little sparkles around his head and an arrow pointing to your drawn self screaming inside the apartment.

Baby was drawn curled up on top of the copier, limbs dangling off the edges like a spoiled housecat who had declared the office equipment his throne.

There were papers flying out of the machine, most of which had blurry selfies of his face on them. One paw (hand) was slapping the copy button lazily, over and over.

You were drawn in the corner, screaming silently into a folder.

The caption beneath it read: Day 2. I've started negotiating with God. He hasn't responded. Probably because Baby threatened him first.

A Post-it was stuck to the corner of the page with an added note:

"I sprayed him with water. He winked. I think it made him stronger."

Next to it, there was a doodle of a smug cartoon cat, slouching in a shoebox labeled 'Do not disturb unless you're ready to be emotionally attacked.' The cat wore tiny sunglasses. The resemblance was alarming.

Baby stared at the drawing. Then stared harder.

"…I look good." He announced, looking somewhat proud. Either because of the drawing itself or it was you who drew it while thinking of him. Or maybe both.

Jinu snorts at him. "You look like a possessed raccoon."

"Exactly." Baby grinned, completely unbothered. "Handsome. Untouchable. The moment."

Romance tilted his head. "You're a cat. Slapping a copier."

"I'm the cat." Baby corrected, tapping the page. "This is art. She gets me."

"You're in a box labeled 'Do not disturb unless you're ready to be emotionally attacked.'" Abby read flatly, brows raised.

Baby smirked wider. "Tell me that's not accurate."

Baby leaned back smugly, arms behind his head. "Can't believe I live rent-free in her head and her sketchbook. What a life."

"She sprayed you with water." Romance pointed out, holding back a laugh.

"She drew me surviving it." Baby shrugged. "Only makes me stronger."

Mystery didn't say anything. But he did flip the page like even he had enough.

Jinu stared at the drawing.

A crown. A sash. The words "King of losers!" printed in bold, cursed lettering. The others were all kneeling dramatically around him like his loyal minions.

There was a beat of silence before he scoffed.

"Well," He said with a hand on his hip, "She got the royal part right."

Romance tilted his head. "Did she though? It's giving more... dethroned monarch who got kicked out for embezzlement."

"Wrong. I'm clearly adored." Jinu flipped his hair with dangerous precision. "Look how everyone's bowing. Even you, Baby. I should frame this."

"Frame it and I'll draw a mustache on you." Baby said, unimpressed.

"Oh no. Anything but facial hair." Jinu said dryly, already miming where he'd hang the sketch on a nonexistent wall. "I think above the bed. Or the throne. Whichever comes first."

"You don't have a throne." Romance states while the others hummed in agreement.

"Yet."

Abby clapped him on the back. "Buddy, she just publicly declared you the supreme loser."

"And she drew it," Jinu grinned. "Which means [Y/n] thought about me. Emotionally. That's art. It proves that despite everything, she still likes me."

Mystery blinked. Even he found this absurd. "You sound insane."

Jinu replied with his chin up, "I sound royal."

Yeah, they had enough. Abby turned the page.

Then came Mystery.

And underneath it, your handwriting scrawled: "Seen only during 3AM snack runs. Leaves no footprints. Possibly floats."

He was sketched multiple times—always in the background. In windows. Reflections. Crouching behind potted plants. One drawing had red circles around his eyes like a cryptid sighting, labeled:

"Proof he exists (???)"

Baby side-eyed him. So far drawings of his friend were 'mild' compared to them.

"Favoritism..." Jinu mutters with narrowed eyes, also noticing it. (He said it before, he'll say it again)

Mystery blinked slowly. Then flipped the page himself.

All five of them, in the rehearsal studio. Abby lying on top of the prop table like it was a chaise lounge. Jinu standing on a chair arguing with the director's notes.

Baby was trying to mic-tape his face like a mustache. Romance sipped your very obviously labeled thermos.

And Mystery, for some reason, was sitting on the stack of foldable chairs in the corner, watching all of it happen like he was above mortality.

You, meanwhile, were drawn half-sitting, half-falling on the floor with a bundle of tangled cords in your arms.

You had a speech bubble that read: "Are they even idols? They rehearse for ten minutes then torment me for the next three hours."

The caption beneath it: "Maybe this is my hell. Maybe I offended a sea witch. Maybe I didn't hold the elevator for someone and this is cosmic justice."

At this point Jinu was now convinced this is your kind of your humor.

And then came the threat.

The one Mystery still remembered clearly, mostly because he'd spent the whole day trying to decode what "suspicious things" meant.

A sketch of Baby and Jinu.

Kissing.

Violently.

Beneath the drawing, you had written: "Keep testing me and this becomes canon. Watch out Romance and Abby."

Baby recoiled like he'd just seen his future flash before his eyes and it owed him money.

"...No. Absolutely not." He hissed, staring like the paper personally offended him. "Is this legal? Can she do this?"

Jinu just stared, expression blank. He was silent and processing whatever that was you drew.

Then, very calmly, he said, "I'm setting that thing on fire."

"Don't you dare." Abby frowned for a second then grinned as he held the book tighter to his chest. "This is proof she likes me more."

"You can have that delusion," Jinu snapped, "but this—" he jabbed a finger at the page "—is psychological warfare."

Romance leaned over for a peek and blinked. "Oh wow. There's shading. She spent time on this."

Mystery said nothing. Just turned to the next page like he was trying to erase the last ten seconds of his life.

Romance doubled over laughing.

Mystery exhaled through his nose. Barely. Which was basically a wheeze by his standards.

"…Wait." Baby said slowly, brow furrowing as he squinted down at the sketchbook again. "Where's Mystery?"

The laughter stopped and they all turned back to the page.

Romance leaned in like he’d misread something. "She only threatened four of us."

Abby blinked, flipping the page back just to be sure. "...That's true."

Jinu's gaze sharpened. "That can't be right."

But there it was. Just beneath the drawing of Baby and Jinu kissing like it was a war crime, and beside the note that had Romance and Abby explicitly name-dropped.

A tiny, passing doodle. Casual. Effortless.

'Mystery… kinda safe, ig'

Abby recoiled like he’d been slapped. "Wow. Wow. She even hesitated putting you in danger. Look at that lowercase energy. That's affection. That's favoritism. That's emotional treason."

Romance leaned in again. "You're the favorite. I'm telling you."

Mystery tilted his head, as if considering this deeply. "Neat."

That one word was enough to send everyone into a spiral.

"No." Jinu said tightly, brows twitching. "No. We are not doing this. I know what this is. This is war."

"You're just mad she called you a 'cursed little man.'" Abby muttered.

"She did more than that!" Jinu snapped, voice shooting an octave higher as he jabbed a finger at the drawing like it committed slander.

Then he paused.

Straightened his back. Smoothed down an invisible wrinkle on his shirt. Cleared his throat like a prince about to deliver closing arguments in a courtroom.

"Ahem, 'Bless you, you cursed little man.'" He recited flatly, every syllable laced with quiet fury. "She weaponized politeness. That's a hate crime."

"I got called a spoiled cat and she still gave me sunglasses," Baby grumbled, crossing his arms. "And this guy—" He pointed at Mystery like he was snitching in court. "—gets a diplomatic immunity clause?"

Mystery blinked at them. "I didn't do anything."

"Exactly the problem." Jinu muttered, doing his best to keep his tone civilized and failing

"You literally broke into the supply closet last night and used her office chair as a ladder." Abby snapped.

Mystery shrugged. "Didn't touch her stuff."

Abby turned the sketchbook toward them again and jabbed a finger at the corner of the page. "'Mystery… kinda safe, I guess.'" He read, voice filled with righteous fury.

Baby squinted at it. "Kinda safe." He echoed like it personally wounded him.

"She didn't even fully commit to complimenting you." Jinu scoffed, struggling to keep his composure. "That's worse. That's passive favoritism."

"This feels rigged." Baby said it lightly, almost casual—except for the way he side-eyed Mystery like tomorrow was already scheduled for revenge. "She gave me cat sunglasses, and gave him a pardon."

Romance raised a brow. "Are you jealous?"

Baby didn't even blink. "I'm confused." He said flatly, tone smooth as ever—too smooth. Like he'd already rerouted the emotion into something more useful. "And offended."

Jealous? Please. As if he'd admit to that. Even to himself.

"She gave me a tragic teacup breakdown." Romance added, rubbing his temple. "Meanwhile, he got a Get-Out-Of-Roast-Free pass."

"She said you cried." Baby pointed out. The former only shrugged at him.

"I got called 'king of losers.'" Jinu hissed, voice low and bitter. He practically dared them to top that humiliation.

"She chased me with a fork." Baby added, casual but pointed. Like he’d been waiting to bring that up again.

"She called me basic." Abby said after a blink, one of those slow, thousand-yard stares like he was reliving a nightmare. A war flashback, straight from 3 days ago.

The room went quiet.

Abby's voice dropped to a whisper. "It still echoes in my head at night."

Baby looked like he had to bite back a laugh when he shared look with the others. "Who's most beloved now."

Abby snapped his head toward them, basically glaring. "You don't understand. That's why I joined the stupid challenge. I deserve redemption."

"I got head-pats." Mystery chimed in.

Four heads turned toward him.

"Called me cute, too." He added while meeting their gazes, unbothered and simply proud, maybe even overjoyed. "Also... 'Baby.'"

Actual Baby twitched, his shoulders stiff and jaw tight. Like Mystery had just defiled his name in real-time.

"Oh, you're done tomorrow." Abby muttered.

Jinu's face went unnervingly still—cold, calculating, and so openly vengeful it was clear he'd stopped pretending not to be plotting emotional sabotage.

Romance noticed their leader and nodded his head in approval of whatever the former was cooking.

And Mystery? He just turned the page.

And just when they thought it couldn't get worse—there it was.

A soft page. A shift in tone.

You'd drawn them in moments they clearly didn't notice. The sight made them forget the previous page. (for now)

Romance with his head tilted as he tuned a guitar, expression oddly serene.

You'd written beside it: "When he stops talking, he looks almost… poetic. But don't tell him. Ever."

Jinu, caught mid-yawn, hoodie half-on, sprawled on the greenroom floor like someone unplugged him.

A soft note beneath it read: "Still a jerk. But weirdly peaceful when asleep. Must be the only time."

Mystery, drawn in profile, alone at the stairwell window. You'd captured the shadows under his eyes. The slant of light across his cheek.

All it said was: "Still as a ghost. Probably judging everyone. I would, too. Quiet like it's a power move. Whatever. It's kinda cool."

Then Baby. who was mid-laugh, one eye squinted, head thrown back at something you couldn't see. The motion was messy. Light. Alive.

You scribbled beside it: "Ugh. Fine. He's got a nice smile. Disgusting."

And finally, Abby. He was drawn from the back. Slouched on the rooftop ledge. Hoodie up. Earbuds in. Sunset behind him. You'd shaded it with more care than the others. As if you were afraid of ruining it.

No caption. Just a heart, scratched out once, then drawn again beside it.

No one spoke.

The room, which was moments ago bubbling with pettiness and sabotage, turned so quiet you could hear Romance blink.

Mystery was still, eyes on the page like he hadn't just exposed them all to emotional whiplash. He turned it again.

Another page.

Another quiet sketch.

And then another.

Romance swallowed first. "...She drew me like a sonnet." He whispered.

"You would think that's romantic" Baby muttered, but it lacked the bite. He was too busy staring at his own sketch, the one where he was laughing. Laughing, like he wasn't plotting crimes five minutes before.

"She said I had a nice smile." He added, softer this time. Then, like he realized it out loud, he frowned and leaned back. "That's disgusting."

Abby hadn't moved since seeing his drawing. Still clutching the sketchbook like it was sacred scripture.

"She drew the sunset..." He murmured. "From my perspective. That's...she saw me. I mean really saw—"

"Get a grip." Jinu hissed. Except his voice cracked halfway through.

He cleared his throat. Sat back with the practiced indifference of a man actively pretending he wasn't touched.

"She...must've drawn that when I dozed off." He said, eyes lingering on his own sketch. "Still a jerk? Seriously?" But his hand twitched like he was about to flip back to it. Again.

Mystery, still unmoving, just said, "She saw the light."

Romance blinked. "...Are you talking about the sketch or, like, metaphorically?"

Mystery only nods.

"..."

Abby wiped a hand down his face. "We were going to emotionally ruin her tomorrow."

"We still can." Baby said.

But no one sounded committed. Including him.

The next few pages shifted again.

Random characters you'd doodled on a whim. Some looked half-human, others completely monstrous—fangs, claws, elegant horns spiraling across the page.

Then came a string of gorgeous, fictional men. All sharp jaws and slanted eyes, bare shoulders and complicated armor. Some looked like swords-for-hire with tragic pasts. Others were clearly just soft pretty boys with luscious lashes and cheekbones that could slice bread.

One had demon horns. Another had earrings. Another had…a tail.

They stared.

Baby leaned in with a frown. "Who the hell is this supposed to be?"

"Her type." Jinu said dryly, eyeing the silver-haired swordsman with a six-pack.

Romance squinted at the page like it hurt his pride. "Looks like her type is emotional damage and abs."

"She has taste." Abby said, suspiciously quick to defend you.

"She has fantasies." Jinu added, flipping another page. "And a very active imagination."

Mystery just blinked once. "...This one has wings."

"I could wear wings." Baby said abruptly. "Like a cool cape. Or a feather coat."

"You'd look like a drowned pigeon." Jinu muttered and maybe even snickered at his imagination.

Baby scowled. "I could pull it off."

Yeah, they all knew he could.

Even Jinu knew it. That’s why he was still snickering, low and petty.

Baby crossed his arms, unimpressed but unbothered. "She called me a cat. I can do birds. I contain multitudes."

Romance raised a brow. "You'd preen all day."

"I already do." Baby replied smugly.

Mystery nodded once in agreement, like this was a known fact.

Romance leaned over, chin on Abby's shoulder, and sighed dramatically. "Wow. She really went in with the detail. Is this guy holding a sword with his mouth?"

"I think that's an earring," Abby said, already knowing what he'd do first thing in the morning. "But he is shirtless."

A long pause.

Baby tilted his head, voice smooth, almost bored. "If she wanted a shirtless model, all she had to do was ask."

He didn't even blink when all four of them stared at him like he'd just threatened world peace. Just that same smug little smile like he knew exactly what he was doing.

"It's not about the abs." Jinu said, arms crossed. "It's the brooding. That man looks like he's carrying five backstories."

"And a ghost lover." Baby added.

Romance nodded solemnly. "We're going to need…mood lighting."

They stared at the page a beat longer. Long enough to realize just how much effort you put into it.

Then Abby flipped to the next page.

There they were. In various candid sketches—practice pieces. Messy strokes. Shading studies. Notes scribbled on the side like:

"Jinu's jawline is unfair. Might have been chiseled by guilt and generational trauma."

"Romance's hair is shaped like a heart. Literally. This man is a walking valentine. I hate it here."

"Baby's lashes are too long. For what. Why."

"Mystery's silhouette at the vending machine—lighting test. Eerie but weirdly pretty."

"Abby's profile is great when he shuts up. Rare."

Baby barked a low, amused laugh. "Okay. Rude. But fine. I do have great lashes."

"You would cling to that." Jinu muttered, though he lingered on the jawline comment like he was trying to decide if it was a compliment. "...Unfair?" He repeated under his breath. "What does that even mean."

Romance was staring at his line in betrayal. "Heart-shaped?" He echoed. Then, smugly, far too smugly, he tossed his hair like he was auditioning for a shampoo commercial.

"Well. She's not wrong. I do radiate effortless appeal."

"She literally called you a valentine." Baby said, arms crossed. "Do you want a bow on your forehead or something?"

Romance raised his brows and smirked. "I can be gift-wrapped."

"I will set you on fire." Baby said sweetly.

Mystery, quiet as ever, was still focused on the vending machine sketch. His expression barely changed, but he tapped the edge of the page once. Thoughtful. Like he was mentally reconstructing the light and shadow.

"She noticed that?" He murmured.

Abby leaned in beside him. "Dude. You stood there like a cursed statue for twenty minutes. You were glowing."

Mystery looked at him. "I like vending machine light."

Baby made a strangled noise and slapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

Meanwhile, Jinu's brow twitched again. He squinted down at his line like it was a personal attack. It didn't click with him earlier.

"'Chiseled by guilt?'" He muttered. "I should sue."

"You should moisturize." Abby said, unbothered.

Romance chuckled. "At least you got chiseled. I got Cupid-coded."

"You're shaped like an ego." Baby deadpanned.

"Thank you." Romance replied brightly.

"Not a compliment."

"You said 'shaped like love.'"

"I said you look like a valentine. Those get thrown out." Baby smirked like he'd just dropped the mic.

But then, Abby found his line.

He went quiet. Then read it aloud, slowly, as if tasting every word:

"'Abby's profile is great when he shuts up. Rare.'"

He gawked at the words for a few more seconds.

"She watches me."

Jinu rolled his eyes. "She suffers through you."

"No—studies me." Abby said, clutching the sketchbook with reverence. "She's memorized my angles. My profile. This is a confession. An apology. A love letter in disguise."

"She said you talk too much." Baby pointed out.

"She said I look great." Abby countered, eyes wide with genuine delight. "And you know what? She's right. I am rare. Like a fine wine. Like a star aligning. Like a—"

Jinu raised a brow, bored. "Like a fungus. Persistent, irritating, and hard to get rid of."

Abby gasped, scandalized. "How dare—!"

"I dare hourly." Jinu said, folding his arms with a smirk. "And I'll do it again."

Romance snorted. "You're all so fragile."

"You just flipped your hair twice." Baby muttered.

"And both times it was magnificent."

Mystery watched them banter for a moment longer, expression unreadable beneath his bangs.

Then, wordlessly, he glanced back at the drawing—his own silhouette under vending machine light. He lingered on it this time, thumb brushing the edge of the page like he was seeing it anew.

A quiet huff of breath, almost a laugh. His mouth curved, just faintly.

Abby cleared his throat, then held the sketchbook a little closer to his chest. His grin dimmed into something smaller. Still amused. But softer.

"Focus." He said. "She captured all of us. That means we're eternal. Immortal. Muse-level icons."

Romance tipped his chin. "She drew my hair like poetry."

"I was slandered with lashes." Baby grumbled.

Jinu stared down at his note again, deadpan. "'Chiseled by guilt and generational trauma.'" He sighed. "She didn't draw me, she diagnosed me."

Mystery didn't say anything but smiled gently. He flipped back to the vending machine drawing and stared, basically admiring it.

But of course they had to check for some more.

They stared for a long beat.

Romance hadn't moved for the past three pages. The soup had gone cold in his hands, completely forgotten as he leaned in with the others, eyes scanning the final set of sketches.

Quiet, unfinished ones. You hadn't meant to show these.

There was one of Abby with his head down on the breakroom table, fast asleep mid-rant. One of Baby leaning back in a chair, still as ever, like the moment caught him off guard.

Jinu laughing, hand covering his face. Mystery sipping coffee in the early morning haze. Romance, caught mid-spin during one of his practice routines, looking like he actually belonged on a stage.

None of them said anything. Not at first.

Then Abby let out a low whistle. "Doomed, she is."

"Agreed." Romance murmured.

"Do we tell her?" Baby asked, eyes glinting with the kind of mischief that spelled nothing but chaos. "Or let her stew in suspense?"

Jinu grinned, matching the former's energy. "We weaponize this."

Mystery didn't speak, but there was a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

From the other side of the room:

You groaned, dragging a hand over your face.

They were still out there.

"…Didn't Abby say 'goodnight' already?" You mumbled. "It's been fifteen minutes. What are they doing, summoning demons? Planning a musical?"

Another chorus of remarks about your drawings and little side notes made you want to bury yourself under a hundred blankets and a rock.

Your eyes flicked to the door. You were debating whether to throw it open and yell, or crawl out the window and change your name.

And just to make everything worse? Your stomach growled.

Loudly.

You dragged a pillow over your face.

Why were they so obsessed with that sketchbook anyway? Jinu asked for it like it was sacred currency. Not even cash. And this was the same guy who called your mattress a "commoner bed." (Dick. Ridiculously pretty, but still.)

You didn't even want to think about the rest of them. They were rich, nosy, and clearly had nothing better to do than rip apart your art like it was state evidence.

They probably expected praise. Or bribes. Or attention. (And maybe you gave them that. Once. Briefly. While concussed.)

But still.

The sketchbook? That was weird. And a little flattering. And… okay, really flattering. But you need sleep.

You peeked out from under the pillow. Nope. Still loud. They sounded like they were bartering for pieces of your soul.

And that was enough for you to move out of the comfortable bed.

The door creaked open with the weight of divine wrath.

And there you were—hair a mess, expression hollow, wearing the kind of dead-eyed stare only the sleep-deprived and soul-shattered could pull off.

Your injured arm was still wrapped, your— Baby's hoodie slipping off one shoulder, and your entire aura screamed: You were this close to snapping.

The boys froze.

Five grown men. Silenced in an instant.

Romance still held the bowl of soup like an offering to a war goddess. His arms went stiff while he suddenly remembered his original purpose.

Abby slowly lowered the sketchbook behind his back as if he was afraid you'd take back his privilege on it. He's already planned to skim through this, his scenes to be exact so you can't.

Nobody breathed.

You looked at each of them. One by one. No words yet. Just eyes.

Baby stood straighter on instinct, locking eyes with you like it was a test. A flicker of something passed behind his lashes—surprise, amusement, respect, a twist of pride—but he didn't speak.

Didn't dare.

He just inhaled sharply through his teeth and let it hang in the air. Calculating.

Jinu blinked, and for once, visibly faltered. He actually took a half-step back, as if your glare had weight and presence.

"Okay," He said under his breath. "She's terrifying again."

Mystery raised one hand and slowly covered his mouth. Whether it was to hide a grin or out of self-preservation, no one could tell.

Romance's lips parted like he was about to say something flirty but chose to be smart and closed them. He blinked once. Twice. And stood still.

Even Abby, smug as he was earlier, froze like a man trying not to spook a bear.

You opened your mouth. And in a voice flat, tired, and sharp enough to kill:

"Shut up."

Mouths shut.

Even Romance's soup almost shivered.

You dragged a hand down your face. "I have been trying to sleep. I have been trying to exist. And you—"

You pointed at Abby, then slowly gestured across the rest, like you were condemning them all to community service.

"You've been out here narrating my sketchbook like it's a damn novella."

Jinu opened his mouth to speak.

You raised a finger.

He shut it.

Your stomach growled again.

And with the most exhausted sigh known to mankind, you nodded toward the soup. "Gimme that."

Romance stepped forward and held it out carefully, like handing over a precious relic.

You took it and said a quick thank you. No matter how angry and tired you were, you still needed to show gratitude.

After that, you turned around like a ghost, the door already swinging shut behind you.

But then you paused and looked back over your shoulder.

"...If I hear one more thing about Cupid, eyelashes, or emotional damage, I'm jumping out the window. Try me."

Door slam.

Silence.

They stood there, stunned into stillness. Then, very quietly, reverently, like he was witnessing a divine act:

Romance exhaled, slow and reverent. "She's so hot when she's angry."

"She said she'd jump out the window." Mystery cut in, tone flat before the others could add in their own reactions.

They all froze. A slow, dawning realization crept in.

Baby clicked his tongue. "...She might actually do it."

"A hundred percent." Jinu nodded without a second thought. "Wouldn't even hesitate."

Romance sighed, adjusting the soup bowl in his hands like it was suddenly heavier. "Can you blame her?"

"Nope." Baby said with a lazy gaze. "I'd jump too."

"Do we stop her?" Abby asked weakly.

Jinu shrugged. "We can catch her."

Romance grinned. "Or join her."

Mystery finally spoke again, voice soft like a threat: "We wait at the bottom."

Later that night, well past midnight…

They were still awake.

The apartment had gone quiet in that strange, heavy way it did only after all the laughter faded—leaving the charged tension behind, like static clinging to skin.

Abby was on the couch, legs crossed, flipping casually through the sketchbook like it was a sacred relic.

He wore an expression that could only be described as smug aristocracy. As if he had won.

Across from him, Jinu stood with arms crossed and eyes narrowed, like a general preparing a diplomatic attack.

"I'm offering you five favors." Jinu began, dead serious.

Abby didn't even look up. "Declined."

The former scoffs, offended. "You don't even know what they are."

"I know it's not the sketchbook."

"I'll throw in a back massage."

"Jinu, no amount of blackmail or physical affection is getting you this book."

Jinu narrowed his eyes further. "You're bluffing. You want something."

"Yes," Abby said, closing the book slowly and dramatically. "To continue living. With her favor. Which I currently have. Because she handed me this personally."

Jinu muttered something demonic under his breath. It sounded like a curse or maybe a marriage proposal. Hard to tell.

Romance, curled up at the end of the couch with a half-eaten protein bar, raised his hand without lifting his head. "I'll sing you praises for a week. Out loud. In rhyme."

"Tempting," Abby mused. "but also sounds like a headache."

Baby padded into the room, popped a chili pepper into his mouth, crunched slowly, then said with absolute calm, "No sketchbook? Cool. Then your next water bottle's going to taste like regret."

Abby stared. "What does that even mean—"

Baby only gave an enigmatic smile as he continued to eat his peppers. "You'll find out."

There was a pause. Abby clutched the sketchbook a little closer, suddenly feeling like the air got hotter.

"…Is that a threat or a curse?" He muttered.

No answer. Just the sound of another chili crunch.

Abby flipped the book open again, not even pretending to entertain it now. "You guys don't get it. This sketchbook is proof. Not just that she tolerates me. But that she chose me."

Romance tilted his head. "You're not her chosen one. You're her chosen distraction."

Mystery didn't speak. He just sipped his drink without blinking, staring directly at Abby over the rim.

That was worse. Way worse.

"That's not what happened." Abby said proudly, hugging the book to his chest and ignoring Mystery's thing. "She handed it to me. Me. She knows art deserves art."

"You're art now?" Jinu asked, offended on behalf of all creative history.

"Art and muse. Model and icon. Multi-talented."

They stared at him. He grinned wider.

Silence.

Romance nudged Jinu. "We're going to steal it eventually, right?"

"Obviously."

"Good. Just checking."

Mystery nodded after sharing a look with the demon beside him.

Baby grinned. "I'll hold him down."

Abby just closed the book and stood up. "I'll sleep with this under my pillow now."

"You're insane." Jinu muttered, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. His tone was flat, but the twitch in his jaw gave him away.

"She was supposed to give it tomorrow." He huffs, a little pout seen on his lips. "After I convinced her to stay. You stole the climax, Abby."

Abby just grinned, smug and undeterred. "Should've moved faster."

"I was building tension!" Jinu snapped. Then, muttering under his breath as he turned away: "Some of us are storytellers. Not speedrunners."

[battymoonflower7]

ID: A social media thread about neurodivergent hacks.

Photograph of a person with their hand over their eyes. Caption reads "Please give me your most unhinged neurodivergent hacks. I don't mean 'set multiple alarms on your phone!' I mean something you did that was truly unhinged but you don't regret it at all."

Anika: "my brother threw away all his socks and bought 3 10-packs of simple black socks. now he doesn't have to sort and fold them, he just throws them in a drawer and any two socks he picks will match"

JamestownMuse: "Roleplay. I'm not doing dishes, I'm cleaning my tavern before meeting the dangerous but handsome highwayman."

charlotte: " 'Big Light Torture' leave all the big lights on until the tasks are finished"

Niche: "it is to set multiple alarms but unhinged twist: they're different songs for every hour so I know that time is passing. has REALLY helped my time blindness"

[username cropped]: "when im frozen in bed doom scrolling I chuck my phone as hard I can across the room. either I get up to grab it (undoes the paralysis) or I continue rotting (but without my phone, so healthier"

Loke22: "I hate doing skincare but I know I have to so I imagine I'm some undead creature like a zombie and I have to keep embalming myself to stay fresh"

[username cropped]: "I can expand on this but I used to get upset if things weren't how I planned. So in all my plans, I just plan for things to not go as plan and then when they don't, it was part of the plan."

MnM_Kitty: "Cleaning buddy. I have a plush duck named George I set in the room I need to clean. I cannot leave until George is pleased with the cleanliness. He is watching"

Anonymous: "Realize that neurotypicals depend on social lies and find them fully acceptable, so you can create your own internal structure for what counts as harmless lies that make your life easier." End ID.

[formulafanfics13]

maybe another size kink fic with Max??? Reader always laughs it off when people point out their size diff but one night it just gets to her and she tries to leave. Max gets confused she tells him how he deserves some tall model beside him. And he gets pissed cz how could she think he wants anyone else does she not love him)?? So He takes it upon himself to show her how much he wants her and she belongs to him therefore never allowed to leave

Never Let You Go - MV1 🔥

Masterlist

summary: you've always laughed off the size difference. shrugged when people made comments. kissed max's hand and told him you didn't care. but tonight it gets to you. the whispers. the stares. the assumptions. and when you try to leave, max follows — furious that you'd ever think he wanted someone else. so he fucks the doubt out of you. hard. rough. worshipful. until you understand: you're his, and he's never letting you go.

warnings: size kink, possessiveness, dom!max, sub!reader, rough sex, emotional intensity, reader tries to leave (not a breakup), degradation mixed with praise, creampie kink, slight breeding kink language, choking (light), manhandling, overstimulation, slight crying kink, multiple orgasms, aftercare

It doesn't start with a fight. It starts with a whisper. 

You're in the paddock, post-race. Max has already won. Again. He's glowing. A little sweaty, still in his race suit, Red Bull cap backwards and champagne in one hand. You're in a little sundress. Tight at the top, short on your thighs. Cute. You know it is.

But then a group of influencers pass. Too tall. Too model-thin. Too effortless. One of them glances at Max. Then at you. And smirks.

"She's, like... tiny," you hear her whisper. "Looks like his niece."

Laughter. High-pitched. Plastic. You roll your eyes. You're used to it. Always have been. Max is six foot one and carved from steel. You're small. Soft. Curvy in places that make outfits hard to pull off. You don't model. You don't pose. You exist, quietly, next to him.

And usually, it's fine. Usually. But tonight it's not. You try. You really fucking try.

You smile. You dance at the afterparty. You let Max wrap an arm around you while photographers shout his name.

But every time you catch your reflection, in a mirror, a phone, a camera lens, it hits you. You look like a joke.

So you slip away. Out the side door of the hotel ballroom, down the hall, back toward your suite. You leave your heels behind. Don't even care that you're barefoot on marble tile. You just need to get away.

You're halfway to the elevator when you hear it. "Where the fuck are you going?" Max. His voice is sharp. Angry. Worried.

You freeze. "Don't," you whisper.

He strides toward you. Fast. Furious.

You turn, arms folding over your chest. His eyes rake over you, bare feet, flushed face, trembling hands.

"What happened?" he demands. "Did someone say something?"

You shake your head. "I just want to be alone."

"Like hell." He grabs your wrist. Gentle, but firm.

"Max-"

"No." His eyes are wild. His chest heaving. "You're leaving my party. Without a word. Like you don't belong here. Like you don't belong with me."

You snap. "I don't."

His jaw tightens.

"I don't," you repeat. "I'm not like them. You deserve someone tall and gorgeous and- and photogenic. Not-not this."

You gesture at yourself. Small hands. Soft body. Breasts that never quite sit right in a dress. Hips that always need tailoring. Legs that barely reach Max's knees when you sit beside him.

You don't even realise you're crying until he steps closer.

"Don't do that," he says, voice low now. "Don't talk about my girl like she's not enough."

You turn to leave.

He growls. "I said don't." And then his hands are on your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, slamming your back against the suite door, mouth crashing onto yours.

You moan. Struggle. "Stop," you gasp. "I can't-"

He kisses your cheek. Your jaw. Your throat. "You can. And you will. Because I'm going to fuck the doubt out of you."

The door opens behind you. He kicks it closed. You barely register how fast it happens. Your back hits the mattress. Your dress is gone. Your panties too.

Max stands at the edge of the bed, shirt already off. Cock thick and heavy in his hand. "You think I want someone else?" he growls. "You think some runway zombie could take your place?"

He grabs your ankle. Drags you down the bed. "You're perfect. Every inch. Every curve. Every soft, pretty fucking part of you."

You whimper. He slaps the inside of your thigh.

"You think I don't see how gorgeous you are? You think I don't love how small you are under me? How my hands wrap around your hips? How I can lift you and fuck you in the air?" He's kneeling now. Pulls you onto his lap. Fists your hair. "I want you. Not her. Not them. You."

You shake your head. Still crying. He kisses your tears. And slams into you. You scream. Every time feels new. Every time makes you gasp. But this time? He's rough. He's furious. And it's all for you.

"Take it," he growls, voice animal. "Take my cock. That's it. Stretch that pretty cunt."

You sob. Nails clawing at his back.

He grabs your jaw. Forces your eyes open. "Say you're mine."

You don't answer fast enough. He flips you. Fucks you from behind. One hand on your hip. The other wrapped around your throat. "Say. It."

"I'm yours," you gasp.

"Again."

"I'm yours, Max-fuck-yours!"

He moans. Thrusts faster. Harder. You're already cumming. Shaking. But he doesn't stop. He keeps going. Keeps claiming. Until your legs give out. Until you can't form words. Until all you can do is feel.

And when he finally cums? It's deep. Slow. Hot.

He groans your name like it's a vow. "You're not allowed to leave," he whispers, panting. "You belong to me."

He doesn't pull out. He rolls onto his side, dragging you with him. Still buried inside you. Still hard. His hand comes up to cup your face.

"You're beautiful," he says softly. "You hear me?"

You nod.

He kisses your forehead. Your cheek. Your lips. "I don't want anyone else. I can't want anyone else. You're it for me."

You blink. Eyes heavy. Mouth sore. "You don't want a tall model?"

He laughs. Shakes his head. "I want you. My tiny little disaster. My favourite toy. The only girl who can take all of me." He kisses your collarbone. "I'll prove it again if I have to."

You smile and whisper, "Okay."

[messylxve]

NIGHTTIME HAPPENINGS──SUPERMAN!

2025!superman x reader 1.4k fluff

!spoiler-free for superman (2025)!

prev part ; next part

There was something beautiful about the night that Clark couldn’t help but love. Up above the sleeping city he cut across the cold night sky, his cape leaving a red streak amongst the stars. His world below melted together into a scene of soft twinkling lights, seemingly mimicking the sky above. 

So high above, Clark only felt peace, a final moment of silence as he awaited the next cry for help, but never finding it as the city finally rested.

But that’s not what he loved most about the night. What he liked most about it was you. 

Call them visits, chats, or interviews, ever since that first one he felt some kind of kinship to you. A comforting presence found behind your eagerness that told him he was understood. With you, it was no question of ulterior motives or a fear of turning against the people. 

He wanted to do good. And you understood that. You understood him. 

Even from the first interview. 

──about 18 months ago ──

You weren’t sure how late it was. You lost track of time the moment you came home from work at the cafe, your things abandoned at the door as you ushered to your computer. 

A week ago your blog would’ve looked entirely different, taking on a simple appearance with simple colors and likely filled with inconsistent topics from food recipes to celebrity life hacks. Now however, it took a bold new look, donned with red, blue, and yellow, pictures of the caped man, and filled with features of people recounting their encounter with Metropolis’ new hero: Superman (named by you of course). 

It was a hit, immediately flocking attention all throughout the city and more. It was just missing one more thing: an interview with Superman himself. 

That’s why you sat on your balcony, much later than your usual. You were slumped over in a cheap lawn chair, flashlight in hand as you shone it up straight at the sky. (You’d seen it in a comic book once and prayed your dollar store flashlight would do the trick). 

However, you were losing hope. Nighttime was well set in, the air only seemed to blow colder and harsher, and you were beginning to drift off. 

That’s when you saw it: a bright streak of red and blue splitting up the vast night sky. 

“If you’re calling for S.O.S. then your morse code could use some work.”

You sprung out of your chair as if a fire was set under your seat. “Superman!” 

He floated down gracefully, his boots touching the cold concrete of your balcony as you marveled at his presence once more. 

“Is that what the people are calling me now?” 

You shrugged, fighting back a smile as you feigned a cool composure. “Credit to your very own.” 

The man laughed, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s very…” he thought for a minute, “official.” 

You smiled, tucking your hands behind your back. “Are you? Official I mean or here to stay.” 

You watched as he stood impossibly taller with a sigh, an overwhelming aura of justice radiating from him even as he just stood there with his arms crossed. “So long as the people of Metropolis need help, I’ll be here.” 

The smile on your face somehow burned brighter on your cheeks. “How noble of you Superman. It’s very inspiring. To everyone, not just me.” 

He laughed, then nodded towards the computer seen through your balcony door. “Is that what people are saying on your page?” 

You turned around suddenly, seeing the new notifications illuminating the screen and displaying the latest picture of him you managed to steal before he flew out of sight. “You know about my page?” 

The man shrugged, “I’m not one for social media but I have friends who have mentioned it numerous times.” He gave you a once over, like he was reading you and your poorly hidden enthusiasm. “It’s impressive. I’m shocked you’re not with the Daily Planet the way you work.” 

You laughed, shaking your head. “Me? A reporter? I never really tried to go down that path.” 

He smiled, taking the smallest of steps towards you. “It suits you.” 

For just a moment, you forgot how to speak. Something in his voice, deep and larger than life yet so grounded. You could only imagine what you looked like, your mouth falling open then shut, looking for that next quip that slowly died on your tongue. 

“Well th–well maybe.” You stopped, clearing your throat as your face grew hot, embarrassed by your sudden stammering. “Maybe you can give me a push in the right direction.” 

You stood up straight, mocking a formal setting. “May I possibly get an interview regarding your recent biggest rescue?” 

You could see the amusement stretch across his lips, shining in his eyes at your question. “I’d love to be interviewed by you.” 

“Wait actually?” Your eyes widened, not actually anticipating the man’s response. “Um, give me one minute, I’ll get my phone to record.” 

Superman watched as you slipped past your sliding doors and frantically ran inside. “There should be another chair out there, feel free to sit if that’s your thing.” 

As he sat down, he heard you move around through your apartment—possibly including the sound of you falling. When you returned, you had a phone in one hand and a notebook in the other. 

With a slight shake in your hand, you placed the phone down on a table in between you two, pressing record. 

“Superman.” 

He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and spoke your name like a declaration. It wasn’t the first time and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. 

It became a kind of routine, at first him stopping by once every few weeks for a few questions or an interview, but eventually it morphed into something more. They grew more frequent and eventually started losing the formality and anxiousness, trading it in with a casual air. The two of you became unlikely friends. 

When nighttime came and he did his rounds through the city, he sought you out, knowing whether or not he’d be with you based on if you sat in that lawn chair, watching the skies. 

Tonight was a little different though. 

Your lights were on and he saw the familiar flowing of curtains breezing out of the doorway—even if he’d told you numerous times to close your balcony door at night. You, however, were nowhere to be seen on that balcony. 

Curiosity reached him before hesitation, his boots softly hitting the concrete and trailing a few steps forward. There he got his answer. 

From his place outside, he could see you at your desk, slumped over your keyboard and completely sound asleep. 

He eyed the frame of your door. He’d been inside maybe once or twice, but never without your permission. After a tentative moment, he slid the door open wider and let himself in, shutting it carefully behind him. 

You were in your pajamas, your desk completely cluttered from pens, markers, to a few cups and a plate with utensils, likely from eating dinner at your desk and overworking yourself as always. 

With a quiet laugh, the man put himself to work, reaching for the dishes first. He delivered them to your kitchen slowly, forgetting his superspeed as he tried to move soundlessly. When he returned back to you, he began collecting everything from your desk, organizing how he remembered from all the other visits. 

Once finally clear, he looked over you. You were a surprisingly heavy sleeper, not budging an inch as he lifted you with ease from his chair to his arms. 

His eyes cast over your sleeping image, taking in how peaceful you were. All the stress washed over you as you quickly became comfortable in his arms. 

He almost immediately began missing the feeling when he placed you down in your bed and pulled the covers up to your shoulders. 

A piece of him only wanted to stay and forget about his duties for just one night. But he didn’t. And he couldn’t. 

Without thinking, he leaned down, pressing the softest kiss to your temple, relishing in the feeling of being around you.

prev part ; next part

thank you so much for all the positive feedback, y'all might make me cry :)

don't forget to like, comment, and reblog!

taglist: @whothehellismack @casp1an-sea @kissmxcheek @moongirl27 @pleasecallmeunhinged @itzmeme @valleylaflor @otakusimp1 @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @arienic @lortheswiftie @diamondsandrust7 @rinkydinkythinky @just-pure-trash @blobsblobican @lcvgty-4929

[the-archxr]

CRAWLING HOME (TO YOU)

CLARK KENT x GN!READER

SUMMARY: it’s not uncommon for superman to find solace in your home, but something about tonight is different. your friend seems…hopeful, sure of himself. you’re desperate to know the reason why, and clark is desperate to finally tell you everything.

CONTENT: mentioned canonical violence; pining and yearning (as per freaking usual); pure fluff babyy; loverboy clark; reader is a bit insecure(?); friends/coworkers to something more; love confessions; making out (nothing explicit); dudes this shit is so soft and so intimate—idk, I was in a mood.

WORD COUNT: 2.1k

NOTES: david corenswet/clark kent/superman brainrot is so real, guys, it’s not even funny; I’m suffering. also somehow I wrote this in a day?

•

It was routine at this point.

After every harsh workday, every broken-up street fight, every earthly battle, and every intergalactic mission, Clark—Superman—always ended up back at your place.

Sometimes he flew straight to your bedroom window—the only pane of glass in your shoe-box-sized apartment that could actually accommodate his size. Other times, he’d simply show up at your front door. Tired. Lonely, even.

No matter how he appeared to you, you always welcomed him in.

After that, the motions were always the same. Purposeful repetition.

If the prior events had been grim, he’d hug you the moment he settled. Firm, unrelenting pressure that seemed to last for hours. In most cases, though, Clark would be silent at first. A reassuring hand would graze yours before grabbing the clean set of pyjamas left in the top drawer of your dresser and retreating to the shower.

Luckily for both of your sakes, there was never much to clean up. It was one of the perks of being a metahuman: to be able to take the beating of a lifetime, and never truly have to worry about bleeding all over your best friend’s carpet. Although you always said that if it came down to it, you’d let him. It’s a truth that you would never have to think twice about.

You would let Superman stain your entire apartment in the most gruesome shades of crimson if it meant that he still came back to you.

When you told him this—an off-handed comment triggered by a spilled glass of wine—Clark's first response was to protest. Obviously. It was followed by a small spiel on how he’d never let that happen, much less let you buy the replacements for his damage.

His response wasn’t all that surprising. It was in his nature, after all, to preserve and to take accountability when necessary.

What had stuck out to you, though, was his incessant need to ensure that you knew.

Clark had always handled your things—handled you—with so much care. He had always been considerate—in many ways, oftentimes, too much so.

As if you were the focal point. As if it was always about you.

You reasoned a lot with yourself, over time, to abandon that thought. It led down treacherous trails, full of gnarled branches, ghostly faces, and sensitive realizations far too complex to parse.

But then you’d offer him the last of your dinner, or you’d pass him a usual spare pillow and blankets, and somehow, some way, it always came back to you—to your alleged kindness, and your compassion, and your understanding.

Overwhelming gratitude accompanied by a sense of watery guilt; something far deeper existing within those big, blue eyes of his.

Part and parcel.

And, in the end, it all became a part of your routine. Everything from his occasionally voiced fears of inconveniencing you, to the TV he helped mount on the wall, to the old couch where he first told you about his secret life and where you realized the feelings you had were unlike anything you’d experienced before.

Clark was just as much your home as the walls themselves.

The life you carved out for yourself—it was good. It was comfortable. Familiar.

Maybe not tonight, though.

You had felt that something was different fairly early on.

Not in a bad way, necessarily. Nothing gnawed at the pit of your stomach. Air didn’t bubble in your throat, nor did it ever cross your mind to cut the night short and hide beneath the weight of your comforter.

In hindsight, your routine hadn’t changed.

Clark had still knocked on your window, unannounced, but expected. He was still careful climbing through, apologizing for whatever dirt he was tracking in, despite having likely cleaned himself as much as possible on the way over. He still smiled at you—all sunny and molten—and he still greeted you with a soft caress along your wrist.

But then things did change.

He didn’t go for a shower, opting instead to quickly change in the bathroom, all the while talking your ear off through the small gap in the doorway.

Apparently, his night had actually been pretty tame. A quiet night of patrol that resulted in him wanting to come home. His words.

Clark eventually met you in the kitchen, where you sat on the countertop, bare legs dangling and swaying. You had just put a few slices of pizza in the microwave, originally intending to have them ready for when he joined you.

“It’s a little early, don’t you think?” You find yourself asking, continuing your conversation from a few moments ago.

The man, who had found his place against your fridge, tilts his head, like when a puppy’s name is being called. “What do you mean?”

You make a point to look around the dimly lit apartment. “I mean, being here. "

“It’s close to midnight,” Clark says matter-of-factly, arms crossed and smirking.

“Well, yeah,” you mumble. “But usually you’re out until, like, one or two in the morning.”

The man in question shrugs, causing the loose mess of black curls on his head to fall ever-so-slightly. You have to remind yourself to look away.

“Like I said, I was only patrolling. It’s kind of nice, though, getting the night off for once.”

The microwave beeps suddenly, but before you can get to it, Clark stops you with a well-placed arm. With his plate in hand, he then, rather swiftly, sits on top of the counter across from you.

You let him enjoy a few bites of food before speaking up again. Or, at least that’s what you tell yourself.

Clearly, you’re not quite ready to acknowledge the effect Clark Kent has on you.

“What about if someone needs you?” You can't help but shift when he looks up to you. “I just…would feel bad if somebody needed Superman and you were stuck here with me eating microwave leftovers.” You force a light-hearted smile, but you are not met with a reaction of equal measure.

Something akin to a dark cloud cast over your friend’s face. You can’t put a word or an explanation to the shift, but you know that the sight upsets you.

“I think you’re forgetting that I have super-sonic hearing…”

Clark tries to stifle what appears to be a frown; shoulders falling and eyes drawn to a single, very crispy pepperoni left on his crust. But, just as quickly as the cloud had formed, it rolled away.

You don’t try chasing it; just let it be and pretend you don’t notice the way Clark looks at you.

Hopping off the counter and opening the fridge, you gesture to a near-empty carton of mango juice. “You want any?”

The sudden call of your name steals your attention from the fridge. You watch as Clark sets his plate to the side. There’s still a slice left untouched—unlike the hand he cautiously reaches for.

“You…you do realize that I’m not stuck here with you. Right?”

Fingers slowly interlock with yours. The air surrounding you suspiciously grows heavier with each touch.

“Clark, it was a joke—”

You try to laugh off the whole thing, but your friend, seemingly, isn’t having any of it.

With a gentle tug, Clark pulls you in closer until you’re standing directly in front of him. You do your best not to study the curve of his cheek, the smile lines left from his dimples or the worried wrinkles in his forehead.

“—Not to me,” he says with a ragged and aching breath. “I need….honey, I need you to know that I’m choosing to be here—with you. I…do you think of yourself that way? As…some kind of burden?”

You’re quick to shake your head. “No. No, Clark, it was just…it was a dumb thing to say, okay?” It troubles you that you hardly sound like yourself.

The light above you flickers—a testament to your shitty apartment and your even shittier landlord’s refusal to fix anything. Usually, the strobing muted golden light is a painful eyesore. But right here, right now, it’s painful for a whole other reason.

The light exposes Clark’s face. It shines through strands of hair, dotting the highest point of his cheekbone, kissing his lashes and following the dip of his nose.

Clark Kent truly is beautiful.

The epitome of unearthly—in every sense of the word.

It’s completely unfair.

From the silence, the man begins to shake his head—though it seems to be directed more towards himself than at you.

Without warning, a broad, warm hand comes up to the side of your face.

“Clark…” you whisper. It’s a brave choice on your part.

You don’t exactly know how you both managed to get even closer to each other. Truly, it’s a bit concerning how frequently you seem to black out in his presence.

The logical part of your brain wants to say it’s all gravity’s doing. That the only thing to blame here is the naturally occurring magnetism between atoms. Something entirely out of your control, and not at all your fault.

The other half, however, is not so convinced of the technicality you’re wishing to see. Really, it only settles on one word. The simplest explanation.

Love.

It’s just as natural. Just as dangerous.

You swallow hard, and you guess Clark takes that as some kind of sign.

“Honey…” he says carefully. “I need to tell you something. It’s—just bear with me, please. Please?”

Silence. This close, you can smell the fresh air, the cedar and the slightest hint of that vanilla hand cream he impulsively bought the other day. Clinging to his skin, spreading onto yours—the whole thing is dizzying. Too much, and yet still not enough.

Clark’s chest stutters under your watchful gaze. “You are not a burden. Or, or a tether, or a prison.” His other hand, the one that had been wrapped around yours, now also rests on your face. Delicately, he holds you still. It forces you to look at him. Forces you to listen. “I come here because I want to be here. I—I want to be with you—all the time. …I can’t breathe anywhere else. Not like this.” The man sucks in a particularly painful breath, then—the perfect finishing bruise to his words. “That’s what home is supposed to feel like. Isn’t it?”

You hesitate, trying to hold on to whatever composure you have left. “You said that earlier, too. …You see this place as home?”

“No. You.”

He says the two words so...ordinarily. As if their implications aren’t loaded with a kaleidoscope of the unimaginable. He says “you” as if it’s the most obvious answer.

He says it without having to think twice.

Your knees buckle. They don't give out, but Clark is quick to support your body. He holds you up and against him, curling around you as if he’d done it a million times before.

Noises of the city outside echo inward: laughter, car horns, the early rumblings of the storm that the news had promised earlier. It’s all faint—fading, until the only thing left to listen to are Clark’s barely-there sighs.

“...Can I...kiss you?”

You don’t trust yourself to speak. So, you nod.

Clark steals one more glance, eyes travelling all across your face. He looks at you like you’re everything. As though it’s his first time seeing. As if he hasn’t seen the vast expanse of the galaxy, and then some.

He kisses you with just as much fervour.

Clark is exploratory—smooth, saccharine. Lips continuously slot with yours, over and over again. A testing of the waters. An impassioned act of trying to commit as much as possible to memory.

His kiss makes a raging fire of your smouldering instincts.

With your fingers tangled in his hair, you allow yourself to fall into him. He stumbles back into the counter, steadying your body and laughing into your mouth. The moment continues to grow—a languid percussive beat of your heartbeat and Clark’s shy noises of contentment.

His lips navigate yours, your nose, then the tip of your chin, then your jaw, and finally the sensitive spot right beneath your ear. You let out a sigh and crane your neck to allow Clark more space.

You’ve never been the best with words; always the type to show your affection rather than say it. But Clark is intuitive. Far better at knowing what to say and when to say it. At least, that’s what you think when he mouths “I love you” around the curves of your throat.

It becomes his favourite thing to do, your shared routine: kissing syllables into each other’s skin—whenever he leaves home, and every time he crawls back to you.