no doubt greatest hits

“If you can’t stop them in time, you can say goodbye to about a quarter of the world’s population. Any questions?”

The Flash raised his hand.

“Flash, I’ve told you before, you don’t have to raise your hand,” Batman said.

“Right, sorry,” the Flash said, lowering his arm. “I was just wondering why you have a baby?”

“I don’t.”

Batman was clearly holding a very small child in one arm. She had plastic barrettes in her braids, and was wearing a pink tutu. Her shoes were bedazzled.

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Reigen is feeling insecure and Mob tries his best to soothe away his fears (college au)

Reigen is old. He knows that now, has known it since he turned 30, and remembers it every time Mob is close. Every time he holds the younger male, feels how smooth his skin is, sees that there are no white hairs or wrinkles on him, touches the muscle he’s been building since his middle school days, and it scares him.

His boyfriend is ten years his junior, and he has nothing to offer the growing man.  

His phone flashes and the name Mob lights up, a picture of a smiling Mob staring back at him. He clenches his jaw and lets it vibrate two more times before it displays two missed calls. An amused chuckle startles Reigen and he quickly flips his phone so the screen can’t be seen. Ekubo is peering down at him. Damn, he’d forgotten to close his office door!

“Soooo, ignoring the brat now are we?”

Reigen forces a smile as he slides his phone to the side, far away from Ekubo (he wasn’t going to make that mistake again), “Of course not…”

It’s a bit painful to smile and he feels his face twitch. He clears his throat and turns back to his desk, pretending to arrange papers. He clicks the mouse to his computer rapidly and wishes the screen would turn on quickly just this once. Ekubo straightens out, raising a brow at the obvious lie.

“You know,” Ekubo begins and enters Reigen’s office without permission. He ignores the hey from the blonde, “I saw him with that girl, what’s her name? Tsubomi? They were at the gate.”

Reigen freezes as Ekubo hits one of his greatest doubts. Tsubomi, Mob’s first crush and the girl he’d been pining after for more than he’s known the guy! She was the reason he’d started working out in middle school and, he grips the papers in his hand, she could also give Mob so much compared to him. They were close in age, she could give him a family, she was smart and had a bright future, and he’d seen the interest. He’d seen the way she would talk with Mob, casually touch his shoulder, and sit next to him during group projects.

And…they looked good…next to each other.

“Oh look there they are,” Ekubo exclaimed and whistled, “Didn’t know Shigeo was such a lady’s man. You know, I saw that the alien otaku was dragging him around the other day too.”

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You’re a genius. You’re also a poet. Who else can create lyrics using all only engine parts, in the order they get taken out when you’re rebuilding the whole thing, to the tune of Hella Good by No Doubt.

You’re bopping around in your driveway, halfway in an engine listening to No Doubt’s Greatest Hits, which are no doubt greatest hits. You laugh. Nice one.

You lean over the grill of the car and your feet leave the ground because no matter how good you are at this, you’re still short. It doesn’t matter. You kind of like hanging off of the front of a car working on an engine. You tape your wrench to the beat with the song as you finish unscrewing the bolt with your hand.

You start singing with the song. You groan when Don’t Speak comes on, “Such a good song.”

Halfway into the song, you’re putting your wrench down next to the headlight when you feel a tap on your back. You jump out of the car and see a woman standing behind you. You quickly take a step back and pull the headphones from your ears.

“I’m sorry,” she smiles apologetically.

You feel a flutter in your chest. She’s definitely a woman from your new neighborhood. Her clothes fit her well…really well. But she’s…different. It’s a nice neighborhood. Not too uppity, but really nice. Most of the women in the houses around you lead similar and insanely boring lives. This one in front of you doesn’t seem to fit that mold.

“Look,” you give her the excuse that you give them all when they come to complain about the noise or the unslightly car in pieces in the driveway, “I’ll clean up the mess when I’m done.”

“No,” she interrupts you. You watch her hands wave off your explanation. They’re soft and controlled. Your eyes drop to her shoes. You can tell a lot about someone by their shoes. Hers are sneakers. They’re less fashion and more comfort. They’re expensive, but worn. She’s on her feet most of the day. Not usual for someon in this neighborhood. When you look back at her eyes, she smiles, “I just wanted to ask if you could fix something for me.”

You cock your head and wipe your hands off on your jeans, “Oh?”

She tucks some well maintained, but practically styled hair behind her ear, “I have a lawnmower that won’t start. I’m not mechanically inclined, but I’ve seen your around working on cars.” She gestures to the one you were just halfway in. “This is the third one this week.”

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