#back to the thing I'm supposed to be working on...

[caoimhewritesfics]

Field Trip Savior

Your field trip gets rudely interrupted by another inter-dimensional monster. Superman saves the day and steals your heart

Tags: fluff, meet cute

WC: 1.7K

Superman x Teacher!Reader | A/N: this is inspired by an old Spider-Man fic I read years ago but I have no clue who wrote it so idea credit is all theirs. I speed wrote this in 4 hours, bear with me.

It was supposed to be a simple field trip. You had finally convinced the school to let you take your class of rambunctious 3rd graders to the Metropolis Museum of Art. Months of begging and sternly worded letters to the district superintendent finally paid off.

You couldn’t blame them really. Field trips in a place with daily visits from monsters and super villains wasn’t exactly the best idea. But your kids were great… well they were good… decent if you were being honest with yourself. They deserved a fun day at the museum. They deserved to look at all the cool sculptures and convince you into stopping for ice cream on the way back. Which of course you would pay for… with your own money.

But of course nothing in Metropolis could be simple. Halfway through the guided tour, some 150ft monster, probably from some dimension you’ve never heard of and wouldn’t have believed was real rampaged through half the city and was headed straight for the museum.

“Maria stop biting Kasper and get in the closet!” You say firmly, pulling your student Maria away from her self proclaimed arch nemesis, Kasper.

“But Ms Teacher he’s being a big butthead," she shrieks and stomps her glitter sketchers.

You pause, pushing down the exasperation. “Okay first off my name isn’t Ms Teacher, we talked about this and we don’t call our friends buttheads”

“But he is one!”

“I know," you mutter under your breath as you turn away from her. She was right, but you can't let her know she's right. No one would live that down.

You quickly usher the 20 kids towards one of the janitors closet. The exit had been blocked off, trapping you in the sculpture wing of the museum.

The sound of cracking and a deafening roar stops you in your tracks. The stone structure above you shakes and cracks, splitting open and crumbling. In a flash you usher the children down the hall as fast as possible, trying desperately to avoid the falling debris.

“Bring them here!” A museum worker shouts, flailing her arms to get your attention. “There is a basement. It is safe. The children can hide there.”

“You heard her, get to the basement.”

As you watch to make sure each kid successfully makes it down the stairs you realize one horrible, terrible thing. You’re one kid short. You counted 19 not 20.

Kasper.

Why is it always Kasper?

"I'm missing a kid. Shit! Watch them. I- I'll be back."

Before the woman can argue with you, you take off running. Kasper may be the most difficult child you have ever worked with but he can't have gone far.

You push through the rushing crowd, doing what you can you push debris out of the way, calling out for Kasper in a panic. Sure, he's is a butthead, but you have no intention of leaving him to be a snack for whatever the fuck this gigantic thing is.

"Kasper! Kasper! Come on out, you need to follow me! There's a safe place to hide!"

You get no response. Just more screaming and the sounds of the loudspeakers urging people to evacuate, the words cracked and distorted now from the sheer level of destruction.

The creature is nearly on top of you now, crashing through the museum like a bulldozer with a vendetta. Just as a chunk of the ceiling is sent hurling towards you, you feel something wrap around you. Something warm and strong. You don't even have time to scream, let alone ask questions before you're swept away.

Your eyes wide and nearly bulging from surprise flick up to see what or rather who grabbed you. If your eyes could leave your skull they would. Superman. 6'4, dark curls, strong armed Superman has you wrapped up in his arms. And he's smiling at you. Smiling at you.

This can't be happening.

This isn't real. There's no way. It's got to be a dream.

A dream you have had many... many times. An embarrassing amount of times, really. How could you not? How could anyone not?

"You alright ma'am?" he asks, voice smooth and deep.

"I- yeah... yeah great. Awesome actually. So good. Mhm." You blink. Possibly twice as the words crawl their way out of your stunned brain.

"You looking for someone?" His smile lingers. His eyes, impossibly kind, scan the chaos behind you.

"My student. Kasper. He's 8. Little bit evil."

His brow lifts just slightly, amused. "Well evil is my specialty. You take care of those kids. I'll find him. No need to worry, ma'am."

Ma'am? As if you could swoon any harder. Handsome and polite? He's even more handsome in person than in the youtube clips. His smile is enough to make the strongest person faint.

As soon as he arrived, he's off again. As much as you could stand there watching him you rush yourself into the basement with the other 19 of your students. The minutes pass like hours, the worry eating away at you despite the more than pleasant surprise of being swept up by the Superman. Kasper had a habit of running off. He was one of those kids who just couldn't be contained. It was only a matter of time before he got lost. Of course it had to happen today of all days. He couldn't wait until the gigantic, possibly people eating monster was gone.

"Ms Teacher? Is Kasper going to be okay?" said Lila, wide eyed and whispering like the question itself might make things worse. She was always the classroom's nervous nelly. But now? Now you couldn't blame her,

You crouched beside her, forcing a reassuring smile. "Of course he is. Superman is out there right now looking for him."

A gasp came from another kid behind a crate of emergency water bottles that looked at least 30 years old. "Superman? Really? You talked to Superman?"

"Uhhh yeah I did."

You were suddenly surrounded. Questions flying at you from every single direction.

"Oh my god! Are you and Superman friends? Is he nice? Is his costume as cool as on TV?"

Before they can attack you with any more questions, the door swings open. You swear he radiates light as it glows behind him. The past 15 minutes have made him even more beautiful. He stands there, tall as ever with Kasper in his arms who could not be happier, grinning ear to ear.

"MS TEACHER! LOOK! IT'S SUPERMAN!"

---

The monster was finally taken care of. Sent back to wherever it came from. All 20 kids were accounted for and back on the bus, not so patiently waiting to go back to school and be reunited with their families. You however weren't so anxious to go back. Superman had dropped Kasper off with you and flown off again to finally get that creature off the street. You wanted to see him again. Anyone would want to see that face again, of course.

As if the universe could hear your innermost thoughts, the wind rustles behind you and that deep, warm voice calls out to you.

"Ma'am?"

You whip around, heart pounding so hard you swear you can feel it in your toes. Your throat tightens, mildly strangling you.

"H-hi, Superman." Your voice wavers, betraying the storm of nerves fluttering in your chest.

"Glad to see you're alright." he says, touching down lightly, his boots barely making a sound.

"Thanks to you." You offer a sheepish smile, the adrenaline of the moment still making your hands tremble slightly.

"Ah well, it's nothing." He shrugs modestly, but there's the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. How could he be this humble after saving lives everyday? It's captivating.

"You saved my life. Kasper's life too." You glance back at the students who are now pressed against the glass windows, staring at you as you stand there awkwardly, unsure of what to do with yourself.

"I'm always here to help."

"Right. Always doing the right thing, huh?" You tilt your head, teasing just a little, watching how his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"As much as I can, yes ma'am." He's really got to stop calling you that. If he says it again you're sure your heart will really give out.

"You don't have to call me ma'am, you know?" You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow, trying not to grin.

"What should I call you then? Ms Teacher?" He's smirking now, bright eyes shining as he looks down at you. God, he's so tall.

"I've told them a million times not to-"

"It's cute." He cuts you off, still smiling "They obviously adore you. You must be a pretty great teacher." He moves a bit closer, arms dropping to his sides.

You blink at him, caught off guard by the sincerity. "I try. I'm no superhero or anything."

"Of course you are. All teachers are." His gaze lingers, unwavering and as sincere as ever.

"You flatter me, Superman."

"I try." That smile again. That sparkling, handsome smile. It's the type of smile you've only read about in shitty romance novels that you got off your mothers bookshelf when you were far too young to be reading them.

You face warms at least 1000 degrees. Your eyes dart away, unable to look him in the eye a second longer.

"I should let you get back. They look eager to go." He laughs, gesturing to your nosy students.

"Oh right. They're just excited. They're big fans. Everyone is."

"Not everyone." He says it quietly, as if he’s not used to the spotlight, even after all this time

"Well I am." You finally look back up, catching the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

"Are you now?" That teasing edge returns to his smile, and it curls something mischievous inside you.

"Oh yeah. And safe to say I was a fan even before you saved me from being crushed to death."

"Saving you certainly helps I'm sure."

"Just a little." You bite your bottom lip, trying to contain the grin threatening to break free.

He straightens slightly, as if something has settled in his mind. "Well..." He starts leaning a bit closer, "Ms Teacher, perhaps I could save you again? This Saturday maybe? At 7?"

"Oh yeah! I- I mean yes." You stumble, flustered and horrified with your own eagerness. "That would be nice."

"See you at 7 then."

Taglist: @your-internet-tenshi @little-mini-me-world @angeldemon28 @iminlovewithjasontodd @i-like-foxs @dravenskye @lilynotdilly @thatghostlykid @lostintransist @nicolebarnes @vybzwithjaz @night-shadowblood-writes2 @jimihendrixenthusiast76 @haipasa

[autumn-equinox-04]

"....Are you kidding me?"

The Evil Overlord looks over at you, as if just remembering your presence. "Oh!" he says, snapping his fingers. The ropes binding your wrists loosen and fall. "Sorry about that," he says sheepishly. "Forgot you were there for a second."

You put your head in your hands.

-

Two hours later, you and your companions are freshly bathed and sat for dinner with your new, unexpected friend. He tells you things about himself, like how his name is Tamsin, and he has a pet cat named Reve that comes and goes, and all he really wants in the world is a friend.

Eden, the kindest one, tries for a smile. "I'm sure you can make friends now," they offer encouragingly, "since you're not.... doing evil things anymore."

Tamsin sighs. "I don't know," he says woefully. "I might go to prison after this."

"Like as a visit, or....?" you ask, blinking. You're still not sure if Sir Evil Overlord is in charge or not, even if he did abdicate.

Gwyneth kicks you under the table. "You probably will," she says to Tamsin. "Considering the fact that you killed all those people."

"What people?" Tamsin asks, puzzled.

Auron scowls at him. "The innocent townspeople, the knights trying to defend the kingdom against you, us almost.... I could go on and on."

"Oh!" Tamsin laughs, waving a hand dismissively. "Oh, no! They're not dead! I just put them to sleep."

All four of you freeze. "They're not dead?"

Well. At least no one's been buried yet. To your knowledge, anyways.

You lean forward. "Can you.... put them out of sleep, maybe? They have families...."

"Well, I would," Tamsin says slowly. "Except it turns out waking people up is a lot harder than putting them to sleep. Who knew?"

Gwyneth's mouth opens and closes for a few seconds. "Are you saying you can't, in fact, wake all those people up?"

"Yeah— no, definitely not," Tamsin tells her, shaking his head.

"That's bad," Eden whispers.

"You— you can't just leave them like that!" you say indignantly. "You have to do something to fix your mistake!"

Tamsin shrugs. "Is it a mistake? They're only sleeping. Besides, what can I do?"

Auron grips his butter knife tightly. "You're going to figure it out," he says threateningly. "Or I'll send you somewhere worse than jail."

Eden places a comforting hand on his arm. His grip on the knife loosens almost imperceptibly.

Tamsin gulps and inches away. "There's really nothing I can do," he insists nervously. "Really! I've tried everything already."

You shake your head. "You clearly haven't tried hard enough, because there are still thousands of people sleeping away. Whatever— I'll help you, okay? Maybe if we team up we can find a way to fix this."

Your companions all look at you with surprise. "Really?" Gwyneth says.

"Yes. I'll stay here," you tell them, nodding. "But you don't have to. It was all supposed to be over now, and you have to see your families. You should go."

It's not like I have anyone to go back to anyways is the part you don't say out loud. Because Auron has his grandmother, Eden their uncle, and Gwyneth her little siblings, while you.... you'd be lucky to catch a smile on the street from a stranger. It doesn't matter, you tell yourself. I'm doing important work. You try not to think of what you'll do when the work is over.

"No," Auron says, brows furrowing. "We shouldn't. We're a team, Caspian."

"I know, but—"

"Don't be dumb," Gwyneth tells you. "Where you go, we go."

Eden nods, giving you a small smile. "We can stay here in the castle, right?" they ask Tamsin.

Tamsin blinks slowly. "I don't actually know," he admits. "I did technically step down as ruler, but no one's come to kick me out yet, so.... I'm not sure what's happening."

You rub your temples, trying to ward off the headache you know is coming. "For now, we operate on the assumption that you're still king," you say, then turn to your friends. "Are you all sure you want to stay?"

Auron frowns at you, Eden scrunches their nose, and Gwyneth simply glares.

"Okay, there's my answer," you mutter. Looking up at Tamsin, you continue, "We'll need four rooms."

"I think I can do that," Tamsin nods. "Wait— should I ask someone, or—"

"Brienne is the stewardess. The head of castle operations," you add, when Tamsin looks at you in confusion. "You can ask her, but be nice. Be Tamsin, not His Lord of Darkness or whatever your title is."

"I don't have a title," Tamsin says, affronted. "I'm just a guy. And you can call me Tam, really."

"Okay, Tam," you say. Tam beams. "Go ask Brienne then. We'll stay here until you figure something out."

The second he disappears through the dining hall doors, your companions turn to you with expressions ranging from disbelief, weariness, and confusion. You sigh, preparing for the interrogation you know is about to happen.

The Evil Overlord has won, You and your defeated companions observe how he makes his first announcement to the world he now rules: "I step down as ruler of the world and everything shall go back as before, i just wanted to see if i could achieve this and i did it".

[caffeinewitchcraft]

i love your writing so so so much, all of your stories, shot and long, are so entertaining to read and i like the style of them very much :D

but how do you keep your work so bitsesized? especially the ones from prompts- usually the ones I write from a prompt end up being pages and pages even when I try to keep them short? most of your prompt fiction is quite short, and im wondering how you manage that?

again, love your work so very much :]

Thank you so much for reading!

The answer is a lot of practice. I used to do these timed writes on here called "caffeine challenges" where I'd write on one prompt for one hour. I'd use the time to pace myself and put a beginning, middle and end on something during that time. Then I'd do a round of editing to flesh it out.

I've also answered a similar question before here(X) That was in 2017 though so I have some new thoughts (and use a lot less exclamation points lmaooo)

In that post, I say "magnify, not condense." I think a lot of times people try to put Big Ideas into small formats and then get frustrated when it feels flat on the page. It's totally okay to write longer pieces! But if you're looking to write something under 5k, make sure that the skeleton you're trying to fit in there doesn't need to break some bones first.

Short stories require a lot of trust in your audience. I'm very fortunate that the people who read my work are fantasy/fanfic people who understand what I mean when I write things like "No more dead girls." In that example, I'm relying on the audience's knowledge of the trope where women die to enhance character backstories or elevate the stakes.

Let's take a look at an example of what writing looks like when you trust your audience to varying degrees.

#1

Snow White was used to answering doors. It came from being a princess, even one as neglected as her. There were often advisors and court ladies coming to see her and ply her with gifts to use her minimal influence in their favor. The day she turned twelve was like that. A swarm of visitors filled her parlor, so many that the maids had to wake her at dawn to see the first and she didn't see the last until nearly midnight.

Then, again, the day her father remarried. She'd thought she'd get to sleep in that day, considering how her new stepmother was already looking at her, but the first knock sounded before she had even washed her face. That time was harder. Those visitors didn't bring her gifts and well wishes. Instead, they brought warnings couched in advise.

You will need allies, princess, when the Queen has an heir.

Meaning they thought she wouldn't last once the Queen did. The joke there was that Snow White did last and every year the Queen remained barren the knocks increased. The moment it began to look like Snow White would inherit...well.

No one expected the King to fall ill so quickly.

After that, she had a lot of visitors wearing all black. Mourning periods last a year in the Kingdom. Snow White rose with her visitors instead of the sun.

So when the knock came - three triple knocks and three taps - waking her from sleep, she didn't think about how she was in the forest or that it was very early or that the dwarves only knocked when their hands were too full of gems and they had to use their feet to kick the iron plate nailed to the bottom of the door.

"Come in," she said, sitting up in bed and rubbing her eyes. The bed was situated in the far right corner of the room, diagonal to the door. Whoever entered would be able to see her rumpled state. No one would enter her bed chamber that wasn't supposed to - only a maid, probably. Or a-- Her eyes shot open. Her heart skipped a beat. There weren't any maids here. No officials, no nobles, no advisors. The door handle twisted first one way. Then the other.

The dwarves' warning rushed back to her too late. Never answer a call in this forest. Did it matter that she was half-asleep?

Apparently not. The latch clicked when it fell and the door slowly began to move.

It creaked open which it shouldn't have considering how often the dwarves oiled the hinges. It was almost like there was a great weight monster on the other side of it, straining and straining against the wood. Snow White could feel this presence now as she jerked out of bed and stumbled to her feet in the center of the room. Did she have time to grab a pot from the hearth to use as a weapon? Should she push the door closed?

Too late. The door opened.

There was a witch on the other side.

#2

"Come in," Snow White said, sitting up in bed and rubbing her eyes. She froze. She heard the knock after she'd already spoken and she cursed old instincts as she leapt out of bed. In this new place, deep into the forest, no one would knock like that on her door, not at this house, not in that sly, triple-knocking pattern.

She wasn't a princess now. She was a girl in the forest. The dwarves gave her one warning. Only one.

Never answer a call in this forest.

The door knob twisted. Right. Left. Her feet faltered on a step towards the door. Then on a step away. Her eyes jerked to the pots in the kitchen. Should she..?

Too late. The door opened.

There was a witch on the other side.

#3

The instincts from her time in the castle woke before she did. Snow White flung herself out of bed and into the center of the room. Someone had knocked. She had sleepily invited them in.

Never answer a call in this forest.

Her eyes darted to the twisting door knob then to the pots in the kitchen. Her shaking legs couldn't decide whether to run forward or back. Or maybe--

Too late. The door opened.

There was a witch on the other side.

-----

(Forgive any errors, this is a quick example)

In my mind, those three options do very different things. The first example fits in a longer piece. Maybe a novella (30k words). It gives us a deeper look into Snow White's past and takes care to lay out the context for why she invites the visitor in. I consider this style of writing very gentle. It's a slower pace and gives the audience a lot to work with. Even if a reader skimmed this example, they'd probably end up at the same place of understanding as someone who read it more thoroughly.

The second would my preferred as someone who writes short stories between 4k and 10k words. It gives us a hint about why she opened the door (old instincts... not a princess anymore...) but not specifically why (it doesn't give us the scenes of visitors in her parlor). It trusts the audience to understand that Snow White had visitors because she was a princess, therefore princesses must have a lot of visitors for one reason or another. Then when it comes time to flee or fight, her thought process is implied rather than shown. (Should she...?) It invites the audience to panic and plan with her, but doesn't tell them how she does it.

The last would be something I might use in a flash fiction piece. To be honest, it would probably be my opening. By opening with Snow White flinging herself out of bed, only belatedly realizing she'd invited someone in, I'm trusting the audience to understand a lot. That she was sleeping and was woken abruptly, that Snow White is filled with adrenaline by the realization, that she had received a warning (and because it is Snow White, the audience might understand it was from the dwarves), and now she must fast the consequence of unwittingly ignoring it. It sets a punishingly fast pace for both Snow White and the audience.

-----

Sorry for the long read! The TLDR is that in order to keep my work bite-sized, I pretend that the person reading my story is me. That they've read all the stories I have and that I don't need to explain every moment deeply for them to understand the stakes/character.

The bonus is that if I do it like that, then when I do dive deeply into the character (usually at the climax) it has more impact and leaves the story feeling well-rounded.

Thanks for reading and sorry for rambling! I was a lot more succinct in 2017

[btdemaru]

Hiiiii love your work! Would you mind writing saja boys with a very tired Gn! or F! reader. Like reader is always napping or wants a nap. Thank you!!! :)

SLEEPY.. BEAUTY?

a girlfriend who's always asleep, a boyfriend who doesn't need sleep. what a perfect pair <3

pairings - Jinu x reader, Abby x reader, Romance x reader, Mystery x reader, Baby x reader.

type - drabble(?) | 3k words

warnings -

JINU SAJA — CUDDLE STRATEGY

The room was quiet, lit only by the soft golden hue of the setting sun seeping through the sheer curtains. Jinu sat at his desk, fingers skimming across his laptop’s keyboard, analyzing the logistics of their next stage performance. The others were out rehearsing, but Jinu had chosen to stay back today.

Because you were asleep.

Again.

Not that he minded.

He stole a glance over his shoulder. There you were, curled up on the couch in a hoodie three sizes too big —probably his— mouth slightly open, arms wrapped around a plush pillow like it owed you money. Your soft breathing was the only sound in the room besides his occasional keystrokes.

Jinu sighed, but it wasn’t annoyance.

It was fondness.

"You were supposed to help me sort through the setlist," he murmured to no one in particular. "Fell asleep five minutes into it."

He pushed away from his desk and stood, stretching. Quiet footsteps padded toward you as he knelt beside the couch. You shifted slightly in your sleep, brow furrowing. He reached out, gently brushing a few strands of hair away from your face.

"You always look so peaceful like this," he whispered. "Tired from what, exactly? Existing?"

Your hand moved on instinct, reaching toward him even in slumber, fingers curling slightly. Jinu chuckled under his breath, letting your hand find his. You didn’t fully wake up, just murmured something like his name. or at least a sleepy mumble that sounded close enough.

He squeezed your fingers softly. "I'm here."

Truthfully, it worried him sometimes. Your exhaustion. Your tendency to fall asleep mid-conversation or while waiting for food. He’d read up on sleep disorders, iron deficiencies, even stress-induced fatigue. He hadn’t told you, but he’d adjusted your diet with the nutritionist’s help and told the team medic to "keep an eye" during checkups.

Not because he didn’t trust you to take care of yourself.

But because loving you made him soft, and soft made him cautious.

He watched you a moment longer, then whispered, "Move over."

You stirred, eyes barely opening. "Hm…? Jinu?"

"I’m tired," he lied, brushing your cheek with his knuckles. "Nap with me."

"You don’t nap."

"I do now."

You blinked slowly, scooting just enough to make room. He climbed onto the couch beside you, one arm wrapping around your shoulders as you immediately snuggled into his chest like it was instinct. You were already half-asleep again.

"'S not fair," you mumbled into his hoodie. "You smell too nice. Can’t stay awake…"

He smirked, resting his chin atop your head. "That’s the plan."

Outside, the world kept spinning, demon contracts, stage performances, screaming fans and soul-infused music. But here, in this sun-drenched quiet, Jinu allowed himself to be what he rarely showed.

Not the leader.

Not the tactician.

Not the charming demon idol.

Just a man, in love with someone who always fell asleep on him and whom he’d protect in every waking moment.

ABBY SAJA — SHARKJAMMY

It was barely past 4PM when you felt your body shutting down again.

The sunlight filtered lazily through the apartment windows, casting honey-colored stripes across the floor. Somewhere in the kitchen, Abby was playing loud K-pop remixes on his phone as he tried and failed to make banana milk from scratch. The concoction turned into a mushy banana just doused in whole milk with a disgusting curdle texture, atleast it isn't the worst thing he's ever made. You sat curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath a blanket, eyelids fluttering like moths against the pull of sleep.

"You better not," came a warning voice, light, playful, and unmistakably Abby. "Don’t even think about it. Your eyes are doing the slow blink thing."

You cracked one open. "What slow blink thing?"

"That thing you do when you're about to crash like a phone on 2% battery. You blink like a sleepy cat in slow motion. It’s criminally adorable, and I won’t fall for it again."

You mumbled, "Not my fault. I’m just… tired."

Abby, wearing a white pajama pants patterned with cartoon sharks and nothing else, crossed the living room and flopped down beside you like a golden retriever. The couch dipped, and his warmth flooded your side like sunlight hitting cold skin.

"You’ve been tired since we met," he said dramatically, poking your cheek. "I’m starting to think you’re powered by naps and vibes."

"Is that a complaint?" You asked, voice terribly slurring and barely conscious.

He gasped, pressing a hand to his chest like you’d wounded him. "Absolutely not. You're like a sleepy angel who wandered into my life and forgot how to stay awake. It’s iconic."

You let out a soft laugh, barely able to keep your eyes open now. The rhythm of his voice, the warmth of his body next to yours, it all pulled at you like a lullaby. You leaned your head on his shoulder.

Instantly, his whole body went still.

"…You good?" you asked, eyes still closed.

"Yeah. Totally fine. You just… okay, wow, you're actually using me as a pillow." He beamed like you’d given him a medal. "This is the greatest day of my life."

You hummed. "I thought the greatest day of your life was when you made that entire crowd scream your name."

"That was cool," he said. "But this? You, me, blanket, sunlight, no one screaming or disturbing us demons? Peak existence."

He adjusted himself, carefully sliding an arm behind your back so you could lean against him more comfortably. His other hand tugged the blanket higher, tucking it under your chin like he’d done it a thousand times.

You didn’t notice, but his expression softened. The usual spark in his eyes dimmed to something quieter yet still bright, but deeper.

You were already halfway to sleep, so you didn’t hear him whisper "You work too hard. Even if it’s just existing some days."

The music in the kitchen kept playing a cheerful mess of bass and synths but neither of you moved. The world blurred. The sun moved an inch across the sky. Somewhere, someone was probably summoning spirits or preparing for a global tour. But here, in the safe stillness of your shared living room, you dozed against Abby’s chest like it was home.

After ten minutes, he reached for his phone with his free hand and snapped a quick picture of you with soft features, messy hair, completely relaxed in his arms. He smiled at the photo, then swiped into a hidden album titled: "Snooze Kingdom 👑" and added it.

Still cradling you gently, he whispered, "You're gonna hate me for this when you wake up."

But his voice was thick with affection. With awe. With something so much deeper than just teasing.

"...I hope you dream good things," he said, resting his cheek against the top of your head. "And if you dream of me, I hope I’m wearing something cooler than shark pajamas."

ROMANCE SAJA — BETWEEN DREAMS AND DAISIES

It had been raining softly for hours. Not the dramatic kind that demanded attention but the quiet kind. The kind that murmured against the windows and made the world feel slower, smaller, safer.

You were curled up on the living room couch, limbs tangled in a blanket, the steady rhythm of the rain and Romance’s voice blurring together into something dangerously comforting.

He was seated on the floor, back resting against the couch where your knees were folded. One of your legs was draped across his shoulder like it had wandered there by instinct, and he hadn’t dared move it. He held a slim, worn book of poetry in his lap, his voice a soft murmur as he read aloud.

You, quiet dreamer with tired eyes.

Wrapped in dusk and daisy skies.

Rest your bones against my side.

I’ll guard you 'til the morning tide.

His voice tapered off when he heard your breath hitch and even out again. He turned slightly, glancing up.

You’d fallen asleep.

Again.

He smiled quietly, like it was a secret between the two of you. The blanket had slipped from your shoulder, so he reached up and adjusted it gently, fingers brushing the edge of your neck with featherlight care.

"You always fall asleep during the good part," he murmured, lips curling in amusement. "I think you do it on purpose."

You didn’t respond, of course. You were somewhere between dreams and his voice, exactly where he knew you felt safest.

Romance carefully closed the book, placing it on the coffee table beside a half-finished mug of chamomile tea. The one he brewed just right, the way you liked it, a splash of milk, a touch of honey, and stirred clockwise because you swore it tasted smoother that way.

He stood, moving with the same elegance he always carried, and turned off the overhead lights. The room was left with nothing but the soft flicker of a salt lamp and the rain's hush against the glass.

Then, without a word, he leaned down ande effortlessly scooped you into his arms.

You stirred just slightly, head nestling instinctively against his chest as he adjusted his hold.

"Shh, sweetheart. I’ve got you," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Just sleep."

He carried you slowly down the hall, footsteps quiet on the wooden floor. His room smelled like you. Lavender, worn cotton, and a hint of that sleepy perfume you used when you were too tired to function. The bed was already turned down. He’d prepared it earlier, knowing you’d drift off before dinner.

He laid you down gently, brushing your hair out of your face as you sighed in that little way you always did when he tucked the blanket around you just right.

Then he hesitated.

Usually, he’d go finish whatever task was left undone such as fold laundry, prep meals, tidy the place you’d shared like a low-key ritual. But tonight he sat down at the edge of the bed instead.

He reached for your hand beneath the blanket, fingers finding yours in the dark.

"Do you know," he whispered to your sleeping form, "how much I love your quiet?"

His voice was quieter now, something pulled from deep in his chest.

"Everyone sees me and thinks I love loud things. Crowds. Stages. Flashing lights. But you—" He brushed your knuckles with his thumb. "You’re the only kind of silence I crave."

Outside, the rain deepened. Inside, he curled beside you on top of the blanket, careful not to disturb your sleep. He just watched you breathe for a while.

Eventually, he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against your shoulder, letting out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding all day.

And somewhere between the poetry, the rain, and your steady heartbeat beneath his cheek, he finally let himself rest too.

MYSTERY SAJA — THE QUIET BETWEEN US.

The room was dark, save for the faint bluish glow from the salt lamp in the corner. Outside, the world was bustling voices echoing down the Saja dorm hallway, the distant thud of music from someone’s speaker, footsteps rushing to finish a day.

But here, behind the closed door of Mystery’s room, everything had slowed to a near stillness.

You were half-awake on his bed, still in your hoodie, socks mismatched, one arm lazily thrown over your eyes to block out even the soft light. Your body ached in that familiar, tired way. Not from pain, just fatigue. That quiet, heavy kind that clung to your skin like mist.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep here.

One second you were mumbling something about how the kitchen lights were too bright, and the next you were blinking against the cotton of his sheets, eyes unfocused.

From across the room, you felt his presence before you heard him.

He didn’t say anything.

Just walked closer. His footsteps soft. His hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, hands full, one with a water bottle, the other with a small, folded blanket he must’ve pulled from the hall closet.

Without a word, he placed the water on the nightstand beside you. Then, in one fluid motion, he leaned over and gently draped the blanket across your body.

"Still cold?" he asked quietly.

His voice was low and even barely above a whisper, but somehow it reached right into your ribs and calmed everything.

You nodded faintly, not bothering to open your eyes. A small sound left your throat, half-grumble, half-yawn.

"Mmm… warm now. Thanks…"

A pause.

Then you felt the bed dip beside you. He didn’t lie down fully just sat at the edge, his back against the headboard, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. The room exhaled with you.

You shifted instinctively, head moving toward him like a sunflower seeking shade. Without needing to ask, his arm came up, slow and patient, inviting. You nestled against his side, your cheek to his chest, ear over his heartbeat.

There was no rush in his body. No pressure to speak. Just silence his silence, which was never empty. It was full of meaning, of watching, of knowing. The kind of silence that wrapped around you like protection.

His hand came to rest against your back. Not rubbing. Not patting. Just resting there. A steady point of contact.

"You didn’t eat," he murmured after a long moment. "Was too tired,” you mumbled, lips brushing the fabric of his hoodie. "Didn’t feel like chewing."

That earned the smallest exhale from him. Not quite a laugh. But close. "I’ll make you something soft tomorrow. Soup, maybe. You like miso, right?"

You smiled against him. "You remember."

He nodded once. "Always."

Time passed in breaths and stillness. The world spun somewhere outside, and Mystery didn’t care. You were here, heavy with sleep and warmth, trusting him to hold the quiet steady.

And that was everything to him.

Eventually, your fingers found his. Half-asleep, barely trying and tangled lazily with his hand. He let it happen. Squeezed gently.

You shifted a little and whispered, soft and blurry "Why’re you so nice to me?"

He was quiet for a while.

Then, his thumb brushed the back of your hand, and he answered, voice so low you almost missed it.

"Because no one ever was, when I needed it most."

Your breath caught.

He added, almost as an afterthought, "And because you make silence feel like home."

You didn’t say anything. You just melted into him, heart swelling, eyes heavy, lashes brushing your cheek.

"Stay," you whispered.

"I wasn’t going anywhere."

And that was how you fell asleep. Surrounded by his quiet, protected by his stillness, and held in a love that didn’t need to be spoken to be understood.

BABY SAJA — GOBLIN EVOLUTION

You were asleep in the doorway. Again.

Backpack sliding halfway down one shoulder, keys still clenched between your fingers, face squished lightly against the doorframe like the universe had pulled your batteries five seconds too soon.

And there he was. Baby, standing just down the hall in mismatched socks and one of your hoodies. He’d deny it, of course, holding a half-empty bowl of cereal and staring at you like you were a broken video game NPC.

".......Did you seriously fall asleep like that?" Face full of judgement.

You stirred faintly, gave a groggy blink, and muttered something that might’ve been, "Door’s warm."

Baby blinked. He set the cereal down, pinched the bridge of his nose with dramatic flair, and walked over.

"Okay, nope. Come on, Sleeping Beauty. This is a new low, even for you."

He hooked an arm under your shoulder and gently guided you inside like he’d done this a hundred times before—because, he had.

You were always tired. The kind of tired that burrowed under your skin, heavy and constant. Baby never made fun of you for that, not really. The sarcasm was just decoration. Underneath, he noticed everything. The dark circles. The half-eaten meals. The way your voice got quieter when your brain got foggy.

So he helped in his own chaotic way.

You barely made it past the couch before collapsing face-first into the cushions.

"Don’t get too comfortable," he warned, flicking your sock-covered foot. "You smell like public transportation and emotional damage."

You grunted in reply "Your hoodie’s on backwards."

He glanced down, offended. "It’s ironic."

Smiling, trying to hold your laughter "t’s inside-out."

"...It’s 'performance art.'"

You cracked the faintest smile. He saw it. Smirked back.

In the next moment, Baby was dragging a blanket from the nearby chair, flinging it over you with a flair worthy of a magician. Then came one of his plushies, the dumb bunny he claimed to hate but secretly adored tucked under your arm.

"There," he declared. "Your Goblin Nest is complete."

You barely opened your eyes. "Thought I was a gremlin."

"Gremlin was last week. You’ve evolved."

He crouched down beside the couch and booped your nose. "Goblin, but make it domestic."

You snorted, then yawned so hard your eyes watered.

Baby watched you for a moment, the teasing fading just slightly at the edges. "You really are tired, huh…"

You nodded weakly.

He stood, a hand brushing lightly over your hair quickly, barely there.

"Okay. You nap. I’ll make food. Something with, like, actual nutrition this time." Voice acting as if he could cook to save his life.

"You cooking?" you mumbled. "That’s dangerous."

He stuck out his tongue. "I’ll have you know, I made toast last week that was only mildly flammable."

You gave him a sleepy thumbs up.

Baby turned to leave—then paused. Quiet.

Then, almost awkwardly, he doubled back. Crawled onto the edge of the couch, careful not to jostle you too much. His arm slipped behind your head, letting it rest in his lap. His fingers—surprisingly gentle for someone who constantly threw pillows at people— brushed through your hair.

"You don’t gotta do it all, y’know," he muttered, voice quieter now. "You’re allowed to fall apart on me. I’ll still be here. Teasing you. Lovingly. Forever."

You hummed. "That sounds annoying.."

He chuckled. "Yeah. But you like me."

"...unfortunately." you tried to retort. He leaned down, kissed your temple. "Sleep, Goblin."

And you did.

With his hoodie wrapped around you, fingers in your hair, and the sound of him muttering insults under his breath while softly scrolling through recipes on his phone just beside you.

note : tryin my best to all the requests rn^^ reblogs n likes r definitely appreciated ily all!

[vitoriadior]

The party bathroom

Clark Kent x Ex!Reader

(Synopsis) You aren't his girlfriend and he isn't your boyfriend, But he doesn't want you to see you nobody else, and you don't want him to see nobody

Check out my Masterlist!

(Inspired by Ariana Grande's "Boyfriend" song because I love it)

The bathroom door that led to the hallway clicked shut, ironically the same sound a grenade makes when you unlock it. Or the countdown of a bomb about to explode. Clark almost stumbled against the door; you even stepped on his feet awkwardly. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the smoke. Probably the fact that you both voluntarily crawled into that bathroom.

Ending up at the same party as your ex was already enough of a punishment, avoiding his presence all night was a simple voluntary act. You felt Clark's eyes on you, and you knew that no matter how much you whispered, he could hear you. So yes, there was a very noticeable tension. And you know, it's funny the situations in which a girl with a few drinks ends up

What were you going to do? talk? The truth is, you don't even know. Why, what are you supposed to talk about? It was all clear; you were supposed to have ended on good terms. You weren't his girlfriend, and he wasn't your boyfriend anymore.

But still, you weren't touching anyone else.

"Stop pushing me," you mumble. The bathroom is tiny, and it would feel at least a little bigger if Superman weren't taking up most of the space. Huge man, you almost wanted to roll your eyes.

Clark takes off his glasses and puts them in his pocket before apologizing to you, in a low but audible "sorry." Your eyes move to his hands: they form fists. As if he's holding back from putting them anywhere else, as if he's afraid his body will betray him and end up putting them on your hips, your waist, all those places where it shouldn't. Not anymore.

"What's wrong?" Suddenly, you feel almost angry. "Don't you like seeing me having fun with other people? That's selfish—"

"Don't say that," Clark winces, almost in pain. "Not when—when you do all those things that drive me crazy." His voice is a murmur as he gives up and lets his hands dance down to your waist to pull you even closer. "What are you doing dancing with guys who don't know how to touch you the way you deserve?"

"Oh, and you do know how to treat me the way I deserve, Superman?" You weren't keen on getting close either, because to be honest, you'd been suppressing that desire to be in his arms again all night.

Giant shoulders, wounded eyes. "Don't do this to me. Don't tell me you don't want me anymore," his words are a whisper, his eyes glued to yours, and his mouth is much closer than you'd ever imagined. "I know I'm not your boyfriend anymore, and that you think I'm selfish."

"I deserve to be hit and yelled at if you want to, but—nothing compares to having to see you with someone else."

"You're insane," you pushed him away, placing your hand on his chest to no avail. Of course, you had no physical effect on the man of steel. "Go find another girl to bother, I don't want your speeches and words."

"I can't be with another girl," his voice is pure frustration, starting to get irritated. Why can't you understand? "God, I can't even think about it. You make me so—so"

"So what, Clark?"

"Sick!" The man blurts out the word, and you can feel his hands tightening around you, his expression the same one he makes when he's losing to a threat.

"I don't eat, I don't sleep, I can't work—because I'm constantly thinking about you." It sounds more like he's angrier with himself than with you. "And you don't even care, and that's what makes me sickest."

"I don't have to care!" You reply in the same tone of voice, starting to try to push him out of his grasp. "I'm not your girlfriend!"

"I'm not your boyfriend either." He loosens his grip, but doesn't let go completely. "And yet—I don't want to see you with anyone else."

"And who are you to say such a thing?" You snorted, trying to contain the jealousy that was spilling out of your mouth. "Weren't you having fun with Lois too? I can't have fun with a boy, but you can with your—her?"

"Lois isn't you." Clark half-closes his eyes as if the comparison were almost stupid. "Lois is different; she's just my friend."

"Well, it does affect me." Your words confirm that you care, too, and that's almost a relief to Clark. "You touch her like that? Like you're touching me?" The question is almost a challenge.

"I can't even remotely think of such a thing."

He cares.

And so do you.

You both ended things for the best: because you knew it was best for both of you, that maybe you were better off this way than together. Things with his identity, the risk that something will happen to you: You two never had time for each other. You had a fight, you said ugly things; he said ugly things. You two reached the limit

And yet, he can't see you with anyone else. And you definitely can't see him with anyone else.

He's thinking about you. "I'm always thinking about you," his expression softens, and you grow irritated at yourself for letting your guard down. "And I'd give everything on this planet and many more just because you'd think of me—the same way I think of you."

Your lips crash into his before you realize it: your hands are clutching his shirt, while one of his hands tangled itself in your hair without violence. Because no matter what circumstances you might encounter him, Clark always makes sure you don't get hurt.

Clark lifts you like a feather, letting you wrap your legs around his hips. He couldn't be more proud of the way you react. Superman slams you into the bathroom door, causing you to wince slightly at the quick movement (it's not like you're complaining, either).

"Sorry— you okay? Did I hurt you?" There he is: the Superman you know. The one who's always willing to look out for you before himself.

You shook your head, quickly told him you were fine, and then pressed your lips back against his. "I hate you so much," you whispered, searching for his lips almost contradictorily.

You would have liked to protest, but you couldn't. Because no one but Clark Kent treated you like a treasure.

Haii, I was thinking of making a permanent taglist, let me know if you'd like to be on it! 🫂💖💖💖

To add u to my permanent Taglist 💗

Taglist: @starincarnated

[olive-musubi]

oh, op, where should i even begin?? i suppose with the lilting, gentle, but intent and spiral bound prose of it all — this fic is a gorgeous read with so much lyrical turn that i caught myself reading paragraphs over again, just to let my senses take in the feel of it, the taste. your writing packs the most elegant of punches, and i love your steady rhythm and slow tugging flow, such thoughtful and tender choices, the most beautiful of words to grace the page <3 (like, genuinely, gonna read this again just for sheer ambience alone. the library? magical. the home? so warm. that restaurant they ate at? oh i was fine dining on how intricately you weave character feelings into the setting and managed to have me nervous! me, an oh-so-calm-and-collected-constantly-nonchalant-never-been-ruffled-a-day-in-my-life-no-please-don't-fact-check bystander to the fic and all its affairs <3)

i'm not even a sukuna truther but you have me convinced. the care put into his portrayal is laudable and so deserving of every flower i possess. his rough and stoic persona, his begrudging soft spot for his family, the trepidation he has around the reader as he starts to reckon with the slow-locking attachment he's growing juxtaposed with the safety that pervades their every interaction and the general sense of their together being,,,,,,,,, it has me in a chokehold to say the least, and it's so very, very stunning. (also i am just a sucker for family dynamics and i adored each scene with yuji and the crumbs of everyone else. veritably feasting on the dynamics here, you will never catch me leaving the bare hints of a family dynamic unappreciated. family my achilles heel).

and then!!!!!!!! i know i mentioned family already but yuji???????? my darling, yuji???????? as a preschool teacher i am fully biased in this choice but he was the heart and integral center of this fic. not only was he entirely too adorable on far too many occasions (don't make me excited to go back to work, yuji, i know having you in my class would be the death of me) but it was so precious to see him care for sukuna (and to see sukuna care for him in return,,,, a fanfic making this man seem like a good father is wild and certainly not on my bingo card for the year, but oh, are we in it now, boys) and i just adore him <333333.

i feel like there's so much more to comment on too! i love how the progression of their relationship takes up so much discrete time — especially for someone like sukuna, you gotta let that dynamic and those feelings marinate — and it deepens to such rich overtones that were so wonderfully and quietly represented from the start in hints and half-obfuscation <3 to have the groundwork there and to see the little things grow... your writing is so abundant and full, i love your very big brain <3333.

Five Rules for Dating My Uncle (According to a Five-Year-Old)

Pairing — Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader

Synopsis — You meet Sukuna through your Sunday book club for preschoolers at the library and Yuji, his energetic, matchmaking nephew, immediately decides you should be together. So he gives you a list of “rules” if you want to date his uncle.

Content — modern!au, fluff, implied smut, Sukuna is down bad, uncle!Sukuna.

Word count — 5.8k

Sequel — Five Rules for Being the World's Greatest Dad

Sunday mornings smell like old books, glue sticks and whatever flavour juice box one of the children has crushed into the story rug this week. The children’s wing of the library glows in the soft wash of early summer sunlight, the kind that filters through dusty skylights and kisses the tops of tiny heads with gold.

You’re sitting on the big round rug in your favourite pair of jeans and a brightly patterned cardigan that a five-year-old once called “a unicorn sweater”, legs tugged beneath you. The picture book in your lap is open wide, illustrations of cartoon animals parading across the pages as you read with practised flair. You gesture with your hands, shift your voice up or down depending on who’s talking in the story: pirate giraffe today, because why not?

The kids are enraptured. Or at least, half of them are. One’s sucking their thumb. Another is attempting to braid your hair from behind with sticky fingers. But most are giggling, especially Yuji, who’s practically vibrating with excitement every time you lean into a dramatic voice.

You’re a teacher by trade, second grade, but on Sundays, you volunteer here, holding a weekly story-time club for preschoolers at the community library. No lesson plans, no assessments. Just pure, chaotic joy. You do it for them but also, quietly, for yourself.

Yuji Itadori is one of your regulars. Five years old. Big heart, bigger energy. All questions and elbows and wide-eyed commentary. He always arrives early, stays late, and insists on giving you a sticker after every session “for your teacher badge,” which he’s convinced is invisible and magic. Today’s sticker is a glittery dolphin with a bent tail, and you wear it proudly on the front pocket of your cardigan like it’s a medal of honour.

You're still helping a toddler locate Where Is the Green Sheep? (again) when Yuji bolts out of the room for his pickup. Usually it’s his dad or a tired-looking babysitter, but today—today, it’s someone new.

Yuji returns a few minutes later, charging back into the reading room like a storm, one small hand latched firmly around the wrist of a man he’s clearly strong-arming towards you. The stranger is tall, striking, even. His presence eats up the air in the doorway.

“All right, all right, I'm coming,” the man mutters, low and rough like his voice hasn’t woken up yet.

You glance up from where you’re crouched beside the book bins and pause. The man beside Yuji looks like someone who does not spend a lot of time in children's libraries. Dressed in black despite the heat outside, all sharp lines and coiled tension, he has a jaw like a comic book villain and eyes that flick around the room like they’re measuring exits. His hair is swept back, carelessly elegant. Tattoos curl out from under the sleeves of his shirt, inked patterns that almost draw your gaze too long.

Yuji, oblivious to the shift in atmosphere, points directly at you. “You two need to meet.”

The man freezes. You straighten. He looks like someone who hasn’t been 'introduced' to anyone in years.

“Uh,” you say, offering a friendly smile despite the sudden thud of your pulse. “Hi?”

Yuji beams between you like he’s conducting a wedding ceremony.

“This is Uncle Sukuna. He’s daddy’s brother. He never smiles at people. But I think he’ll smile at you.”

The man, Sukuna, apparently, raises a brow. There’s a beat of silence and then the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to sigh.

“Sorry,” he says, deep voice laced with restrained amusement. “He’s been watching a lot of rom-coms with the babysitter lately. The animated ones, mostly. With matchmaking animals.”

“You’ll like each other,” Yuji adds. “I can tell. You read good and your hair smells like strawberries.”

You blink. “Thank you?”

Before you can fully recover, Yuji pulls a folded piece of paper from his backpack, creased, slightly damp, and covered in crayon. He shoves it into your hands like a sacred scroll.

“Here. These are the Rules for Dating My Uncle. You gotta read them.”

You cough into your hand to hide the laugh. Sukuna groans audibly.

“You’re not serious,” he mutters.

Yuji points at him sternly. “I am. You’re sad sometimes and she would make you not-sad.”

You glance down at the paper.

It reads:

Must like dogs.

Must be good at reading stories.

Can’t be scared of his mean face (he’s not mean).

Has to make him eat dinner that’s not just ramen.

Can’t break his heart. He already had a bad one before.

You look back up. Sukuna's watching you carefully now, his posture still, guarded, but not cold. There’s something wary in his eyes. Protective. Like a man who’s used to doors slamming before he even reaches them.

“I didn’t know I was applying,” you say lightly, folding the list with a small, amused shake of your head.

Sukuna’s lips twitch into an almost-smile, there and gone again like a ripple in still water. His gaze flicks down to the crayon-covered page in your hands, then away, his shoulders shifting like he’s preparing for impact.

“You can toss it,” he says, voice rougher now, quieter. “If the kid’s little matchmaking stunt is making you uncomfortable.”

Yuji immediately gasps like he’s just witnessed a federal crime. He puffs his cheeks and clutches onto Sukuna’s leg like a determined barnacle.

“Uncle Kuna! You can’t say that!” His small fists tighten around black denim, face scrunched in betrayal. “It’s my real plan. And you said I could believe in my plans now!”

Sukuna looks down at him with a sigh that isn’t nearly as annoyed as it tries to be. One big hand drops absently onto Yuji’s wild hair, smoothing it back with a kind of unconscious affection that tugs at something in your chest. He doesn’t argue, though. Doesn’t scold. Just lets the boy press his cheek against his thigh and pout like it’s his full-time job.

You try not to smile too wide, but you know it shows. You can feel it warming your cheeks as you gently push a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes lingering on the two of them.

There’s something oddly quiet about Sukuna’s expression now. No scowl, no sarcasm. Just a steady kind of watching, like he’s memorising something without meaning to. You meet his gaze for only a second, but it feels fuller than it should. Weighted. Like he sees something in you that he's not sure what to do with.

You look away first.

Gently, you tuck the note into your handbag, fingers lingering just long enough for Yuji to notice.

“I’ll think about it,” you say softly, offering the boy a small wink.

Yuji lights up. He lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a gasp and a squeal, spinning in a circle like he can’t contain the joy in his limbs. “That means yes! That means maybe-yes! That means probably-yes in movie rules!”

“I said think,” you remind him with a teasing lilt.

“But you smiled,” he says matter-of-factly, pointing. “You only smile like that when the giraffe gets the bananas back or when someone brings you those strawberry candies. So it’s a yes.”

You glance at Sukuna again. This time, there’s a real flicker of amusement in his expression, just a small tilt to his mouth, the barest crinkle near one eye.

He shrugs. “He’s... weirdly observant.”

“He gets that from you?” you ask.

He huffs out something between a laugh and a scoff. “Nah.”

The moment stretches, gentle and tentative, but heavier than a simple meeting.

The Sundays begin to blur together.

Not in a bad way. In the kind of way that sneaks up on you, slow, subtle and familiar. Like the scent of cedar from the library's story rug, or the whisper of little sneakers scuffing along the floor as preschoolers circle the reading nook like orbiting planets. The world spins the same, but something small has shifted in its centre.

Yuji is still a whirlwind, still hands you stickers that somehow always end up glittering on your sleeve, your sweater, your water bottle. But now, he’s being picked up more often by him, Sukuna.

Every week, it’s the same line, almost like a practised excuse. “Jin’s working late again.” Or, “Jin asked me to keep him a little longer this weekend.” Sometimes it’s just, “He’s been better with me lately.”

You nod each time, smile politely. You don’t press. After all, it’s not your business what Yuji��s family dynamics are, except the way he tugs Sukuna’s hand like he’s tethered to something unshakeably steady. And the way Sukuna always shows up on time, every time, even when his eyes look tired.

At first, it’s small things; his gaze lingers longer when he walks in. He never interrupts, just watches quietly as you finish up the last pages of whatever tale you’re spinning that week. Sometimes you catch him smirking under his breath at your more dramatic sound effects. Sometimes he pretends not to.

Yuji’s always thrilled to see him, crashing into Sukuna’s legs with full-force hugs that make the older man stumble just a little. He never minds. And then, every time, he stays. Just a few minutes at first. Then longer.

You’re usually cleaning up, stacking books, collecting sticker sheets, refolding the same felt blanket three times because the toddlers insist on wrapping themselves in it like burritos. Sukuna doesn’t help, exactly. But he leans on the edge of the low bookcase, arms folded across his chest and… talks.

At first it’s just about Yuji. Something he said. Something he broke. Whether he should be allowed to eat cereal shaped like ghosts for dinner. But then the conversations stretch. They slip into the spaces of your lives like spilled tea, spreading without warning, warm and a little messy.

He asks about your teaching job. About your students. About how you “put up with this many kids voluntarily on your day off.” You roll your eyes but you answer with a smile.

In return, you learn he works in security, sort of. Freelance. You’re not sure exactly what that means and he doesn’t elaborate. You don’t push. You just ask what kind of music he listens to when he drives Yuji home. (Heavy. Screaming guitars. Though Yuji apparently insists on bubblegum pop instead.)

Somewhere between the third and fourth week, you find yourself staying longer too. The last parents pick up their kids. The other volunteers leave. The lights dim overhead, one row at a time. But you’re still there, crouched on the rug gathering story cards, while Yuji is curled up in a beanbag flipping through a comic Sukuna brought him.

“He used to read them with his mom,” Sukuna says one Sunday, almost offhand. You pause, just for a second.

“I didn’t know.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “She passed a while back. Yuji doesn’t really talk about it much. But sometimes he’ll reread the same issue ten times in a row.”

There’s a softness in his voice you haven’t heard before. Not exactly sadness, more like reverence. Like holding something fragile and old that still matters. You nod. You don’t say I’m sorry. You just sit with it.

That night, you find yourself pulling the folded list from your handbag. It’s still there, still sticky. The crayon’s a little smudged now. But you haven’t thrown it away. You never even thought about it.

You trace your fingers over rule five:

Can’t break his heart. He already had a bad one before.

You wonder what Yuji saw in you that made him trust you with it.

The next Sunday, you notice Sukuna watching as you slide the list back into your bag after checking for your keys. His gaze lingers; not on the list, but on the way your fingers handle it gently, like a promise not yet spoken.

He says nothing. But when he says goodbye that day, his voice is softer than it’s ever been.

Then autumn arrives not with a shout, but with a slow hush, leaves curling at the edges like old book pages, skies bleeding grey, wind pushing around the corners of the library in sudden, impatient gusts.

That Sunday, the rain is relentless. It taps against the skylights in soft bursts, like a shy child knocking. You arrive damp at the edges despite your umbrella, cheeks pink from the chill, sweater sleeves pulled over your hands. The kids are rowdy from being cooped up indoors all weekend, sticky-fingered and stir-crazy, but you meet their chaos with your usual calm, rounding their attention back to the book in your lap with silly voices and warm patience.

Yuji’s extra cuddly today, curling beside you with his head against your arm during the final story. You don’t mind. You’ve come to expect that his love is physical, loud, and immediate.

Sukuna arrives just as you’re tying a tiny sneaker. His presence fills the doorway as usual, tall, imposing, tattooed and dark in contrast to the pastel chaos of the children’s section. But something’s different today.

He’s holding something in his hand and his expression is bordering on guarded.

Yuji spots him first. “Uncle Kuna!” he cheers, scrambling upright and flinging himself at the man with familiar, fearless joy. Sukuna catches him easily with one arm, as if the boy weighs nothing, setting him down just as fast.

“Hey,” he grunts, voice softer than usual, eyes already on you. His other hand is still in his pocket.

You offer him your usual smile, warm but unsure, like something in the air has shifted and you’re not sure which way the wind is blowing.

You’re picking up books, sorting them into their proper bins, when he steps closer. Not much. Just enough.

“Here,” he says, and it’s so abrupt you almost drop the stack in your arms.

He holds out a folded scrap of paper.

The rain outside drums louder.

You take it without thinking. Your fingers brush his just briefly, warm and calloused and unsure, and something tightens low in your stomach. You unfold the paper slowly. A phone number, scribbled in hasty, sharp numbers. No name. Just the number, like he couldn’t bring himself to write anything else.

You glance up, blinking.

Sukuna’s eyes flick away almost immediately, his jaw tense.

“Thought—” he clears his throat. “Thought if you ever wanted to talk. Or if Yuji forgets something. Or if you get sick of reading about talking vegetables.”

Your lips part, then curve into a soft, disbelieving smile. It’s almost endearing, watching a man like him—towering, broad-shouldered, covered in ink—look just a little uncertain. Like this paper weighs more than it should.

“Thanks,” you say gently, voice barely above the hum of rain. “I’ll text you.”

From the corner of your eye, you catch Yuji watching. Backpack slung over one shoulder, dinosaur keychain bouncing, his big eyes round and uncharacteristically quiet. He doesn’t say anything, not this time. Just hugs Sukuna’s leg and looks away, chewing his lower lip like he’s holding a secret.

You tuck the paper carefully into your pocket.

Sukuna meets your gaze once more before they leave. You nod. He nods back. It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. But your heart beats faster anyway.

You text him that night. Nothing clever, nothing rehearsed.

Hi. It’s me. From the sticker battlefield.

The typing bubbles appear quickly.

Good to hear from you. And then another message: Dinner Saturday? No Yuji. No talking vegetables.

You don’t hesitate: Yes. I’d like that.

You stare at the screen for a long time after, your thumb hovering over the home button. Then you reach into your bag, pull out the now-fraying piece of crayon-marked paper.

Yuji’s Rules for Dating My Uncle. You’ve read them so many times they’re etched into your memory. But tonight, your eyes linger on the last one once again.

Can’t break his heart. He already had a bad one before.

You press the paper flat on your desk and smooth a finger across the wrinkled corner, your smile quiet, but real.

Saturday comes too quickly and somehow not quickly enough.

Your heart beats like it’s trying to warn you of something, too fast, too loud, but not unpleasant. There’s excitement under the nerves, the kind that curls in your stomach and rises to your cheeks as you check your reflection for the fifth time. Your make-up is subtle but intentional, and your hair falls just right tonight, smooth, soft, styled carefully like a secret you want him to notice.

You chose your favourite Italian place, the one tucked into a quiet corner downtown with soft lighting and ivy crawling up the brick walls like something from a storybook. It smells like rosemary and fire-roasted tomatoes and fresh bread when you step inside, and the cozy warmth of it wraps around you instantly, brushing away the chill of the night air.

You spot him before he sees you.

Sukuna is waiting just past the host stand, dressed in a dark, well-fitted jacket and a simple charcoal button-up beneath. His tattoos peek out slightly from the open collar, sharp and striking against the curve of his throat, but it’s his expression that makes your breath catch.

He looks good. Really good. But more than that, he looks almost hesitant. Like he’s not sure he belongs here, but he showed up anyway.

When his eyes finally find yours, they soften.

“Wow,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. “You clean up nice.”

You laugh, quiet, flustered. “Thanks. So do you.”

He steps forward and pulls the chair out for you without a word, like it’s instinct. Like this version of him, attentive and steady, is just as real as the one who stands like a shadow in the corner of the library.

He orders you red wine without asking, but not presumptuously, like he remembered when you mentioned it once in passing, and it stuck. That alone surprises you more than it should.

And then, somehow, the tension melts away. The conversation flows, easy and natural. You talk about your students, about the ridiculous puppet show you had to do last week because the story-time kids demanded “more drama.” Sukuna chuckles, really chuckles, and admits Yuji made him re-enact the same three-page comic five times last weekend.

“You had voices and everything?” you tease, tilting your head.

He huffs. “Did one voice. It was supposed to be the villain. Ended up sounding like a gremlin with bronchitis. He loved it, though.”

You laugh, full and delighted, and he watches you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room. Not the candlelight flickering between you, not the clink of wine glasses at nearby tables: you.

The food is amazing, but you barely taste it. Because every time his voice dips low in thought, every time his hand brushes the table too close to yours, your heart stumbles in your chest. He listens when you speak, really listens. And sometimes when you pause, you catch him just looking, like he’s filing away every detail of this moment in case it never happens again.

By the time dessert arrives, a slice of panna cotta drizzled in berry sauce, you’re glowing. Not just from the wine. From him.

You take a slow bite, licking a dot of cream from the corner of your lip before leaning forward, eyes teasing.

“Well,” you say, setting down your spoon. “At least I can check off Rule Four.”

His brows rise, intrigued. “Which one’s that?”

You grin. “Make sure Uncle Kuna eats something besides ramen.”

There’s a pause. His mouth opens, then closes. He looks away, and for the first time since you met him, Sukuna almost blushes. His ears tinge the faintest pink beneath the low restaurant light.

You cover your mouth with your hand, giggling. “Wait—seriously? You would’ve ordered ramen if you could have?”

Sukuna rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. “Ramen’s perfect. Efficient. No one’s ever disappointed by noodles.”

“I might be,” you tease, leaning in again.

He matches your gaze then, and for a second, the air between you tightens, warmer, weightier. His voice is low when he answers.

“Noted.”

After your first date, Sukuna finds his way into your life the same way dusk seeps into the sky: slowly, silently, but without ever asking permission. And once he’s there, you can’t remember how your days looked without him filling the edges.

He still picks up Yuji almost every Sunday, like clockwork. He still leans against the bookshelf near the reading rug, arms folded, face unreadable but eyes always on you. The other volunteers joke that you’ve got a "scary admirer,” but you only smile, a secret tucked behind your lips.

Because they don’t see what you do.

They don’t see how, once Yuji’s buckled in the backseat, Sukuna lingers outside his car and brushes your hair behind your ear without saying a word. They don’t feel the warmth of his palm as it settles at the small of your back, grounding. Or the way he lets out the smallest breath of relief when you kiss his cheek goodbye.

And now, now you see him more than just on Sundays.

Sometimes it’s Wednesday night dinners after your longest work days. He shows up in his dark jacket, hair still damp from a shower, carrying takeout containers and an unreadable comic for Yuji “in case he drops by.” Sometimes it’s Saturday mornings when he brings you coffee and leans against your kitchen counter while you toast bread barefoot in your sleep shirt, trading soft smiles and shared silence.

Sometimes, it’s just being near each other. The closeness of his fingers brushing yours while you fold laundry. His voice low and warm against the shell of your ear when he reads over your shoulder. His breath catching when you run your hands across the ink of his ribs, tracing stories he still hasn’t told you yet.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not fast.

But it’s real.

You still can’t quite name what pulls you to him. There’s no single reason, no one defining moment. It’s the accumulation of small things, steady things.

It’s the way he listens when you talk, even when you ramble about nonsense. It’s the way he notices everything, the way your brow furrows when you’re thinking, the way you turn pages with your thumb tucked just so. It’s the way he calls you "sweetheart" under his breath when he thinks you’re not listening.

His steadiness is not quiet. It’s present. And you didn’t know how much you needed that, someone who sees you in the chaos and doesn’t flinch.

The first time he kissed you properly, not a chaste brush in passing, but a real kiss, deep and slow and intentional, it left you dizzy for hours. His hands were firm on your waist, his mouth reverent, and when you whispered his name like a prayer, he held you tighter like he needed the reminder that this was real. That you were real.

And now, lying curled beside him in the warm hush of your bedroom, you feel something in yourself loosen that had been tense for far too long.

His bare chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. One arm is wrapped around your waist, hand splayed at your hip, grounding you to him like a vow. His fingers occasionally trace lazy, absent-minded shapes into your skin as you lie there in the afterglow of everything unspoken but fully felt.

The soft, golden light of your bedside lamp spills over the sheets, turning his tattoos into rivers of shadow and ink. You run your fingers across the one over his heart, and he catches your hand, presses his lips to your knuckles like it’s instinct.

“I didn’t think I’d ever…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

You don’t press. You just shift closer, resting your forehead against his collarbone.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me neither.”

And somehow, that’s enough. No fireworks. No declarations.

Just his steady heartbeat under your ear, his arms around you, the faint scent of cedar and rain still clinging to his skin. Your body against his, fitting like you were made to lie beside him.

You’ve let him into your life. And more and more, he’s letting you into his.

Winter comes and goes in quiet intervals, mornings wrapped in knit scarves and coffee steam, nights curled against Sukuna beneath your favourite blanket, his hand resting easily on your thigh like it’s always belonged there. Snow falls, melts, falls again. The holidays pass in a blur of cocoa-stained kisses, Yuji’s snow angels, and Choso’s grumbling when Sukuna nearly burns dinner. You spend New Year’s Eve on the couch with him, tangled together, warm, safe. It’s the first time in years he says he didn’t feel like the clock struck midnight alone.

And then it’s early spring when the air still carries a bite, but hope tugs at the breeze, and the library windows are cracked open just enough to let in the soft scent of damp earth and blossoms. Another Sunday morning slips by in bright colours and sing-song voices. The preschoolers are wired after too many jelly beans and fruit snacks, and your throat is hoarse from all the reading and laughing and directing of tiny hands and wandering feet.

Yuji’s one of the last to leave today, tucked into a hoodie with a smiling dinosaur on the front and smudges of marker down his sleeve. His father, Jin, arrives for pickup for once, tired, polite and smiling faintly as he waves you a quiet hello from the doorway. You nod back, wiping down the last of the table.

Yuji takes one look at his dad, then hurries over to you. You expect the usual wave, the quick, cheery “Bye!” with a lollipop in hand.

Instead he hugs you. Tightly.

His little arms wrap around your legs, and he presses his head gently to your stomach. It stuns you for a second. The room quiets. You rest a hand gently on the back of his head, fingers carding through his messy pink hair as he exhales slowly, like he’s holding in something far too big for his body.

“I’m glad you kept my list,” he whispers into your sweater. “You made Uncle Kuna not-sad anymore.”

Your chest tightens. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, soft and sudden. You bend down, crouch to his level, and cup his cheeks lightly as you meet his gaze.

“Oh, darling…” you say, smiling through the lump in your throat.

Yuji nods fiercely, as if there’s no doubt in his mind. “He laughs more now. And he doesn’t yell when my brother breaks something.”

You laugh at that, blinking fast to keep from crying. “Yeah? That’s good.”

“He lets me watch cartoons without saying they rot my brain,” Yuji adds, very seriously. “That means he’s not grumpy anymore.”

You smooth down his hoodie, then ruffle his hair, voice gentle. “I think a lot of that is because of you, you know.”

Yuji tilts his head. “But you love him.”

You suck in a small breath, because it’s not a question. It’s not a guess. It’s a child’s certainty.

And you realise, somewhere in your bones, that it’s true. You do. In the quiet, patient, warming way that love blooms after being watered slowly, not rushed. Not forced but real.

Yuji grins and scampers back to Jin, who lifts him easily into his arms and gives you a respectful nod. They leave, and the library is quiet again.

You sit down on the edge of the rug, palms resting on your knees, staring at the scuffed corner of the bookshelf. And then, without even needing to think about it, your mind goes to him. To Sukuna.

To how he looks when he first walks in your door after work, tie loose, brow furrowed from the day, but relaxing the second he sees you. To how he always moves closer to you in his sleep now, pulling you in before he’s even awake. To how he chuckles more easily, with his whole chest. How he’s started remembering people’s names. How he ruffles Yuji’s hair instead of sighing at him. How Choso only rolls his eyes now when Sukuna mutters, “What did I say about the microwave?”

And through it all you're there. A constant. A presence that doesn't push, doesn't demand, but simply is.

You don’t say anything about the list anymore. But it still lies on your desk, slightly curled, covered in smudges and taped once in the corner where it tore.

You keep it there like a compass. A silly, sticky artefact of what brought you here. Of what grew from it.

Sometimes, in the quiet lull between dinner and bedtime, when the house is heavy with warmth and the softness of shared comfort, you catch him looking at it.

Yuji’s list sits exactly where you left it on the corner of your desk in the small nook of your apartment you’ve fashioned into a workspace. It’s wedged gently between a half-burnt vanilla candle and a ceramic mug filled with mismatched pens and broken pencils. The paper has curled at the edges with time, stained faintly by what you suspect was juice from the Sunday Yuji brought it to you, and the marker writing is smudged in places, tiny fingerprints pressed into the ink like a child’s seal of sincerity.

You’ve never told Sukuna that you kept it. Not aloud. But he sees it. And you see him.

He never stops long, just a few moments as he passes by on the way to refill his glass or grab something from the coat rack. He’ll pause, hands in his pockets or fiddling with his phone, his eyes resting on the list like it holds a secret he hasn’t fully let himself unpack.

You’re never sure what’s in his mind when he stares at it. Amusement? Gratitude? But the expression on his face is neither cold nor mocking. It’s quiet, the way a heavy breath is quiet. Like there’s weight behind it he doesn’t quite know how to hold.

And you, well, you pretend not to notice. Until tonight.

The apartment is dim, lit only by the warm pools of amber from the floor lamps and the flicker of a documentary playing quietly on the TV. You’re curled up in your favourite spot on the couch, a knitted throw wrapped around your legs and the last half of a glass of wine cradled between your hands. The rain taps against the windowpane, steady and soothing, like the universe is giving the night a rhythm to fall asleep to.

Sukuna crosses the room from the hallway, bare feet silent on the wood flooring, still dressed in the black t-shirt and soft grey sweatpants he changed into after work. His hair is damp from a shower, pushed back haphazardly, and there’s something disarmingly domestic about the sight of him like this, relaxed and unguarded, like he belongs here in your living room. Like he always has.

But he stops. Right in front of your desk.

Your breath stills the moment you see his gaze fall on the list.

You watch him from the corner of your eye, heart thudding softly in your chest. He doesn’t touch it this time, just stands there, the muscles in his back tense under the cotton of his shirt, his head tilted slightly like he’s reading each line over again. Slowly. Carefully. Like the words still mean something.

Like they always did.

Your stomach flutters, not with nerves, but with something deeper. Something like ache. Like understanding.

Because it’s not just a list. Not anymore. It’s the thread that pulled you here. The little absurdity that bridged the space between a quiet, stubborn man and the woman who would come to love him.

He reaches out, fingers just brushing the corner. You hear the faintest sound, the paper crinkling beneath the weight of his hand, and then he draws back.

His eyes lift and they find yours.

He looks startled at first, caught. His shoulders stiffen, jaw tensing as if he’s expecting you to tease him, or worse, ask him what he’s doing.

But you don’t say a word.

Instead, you smile. Small. Warm. The kind that says, I see you. I see all of you and I’m not going anywhere.

Sukuna breathes out through his nose, barely a sound, but you feel it. The way something in him softens. Like muscle uncoiling. Like something brittle finally being let go.

He moves toward you, slow and steady, and when he sits beside you on the couch, the cushions dip with his weight. He says nothing, but his arm comes around you like instinct, drawing you into the side of his body. His touch is solid and sure, palm firm over your waist, like he needs the grounding as much as you do.

“Still can’t believe you kept that thing,” he murmurs finally, voice low and slightly rough from disuse. His breath tickles your temple.

You shift closer, nestling into him, letting the heat of his body seep into yours. “It worked, didn’t it?”

He huffs. A real laugh, faint and sharp-edged. “Tch. Kid got lucky.”

You glance up at him, smiling into the curve of his jaw. “Maybe we all did.”

He doesn’t answer. Not directly. But his hand moves, up your side, along your ribs, fingers tracing soft, thoughtful lines into your shirt like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

And you feel it. All of it. The gratitude he doesn’t know how to say. The tenderness he’s still learning how to hold. The quiet, relentless love that’s taken root inside both of you without fanfare or permission.

He shows you in how he listens. How he waits. How he touches you at night, not with hunger alone, but with reverence. How he learns your patterns and preferences, the books you reread, the sound you make when something moves you, the way your eyes crinkle when you’re smiling for real.

He shows you in the way he says your name, and in the way he says nothing at all, just presses his forehead to yours in the dark, arms around your body, like he’s finally found home.

And you—you love him.

With your hands. With your laughter. With the way you kiss his shoulder when you pass behind him in the kitchen. With the way you hold space for him even when he doesn’t know how to ask for it.

You keep the list on your desk like a compass.

Because even if it began as a joke, sticky, messy and childlike, it carried something true. Something sacred. And now, all these months later, Sukuna is still here. And you are still his. And the list is no longer a beginning.

It’s a promise.

[good-luck-babe-535]

Dirtbagging - Chapter 9

paige x azzi (climber au)

masterlist

WC: 3.3k

Warning: sexual content

A/N: I'm backkk thank you for your patience! As always please leave your thoughts below for me or in the inbox! Hope you're having a great week :)

—

Azzi knew that this was not the perfect moment to ask, but if she waited any longer, she would never find one. Paige’s breath had finally begun to even out, her gaze holding steady out onto the lake. She was not quick to react to Azzi, but just took her hand in between hers. 

“Azzi, I’m scared to tell you everything”, she whispered.

“It’s ok to be scared, honey. But you can trust me, I am always going to be on your side”, Azzi said, trying to convey her care for Paige and how all she wanted to do was ease her pain.

On their secluded shore, Paige swung her legs over Azzi’s lap while Azzi wrapped her in her arms. Their faces were close enough to make the eye contact intimate, but far enough to continue their conversation. 

“Sol was one of the bravest and beautiful people I have ever known. I had known her as long as I’ve been here. She was my mentor; she showed me the ropes, and not long after, we fell hopelessly in love with each other. And from that moment on, we were never separated. We climbed together at work, on the weekends, and we lived through all the hard times together. I asked her to marry me a few years ago, and we were planning on spending the rest of our lives here, doing what we loved most: being together,” Paige started, the words finally spilling out of her mouth at a rapid pace she could not stop.

Azzi made sure to listen intently, looking deeply into her beautiful blue eyes, softly tracing lines on her back to make sure she knew Azzi was right there with her. 

“We had traditions. Our lives were intertwined so closely that we were practically married. We owned the house together and spent all of our free time chasing each other’s goals. Last year, we came to this exact area and were planning to do Sol’s favorite traverse, with a twist. I picked the ridge, a hard ridge we had never done before. And I was stupid. I did not do enough research, and I left her too far behind. No protection, not close enough to help her. And she trusted me enough to reach for me, and I let her fall. I did everything I could, I searched for her, I called for help, but when I found her, she was gone. And I just can’t forgive myself for making such a big mistake,” she continued, eyes glassy with tears ready to fall.

“How am I supposed to live with myself after that? Why should I be able to live when she can’t? It’s only been a year, and I feel like every day I am betraying her. I can’t climb like I used to, and I lost everyone who used to be close to us. They can’t forgive me either. I can’t handle the guilt of falling for you so hard. It feels so wrong but so right. She would have loved you. And it is just so hard to accept that this is really my reality”, she choked out, finally letting the brewing storm of tears hit her cheeks.

All Azzi could do was take it all in. The rawness, the honesty, it was all she had ever wanted from Paige. She finally put all of the pieces together. Paige was grieving. She had the world on her shoulders, pushing her down and pointing fingers at her. 

“Paige, I know you. I know you would never want to hurt someone you love like that. You both made the decision to go together, and you can’t let that guilt hold you hostage forever. We all take the risk that something might go wrong when we go into the mountains.” Azzi tried to comfort her, imperfect and shaky in her words, but wanting to make sure Paige knew she did not think less of her for what happened.

“I know, but there are things I should have done better. And maybe she would still be here,” Paige sobbed, her head in her hands, trying to hide the breaking of her heart.

All Azzi could do was engulf Paige completely in her, letting the blonde rest her head on her chest, pulling her in as she released all the emotions she had been keeping in. She didn’t know how much time had passed, letting Paige fully empty her grief onto her. All she could do was hold her tight and plant small kisses on the top of the blonde’s head to remind her she wasn’t alone. 

Once Paige had emptied all of her emotions into Azzi, she finally looked up at the curly-haired girl. The energy between the two was palpable; it was like they shared the grief, making Paige feel as if the load had been lifted from her. 

Azzi finally broke their soft silence, “So what should we do this weekend instead? I’d love to just have a weekend camping with you”, she said honestly, as she combed her fingers through Paige’s hair that she had let down during her breakdown.

“I would love nothing more than to spend the weekend here with you”, Paige cooed, slightly sleepy from the way Azzi held her, the most relaxed she had been in the past year, finally able to feel free from her own mind.

Azzi slowly lifted Paige off her, moving towards their bags to get camp set. She worked quickly to remove everything and take inventory of what they had. She did not get far before she felt the blonde’s arms wrap around her waist.

“Let me help you, Az. Can’t set it all up yourself”, she whispered as she traced her fingers very lightly over Azzi’s tight core.

She could not handle Paige’s touch; it was like being lit on fire from within, and no matter the heaviness of the situation, her body was always carried away. Her breathing was shaky as the blonde continued, and began to trace kisses on the side of her neck. 

Paige pulled away too fast, leaving Azzi spinning in her thoughts from the loss of contact. Which was exactly what Paige wanted, as she began constructing their campsite, leaving Azzi to watch and wait for the woman to bring her back to life with her touch.

The site was simple, filled with dense trees and a small secluded shore of the lake. Their tiny backpacking tent was barely large enough for the two of them, but Paige set up their mattresses and bags as close as she could to each other. Azzi began to warm up some water for their dinner that night. It was hopelessly domestic watching the two pick themselves up from their earlier conversation and continue on together.

Azzi poured the water in their backpacking meals to steep, the two famished from the day despite the lack of actual climbing. The anticipation was killing her, not sure if it was because of her hunger for the food or what might happen after. Not just tonight, but beyond, Azzi felt as if a new chapter had started between her and Paige. She finally felt sure of what Paige was thinking, finally escaping the darkness and uncertainty she had been trapped in.

Their meals were finally ready, and Paige let Azzi pick her favorite, as she always did.

The two sat in silence, settling into the comfort of hot food, before Azzi felt a thought cross her mind that she could not stop from coming out of her mouth.

“You would tell me if it is too much, right? Us getting this close?”

Paige was taken aback, not expecting the honest acknowledgment of their situation.

“I feel like the world tells us it's wrong to find love again. But you’ve taught me already that new love doesn’t have to replace past love. So why is it wrong to find it again?” Paige said tenderly, finally coming to the realization that she had been pushing off all along.

“You promise you will tell me if it’s too much? If we need to take a step back?” Azzi pushed harder, wanting to crack the blonde’s true feelings open.

The blonde set her meal down and plucked Azzi’s from her too. She took Azzi’s hands in hers, rubbing soft circles with her thumb on the back of her hand. “Azzi, I promise from now on, no more secrets. You’ve shown me so much love and grace that I have not given back to you or myself. And that needs to change, and it starts now. I promise to always be honest with you. And I give you permission to poke and prod as much as you need to get it fully out of me. I trust you with it all.”

Azzi felt her heart swell at the confession, the trust that Paige finally verbalized. So she trusted herself enough to lean into the blonde, allowing their lips to connect softly. She didn’t need to speak words to show Paige that she knew her confession was true, or that she trusted her fully. 

Paige pulled her in, their chests meeting each other as Paige reached softly for Azzi’s cheek. She pulled her in closer, allowing their mouths to part and deepen the kiss. Azzi felt heat rise through her, taking control of her body and letting her brain rest. She pushed harder into the blonde, finding her interrupted rhythm from earlier that morning, and letting herself shamelessly guide Paige.

She took Paige’s hand from her cheek, slowly trailing it down her neck, her chest, and to her breasts, giving her permission to explore further, wanting to show the blonde she trusted her and wanted her. Without breaking the kiss, Paige sighed heavily into Azzi, taking the permission to explore her further, and pleased with what she felt.

Paige’s fingertips were light and playful, tracing Azzi’s hot skin, leaving trails of sensation, making Azzi’s need grow faster than she expected. Paige reveled in her newfound power, making Azzi more desperate. Azzi tried so hard to get Paige to focus and give her what she wanted. But Paige wanted to draw it out. She wanted all of Azzi, wanting to get every last sip of her, leaving no part of her untouched. She analyzed the way Azzi responded to each touch, studying how to make her crack, make her beg, or make her sigh. It was a game that Paige had not perfected, but wanted to know better than anything else in her life.

Azzi could not wait any longer, breaking away to remove her shirt, wanting true contact between the two. She already felt like she was on the edge, wanting more and more from the blonde. Paige responded quickly, following her lead, leaving them in their sports bras and pants. Paige got up from the log and quickly started unbuttoning her pants to Azzi’s surprise. 

“What are you doing?” Azzi laughed up at the blonde, who looked like she could not be in more of a hurry to free herself.

“You know what the best part of camping at a lake is? Swimming”, the girl smirked as she reached for Azzi’s hand to bring her to her feet.

All Azzi could do was giggle as the blonde reattached herself to her, kissing her neck, tracing down her torso slowly until she was on her knees, met with Azzi’s button. The blonde looked up at her with desperate eyes paired with a wide grin, “Can I take them off?”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” Azzi quipped back, the blonde wasting no time dragging the cloth down her long legs.

She was quick to rise up again, wrapping her arms around Azzi’s waist and carrying her to the edge of the water.

Azzi could not stop smiling and laughing, the blonde’s playfulness so endearing and silly to her.

When Paige gently placed her down, the pins and needles of the alpine lake hit her feet, and she was immediately shocked.

“Oh, Bueckers, there is no way I am getting any further into that water”, Azzi yelped.

“Well, isn’t that just too bad”, Paige said as she continued to drag Azzi by the hand further into the water with her.

Azzi pulled back, “My underwear is going to get soaking wet and I have no extra, I’m going to shiver all night”, she complained at the unseriousness of the blonde who obviously was not thinking of any of these practicalities. 

“Seems like there is a pretty easy solution to that”, the blonde teased as she wrapped Azzi into her embrace, slipping a finger into the hip of Azzi’s underwear.

“You’re crazy”, Azzi said breathlessly, the contact shocking her, and slight embarrassment filling her at what Paige was suggesting.

“I can turn around and let you go in”, Paige said, trying to show Azzi that despite her motives, she wanted to respect Azzi’s boundaries.

“Ok fine, turn away”, she said, too nervous to let Paige fully see her, and the thought that maybe they could not be fully alone at the lake both worried her and excited her.

She slipped her sports bra and minimal underwear off and set them on the stump near the beach, feeling the cool air of dusk on her and the looming cold of the lake waiting for her. Paige had already walked deep into the water, the surface hitting her shoulders as she looked out onto the mountains rather than back at Azzi.

Azzi stepped slowly back into the ice-cold water, feeling the pain take over her legs, quickly stepping further in to avoid any hidden eyes on her body. The shame left her body fast as she met the blonde from behind, wrapping her arms around her waist and resting her head on her shoulder. Their skin meeting each other fully for the first time left Azzi in shambles, the heat of the blonde helping to dull the ache from the lake. She could feel the rise and fall of Paige’s lungs, fast and excited, while feeling the strong muscles of her back expand against her. She didn’t know how they had gotten there, but she knew she wanted more and had little restraint left in her.

Paige turned around to meet Azzi, her slight height advantage letting her gaze down at Azzi, clearly satisfied with the close contact of their skin. Azzi wrapped her legs around Paige’s waist, letting herself relinquish any existing boundary left between the two.

Paige’s lips crashed on hers hard, as she held Azzi’s body against her. The feeling of the curly-haired woman’s curves against her was intoxicating. She didn’t care where they were; she needed more of Azzi, and she wanted all of her. And she could tell that Azzi reciprocated the feeling, as she desperately pulled at her hair, let her nails graze her skin too roughly to be innocent, and Paige could not stop her hands from roaming further and further down Azzi’s body. Her body was so perfectly sculpted, soft in all the right places but strong at the same time.

It drove her insane that Azzi was naked below the surface, out of reach from her eyes but not her touch. She took full advantage of Azzi’s permission to explore, letting her hands drag down the front of her body, the rise of her chest, the freezing lake hardening Azzi’s nipples under Paige’s fingers, her stomach spasming as Paige's hand met her lower stomach.

She felt Azzi’s desperation against her, as Paige teased her under the surface, no longer being discrete about how much she wanted Azzi to feel good. Azzi could not stop herself from wanting more contact with the blonde, chasing any friction she could, holding onto her tightly with her legs.

Paige was in disbelief at the beauty of Azzi letting go on her, so she moved her hands under Azzi’s ass, helping her chase what she subconsciously was looking for. The sounds leaving her mouth were sinful, but only fueled Paige further, wanting Azzi to never stop chasing her high. 

But that’s when it all came rushing back to Paige. The sensations mixed with sight and sounds became overwhelming. Her breath caught, unable to move further. She was frozen with Azzi in her arms, but her mind had gone to a completely different place. She did not know what came over her, but it told her to stop; she had gone too far, she had betrayed everything she thought.

Azzi was quick to respond, taking the blonde’s face in her hands and looking up at her.

“It’s ok. Take a deep breath. It’s just me and you, right here, no expectations. We stop when you say so. And it’s ok if that’s right now.”

Paige felt ashamed for pushing Azzi so hard and then being the one to pull away. No matter how hard she wanted Azzi, her legs unsteady, her cheeks flushed, she had uncontrollable feelings within her that were making her sick. 

The difference this time was that neither Paige nor Azzi wanted to pull away from each other. They stayed intertwined, letting Paige work through the overwhelming anxiety she felt.

As the sun began to fully set, the two were shivering from the loss of heat between them, so they decided to finally get out of the lake.

Azzi had been washed of any of the shame she felt earlier, leading Paige by the hand out of the water, the darkness of night comforting her and easing her mind of the fear of someone seeing them. 

They took their small, packed towels and wiped the water off their shivering bodies. Thankful for the seclusion of their campsite, Paige cleaned up their abandoned dinner while Azzi slipped into the small tent. The two sleeping pads and bags lay out, ready for the two of them, and they were so close they basically were their own continuous mattress. 

She covered herself, feeling relieved, finally, from the immediate warmth of the bag that was probably a little overkill for the summer.

Azzi could not believe the day they had. How had they gone from an early morning makeout to about to sleep in the small tent side by side?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Paige unzipping the side, her boxers and sports bra back on. Azzi cursed herself. Of course, she should have put her clothes back on. But when Paige slipped in, she immediately slid in next to Azzi, with no contact between the two yet. Azzi could not leave, now acutely aware of her exposure and Paige’s lack of it. 

“I hope you know you did nothing wrong. I just haven’t done this since her. And the feelings, they come up at random moments and I have not sorted out exactly how to stop them yet”, Paige explained, wanting Azzi to know just how much her own spiral had nothing to do with her.

“Paige, you don’t need to apologize for that. Ever. She’s a part of you, so she will always be a part of us. I don’t want you to be ashamed of the love you have for her”, Azzi said as she turned to face Paige, locking eyes.

“It’s so strange to just have these intrusive thoughts and feelings. It’s like I just can’t keep them at bay, and they come all at once. And I don’t want to scare you away with them.”

“You being honest about what you’re feeling will never scare me away. It’s exactly what we need”, Azzi smiled softly, proud of the woman lying across from her, finally letting Azzi see the vulnerable side of her.

“Thank you, Az. You mean so much to me”, she whispered, as the relief of sleep began to take her away after a draining day.

Without asking, the two moved towards each other, Paige wrapped in Azzi’s steady embrace, head using her chest as a pillow, the reassurance of her beating heart lulling her to sleep.

[very-merry-birthday]

🍓 Gray 🍓

Dean's staring at himself in the mirror when you walk in, prodding at his scalp, thick creases on his forehead.

He spins on his heel to look at you, and you can see he's got something between his fingers, barely visible until you're close enough to touch him.

"What the hell is this?!" He demands of you, as if you put it there.

"It's a gray hair, Dean." Your tone is flat but he can see the amused expression on your face.

"It can't be! I don't have grays!"

"Well you do now."

He looks back at himself in the mirror but his question is clearly still for you, "What am I supposed to do about it?!"

"You either pluck it or you keep it, I guess." You know Dean would never even consider hair dye.

He wraps it taut around his finger and yanks it out in one swift move, holding it in his hands delicately, looking down at it like it's a small baby animal that just died in his arms.

Finally you laugh.

---

You can feel him tossing next to you in bed that night, something clearly on his mind.

"You okay?" You murmur out quietly into the dark room, resting your hand on his chest.

He takes a moment to speak, "My dad never went gray. Never got the chance."

You wait for him to say more, but he never does.

"That a problem?"

"I just keep thinking- don't think many hunters go gray, y'know?"

And you know exactly what he's trying to say.

You finally click on the lamp next to the bed, planting a small kiss on his shoulder before looking back up at him.

"I'm glad you're here, Dean. Glad I've had you as long as I have, and glad I get to keep having you every day."

He kisses your forehead, "Don't think I ever expected I'd reach this age."

"It's a badge of honor, if you ask me. You should show it off- like you said, not every hunter gets this. Shows how damn hard you've worked to stay alive."

"Maybe you're right." He's still looking up at the ceiling.

"And hey, I think you'd really suit the silver fox look."

That makes him look at you. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Clooney, Dempsey, Solo- they all pull it off. Why not you? I think you'll look sexy as hell."

---

It only takes a few months to start seeing the gray at his temples. But he does exactly what you said, wears it as a badge of honor.

It helps that you really do think he looks sexy like this. You show him every day- hands combing through his hair when you're laying in bed, or when you're curled up on the couch, or when you're sat in the bath together.

And Dean thinks maybe this isn't such a bad thing after all.

[hyacinth-in-a-haze]

Hi I really like your writing!

All of it I read it in like the last two days!

Could you many write more about the life withe the yan!preacher like how reader’s live is now that she lives as his wife

If not that is also absolutely ok just thought I would ask because I would really like to know

Domestic- Yandere southern preacher x fem reader

There's not much work for you to do in the day, you suppose you should be thankful for that. He has some consideration for you, enough to take the dishes from your hands and hire someone else to clean your clothes. Your main housework revolves around tending the house, keeping the dust out and cooking meals for the both of you. The dust is the worst one getting in from cracks under the doors and windows, you hear some places get dust storms so bad folk suffocate in their sleep. The papers got plenty of horror stories like that. The preacher always reads the paper out at breakfast, you're not allowed to leave the table until he's done regaling you of stories he deems worthy. Pinning you down with his words as you stare at your porridge, watching the rivers of honey and cream sink down. He saw you struggling once with some book you grabbed from the shelf, sounding out a word that made no sense on the page. He only tutted and took it from you, repeating the word over and over until you got it somewhat right.

Ever since you told him you left school when you were fourteen to work in service he's seemed to take any chance he could to educate you. Reading the papers is part of that, it's the less embarrassing part unlike the workbooks meant for Sunday school children. He hovers over you watching as you write down answers with your shaking hand, hemming and hawing without actually saying anything. Until you're finished, then he breaks everything you did wrong down until you're crying from frustration.

“Do we really need all these waterworks, little lamb?” He brings his hands to your cheeks, wiping tears and holding you steady in line with his gaze. “There's no one shaming you here, I'm only just trying to help you as a husband should.” you sob even harder with his help. He doesn't do anything but let you cry yourself out. Finally when your sobs become hiccups he places the pencil back into your hand, kisses your forehead, waiting for you to try again. “You need to know this, I won't fail you like everyone else has.”

“I can figure sums out just fine when I've gone to the market before,” you hiccup as you speak like a petulant child. At the very least with him you're able to talk back to him without fear of anger, no matter how much you've pushed he always remains calm. “And I can read fine too.” He sighs, running his hand through his hair, only a few flecks of gray in an otherwise uniform sea.

“Your too stubborn to know what's best for you” he grumbles, you could almost think him fatherly if he didn't look at you in that way.

You try not to think of him as your husband, despite the ring he's given you, a size too big. Not enough to fall off but enough that you are always aware it's there, spinning around your finger like a shackle rather than a second skin. The worst part is his gentleness, you're not used to men using their gentleness against you. Nor are you used to gentleness in general from men, you've been a servant for wealthier folk since you were old enough. Used to sharp words and sharper strikes around the head for your sins. Sometimes he does give you that hot coco once more, lulling you away when he can't trust you awake. You still have the burns from dropping it that night, dappled on the skin of your thighs, faint but it's there when he strokes over the bare skin gently. He's had no need to strike you, you always were a timid thing afraid of trouble but you'd always find yourself there for no good reason. But you've been good, he tells you so in the dead of night, that you're a good girl and the greatest thing the Lord has given him.

Church is always an event, he gets you ready in the morning himself. Smoothing out your dress and rubbing a light rouge to your cheeks, with a look that says to not run your mouth when he lets you outside the house. It's not as if you had anyone but him, his congregation are zealous folk for a man who only keeps to the god talk inside church. They whisper about you, some new thing who suddenly appeared one day as their preacher's wife. It only serves to make you seek him out more, the closest thing you have to a companion who knows you

He always fucks you after services, sometimes still in your dress. Holding you steady beneath him as he eats you out until you make a mess of yourself on his tongue. You try your best to focus on the beams above your head rather than on the growing warmth between your legs and the soaked sheets underneath you, and how he kisses you deeply with your taste in his mouth. And how there's too many and’s when you're here, underneath him as he mumbles soft praises. Is this a better fate than being hanged for murder? Sometimes you do question it after he's finished drilling a hole into you. Stroking you gently and mumbling “let's not waste that now missy” as he pushes his cum back into you. Yous pray to not get pregnant but it seems God's gone and turned his back on you.

[comradesummers]

every time i see a post that's like "adora is passively complicit in shadow weaver's abuse of catra" i feel like i'm going to have a conniption. she was a literal child soldier growing up in a highly abusive environment and had absolutely zero power over anything. she might've been shadow weaver's favorite, but being the favorite gave her no say over how catra was treated. we know this because there are several examples of adora trying to use her supposed sway to protect and uplift catra, and it literally never works. people love to fully ignore that time when she, at like 7 years old, attempted to protect catra from physical abuse by t-posing in front of her and it didn't help (there was a post with a ton of notes a while back that tried to claim that this was somehow very condescending and an example of adora treating catra like a pet??? like wtf, she was a kid trying to protect her friend under terrifying circumstances. what was she supposed to do exactly???).

also, even if someone is not subjected to violence themselves, growing up in a violent environment is still highly traumatic. and shadow weaver makes it a point to constantly reinforce the idea to adora that she is personally responsible for catra's actions and therefore responsible whenever catra gets hurt. this is obviously super abusive. and adora is abused in other ways as well. she is held to an impossible standard of perfection, told that the her only real value or worth is tied to how she can directly benefit others, and is pretty much never given autonomy over anything in her life.

i've also seen people argue that adora is complicit because she's dismissive of what catra is going through and at times repeats the rhetoric of their abuser ("you are kind of disrespectful"). while it's true that she does this, it is worth noting that catra kind of does the same thing. she makes fun of adora for being a people pleaser and gets angry at adora for trying to protect her and defend her to shadow weaver, while at the same time resenting her for being the favorite and not doing enough to protect her. which is a dynamic that shadow weaver created in the first place by making both adora and catra (to some extent) feel that adora is responsible for putting a stop to the abuse. and it's not like i'm mad at catra for this. she's an abused kid who's being actively manipulated by her abuser. but so is adora! I mean that's the whole point of pitting them against each other like this, right? of treating them differently? so that they don't see that they have a common enemy. that they're both being hurt by the same person. they can't really understand each other or effectively communicate so they end up hurting one another rather than uniting against their shared abuser. that's the whole fucking point.

[onceuponasnacktime]

I had a thought/concept for a Polytrix story but I know I'd not actually write a whole thing so here's the bit that wouldn't leave my head. I wrote it on my notes app just now and it may have spelling errors for that reason.

AU in which Rumi was raised in the demon realm after being rejected in the mortal world. The Hunters aren't really a thing. Zoey somehow stumbles into the demon realm trying to find a gift for Mira and she bumps into Rumi, who saves her.

She wasn't supposed to be here, that much was abundantly clear the moment Rumi laid eyes on her. She was brightly dressed with pale skin and she was most definitely a human. A human standing at a stall in the middle of the capital of the demon realm. Surely she must have a death wish? Except... it almost seems as if the girl simply hasn't noticed. Oblivious, she peers at the handmade talisman on the table in front of her as if nothing is wrong.

Is she a loose pet? Gwi-Ma won't be happy if he knows someone is keeping a human soul in his realm. They are strictly forbidden to be kept, or devoured, unless he gives the OK.

The girl looks up to the vendor as if to ask a question, and Rumi can see that He Knows. Surely in such close proximity he can smell it on her... the life. His eyes are glowing and he licks his lips, smile spreading towards lecherous.

Tightening the strings of her own cloak-hood, Rumi steps up to the girl, fingers drifting to her hip and dipping her head down to whisper in her ear.

"Follow my lead." The girl tenses, turns to look and her with a scowl, and her eyes are so beautiful Rumi forgets herself for a moment.

She looks sweet.

She looks pure.

The vendor clears his throat, almost drooling as his eyes dig into Rumi like a wolf on the hunt who has just been thwarted.

"There you are darling." Rumi speaks, tightening her grip on the shorter girl's hip but not looking away from the vendor. "I was wondering where you'd gotten off to. Its not safe to run away around here." She stresses the last line and sees the girls eyes narrow before she seems to take a hint and actually /look/ at her surroundings. Her eyes widen and she seems to subconsciously scoot closer into Rumi.

The vendor isn't glamored, his large tusked teeth protrude from his mouth and his skin is a sickly purple, marks covering him sporadically.

"R-right. Sorry. I shouldn't have." She smells sweet, standing this close, apple? Maybe honey? The scent sends a thin wave of hunger through Rumi but she easily taps it down.

"We should move along." She tugs them away from the stall before the demon vendor can attempt to intervene.

They take a step, then another, before Rumi hears him shout and she stiffens at the words.

"Where you going with that human?" It's said loudly enough, he meant to draw the attention of those around them, and Rumi curses under her breath as head's turn their way.

"We have to run." She says, gripping the girl's hand and pulling her through the crowded street.

"Wait, what is this? What's happening?" The girl asks, frightened tone and unsteady steps as she tries to move with Rumi's speed.

She doesn't reply, just guides them out of the crowded shopping district, hoping beyond hope that no one chases them. When they get to a small secluded alcove she takes off her cloak and swings it around the other girl's shoulders.

"Put this on, it'll mask your scent." She's checking their surroundings for a few more moments before she turns back, eyes finally meeting the mortals.

"Y-you're like... like them? But actually not? Sort of? How do you have marks but look so h-" she cuts herself off and Rumi watches the girl's cheeks pink.

"Human?" She supplies, but the other girl just shakes her head and laughs.

"I was gonna say hot, but that works too."

She blinks, feels her own blush, and mentally shushes her silly little heartbeat increasing.

"Anyway," the girl says after a few beats, "I'm Zoey. Who are you and," she gestures around them, "what is this place?"

[ellerial]

Robin looked over at Red Hood from where he was hunkered down on the rooftop. He sat unmoving with his helmeted head resting on the top of the raised roof edge. Robin couldn't tell if he was actually focusing on anything or just zoning out.

They had been on this stake out for over 2 hours, and he was starting to get bored. He double-checked the camera feeds set up around the supposed meeting place at the docks. No movement. All clear. He just wanted something to happen before he gave in to his urge to lay starfished on the dirty roof.

As if granting his wish, a bright green light flashed and crackled in an alley next to their building. An electric hum mixed with the cheery tinkle of silver bells followed by the scent of plastic burning had both Robin and Red Hood looking at each other before moving to investigate.

What they saw didn't make sense at first. A man with bright, nearly glowing white hair, Lazarus green eyes, and dressed in black overalls was drawing sigils in the air while facing the alley wall. Bolts of green and purple light danced across him as if he were a living Tesla coil.

He didn't look in danger. In fact, he was writing the sigils almost carelessly with loose posture as he hummed a song to himself, bobbing his head and tapping his foot.

It took Robin a moment to realize the song he was humming was followed by the Tesla bolts giving the same pitch. It was oddly enchanting.

The others were a few minutes out when the man finished his sigils. They spun and twisted, taking the electric bolts from the man, before warping into a floating circle that revealed multiple beams of light flowing quickly beyond the window. They felt chaotic and unstable, clashing against each other and sending sparks into the alleyway.

Hood signaled that he had alerted the rest of the team, and O had responded that she was picking up heavily corrupted video and slightly static audio from them, but nothing she broadcasted to them over comms was being received.

They waited for backup.

The man grinned and shoved his hands directly into the anomaly of electricity without a second thought. Hood and Robin had no more time. They made their move.

Robin leapt down into the mouth of the alley, blocking the strangers' escape into the streets while Hood blocked his way further into the alleys. The man made a high-pitched scream and pulled light out from the window, which sparked, stuttered, and promptly burst into a shower of glitter that dusted across the stranger.

"Aw, man. What did ya go and have to do that for? Can't you see I'm busy?" He moved to stick his arms back into the window before he paused and whipped his head to look at both of them with wide eyes. "Oh, fudgesicles. You're alive."

Robin raised an eyebrow. "Astute observation."

"No, I mean, I thought you were -" he paused before rubbing his hands down his face. "Nevermind. How can I help you... people?"

"What are you doing here?" Hoods mechanical voice demanded.

"Uh..." The man looked between his window and back at them before standing in front of it as if he could block it. "Nothing. Not me. Not doing a thing. Nope." The vigilantes just stared at him for a moment before he broke. "Working. What's it to ya, any way? Who are you people?"

"You do not know of us? You're in Gotham. How can you not know of Robin and Red Hood?"

"I only know one Robin Hood, and he steals from the rich. Ya'll thieves?" Robin bristles before Hood interrupted.

"We're vigilantes. This is our city. Now, what are you doing?"

"Vigilantes?" His scoff quickly turned into dismay. "Oh, fiddlesticks. You're the Lady's cauldron." He groaned and looked up at the smog filled sky as if praying for strength. "This is my fault. I should have verified your signatures, but you're some of the most liminal I've met in years. How was I to know?"

Hood and Robin just looked at him while he seemed to have a mini-breakdown before he started patting himself down and going through his pockets.

"Hello, local vigilantes." He read, "You may call me Phantom. I am the assigned mechanic to your universe, 3969-XDM." He gave a little wave. "I am currently running diagnostics and correcting a broken loop caused by an unauthorized temporal readjustment. Please allow me to complete my task before further corruption and failures develop. Feel free to ask questions after my mission is complete." He gave another smile at them before tucking the card away and turning back to the anomaly. His arms were already back inside as both Robin and Red Hood drew their weapons.

"Okay. This is fine. Totally okay." He began emptying his pockets at his feet. A hammer, a rubber duck, an Allen wrench, fake vampire teeth, a few batteries... was that an avocado? "Breaks every rule I was supposed to maintain, but c'est la demi-vie."

He exclaimed triumphantly as he pulled out a stack of index cards. He went through each one, "No, no, nope, definitely not. Aha!" He put the other cards back in his pocket before he took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and put on a smile that Robin might have seen Tim use as he went into a WE boardroom.

"Hey! Back away from the magical window."

Phantom frowned at them. "No. I told you I gotta fix this loop. The corruption is starting to cause issues." He narrowed his eyes at Hood as if sizing him up before nodding and going back to his task. "You of all people should want this fixed. That feedback can not be good for you."

Hood switched off his safety. "What are you talking about?"

Robin was just about to move forward when Batman landed beside him.

"Unknown, alias Phantom. Step back and stand against the opposite wall." Phantom gave him an unimpressed eye and raised a single eyebrow. Robin knew what his response would be.

"No." He retorted before he snapped his arms within the anomaly. The window gave a bright flash of light with a shower of sparks. The electricity hummed and danced across Phantoms form before settling into a soft lullaby. The energy within the window calmed and flowed gently. Phantom stood back, then clapped his hands, causing the anomaly to vanish in another shower of glitter.

As it vanished, Robin realized Hood had staggered and stumbled into the wall with his hand on his head.

"Hood!" Red Robin jumped down beside Hood hands hovering over him, unsure if Hood would accept any physical assistance.

"I.. I'm fine. I. I'm actually fine. What was that? What did you do?" Even with the distortion, Hoods voice was filled with awe.

Phantom had moved to lean against the opposite wall from where his anomaly had been. All his pocket hodgepodge was no longer visible. "I told you, fixing the loop. You were ridiculously affected. Mass amounts of feedback. Feeling better? Not so angy?"

Robin expected Hood to bite Phantoms head off and was thrown when, instead, he laughed. Hood stood up with the help of Red Robin. He took off his helmet, disregarding his brother and father's protests despite the domino he still had on, and grinned at Phantom.

"You have no idea. I was murderous all the time. I can finally breathe." As if to prove the point, he took a deep breath before laughing joyfully. Robin saw how this new laugh visibly shocked both Red Robin and Batman. "He cured the pit rage. Holy shit. C'mere." Hood quickly strode over and wrapped Phantom in a hug. "Thank you so fucking much." Phantom awkwardly patted his back.

"Eh, no problem, big guy. Glad I could help!" As they stepped apart, Phantom rocked forward on the balls of his feet. "So.... I'm gonna just go, now."

Batman took a step forward. "No. We have questions."

Phantom slumped and sighed. "Yeah, I figured. Ok, tall, dark, and brooding. Where ya taking me? I respectfully request to keep my purpose here limited to a small few as the knowledge can create another loop, and it's a pain in the ass to locate."

Batman nodded before gesturing to the batmobile that was rolling to a stop by the alley. Phantom looked mildly apprehensive before Hood moved up beside him and knocked shoulders.

"Don't worry, Phantom. What you did for me, I'll shoot pretty much anyone who'd wanna do ya harm. The old man included." Phantom laughed and let Hood guide him into the rear seat of the batmobile with Hood sliding in beside him.

Robin shook his head. He left Red Robin at the scene calling JLD to investigate. He had to race to his bike if he wanted to be there when this Phantom was interrogated.

[geddyqueer]

Hi! I just re-read A Tunnel To Walk Through and, once again, I feel like an old coat that's been flipped inside-out; the way you write both Buck and Tommy is so lovely, I love Tommy's cousins and aunt; and also (at the risk of oversharing, sorry) as someone who's struggled with depression my entire life, Tommy's internality hits really really true for me, and, like, thank you? ig? for writing smth that so closely mirrors my experience, and still giving him a quote unquote happy ending - it kinda makes me believe that I won't die at my own hand even tho I've always been kinda convinced that's what would happen? anyway. I hope this makes sense, sorry for rambling, hope the tmi didn't make you too uncomfortable 😅 if you feel like it, I'd love to read some more from the This Be The Verse xx

hi my very sweet anon. ily. I wrote this fic for everyone but also for myself but also crucially for you. big hug if you want it and also give yourself a hefty pat on the back from me for making it this far… one step at a time!!! we’re Sisyphus on the mountain of life! and there’s no such thing as tmi in my inbox I work with body fluids for a living lol.

for your rambles you get a snippet:

Seth's wife Carina finds them again as they're waiting in a doorway for some uncle or another to clear out of the way. "I wanted to apologize," she says quietly, looking around like someone's going to call her out. "I don't think he ever realized that the way he saw your dad might not have been the same way you saw him."

"You don't have to apologize for him," Tommy says, in that endearing baffled tone that Buck loves so much. The one he breaks out when he's saying things like, "you're inviting me to your sister's wedding?" or "you really believe in ghost curses?" 

"Well, maybe someone should," she says. "Your dad was really nice to us, but—I get that things can be complicated. I'm from Ohio."

Seth calls her name and waves her over, and she smiles sadly as she leaves.

"She's… from Ohio? Is that supposed to mean something?" Buck asks. "Is that, like, a pop culture reference that went over my head?"

Tommy looks equally confused. "Is she trying to say she's, like… with it?"

"Being from Ohio is the new enlightenment?"

"Ohio. Where family relationships go to die?"

"Welcome to Ohio," Buck says. "The understanding state."

"God, she and Seth are perfect for each other," Tommy says. "I don't fucking get a single thing either of them say."

[emeraldserenade]

Not So Serious Business ~ Joaquín Torres

synopsis: Joaquín always thought you were serious, but he was proven wrong

tw: fem!reader, assistant!reader, I got carried away; this was supposed to be a drabble, reader low key had childhood trauma, reader says basketball isn't her thing, barely edited.

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

This is based off the fact that my sister and I have been quoting TikToks to each other nonstop lately. Also, I just want to complain about this bird (it may not be a bird) absolutely screaming in the tree outside my window. It's driving me insane and it's midnight for me.

➽──────────────❥

You were warned about men like Joaquín, the ones that joke a lot. You were always told that they wouldn't be able to be serious, that if they were always joking, what does that mean for serious moments. And maybe there was some truth to that, maybe some men do joke instead of dealing with things. But Joaquín? Joaquín was different. Sure, he joked around and tried to ease tension with a well placed joke. But he was able to be serious when he needed to be.

Based on how you grew up, you tried to be serious all the time. You had it drilled into your head that to be loved, you need to be serious. Maybe that's how you came to such a high level job, the assistant to Captain America and Falcon.

Joaquín Torres was everything you tried to stay away from. A playful man with boyish charm and charming smile. But he was serious when he had to be, he could flip the switch as soon as he needed. It was jarring a first, you had built walls for the joking Joaquín. Not the one with a deadly handsome look he got when he was focused, when he had to lock in and make sure Sam wasn't running into a trap.

But his smile never stopped, even when he was telling Sam that there may be a trap, he would smile over at you. It was an easy one, one that was meant to calm your nerves for your boss. And it worked, it always worked. His smile always calmed you down and allowed you to focus on the mission for the report Sam would eventually forget to fill out.

Joaquín would never say it aloud, but he thought you didn't like him. You would only smile at him if he smiled first or made a particularly good joke. It drove him crazy because he wanted to believe that everyone liked him, that he wasn't annoying or too much. Sam would only laugh and shake his head when Joaquín brought it up. Sam was a smart man, he saw the way you would turn away when Joaquín joked to hide your smile. Or the way you would smile at the back of Joaquín's head when he was speaking and not looking towards you.

Joaquín also thought you were too serious, that you should smile more. Not in the weird misogynistic way, but in the way it seemed like you were always stressed. It's why he could believe his ears when he heard you softly sing to yourself as you worked. "I cleaned so deep I got out all my anger, omg da pine. I cleaned so deep I'm now fun to be around again, omg da pine. I cleaned so deep I started to cry cause I'm working through some things, omg free therapy. I cleaned so deep that dirt now fears me. Oh em gee da pine," you had used the same intonation and drawn out vowels as the TikTok.

"Please not you too," Sam muttered and you looked over at him.

"Huh?" You tilted your head to the side as you looked at Sam.

"My nephews have been singing 'omg da pine' nonstop since that TikTok," Sam groaned, rubbing a hand down his face to try and get rid of the annoyance at the sound.

"Oh, sorry," you mumbled and Sam gave you some murmured reassurance that it's nothing you need to apologize about. Joaquín, however, was having a light mental crisis. You, the stoic and serious you, had seen the Pine-Sol ad that seemed so uncharacteristically you. He found himself wondering what else he had gotten wrong about you, maybe you were as serious as you put out.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

"Nothing beats a Jet2 holiday," Joaquín mumbled to himself as you walked past.

You fought your own urge to say the next sentence but failed. "And right now you can get 50 pounds off per person, that's 200 pounds off for a family of four," you mumbled back before continuing your walk to your desk. Joaquín watched you walk away with a confused face, it was probably because it was such a popular sound. That's what Joaquín thought.

"We're all leaving early," Sam announced as he walked in. "But only if you two come play basketball with me," Sam threw the ball at you and you caught it.

"I used to have hoop dreams before I found out there are others ways to score," you said.

"What?" Sam scrunched his eyebrows at you and you shrugged.

"If you're going to be my bitch, then you cannot be a whore," you finished with a mostly straight face.

"I swear, you're secretly the most online out of the three of us," Sam muttered as you threw the ball back at him.

"Maybe, also I don't play basketball," you replied, sitting back down at your desk.

"Nope, get up," Sam pulled your seat out from under your desk. "You don't have to play but you are coming with us," Sam added, shaking your chair until you stood.

"Ok, ok," you laughed, pushing his shoulder lightly.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

On your drive to the basketball court, you started to think back to when you started loosing up. Maybe it was when you started noticing that you actually liked Joaquín and you thought being more of yourself would help your chances. Or maybe it was when Sam had pulled you aside and let you know that you were allowed to relax around the two. That you didn't need to always be so professional and serious all the time. "You got this," you told yourself in the rearview. You had arrived before both the boys, having avoided the traffic, so you had time to shimmy out of your work pants and shimmy on the pair of shorts you had in your bag while in your care. You quickly took the button down off and adjusted your tank top to sit a little better.

You opened your car door, swung your legs out the open door, and swapped your work flats for the converse you kept in your car. You got out once you had them tied and when you looked to your left, you saw Joaquín getting out of his car. He apparently had time to swap his shirt for one of his cut off shirts and his jeans for a pair of basketball shorts. His shoes were the same ones he had worn to work but you had also seen him wear them when he sparred with Sam. "Have you seen Sam?" Joaquín asked as he saw you.

"No, I just got out of my car," you said as you made sure your car was locked.

"I'm right here!" Sam called from farther down the parking lot and you both turned to look at him. "You look relaxed," Sam said towards you and you shrugged.

"All I did was change my clothes," you replied, walking along with the boys to the court.

"And that can do a lot," Sam told you cryptically.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You watched as Joaquín and Sam played one-on-one basketball but spied Isaiah walking over. "Hey," Isaiah greeted you.

"Hey," you smiled at him as he sat down with you.

"You aren't playing?"

"No, basketball is my thing," you replied as you took a breath. You both fell into a comfortable silence as you watched Joaquín and Sam keep going. Sam got the ball in and apparently that meant Joaquín had lost, but you hadn't fully been paying attention to the game. You had been distracted by Joaquín's arms on show covered in sweat for most of the game. Your attention only diverting to how his curls bounced with certain movements and how his chest rose and fell faster after ended the game.

"Alright, pretty boy, my turn," Isaiah called out to Joaquín and the two traded placed. Unlike Isaiah, Joaquín sat close enough for your shoulders to brush.

"You did good," you told him, watching him smile widely.

"Thanks," Joaquín thought about his next words carefully. "Why are you normally so serious?" Joaquín cursed himself for not thinking longer.

"Oh," you paused as you looked over to him again. "It's just how I was raised," is what you settled on telling him.

"I like it more when you're more carefree, it's like I get to see the real you," Joaquín told you softly.

"Do you like the real me?" You asked just as softly.

"More than I probably should," Joaquín admitted, his smile softening.

"Kiss her, pretty boy!" Isaiah called over, neither of you had noticed both him and Sam staring.

"You know, it's pretty disrespectful to disobey your elders," you told Joaquín, a joking smile painting your lips.

"Wouldn't want to be disrespectful," Joaquín muttered before your lips met. "Would you like to get dinner tonight? Or we could start the date right now and leave these two," Joaquín said.

"I'd love to," you told him, taking the hand he offered after he stood.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests If you want to be added to the tag list, follow the directions on my masterlist

[sodapopkiss6]

Was thinking about a 'what if' Sylus's confidence as a good boyfriend wavers and he starts to doubt himself. And him also being jealous of Zayne and Caleb. It was supposed to be a short funny drabble but then it turned deep idk. It was mostly inspired by a scene in a webtoon I read but I forgot the name of it LMAO.

After a long day at work, you put on your pj's and get ready to relax. Sylus looks at you as you go about your routine. He loves the casualness of it.

However, he notices a change in your routine when you sit down on the bed and put an unfamiliar cream on your feet.

Curious, he asks, "Did you just buy that? I don't remember getting it for you"

"Oh no, Zayne gave it to me. He noticed that my feet were sore cause of work"

"I see," his jaw clenches, and he forces himself to keep smiling. "How kind of the doctor"

Oblivious, you smile "Yeah he's super nice, always looking out for me"

"Is that so?" He grits.

Before the bubble of anger could grow, though, he quickly shoots it down. You have every right to have friends, to spend time with others, and recive gifts from said friends. He won't let his negative feelings get in the way of your happiness.

He relaxes his face and extends his hand. "Would you like me to do it for you? I can give you a massage too"

Your face lights up. "Yes! Thank youuu"

The two of you get comfortable and talk about your day, Sylus’s hands skillfully releasing all the tension and pain in your feet.

The bubble only forgotten for now.

The next time he feels it is when your other childhood friend comes by.

Hearing the doorbell ring, he opens the door.

"Colonel"

"Oh, hey" Caleb peaks around awkwardly. "Where's my pipsqueak?"

Sylus grips the door, "my girlfriend is taking a shower, just got in, won't be out for a while"

The other man chuckles. "Yup, I know how much she loves her long showers"

Sylus fights the bubble that tries to float up, "Since my girlfriend is busy, you can tell me what you need"

Caleb looks at him for a moment, sizing him up before sighing.

"I came by to drop these over," he hands Sylus a big bag.

"Her period is soon, and she usually gets really hungry a couple of days before, so I thought I'd bring her some of her favorites"

Sylus can feel his restraint slipping. Part of him wants to throw the food and stomp on it like a child. Another part of him wants to decline and give it back to him. But the last part, the rational and mature one decides to accept it and fake a smile.

"I'll let her know, anything else?"

"No, that's it" Caleb turns away, but suddenly turns back smirking "Oh actually, please tell her that her Caleb loves her very much and hopes she enjoys his food"

Sylus slams the door and walks away. He knows he's being childish but he started it.

Putting the food away, he takes note of the contents. 'I bet I can make it better,' he thinks before mentally kicking himself. Something is wrong with him lately. He's more sensitive and possessive when it comes to you. He doesn't like it. He's always encouraged your freedom, and the last thing he wants to do is tamper with it.

So he pushes that strange bubble down and fakes a smile when he sees you walking towards the kitchen.

"I heard the door. Did you order something?"

"No, your...pilot friend came by and dropped some food off"

Your eyes light up. "Caleb brought food?" You go to the fridge and squeal when you see your favorite meals.

"Aww, he's so thoughtful, I'm gonna call him real quick to thank him, okay?" You go to Sylus and peck his cheek.

"Of course, take your time sweetie, do you want me to heat any of them up?"

"Mm, sure the one at the front please!"

You run off to your shared room, and Sylus prepares your food. He has to admit it does smell good. 'But I can definitely do better'.

When you're done with your call, you come back to eat, sharing some of it with Sylus.

Begrudgingly, he accepts it, opening his mouth each time your hand is near.

The bubble dissappears for now, replaced with fondness at your stifled giggles.

"You look cute when you let me feed you"

Sylus shakes his head amused. "Only you would think that"

Sylus racks his brain for ideas. How can he be kind and thoughtful?

He tries copying what your friends do, and while you're very verbal about how thankful and happy you are, he has yet to hear you say those two words.

He would be patient though, and try again, maybe soon you'll utter those words when speaking of him.

Sylus loses his patience. He overhears you calling the twins kind and thoughtful. As soon as you're gone, he corners them and interrogates them. Turns out they bought you cookies since you looked like you had a rough week at work.

Sylus sighs and let's them go.

He doesn't get it. He's bought you countless things, rare precious gems, things that caught your eye, everything that was in your wish list.

What was he missing? What was it that made someone kind and thoughtful in your eyes?

He's grumpy and quiet for the rest of the day, and you, of course, notice.

Late into the night, the two of you get ready to go to bed, you keep an eye on him, waiting for the right moment to speak up.

When he slips into bed next to you, you cuddle him, rubbing a hand on his bare chest.

"Sy?"

He hums, "yes?"

"We need to talk"

Sylus tenses and his mind races with possibilities. Pushing every negative thought to the back of his mind.

He swallows.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, well- not with me, I just noticed you've been a bit... different lately, is everything okay? You know you can talk to me"

Sylus sighs, of course you noticed.

"I don't know what you're talking about"

"Sylus..." You say, leaving no room for excuses.

"Fine" he tries to put his feelings into words, "would you consider me to be someone...kind and thoughtful?" he groans in his mind, saying it out loud is making him feel self conscious.

"What?" you look at him confused before sitting up "wait was someone being mean to you again? who was it? I'll go have a talk with them"

Before you can stand his hand reaches for your arm to pull you back "Easy there, kitten, no one will find someone wearing a panda onesie with overalls threatening"

"You're wearing one too" you point out.

"And do I seem threatening at the moment?"

"Nope!" you plop down on his chest "you look like a big cute plushie"

"So, what really happened?" you say going back to the topic.

Sylus groans again, he really doesn't want to say it. How is he supposed to explain that pang in his heart when the other two men are close to you. How jealous he is that you have yet to call him those two words that you call everyone else-

Jelous?

him?

His hands move to cover his face, there is no way he is jealous, why would he be? you chose him. Sure the other two men are good options as well, one being a doctor that can offer you a calm and domestic lifestyle and the other being a colonel that can keep you safe, not to mention the bond the two have you have had for years. But surely he is better...right?

How long will it be until you grow tired of his lifestyle though? as time goes on you'll become a bigger target, you'd eventually move in with him. His line of work requires him to travel at odd times and for uncertain periods. You'd be alone, anything could happen and the thought of you being hurt because of him makes his heart stop.

He's afraid, of losing you, of hurting you. Afraid that he may not be what's best for you despite you being what's best for him. He needs you, want's you, it's selfish, but he can't help but be greedy.

His body looks for yours, holding on to it tightly as a broken sob escapes him.

"Please don't leave me"

"Sy?-" you try to look at him but his face is hidden in the crook of your neck.

"-we're finally together again, please don't leave"

His mind is racing, half of it confused at his uncharacteristic behavior and the other afraid. It's strange, he's never felt this way before, confidence came as natural as breathing for him.

You try a different approach, hands moving to rub at him soothingly as you hum. Your voice never fails to relax him.

Little by little his cries die down and his mind becomes quieter. You take it as a sign to speak.

"Sylus, I would never leave you, I don't know how you came to that conclusion" You gently push his hair back, leaving a small kiss on his forehead "I love you, there is no one I love nor will love more than you. You're stuck with me for all eternity" you joke.

He chuckles weakly "that's quite a long time"

"I suppose"

Your hand moves to cup his cheek, "feeling better?"

He nods, "mhm"

You smile "I'm glad, and about your question earlier...I do I think you are very kind and thoughtful, honestly I could talk for hours about why I believe so. But to put it simply it's the way you care, it's a grounding presence that makes me feel seen and loved. You always notice even the smallest details"

"You're an amazing man and an amazing boyfriend" you decide to go for it "andmaybesomedayyoucouldbemyamazinghusband?"

"husband?" he likes the way it sounds especially when you call him yours.

"I'm sorry now is probably not the best time-"

"No" his hand reaches for yours to kiss your knuckles "it's perfect" you're perfect.

He will do everything he can to keep you happy, with you he'll build a home, a family, anything the two of you desire. Going as far as turning the N109 zone into a field of flowers or an empire for you.

He pushes all his worries aside. The two of you will figure everything out together.

idk why but I keep writing this man crying is it a sign that a sad card is coming soon?

Tags:

@caterpillar-in-disguise

[fauxparadoxx]

Omg hi! I just stumbled across your blog and might I just say, I love your dynamics! Extra Credit was so good I need a pt 2 😩 I really want to see the relationship between reader and Atlas if they dated and the people's reaction ❤️❤️

Keep up the good work! 🫶😍

ofc <3, you're the first person to take advantage of my request box, so I'm more than happy to fulfill your request here!!!

Extra Credit Pt 2 — Popular Yandere x Nerd Reader

You're "dating" him now. Or at least, that's what everyone says.

You haven’t defined anything. Haven’t kissed him. Haven’t given permission for the school to redraw its social map around your desk, now permanently claimed by Atlas Crowe and his glitter-dusted notebooks. But he walks you to class. Carries your bag. Knows your schedule, even the moments you forget. And when he talks to you, his voice gentles, like he's taming something wild.

The rest of the world doesn’t understand it.

“She’s such a fucking geek,” someone mutters in the hallway. “He could have anyone, and he chooses...her?”

It’s not envy—it’s confusion. Your existence unsettles the script. The golden boy wasn’t supposed to spiral around a socially invisible academic. And yet, he does. With a fervor that borders devotion.

One afternoon, Atlas presents you with a student ID card. It’s not yours. The picture’s grainy, but the name is familiar—someone who used to talk to you in AP Lit, now mysteriously homeschooled.

“I found out she called you creepy once. Thought you should know,” he says simply. You don’t ask how he got it.

"Why should what people like her say concern me?" you say meekly, as he stares at you, pure devotion pooling in his greenish-yellow eyes.

Later, you receive an anonymous post: The King has fallen. She rules him now. It’s written in calligraphy—Stangley, in your most frequently used font. One kid even made a banner of your face photoshopped beside Atlas under the caption Academic Royalty starts circulating, half satirical, half reverent.

You're supposed to laugh. Instead, you change your lockscreen.

During debate club, Atlas sits in the back. He never speaks. Just watches as you dissect arguments with a surgeon’s grace. After one particularly vicious win, he kisses your temple in front of everyone. The room goes silent.

“You’re terrifying,” he whispers against your skin. “That’s my favorite thing about you.”

That night, your post gets 83 comments. Most are theories.

Some say you bewitched him. Others say you hacked his grades. Most genuinely believe you're dating to destroy the popular caste system from within.

You shut the laptop and feel it again—that pressure. Atlas doesn’t just want you. He wants your entire world. Wants to imprint onto your thoughts, wear your interests like a second skin. He quotes you in conversation, even when you're not around.

“I heard her say this once, she's so cute...” he tells his friends, describing your opinion on moral relativism like it’s gospel.

And yet, when he looks at you, it’s not just obsession. There’s awe. Atlas Crowe—Varsity, Valedictorian, Venus incarnate—is starstruck by you.

“I know you're uncomfortable,” he says one day after class, hand ghosting yours. “But I swear, I’d rather be weird beside you than worshipped by anyone else.”

You let him hold your hand. You let the rumors breathe. You allow yourself to wonder, maybe, what it would be like to truly belong to someone like that—fully, recklessly, inexcusably.

And Atlas? He keeps collecting your devotion like extra credit.