#How to reduce spacing between lines in word or windows

[shallowseeker]

I do love the first "shop-talk" scene in 4x02:

and not just because it effortlessly, primally occurs in THE KITCHEN MY SPECIAL INTEREST (and it's a late-night kitchen-talk at that... how intimate!) There's just... so much more to this scene that I want to ramble about!

First, there's something so adorably "big brother" about Dean taking the floor while Sam gets the couch:

But in terms of symbols...

In this dreamscape, the living room represents a known place. It’s a familiar territory, a space shaped by childhood and the daily rhythms of a little brother Dean knows like his own heartbeat.

In this shot with Sam, we see "an open window" and the clearly lit figure of the kid Dean grew up with—(well raised, really).

Here, Dean knows the rules. He knows how to move, how to deflect, how to care. He knows his mission. His role. His scripted lines.

BUT

Here, the kitchen is different. Murkier. It’s not representing the known rhythms of childhood. It's an emerging, liminal, domestic space.

The windows are flanked by shutters, filtering the light. There’s no clear view to be had... only silhouettes and suggestion. (This is the space of adulthood. Of individuation. Rawness, fear, and confusion abound!)

Unlike their first meeting, Cas doesn’t burst in with wings and thunder. He stands still. Quiet. Mysterious. Secretive? A stranger, yes—but one who already sees Dean in ways that unsettle him.

And ofc, this isn’t just a conversation. It’s a visitation—a mythic moment that happens while Dean is vulnerably caught between states: sleep and waking, safety and fear, childhood and transformation.

Cas is imposing, a low-level threat presence, but he waits for Dean to approach.

Aaaaaaaaaand

CAS: Excellent job with the witnesses.

Cas opens with shop talk. It’s clinical. Detached. The tone is 10000% at odds with the intimate motif of the dark kitchen. We've somehow launched straight into the "We raised you out of Hell for work," vibes, like Dean is a mission parameter, not a person.

But it’s not cruelty—it’s just his angelic default. It’s how Cas knows how to speak. Orders. Objectives.

War room briefings.

And Dean seems… strangely betrayed by this.

Not because Cas has done something obviously cruel, but because of what’s missing—human warmth, care, acknowledgment. (You were hip to all this? You did nothing? You?)

Dean is offended, even affronted—but beneath that, he’s clearly craving some kind of warmth.

Who knows why he expects it?

And then—Cas fidgets. Just barely. A shift. A pause.

There's this little "uh" that slips out in his answer. It's such a small thing, but in context, it's HUGE. Dean asked something direct—accusatory, maybe even vulnerable—and Cas can't seem to give a clean answer:

CAS: I was, uh, made aware.

Dean reacts bigly.

What’s endlessly fascinating about this moment to me is that his sense of betrayal seems soooo genuinely emotional. His pivot to sarcasm—"Well, thanks a lot for the angelic assistance"—quickly escalates into something almost childlike: "I almost got my heart ripped out of my chest!"

First, the line reads like an appeal: "Don’t you care that I was in danger? *I* was in danger!" It reads like he's low-key fishing for a reaction, testing whether Cas felt any way about that fact.

Second, his body language zeroes in on his own chest—his heart. He gestures forcefully, repeatedly. It’s not just verbal—it’s visceral, almost like his body is trying to say what his words can’t: Don't you care? Don’t you feel? I'm hurt. Worry about me!!!!

And Cas?

Cas answers with a flat, "But you didn't."

It’s even. Unbothered. It lands like a brush-off, like he’s reducing Dean’s very real, very human fear to a statistical non-event.

You’re overreacting. That’s the subtext Dean picks up here.

Which of course causes Dean to get even more huffy:

DEAN: "I thought angels were supposed to be guardians—fluffy wings, halos—you know, Michael Landon. Not dicks."

And well. It's another appeal, really. Dean's saying, "I thought you were supposed to protect us. Protect me."

But also it's so funny because Dean is low-key insulting him. He's of course testing Cas—feeling him out, trying to see if Cas even CARES, but it's so hilarious, too. They're already sniping!

Cas remains stubbornly even. Stoic. Hard.

CAS: "Read the bible. I'm a soldier."

(It reads like: "So what if I AM a dick, Dean? What then? Beware. I'm cruel. I'm warning you. THIS is what I am.")

But I love how Dean remains obstinate nevertheless. ("Yeah? A soldier, huh? Why didn’t you fight?") And Cas doesn't give. ("I’m not here to perch on your shoulder.")

Their attitudes clash, beat for fucking beat!!!! Cas sways forward aggressively, squaring up like he's starting to get a bit ruffled by Dean’s testing: "We had larger concerns."

Excuses, excuses.

It spirals further as Dean starts mining for more—emotional—information. "Concerns? There were people getting torn to shreds down here!”

Again, he's in a coded way feeling out if Cas cares about PEOPLE: "Don't you care?"

(Don't you care don't you care don't you CARE?)

Because here's the kicker: There’s something about Cas that makes Dean suspect he does.

Maybe it’s the way Cas holds himself. Or when he chooses to look away—shame, maybe?—or maybe just how Cas settles his breathing when challenged. (Cas stiffens and digests things in ways that read like guilt.)

Whatever it is, Dean picks up on those small signs and it TOTALLY emboldens him to keep hurling his emotions at him!

The conversation goes even deeper after that, lurching into dangerous territory for both, territory about values and Faith.

DEAN: “And by the way, while all this is going on, where the hell is your boss, huh? If there is a God? ... I’m not convinced. Because if there is a God, what the hell is he waiting for, huh?”

And throughout this entire exchange, Cas’s doubts are visible in his body language.

Frankly, I think that’s what gives Dean the courage to push so hard. It’s like he sees through the armor, maybe thinking to himself: "Jeez, maybe this angel doubts all this bullshit, too."

Unfortunately for Dean, when Dean breaks, he breaks wide open.

DEAN: "What the hell is he waiting for, huh? Genocide? Monsters roaming the earth?" This is very raw. "The freaking apocalypse? At what point does he lift a damn finger? And help the poor bastards that are stuck down here?"

For some reason—some maddening, magnetic reason, whether it’s the nonverbal cues or recently dying and going to Hell or whatever—it just cracks Dean apart. Even as he’s trying to get Cas to break, to flinch, to feel, it’s Dean who’s unraveling.

Of course it’s also: At what point do YOU lift a finger? Why didn’t you help ME? I almost died. Other people DID. That’s the real question pulsing underneath Dean’s rant. He’s not just condemning Heaven. He’s confronting Cas the individual as much as his own crisis of faith and disappointment.

And Cas... Cas breaks eye contact. He has to.

Not arguing. Just… withdrawing. Retreating into formality. He defaults to a scripted line... doctrine:

At that—Dean explodes.

Why won’t Cas meet him halfway? They’re not on the same emotional wavelength at all. Dean is so frustrated!

And yet, with Dean's "So help me, I will kick your ass!" comes a turning point. Cas literally throws up his hands, and it’s beautiful because it also shows a yielding.

It's a small, rare sign that Cas is finally letting Dean’s truth reach him.

An "Okay, fine."

Dean breathes a beautiful little sigh of relief at that yielding. His shoulders relax. It felt good to get all that out.

Like maybe he feels like—oh my God, hey—maybe they actually got somewhere. Maybe now they can finally really talk.ey can finally really talk. His shoulders relax. It felt good to get all that out...

But then!

Then, adorably, Dean’s eyes dart around in a panic.

Because Dean’s brave to a fault—but even he’s thinking, WHAT THE FUUUUUCK AM I DOING? WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST SAY????

When Dean peeks at Cas again, it’s different.

The air between them has cleared a little bit. There’s a new kind of honesty between them now: raw, foundational, and open.

Dean feels it, and he tentatively broaches that new space. (Because Cas yields—softening just a bit, nonverbally—Dean feels comfortable enough to try.)

So he moves a little closer to Cas, mirrors his body language, and speaks to him like a fellow soldier...

This shoptalk too is yet another coded appeal. It's a: "Please talk to me. Tell me something."

Cas shifts uneasily, throwing out another clipped company line: "big things afoot."

But then!!!!

Then Cas decides to tell him... what he can.

"But you need to know," is code for, "I'll tell you what I can." It functions as a bit of rationalized logic. You NEED to know, so it's okay if I tell you.

And so, they fall easily into what will become their infamous rhythm. As Dean moves forward to tentatively join Cas by the sink, Cas can’t help but lean in just a little—another subtle fidget.

They're swaying into each other's space.

As they inch closer, testing one another, the light from the blinds slices across their faces, casting all these sharp lines and shadows.

And as they test each other and throw their frustrations and emotions at one another, they see each other a little more clearly.

[fastboatsmojito]

🕸️ Promptober Day Eighteen - Dumbification 🕸️

| a/n; changed the Promptober schedule up a bit so I can actually finish everything <3

Promptober schedule here !

| cw; 18+ smut btc, title, he calls you bunny twice - mostly to make fun of your costume, scotts kinda mean as per usual <3, porn then a little plot then porn again oh my!

| wc; 710

☾⋆⁺₊⋆

You had no choice but to be between him and the warm leather seat of his company car, your much cozier motel room currently occupied by the rest of the teams celebrating in their respected costumes.

You had a costume too, it was just currently residing on the car floor, well forgotten as you focused on the words and movements of the man above you. It wasn’t the most comfortable, one of your legs dangling over the seat while the other was wrapped tight around his hip.

“That good, huh?” He gruffed, spearmint chilled breath fanning over your face. If you had it in you you’d scoff at the smugness of his voice, but your brain didn’t seem to reach your mouth. His hand squishing your cheeks together, thin line of drool connecting your mouth to the space linking his thumb and pointer.

☾⋆⁺₊⋆

God, it wasn’t fair. He wasn’t even wearing a costume, not that you thought he would. You assumed he wouldn’t even come but here he was, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. A poor excuse for a party guest at your poor excuse for a Halloween party.

You were sporting a bunny costume, adjusting your ‘ears’ as you frowned. Completely drowning out whatever Javi was trying to talk to you about.

“One second, Javi.”

You barely excused yourself before walking over, mirroring his stance in front of him.

“Don’t you have something better to do than stand around being pissed off at my party?”

“I’m not pissed off.” He scoffed, eyes drifting over your costume.

“You’re not even wearing a costume, Scott.” The crisp autumn air drifting through the open window, even in your less than modest outfit, wasn’t enough to cool you off now.

“You call that a costume? You’re barely wearing any clothes.” He smirked, the pop of his gum echoing in your ears as you shifted where you stood, suddenly feeling less assertive than you had walking up.

“That’s the point? Anyway, no one’s making you stay here. If you’re not having fun you should just leave.”

“Who said I’m not having fun?” He retorted, eyes dancing over you. You glanced at his mouth, watching his jaw as he chewed that stupid fucking gum that had the tendency to drive you crazy in one way or another.

Then your eyes were on his arms, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the mere sight a common work distraction turned lecture. A thought you were ignoring until you suddenly weren’t, grabbing his arm tight and dragging him out the door and into the chill of the night.

☾⋆⁺₊⋆

The harsh winds right outside weren’t doing anything for the sweat draped over your skin, body almost sticking to the seat below you as he slammed his hips into your own.

“You think I wouldn’t notice how you were looking at me all night?” He was panting over you, rugged, harsh voice over the moans you were trying to muffle, teeth chewing on your bottom lip as he kept his eyes locked on your own.

“Can’t speak anymore bunny?” He leaned in to whisper the name right over your ear, condescending tone making your eyes roll - if you could speak you’d probably call him an idiot, still intent on not letting him know just how much you needed this. Though the embarrassingly loud sounds he was drawing out of you were evidence enough.

He knew just how to get you right where he wanted you, shaky breaths stolen from your mouth as you could feel your brain being reduced to nothing. Soft at least at first with his hand against your cheek - just enough to make it almost impossible to think about anything else.

You were barely registering his voice as he hit just the right spot inside of you. His hand on your waist digging into your skin, squeezing your eyes shut as your nails scratched marks you could practically already hear him teasing you about leaving all over his back.

Before you could complain about the sudden cramp in your legs his hands moved under your back, lifting you up and settling onto the seat under him with you in his lap. Crossing your arms when the arm not wrapped around you relaxed above the seat next to him. Surely he wasn’t expecting you to do all the work.

“Come on, don’t tell me you’re a bunny that can’t even hop.”

☾⋆⁺₊⋆

[bookloover35]

The Revolutionary Tango, Enjolras x fem reader.

The café hummed with subdued chatter, the air thick with the smell of cheap wine and a faint haze of tobacco. You weren't meant to be there—your world of soft whispers and careful curtsies clashed with the fierce voices rallying for liberty. Yet, here you were, drawn to the sharp fire that burned behind his eyes, to the resolute man whose presence commanded the very air around him.

Enjolras stood by the window, golden hair haloed in the light of the flickering streetlamp. His arms were crossed, his usual air of determination etched into every line of his profile. But tonight, there was something else in his gaze—a spark of mischief, perhaps, or the faintest shadow of exhaustion.

Grantaire's voice rang out across the room. "A dance!" he declared, already tipsy from one too many glasses. "We speak of revolutions, but tonight, my friends, let us live! Come, Enjolras, our fearless leader, surely even you know how to tango?"

Enjolras scoffed, shaking his head. "I hardly think—"

"You will," you said, surprising yourself as you stepped forward. His eyes snapped to yours, pale blue meeting your determined gaze. "Every leader must know how to command a moment. Dance with me."

The room fell silent. The others exchanged glances, half in shock, half in awe of your audacity. For a moment, you thought he would refuse, his prideful stubbornness outweighing any curiosity. But then, with a slow, deliberate step, he moved toward you.

"As you wish," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, and your heart stuttered at the sound.

The musicians scrambled to life, pulling a lively tango from their strings. The first notes slithered through the room, bold and commanding. You extended a hand, and without hesitation, Enjolras took it. His grip was firm, his touch electrifying.

He guided you to the center of the café. You placed your other hand lightly on his shoulder, his settling at your waist, drawing you closer than propriety might allow. The music surged, and you stepped in unison, bodies moving in perfect counterpoint.

The tango was a conversation of defiance and passion, every movement a battle. His gaze never wavered, his piercing eyes fixed on yours, as if daring you to falter. But you didn't. You met him step for step, your foot sliding between his as you spun together, your dress whispering against his coat.

"You're not afraid," he observed, his breath warm against your cheek as he dipped you low.

"Of what?" you countered, voice steady despite the flutter in your chest.

"Of being seen. Of losing control." His hand tightened at your waist as he pulled you upright, twirling you in a swift motion that left your head spinning.

"I could say the same of you," you shot back, a teasing smile curling your lips.

For a moment, his mask slipped. There, behind the stoic resolve, was a man who wanted more—more than revolution, more than glory. Perhaps, for a fleeting second, he wanted this, wanted you.

The final notes of the tango echoed through the room. Enjolras held you in the finishing pose, his hand still firm on your waist, your bodies impossibly close. You were both breathless, the world reduced to the space between you.

The room erupted in applause, but neither of you moved. His eyes searched yours, and for once, the fiery orator seemed at a loss for words.

"Perhaps," he said at last, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it, "you've taught me something tonight."

"And what is that?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"That there's more to life than revolutions."

His lips curved into the faintest smile before he released you, stepping back into himself. But as he walked away, you knew that something had shifted between you—a dance that would echo far beyond the café walls.

[callmezayka]

Fine line - Nikto x Fem!Reader

The rhythmic ticking of the clock above the door echoed through the office, filling the heavy silence between therapist and patient. The air itself felt thick, not just with unspoken words, but with something deeper—a tension, a quiet hesitation, something both of them felt yet neither dared to name.

If someone had told Nikto that, after leaving the army, he would end up sitting across from a therapist, discussing professional ethics, he would have laughed. Loud, bitter laughter. The idea was absurd. Retirement? That was never an option.

And yet, here he was.

His gaze drifted past the therapist, past the room, fixing instead on the window. He searched for the words, the right ones, the ones that would explain what haunted him at night. But all he saw in his mind was her.

A woman with long black hair and the sharpest green eyes he had ever known.

His patient, Eliza Reyes.

Liz.

Nikto had seen horrors men were not meant to see. He had watched soldiers crumble, lives reduced to mere numbers, death becoming routine. It was that brutal, unforgiving reality that had driven him to study psychology while still in service. He wanted to help.

Because, after all, he was a hero.

That was how he had ended up in this place—a mental health facility, but not like the ones in old stories. No padded cells, no straitjackets. A place of rehabilitation. Bright gardens. Open spaces. A refuge.

But Liz… Liz had never belonged anywhere.

“She was one of my first patients,” Nikto muttered. His voice was low, almost reluctant, as if speaking the words would make them more real. He did not look at the therapist. “She did not speak at first. Absolute silence. But, God... she was beautiful. Majestic. The first time I saw her, I thought I was looking at the Angel of Death itself.”

He took a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling smoke into the air as his thoughts wandered. He had always been disciplined, composed. But now? Now he found himself torn between duty and something far more dangerous.

The first time she smiled at him, it had been a trap.

Not a real smile, just the barest curl of her lips, a flicker of something unreadable. He had watched her from a distance, studying her the way he once studied enemies on the battlefield. Liz always sat alone under a tree in the garden, leafing through a book that never seemed to end.

Until one day, he approached her.

“Mythology?” he asked, nodding toward the book in her hands.

She did not reply. Did not even look up. Just turned the page, slow and indifferent.

Nikto sat beside her on the bench, uninvited.

“We had a comrade in the army. He was obsessed with Greek myths. Told us about a man who loved a woman so much he followed her into the underworld to bring her back.”

Liz lifted her gaze. Finally, she looked at him.

“Orpheus and Eurydice.”

Nikto nodded. “That’s the one. The gods gave him permission to take her back. One condition—he could not look behind him. But at the last moment...”

“He did,” she finished. Her voice was soft. Too soft. But there was something beneath it, something raw. A sorrow he recognized all too well.

“Do you think he turned because he did not trust the gods,” Nikto murmured, “or because he could not bear to never see her again?”

Silence. A long one. And then, for the first time, she smiled. A small, sad thing. The kind of smile that came from realizing something terrible about yourself.

That was when he knew he was lost.

Days blurred into weeks. He began watching her more closely.

Liz was unlike the others. Where some waged war against their demons in chaos, she carried hers quietly, like a shadow draped over her shoulders.

She helped people.

She spoke to patients no one else could reach. She calmed the violent ones without a word. She moved through the hospital like a ghost, caught between two worlds.

But sometimes, Nikto caught her alone. And in those rare moments, when she thought no one was watching, Liz allowed herself to break.

Once, he found her in the hallway, back against the wall, eyes closed, chest rising and falling unevenly. He said nothing. Just stood there. Silent. A sentry keeping watch.

“Are you watching me?” she asked after a while.

“No. I just... stay nearby.”

Liz opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. This time, she did not hide the sadness.

“That’s dangerous, Nikto.”

But he did not step back.

And that was his mistake.

The ember of his cigarette burned low. Outside, in the garden, a single rosebush stood alone, caged behind iron bars—a precaution for patients with self-destructive tendencies.

“She carried sorrow like it was part of her soul,” he said finally. “So deep, so carefully hidden, even the other patients mistook her for an angel, or a ghost.”

A pause. The memories spilled free now.

An angel.

An angel that had slipped through his fingers, silent as a final breath.

“It was impossible not to love her,” Nikto admitted. “Impossible not to be drawn to her. I would have brought the world to its knees, razed empires to the ground, if it meant bringing her smile back.”

Silence. Then, for the first time, the therapist spoke.

“If she meant so much… then why? Why did you let her go?”

The question struck like a blow. He knew. He knew his mind was not what it once was. That his grip on reality had frayed.

But to admit it?

To admit it would be surrender.

And Nikto had never been anything but a soldier.

The therapist exhaled. She removed her glasses, rubbing her temples before running a hand through her dark hair. Her gaze dropped to the report in front of her.

Her fingers hovered over the paper before she signed. Each letter felt impossibly heavy.

"Patient shows no improvement in dissociative symptoms. Requesting reassignment to another professional."

She checked the time. The weight of her decision pressed down heavier with each passing second. But there was no turning back now.

She shrugged off her white coat, draping it over the chair, and left the room.

There, by the window, something caught the light.

A small, glinting badge on the coat’s pocket, engraved in elegant script:

Eliza Reyes

Psychologist & Occupational Therapist.

-------------------------------

Wrote this text to a competition so decided to just translate it to Nikto because it sounded like him to me and that's it.

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

Craving You

Pairings: Sirius Black x disabled!reader (part of my poly!marauders x disabled!reader universe) Summary: Sirius Black is a tease and he knows it. Tags: disabled!reader, fem!reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, suggestive references, wheelchair user reader, hogwarts era, late night tension, slow burn but fast escalation, flirting, sirius being impossibly charming and impossibly smug, sirius' hands on your hips is a religious experience, you're so gone for him it's embarrassing, firelight and tension and chocolate, internal heat vs actual fire metaphor, atmospheric buildup, high emotional saturation, deeply mutual thirst Word Count: 1.2k words Series Masterlist

It's late or maybe early, the line blurred by hours spent in seclusion. Curfew has long since passed, a distant memory against the burning now of this moment. Your private quarters are dim, the fire that once roared reduced to glowing embers. Their soft light flickers through the room, casting shadows that dance with each breath of wind from the open window.

Outside, branches scrape against stone, a lullaby in counterpoint to the warmth spreading through your veins. It's not the fire—it can't be, not when it's barely there. No, this is internal, a heat that's been building ever since he walked in, his presence tangible and electric.

Sirius lies sprawled on your bed, a picture of careless ease despite the tension that clings to the air. His dark hair falls across his forehead, obscuring those grey eyes that seem to see too much. You sit across from him, confined to your wheelchair but feeling anything but trapped. The conversation is light, teasing—surface level—but beneath it, something thrums, unacknowledged but potent.

"Pass me one of those," Sirius says, nodding toward the box of liquor-filled chocolates on the table next to you. He stretches as you comply, his shirt riding up just enough to expose a sliver of skin. Your pulse quickens, an echo of the rhythm that's been building all night.

His fingers brush yours as he takes the chocolate, and his grin widens at your sharp intake of breath. "What?" he asks, feigning innocence. But his eyes betray him, gleaming with mischief and something more dangerous—a flame that threatens to consume everything in its wake.

"Something on your mind, doll?" His voice is low, teasing, threadbare restraint unravelling at the edges. He sits up straighter, every line of his body attuned to yours across the narrow expanse of the carriage. The air between you crackles with unspoken promises.

Your heart drums a frenzied rhythm in your chest, the magnetic pull of attraction tugging you towards him. You glance at his lips, then back into his eyes, where the same hunger you feel is mirrored back at you. It's too much—too intense—and yet, not enough. You want more. You need more. The space between you closes.

Without a word, you manoeuvre your chair closer, until it's flush against the side of his bed. Sirius' playful smirk fades into something more intense, his gaze never leaving yours.

His hand reaches out, and you take it, allowing him to guide you onto the bed beside him. His arms wrap around you as he shifts closer, his warmth radiating through the thin fabric of your clothes.

"Finally, I have you right where I want you." His voice is low, husky—a promise that sends shivers down your spine.

And then his lips are on yours—hungry, demanding, desperate. He kisses you as if he's been starved for it, and in this moment, you realise just how much you've craved his touch too. Your hands find their way into his hair, tugging lightly as the kiss deepens.

The taste of him sends a rush of heat through you. His hands roam over your body, tracing lines and patterns that leave your skin tingling in their wake. It's all-consuming—the way his fingers press into your flesh, claiming you as his own. You can't help but respond, arching into his touch, craving more.

He pulls back slightly, lips grazing along your jawline before capturing your bottom lip between his teeth. A soft moan escapes you, and Sirius grins against your mouth, the vibration sending another jolt of desire coursing through your veins.

"Sirius..."

He hears the unspoken plea in your voice, feels the urgency in your touch. His hands move lower, settling on your hips, pulling you onto his lap. Your legs straddle his waist, the fabric of your clothes the only barrier between your bodies. The heat between you is more intense than the crackling fire nearby, yet neither of you make any move to pull away.

His muscles ripple beneath your touch, a silent testament to the restraint he's exerting. The rhythm of his breathing matches yours—shallow and quick, each breath a struggle against the need threatening to consume you both.

Your head falls back as his lips leave yours, trailing hot kisses down your throat. You gasp when his teeth graze the sensitive skin below your earlobe, but the sting is quickly soothed by the gentle press of his lips. He laughs, a low rumble that vibrates against your neck, sending another wave of desire coursing through you. His mouth continues its path downwards, each kiss leaving a lingering warmth on your skin.

"Sirius," you whisper, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him closer, seeking the warmth of his lips against yours once more. A sigh escapes from him, a testament to the desire that hangs heavy in the air between you.

His response is immediate, fervent. The kiss deepens, leaving no room for hesitation or doubt. His hand travels up your back, pressing you closer as if he's trying to merge your bodies into one. Your senses are overwhelmed with him—the taste of him on your tongue, the feel of his skin against yours, the intoxicating scent that is uniquely Sirius.

You lose yourself in the sensation, in the rush of heat that courses through your veins like liquid fire. The world beyond this room ceases to exist; there is only Sirius and the raw intensity of this moment.

Your breath mingles with his, a silent symphony punctuated by soft gasps and quiet moans. The tension builds, a tangible force that threatens to consume you both. But, instead of fear, there is only anticipation, only need.

His hands return to your hips, fingers digging in as if you're the anchor to his storm-tossed world. He pulls you flush against him, a line of fire where your bodies touch. His forehead comes to rest against yours, and for a moment, you both simply breathe, hearts pounding a shared rhythm.

"You drive me fucking insane," he murmurs., lips grazing yours with every word.

A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, breath hitching as his words wash over you. You tilt your head, capturing his lips once more in a slow, deliberate kiss that speaks volumes of the desire uncoiling within you. "Good," you murmur against his mouth, your hands roaming down the planes of his chest, tracing the steady beat of his heart under your fingertips. "Because you drive me insane, too."

His response is a low growl, fingers digging into your waist as he rolls, flipping your positions until you're the one pinned beneath him. He hovers above, dark eyes alight with the same fire that licks at your insides. "I'm not done with you yet, love," Sirius murmurs, voice thickened by the promise of unspoken desires before he's leaning down to capture your mouth once more.

And so, the world outside ceases to exist. The only reality is here, between tangled sheets and whispered confessions, where every touch stokes the flame that threatens to consume you both. There is no thought, no consequence—only the need to be closer, to drown in this intoxicating dance of passion and surrender.

[yanpoetry]

Velvet Chains

Part 12 - A Perfect Day

Paul wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d last seen the outside world. Days blurred together in Zoë’s grasp, his life reduced to the space within her home, the bedroom, the kitchen, the couch where she curled up beside him, pressing too close and murmuring sweet nothings he didn’t dare reject.

But today was different.

Today, she was taking him somewhere.

A park, she had called it. A reward.

He had tried not to let the word stir anything in him, but it had been so long since he’d felt fresh air, seen something beyond the same suffocating walls. The idea of open space, of people who weren’t her, sent a strange, nervous energy buzzing beneath his skin.

A chance.

The car ride was quiet, save for the hum of the tires against the road and the soft lilt of Zoë’s voice as she hummed along to the radio. Paul sat still, hands folded neatly in his lap, watching the world blur past the window. It felt surreal, almost dreamlike, seeing streets he didn’t recognize, buildings he had no memory of.

Had the world really kept moving without him?

Zoë’s fingers tapped against the steering wheel in a steady rhythm. She was in an unnervingly good mood, her lips curled into a contented smile. She hadn’t stopped glancing at him since they left, as if checking to see his reaction, waiting for him to say something.

He didn’t. He knew better than that.

Instead, he let his silence stretch, feigning calm even as his pulse quickened. He needed to be careful. If he let even a flicker of hope show on his face, she’d notice. She always did.

Zoë reached over, resting a hand on his thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“You’re so quiet, baby boy,” she murmured, her voice warm, affectionate. “Excited?”

Paul swallowed. Nodded.

She giggled. “I knew you would be. You deserve something nice after being so good for me.”

Her touch lingered, fingers trailing up and down in slow, lazy strokes. He forced himself to stay still, to let it happen. She was relaxed. That was good. If she was relaxed, she was less careful.

The car turned off the main road, slipping onto a quieter, tree-lined path. Paul’s brows knit together as he watched the scenery shift, more forest, less city. No sidewalks, no signs.

His fingers curled slightly. “Where is this park?”

“Deep in the woods,” she answered, almost absentmindedly. “It’s private. Safer that way.”

Safe. For who?

He let out a slow breath, focusing on the trees passing by. The deeper they drove, the stranger it felt. Something about the road was too clean, the pavement pristine, no cracks, no signs of wear. Like it wasn’t used by the public at all.

Minutes stretched. The hum of the radio filled the space between them, and Paul fought to keep his expression neutral. The excitement that had sparked in his chest when she first mentioned the trip was fading, cooling into something heavier.

They weren’t anywhere near a city park.

His gaze flicked to the dashboard. No GPS. No street signs outside. Just trees and that eerily perfect road stretching endlessly ahead.

His stomach twisted. Stay calm. Don’t let her see.

The car slowed. Up ahead, something loomed in the distance, a gate, tall and black, standing stark against the green of the forest.

Paul’s breath hitched.

At first glance, it looked normal enough. A gated entrance, a security booth tucked to the side. But the longer he looked, the less it felt like a park and more like-

A facility.

The fence extended far beyond what he could see, reinforced steel bars stretching high, topped with something that sent an instinctive chill down his spine. Razor wire.

Paul’s fingers twitched against his thigh. No. No, this isn’t,

The guard approached the driver’s side, and Zoë lowered the window, flashing a sleek black ID card. The moment the guard saw it, his demeanor shifted, expression smoothing into something polite. Respectful.

"Welcome back, Miss Baker," he said, stepping back to wave them through.

The gate groaned as it slid open, revealing a long, paved path beyond.

Paul barely had time to process it before the car moved forward, taking him deeper into a place he already knew he’d never leave.

To be continued…

[trulybetty]

dec' 08 x sweets

Prompt: sweets Pairing: marcus pike x f!Reader Word Count: 3,196 Warnings: barely beta’d, all mistakes my own, this is au and way off the plot of anything to do with The Mentalist, mentions of baked goods and fluff and I apologize for the tough of angst 🍰 Summary: Maplewood, a small town nestled in northern BC where people flock to see the festive decorations of main street and enjoy the festive traditions. It's been a couple months since you arrived in Maplewood and your relationship with Marcus has blossomed, but could there be a road bump ahead that might cloud the festive season? AO3: Linked

x. masterlist

Something Festive This Way Comes Part I

Much like all the businesses and homes in Maplewood, Black Cat Books was fully decked out for the holidays. Between the shelves crammed with books and tables piled high with paperbacks every available space was full of tinsel, baubles and fairy lights. Libby had been absolutely giddy when you’d agreed to help decorate the place. 

You still didn’t know how she managed to store so many seasonal decorations in her storeroom, let alone how she managed to fit decorations into every nook and cranny of the store. Everywhere you looked there was something, all leading to the crowning glory at the front of the store. The bright pink tree she’d decorated with miniature handmade books for the Merry Tree Trek. 

However, since taking your new job your days in the bookstore had been greatly reduced so you jumped at any chance to be in there to find yourself lost in the endless sea of stories and whimsy that both Black Cat Books and Libby offered. 

“Stop trying to get me to walk under the mistletoe,” You complained when Marcus steered you away once again from the string of lights you were fussing with. 

“I have no clue what you’re referring to,” he shrugged nonchalantly as he crossed his arms at his chest, “Just wanted to show you a potential place for more light.”

You looked up pointedly at the mistletoe you were now standing under and raised an eyebrow as you looked back at Marcus, the grin on his face no longer concealable.

“Well, since we’re here, they say it’s bad luck if you don’t…” he trailed off, his lips hovering tantalizingly close to yours. Your breath hitched, your heart fluttered and you closed your eyes, eagerly awaiting the soft press of his lips against yours, the promise of mistletoe magic hanging in the air. 

But a kiss didn’t come.

Frowning, you opened your eyes to find Marcus’s attention taken by something outside the frost-kissed window of the bookstore. 

“Are you okay, Marcus?” you asked, a note of concern hanging off your words as you followed his line of sight across the street to the warmly lit bakery, its windows foggy from the heat within.

Sarah and Maria were holding down the fort allowing you and Marcus the afternoon together and the place appeared to be still standing in one piece. You squinted to try and see what it was that had caught his attention. The only thing that stood out was the lone figure standing in front of the bakery window. 

Taking his hand in yours you gave it a gentle squeeze, “Marcus?” you asked again, and you frowned, his face was pale - it looked like he’d seen a ghost.

You hadn’t seen Marcus in two days. 

Two days since you were both in the bookstore.

It wasn’t as if he’d disappeared altogether, he was currently at the bakery and you had tried the day before to go see him but Frank had turned up and hadn’t taken the hint. So you’d taken your pastry and made your way back to work. 

Speaking of work, your new job at the Maplewood Tourism Board was proving to be a lot more than you had expected for a seemingly sleepy town. 

The Winter Christmas Eve Ball was the crown jewel of Maplewood's holiday season, and as a fresh face on the Tourism Board, you were thrown into the merry deep end. Every day was a whirlwind of phone calls, schedules, and coordination with local businesses. The festive season was a community effort, and everyone wanted to make this year's events more magical than the last.

Tapping your pen against the desk you decided to call it a day. Your head was spinning with festivities and a list of events for the town for the month to organize and there was a promise of a drink over a pizza with Marcus. His offer of an apology to make up for his absence. Work had ramped up with an influx of tourists for the holiday season. Apparently, your short tenure with the tourism board had yielded quick results.

Stepping out of the bustling office, you made your way through the snow-dusted streets of Maplewood, the festive decorations twinkling in the early evening light. As you approached Maple Delights, you could see through the steamed-up windows that the bakery was in full swing, with Sarah cheerfully serving a steady stream of customers.

Pushing the door open, you were greeted by the familiar, comforting aroma of freshly baked goods. The warmth of the bakery enveloped you, a stark contrast to the chill outside. You scanned the shop for Marcus but there was no sight of him.

“Is he around?” you asked from the back of the queue as you caught Sarah’s eye.

Sarah closed the lid on a bright pink cake box, stamped with the bakery logo before she pulled a string of twine to secure it, she nodded to the back, “You’re in luck, he just got back from the coffee shop.”

You nodded your thanks and headed to the back of the shop and to the kitchen. 

Marcus was pulling out a large bowl of what smelled like gingerbread dough when you stepped into the kitchen. 

“Hey, Marcus,” you called out softly, not wanting to startle him.

He looked up, his expression shifting from concentration to surprise, then a warm smile as he recognized you. “Hey! What brings you by? Shouldn't you be neck-deep in Winter Ball plans?”

You walked over, leaning against the counter. “I am, but I needed a break so I left early. I wanted to see how you're doing.”

Marcus wiped his hands on his apron, his smile lingering. “I’m doing alright, just a bit swamped with the holiday rush. Always the same this time of year,” he said, a hint of weariness in his voice.

You nodded, noticing the flour dusting his hair and the tired lines around his eyes. “I can see that. The bakery looks busier than ever,” you paused as you watched him roll out the dough, the scent of ginger and cinnamon filling the kitchen. “…the other day, in the bookstore. You seemed really distracted before we left, you sure everything is okay?”

He hesitated for a moment, then let out a sigh. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just long hours.” Marcus quickly changed the subject, “So, pizza night? I hope you’re ready for my world-famous ‘after-hours bakery pizza’ – it’s a special treat,” he finished with a wink.

Marcus' switch of topics didn't go unnoticed, but you decided not to push any further. 

“Your world-famous pizza, huh? I'm intrigued,” you said with a playful smile, trying to lighten the mood.

Marcus's face lit up at the chance to shift the focus to something more positive, “Just you wait, it's something else.”

The sight of the joy on his face was infectious, “Big promises Pike,” you chided with a smile. 

As the bakery doors closed for the evening, the atmosphere inside shifted. The bustling energy of the day gave way to a more intimate, relaxed setting. It was just you and Marcus, alone with the warmth of the ovens and the soft glow of the kitchen lights.

Your eyes followed his movements as he peeled off his plaid shirt, revealing only a plain black t-shirt that was already dusted with a light layer of flour. You couldn't help but admire him in this simple moment, a man at ease in his own skin.

He began to walk you through his pizza-making process, his hands skillfully kneading the dough. There was something mesmerizing about watching him work, the way his hands moved with such confidence and care.

“Come here,” he said, guiding you to take his spot as he stood behind you, his hands running the length of your arms until they covered yours and guided them in the same motions he'd just demonstrated to knead the dough on the flour dusted table.

As you continued to work on the dough, Marcus's body behind yours felt warm and comforting. His breath tickled your ear as he whispered instructions and encouragement.

“See how the dough starts to come together?” he said, his voice low and soothing.

You nodded, enjoying the closeness between you two. Marcus's hands moved with yours, guiding you through the process until the dough was perfectly kneaded.

“Great job,” he said, stepping back to admire your handiwork. “I think we make a great team.”

You couldn't help but smile at his words, feeling a flutter in your stomach at his compliment.

After topping the pizza with fresh ingredients Marcus had pulled from the walk in fridge. Ingredients he'd picked up from the local market the day before in preparation for your date. Marcus placed the pizza in the oven with a satisfied grin. “Now we just have to wait for it to bake,” he said, as you jumped up onto the table.

The air between you two crackled with unspoken words and shared smiles. He moved closer, his hands leaving traces of flour on your knees as he stood between your legs. 

“I'm glad you're here,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

You up at him, feeling a rush of warmth in your chest. “Me too,” you replied sincerely. There was something about him that always made you feel at ease and happy.

Your heart raced as he leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a soft and gentle kiss. Your fingers found their way into his hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened.

Marcus's hands traced up your thighs, sending shivers down your spine. You parted your lips, inviting him to deepen the kiss, as his hands moved to your hips. The warmth between you two was palpable, and every touch made your heart race faster.

As you pulled back from the kiss to catch your breath, Marcus's hands slid up to your hips, causing you to shiver at his touch. You moved your hands to his chest, feeling the solidness of his muscles beneath your fingers.

Suddenly, the timer on the oven beeped, and Marcus reluctantly pulled away. “I guess that's our signal,” he said with a chuckle.

You hopped down from the table as he took the pizza out of the oven. The aroma was mouthwatering, and you couldn't wait to dig in.

The snow crunched under your boots as you left True North Brews, the warmth of the coffee cups in your hands contrasting sharply with the chilly air. Maplewood was a hive of activity, with residents bustling about, embracing the festive season's joy. 

As you turned the corner, you nearly bumped into a woman standing in the middle of the sidewalk. She was staring intently at the bakery down the street.

“Oh, I'm so sorry!” you exclaimed, instinctively stepping back.

The woman turned, offering a small, somewhat forced smile. “No harm done. I should have been watching where I was standing.”

You noticed the lost look on her face, “You're not from around here are you?”

She laughed, “That obvious hey?”

You smiled, “Only because I was stood where you are with the exact same look a couple months ago. What brings you to Maplewood?”

“I'm here to catch up with someone,” she paused before she carried on, "You don't happen to know Marcus Pike by chance?”

The name 'Marcus' caught you off guard, causing you to fumble one of the coffee cups, barely catching it before it spilled.

“Marcus, from Maple Delights?” you asked, trying to mask the surprise in your voice.

“Yes! That Marcus,” she confirmed, her eyes briefly flitting back to the bakery. “I stopped by but he's not there today they said. I know it's a small town, but any chance do you know where I could find him?”

You swallowed down a lump in your throat, you knew exactly where Marcus was. He was in your bed in your apartment above the bookshop after your pizza date at the bakery last night, waiting for you to come back with the coffees in your hands.

Before you could open your mouth to respond, the woman shook her head as she laughed, “Jeeze, look at me asking questions and I haven't even introduced myself, my name is Theresa,” she said, offering her hand to you.

[theladyoracle]

The Slender Mansion

𖦹⭒°｡⋆𖦹The Lady Oracle AU𖦹⋆°｡⭒𖦹

a/n: just a description of how I see the Slender Mansion, and how it appears in my AU! Enjoy~!

You're being led through the woods by a masked man. He's an initiator of sorts (or rather, a recruiter? You don't really know what or who he is) but against your better judgement, he's persuaded you to follow him. It feels like you've been walking forever, and at some point you question whether or not he even knows where he's taking you. The man doesn't reply, and it almost feels like he's forgotten about you, but after a couple more agonizing minutes - you see it.

The estate makes itself known to you as you exit the trees, the air surrounding it almost seeming to shimmer in a dark yet iridescent fashion. There's something about this place...more than meets the eye.

This mansion is massive. You're not an expert on historical architecture, but something about this house makes the word 'Victorian' come to mind...or maybe 'Edwardian'...? Regardless, you can probably come to the conclusion that this house was constructed of wealth. No one knows how old it truly is.

It must have been gorgeous in its day, but now it's been reduced to peeling paint and cracked foundation, accented by shattered windows and a cobweb-infested front porch. There are no lights on - outside nor shining from the inside. As you approach the porch steps, a feeling of unease crosses you. The only thing in decent condition is the abnormally large front door, and the ornate door knocker that's fastened to it.

Your recruiter grips the knocker and raps it thrice on the mahagony wood. You stand there for what feels like a decade, until inevitably the door finds itself open to you. You enter.

The interior of the manor is vexing. Although the outside is notably massive, it is clear that from the moment you enter the home that the confines of the space are not bound to the walls of the manor. It is much larger on the inside than the out.

The walls vary between dark wood paneling and antique wallpaper. The only light illuminating a majority of the halls are candle lit chandeliers and sconses, in which the candles seemingly never run out of wax nor wick.

The decor changes consistently, and grows more outlandish and strange the deeper you traverse into the manor. Old family photos, oil paintings, and mirrors transform into strange statues that linger in the halls, and hunting trophies of animals you've never thought conceivable to mankind. Each stare at you as you walk past.

You immediately notice the high ceilings and the supernatural darkness that clings to the corners. As if it were an arcane smoke, this void-like essence snakes around every shadow touched crevasse. If you look close enough, you would see the tiny eyes that flicker and oggle at your every move. The Watchers.

Their whispers are next...filling your head with anxiety, doubt, and oddly enough at times....praise. You wonder if their constant hushed ramblings about you is a direct reflection of the Slenderman himself, or perhaps just another tool to manipulate you. They watch you for the first 6 months of your stay with no relent.

There are many doors that line the labyrinthine corridors. Some are locked and inaccessible, while others are almost begging you to open them. It is ill advised to go poking around in the rooms you are unfamiliar with. Some doors you cannot return from.

You would come to find that the estate is no doubt haunted. Icy cold corridors make love with spectral visions in the corners of your eyes as you amble through the halls at night. There are cries, and laughter, and yet you can never determine if these are ghosts or simply other residents of the manor like yourself.

Some ghosts have names and faces, but most of the specters you catch have no faces. If you stare at them too long, they vanish. It's unclear if these ghosts are mourning spirits of residents who came before you, or if they are ancient spirits that the Slenderman has summoned willingly, but you mostly find them comforting. You mostly notice them clearing cobwebs, amongst other tasks. It almost seems to make the mansion itself feel alive - as though the walls can speak to you in the language of creaks and groans.

𖦹⭒°｡⋆𖦹 Other Headcanons to be noted: 𖦹⋆°｡⭒𖦹

The mansion resides in The Woods. It's magical abilities are separate from that of The Collective.

There is an unnerving door knocker on the entrance. It is made of three faces, each with the following petrified expressions: the first face from the left has wide, terrified, bloodshot eyes and its mouth is hanging ajar in fear. The central face holes the knocker in its mouth, it possessed a downturned solemn expression. The third and final face mirrors the one on its left, only it appears to be moreso angry than terrified.

There is a gravel driveway that leads up to the manor. It splits into two sections but they both stop dead before they reach anything

There is a small garage on the left of the manor

There is a large, elaborate garden in the back of the manor. It is fit with a greenhouse and a large hedge maze. There is a large fountain at the center. Very few people are allowed access to this area.

𖦹⭒°｡⋆𖦹 I take requests! 𖦹⋆°｡⭒𖦹

[chocolatedetectivehottub]

Home Cleaning services,

Home Cleaning services,

In today’s fast-paced world, finding time to maintain a clean and organized home can feel like a daunting task. Between work, family obligations, and personal time, cleaning often takes a backseat. This is where professional home cleaning services come in, offering a perfect solution to keep your living space spotless, fresh, and stress-free.

What Are Home Cleaning Services?

Home cleaning services provide professional cleaning assistance for residential spaces. These services range from routine cleaning to deep cleaning and specialty cleaning tasks. Whether you're looking for someone to tidy up after a busy week or you need a comprehensive cleaning service for your home, professional cleaners can handle the job efficiently and effectively.

Types of Home Cleaning Services

Home cleaning services can be customized to fit your needs. Some of the most common types of services include:

Regular Cleaning:

This type of cleaning is ideal for homeowners who require routine maintenance. It typically includes tasks like dusting, vacuuming, wiping surfaces, and cleaning bathrooms and kitchens. Regular cleaning is scheduled weekly, bi-weekly, or monthly, depending on your preference.

Deep Cleaning:

Deep cleaning goes beyond the basics. It includes more intensive tasks like scrubbing tile grout, washing windows, cleaning behind furniture, and sanitizing high-touch areas. This service is perfect for homes that require a more thorough cleaning, often after renovations or special events.

Move-In/Move-Out Cleaning:

Moving can be stressful, and cleaning an empty house can feel overwhelming. Professional cleaners can take care of the entire cleaning process, ensuring your new home is spotless before you settle in or leaving the property sparkling clean for the next residents.

Post-Construction Cleaning:

After a renovation or construction project, homes can be filled with dust, debris, and leftover materials. Post-construction cleaning focuses on clearing out all the mess and ensuring that your newly renovated space is clean, safe, and ready to be enjoyed.

Specialty Cleaning:

Some cleaning tasks require extra attention or specific expertise. Examples include carpet cleaning, upholstery cleaning, window washing, and pressure washing outdoor surfaces.

Benefits of Hiring Professional Home Cleaning Services

Time-Saving:

Cleaning takes time and energy. Hiring a professional service allows you to focus on other priorities, knowing that your home is in capable hands.

Expertise and Equipment:

Professional cleaners bring specialized skills and top-of-the-line cleaning equipment. They know the best techniques and products to use for different surfaces and types of dirt, ensuring a higher-quality clean than you might achieve on your own.

Consistent Results:

With scheduled cleaning services, you can ensure your home remains consistently clean. Whether it's weekly or monthly cleaning, you'll enjoy the peace of mind that comes with a spotless environment.

Health Benefits:

Professional cleaners can help reduce allergens, dust, and bacteria that can accumulate over time. A deep clean can improve the overall air quality in your home, promoting a healthier living environment for you and your family.

Stress-Free Experience:

Cleaning can be a physical and mental burden, especially if you’re already juggling multiple responsibilities. Outsourcing your cleaning tasks gives you the freedom to relax, knowing your home is in good hands.

How to Choose the Right Home Cleaning Service

When choosing a home cleaning service, consider the following factors:

Reputation: Look for companies with good reviews and positive word-of-mouth recommendations.

Experience: Choose a cleaning service with experienced professionals who understand the nuances of different cleaning tasks.

Insurance: Ensure that the cleaning company is insured to protect both your property and the cleaners.

Customization: Check if the company offers customized services tailored to your cleaning needs.

Pricing: Make sure the pricing is transparent and fits within your budget. Most services offer flat-rate pricing or hourly rates.

Conclusion

Home cleaning services provide a simple, effective solution for keeping your living space in top condition. Whether you need a regular cleaning or a one-time deep clean, these services take the stress out of maintaining a pristine home. By hiring professional cleaners, you can save time, reduce stress, and enjoy the benefits of a spotless and healthy environment.

[jonathankatwhatever]

These ideas are resistant to writing. They wriggle into new perspectives. It’s 16 May 2024. I have an actual migraine, the first in a while. I’ll lean into that as much as I can. It’s raining. I’m sitting in the kitchen with an open window to my left and the door to the porch open on my right, making a triangle in which I’m in the corner of the line drawn across. I hear a sound field reducing into my ears and then opening up in my Thing so I can picture the truck stopping to go over the speed hump. That must take the same path, that in my head I’m projecting out and that is the extent to which the sound field is observable and understandable by me. As in, my cat can hear more but he can’t label many of the sounds.

I just ate a toasted bagel with unsalted super chunky peanut butter, shaved red onion, and 2 cut up grape tomatoes. Delicious. Not sure why that doesn’t need salt. It might be the salt in the bread is enough together with the tangy qualities of the other ingredients.

So in that case, an answer solidifies as good enough that I’m gonna stop thinking about it, but I’ll remember somehow if we revisit the issue. So the infinite process stops: no more looking for solution. We label that as the 2:1 for that answer and the process which generated it, freezing it, making a snapshot so the form is recognized, and thus all the search potential beyond that diverges.

That work came out of sexual fantasy this morning. You’ve been amazing. I want to use that idea because I immediately thought of how to indicate a count between the words been and amazing. Then I thought about the concepts like when I walk across Bussey meadow and there’s an entrance which connects to the road, and then you turn the corner and you enter a section which feels removed, and then a section where you can forget where you are, then the same, a section which feels removed but not that far, then a section where you know the gate is ahead. Or like how FL Wright would bring you in from the large outside into a small entrance to admit you to a large space. The 1-0-1 and 0-1-0 metaphors are now beyond obvious.

The fact that this kind of imagery exists is the best proof of all, once you realize that this kind of imagery is generated by actual mathematics, that it’s not just words.

Made myself foamed milk plus decaf. I wish it would completely foam, but it’s not bad for the minimal effort and cost. I use the cappuccino whip on the frothier because the latte one does very little.

There’s an obvious choice function between been and amazing. If you admit non-sequiturs as a joke or perhaps a serious comment on the difficulty of the descriptive process, then what could actually be inserted is limited only to the nature of the language, and to its expressive power.

This headache is painfully distracting or other way around. I’m holding my right eye closed to force my left to relax. A lot of flicker and bouncing around of focus because throbs when focused. The throb pulls the Observer back and snaps that to a different focus point as it cycles back.

Had to give up typing. I need to see a map of these numbers. I think I have it, but it’s not stable yet.

Need to not look at a screen. Today has been intense connection. I have so much imagery in my perception that I can’t process much.

[juliesfastfood]

The Greatest Collection of Drive-Through Tips When Stopping by the Best Fast Food Restaurants in Sinking Spring, PA

The best fast food restaurants in Sinking Spring, PA, including Julie’s Fast Foods, play a significant role in satisfying our cravings for quick and delicious meals. Whether you are looking for a quick bite or simply seeking the latest soul foods, the drive-thru can be a lifesaver. However, to ensure a smooth and enjoyable experience, you must learn beforehand how to navigate the same with finesse.

One of the keys to a successful drive-thru experience is ensuring proper planning in the first place. Before you arrive at the delivery kiosk, have your order ready. Familiarize yourself with the menu of the restaurant of your choice in advance as long as it is available on the web. This not only accelerates the entire process but also reduces stress for you and the restaurant employees serving you.

When it is your turn to order, speak clearly and at a moderate pace. Enunciate your words to ensure accuracy, and if you have special requests or modifications to your order, state them clearly. This will effectively eliminate the odds of the restaurant staff misunderstanding you while taking the order. Note that several Pennsylvanian eateries that sell fast foods now have mobile applications to place your order on the go and pay ahead of delivery.

This can save you a significant amount of your time, particularly during peak hours. In addition, a few of those nifty utilities also provide exclusive offers and various discounts for mobile orders only, which essentially translate to even more savings. To suffice, while you are waiting in line in front of any of the best fast food restaurants in Sinking Spring, PA, be mindful of the space between your car and the one in front of you.

Leave enough room to maneuver if you need to pull away from the line briefly. Furthermore, avoid blocking driveways or intersections when the drive-thru queue happens to be long enough, and before driving away from the pickup window, take a few moments to review your order to ensure everything is correct. It is much easier to address any issues while you are still on-site rather than discovering a mistake after you leave its premises.

Drive-thru lines may turn out to be painstakingly long, particularly during peak hours. Exercise patience and be courteous to not only the restaurant crew but also your fellow drivers. Road rage or impatience is certainly not going to it any faster and is likely to lead to a less enjoyable experience for every stakeholder involved.

Most of the American drive-thru locations accept an astounding variety of payment instruments, including cash, credit cards, and even mobile payments, such as Google Wallet and Apple Pay. Make sure you have the appropriate payment means when you reach the delivery window to avoid delays, and in multi-lane drive-thru settings, choose the lane that corresponds to your order.

Some lanes may be designated for smaller orders or specific menu articles, such as beverages or desserts. Following the appropriate lane ensures a smoother flow and minimizes confusion. You can also avoid rushes during lunch and dinner simply by planning your drive-through visits at off-peak hours. To suffice, late mornings or early afternoons are often quieter times when planning to stop by any of the best fast food restaurants in Sinking Spring, PA.

[swinglascl]

How to reduce spacing between lines in word or windows

#How to reduce spacing between lines in word or windows how to#

#How to reduce spacing between lines in word or windows plus#

If you want to give different width and spacing to some columns than uncheck the “Equal column width” check box and enter different values of each column as you want. Under “Width and Spacing” section enter the column width and spacing value or just click the tiny arrows right to the value to increase or decrease the value, this will change the columns width and spacing with equal value of all columns. To bring the lines between columns, just check the “Line Between” Check box and hit OK buttonĬhange column width and spacing in word Step-3 Open your document in Word 2007 or 2010, Click on “Page Layout” tab > “Columns” > “More Columns…” options This guide works in both Word 2007 and Word 2010 Uncheck 'when using paragraph format, the enter key creates a new paragraph.After creating columns in word document there are some more options for columns in word that you can change column width, columns spacing, lines between columns and apply columns to word document (whole document, on a specific page or even on a paragraph). As you launch Word, you need to open the respective file that you wish to format.

#How to reduce spacing between lines in word or windows how to#

This new behavior can be switched off in the Tools > Options > Composition > General tab. To set double line spacing, select the text & Go to Home > Line & Paragraph Spacing in Paragraph Group and select 2. To understand the simple method of how to reduce line spacing in Word, you need to follow the steps. ''The Thunderbird composition window now functions more like a word processor in that pressing the "Enter" key inserts a new paragraph, pressing "Shift+Enter" inserts a new line. Read this answer in context 👍 19 All Replies (8) Uncheck 'when using paragraph format, the enter key creates a new paragraph.' 'Menu icon' > 'Options' > 'Options' > 'Composition' > 'General' tab 'Tools' > 'Options' > 'Composition' > 'General' tab To change this to auto select 'Body Text' and 'Enter' means a go to next line: This new behavior can be switched off in the Tools > Options > Composition > General tab. The default line spacing in Word 2016 is 1.08, but word allows you to customize it to be either single-spaced or double spaced. Line spacing is a gap between each line of your document. It won’t give you many options for line spacing, but to get a double spacing, tap on the arrow pointing up until you reach 2.0. The line spacing option will be at the bottom. Near the middle of your screen, tap on where it says Paragraph. The Thunderbird composition window now functions more like a word processor in that pressing the "Enter" key inserts a new paragraph, pressing "Shift+Enter" inserts a new line. Adjust Line Spacing Between Lines and Paragraph in Word 2016. At the top, tap on the A with lines to the right. So, the developers decided to make it a default to alter the setup and change users preferences.Ĭurrently, 'Paragraph' is now set as default and when you press 'Enter' it means 'double space' new line with no indentation.

#How to reduce spacing between lines in word or windows plus#

I isn't how people write letters, where Enter means go to next line and Paragraph meant next line plus indent. It becomes useful when trying some design tricks for headings, for example the title in our Millennium poster. Adjusting line spacing to put lines very close isn’t usually necessary for regular text. This has just been introduced in an attempt to keep in line with how eg: research documents are produced and how type is displayed in web pages. Reducing the line spacing or vertical gap between lines in Word paragraphs can be done in six different ways depending on the situation.

[hereathemoment]

“I can break the mating bond”

            The bottom trim of Nesta’s cape slips against the stone floor, gliding into a halo around her feet as she stops in front of towering stone bars lining the length of a cell. The man within sits against the wall in the far corner, with his hands clasped and dangling between the bent V of his legs and hidden in the shadow of the window’s small glow. Nobody bothered to give her any information beyond the rudimentary understanding necessary for today’s mission. The threat in the East is embodied by one man with untold power and before her sits one of his few confidants. Rhysand didn’t command her here because of the power she stole from the Cauldron, no—her power is apparently too unruly and disobedient for her to risk using it without his direct supervision. Instead, she was reduced to that of an errand boy, sent to the Prison as a messenger. Nesta is to inform the prisoner of his impending death should he continue with his silence. She remembered the Inner Circle discussing it—who was to go to the Prison, discussing her—a perfect mix of threatening and expendable, and she agreed to go, resigned to the mirage of choice they’re known for. It doesn’t escape her that the cell this fae sits in now was very nearly hers, had her sister not rejected Amren’s suggestion and picked the House for her instead. Nesta didn’t know then that Cassian was written in the fine print, a required quid-pro-quo for a warm bed, and she wonders if she would’ve preferred the comfort of a cell had it been offered to her.  

            “Your execution will be held in the morning. You have until then to tell the Night Court what you know and decide where your loyalties lie” The hollowness of her voice fades into the empty corridor of the Prison. “If you refuse…may your next life grant you more fruitful loyalties.” She twists at her parting words, making the announcement brief and perfunctory but offering him the hidden well-wishes of her own heart. She is within a foot of the doorway before the low timbre of his voice reaches her, echoing in the space between them. His tone is not frantic or angry as she may have otherwise expected, but promising, “They call him a bride-stealer sweetheart. I was sent here for you, Nesta.” The dull click of her heels reverberated against the stones as she turned to face him. She doesn’t question how he knows her, doesn’t bother wondering how he knew she’d come. “And how,” she begins, “Do you think to take me?” Nesta only finishes once she’s facing him once more, “You’re the one captured in a prison cell, and I am the one about to walk free.”

            His sardonic smile contradicts her, but he merely says, “Come with me. I think you’d like Koschei,” he adds with a gentle laugh, “I know he’d like you.” Koschei… the fae male doesn’t seem bothered at all that he’d just betrayed his master’s name. Odd, considering neither Azriel nor Rhysand were able to carve it out of him just hours ago. When Nesta seemed unimpressed and seemed unbothered to deign an answer, the man continued, “I have a unique ability to see within someone’s heart and see their most innermost, dearest desire. Koschei appreciates my particular skill of… making dreams comes true. It’s proven to entice quite the loyal following.”

            “Ah, another Court of Dreams then,” Nesta scoffs, without acknowledging his slip. “Spare me,” she says harshly, but her mind follows quietly with, what I want cannot be given. He offered that she go with him, but he's not going anywhere considering his circumstances. Nesta was ordered to deliver a simple message and she had. Her job here is done. She makes her leave with a subtle eyeroll and quick clench of her fists. But she had only made it a few paces away before the prisoner’s next words immobilize her entirely, the heel of her right foot frozen about the ground mid-step. One, two, three stalled seconds continue for small eternities as hope and freedom and happiness is dangled in front of her so cavalierly by this smirking fae lounging on the dirty floor of a dingy prison.

“I can break your mating bond.”

The silver in her eyes is told by the excitement on his face and she throws herself against his cage, her hands digging into the stoner pillars separating the two of them. Nesta’s power slithers through her veins, twinning around her anger and burning her alive. “Promising someone what they want most is a dangerous game to play when you can’t deliver.” Her words come out as a growl, more monstrous than they’ve ever been, more fae than she’d care to acknowledge. But what he had said… what he had offered her… it was alluring and seductive and wholly impossible. She’s new to this world, but she’d never be so naïve as to believe him. But, if it were true…

            He carried on calmly, though the small curve of his mouth betrayed his delight at seeing her seethe. “Come with me, Nesta. Join us.” Through the buzzing in her head, she dimly marks the irony of an imprisoned man continually offering her freedom. His gaze is steady, his posture relaxed, his mind sure of her choice. “My execution will be held in the morning. You have until then to decide where your loyalties lie.”

Why that little—

He sighs, perfectly content with his situation, certain her loyalties lie with herself. Nesta wonders what he knows about her circumstances—about her family’s betrayal and her gilded servitude. Or maybe he’s heard about the stories Feyre had spread about their childhood, and just assumed the eldest Archeron sister would be selfish enough to break the sanctity of a mating bond on whim. His low chuckle escorts her out as she leaves without another word. The draw of his offer is too great to be dismissed, but her caution prevents her from accepting outright. So Nesta just leaves. Confused. Angry. Tempted. By tomorrow morning indeed.

[mshroom1e]

Bus Buddy | Idia Shroud x GN! Reader

A fic written based on a scenario that happened to me today but wasn't as interesting as I wrote it out to be lol

type: fanfic

Summary: A short and sweet fic where you meet a cute stranger on your bus ride home and have a few interactions with him.

851 words

Warning(s): none

Snow descended from pale, overcapacitated clouds. Freckles of ice and sleet silently bounced from foggy glass windows of the large vehicle. Passengers stood idly, most of them on their phones while some burrowed their noses into woolen scarves around their necks to generate some sort of heat and take refuge from the nipping cold. Thankfully, it wasn't too crowded.

A young man who looked about your age entered with his head down and his hood up, quietly scanning his bus pass and quickly heading to look for a seat all while making minimal eye contact with the people around him. The pelting outside didn't take as kindly to him as it did to you as his black jacket with neon blue lining was dotted with specks of snow that looked like bright stars in a clear night sky. Although, the snow that would've been on his head top was all defrosted and reduced to tiny splotches of water.

Despite his head behind hung low, you managed to make out a pair of shimmering amber eyes as well as firey blue hair that managed to peek out from under his hood. A pair of headphones on his head were also visible.

Brief eye contact was made with him before he quickly averted his gaze from yours and took a seat a diagonal row in front of you. As he sat, he adjusted a large bag that accompanied his person, and a soft clack sounded. Though, it seemed no one else heard it as there was no reaction to the sound other than your own. Your eyes trailed over to the amber-eyed young man and soon to the floor beneath his seat where an ID card lay. That was probably what had fallen on the ground.

You contemplated whether or not you should alert him of his floored belongings, then when you decided on informing him, you debated with yourself on how you would do it.

Picking it up for him was out of the question and a definite invasion of personal space as the fallen card was right next to his foot. If a stranger suddenly bent down to pick up something that was barely an inch away from your leg, you would be quite alarmed too.

The plan in your head was cut short as your stop came into view. As you walked past him to leave the bus out of the exit doors, you gently tapped his shoulder and felt his entire body tense. He turned his head, a little robotically towards your direction with an alarmed expression.

Wordlessly, you pointed to the floor on the ground with a comforting smile and his gaze followed. His alert contorted into a look of realisation before he frantically scrambled for his fallen item with a barely audible squeak and shoved it in his pocket.

Once the bus came to a stop, you quickly exited before sending one last look towards the anxious stranger. It seemed to be the perfect time as he was also looking at you. His eyes were the colour of molten citrine with flecks of gold that looked like shattered stars. The blue tips of his flickering hair faded into a soft shade of pink before he averted his eyes.

How cute.

The next week, the same stranger entered the bus at the same stop as he did previously. Seats were all taken and his eyes frantically looked around to find a free space. He stopped when he found one next to you, then shifted his gaze to meet yours. You sent him a reassuring smile, one that was friendly and void of any hostility, inviting him to take a seat next to you.

Silence overtook the majority of the ride as the most contact between the both of you was touching elbows or the outsides of your feet after a few series of awkward shuffling. It was rush hour and traffic was usually very dense, however, it was escalated by the rain and slow movement of surrounding vehicles.

After about twenty minutes, soft pat on your shoulder startled you, and you looked in the direction of the stranger. He was out cold, eyes shut and blue flames delicately framing his face. He must've been exhausted to fall asleep so suddenly on someone's shoulder. A little awkwardly, you shuffled to a position where you could both be comfortable and let your body relax.

There wasn't much else to do when someone was unconscious on your shoulder so your eyes slowly trailed over to him and found an ID badge that was tucked into a lanyard around his neck. It was the very same ID badge that catalysed your first interaction with him.

A small image of his face and unique blue hair was on the glossy plastic. He had a timid, uncertain expression, as you imagined him to have, and his hair was in full view. A sharp contrast to how he usually appeared before you with his hood concealing most of his head.

Under the picture was a name you assumed to be his. It read,

'Idia Shroud'.

[aenaxes]

dream perfect

[howzer x afab!reader] you can't sleep. and if you can't sleep, neither can howzer.

warnings: nsfw, cunnilingus, fingering

w/c: 1.9k

a/n: lol this was supposed to be a warm up exercise for the request prompts in the queue but i got carried away :/ anyways i think i need to write a pt.2 hehe

You like to think you’ve been running the motions of a pretty convincing stillness. Waiting a few minutes in between each turn from your back to your side and back again, you squirm under the anchoring weight of Howzer’s arm draped over your hip.

It’s going to be another long night.

And yet, for all your strategic shifting and careful restlessness, a few minutes shy of the hour, Howzer’s breathing stutters, and he stirs around you.

“Mn, cyare?” he mumbles, tongue heavy with sleep. “Y’still awake?”

Guilt, queasy and cold, creeps up your throat. The perpetual vigilance of active duty left behind, leave days replace that sharp attention with something heavy and warm that settles around Howzer’s shoulders and keeps him asleep through even the most resonant of storms. That your slight movements have apparently awoken him where thunder would not warms the apples of your cheeks in something equal parts concerning and embarrassing.

“It’s fine,” you respond weakly. “Can’t sleep is all.”

“Can’t sleep?” Howzer repeats past a groan as he shifts onto his side to face you. In the low neon lights of the Coruscant night, you can make out the ease of his features, his frown more of a boyish pout that carries with it a gentle insistence, concern. His fingers squeeze over the soft slope of your waist, and he yawns. “That’s no good.”

“It’s alright,” you say, and you punctuate your low murmur with a quick peck over the corner of his mouth. “You should go back to sleep.”

“Not without you,” he huffs in response. He takes the moment to shuffle closer, closing what little space lies between you to press close against your chest and bring his arms around your shoulders. You feel the tip of his nose press just above your hairline, and when he speaks again, his voice rumbles low and warm over your head. “What can I do, mesh’la? Tell me how I can help.”

“I’ve tried just about everything; I’m not sure there’s anything else left to do except to wait it out,” you sigh into his collar. With an insistent wiggle of your shoulders, you pull away just enough to meet his puppy-eyed consternation, soft with sleep and softer still as you bring your fingertips to the sharp lines of his jaw and offer him a lopsided smile.

For a moment, Howzer seems to take your defeat at face value, his expression deflating. Then, he makes a low noise that crinkles over the bridge of his nose and settles on the smile teased over his lips.

“I have an idea.”

Even with sleeplessness taunting you through the gaps in the blinds, you can’t help but laugh, leaning forward to gently nudge your forehead up against Howzer’s cheek. You know that look by heart, that coy glimmer finding home in his dark eyes as he pretends to fight his growing grin.

“Howzer, really, I’m fine,” you say, reaching up and stroking over his dark curls. “Go back to sleep. Besides, I’m off tomorrow.”

“We’re both off, cyare,” Howzer chuckles.

From under the covers, you feel him slide his hand from where it rests between your shoulders, battle-weary callouses no less warm as they drag over your form. He pauses where the hem of your shirt and the waistband of your shorts part, rubbing gentle motions into the exposed skin, comforting, grounding, seeking invitation.

You shiver under his touch. Anticipatory delight shocks up your spine.

“Let me help,” he implores.

“Okay.”

The last breath barely has enough time to pass through your lips before Howzer’s rising to his knees and pushing the pillowy duvet somewhere off to the side of the bed. There’s the careful composure of propping your head up against a second pillow and lifting your hips to tug your shorts down past your ankles. But rife through his gentle deliberation—tension, need, finds home in his posture as he squares his shoulders, plants his palms on your knees, and pushes your thighs open.

Your breath hitches as cool air rushes between your thighs. First instinct has always demanded a shy squeak, your hands itching to cover yourself as you lie spread open before him in the low light.

But you know better.

When Howzer’s shoulders drop with a quivering sigh, when his eyes flutter shut and open again with that precious disbelief that this was real, that this—that you were his, bashful chastity withers in the face of desire.

“So pretty,” Howzer breathes low, almost as if to himself, and swallows hard enough that you hear from the crown of the bed. A moment longer, he stares transfixed, then looks up to you with nothing short of a plea glittering in his eyes. “Please. Let me help.”

“Want you,” you whimper. “Howzer, I—”

Your voice cracks, reduced to a choked cry that swallows the rest of your words when, as soon as your assent reaches his ears, Howzer dips low, pressing a brief kiss to your clit before he drags the flat of his tongue from the fullest swell of your cunt and back up to press another kiss at the crown of your thighs.

“Good?” Howzer asks, his breaths puffing warm over the slick of his spit smeared over your throbbing cunt. No matter how many times you do this, you can’t seem to shake that delicious tremble as you feel the air between his lips and your cunt practically vibrate under his voice.

“Y-Yeah,” you mumble.

He responds by wrapping his lips over your clit, coaxing another stuttering moan from your tongue. But it’s not enough, with him it never is, and your hips buck up as he brings the calloused pad of his forefinger just under his chin, sliding it through your cunt. It only makes the growing core of want burn hotter when you feel his rumbling laughter shock through your skin.

Your eyes fly open at the first gentle push of his thick finger into your cunt, sinking into you with almost embarrassing ease. When his palm pushes up against your skin, he crooks his finger up, grinding up against the soft bundle of nerves that has you sobbing his name. Howzer only takes your soft noises as encouragement. He seals his lips over your skin and laps at your clit with a renewed vigor.

It doesn’t take long for him to pull his soaked finger from your cunt and push back in with a second. He finds a rhythm as soon as he fucks as deep as he can go, sucking over your clit while he curls the rough pads of his fingertips over the spot that makes your vision white out again and again.

Howzer sinks his fingers knuckle-deep, but instead of pulling back, the satisfying burn of stretch sears through your core as Howzer parts you open and lifts off of your clit with an almost comically wet sound. You know exactly what he’s going to do, but it makes it no less thrilling when his nose brushes over your clit, and he fucks the firm taper of his tongue between his fingers.

You arch off the bed with a wanton cry, barely coherent enough to understand the crooning words of praise Howzer slips in between fucking his tongue into your cunt and taking gasping breaths of air. You cry out again, and he moans into your cunt with you.

You feel blindly for him, and Howzer knows, he knows. He grabs your wrist and fumbles as he pulls his tongue from your cunt and continues to pump his fingers into you. Finally, the burning coil of desire cresting higher, higher in your gut, he finds purchase and slides his fingers between yours. You squeeze once, he squeezes back, and you moan as his tongue laps over your clit again.

He opts for a maddeningly fast pace, alternating between pressing his tongue deep as it can go into your cunt and rolling it over your clit. All the while, he keeps an unrelenting rhythm with his fingers, pulling you apart artful stroke by artful stroke as he rubs his thumb over the back of your hand.

He drinks you in like a man parched, head bobbing with each heaving swallow. His arm is your only anchor as you squirm under its weight and desperately grind back against his tongue. It’s toeing the line of overstimulation fucked dumb. And it’s all you could ever want as his tongue presses deep, as deep as it’s gone all night, and pushes you over the edge.

You come over his tongue with a shuddering cry, neighbors be damned, and squeeze your hand down hard over his. He squeezes back, groaning into your cunt, telling, promising, he’s here, he’s here, for you, for you as pleasure closes around you and swallows you whole.

At last, after a brief eternity of the kind of bliss that drives bone deep, Howzer pulls away, pressing one last kiss to your clit before pulling back and breathing in long and deep between your quivering legs.

He presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, his lips warm, wet as they mouth silent appreciation into your skin. (They are words you do not think you will ever truly know, the ancient poetry of the warriors who came before him, but they reach you deep to your core.) When his lips still, and his eyes flutter open, Howzer lifts his chin just enough to meet your gaze.

“Think you can sleep now?”

As much as you want to laugh (because what kind of question was that with your heart beating loud enough for him to hear?), you’re too winded to do anything else but shake your head.

“Good,” Howzer laughs, running his tongue over the slick smeared over his fingers. The fluorescent brilliance of the Coruscant nightlife filters through your window, glimmering obscene over the mess of your arousal and his spit as he parts his lips and sucks them clean.

Your mouth waters.

Sugar sweet desire breaks over your tongue, though you might more aptly call it greed—in want of tasting yourself on him; in want of feeling his fingers dig into your skin when he pulls you close and licks over your teeth; in want of bending you, breaking you, then pulling you back together again, gilded kintsugi lacquered strong by a soldier’s hands.

Howzer pulls his fingers from his mouth with a loud pop and flicks his eyes to yours as you peer up at him through lidded eyes. Half-closed they may be, but they are far from heavy with the sleepy taunts of before.

You both know sleep is the last thing on either of your minds.

Rising up to his knees, he twists out of his shirt and flings it off somewhere into the far reaches of the room. One moment he’s standing tall at the base of the bed, the next, he’s leaning close and sliding one palm from where your thighs part up to where he kisses over your neck.

You whimper softly as you feel his fingers curl over your pulse, helpless in the best of ways as Howzer pulls back to sit back and admire your expression. In return, he offers you the smile you’ve come to love most, barely there on his lips, brimming in his eyes, adoration divine.

Then, soon in its place, always: hunger.

“I’m not done with you just yet.”

[novaviis]

sick!dick au. Bruce's POV. read in order here.

For most everyone else, it starts at the Gala.

For Bruce, it starts in a grey little office, with a stack of papers and a glitter pen.

Dick will confess after the fact to the fainting spell in the apartment he shares with Wally, and the months of progressively worse migraines, including an incident on patrol with Jason – and Bruce is none-too-pleased with that information being kept silent, but he picks his battles and this isn’t one of them. Still, looking back nearly everyone will unanimously agree that the night it really “began” was the Gala.

For Bruce, it begins when the social worker hands him a creased manila envelope. Inside is a birth certificate, a social security number, and an immunization record. Bruce looks through the contents of the envelope. Is this really it? Yes, he’s never exactly done this before, but he feels like there should be more. Guardianship of a child shouldn’t be reduced to three pieces of flimsy paper in an envelope. There’s a coffee stain on the corner. The social worker doesn’t really know what to say to that; this is just the way it is. She slides the rest of the paperwork across the table. Everything’s already been looked over by his lawyers, all he needs to do is sign. She pats her pockets, muttering to herself before bringing out a red glitter pen and sheepishly offering it to him.

Bruce is in his twenties. He’s impulsive with his compassion and he just witnessed another little boy watching his parents die. He knows he can give this boy what he needs. Or he’s going to try. But between the drive to bring this boy’s family justice and the need to heal a part of himself in the process, he’s somehow skipped over just how huge this is. He’s thought about it, of course, but always with the under current of doing whatever it takes to make it work. He was going to give the boy a home, give him the closure that Bruce never got, and maybe he’d save him from turning out like… well, like Bruce. Only now he’s staring down at Guardianship written in big block letters across the top of the stack, and it’s sinking in now that he’s not just taking the boy in. He’s going to be his family. And it doesn’t change a thing, his resolve doesn’t waver, because he knows he can give him a good life, but it’s that one word. Family. His family is starting out with a coffee stain, a stack of papers, and a glitter pen.

He signs the papers. Dick is already waiting outside with Alfred, who’s taken him to the small cafeteria down the hall. The boy hasn’t spoken much, in the days Bruce has taken to get to know him. Bruce had asked Alfred if he was like that – after. And Alfred had looked at him sympathetically, answered carefully. Yes, he was, in a sense. Bruce had been quiet. Shellshocked. Traumatized. But Bruce needs to remember that he had him, at least one steady presence in his life. Dick has no one. It’s going to take time.

It shouldn’t be so easy, Bruce find himself thinking over and over as they finish up. He tucks everything away into his briefcase, bears with the social worker smiling and shaking his hand and thanking him for doing such a good deed as if this is a charity stunt for publicity and she doesn’t seem to care either way. He asks again, just before he closes his briefcase, if she’s sure that there’s nothing else he needs. Report cards, keepsakes, family medical history, he doesn’t know. She shakes her head, all pleasant smiles. No, that’s all he came with – as if he’s a shelter dog. Bruce latches his suitcase shut.

Back then, it was just a passing thought. He doesn’t spare it another over the years, because he doesn’t need to. Time went on, Dick becomes an inseparable part of his life. Bruce will always silently maintain that Dick was the one to save him in the end. He’s not a perfect guardian, not a perfect father, and he makes more mistakes than he can count. They argue, they have fallings out, and still they always work through it – because they’re family.

And the issue of the family medical history does not resurface until that champagne gold night. Until he catches Selena watching him from across the ballroom, smiling behind the rim of her wine glass and cocking her head to tease him. Until, he’s distracted between secretively searching the crowds for her and forcing himself to smile and laugh with Gotham’s elite, so he doesn’t notice the commotion rising up on the other side of the room. Until his youngest son comes racing toward him through the crowd looking more scared and shaken than Bruce has ever seen him. Until he breaks through the ring of bystanders and sees Dick passed out on the floor, Wally kneeling over him beside himself with panic. Until the ambulance and the fury of the waiting room (making a mental not to raise absolute hell with the Hospital’s board of directors) and the doctor pulling him to a side room, a little grey office, to ask the dreaded question. All at once, it comes back to that moment, and Bruce sighs, scrubs his palm over his tired eyes. No, he doesn’t have Dick’s family medical history. It doesn’t exist. Realistically, it isn’t Bruce’s fault, but that has never stopped him from shouldering blame.

Selena reaches out in the following days it ask in on how Dick’s doing. Bruce is cordial, tells her that her concern is appreciated but Dick seems to be doing fine. And on the other side of the phone, he can hear her moving around her penthouse, maybe standing at the window – she’s glad to hear it. Let her know if he needs anything, if she can do anything to help. It’s early days then, and none of them know just how bad it’s going to get.

It’s a slow progression at first, and then it’s not. It’s months between seizures, a steady increase in migraines – but life goes on. It’s not as if Bruce is hovering every Dick at every second. He’s a grown man now, with a career and a home and a partner. Bruce supports him in any way he can, until it gets to the point that he has to make the hard call. The argument he has with Dick that night, in the study of Wayne Manor, is something he’ll never wash from his memory. He’s used to making the tough decisions. He’ll be the asshole if he has to, he can handle Dick’s anger, but he’s not going to allow him to take this much risk into the field. Benching Nightwing until they have a handle on this is a necessary call, but Dick is stubborn (who on earth did he learn that from), and unwilling to step down so easily. And as the argument reaches its fever pitch, Bruce pacing and ranting, listing off his rational, he hears Dick call his name in a wavering voice and it cuts through the background noise. Dick, the colour drained from his face, eyes unfocused, conceding that he’s about to lose this argument, will haunt him in the same way as the worst things he’s seen in the life he’s chosen. That’s the moment he knows that this isn’t just going to pass, the moment he bolts to catch Dick before he can topple forward and hit his head. This isn’t something they can wait out. He’ll never regret making the call, but he will always regret the way he put the pressure on Dick, as if he’d just made things worse.

The thing is, this lasts years. It becomes a part of all their lives – because it’s Dick. It isn’t all consuming, it doesn’t eat away at their thoughts every minute of the day, but it’s a resurfacing concern that’s rarely spoken about aloud. And Bruce sees how this changes his family. No one can say that the Wayne clan is the most well adjusted and healthy family, but Bruce does his best. He realises and appreciates now more than ever just how much work Dick put into keeping them all functioning. Keeping them together. He never thought he’d taken it for granted until then. It shouldn’t have taken this to bring the family closer together, but it does, and as much as Bruce hates that, he’s not going to fight it.

Time goes on. Still. It’s a slow progression at first, and then it’s not. Bruce is in a meeting with his chief executive officers when his secretary buzzes in over the speaker saying there’s a call for him on the line. He thanks her for letting him know and tells her to take a message. She says the young man is telling her it’s an emergency. One of the CEOs is about to launch into a presentation and Bruce doesn’t spare him a second thought. Picks up the phone, pushes away from the board table, and paces to the window. Wally’s voice comes through saying his name, shaken and urgent, rambling out sentences too fast for Bruce to hear.

Wally. Slow down. What happened?

He stopped breathing. Fuck, Bruce, he called me at work – sounded like a seizure so I ran home, but he – it didn’t stop, he wasn’t breathing.

That first night, after Bruce has sent his reluctant children home with Alfred, it’s just him and Wally left with Dick. The end of visiting hours is fast approaching. Bruce steps out to let Wally have his time with Dick, allows him some privacy. He eventually makes his way up to the terrace balcony on the upper floors, a green space with massive glass walls and an open ceiling. Fresh air for the first time in hours does wonders.

Selena is there. She approaches him from the other side of a low hedge, bundled up in a cashmere sweater and scarf – ones he bought her ages ago. When he asks how she knew, she smiles. She has her ways. Tim called her, didn’t he. Yeah, he did. They stand in silence for a while, staring out at the mosaic of lights against the persistent dark of Gotham, before she puts a hand on his arm. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, Bruce, she says, and the coy smile fades into sincerity. Come to me when you need to.

Three days after Dick is admitted to the ICU, Bruce calls Damian into the study. It’s late, they just got home from visiting an hour ago. They’ve been arguing a lot lately, before Dick went downhill. Mostly regular thirteen-year-old boy versus father arguing, but a few too many frustrated shouting matches in the Cave. Bruce can’t help but wonder if it’s in part because Dick hasn’t been there to act as a mediator. Still, the past few days have been quiet, if not tense. Damian complies when Bruce calls him down. He’s wearing a sweater he stole from Dick months ago, the bulk of it swallowing his smaller frame like a blanket. He has the sleeves rolled up, his hands in the front pocket, when he pauses in the doorway. Bruce gestures for him to sit across from him at the desk. He can see the way Damian is bracing himself for a lecture, wondering whatever it is he did wrong this time, as he takes his seat. Bruce, in his chair on the other side, watches him for a moment before deciding this won’t do. He stands, and pulls his chair next to Damian’s and pulls a file over from the other side of the desk.

Wayne Men are at a higher risk of Prostate Cancer as they get older. I get tested every few years. He tells him. My Mother’s side of the family, the Kanes, have a history of Crohn’s Disease. It’s prevalent in people of Ashkenazi Jewish decent. I’ve never had it, or had symptoms, so it’s unlikely that I passed it on to you, but not impossible. And when Damian stares back at him, he leans forward, presses his hand to his son’s shoulder. I want you to know these things, Damian. It’s important that you know your history.

And with any other child, it may have not been a good idea to have this conversation right then. Any other child may have been scared. But this is his son, and Damian is as frank and pragmatic about these things as he is, and Bruce knows that he will appreciate the honesty, knows that those questions have likely been rattling around in Damian’s head for a while now. They spend another hour that night talking about their family, beyond just medical history, and Bruce answers any questions Damian has.

Dick gets worse. Wally leaves to find answers. Bruce is doing everything he can; medical bills are nothing to him, he checks in on his children, calls in favours from the league to keep watch of Gotham when he’s needed at the hospital. It’s the most he’s ever relied on others in his entire life.

It’s just him in Dick’s room one night. He’s at the window when he hears Dick rasping his name. It’s been rare lately that he’s been coherent enough to really speak without being prompted, so he has Bruce’s full attention immediately. He crosses over to the bed, braces a hand over Dick’s. And Dick doesn’t say anything for a long while. His eyes are half closed. Bruce is close to assuming he’s fallen asleep, when Dick’s unsteady hand slides out from under his, and rests on top with a barely there squeeze. Dick is staring up at him. His voice his so quiet it’s almost drowned out by the monitors, but Bruce hears it.

Take care of Wally.

Bruce doesn’t waste time on don’t talk like that sentiments. He doesn’t tell Dick that he won’t need to, that he’ll be fine, because Bruce does not make promises he knows he cannot keep. He nods. He will. Dick doesn’t need to ask him to take care of the family, that much is an unspoken understanding, but if this is a piece of mind he can give Dick, it’s without hesitation.

He ends up at Selena’s door after visiting hours. She buzzes him in, and when she opens the penthouse door neither of them say a word. She guides him over to the couch, pours two glasses of good wine, and when she returns, he’s already got his face in his hand – not sobbing, not breaking down, just… exhausted. She isn’t sure Bruce knows how to break down anymore. In the end, she just sits with him. Rubs his back, tentatively at first, not sure if he’ll let her. Bruce not only does, but he shudders under her hand, allows himself to breathe with her, and it’s enough to let the pressure ease and the ache to come in. He allows himself feel to it.

Because that’s his son. That’s his first son. And he’s failed him.

Years from then, when this is all in the past, he’ll let it slip. It’s over a late night coffee with Dick in the Cave as they wrap up a case, near to the anniversary of the Dick’s surgery. Maybe it’s the string of late nights and no sleep wrecking his inhibition, maybe it’s something he needs to get off his chest. But Dick stares at him, goes quiet, sets down his coffee mug.

You did everything for me, Bruce. He says. You never failed me.

And, someday, Bruce will believe it.