#this list has been sitting in my notebook for a bit i figured it was time to set it free

[evilducks]

okay so you know how people say that the first rhythm we hear is our mother's heartbeat? i started wondering about what noises secunits might have in their bodies [that sounds weird but whatever]

'booting up' noise [different depending on the company, some secunits don't even hear it when it happens bc they're usually kinda discombobulated at the time]

the warning noise that your governor module makes when you don't follow a command immediately

pings [in canon i think its left up to interpretation what pings are like. they might be physical sensation, they might be visual, they might be sounds, they might be a mix. but i think its fun to imagine that at least some secunits process it as a little noise]

drops or rises in performance reliability [i think it is funny to imagine this as being a sort of cartoon-ish sound effect. sad BWOOOOoooooomp p p when performance reliability drops. perhaps a happy little jingle when it rises]

very slight whirring of their bodies, gets louder if they're exerting themselves or messing with their body temperature

they can hear the inner workings of their cubicles when they're getting repaired

+ bonus because it's not really the same as the rest but i love it

different humans have different feed sounds, independent of what their actual voices sound like.

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfamily x Neglected! Poison Ivy's Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 5

A/N: oki here we get to know more about my boy Tim!! and quite a lot about Y/N's emotions. I'm going to start writing for other fandoms soon too!! and are any of you fellow lactose intolerant people and get the feeling when you consume too much dairy (ice cream in my case) and now you're regretting all of your life choices...

btw I tried to add everyone from my taglist post on the taglist, if you‘re still not on it then text me privately:)

There was too much to figure out.

And too little time.

YN sat on the floor of her room, knees tucked to her chest, her back pressed to the side of her bed. The faint hum of her phone charging on the desk, the scent of dying lavender in the corner, and the emptiness of the room made it feel like she was caged in glass.

Seven days.

That’s all she had.

One week before the landlord gave the apartment to someone else.

One week to fake a signature.

One week to secure enough money to hold the place.

One week to find freedom.

Or at least— survival.

⸻

Her heart was pounding in that quiet, pulsing way that made everything feel wrong. Her fingers wouldn’t stop picking at the threads of her sleeves. Her thoughts looped in circles.

She’d never done anything like this.

She didn’t lie.

She didn’t forge.

She got straight As. Smiled at teachers. Shared her notes. Brought cookies to class on test days.

She wasn’t supposed to know how to survive alone.

But she didn’t have a choice now.

Not after she knows what her fate will be in the future. Not after her brother‘s weird behavior and how she does not want to get even more hurt by them once again.

Her phone buzzed with a low battery warning. She glanced at it, then reached for the notebook on her desk. The one she used to plan out real things—school schedules, homework lists.

Now she flipped to a blank page.

And started writing:

✦ Money

• trust fund balance: ❌ (can’t touch it, Bruce sees it)

• Cash on hand: ~$400

• Part-time jobs? No ID

• Fake bank account?

✦ Signature

• Needs to look like a Italian parent

• Has to pass legally

• Needs someone good. Discreet. No questions.

She stared at the words for a long time.

Then, almost against her better judgment, she wrote down what she’d been avoiding:

One week or I lose the place.

Her stomach twisted.

But then—

A spark.

A memory.

She’d overheard some classmates once. Talking in the hallway. About a guy at school who could “fix grades,” “clear detentions,” even “make permission slips appear.”

Not a real criminal.

But the type of person who existed in the gray space.

She didn’t know his name.

But someone would.

_____

The next day, she was sitting with her school friends at the launch table. 

The courtyard buzzed with spring breeze and quiet laughter. YN’s friend group was circled under the trees as usual, books and bento boxes spread around them.

She smiled. Laughed. Ate half a sandwich.

And then, when the conversation shifted to something else—she leaned a little closer to the girl beside her.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Can I ask you something… a little weird?”

The girl blinked. “Sure?”

“I, um…” Y/N played with her straw. “I kind of need someone who can fake a signature. Just once. For something small.”

Immediately, three heads turned toward her.

“What?”

“You?”

“Why?!”

YN let out a soft, nervous laugh and waved her hands.

“No, no—it’s nothing bad, I swear. I just—my dad’s been super busy and stressed lately, and I didn’t want to bother him for something this small. But I need this form signed or I can’t submit my entry for a scholarship program. It’s silly.”

Her voice was light. Sweet. Convincing.

It always was.

They believed her.

Of course they did.

YN Wayne didn’t lie.

Didn’t cheat.

Didn’t need to fake anything.

⸻

One of the girls bit her lip. “I mean… there is someone.”

“Who?”

The group exchanged looks.

“He’s kind of… off-limits,” one of them whispered. “Not in a scary way, just… he’s not exactly PTA-approved.”

“People go to him when they want things handled,” another said.

“Things they don’t want teachers—or parents—to know.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Handled how?”

“Fake IDs. Signature work. Lab grade bumps. Stuff like that.”

She tried not to flinch.

“Do you know his name?”

A pause.

Then one of them finally leaned in and said it.

“His name’s Silas.”

She found him exactly where her friend said he’d be.

Back wall of the school, behind the arts building, where the vines were dry and the shadows hid the rusted fences. A place students weren’t supposed to linger—let alone the sweetheart of Gotham Academy.

He was sitting on a low concrete ledge, knees wide, blazer unbuttoned, a black pen flipping rhythmically between his fingers. The faint scent of cologne, cigarettes, and old ink hung in the air. He was an average tall teenage boy with dirty blonde hair and sharp facial features. His brown eyes showed a maturity above his age.

She stopped just short of the wall.

He looked up.

And blinked.

“…Huh.”

His voice wasn’t surprised exactly. Just curious. Dry. Like the universe had just dropped a snowflake into his cigarette ash.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Princess.”

Y/N clasped her hands in front of her.

Her uniform was perfect. White shirt tucked, skirt neat, hair braided into soft waves over her shoulder. Stockings uncreased. Shoes polished.

She looked like she belonged in a floral ad campaign, not standing in shadows near someone like him.

“I need a favor,” she said.

Silas raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought you were gonna report me for existing too close to the east wing.”

“I won’t ask questions,” she said calmly, “if you don’t.”

He leaned back on his palms.

“Now this,” he said, eyeing her with quiet amusement, “this is interesting.”

YN reached into her bag and pulled out the folded application form.

“I need a signature,” she said softly. “A parent one. For someone named Lucia Forenzi. Can you do it?”

Silas took the paper, flipping it once in his hand.

“Lucia Forenzi,” he repeated, smirking. “Let me guess. Italian ballet prodigy studying abroad?”

Something twisted in her throat.

She didn’t answer.

Just looked at him, wide-eyed and pleading.

He studied her.

She wasn’t shaking.

But her eyes were too still.

Too trained.

Too controlled.

It was the kind of look people had when they were lying about something they were terrified of anyone finding out.

“Right,” he muttered, sitting up straighter and pulling a different pen from his inner pocket. “No questions.”

He clicked the cap.

“Still gotta charge you, sweetheart.”

“Of course,” she said quietly. “How much?”

He looked her over, calculated something she wouldn’t understand.

“Sixty-five.”

Her brows lifted for a breath—but then she nodded, already reaching into her bag.

No hesitation.

No negotiation.

Definitely hiding something.

She passed him the cash folded neatly in an envelope.

“Neat,” he muttered, sliding it into his jacket. “Didn’t even crumple it.”

He bent over the paper and began working the signature with practiced, deliberate strokes—flourishes, pressure points, the little inconsistencies that made fakes real. He was good. Too good.

She watched silently.

When he finished, he blew lightly on the ink and handed the form back to her.

YN took it carefully. Slipped it into the protective folder in her bag.

Silas leaned back again, like the job meant nothing.

“You’re not built for this, you know,” he said lazily.

Her gaze flicked to him. “For what?”

“Lying.” He smirked. “You twitch every time you breathe wrong.”

She looked away. “I’m not lying.”

“Sure.”

She hesitated—then, voice lower:

“Do you know how to make money?”

He tilted his head.

“I mean… quickly,” she added. “A lot. Like… maybe a few thousand.”

That got his full attention.

His brows lifted.

Silas straightened slowly, eyes scanning her again, this time truly seeing the stress behind her face.

“You asking for you?” he asked.

She nodded.

Barely.

Silas looked at her longer than he should have.

Her question—so quiet, so sincere—echoed oddly in the air between them.

A few thousand dollars. Quickly.

Not pocket change. Not school lunch money.

Real money.

And from her.

He should’ve shrugged it off.

Should’ve handed her a few names, offered her options—favors-for-cash setups, under-the-table digital work, hush-hush favors for the rich kids who liked to get dirt without getting dirty.

He knew all those doors.

But he didn’t say a word about any of them.

Because she wasn’t the type of girl who knocked on those doors.

And he’d seen enough people walk through them and never come back out right.

⸻

“Why do you even need cash?” he asked, tapping the edge of the concrete beside him. “You’re Bruce Wayne’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Her eyes darted away.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t lie.

But the silence stretched.

Her shoulders were stiff. Her eyes fixed on the sidewalk. Her cheeks flushed pink—not the pretty kind, the embarrassed kind. Ashamed.

And in that moment, Silas actually pitied her.

Because she really didn’t belong here.

Not in his part of Gotham.

He watched her for another second, then exhaled slowly.

“You don’t want to do what it takes to make that kind of money,” he said flatly. “Trust me.”

She looked up at him again, startled.

“You’re not like the others who come to me,” he added. “They already made peace with the kind of things they’re willing to do. You? You’d cry if you saw how fast that road burns.”

Y/N’s mouth parted.

But she didn’t speak.

She just listened.

Silas reached back, adjusting the chain around his neck, then muttered, “I’m not gonna say anything about this. Don’t worry. But don’t come back here asking about that again.”

She blinked fast.

Then nodded.

And smiled—gently, sweetly, the kind of smile that shouldn’t belong on someone trying to break the law.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Really. And… I hope you find your way, too. I think you could.”

Silas didn’t respond right away.

But he watched her walk away.

Watched her braid swaying behind her, her shoes clicking too neatly on cracked pavement.

She didn’t look back.

Unbeknownst to her, three boys down the alley had been watching.

One of them stepped forward the moment she was gone.

“Yo, that was her, right? The Wayne girl?”

"Did she just pay you for something?”

“What’d she want?”

Silas didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look up.

Didn’t answer.

He just lit a half-burnt cigarette and said flatly:

“She wanted nothing.”

______

The building still smelled like old cigarette smoke and forgotten furniture polish.

The same chipped door. Same crooked number on the outside.

Same old man behind the cluttered desk, now flipping through paperwork and scratching his balding head with a tired sigh.

When she stepped in, he barely glanced up.

Until he did.

And blinked.

“Oh. You again.”

She nodded. “I brought the signature.”

She walked across the dusty floor, careful not to make her footsteps too loud, and handed him the form tucked in its sleeve.

The man squinted at it, pulled on his reading glasses, and grumbled under his breath as he scanned it.

“Lucia Forenzi… yeah, this’ll work.” He leaned back, letting the form rest on top of a stack. “Now we just gotta finalize the rest once you get your deposit together.”

YN hesitated.

She folded her hands together. “Do you think I could ask… for one more week? For the deposit, I mean?”

He eyed her.

She wasn’t trembling. But her voice was gentle. Careful. Like she’d been rehearsing it in her head for hours.

He sighed again.

“Kid… I usually don’t let stuff slide like this.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just—my ID is still stuck in customs back in Milan. And my bank account—American one—isn’t ready yet. I’m trying to… get something together.”

He stared at her.

Young face. Braided hair. Nervous posture. Accent just strong enough to carry the lie.

If she’d been anyone else—he’d have told her to get lost.

But she looked like a girl completely alone.

And despite the fact that he spent half his pension at poker tables and owed a guy named Ray twenty bucks from last month’s betting pool…

He had a daughter once.

Long ago.

She never looked this scared.

“One more week,” he said finally. “That’s it. No more games.”

She smiled—grateful, glowing, almost guilty.

“Thank you. Really.”

He cleared his throat. “You said you don’t have cash yet, right?”

She nodded. “I… I was actually thinking of trying to get a job.”

“A job?” He barked a short laugh. “You got papers for that?”

“No,” she admitted, softly. “But I’m good with plants.”

He squinted again.

“Plants?”

“I grew up around a lot of gardens. I know how to take care of things. Keep them alive.”

He looked around his office.

Half-dead potted thing in the corner. Wilting ivy on the window ledge.

“Tell you what,” he muttered. “The building’s got some rooftop planters the old tenants abandoned. Overgrown with weeds now. You clean ’em out, replant something nice, keep it alive? I’ll knock a bit off your deposit. Even give you a little cash if you do a good job.”

YN’s eyes lit up.

“You’d let me?”

He waved a hand. “Not gonna stop someone from doing free labor. Especially if it means I don’t gotta call some overpriced nursery.”

She smiled—real this time.

And for a moment, she didn’t feel like she was running.

Just planting something new.

“Thank you,” she said again, shouldering her bag. “I’ll come back after school tomorrow. If that’s okay?”

“Door’ll be open.”

She nodded once.

Turned.

And left.

The air outside smelled like pavement and car exhaust and early spring.

She took the bus home.

One hand on her bag.

One hand curled quietly in her coat pocket.

___

Tim

The hum of cooling fans filled his room.

Screens glowed softly around him—multiple tabs open, city feeds on low volume, encrypted Wayne Enterprises backend files half-scrolled through. He didn’t really need to be there. Most of his work for the day had been finished hours ago.

But he was restless. Edgy.

Something was gnawing at the edge of his mind.

He didn’t know what.

That’s when he saw it.

An unlabeled USB left near the base of one of the older servers—something Alfred had probably pulled from the manor archives or the mainframe logs.

Tim plugged it in without much thought.

Inside: dozens of folders. Video files. Unmarked. Untouched.

Most were labeled by year.

He opened one at random.

Then stared.

The footage was grainy but clear.

A school auditorium.

A handmade banner above the stage: Gotham Academy Winter Performance.

Kids lined up in stiff uniforms and glittery costumes.

And there—center left, third row—YN.

Maybe six. Seven.

Singing. Slightly off-pitch, swaying back and forth like she’d practiced a hundred times.

In the bottom corner of the footage, he could hear the applause.

Not much of it.

Definitely no one from the family.

Tim frowned.

Why hadn’t he seen this before?

He clicked through another.

Grade 4 Science Fair. YN Wayne.

Her booth was filled with little potted flowers and soil diagrams. He saw her holding a laminated sheet, explaining something with shy excitement to a panel of judges.

And again—no one from their family there.

Not even Alfred.

⸻

Tim leaned back slowly.

And something in his chest twisted.

He hadn’t seen her in weeks—months even.

Not really.

She’d always just… been there.

Quiet. Predictable. Not part of the mission. Not part of the crime board, or the investigations, or the emergency Gotham alerts.

Just soft footsteps in the hallway. Soft baking smells from the kitchen.

A small knock on his door, back when she used to knock.

He remembered when he first arrived.

Jason had just died. Bruce was… hollowed out.

And Tim, desperate for validation, had stepped into Robin’s boots with too much weight and not enough air.

She was small back then. Four? Maybe five.

Always trailing behind Alfred with wide green eyes. Always hugging something—blanket, plush rabbit, her own braid.

She’d tried to talk to him.

At first, it was just questions.

“Do you know how to make things explode without hurting the garden?”

“Why do your hands always have ink on them?”

“Do you like stories about space?”

Tim had nodded politely. Answered once or twice.

But Bruce needed him.

Dick kept him moving.

There wasn’t time.

And when she tried harder—when she came into his workshop with sticky notes and clumsily drawn circuit boards, when she made him a chess board with mismatched floral pieces to match the ones in the cave—

He’d smiled.

“Thanks. Maybe later.”

Then closed the door.

Later, he said something to Dick.

He didn’t even remember what sparked it.

Just a comment about how she was “always hanging around,” how she was “cute, but a distraction.”

“She’s kind of a liability,” he’d said.

And behind him—

She had been standing in the doorway.

Chessboard in hand.

⸻

Y/N

She hadn’t cried.

Not then.

Just smiled and nodded and said it was okay.

But she never brought him another project again.

She still helped him, sometimes, when she thought he wouldn’t notice. Repaired a snapped wire. Left tea near his monitor. Cleaned up wires on the floor.

But she stopped knocking.

Stopped asking.

Stopped trying.

Because what was the point?

He didn’t want her.

None of them did.

⸻

Tim

Tim sat still, staring at the paused frame.

Her tiny hands. Her proud smile.

And not a single member of the family had shown up.

Not even once.

His gut twisted.

How had he missed her?

How had they all missed her?

He opened another folder.

And another.

And another.

And slowly, it stopped feeling like research.

And started feeling like regret.

He searched her full name on instinct.

He wasn’t expecting much—maybe a locked account, maybe nothing at all. 

But it popped up right away. She was not that secretive or paranoid to even have a private account. Not that that would have stopped him.

@y/n.wayne_loves_poppies

Gotham Academy | Greenheart Club 🌿 | 🧁 Sometimes I bake, sometimes I bloom 💚

Her profile picture was soft. Smiling. Just slightly blurred in that way that made it feel unfiltered, uncalculated.

It hit him harder than it should’ve.

She looked… older. Not by much. Just enough to make his stomach twist.

He hadn’t even known what her current face looked like.

She still had the same eyes. Same gentle expression.

Same softness. Same adorable delicateness. 

He opened her highlights.

“Flowers” was the first one.

Clips of blooming vines, petals unfolding in slow motion. Her fingers gently touching the edge of a stem.

“Baking” came next. A video of cupcakes she made for a class birthday. Another of heart-shaped sugar cookies dusted in gold powder. Kids laughing in the background. Her voice behind the camera, barely heard.

She’d tagged her friends. Liked their comments. Replied with hearts.

There were no comments from any of them.

None of her family.

Not one from him.

Tim swallowed.

He scrolled down to her posts. The oldest one still up was from two years ago. Her sitting in the greenhouse. A short caption:

“🌸 Sometimes things only grow when they’re ignored.”

He hadn’t seen it.

Didn’t even know she had an Instagram.

He clicked through dozens of pictures.

Birthday cupcakes she made herself.

Class awards she never mentioned.

Photos at the museum—her smiling with two friends in front of a lunar exhibit.

She liked astronomy.

He hadn’t known that.

She liked baking.

She liked poppies.

She watched weird indie romance films with sad endings.

He hadn’t known any of it.

Tim leaned back in his chair.

His throat was tight.

His chest was quiet—but hollow.

He had missed everything.

She had been right there.

For years.

And he’d let her walk past him like she was just background noise.

But not anymore.

He reached forward slowly. Hands steady. Mind turning.

I’ll fix it.

He could ask her to play chess.

Tell her about his newest case.

Ask her about her favorite constellations.

Share her posts. Leave comments. Make her feel like she mattered.

Like she existed.

It wouldn’t happen all at once. She wouldn’t trust him yet.

But that was okay.

He had time.

He’d be different now.

He’d be better.

        He’d be her brother. 

_____________

Y/N

The familiar scent of lemon polish and old books greeted her as she stepped through the manor’s doors.

Alfred was in the hallway, arranging a vase of cut lilies—probably delivered by a vendor she’d never met, for a dinner party she’d never be invited to.

He turned when he heard her.

“Miss YN,” he said, surprised. “You’re home early.”

She gave him her usual small, polite smile. “I didn’t feel well. Just a stomach ache.”

He didn’t respond right away. His eyes stayed on her face longer than usual.

Searching.

Reading.

He’d always been the only one who looked.

But even now, his gaze held something else—worry.

She shifted under it.

He finally nodded.

“I’ll bring you some tea. Chamomile?”

She nodded quickly. “That would be perfect, Alfred. Thank you.”

⸻

She walked up the stairs without another word.

Every step felt heavier.

Her bag weighed more now—holding the fake signature, the crumpled plan, the reality of how little time she had left before she needed to vanish.

When she stepped into her room, she took a moment.

Let the door close behind her.

Then just stood there.

It used to be pink.

Green lace trim.

Fairy lights.

Stuffed animals in the corner.

After she came back—after she knew what was coming—it all went away.

She changed the curtains to gray. Folded the soft blankets into storage boxes. Swapped her old bedspread for something plain, something neutral.

Something invisible.

Because that’s what they wanted from her, wasn’t it?

Not sweetness.

Not softness.

Not the girl who drew them family portraits and wrote their names in glitter pens.

They wanted quiet.

So she became quiet.

She sat at her desk and slowly unpacked her notebook.

To-do lists. Rent deadlines. Sketches of job plans. A fake identity plan she knew would fall apart in front of any real system—but she had to try anyway.

She stared at it blankly, trying to remember which lie came next.

And that’s when the knock came.

It was soft.

Two short taps.

She blinked.

“Alfred?” she called, gently.

She opened the door—

And stopped.

Her fingers froze around the knob.

Because it wasn’t Alfred.

It was Tim.

⸻

He stood in the hallway, backlit by the glow of the antique sconces, hands shoved into his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.

His hair was slightly messy—like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. His posture unsure. His eyes… searching.

And behind all that awkwardness—there was a smile.

Forced.

“Hey,” he said, voice quiet. “Didn’t know you were home early.”

She stared at him.

He was tall. Way taller now. Broader than she remembered. Dressed in one of his clean-casual post-Enterprise outfits, too neat to be an accident.

And she felt tiny.

Small. Frail.

Forgettable.

Her doe eyes flicked up to meet his for a second.

Then away.

She stiffened without meaning to.

Her voice came out softer than she intended.

“…Hi.”

Tim’s gaze drifted over her head, into her room, and lingered.

His brows pulled together slightly.

He wasn’t trying to be obvious, but he couldn’t help it.

The room was… muted.

Clean, neat, and stripped bare of her.

No soft colors. No floral bedspread. No paper flowers, no paintings on the walls. The only thing alive was the half-drained diffuser on her desk and a dying succulent on the windowsill.

It didn’t match what he’d seen online.

Not the photos. Not the tone of her captions. Not the girl who made cupcakes in cat-shaped molds and cut strawberries into hearts for her friends.

The Y/N on Instagram smiled in pink and baked things for people who didn’t deserve it.

This one?

This one was standing in a doorway, blinking up at him like he was a ghost.

Tim pulled his eyes back to her and offered a slightly nervous smile.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

She didn’t say anything.

He scratched the back of his neck and stepped back, giving her space.

“I, uh… I realized I hadn’t talked to you in a while. Just wanted to check in.”

Still no response.

So he tried again.

“School going okay?”

Her fingers curled slightly around the doorframe.

She gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

He tried not to fidget.

“And… you’re feeling alright? I heard you left school early today.”

Her eyes widened—just for a second. A flash of instinctive fear.

Then she quickly covered it with a half-smile. “Just a headache. I’m okay now.”

But her voice was tight. Careful.

Like she wasn’t sure what game he was playing.

Tim could feel the wall between them.

He hated it.

But he also knew he’d helped build it.

He cleared his throat.

“Cool. That’s good. Uh… I was thinking maybe sometime—if you want—we could play chess again? I still have that old board. The one you made when you were little.”

He smiled at the memory.

She didn’t.

Her lips parted slightly.

Her eyes dropped.

And then—quiet, confused, almost painful:

“…Why are you here?”

Not angry.

Just… asking.

Like it didn’t make sense to her that he’d show up at all.

Because it didn’t.

Not in her first life.

Not in the years where she had knocked on his door a hundred times and only ever heard “I’m busy.”

Tim blinked.

And for the first time, his smile dropped entirely.

He looked at her.

Really looked at her.

And all the data in the world couldn’t tell him why the question hurt so much more than he thought it would.

Tim’s awkward smile didn’t quite match his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging, scratching the back of his neck. “I just—y’know. Miss my baby sister, I guess.”

It didn’t sound right in her ears.

Not with the years of silence still echoing in her memory.

Not when she remembered standing outside his door for hours, holding something she’d made for him—only to be brushed off again and again.

But now he was here. Smiling.

Like it hadn’t all happened.

Like none of it mattered.

He stood for a second longer, maybe expecting her to say something.

She didn’t.

So he nodded toward her desk. “Need help with schoolwork?”

“No, thank you,” she said quickly. “It’s… a group project. I have to call Maya soon.”

That name again. The lie she’d built to protect her escape.

Tim nodded. “Got it. Well… I’ll let you get back to it then.”

She gave a small nod. “Okay.”

He hesitated.

Like he wanted to say something else.

Then didn’t.

He stepped back and left.

She closed the door behind him slowly.

Then locked it.

And exhaled.

⸻

The light outside was dimming into gold.

She sat cross-legged on her floor, her notebook open, sketches of furniture and ornaments she’d seen lying unused around the mansion: antique vases, decorative trays, crystal bookends—small enough to pack into a backpack, valuable enough to sell at any downtown collector’s shop.

She hated it.

She hated the idea of stealing.

But this wasn’t theft—it was a last resort.

And she was careful.

Nothing from the family’s main rooms.

Nothing with names etched into them.

Nothing anyone would miss.

They already forgot her birthday every year.

Already forgot her when she left the table.

This wasn’t new. They were good at not missing lost things.

In the back of her notebook, she was already drafting the lie she’d tell her friends:

Mom is an Italian businesswoman. Wants me back home to get more familiar with my roots.

No forwarding address. Just a long goodbye.

Her fingers trembled a little as she wrote.

But her voice in her head was calm.

You can do this. Just make it through one more week.

That’s when the knock came.

Sharp. Heavy.

Not gentle like Alfred.

Not hesitant like Tim.

Her heart froze.

She scrambled, grabbing her notebook, papers, burner phone, shoving them under the blanket and pulling it flat with both hands.

She stood up, forcing her face into something neutral—her eyes wide, breath tight.

And then she opened the door.

He stood there like a statue.

Tall. Broad. Impossibly built.

Bruce Wayne.

Her father.

Dark suit, no tie. Shirt collar open. Shoulders squared, posture perfectly relaxed—yet utterly intimidating. Shadowed jaw, sharp cheekbones, tired, steely eyes. His presence filled the doorway like a wall.

And her body forgot how to breathe.

He had never stood there before.

Not since she was three years old and Alfred had shown her the room.

Never once.

And now?

Now he looked at her like he was searching for something he’d misplaced.

She stared up at him.

Small. Still. Shaking without showing it.

Bruce

It had been a week since Alfred brought it up.

A full week since that quiet, direct conversation—the kind Alfred rarely initiated unless he knew something was slipping too far.

“She’s asked for money, Master Bruce. Not out of greed. Out of fear.”

Bruce had nodded, said he’d look into it.

And then he hadn’t.

Not because he didn’t care.

But because some part of him had locked the thought away. Too proud to admit what it really meant.

Too afraid to admit that somewhere along the way—he’d forgotten her face.

Until now.

He walked through the upper hallway slowly, unfamiliar with this wing despite technically owning it. The shadows here were deeper. The air, stiller. This part of the manor was quiet in a way none of the other children’s corridors were.

And when he reached the end of the hall and saw her name—engraved gently on the door, the paint fading—his chest clenched.

Why was she this far away?

From everyone?

From him?

He made a decision right then.

She’d be moved.

Her room was too far.

Too far from him.

That would change.

He lifted a hand and knocked twice.

Sharp. Measured.

And the door opened.

⸻

Y/N

She looked up at him, and the breath stalled in his lungs.

She was…

Still small.

Still delicate.

Still had those wide, soft doe eyes he remembered vaguely from the time Alfred had first placed her in his arms. Her hair a little longer now. Her expression tighter. Guarded.

But the girl who had once followed him with awe and silent hopes was standing there, now looking at him like—

She didn’t know who he was.

Or maybe, like she remembered too well.

⸻

Bruce

Bruce’s voice didn’t crack, but it softened more than he expected.

“…Hi, little leaf.”

It was a name he’d never said before.

A nickname he’d never used.

Not even when she was a toddler.

But it came to him then—natural, instinctive, like something that had always waited behind his tongue.

“Little leaf.”

Because she was so small.

So quiet.

So easy to miss in the wind.

He glanced over her head with ease—she didn’t even came past his chest.

His eyes swept her room.

Muted.

Cold.

Devoid of life.

Nothing on the walls. No bright colors. No scattered crafts. No signs of who she was—just a blanket on the bed covering something, maybe books.

It looked less like a home.

More like a holding space.

Something in him twisted sharply.

⸻

Y/N

What. The. Hell.

Her thoughts were loud.

Exploding behind her face as she tried to keep her features neutral.

First Dick and Damian

Then Tim.

Now him.

Bruce Wayne.

Her father—in name and blood only—who hadn’t stepped into her room since she was two years old.

He looked… the same. Towering. Dark. Dressed in one of his half-armored casuals, broad enough to block the entire hallway behind him.

His voice had been low. Calm.

Little leaf.

She nearly recoiled.

He’d never called her anything before. No pet names. No warm nicknames. He barely called her by her name at all.

So why now?

She stared up at him, stunned, her hand still gripping the doorframe. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Her thoughts twisted violently in her head.

Why is he here? Why is he suddenly pretending like I exist? What is wrong with them?

Is this some game?

Is this part of whatever’s going on with Tim and Dick? Did something happen?

Did someone tell them to prank me now?

Her fingers curled tighter.

She wanted to scream.

To ask what the hell do you want?

But she couldn’t.

Because he was Bruce Wayne.

Because she was YN Wayne.

Because her entire plan depended on no one noticing her.

And now—suddenly—everyone was.

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[taintandviolent]

Regular ; Oz Cobb x Reader

summary: You live in Gotham City and are a waitress at a little hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant. Oz is a regular and you've developed quite the crush on him.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 6.4K | older man/younger woman, semi-established history, making out, cockwarming, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, fingering (female receiving, dirty talk, smut with a teensy bit of plot (but not really).

a/n: to the 99.9999% of my followers... I'm so sorry but I am begging you guys to hear me out about him!!!! I thoroughly expect this to flop, but I needed to write it for my own sanity. absolutely massive thank you to @redravenblogs for beta-reading! banner by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / playlist here / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

Ah, Tuesday night. 

In Gotham City, every night is a good night for an Italian restaurant. Especially one that’s been in business since 1964 and acquired a hefty lot of aging locals that know the food is good, and a possibly even longer list of trendy, younger foodies that have heard that food is good because of the aging locals. 

There’s also the… criminal side of the patrons. Have a place with delicious food and wine, and Gotham’s elite underground is sure to follow. You’ve seen your fair share of men who look like they’re here to discuss a deal over a good meal, and a number of elected officials with them. You know better than to meddle, though. You just do your job, and hope for a good tip. Usually, you get one. 

Tonight, it’s raining. Heavily. Surprise, surprise. People flock in from the street as an escape from the deluge outside and the restaurant is filling up quickly. Your section is about three quarters of the way full, and you’re busy. You hear the door open again, followed by the momentary rush of the sound of tires on wet pavement outside. You straighten up, throwing your glance in the way of the entrance. 

There he is. A warm smile spreads across your face as you watch him amble in, shaking the rain from his leather coat. Though his appearances aren’t regular, his habits are. He always sits at the same table in your section, towards the back and next to the corner window. Once he figured out it was in an area you attended to, he never sat anywhere else. 

You only know him as Oz, the big sweetheart of a man who comes in and always orders the chicken parmigiana. Says it’s the best in town. After seeing him a few times, and sneakily taking note of his last name, you took it upon yourself to do a little digging and found out that he’s known for running with Falcone’s gang and that he’s also the owner of the elite Iceberg Lounge. You never bring those things up to him in fear of starting a conversation he doesn’t want to finish. It’s really none of your business, anyway. You give him a moment to settle into the booth, but once he does – you’re immediately headed that way. 

“There she is,” he starts with a smile, watching you as you make your way over to the table, pulling your order notebook from your apron pocket. “There’s my girl.” 

A blush hits your cheek – it does every time. From day one, he flirted with you, harmlessly and has continued it ever since. You’re used to patrons being a little flirtatious, but something about the way Oz does it makes your stomach tighten. 

“Buonasera, Oz…” you say, your lips curling into a warm smile. In the year you’ve worked here, you’ve picked up a little Italian, but the appropriate greetings are mandated by management. “How you doin’?” 

“Better now.” 

You smile again and dip your chin to your chest shyly. He’s always so affectionate, so warm. For being a guy who meddles in Gotham’s seedy underbelly, he’s one of the nicest guys you’ve ever met.

“The usual?” 

He nods. “The usual, sweetheart. But gimme’ a side of fettuccine tonight, huh?” 

You scribble the order down, and snap your book shut. “You got it.”

“What time you off tonight, doll?” 

“Same as every night, Oz. In about an hour.”

“They keepin’ you late every night, huh?” 

“Yeah, but a girl’s gotta’ eat.” 

He scoffs, shaking his head and shifts in the booth before looking up at you. “I keep tellin’ ya, I could take care uh ya, baby.”

The running joke, but sometimes you wonder if he’s serious. He always tips you generously, alarmingly so, and it’s always put directly in your hand, as though he doesn’t want anyone else knowing that he takes care of your groceries for the week.

“And I keep sayin’ I couldn’t do that to you.” 

“Ahh–!” He jerks his head to the side, dismissing those words. 

You reach forward to touch his broad shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “Let me put your order in, honey. I’ll be right back with your wine.” 

With that, you walk proudly off towards the back, swaying your hips. You can feel Oz’s eyes on you as you go and maybe the way you move is intentional, because you know he’s watching. So, what if it was? Can you really blame a girl for liking the attention?

As you round the corner to the kitchen, you clear your throat and call out to the cooks. Angelo is working tonight, and he’s one of the few guys who knows about your little affinity for Oz. As soon as you pin the ticket, Angelo spins the wheel around, looking at the order. He recognizes it, and gives you a knowing smile. 

“Oh, look who’s back, eh?” 

“Quiet,” you hush, looking back towards the table. You can’t see it from this angle, but you know he’s there, sitting, probably on his phone, or tapping his big knuckles on the wood of the table. 

He looks at the sheet again, noticing the addition, and raises an eyebrow. “Boyfriend’s hungry tonight.” 

“Angelo, will you quit it? He’s not my boyfriend.” 

“Sugar daddy then, eh?” 

You scoff, giving him the finger before reaching for one of the bottles of wine – Oz’s favorite.

You return to his table with a skip in your step. It’s been about a week since you’ve seen him, and you can’t help the giddiness in your gait. As you bump your plush hip into the corner of the table, Oz grins crookedly at you, his gold teeth glinting in the low lighting of the restaurant. You reach into your apron, pulling out a corkscrew. 

“So, whatcha’ been up to, Oz?” You say, as you twist the prong into the cork. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” 

“Ah, y’know… business as usual.”

He usually gives you an answer like that – something that doesn’t reveal too much about what he does. You wonder if he knows that you’ve looked into him. You suddenly furrow your brow at the cork – it’s being stubborn – and quickly situate the bottle between your legs, squeezing it tight between your thighs. This action isn’t lost on Oz, who watches you with a deeply interested grin, watching how your skirt rides up just slightly at the front, not enough to reveal anything aside from some of your creamy soft thigh flesh. Everything you do is done with such innocence, but there’s no way you don’t know what you’re doing to him, he thinks. After a moment of yanking, the cork finally gives way with a hollow POP and you grip the bottle, bringing it up to the table. You mutter a quiet apology and fill the glass, pulling the bottle back to wipe the edge on your apron.

“Well, it’s good to see you. Always is.” 

Someone calls your name from behind you, and it’s one of the other tables, looking for refills. You offer Oz an apologetic smile, and head in that direction. Sadly, you don’t return until his food is ready.  He’s extra present tonight; your eyes meet every time you look in his direction, giving him a timid smile and going about your tasks, but your heart flutters with an adoration for the older man. You’re attentive too, and go over to his table a million and a half times to ask how the food is, if he needs anything else. 

“Only you, doll.” 

You swat playfully at his shoulder, though the little quip has heat pooling in your core. You’d be lying if you hadn’t thought about him taking you over the table a handful of times; lustfully imagining what his hips would feel like rutting against your ass as he sunk himself inside of you. You constantly wondered what his cock looked like. He was a big man, and you assumed that rang true for all parts of him – but the hunger to find out was terrible.  

He’s one of the last ones to leave, lingering as long as he can before it’s considered rude. Tonight, something’s different about him, like something is on his mind, something he wants to say. Each time you’re at his table, he looks like he’s about to ask, but never does. Finally, as you return to clear his table, reaching for the empty plates on his table, he downs the rest of his wine and clears his throat. 

“Listen, sweetheart,” he says, pivoting slightly in the booth with some effort. “You uh, you busy after work?” 

“N-no.” Your heart is pounding in your chest. You straighten up, holding the stacked plates with one flattened palm.

“Why don’t you come down to the Iceberg Lounge? Unwind a little.”

“Oh, Oz, I’m not much of a clubbing girl.” 

There’s a glimmer of disappointment in those dark eyes of his, but he sets his jaw, and gets to his feet. This puts him in your proximity, and you can feel the heat rolling off his large body. Your stomach aches to lean into him, press yourself into his gut, and lace your arms around his neck.

“Just think ‘bout it.” He reaches in his pocket. 

The tip he gives you tonight almost makes your knees give way. It feels thicker than usual in your left hand and when your fingers close around the bills, you swallow down the protests. You don’t dare count it, not in front of him or anyone else. You’ve stopped telling him no, or that he doesn’t have to, because it’s almost like it offends him. He always hushes you, and acts like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You tuck it in the pocket of your apron, and swallow hard again. 

He smiles and steps around you. Your eyes are glued to the visual of him leaving, watching him through the windows as he limps down the sidewalk. God, you want him. It’s a lethal hunger, something that claws and rips at your insides. 

Once the restaurant is empty, you and the rest of the crew make quick work of cleaning up and closing up shop. It’s about forty-five minutes later when you’re slipping your arms into the sleeves of your black, wool overcoat and heading through the door. The rain hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s gotten worse. You heave a sigh. You’ve got a walk ahead of you, but it’s something you’re used to. 

“Doll!” 

You stop walking, poised just at the end of the sidewalk. You hoist your bag up on your shoulder and pull your jacket right around your neck, squinting into the rain. 

“Oz? That you?” You take a step in that direction, knowing full well it is. Your casual act is embarrassing to you, but you persist, pretending you’re surprised to see him getting out of his car. It’s a nice one, too… a Maserati. Was he… waiting for you?

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “You ain’t walkin’ home in this, are ya?”

“Just to the station,” You defend. 

“Nah. C’mon.” He limps around the front of his car, rain splattering against his leather coat. “Lemme’ give ya’ a ride.” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Really. The rain is brutal and you’re cold, a chill settling into your bones. You hurry towards the plum-coloured car, your high heels clacking against the wet pavement as you do. Oz opens and holds the door for you, waiting patiently for you to make your way over. You get in the car gracefully, making sure not to flash him, though, you doubt he’d mind if you did. It’s warm inside, the heat is on, and the leather interior has absorbed some of that heat. You snuggle into the seat, watching in the rearview as Oz makes his way back around the car, and for a moment you’re surrounded by nothing but the sound of rain on the roof and the shlick of the wiper blades as they whisk the droplets off the windshield. The driver’s side door opens, and he tucks himself in. Droplets of rain decorate his shoulders, and he smears his hand over his hair. 

“Where to, sweetheart?” He asks, a familiarity in his voice. He’s used to driving people around, but he’d drive you around the whole city if you asked. 

“The complex on the corner of 7th and Onyx…” you say, almost sheepishly. Sure, it’s not the best part of town, but your little apartment is cozy, overlooking the city. You imagine he’s used to much nicer, and is probably silently judging the location. 

“Oz,” you start, looking at the girth of his fingers as they wrap around the steering wheel. Your mind starts to wander, but you quickly reign it in with a hard blink and an inhalation of breath. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Sure, doll. Anything you want.” 

“Were you waiting for me to get off work?”

 “Gotta’ look out for my favorite girl, y’know?” 

It’s an indirect answer, but an answer all the same. You smile to yourself as he eases his foot into the gas pedal, the car moving forward. His right hand departs from the steering wheel to turn on the radio. Frank Sinatra’s crooning voice fills the inside, and for the rest of the drive, you’re silent, occasionally stealing looks at Oz as he drives. He handles the car beautifully, and you wonder if he handles a woman as well. 

Oz is sweet. You know this. Despite his constant heavy flirting at the restaurant, he’s sweet, charming and at times, awkward. Endearingly so. But you aren’t taking pity on him. Your interest in him is purely selfish, driven by your lust for older, dangerous men. You inhale a deep breath and turn your attention to the road. You’re close to home. A few minutes later, he pulls up next to your building and puts the car in park. 

You reposition yourself to face him, shifting your feet underneath you. He’s watching you, those smoldering, dark eyes following your every move. Carefully, you lean over the center console, enough to close in the distance between you two and press your lips against his warm, scarred cheek. His aftershave wafts into your nose, and you take a deep breath of it, remembering it. You think you hear his breath hitching. 

“That’s for the ride, Oz.” 

“Shit, I oughta’ drive you ‘round more often if that’s what it gets me, huh?” 

You hesitate a moment, looking into his eyes. There’s that look again –  like he wants to ask something. You fill the void with another question. 

“Is our chicken parm really the best, or do you just come for me?” 

Oz’s thick brows flick up on his forehead and he lets out a throaty chuckle. “Sweetheart...” 

“Do you come for me?” 

Now he’s really looking at you, squinting at you. Hearing that question repeated has him twitching in his goddamn slacks. He looks out to the rain, then back to you and you’re still staring at him, waiting for an answer. 

“If you only fuckin’ knew,” he chokes out.

“Well.. what if I wanna’ know?” 

“Doll,” he grins and laughs, almost nervously. It’s loveable and you can’t help but smile, your gaze fixated on his scarred mouth as he speaks. You aren’t staring negatively, quite the contrary. Like everything else unusual about him, you find his scars sexy. 

“You don’t gotta’... y’know, do that.”

You smile again, letting your lids close slightly. He thinks you’re doing this because you’re what? Paying him back for all the tips? Treating him like a charity case? Hysterical. If he only knew.

“Answer my question, Oz. What if I wanna’ know?”

He shifts in his seat. Uncomfortable? You can’t tell. 

“Then uh… I ain’t gonna’ deny you that. Find out.”

You lean back over, and instead of kissing his cheek, you tilt your head and go for his mouth, your soft, plush lips pressing against his. He doesn’t respond… not right away, at least. He’s stunned, but also trying not to devour you like some goddamned hungry animal. Finally, his lips twitch to life, pressing back against yours. 

He ain’t used to this. But, fuck, it feels good. 

As his mouth opens, his large hand comes up to the side of your face, holding you where you’re at. The cool chill of the band of his ring is a stark contrast against the warmth of his digits. His fingertips graze the edge of your hairline, massaging gently. The taste of his tongue in your mouth is intoxicating, the wine lingering on his breath mingles with his own personal notes. You let an open-mouthed moan fall from your throat, into his, and he reciprocates, moving his body slightly towards you. Your tongue slips along his bottom lip, pausing to nibble at it softly. He groans deep, his eyes rolling back in his head. You’re getting him stiff, worked up and all you’re fuckin’ doin’ is kissin’ him.   

This is getting heavy. You feel your own arousal burning between your legs, a fiery, throbbing heartbeat that gets more incessant the longer his tongue is in your mouth, tasting you. Oz is practically taking you in mouthfuls, and your hand crawls over the center console, just far enough that your fingernails scrape against the fabric of his slacks, over his thigh. A desperate attempt to get closer to him without just straddling him in his front seat. 

A deep rumble of thunder and a crack of lightning pulls you two from each other. You lurch away, panting, and look out through the front windshield. The rain comes down harder, and you can hardly make out the outlines of the buildings in front of you. 

“I should… probably go inside before this gets any worse.”

You aren’t sure if you’re talking about the rain or the mutual arousal. Maybe both. He clears his throat in response; he wants to tell you that you’re a cruel woman, leaving him like this, but with the taste of you still on his tongue, he ain’t about to push his luck and get greedy. He unlocks the doors from the panel on his left. You open the door and get out, dragging your bag with you. You lean back inside, looking at him with dreamy, half-lidded eyes. 

“I’ll see you, Oz. Thanks for the ride.” 

But not the kiss? You cringe at your words. There’s that look again – but this time, you know he wants to ask you if you’re coming down to the Lounge later. You know it, and you’ve already made up your mind. 

Instead, he shrugs with both of his shoulders. “Sure, sweetheart. Any time. I mean that.” 

With butterflies in your stomach, you exit the car, and shut the door, careful not to slam it. You hold your purse above your head as you run to the front door and you hear the roar of Oz’s engine as he speeds off. The second you’re inside, you kick off your heels at the door and hurry to the back of the apartment. You flip the lightswitch, illuminating the modest bedroom. You pull the dress from the back of your closet, half expecting a cloud of dust to come with it.  

Thank god it still fits. 

You catch a cab downtown, which is much less luxurious than your previous ride. It drops you off in front, and the line to get in stretches down the length of the building. You knew it was a popular place, but you hadn’t expected this. The rain, nor the fact that it’s a Tuesday evening, deters these patrons – whatever’s inside must really be something. You pull your dress down your thighs, and walk carefully up onto the sidewalk. Deciding to try your luck with the bouncers, you bypass the line, trying not to look at anyone to your right. If you stand in line, you won’t be inside for hours. 

Two men – identical twins – stand in front of the door.

“Can we help you?” One of them asks, sternly. You don’t take offense, they’re only doing their job. 

“Um…” You blurt out your name, adding, “Oz asked me to come.” 

One of the men speaks into a small mic attached to the lapel of his jacket, covering it with his hand. It’s only a moment before one of them opens the door and the music goes from muffled to booming, vibrating your bones. You mutter a quick thanks, and step inside, feeling like you’ve just cheated the system. The visual that meets you truly overwhelms you at first, and you hesitate. 

It’s a staggeringly massive venue, filled with undulating bodies. The building itself is industrial in nature, all steel and flashing red lights. The dance floor stretches as far as your eyes can see, a literal sea of human beings, all grinding against each other, feeling the music in their veins. You stand, stunned at the start of the crowd, unsure of where to go.

After a moment, you lift your gaze and your eyes meet for the hundredth time that night. Oz stands on the second floor, on almost a catwalk above the crowds. He looks like he did at the restaurant, save for the leather jacket which was replaced by a white suit jacket; he’s wearing the same purple shirt and black slacks. Your shoulders relax, knowing that whatever happens next will be something you remember for the rest of your life.

He doesn’t make it a secret of how he’s checking you out, a devilish sneer on his face. He’s only ever seen you in your waitress outfit, which let it be known, is sexy enough on its own, but this plunging number that gives him a peek at your cleavage, and hugs your hips in ways he could only dream of… He deepens his grin and jerks his head to the side, urging you up. You follow his gaze and clock the staircase to your left. You make a beeline for it, holding the chain of your purse in a fist and climb the steel staircase carefully, until you get to the platform that Oz is standing on. 

“Hi!” You shout over the pulsing music. You’re giddy, like a schoolgirl. It’s embarrassing, really. 

“I gotta’ be honest, doll, I didn’t think I’d see you.” he confesses, leaning into your ear. His voice is rough, but enticing. He pulls back, gauging your reaction. You stare at him for a moment, saying nothing, prolonging the moment and torturing him. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and your eyes flick down to watch. Something he does a lot, you notice. 

“What?” you ask, leaning into him. “After what happened in the car?” 

When you pull back to look at him, there’s a bemused smile on your face. Confident. Cocky. Like there was an unspoken contest of who would mention it first and you won. He shrugs lightly, huffing out a laugh. You reach for his cheek, palming it softly. Oz keeps his composure, even though inside, he wants to lean into it and whimper like a dog. He’s glad he doesn’t though. 

“I’m the one who kissed you, remember? It’s not like you did anything to offend me, Oz.” you coo.

“I ‘spose not, huh?” 

You nod, slowly, coyly. 

“The chicken parm,” he says suddenly, shrugging with his hands. “It ain’t bad. But I guess you’ve figured out the real reason why I come there, huh?”  

You laugh brightly, looking over the railing at the throngs of people below you, neon red lights washing over them in time with the music. You smile softly, feeling special. It’s not every day that you get private access to an elite club in Gotham City and get to schmooze with the owner. 

“Come upstairs with me.” Feeling like your attention is drifting from him, Oz takes your hand, guiding you in the direction of yet another flight of stairs. Your eyes trail up the steps; they lead to a loft, glass windows on every side. 

You’re stone cold sober, so you can’t blame the alcohol, but the second you’re in his office, above the crowds, above it all, you’re on him like a bear on honey. Your hands smear over his chest, fingers grazing through the hair that peeks out from his open shirt. He smells like cigars and an expensive cologne that you take lungfuls of. 

“You're an eager girl, aren’t ya?” 

“Yeah, Oz… I am.” You reply breathlessly, kissing a path along his bottom lip and chin. 

“How long have you felt this way, huh?” 

You finally pull back, and lick your lips, watching him intently. You knew he was a talker from the restaurant, always chatting. But right now, you wanted nothing more than to kiss him. “Uhm…” Your chest heaves visibly, and Oz has to fight to keep his eyes on yours. “The first or second time you came into Bellini…” 

“Ah, c’moooon!” he says, incredulously. 

“No, I’m serious!” You laugh a little, moving your head to try and keep Oz’s gaze. He looks off behind you for a moment, and when he returns his attention to you, his expression is serious.

“Chicks like you don’t go after guys like me –”

You bristle and take his face in your hands. “Chicks like me? What do you know about chicks like me, Oz? You think you’ve got it all figured out, huh?” 

He sidesteps that with another question. “What, you like older guys or somethin’?” 

“They’re better…” You say in between tiny kisses. “They know better. They’re more experienced. Guys my age…” You pause to run a finger along his lip. “They don’t know how to take care of women.”

Oz smiles. It’s a dirty, devious smile, and it sends a pulse to your core. There’s a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, and he brings his hand up to the curve of your shoulder. “You want me to take care of ya, baby? Is that what you’re sayin’?” 

You nod. A little too enthusiastically, maybe. 

“It’s a busy club, sweetheart.” He says, almost nonchalantly, as though his slacks aren’t tenting in between both of you. 

But… he has a point. You hum quietly. 

“Later, then? Give me a tour of the club and – “ Your voice trails off because Oz looks like he’s just gotten an idea. He smirks, and his hand grips your hip, pulling you close to his gut. “What?” 

“How’s about you sit on it, huh?” 

Your head turns, gaze heavily resting on the room across the way. You assume it’s for the dancers of the club. Whatever it is – it’s right there. You glance at it nervously, and your expression reads strong, apparently, because Oz chuckles next to you, and brings his hand to your jaw, forcing it back in his direction. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Look at me. It’s okay. They ain’t gonna’ know a thing.” 

His hand drops from your jaw to your waist, where his thumb swipes circles over your dress. His hand sweeps around to the back, where your skin is exposed, and begins stroking patterns over the skin, igniting tiny fires wherever he touches. You lean forward, pressing your mouth against his again, hungry for his taste again. After a few minutes, Oz pulls away, ending the foreplay. He turns and ambles to the leather sofa angled in front of the window and you follow, taking slow, careful steps. One foot in front of the other. 

Once he’s seated, you lift your dress just enough to grip the delicately stretchy lace of your panties on either side, and carefully pull them down the curve of your ass. Oz is watching, his brown eyes locked on the tantalizing visual in front of him. You discard them on the sofa cushion, not thinking about where they land. Oz watches though, and his large hand snakes out, fisting them and discreetly tucking them into the pocket of his slacks. If you asked, he would’ve told you that he didn’t want anyone fuckin’ seein’ ‘em. The reality was that his perversions were too loud, and he was going to take a token of this dream he was experiencing.  

Oz reaches down, unlatching his slacks, and pulling the zip down just enough to reach in and pull his aching cock free. As you lower yourself, he lines it up, watching intently. You whimper his name, feeling the cockhead nudge your entrance. 

“Easy, sweetheart, easy. That’s it, nice n’ slow.” He licks his lips. 

At first, you nestle yourself down onto his thick cock gradually. The fat, leaking head pops in first, sending a shockwave through your core. Your breath hitches in your throat, and instead of sliding yourself down his shaft slowly, with a huff, you slam your ass down hard. You’re sitting all the way down on Oz’s wide lap, stuffing the rest of him in. He’s thicker than he is long, but god, it’s everything you thought it would be. He vocalizes, surprised at your determination. You still, letting your walls accommodate the girth of the man beneath you. 

“Hoo, baby...” 

The tiniest little movements have him clenching his jaw, hissing through his teeth. And then… with his hand casually holding onto your hip, Oz starts to rut his hips up into you. It’s just enough to rock your body up and down and move his cock inside you. 

He grunts underneath you, his grasp tightening on the satin of your dress. He craves skin, and his hand slides into the space between your dress and your back. You can’t help but let out the tiniest of whimpers at the feeling of being so full – you don’t remember the last time you were stretched like that. Your dress pools, hanging heavy between your legs and concealing your leaking core. 

Abruptly, the collective sound of high heels approaches, and your eyes snap up to the glass windows. A group of girls crowds the room parallel, and the second one of them spots you two, they’re heading your way. Oz stops moving. 

“Alright… quiet, doll.” He slaps your hip a few times. It’s a warning, and one you immediately heed, straightening up, tucking your hips into a more natural sitting position. His cock twitches inside you, and you swallow back the noise that bubbles up your throat. 

“Ozzy,” the girls coo in unison. One of them has a martini in her hand and asks who you are. God, they’re all so beautiful, you think. Insecurity threatens, but the stretching between your legs calms it.

Leaning to the side to meet their gaze, he tells them your name, proudly – the bastard – and you wave, sheepishly, trying not to allude to the fact that Oz’s girthy cock is buried inside you. Maybe they know. Maybe he’s done this before. You swallow hard, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

“We was just havin’ a meeting. She’s thinkin’ of workin’ here.” A bold faced lie, but it distracts the women from looking too hard at the scene in front of them. They all titter excitedly, delighted by the prospect of having another friend to play with.  

“Oz takes real good care of us,” one of them chimes in, earnestly. “You’d love it here.” 

You clench around his cock as hard as you can, your internal muscles squeezing him in a vice. You smile as naturally as you can at the girls as Oz continues speaking casually. The man’s poker face must be insane because he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t give away a single thing. 

“Alright, alright. Girls, what am I payin’ ya for, huh? Get down there.” 

In a flurry of nods and apologies, the women disperse, heading back down to the throbbing club below them. The sound of their high heels clicking down the stairs fades away, replaced by the dull, muffled thrumming of the music below. As soon as you two are alone again, Oz bucks his hips up into you hard, almost painfully, pulling a low groan from your throat.

“Tell me how good that feels, sweetheart. Tell me.” The roughness of his voice, the harshness of his accent makes everything sound intense, but the desperation in which he asks that isn’t lost on you. He’s practically begging you to tell him, revealing a deep-rooted hunger for praise. You wet your throat, and lean your head back onto his shoulder, bringing your hand up around to the back of his wide neck; the flesh is warm and damp with sweat.

“It feels so good.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Y-yeah…” You close your eyes, wincing slightly at the way his cock bullies you and stretches you open. “So good, Oz. I’ve thought about this… so many times.”

His hips rut up into you, finding a hungry, incessant rhythm and your slick walls clench around him. The action brings a choking grunt from his mouth, and your ego swells with the control. An idea blossoms. You straighten up; setting your hips and grinding them back and forth on his lap. Beneath you, Oz moans, his grip on you tightening. You feel his large body shudder, and a cocky smile curls its way around your lips. 

“You like that, Oz? You like me fucking you like that?” 

He nods, breathlessly, reaching up to palm the sweat that drips into his brow. 

“Tell me,” you whisper, arching your body against his. 

“I l-like the way you’re fuckin’ me. It feels real fuckin’ good… ” He grumbles, pleased. “Feelin’ that tight pussy uh yours… like heaven, doll.” 

You whine at that, loving the way it sounds coming from his mouth. Your hips gyrate, continuing their ruthless pattern on his cock. His hand strays from your hip and juts between your legs, finding your cunt. His thick fingers slip between your folds, stroking you just enough to drive your orgasm closer to the edge. You whimper, tossing your head back. 

Oz’s gaze drops from your back to your ass, watching as the flesh swells when you push back against him. God damn. It’s a perfect fuckin’ view, and he sucks in a deep breath. Every muscle in his body tightens, even if he ain’t ready for that.  

“Aw, fuck–” he grunts, low. Deep in his stomach, his muscles clench, trying hard to stave off the oncoming orgasm. His eyes open, focusing on the ceiling, the sound of the music, anything except for the way you’re ridin’ him. It ain’t workin’, because he feels his whole body tense up. Fuck. 

His hand goes slack between your legs and you grit your teeth, bringing your brows together in a pained expression. The dual stimulation was nice, but the way his cock massages your walls, stretching them out and filling you in a way that has you gasping is enough to drive you mad. You’re thankful that the music is so loud beneath you, because your desperate mewls and whines are getting higher and higher in pitch. Oz mutters something, something filthy about filling you and you drive your hips back against him. And with that, he loses it. He thrusts his hips up into you a few times, with a frenzied sort of desperation. You feel the heat painting your insides, coating your walls in his ecstasy. Underneath you, Oz’s thrusts have turned languid and lazy. He’s silently justifying the too-quick orgasm with the fact that he had to; anyone could’ve walked in at any time. It had nothing to do with the fact that he’s been like a slobbering dog for you for months. 

Chest heaving, your hips continue rutting back and forth, and Oz shifts underneath you, still panting heavily. It’s tender, but he doesn’t complain. His thrusts continue to slow and you desperately reach between your legs, tapping his hand back to life. “D-don’t stop Oz, please… don’t stop…” 

Behind you, Oz chuckles under his breath and straightens up, having sunk back into the sofa a little too far when he lost it. His thick index finger strokes your clit upwards, and a shiver rips through your body. The coil in your stomach winds tighter as you settle into the oncoming feeling. Still full of him, your slick walls shudder around his cock as the first wave hits. The coil snaps, your thighs clamp shut around his hand, and you look down, sighing loud as he continues flicking between your folds. One of your hands is situated on his thigh, and the other comes to grip his wrist, feeling the cuban link chain beneath your palm.

“That’s it, sweetheart… that’s it…” As you ride it out, bucking your hips against his groin, he coaxes you through your orgasm, both vocally and with the way he massages your clit, the pad of his index finger pressing into it. You can hear the pride in his voice, it’s absolutely dripping with it. “Atta’ girl. Feels fuckin’ good, don’t it?”

You try to speak, but nothing comes out. You furiously nod your head as your legs begin to tremble. He doesn’t stop, and your immediate reaction is to dig your nails into the flesh of his hand, silently begging. 

“You good, doll?” 

“Y-yeah. I’m… wow.” 

Oz removes his hand from between your legs, and strokes the side of your thigh, gently. Tenderly. For a moment, you stay like that, just enjoying all of the post-coital sensations. Eventually, you get to your feet, curious about how the patrons downstairs are faring. Speaking of dripping… You swallow hard, and press your thighs together. 

While still in front of Oz, you straighten yourself out, pulling your dress back down over your hips. Now, you’re suddenly aware of the throbbing beat beneath your feet and make your way over to the window. 

“How about that tour?” You ask, running a nail along the glass that overlooks the dancefloor below you. After a few moments, you feel Oz’s presence behind you, his stomach pressing into the curve of your back. 

“I thought you weren’t a clubbin’ girl…” he murmurs throatily, in between kisses to your neck. You tilt your head, allowing more space for him to smother. 

“Well,” you confess, honesty tinging your voice. “I’m not. But it’s not every day you get invited to the most elite nightclub in Gotham City.” You shrug. “Might as well.”

[russellsppttemplates]

My girls (Lance Stroll)

Lance gave Juno one job: to make sure his girls were looked after while he was away at a triple header

Note: english is not my first language. My baby fever has been through the roof lately, and while I was working on this, another blurb came through for dad!Lance, so I joined them.

Thank you so much to everyone who likes and reblogs, your feedback is appreciated 🤍 and I'm taking requests so if you have any ideas or concepts you want to share, feel free to do so as I'll try to get to them the best I can!

my masterlist

Tw: reader is pregnant

Tag list: @myloverjk-blog @hiireadstuff @c-losur3

"Have you seen Juno?", Margot asked her older sister while she did her homework, "where's mummy? She usually is where mummy is", Addalynn smiled, "I just need to finish this question and then I can go downstairs with you, wait a bit for me, please", she asked.

Margot waited for her, standing by her desk and watching curiously as her older sister wrote on her notebook until she finished, tidying her desk and storing the notebook back in her backpack, "we can go downstairs now", she smiled, holding Margot's hand and going down the stairs with her, the patter from Luna's paws and nails on the floor telling them you were in the kitchen.

You had only read about it in books, and since Luna had only been in your family for a little over a year, you never experienced being pregnant while having a dog. So far, besides your two daughters, you also had a four-pawed shadow following you around, "Luna, you can't get all tangled between my ankles, okay? Mummy can't see you that well anymore, only your tail every now and again", you giggled as you looked for her snout, hearing the girls approaching you.

"I knew she'd be here", Addy whispered to Margot as she called the dog, sitting on the floor to play with the dog.

"Are you hungry, girls? I can make you something before we sit down for dinner", you offered, figuring that dinner would still take a while to be ready.

"No, we just wanted to play with Juno", Margot said, pulling on the rope material so Juno could pull back.

"I finished my homework, too, and we knew Juno would be where you were", Addalynn added as you blushed slightly, "she's following daddy's request to look after you!", both girls giggled.

"She's looking after all of us - but I think she does come to stay with me whenever she wants a rest", you winked, "she knows I won't go too far too quickly", you offered.

When you finished dinner and tidying up with the girls' help, they were quick to go to the living room, turning on the TV and finding the channel.

"Is daddy on track yet?", you asked, ushering Juno to her spot on the sofa by your left before you sat down next to the girls on your right.

"Lizzie was saying they're going to start soon", Addy added as she unfolded the blanket on top of her and Margot's legs, "do you want some of the blanket too?", she asked.

"I have mine here, love, thank you, though", you smiled, arranging it under your bump carefully as you stretched your legs on the footstool, "Oh, forgot my pillow", you mumbled, changing your position.

"I'll get it, mummy!", Margot offered, getting the pillow you needed and placing it under your feet, "is it good?", she checked.

"It is, sweetheart, thank you", you smiled at her attentiveness as she climbed back on the sofa.

"Daddy is going really fast!", Margot pointed out, "is this the one where he could win?".

"This is practice still, the one where he can go for the pole position is much later and you will be asleep by then", you stated, not wanting to bend their bedtime routine even more than you were already doing.

"Okay", they said in unison, respecting your orders. Overall, they were pretty good at following what you asked them to do, usually only throwing tantrums when they were really tired and understanding what could and couldn't be negotiated pretty well. Of course they were still kids and had their developmental needs and challenges, but you also had an inkling that Lance had spoken to them about how they needed to behave extra well since he wouldn't be coming home for three weeks.

.

You rolled to Lance's side of the bed, finding Luna already looking at you, "the girls are not up yet?", you mused, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

Getting up gently, allowing your back and hips to stretch properly and readying yourself to go back to spending most of the day in a standing position, "Good morning, baby girl, you're up too, at least, you can keep me and Juno company", you smiled, rubbing your bump softly as you felt her movements, little feet kicking your ribs gently for now.

The silence didn't last for too long as when you were getting yourself dressed, Juno's ears popped when she heard noise, leaving you briefly to go to the girls' bedrooms. Putting on your lounge wear set and making sure it would be stretchy enough around your bump you stepped into the corridor to find your two curly haired girls petting Juno.

"Good morning, mummy! Did you sleep well?", Addalynn asked, coming close to give you a hug.

"Good morning, my loves. I did, did you?", you kissed the top of her head before kissing Margot's as well, hugging her too, "I'm going to let Juno out in the garden so she can do her business, are you coming down now?", you wondered as you picked out comfy clothes for them.

"I'll go in a bit - I need to pee!", Margot let you know before speeding to the bathroom.

You opened the back door for Juno first and then started making breakfast.

The doorbell rang, making Juno go up to the door with you, and once you opened it, she barked loudly at the man holding a box, "Juno, it's okay!", you assured her as she took a protective stance in front of you, "she's harmless, really, but she will bark at anyone she doesn't know, I'm sorry if she scared you", you told him.

"It's fine, no worries, I used to have one just like her when my children were younger", the delivery man, "Y/N Stroll, right? These two boxes are for you, may I?", he asked, wanting to help you by at least putting the package on top of the table near the door.

"Sure, thank you! Juno, come here!", you called the brown labrador so she wouldn't get in the way.

"There you go", he said, "I hope you have a good day!", he waved as he walked back to the car.

"Thank you, you too!", you waved back before closing the door.

The girls walked down the stairs, Addalynn in the outfit you picked out and Margot holding her clothes on her hand, "who was that, mummy?".

"A delivery man - we got two packages. Do you need help getting dressed, love?", you asked Margot, who nodded as she looked at the smaller box.

"Can we see what's inside?", Addalynn quesioned.

"Sure, you girls do that one while I do this one", you encouraged, ripping the tape on the box on the table to see a beautiful bunch of flowers along with a card.

I can't wait to be back home, I miss you girls so much!

There are some flowers for you and the girls and a little treat for Juno, too - figured she wouldn't be the most gentle with a plant!

I love you!

- Lance

"Mummy, this one has flowers, too!", Margot showed you two smaller bunches of flowers and a bag with some dog treats.

"These are from daddy! This one is for me, each of those is for you and then some treats for Juno", you explained, showing them the card so Addalynn could read it out loud as you carried the flowers to the kitchen so you could put them in water.

"Let's take a photo and send it to daddy, okay? Smile big, my loves!", you cheered, snapping a cute photo of the girls, Juno and the flowers and sending it to Lance.

Even though it was late where he was, your husband still sent you a text with many heart emojis and then another one reading "these are three of my favourite girls, and I would like to see the other two 👀".

Taking a selfie in the mirrow on the hallway, perfectly showing your baby bump, you sent it back to Lance, earning the same reaction to the first one you sent.

After having breakfast, you sat on the sofa to watch the qualifying session, the girls laying out their Lego sets, "daddy didn't tell you in which position he was starting?", Addy mused.

"No, I told him we would watch it today and I stayed away from the news, too, so I have no idea what's going to happen", you offered, pressing play on the remote to start the program.

Juno was quick to recognise Lance, getting up from her spot where she rested her head on your legs, tail wagging, "yes, Juno, that's daddy!", Margot squealed.

"Does that mean daddy got P3?", Addalynn asked as the voice over as they filmed the paddock spoke about a penalty, "yes, he goes up a place", you smiled.

Later on the night, your baby girl couldn't seem to settle so sleep wasn't coming by easily, "if your sisters find out that you're keeping me up so we can watch daddy's race, we're going to be in trouble", you spoke, fluffing the pillows as Juno looked up at you, "you can't tell anyone either, okay?", you warned the dog as you set up you iPad on your bedside table.

Lance ended up in second place, the podium celebrations showing his happiness as he sprayed the champagne on the other drivers, "mummy's tired, baby girl, and daddy is flying back soon", you tried to soothe her by rubbing your bump, hoping she would slow down enough for you to sleep once you turned off the streaming channel.

.

Lance couldn't wait to be back home, getting his luggage from the plane as soon as he could before he walked to his car, putting all his belongings inside and driving home to his family. Triple headers were hard as it was, but now that he had his family waiting back home, they were even harder.

He closed the garage door and parked the car, taking his luggage to the laundry room before expecting to meet the girls at the corridor but finding the whole floor empty.

Lance found you napping on his side of the bed, the girls napping on your side and Juno by the feet of the bed.

Smiling at the view, he walked up gently to you, Juno alert as she sensed someone else in the room and barking before noticing it was Lance, stepping closer to him to rub her snout on his legs, "hey, Juno, you did a good job here from what I can see!", he scratched her ears.

The girls stirred in their sleep, blinking their eyes a couple of times before looking at him, "hey, girls", he whispered.

"Daddy!", they yelled, making him kneel on the floor so he could hug them closely, "I missed you princesses so so so much", he said, inhaling their scent and squeezing their bodies closer to his.

"We missed you too, daddy", Margot said, kissing his cheek while Addalynn nodded, snuggling herself closer to Lance.

You turned on your side, opening your eyes to see Lance and the girls, "you're home already?", you croaked out, a sleepy smile on your lips.

Lance climbed up on the bed so he could hug you close, "I am, love", he greeted as his arms wrapped around your body.

"Hello, my love", you whispered against his lips before kissing him, feeling his hands rub your bump

"Hey, darling", he said once he let go of the kiss, "baby girl has grown so much these past weeks, hm?", he smiled, pecking your lips, "you're so beautiful, Y/N - isn't it true, girls? Mummy looks so beautiful", he added as they nodded, "I have all of my beautiful girls with me", he pulled them into the hug, squeezing you together for a family cuddle.

[cabinetteofcuriosities]

I would love to know more about your journal system and how you use them.

Hello there, sweet soul. Thank you for your interest in my journal system.

I currently have three books in use: i. Hobonichi Weeks ii. Leuchtturm1917 Pocket iii. Leuchtturm1917 A5

⋆⋅ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ⋅⋆

Hobonichi Weeks

The Hobonichi Weeks is my planner. The weekly layout works really well for my weekly and daily to-do lists.

Fun fact: A lovely friend told me about how she calls her to-dos “main quests” and “side quests”—I’ve been adapting this genius idea and, ever since, life feels a little less of a burden.

⋆⋅ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ⋅⋆

Leuchtturm1917 Pocket

This one is an experiment. Since my A5 journal is too big to carry around, I introduced the pocket size into my setup. Its main purpose is to accompany me on the go, so that I always have a notebook on hand wherever I go, whenever I’d need to. It gives me comfort in a way and comes in quite handy, to be honest. The pages are being filled with whatever I want to fill them; there really are no limitations or rules.

I’ve also started experimenting with manifestations. So, in the morning, usually while having my morning coffee, I sit down and write down some manifestations for the day • to set the mood for what’s to come, to eventually be able to welcome good omens into my days since I realised I need a certain openness to be able to welcome good things into my life. It’s been working pleasantly so far—I really enjoy the habit of sitting down in the morning, setting the mood for the day.

⋆⋅ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ⋅⋆

Leuchtturm1917 A5

This is the main book of them all; this one is really dear to my heart. Its purpose is to record my (daily) life, collect memories, and document what interests me at various points in time. It’s a mixture of daily journal entries, spreads about special events, copied articles that intrigue me, book reviews, thoughts on music I listen to, ephemera collected during trips, and photos captured throughout my days—all neatly gathered in one bound book.

I cannot emphasise this enough • life has been so much more meaningful, even the most mundane things, ever since I consciously started recording bits and pieces of my life. Especially keeping a record of my own thought processes. There was a time in my life when I worked through problems in my head by writing spoken-word poetry about topics that concerned me. It fills me with so much joy to read them back and at some point I realised just how much my inner state has grown and how much I’ve figured out along the way.

I feel like we all go through so much but we don’t take enough time to reflect or give ourselves credit for everything we’ve endured and achieved. This notebook serves that exact purpose: to collect, reflect, and connect—to cherish life a little more.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Guiding Hand 4

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, parental neglect, depression, inference of self harm, violence, abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your online academics are affected by your personal struggles but your professor won’t let you give up so easy.

Characters: Raymond Smith, Lee Bodecker in the background

Note: you all are beautiful.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The professor’s shadow looms over you in your dim room. Now you have a face for your disappointment. The thought of his staunch expression fills you with dread and somewhat motivation. So it is that you at least try. Just try. Simple as that. Try. 

After your meeting, you spend the day cleaning your room, hoping for a clean slate to start over. You spend a bit too long contemplating useless possessions as if putting off the inevitable. Eventually you have to sit down and do the real work. Once you do that, you will be forced to face reality. This is the flip of the coin; success or failure. 

The next morning you turn on the overhead light, casting the space in a brighter tint than usual. You aren’t used to the clarity or the tidiness. You can see the floor. There isn’t clutter on the desk or the bookshelf and it just feels easier. 

Anxious to begin, you sit down and boot up your laptop. You open your notebook and find your place. The course book takes some time to load as you yawn and rub your forehead. You need coffee before you begin. That’s it. No other distractions after that. 

You get up and cross the room, a needling above your left eyebrow. Yes, coffee is a must. You come out into the hall and listen to the silence of the apartment. It’s early and you know your mother had a late night. You woke up several times to inexplicable thumps. 

You shuffle into the kitchen and wash out the dregs of yesterday’s coffee from the pot. You empty the filter and put in a new one; measuring the grounds particularly. Everything you do is deliberate now, it has to be. You pour water in the tank and pop the lid down, hitting brew to cap off the process. 

You lean on the counter and yawn again. You hang your head as your eyelids grow heavy. You can’t be sleepy all day. You need your energy. The equations will certainly do little for your pulsing head. 

You hear your mom’s bedroom door and you shift over towards the sink. A figure appears at the edge of your vision but you don’t look over. You assume it’s her until the deep rumble rises from the man’s throat. Lee nears and before you can sidle further, he’s behind you. 

“Mm, coffee smells good,” he rasps as he pens you in, reaching over your head to open the cupboard. His stomach presses to your back as you stare down at the sink, “scuse me.” He takes down a cup, lingering a moment before he backs away and sets the cup down with a loud clink, “you’re up early.” 

Him too. You keep the thought sewn up behind your lips. You shrug. 

“Heard you last night too. Skittering around in your room.” 

Your blink at him. He wears only a pair of white underwear, his belly pudgy but his arms firmly muscled. He hardly seems bothered by his bareness. He takes the pot off the burner mid-brew and fills his cup, emptying what’s there before he places it back. You tuck your lower lip under your teeth and cross your arms. 

“Night owl, huh,” he comments as he pulls the sugar dish away from the wall. He takes the lid off and sprinkles the sugar into his coffee without a spoon. You stand and watch him dumbly. 

He swirls the mug and takes a sip. He lets out a satisfied sigh, “mm, you make good coffee.” 

You bite into your lip before you let it free, “thanks, sir.” 

He scoffs, “sir? Ain’t got my badge on right now.” 

You nod and cross your arms. 

“How old’re ya?” he turns to lean on the counter, slurping loudly. 

You’re put off by his curiosity. Your run-ins are few and far between. That’s on purpose. You avoid your mother’s men and often, the do the same with you. You answer him and he hums, eyes slitting as he thinks. 

“And you’re still living here with ma?” He wonders, “old enough to be out on your own, ain’t ya?” 

“I guess,” you lock your arms tightly, your shoulders hurting from the tension. 

“Mmm,” he takes another gulp, his eyes still on you. “Ain’t bad. Ain’t bad at all. Bet lots of men wouldn’t mind.” 

“What?” You shift back on your heel. 

“Yeah, not too bad on the eyes, are ya? I mean, ladies are all the same when you get em naked,” he chortles and stands straight.  

“Sir, I... I got... I got homework,” you turn, swaying awkwardly as you drop your arms and march away. 

“Ah, smarty pants, huh? Men like that too,” he taunts after you. “Don’t matter much when they young like you.” 

You’re brittle, about to break. You don’t need another reminder of how much of a loser you are. Even when you try, it’s just not enough.  

You don’t look back, your skin crawling as he belches and you hear the carafe hit the top of the machine as he lifts it again. You close yourself in your room and frown at the wall. You didn’t even get coffee for all that. 

You pout and drag your feet to the desk. You sit down and brace your head in your hands. You’ll try to wait him out. He’ll have to leave eventually. Coffee doesn’t matter. You got to get through this course book. You promised you would. 

📓

It takes two days to finish the coursebook, faster than expected. A gleam of pride flashes through your mind but quickly fizzles out as you attach your work to an email. It might be done but it matters more that it's done correctly.  

You don't know much of Professor Smith or truly of people in general, but he seems to be very precise. Forgiving in moments but given his feedback on previous submissions, he is strict about the numbers themselves. You make yourself hit send. 

You could take the afternoon on some self-congratulatory celebration, but you still have work to do. You open up coursework five and wait for the case studies to load. The most difficult part for you are the spreadsheets. There's so much data to sift through though applying the formulas and balancing them are easy enough. 

After a few problems, you stretch your fingers and lean your head on the heels of your hands. You yawn at the desk and roll your shoulders as you sit up. If you can get through just one course, you might just be able to do this. 

It's a bit ridiculous. The smallest of things are so big to you. The simple are overly complicated by your self-doubt and yet too often those doubts have proven true.  

You shake off the wave of grimness and stand up. You stop halfway, hovering between the seat and your feet, as an email chimes in. It's Professor Smith. You sit and blink at the laptop. 

'Thank you. I will have a look over and return with feedback. Hope you are keeping well. Good job on the speedy work. 

Best, 

Raymond' 

Your cheeks pinch as a smile threatens. He hasn't said whether you've done well or not but the acknowledgement feels like sunshine on your skin. It makes you want to keep going. 

You forget about the whim to have a cup of tea and settle back in to work at the next problem. If you get through the first section of the coursework, you might just be able to sleep. 

📓

Groggy, you rub your eyes and grumble. You lean forward on the toilet and let the trickle out. You woke up with a horrible fullness and it hurts to let it out. You sigh as you stand and pull up your sweatpants. 

As you crank on the sink, you hear a groaning hinge that mirrors the noise. There's staggering and the shatter of glass. A body hits the wall just outside the bathroom door. You turn off the faucet and face the commotion.  

Your heart races as your mother cries out and there's the crack of flesh. Your reticence has you cowering as fire speckles over you. It's not just fear, it's anger, the frustration you tamp down each time you hear her bawling. 

"No good lousy bitch," Lee snarls as there's another slap. This time he grunts, "what the hell do ya think ya doin'?" 

You near the door and slowly turn the knob. You inch it open and see your mother crawling away from the man. The scent of vodka permeates the air and a broken bottle litters the carpet around her. 

Lee boots her rear and sends her to her stomach. She yelps as he steps over her, dropping down to straddle her between his knees. She's wearing one of her tattered night shirts and nothing else, one sleeve down her shoulder. 

"Now, I waa being nice and you just had to go and yip like a spoilt bitch," he grabs her hair and forces her head up as she whines. The thrashes out, the glass cutting into her arms and legs, as he shifts his weight and the elastic of his briefs tautens as he tugs at it. "Lemme show ya what you're worth--" 

Your heart races and your throat lumps. Your chest tightens and your adrenaline wakes you completely. You don't know what to do. Do what you always do; hide. 

You push the door towards the frame and your mother sobs again. You close your eyes and stop. You don't know what you're doing. Why you're doing it. It never helps. It never works. Not since that little girl ended up at the bottom of the stairs all those years ago. When she learned to keep out of the way. 

Those memories fade and you swing the door inward. Your feet stomp out across the floor and you leap onto Lee's back as he bares his ass. You hook your arms around his thick neck and he falls backwards as your mom yelps again. 

“Huh, oh,” she wriggles and drags herself from under you and Lee as you wrestle on the floor, “sweetie, no--” 

She reaches for you and Lee kicks her again. She falls back and you squeeze him tighter, as hard as you can, ignore the bite of the glass as it pierces through your shirt. He elbows your side and you gasp, the pain ringing through your ribs.

Still, you don’t let go. You don’t know why. Maybe because if you do, you lose. 

“What’re ya—dumb little brat—just like your ma,” he snarls as his weight crushes you and he tries to peel your fingers from around your forearm. “I’m gonna teach you--” 

“Don’t hurt her!” You mother jumps on him, further adding to the pile. You can’t breathe as you’re flattened beneath them. “That’s my daughter! My daughter...” 

Her words slur drunkenly as she cries and lays her fists weakly into the man atop you. He shoves her off of him easily but she doesn’t relent. She lands on her ass between his legs and yours. You barely keep hold of him as you head begins to thrum. 

“Hold him, baby,” she orders as you can only see the top of her head over the chaos. She jerks and the man atop you grunts and shrivels his hands flying down to cup below his waist. “God--- Irene. The—fuck.” 

“Baby, let him go,” your mother huffs and heaves as she struggles to her feet. 

She pulls on your arm, tugging you out from under him as he rolls onto his sides, his hand between his legs. She must have got a good shot in. She stumbles and sways as she pulls you up, hanging onto you as she almost topples again. She’s drunk. Very drunk. 

“Go to your room, sweetie,” she brings a hand to your cheek. “Please--” 

“But...” you trail off and look down at the man as he puffs out through gritted teeth, “make him go, mom. Please. He’s going to hurt you.” 

“It’s alright,” she coos and pets your face, “it doesn’t hurt so much.” 

“Wh-why?” You sputter. 

“You gotta go, baby,” she coaxes, “let me take care of him.” 

“Mom, please,” you beg her, eyes glazing with tears. “We can call the cops--” 

“He is the cops, baby,” she lets you go and turns to him, falling over him as she rubs his arm, “Lee, honey, I’m sorry. I was just scared--” 

“I oughta--” he chokes out, “that damn daughter of yours...” 

“Shush, honey,” she comforts him and bends to whisper in his ear. 

You stare down at them, mortified. All that effort and for what? She just folds for these men. Goes right back to taking the abuse. Over and over again. They don’t even treat her nice. 

She looks up again, her eyes glistening, “go. Lock your door.” 

Her hiss nips at you and has you scrambling to your room. There’s nothing you can do. You don’t know why you thought for that instant that you could. You don’t know why you think there’s anything you can do right. It all just ends the same. 

[lightdancingwords]

Crossroads of the Heart - Part Four of ?

Pairings: CJ Braxton x Y/N Female reader

Series Summary: Y/N is a psychology major assigned to shadow CJ at The Stand, unaware he's the one who basically saved her life four years before. CJ is unaware that she's the one who left a notable impact on him over the phone four years ago. As they navigate the work at The Stand, they develop a spark that demands revelation and connection.

Word Count:

Tags/Warnings: Mention of depression, alcoholism, allusions of a spiked drink, a bit of fluff, a bit of angst

A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! Evidently my muse won't shut up, so here we go! A new story in a new setting! I hope you all enjoy!

Dividers: credit to @saradika-graphics

Chapter Four: Getting To Know You

Several weeks into her practicum at The Stand, Y/N had become a steady presence in the office. She’d shadowed CJ, Gabby, and Priya, learning the nuances of the work from each of them. She’d asked countless questions, always jotting down notes in her ever-present notebook, and CJ had come to appreciate her sharp mind and quiet determination.

Now, she was taking calls on her own with CJ sitting nearby, ready to step in if she needed him. Most of the time, she didn’t.

“Remember,” CJ said, leaning back in his chair as Y/N settled in for her first call of the day, “don’t rush to fill the silences. Let them guide the pace.”

Y/N nodded, her fingers brushing the edge of her notebook for reassurance. “Got it.”

The phone rang, and she picked it up with steady hands. “The Stand, teen helpline. This is Y/N. How can I help you today?”

The voice on the other end was soft and hesitant, a young boy expressing fear about coming out to his parents. Y/N listened closely, her voice calm and empathetic as she validated his feelings. “It’s a big step,” she said gently. “But it’s okay to take it at your own pace. What feels right to you matters.”

CJ watched as Y/N handled the call with grace, offering support without pushing advice. When the call ended, she set the phone down and looked over at him.

“Well?” she asked, a hint of nerves in her tone.

“You did great,” CJ said with an approving nod. “You let him lead, and you gave him space to process. That’s exactly what he needed.”

Y/N smiled, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Thanks. I was worried I talked too much.”

“Not at all,” CJ assured her. “Sometimes, a little guidance goes a long way.”

The phone rang, cutting through the quiet hum of the room. Y/N reached for it, her heart beating a little faster than usual. CJ, seated nearby, gave her an encouraging nod.

She took a deep breath and answered. “The Stand, teen helpline. This is Y/N. How can I help you today?”

There was silence on the other end at first, just the faint sound of someone breathing. Y/N waited patiently, her tone soft and steady when she spoke again. “It’s okay. Take your time. I’m here.”

A shaky voice finally broke the silence. “Hi... um, I don’t know why I called. I just... I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” Y/N said gently. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now. Sometimes, just talking can help. What’s been going on?”

The caller hesitated, the sound of a muffled sniffle coming through the line. “I guess I just feel... stuck. Like, everyone else has their life figured out, and I’m just... drifting. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

Y/N’s grip on her notebook tightened slightly, but her voice remained calm. “That sounds really overwhelming,” she said. “It’s hard to feel like you’re not moving forward when it seems like everyone else is. But I promise, you’re not alone in feeling that way.”

The caller let out a hollow laugh. “I don’t know. It just feels like... I’m not enough. Like no matter what I do, it’s not good enough for anyone—not my parents, not my friends. Not even me.”

Y/N felt a pang of empathy, memories of her own moments of self-doubt flashing briefly in her mind. She leaned forward slightly, her voice softening. “That’s a heavy thing to carry. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Trying to meet everyone’s expectations while feeling like you’re falling short.”

“Yeah,” the caller whispered. “Exactly. How do you even know what you’re supposed to do with your life? Everyone keeps telling me to figure it out, but... I don’t even know where to start.”

Y/N paused, choosing her words carefully. “Sometimes, it helps to take a step back. Instead of thinking about what you’re supposed to do, try thinking about what makes you feel like yourself. What makes you feel alive? Even if it’s something small.”

There was a pause on the other end, the silence filled with thought rather than hesitation. “I don’t know,” the caller admitted. “I guess... I used to love drawing. But I haven’t done it in so long. It feels... pointless.”

“It’s not pointless,” Y/N said firmly. “If it’s something you love, it matters. Even if it’s just for you. Sometimes, the things we love remind us of who we are when everything else feels uncertain.”

The caller was quiet for a moment, their breathing steadying. “I guess I never thought of it that way.”

Y/N smiled faintly, though she knew the caller couldn’t see it. “It’s okay to take small steps. Maybe start with one thing—one little thing that makes you happy. And remember, it’s okay not to have everything figured out. Most people don’t, even if it looks like they do.”

“Do you think so?” the caller asked, their voice barely above a whisper.

“I know so,” Y/N replied, her tone gentle but sure. “Everyone’s journey is different. And yours doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s to be meaningful.”

The caller let out a shaky breath. “Thanks. I... I guess I just needed to hear that.”

“I’m glad you called,” Y/N said. “And if you ever need someone to talk to, we’re always here.”

“Okay,” the caller said, their voice steadier now. “Thank you. Really.”

“You’re welcome,” Y/N said softly. “Take care, okay?”

“You too,” the caller replied before the line disconnected.

Y/N hung up the phone and let out a quiet exhale, her hand resting on the receiver for a moment. She turned to CJ, who was watching her with a small, approving smile.

“You did good,” he said. “You gave them exactly what they needed—someone to listen, someone to remind them they’re not alone.”

Y/N felt a wave of relief, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Thanks,” she said. “I just... I hope I said the right things.”

“You did,” CJ assured her. “Calls like that aren’t about having the perfect answers. It’s about being there. And you were.”

Y/N nodded, her confidence bolstered by his words. She picked up her pen and jotted down a few notes in her notebook, her thoughts clearer now.

CJ leaned back in his chair, watching her quietly for a moment before speaking again. “You’re going to make a real difference here, Y/N. I can feel it.”

Y/N glanced up, her lips curving into a small, grateful smile. “I hope so,” she said softly.

From the warmth in CJ’s gaze, she believed it a little more each time.

The day continued, with Y/N fielding calls of varying intensity. One was a teenager struggling with a breakup, another a young woman unsure about her college major. Y/N handled each one with growing confidence, her calm demeanor putting callers at ease. By the end of the shift, CJ found himself impressed—not just with her skills, but with the care she brought to each conversation.

As the last call ended, CJ stretched in his chair, glancing at Y/N as she jotted down final notes in her notebook. “You’ve come a long way since your first day,” he said, his tone light but sincere. “You’re a natural at this.”

“Thanks,” Y/N said, her smile soft. “I feel like I’ve learned so much, but there’s still so much more to figure out.”

“That’s the job,” CJ said with a small grin. “Every call is different. Keeps you on your toes.”

The other staff members began filtering in for the next shift, their chatter filling the room with a lighter energy. Gabby and Priya approached, both carrying their bags and chatting animatedly about weekend plans. When they reached Y/N, Gabby grinned.

“Hey, some of us are heading to the rec center tonight to unwind. You should come,” she said. “CJ’s coming too.”

Y/N glanced at CJ, who shrugged casually. “It’s a good way to decompress after a long week,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

Y/N hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. That sounds nice.”

The recreational club was buzzing with life when CJ, Y/N, and the others arrived. It was a familiar, comforting place for the team to unwind after a long week at The Stand. Laughter and conversation filled the air, blending with the occasional clink of glasses and the hum of arcade games in the background.

They claimed a table in the corner, settling in with a mix of sodas, water, and a few snacks to share. CJ leaned back in his chair, observing the group as they relaxed into the evening. Gabby was already eyeing the foosball table with a mischievous grin.

“Alright, Y/N,” Gabby said, crossing her arms. “You got lucky last time, but I demand a rematch.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “Lucky? I beat you fair and square.”

Gabby narrowed her eyes playfully. “Care to prove it?”

CJ chuckled as Y/N stood, grabbing her drink. “This, I’ve got to see,” he said, gesturing toward the table. “You’re up, Y/N. Defend your title.”

Gabby dragged Y/N over to the foosball table, and a small crowd started to gather. CJ watched as the two faced off, their competitive spirits in full swing. The game was fast and intense, with Y/N just barely managing to pull off a victory.

Gabby groaned, throwing her hands in the air. “Unbelievable. You’ve got beginner’s luck!”

“Or maybe I’m just that good,” Y/N teased, breathless but grinning as she returned to the table.

CJ handed her a bottle of water. “Impressive,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Gabby that determined to win.”

“She’s relentless,” Y/N replied with a laugh. “I’ll probably pay for that next time.”

A tray of drinks made its way around the table, and someone offered CJ a beer. He waved it off with an easy smile. “I’ll stick to soda,” he said. “Better for everyone that way.”

Y/N caught his response, glancing at him with quiet curiosity. She didn’t ask, though, and CJ appreciated her restraint. Instead, she grabbed a soda herself and raised it toward him.

“To surviving the week,” she said with a small smile.

“To that,” CJ echoed, clinking his glass against hers.

As the evening wore on, Miles finally arrived, looking frazzled. He dropped into a chair beside Priya with a dramatic sigh, earning a round of laughs from the group.

“Rough day?” CJ asked, leaning forward.

“Software issues,” Miles grumbled, grabbing a handful of popcorn. “I’ve been fighting with the database all afternoon. If I see another error message, I might scream.”

Gabby patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll have it fixed before Monday.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Miles muttered, though his lips twitched into a faint smile.

The conversation drifted to lighter topics, but CJ found his attention shifting back to Y/N. She was quieter now, her gaze thoughtful as she sipped her soda. He leaned closer, lowering his voice to match the softer energy of the moment. For the first time that evening, they found themselves with a moment of calm, separate from the bustle of their friends.

CJ leaned back in his chair, resting his arms on the table. “So,” he began, his voice quiet but curious, “now that you’ve been here for a few weeks, how are you feeling about The Stand? Has it been what you expected?”

Y/N looked down at her glass, her fingers tracing the rim thoughtfully. “It’s been... more than I expected,” she admitted. “I knew it would be intense, but I don’t think I realized how much of an impact it would have on me. Or how much I’d care.”

CJ tilted his head, watching her closely. “That’s a good thing, though. It means you’re in the right place.”

“I hope so,” Y/N said softly, her eyes lifting to meet his. “It’s strange, you know? I thought I understood what it meant to help people, but being on the other side of those calls... it’s different. It’s personal.”

He nodded, his gaze steady. “It is. You can’t really prepare for it, even if you think you can. The work gets under your skin, in a way. But that’s not a bad thing.”

Y/N hesitated, her fingers tightening around her glass. “I think... I get it more than I thought I would,” she said carefully. “Because I’ve been on the other side of one of those calls before.”

CJ’s posture straightened slightly, his attention sharpening. He didn’t interrupt, sensing the weight of her words.

“It was a long time ago,” Y/N continued, her voice quieter now. “I was in a really bad place, and I didn’t know what else to do. So, I called. I didn’t think it would help, but... it did. It changed everything for me.”

CJ’s chest tightened. He wanted to ask more, to understand, but he also knew better than to press. “I’m glad you called,” he said simply, his voice warm but unobtrusive. “And I’m glad it helped.”

Y/N’s lips curved into a faint smile, though her gaze remained thoughtful. “It did. More than I can put into words.”

There was a moment of silence between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. CJ broke it gently, his tone shifting to something lighter. “That’s why this place exists. For moments like that.”

Y/N nodded, her expression softening. “And now I get to be part of it. It feels... full-circle, in a way.”

“It is,” CJ agreed, his smile returning. “That’s what makes this place so special. It’s not just about the people we help—it’s about the people we become because of it.”

They sat in companionable quiet for a moment, the noise of the rec center fading further into the background. Then Y/N looked up, her expression brightening. “What about you? Why did you stay? You’ve mentioned you started as a volunteer, but what made you keep coming back?”

CJ hesitated, considering his words. “Honestly? At first, it was just something to keep me busy. Something to keep me out of trouble. But then... there was this call. A kid who felt completely alone, like they didn’t matter to anyone. And I got to be the one to tell them they did.”

He paused, his gaze distant for a moment. “That call stuck with me. It made me realize that maybe I could do something meaningful, even if it was small. So, I stayed. And over time, it became more than just a job. It became... a purpose.”

Y/N watched him closely, her eyes soft with understanding. “It sounds like you’ve made a difference for a lot of people.”

CJ shrugged, though his smile held a hint of pride. “I hope so. That’s the goal, anyway.”

She leaned forward slightly, her tone earnest. “You have. I can tell just by watching you work. You care, CJ. And that’s what makes all the difference.”

Her words hit him unexpectedly, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure how to respond. He settled for a quiet smile, raising his glass in a small toast. “To making a difference.”

Y/N smiled back, clinking her glass gently against his. “To making a difference.”

The moment lingered between them, warm and unspoken, before the sound of Gabby’s voice broke through, calling from across the room. “Come on, you two! It’s getting late.”

CJ laughed, shaking his head as he stood. “Looks like we’re being summoned.”

Y/N followed suit, grabbing her bag as they made their way toward the exit. As they stepped out into the cool night air, CJ glanced at her, his smile softening. “Thanks for sharing that with me. It means a lot.”

“Thanks for listening,” Y/N replied, her voice light but genuine. “It’s easy to talk to you.”

CJ nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary. “Get home safe, Y/N. See you Monday?”

“See you Monday,” she said, her smile warm as she turned toward her car.

As CJ watched her go, he couldn’t help but feel a quiet sense of connection. Whatever it was, he had no doubt she belonged at The Stand—and maybe, just maybe, in his life too.

It was late Saturday afternoon when Y/N’s phone buzzed, pulling her attention away from the book she was reading. She picked it up and saw Gabby’s name flash on the screen, accompanied by a string of emojis.

Gabby: Party tonight! 🎉 One of the college kids is hosting. You’re coming. No excuses.

Y/N smiled faintly but shook her head, typing back a quick reply.

Y/N: I don’t know... I’m not really a party person.

Gabby’s response came almost immediately.

Gabby: Come on! It’ll be fun! You’ve been working so hard; you deserve to let loose a little. Besides, I’ll be there. I won’t let anything weird happen. Promise!

Y/N hesitated, glancing at the small pile of notes she’d planned to review that evening. The thought of a party made her stomach twist slightly, but a part of her also missed being around people her own age, even in a casual setting.

Before she could overthink it, her phone buzzed again.

Gabby: Don’t make me beg. I’ll send puppy gifs if I have to.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. Gabby was relentless, but that was part of her charm.

Y/N: Fine. But I’m holding you to that “no weird stuff” promise.

Gabby: Yay!!! Pick you up at 7! Wear something cute but comfy. 💃

At exactly 7 p.m., Gabby arrived, honking lightly from the street outside Y/N’s apartment. When Y/N climbed into the car, Gabby was grinning ear to ear, her energy already infectious.

“This is going to be great,” Gabby said as she pulled away. “You’ll meet a ton of cool people. And don’t worry—I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

Y/N gave her a wary look. “You’re sure this isn’t one of those wild, out-of-control parties?”

Gabby laughed. “Not a chance. It’s college, not a movie. Trust me.”

The party was already in full swing when they arrived, the sound of music and chatter spilling out of the house onto the front lawn. Inside, the air was warm and lively, filled with clusters of students talking, laughing, and dancing.

Gabby weaved through the crowd effortlessly, introducing Y/N to a few of her friends. They were friendly and easygoing, and Y/N found herself relaxing a little.

Half an hour later, Y/N was talking to one of Gabby’s friends about a local coffee shop when she spotted a familiar face entering the room. Miles, dressed in his usual slightly disheveled style, stood in the doorway, scanning the crowd. He spotted Gabby and Y/N and wandered over, a soda can already in hand.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Gabby said with a grin.

Miles shrugged, leaning against the wall. “Gotta join humanity every now and then. Keeps me sane enough to deal with computers. Besides, I needed a break from battling the database.”

“Fair enough,” Gabby said. She turned to Y/N. “See? Even Miles gets out sometimes. You’re already ahead of him.”

Miles raised his can in a mock toast. “A high bar to clear, I’m sure.”

Y/N laughed, feeling some of her initial nervousness ease further.

A little while later, Priya arrived, her warm smile lighting up the room. She greeted Gabby and Miles with a quick hug before turning to Y/N.

“Y/N! Didn’t expect to see you here,” Priya said, her tone pleasantly surprised.

“Gabby convinced me,” Y/N admitted. “It’s not really my scene, but... it’s been fun so far.”

Priya nodded approvingly. “Good. You deserve a night off. Just don’t let Gabby talk you into anything too crazy.”

Gabby gasped in mock offense. “Me? Crazy? Never.”

The group laughed, and for the first time in a while, Y/N felt a sense of ease in the lively atmosphere.

As the evening wore on, the group stuck together, mingling here and there but always returning to their little circle. Y/N found herself laughing more than she had in weeks, sharing stories and banter with the others. Gabby kept her promise to look out for her, and Miles’s dry humor provided a steady stream of sarcastic commentary. Even Priya, usually so poised and professional, relaxed into the setting, her quick wit catching everyone off guard.

As the night wore on, the party began to settle into a comfortable rhythm. The music had shifted to a playlist of upbeat pop songs, and a small group had moved furniture aside to make space for dancing. Y/N, perched on a couch near the edge of the room, sipped her soda and watched as Gabby tried to teach Miles a dance move he was clearly unwilling—or unable—to master.

“I’m telling you, Miles,” Gabby said, laughing as he failed yet again. “You’ve just got to feel the rhythm. Stop overthinking it.”

“I’m not overthinking it,” Miles deadpanned, stepping awkwardly. “I’m proving that rhythm is subjective.”

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head, but her laughter faded when she saw a familiar figure stepping through the doorway. CJ stood there, scanning the room, his usual calm presence somehow grounding amidst the chaos. He spotted her almost immediately and made his way over, his hands in his pockets and a faint smile on his face.

“You made it,” Y/N said, surprised but pleased.

“Figured I’d stop by for a bit,” CJ said, shrugging as he stood beside her. “Gabby mentioned you’d be here, so I thought I’d check in.”

“Check in?” Y/N asked with a teasing smile. “Or supervise?”

“A little of both,” CJ admitted, his grin widening slightly. “But mostly to make sure Gabby doesn’t rope you into one of her infamous schemes.”

As if on cue, Gabby glanced over and waved enthusiastically. “CJ! You’re just in time. We need more people on the dance floor.”

CJ raised a brow. “I don’t dance.”

Gabby rolled her eyes. “Everyone dances. Get over here.”

CJ shook his head but didn’t move. Instead, he turned back to Y/N, his expression thoughtful. “How about you? Are you a dancer?”

Y/N laughed softly, glancing at the crowded dance floor. “Not really. I usually stick to watching.”

CJ tilted his head, his smile softening. “What if I made it easy for you?”

Y/N raised a brow. “How?”

He held out his hand, his movements casual but deliberate. “One dance. Just us. No pressure.”

Y/N hesitated, glancing at his outstretched hand. The room felt a little quieter, the background noise fading as she met his gaze. Finally, she placed her hand in his, her voice light. “Alright. But only because you asked nicely.”

CJ led her to a quieter corner of the makeshift dance floor, where the crowd wasn’t as dense. The song shifted to something slower, the upbeat energy of the party giving way to a softer, more intimate mood. CJ placed a careful hand on her waist, his other still holding hers.

“You’re good at this,” Y/N said after a moment, her voice quiet but teasing.

CJ chuckled. “I’ve been told I’m a quick learner.”

They swayed gently to the music, the world around them fading into the background. CJ’s usual steady demeanor seemed even more grounded in the moment, his focus entirely on her.

“You’re not drinking tonight?” Y/N asked softly, glancing at the soda can he’d set on a nearby table.

“Never do,” CJ said simply. “Not my thing.”

She nodded, her expression thoughtful but warm. “I get that.”

The song played on, and for a moment, it felt like they were the only two people in the room. CJ’s gaze met hers, his usual calm replaced with something a little softer, a little more vulnerable.

“You’ve been doing really well at The Stand,” he said, his voice low. “I hope you know that.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed slightly, but she smiled. “Thanks. That means a lot. Coming from you.”

“You’re making a difference,” CJ said firmly. “And that’s not something everyone can do.”

The song began to fade, and the spell of the moment broke slightly as the room’s noise came back into focus. CJ stepped back, his hand slipping from hers with an ease that felt natural but reluctant.

“Thanks for the dance,” Y/N said, her voice soft.

“Anytime,” CJ replied, his smile warm but unreadable. “I’ll let you get back to your night. Just... make sure Gabby doesn’t talk you into anything too wild.”

“I’ll do my best,” Y/N said with a laugh, watching as he stepped away and rejoined the crowd.

As the party began to wind down, Y/N found herself glancing toward CJ more than once. The weight of the dance lingered in her mind, a quiet moment she couldn’t quite shake. Whatever it was, she knew one thing for certain: the night had turned into something more than just another party. It felt like the start of something new.

The music pounded as the party carried on, the crowd growing louder and looser with each passing hour. Y/N had just finished another dance, her cheeks flushed and her smile lingering as she returned to the edge of the room. She grabbed her soda and leaned against the wall, scanning the crowd for Gabby, who was now deep in a lively conversation across the room.

CJ, still stationed near the drinks table, kept an eye on her. He’d spent most of the evening observing, content to stay in the background, but his gaze had followed Y/N more than he’d care to admit. There was something grounding about her presence, even in the chaos of the party.

Then he saw it.

One of the boys Y/N had danced with earlier hovered near the drinks table, his back partially turned. CJ’s easy posture straightened as he watched the boy pull a small vial from his pocket and tilt it over a red cup. The liquid inside dripped silently into the drink.

CJ’s jaw tightened. He stepped forward, his movements deliberate but unhurried, his voice calm but edged with steel. “Hey. What are you doing?”

The boy flinched, nearly dropping the vial as he turned to face CJ. His expression was a mix of surprise and guilt, his hands quickly shoving the vial back into his pocket. “Nothing, man,” he said, forcing a laugh. “Just making a drink.”

CJ didn’t buy it for a second. He glanced at the red cup on the table, then back at the boy, his eyes narrowing. “Making a drink, huh? For who?”

The boy hesitated, his gaze darting toward Y/N across the room before flicking back to CJ. “It’s for... a friend,” he said, his voice shaky.

CJ’s chest tightened further, his tone dropping. “Let me guess. A ‘friend’ who doesn’t know what you just put in that drink?”

The boy stiffened, his posture defensive. “Look, it’s not a big deal. Just a little something to loosen things up. Everyone does it.”

“Not here, they don’t,” CJ said firmly, stepping closer. His voice was quiet but carried an unmistakable edge. “Pick up that cup and pour it out. Now.”

The boy hesitated, his eyes narrowing. “Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?”

CJ’s stare hardened, his tone cold enough to cut through the noise of the party. “I’m the guy who’s about to make this a very big deal if you don’t do what I just said.”

The tension between them thickened, the boy’s face flushing with anger and fear. For a moment, it seemed like he might argue—but CJ didn’t flinch. His presence was steady, unyielding, and it was clear he wasn’t going anywhere.

Finally, the boy huffed, grabbing the red cup and dumping its contents into the sink with a sharp tilt of his wrist. “Happy now?” he muttered, his voice dripping with resentment.

“Not quite,” CJ said, crossing his arms. “Now you’re going to leave. Before I decide this party needs a different kind of entertainment.”

The boy glared at him, his fists clenching briefly before he shoved them into his pockets and stalked toward the door. CJ waited until he was out of sight before exhaling, his jaw still tight as he turned back to the drinks table. He picked up the now-empty cup and placed it out of reach before scanning the room for Y/N.

She was still leaning against the wall, sipping her soda and chatting with Gabby, oblivious to what had just happened. CJ crossed the room, his strides purposeful but controlled.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

She turned to him, her smile fading slightly when she saw the tension in his expression. “What’s wrong?”

CJ hesitated for a moment, his tone steady but serious. “One of the guys here tried to spike a drink. I think it was meant for you.”

Y/N froze, her eyes widening. “What? Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” CJ said, his jaw tightening again. “I saw him do it. He’s gone now—I made sure of that. But I thought you should know.”

Her hand trembled slightly as she set her soda down, her voice shaking. “I... I can’t believe this. I didn’t even...”

CJ stepped closer, his tone softening. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Y/N. This isn’t on you.”

Y/N nodded slowly, but the shock was still evident on her face. “I just... I don’t want to stay here.”

“Then you’re not staying,” CJ said firmly. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

The drive to Y/N’s apartment was quiet, the air between them heavy with unspoken thoughts. Y/N stared out the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. CJ glanced at her occasionally, his hands steady on the wheel.

When they reached her building, CJ put the car in park and turned to her. “You sure you’re okay?”

She nodded, but her voice was small. “Yeah. I’m just... shaken, I guess. I didn’t think... something like that could happen.”

CJ hesitated, then reached over and gently touched her arm. “It shouldn’t have. But you’re safe now, okay? And you’ve got people who’ll look out for you.”

Y/N’s eyes glistened as she nodded. “Thanks, CJ. For... everything.”

“Anytime,” he said softly. “Get some rest.”

Y/N opened the door but paused before stepping out. “Goodnight, CJ.”

“Goodnight,” he said, watching as she made her way inside. He stayed parked until she was safely inside her apartment, then let out a long breath as he pulled back onto the road.

The weight of the night lingered, but so did a sense of resolve. CJ had always been protective by nature, but tonight, it felt deeper—more personal. Y/N mattered to him. And he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her. Not on his watch.

Monday morning at The Stand carried its usual energy—a mix of quiet determination and the hum of people preparing for another busy day of calls. CJ was already at his desk, organizing schedules and reviewing notes from the previous week. He hadn’t seen Y/N yet, but the events of the weekend still weighed on his mind.

Gabby arrived not long after, her usual bright energy filling the room as she waved at a few staff members and grabbed a coffee from the lounge. CJ stood, crossing the room toward her.

“Gabby,” he called softly, his tone more serious than usual.

Gabby looked up, her brow furrowing slightly at his expression. “What’s up?”

“Can we talk for a second?” he asked, motioning toward a quieter corner of the office. “It’s about the party.”

Gabby followed him, her cheerful demeanor giving way to curiosity and concern. “Sure. Is everything okay?”

CJ hesitated, glancing around to ensure they had privacy before speaking. “Something happened on Saturday. One of the guys at the party tried to spike Y/N’s drink.”

Gabby’s eyes widened, and she inhaled sharply. “What? Are you serious? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” CJ said quickly, his voice steady but tense. “I caught it before anything happened, and I got the guy to leave. But she was really shaken up. I drove her home after, and she seemed... off.”

Gabby crossed her arms, her expression darkening. “That’s awful. I can’t believe someone would try that—especially with her. She’s so sweet.”

“Exactly,” CJ said, his voice dropping. “I need you to keep an eye on her today. Make sure she’s okay. I know she might try to brush it off, but... just watch out for her. If she needs anything, let me know.”

Gabby nodded firmly. “Of course. I’ll stick close to her. She shouldn’t have to deal with that on her own.”

CJ gave her a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Gabby. I knew I could count on you.”

“Always,” she said, her tone softening. “And... thanks for looking out for her. You’re a good guy, CJ.”

He shrugged, the weight of the weekend still visible in his expression. “It’s just... what we do.”

Y/N arrived a little later, her usual gentle smile in place but with a slight hesitation in her movements. Gabby was the first to greet her, pulling her into a warm hug that Y/N seemed surprised but grateful for.

“Good morning!” Gabby said cheerfully, though there was a subtle edge of concern in her eyes. “Ready to tackle the week?”

Y/N nodded, though her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Gabby looped an arm around her shoulders, steering her toward the lounge. “Come on, let’s grab coffee before things get crazy.”

CJ watched from his desk, his gaze lingering on Y/N as Gabby led her away. He could see the slight tension in her posture, the way she held her bag a little too tightly. It wasn’t his place to push, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of responsibility.

As the day went on, CJ kept a quiet watch from his desk. Y/N and Gabby worked together seamlessly, fielding calls and offering support to the teens who reached out. Every so often, CJ would glance over, catching Gabby throwing a reassuring smile Y/N’s way or leaning in to share a lighthearted comment.

By the time lunch rolled around, the office had quieted, the usual midday lull settling over The Stand. CJ glanced at Y/N, who was scribbling in her notebook at her desk, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. He hesitated for a moment before walking over.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, his voice casual but warm. “Feel like stepping out for lunch? There’s a café just down the street. My treat.”

Y/N looked up, surprised but not unpleasantly so. “Oh, sure. That sounds nice,” she said, closing her notebook. “Let me grab my bag.”

The café was cozy and quiet, with a faint hum of chatter and the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air. CJ picked a table near the window, gesturing for Y/N to sit as he set their drinks on the table—a latte for her and black coffee for himself.

Y/N looked around, taking in the warm, inviting atmosphere. “This is a nice spot,” she said, smiling faintly. “Do you come here often?”

“Every now and then,” CJ said, leaning back in his chair. “It’s a good place to decompress. Figured you could use a break today.”

She nodded, her smile softening. “Thanks. It’s been... a lot lately. But I’m okay.”

CJ studied her for a moment before giving a small nod. “I know you are. But it’s okay not to be sometimes.”

Y/N hesitated, her fingers tracing the edge of her cup. “I guess... I’m still a little shaken from Saturday. I keep thinking about what could have happened.”

CJ’s jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained calm. “I get that. And it’s okay to feel that way. What happened wasn’t your fault, but it’s normal to replay it in your head. It takes time.”

She looked up at him, her gaze searching. “How do you do that? Just... stay so steady?”

CJ chuckled softly, but there was a hint of self-deprecation in the sound. “Trust me, it wasn’t always like this. I’ve had my share of chaos.”

Y/N tilted her head, curious. “You mentioned that before. About how you started at The Stand. But you didn’t really go into detail.”

CJ hesitated, his fingers tightening briefly around his coffee cup. He glanced out the window, the sunlight catching the edge of his profile, before turning back to her. “Yeah. I guess I haven’t shared the full story.”

He took a sip of his coffee, gathering his thoughts. “When I was a teenager, I had undiagnosed clinical depression. Didn’t know what it was at the time—just thought I was broken or something. I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I started drinking. It felt like the only way to quiet everything in my head.”

Y/N listened intently, her gaze soft but unwavering. CJ continued, his voice steady but carrying a weight of emotion. “It spiraled fast. I was skipping school, lying to my parents, pushing everyone away. I thought I was in control, but really... I was a mess.”

He paused, glancing down at his cup. “It all came to a head one night. I hit rock bottom—blacked out, made a complete fool of myself. My parents found me, and... they didn’t know what else to do. They shoved me into a rehab center, and I hated them for it at first. Thought they were just trying to punish me.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed slightly, her hands cradling her latte. “But it helped?”

CJ nodded slowly. “Yeah. It wasn’t just about getting sober, though. That was part of it. But the real turning point was getting diagnosed with depression and starting therapy. That’s when I started to understand what was actually going on. The drinking wasn’t the problem—it was the symptom.”

He looked up, meeting her gaze. “It took a lot of time and a lot of work, but I got through it. And when I got out, I decided I wanted to do something meaningful. That’s how I ended up at The Stand.”

Y/N was quiet for a moment, absorbing his words. “That’s... really brave,” she said finally, her voice soft. “To face all of that and come out the other side. I don’t think a lot of people could do that.”

CJ shrugged, but his expression softened. “It wasn’t just me. I had people who stuck by me, even when I didn’t deserve it. That made all the difference.”

Y/N smiled faintly, her eyes bright with emotion. “Still. It takes strength to go through something like that and turn it into something good. You’ve helped so many people, CJ. You should be proud of that.”

He smiled back, a quiet gratitude in his eyes. “Thanks, Y/N. That means a lot.”

They fell into a companionable silence, the tension of the conversation giving way to a lighter, more comfortable energy. After a while, Y/N glanced at the time and sighed. “We should probably head back.”

“Yeah,” CJ agreed, standing and grabbing their cups to toss in the trash. “Thanks for coming out. And... for listening.”

“Anytime,” Y/N said, her smile warmer now. “Thanks for sharing.”

As they stepped out into the bright afternoon, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a deeper sense of understanding—and connection—with CJ. His story wasn’t just about his past; it was about the strength it took to rebuild and the impact it had on the lives he touched. And in that moment, she felt lucky to be one of them.

The afternoon at The Stand passed in a blur of phone calls. Y/N had found her rhythm again, handling each call with a calm and empathetic tone that CJ couldn’t help but admire. Every so often, he’d glance over, watching her jot down notes or lean into a conversation, her focus unwavering.

CJ handled his own share of calls, each one a reminder of why he stayed in this work. Some were lighthearted—teenagers worried about friendships or navigating crushes—while others carried the weight of deeper struggles. By the time the clock signaled the end of their shift, the first and second shifts exchanged tired but friendly greetings as they passed one another.

As the second shift settled in, CJ stretched, rolling his shoulders as he tidied up his desk. Y/N lingered nearby, her notebook tucked under her arm, her expression thoughtful.

“CJ,” she said softly, her voice hesitant but clear.

He looked up, his brows raising slightly. “What’s up?”

“Do you have a minute?” she asked, glancing around at the bustling room. “I just... I have a question.”

“Sure,” CJ said, gesturing toward the quieter corner of the room. They moved away from the hum of the new shift, settling near one of the empty desks. CJ leaned against the edge of it, crossing his arms loosely. “What’s on your mind?”

Y/N hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of her notebook. “I was just wondering... in all your years here, has there ever been a call that really stuck with you? Something that made an impact?”

CJ’s posture stiffened slightly, though he kept his expression neutral. It was a question he’d been asked before, but somehow, coming from Y/N, it felt different.

“There’s been a lot of calls over the years,” CJ said, his voice steady but quieter now. “Some stick with you for a while, some fade after a bit. But... yeah. There’s one that stands out.”

Y/N tilted her head, her curiosity evident. “What happened?”

CJ hesitated, his gaze flickering to the floor for a moment before meeting hers again. “It was about four years ago. A girl called in... late at night. She sounded scared, lost, like she didn’t know what to do. She talked about feeling alone, about the weight of losing someone close to her.”

Y/N’s breath caught slightly, but she stayed silent, letting him continue.

“She was hurting,” CJ said softly. “But even through the pain, there was something about her. She had this spark, this determination buried under everything else. I don’t know why, but... something about that call stayed with me. I never forgot her.”

Y/N’s fingers tightened on her notebook, her voice barely above a whisper. “Did you ever... find out what happened to her?”

CJ shook his head, his expression tinged with regret. “No. That’s one of the hard parts about this job—you don’t always get closure. But I like to think she found her way. She had it in her. I could feel it.”

Y/N nodded slowly, her gaze dropping for a moment as she absorbed his words. “That’s... incredible. That you could be there for someone like that.”

CJ gave her a faint smile. “It’s why I stay. For calls like that. You don’t always know the impact you’re making, but... sometimes, it’s enough to just be there.”

They fell into a quiet moment, the hum of the office around them fading into the background. Y/N glanced up at CJ, her eyes searching his face.

“Thanks for sharing that,” she said softly. “I can see why it stuck with you.”

CJ nodded, his smile faint but genuine. “Thanks for asking. It’s good to talk about it sometimes.”

As the second shift began to settle into their rhythm, Y/N stood, her notebook still tucked against her chest. “I should probably head out,” she said, her voice light but thoughtful. “But... if you ever want to talk about this kind of stuff again, I’d like to hear it.”

CJ’s smile softened, something warm flickering in his expression. “I’ll hold you to that.”

She returned his smile before heading toward the exit, her steps slow and reflective. CJ watched her go, a quiet thought lingering in the back of his mind. The girl from four years ago and Y/N—they were connected somehow. He couldn’t prove it, not yet, but the thought refused to fade.

As he turned back to his desk, he found himself glancing at the framed poem that had stayed with him all these years. The snowflake pendant Y/N had worn once crossed his thoughts, and his chest tightened. If she was the girl from that call... he wasn’t sure what that would mean. But he knew one thing for sure: he wanted to find out.

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[betweenthings2]

HI!!! FIC TIME !!!!!!!!!! i just got a cramp in my foot and the description alone is healing me. im so excited

The waiting room is cold and too bright, sterile and uncomfortable. George thinks he's been sitting in this chair, blue, with the cushion squished by the weight of all the grief it has held, forever.

in two sentences u just described a room and a chair in a way that shakespeare would roll up and cry about (jealousy not hatred. i swear). this is. OHMYGOD?? i cant even. like as a normal line its Gorgeous but as an opening paragraph (not even the entire paragraph either?!) its just. madness. WOW

Time is no longer linear, no longer is there today, then tomorrow, then the day after that, rather it spirals out around this point, this particular moment. Five minutes ago, Matty was thirteen, suggesting George play drums in his band. Ten minutes ago, he twenty-nine and holding George's hand. Right now, Matty is twenty-six and in a hospital. In five minutes, Matty will be thirty-two and ok. In ten Matty will five again, a little kid on a farm in Newcastle.

i know i say this about everything you write but this just fucked me UP. dude. u NEED to like. be published. spirals out around this point ??!?!?!? !!!!!!!!!!! little kid on a farm !!!!!!!!!!!! insanity !!!!!!!!

The longer George sits there, the more certain he is that he’s lost Matty.

i just choked and died. thank u

But George didn’t know how to tell the nurse any of that. He didn’t know how to make her understand that they’ve both been doing the best, so he fumbled through a poor explanation of Matty in general and an even poorer one of how he’d been fine until he wasn’t, how he got jumpy and paranoid and started talking about how ‘they’ were trying to listen to him and thinking there were secret messages in the bookshelves and started having trouble following conversations. It came on fast, so fast that George didn’t even have a chance to process it or figure out what to do before he found Matty trying to use a kitchen knife to take apart the tile backsplash because he thought there were hidden microphones behind the tile. All he’d succeeded in doing was scratching up the tile and cutting his hands so that he bled all over the counter. It had taken almost an hour for George to convince Matty to get in the car to go to A&E because he thought he wasn’t real.

i want a twelve page written apology for this. im gonna throw up and cry. :( "fine until he wasn't" is always gonna kill me dead and u just made it like 20 times more intense with this paragraph. this is. gorgeous. i screenshotted it and put it into a special folder in my phone

George can sort this out.

my CHEST HURTS oh my god

George nods and agrees, "Ok." He pauses again before asking, "Is he going to be ok? Is he going to be Matty again?"

u need to STOP. oh. my god. IS HE GOUNG TO BE MATTY AGAUB U ARE SO SICK AND TWISTED im gonna explode. please take this in the most positive way u possibly can

The bookshelves are bare, all the books stacked in towering piles because Matty was there was some kind of secret message to be found if he organized things right, and there are papers and notebooks full of illegible scribbled writing and shoved haphazardly into corners. In the kitchen, the knife Matty had taken to the backsplash is still sitting out and there’s still blood on the counter, Matty’s blood. It makes George a little bit sick.

i hope i die like right now just so reading this paragraph can be the last thing i do. im unwell. still blood on the counter:((( im so :((((( hes sick :(((

“He had a psychotic break, Ross. He tried to take the backsplash apart with a kitchen knife ‘cause he thought there were microphones behind the tile. It took an hour to get him to go to A&E because he didn’t think we were real. If that’s not grounds for inpatient treatment, what is?”

need to be left alone for at least three business days to get over this. good lord

In the morning, he has a more cohesive list of questions and a couple options for psychiatric hospitals he thinks Matty might not hate. He takes the time to pack a bag for Matty, too, with clothes and toiletries and such so that he has what he needs wherever he ends up.

hes so concerned and afraid and worried and im sick and theyre both so sad i just need to wrap them up and keep them safe. IM UNWELL. :((((((( he just wants to help but hes so scared :(((

“So, he’ll be ok?” George asks, following. “He’ll be Matty again?”

nobody talk to me ever again

He’s just scared.

screaming crying throwing up

Matty doesn’t react. It’s the inaction of a person who’s been strung along too many times, George thinks.

oh this paragraph alone is gonna put me in mattys position im about to lose my shit. genuinely i do not know what it is about ur writing but it just HURTS. like. oh my GOD

There’s still no answer, but after a long while, Matty moves his hand to intertwine his fingers with George’s and very quietly, asks, “George?”

TEARS IN MY EYES TEARS IN MY EYES u actually need to stop it or im going to . sob.

“There’s nothing to sort out,” Matty tries. “Nothing’s wrong with me. Nothing’s wrong with me, George, why don’t you believe me? You’re supposed to trust me. You’re supposed to be on my side. I’m not crazy. Why do you think I’m crazy?”

no im not crying what do you mean no im fine everything is fine. im going. to explode. why do you think im crazy:((((((( hes just so confused and vulnerable and distressed and im gonna cry like im just :(

Matty frowns. “That’s not true,” he tries. “Don’t lie to me.”

shooting myself and writing this on my chest before i do it. oh my GOD. hes just. like i just cant. hes confused. im sick

“Don’t make me,” Matty begs, half desperate. “I don’t want to. Please.”

the tears are no longer in my eyes theyre on my face. u are killing me one word at a time and im letting it happen because Hello. this is beautiful. im gonna ?!?!? omg i just cant describe it like the way u write matty is so vulnerable and its so real and feels natural and everything. and like the way u write speech Aaaalways works so well and im just in awe of every word

“You’d make me?” Matty asks, looking devastated.

:(

“’cause you think I need to be fixed?”

i feel like ive been SHOT.

Matty is quiet for several moments, then, in a tiny voice, agrees, “Ok.”

i just cannot cope at all. hes so little and so fragile and im just :(((

They’re both quiet for a few moments, then Matty scooches to one side of the bed and asks, “Will you lay with me?”

u know when dogs want something and they just look at u and whine and go like :< . imagine me doing that to u except i dont want anything i am just Distraught and that expresses that. im going to cry

Matty hesitates, then in tiny voice, asks, “Are you sure?”

MY STOMACH HURTS oh i am actually broken this just killed me off. i simply Cannot do this. oh my god

Reluctantly, George untangles himself from Matty and cradles his jaw, brushing his thumb over Matty’s cheekbone, and says, “I know, but you’ve gotta get better and this is how you get better. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

this entire scene oh god that was so painful (positive) and so intimate and i could picture it all so clearly and every word is so perfect and fits so well and you just. you are amazing at this. like. tearing up and dying about this

“Feel bad,” Matty mumbles. “’m crazy and I feel bad.”

this is the kind of quote id write over and over again until it was muscle memory. im going to cry

“Keep playing with my hair?” Matty asks.

crying

“Whatever you think you missed, you missed because I wanted you to,” Matty responds. “You were so happy and we had a life and you thought things were good. I wasn’t going to take that from you.”

oh my god

The leaving, the walking away, that’s the worst part for George. Waking Matty up isn’t awful and he’s done that plenty of times before. Saying goodbye is worse, but George knew that would be the case, he just didn’t expect it to be so hard to walk away. That’s Matty, his Matty, and he’s leaving him. How is George supposed to live with himself when he’s leaving his Matty like this? He tells himself it’s for the best, that Matty needs help and this is the only place he’s going to get it, but George is still going home to an empty house and he’s leaving Matty behind.

im actually going to cry. i cant describe how this Hurt Me.

More than that, he wants Matty. He needs Matty. They’re symbiotic. They need each other.

one thing about me is the symbiotic codependent Basically One Person gatty thing will ALWAYS get me. but this. this got me x20. ohhhhhh. like theyre a pair. theyre together and theyre always together. theyre not him and him theyre THEM. screaming crying

Matty doesn’t belong here, but he kind of does.

cant explain why this line just punched me in the face because i dont understand why but good lord i feel bruised

“An outburst?” George echoes. “What’s that supposed to mean? Matty wouldn’t hurt anyone. It’s Matty.”

:((( hes too little to hurt anybody :((( and he WOULDNT :(((

The days pass and George keeps visiting and the weather starts getting nicer until one afternoon when he goes to visit, George has to go looking for Matty in the courtyard behind the hospital.

i just smiled like really stupidly. im :( but happy

“You’re ill,” George says. “You’ll get better. You are getting better.”

sob

“I believe that you believe that,” Matty answers, “but I don’t know if I do.”

YOU CANT JUST WRITE THIS AND EXPECT ME NOT TO GO INSANE ABOUT IT oh my god. !??!?!,@?+?@+?# im gonna have an aneurysm

What are you supposed to do when that’s all you are?”

i simply cannot take this

He pauses for a moment, looking around the quiet courtyard, then continues, “I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t do it. I wanted you to think that I could handle it. I wanted you not to worry about me for once.”

OHMYGUDKCIJSAJK2KDJKWKJSJA i just cant like i actually cant. in any way. about anything. oh my god

Matty doesn’t bother saying anything more, just moves a little bit closer so George can drape an arm over his shoulders, and they sit like that for the rest of visiting hours, close and quiet, watching the afternoon pass through the garden. It’s the most peaceful George has felt in ages. It’s shattered when he has to go home, but he leaves feeling a little lighter than he has in the past. In the days that follow, the doctors level out Matty’s medication, then take him off the antipsychotic all together and everyone, George included, waits with bated breath to see if Matty is going to devolve again.

this is just so ohhhhh. oooooohhhhhhh. im so tired and this paragraph feels like its chewing on me. in a good way. im gonna die

In that same time, George has the backsplash that Matty tried to take apart replaced and reworks their home studio in such a way that there’s a little more space for Matty’s ever growing collection of instruments and replaces the furniture like they’ve talked about for ages.

🥹🥹🥹 ohhhhh my god 🥹🥹🥹

It does end up being the case, though, and at the end of the week, George is driving home with Matty in the passenger seat for the first time in ages.

i feel sick. im gonna cry. i actually cant deal with this. i need this tattooed onto my heart

Really, they both settle into a quiet routine, orbiting around each other—mornings are spent with coffee on the patio and on walks through the neighborhood, afternoons in their home studio, working, creating, or out, wandering through old haunts and new spots alike, and evenings are spent largely at home, together.

DONT TALK TO ME

Matty is twenty-six and ok, in their bed. In a moment, Matty will still be twenty-six and ok and in their bed.

this is so beautiful:((( the way its the bit from the start OHHHHH u just get it right EVERY TIME. this fic was genuinely 11/10. BEAUTIFUL GORGEOUS AMAZING WONDERFUL and u are also 11/10 because u are so wonderful and u deserve everything good in the world. i hope ur life is nice currently and i hope u are well and this fic was beautiful and im (spiritually) sending u wine as a gift for writing it. ok love u goodbye !!!

Fic time!!!! Thank you so, so much the ask!!! You've, like, made my week =) Also, I love the green text--that makes me so happy 💚💚

Anyway, here's a fun fact to start: this whole fic was inspired by "Montgomery Forever" by The Front Bottoms.

This is so, so sweet of you to say!! Shakespeare?!?! Oh my god.

I love, love, love your reaction to this, because I, too, am kind of obsessed with this bit about time =) This did is in my drafts for more than a year and I kept looking at it and trying to do something with it, but I love it here so much.

He thinks he's lost fictional!Matty! He's stuck in a waiting room while fictional!Matty is who knows where!!

I cannot apologize for this because I simply do not feel bad. Sorry. And screenshotted? Saved???? Special folder????? Oh my god. Oh my god. I love you.

Fictional!George can figure it out! He has to. No one else will so he has to!

I will not stop, but I am taking this is a very, very positive way, don't worry!! =)

The last thing you do?? Reading my writing?? Truly, no one has ever said something this nice. Oh my god.

Poor, poor fictional!George is unfortunately stuck being a realist. He knows what has to happen, but he hates it so much!!

He has to sort it out!! He has to figure things out for poor fictional!Matty, even though it's so awful.

=( =(

He's so scared! Everything is so bad!

Poor fictional!Matty has been hallucinating fictional!George coming to save him since they last saw each other and now that fictional!George is actually there, he doesn't believe it.

He's trying and he wants fictional!George to actually be there so bad! He's so sad and scared and I will never stop making him sad and scared. Sorry.

Fictional!Matty is so sure that he's just coming out of a bad trip or something, but he's not crazy!! He's not! He's so sure he's not, but fictional!George thinks he is! What's he supposed to do with that? Why does fictional!George think he's crazy?

Fictional!Matty doesn't quite remember everything, but he's so sure he was being perfectly logical. Fictional!George has to be lying!

That's so kind of you to say, thank you!! Honestly, writing dialogue is about 90% me talking to myself and saying things over and over so I can figure out how to spell things the way they get slurred when people talk. It makes trying to write in public a little bit awkward.

Fictional!George is supposed to take care of fictional!Matty, not make go somewhere he doesn't want to!! =(

Fictional!Matty doesn't think he's broken, why does fictional!George? He's not broken, why would he need to go somewhere to get fixed?

In the end of it, he trusts fictional!George with his life! With more than his life, with everything! So if fictional!George thinks he needs to go, fictional!Matty will go.

I give dogs whatever they want when they do that. I'd offer some fluff as reparations, but we all know how that goes.

He trusts fictional!George so much, but he doesn't want to!! He has to double check. =(

Thank you so much!!! This scene was almost much longer, but how long can you really stand in a waiting room being sad and in love before it gets weird??

Really??? Actually?? It's that good?? 💚💚💚

Poor fictional!Matty just wants some comfort, some normalcy =(

Fictional!Matty was trying so hard and he wanted fictional!George to be happy!! That's all he wanted!! He's so sad =(

He's leaving fictional!Matty behind!! He has to, but it's so hard and he's so sad. Everything is hurting everyone!!

Fictional!M+G need each other so much!! There isn't one without the other! This is my favorite trope(?? is it a trope?) of all time. Fictional!M+G can't function without each other!

This line was in my notes long before there was a draft or document for this fic, and I'm kind of obsessed with it, to be honest. Fictional!Matty doesn't belong there! He doesn't belong somewhere so sad and miserable but he does because he's sad and unwell and miserable!

He wouldn't hurt anyone! He doesn't have a propensity for violence! And he's tiny!!

Things are actually getting better! Maybe! This whole scene was actually inspired by this photo and is a variation on a scene I have for the end-of-life care fic if i ever write it.

One thing about fictional!George is that he believes in fictional!Matty!! If nothing else, he believes in fictional!Matty!!

One thing about fictional!Matty is that he doesn't not believe in himself. At all.

Another thing about fictional!Matty is that he wants to be the person fictional!George thinks he is. He wants to be capable and functional and be able to take care of himself. He wants fictional!George to worry less.

They're together! Things are kind of ok because they're together and fictional!Matty is doing better! Things are looking up!

Another thing about fictional!George in this fic is that he will not be letting fictional!Matty come home to the aftermath. He'll be coming home to something warm and cozy and nice that feels like home.

Things are touch and go for a lot of this fic, I think, but fictional!Matty is going home! Finally!

They're together! They're back in their home and they're together and it's good!

He's ok!! He's 26 and everything is ok!! This bit was almost an afterthought as I was finishing the fic and I'm so thrilled that you liked it!!

Thank you so, so much for the wonderful ask and comments!!! I am appreciatively accepting your gift and also asking if I am the resident wine guy?? 💚💚💚

[nrdmssgs]

The dropouts (part 4)

Masterlist

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I you are here I Part 5 I Part 6

Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, action, slow burn.

Pairing: Olga 'Zhar' Samoilova (OC) x Nikto

Summary: Some things you teach Chimeras, other things - they teach you.

TWs: This whole series will be revolving around a person living with an acute dissociative disorder. Swearing.

AN: I am very happy to welcome my dear Phayvanh "Nak" Sotsvahn She belongs to @vasyandii who helped me make this chapter happen.

This seemed like a good idea until Nikto actually turned it into reality. It was quiet in his head while he planned the class and arranged his visit to the Chimera base, the voices didn't awake even on his way there…

But now as he's sitting in a room gradually filling with Chimera soldiers, reading a list of names again and again, skipping a few crossed out ones, they come to life.

“What if she comes?”

“She's going to ruin everything.”

“If she dares, I will ruin her.”

“No, you won't. Too soft. Weak.”

“Let us get closer to her. Let us look. Touch. Break.”

“Vsye v poryadke?*” Nikto flinches, noticing a short figure beside his chair. He raises his eyes on a young woman. 

To Nikto she looks slight, almost delicate. But an air of determination, he can almost taste around her, seems at odds with her youthful appearance. He feels a pang of something akin to sorrow mixed with fury. She looks almost too young to be here, too young to have been thrust into the harsh realities of war.

Forcing himself to look away, he returns to the list in his hand and finds a name that might suit her.

“Ty Phay- Fai- Fai-vahn, da?*” He tries his best to not butcher the unfamiliar name.

The woman freezes for a moment, her body tenses, posture grows defensive. She reaches out, pulls the sheet of paper out of his hands and writes ‘П-А-Й-В-А-Н’ next to her name.

“Ne pytaisya po-anliyski chitat`. Vot tak nado.*” She hands the paper back.

Nikto thanks her awkwardly. Chimeras seem to know more about him, at least they all figured out what language is his native even before he opened his mouth.

“Think the mask will keep you from losing your face?”

“Her name is crossed out, but she will come just to laugh at us.”

“At least this way she might notice us.”

“Shut up,” he hisses, seemingly quiet, but all the noises die in the class in the very same moment. 

Soldiers look at him with the silent intensity, and the last bits of confidence leave Nikto. He knows how to command, how to force in the worst case scenario, but this is new. Here he has to tell his story, not missing a single detail, and make sure they remember him well. He might have started this all just to meet Zhar again, but Nikto is damn serious about this training. If it helps to make their lives longer, if it helps her in any way…

“I'm Nikto. I will teach you some major survival tactics in prolonged tortures. We will have this evening and tomorrow to get things done.” He decides to skip the embarrassing part where he explains, that the ‘shut up’ wasn't meant for the auditorium. 

Phayvanh opens a notebook with such a mundane expression, as if they hear such lectures on a daily basis. Next to her sits Krueger with his arms crossed on the chest. At the base, he abandons his tactical net, so nothing masks his crooked smirk, when he raises a hand and asks without waiting.

“What makes you the expert?”

Nikto stops roaming through his notes and looks up. His gaze seems to make even Krueger uncomfortable, so he clarifies the question.

“Each of us here has some experience in… interrogations. Some more, others - less. What gets you to be the guy before the white board.”

Nikto huffs. “My story is not that fun to hear.”

Or to tell.

“Come on, man. This is not a Sunday book club with little tea cups and cucumber sandwiches.”  Phayvanh punches Krueger under the desk, but he goes on. “Show off, brag, shine a little, friend. How much they held you? A week? Two?”

Niktos eyes harden. Something told him, this might end this way, yet, he hoped, it wouldn't. He tells himself, it's not about his vulnerability - it's about the stakes, he will be talking about, as his fingers reach the first strap of his mask. The stakes they will have to be ready to make after these classes. He takes the last look at the room and makes sure once again, she is nowhere around. 

With slow, deliberate movements, Nikto unfastens the mask. He hesitates for a moment, then pulls it away, revealing the full extent of his injuries.

There are no shocked gasps heard - only a lone whistle and someones muffled ‘fuck’ reaching his ears. Because what he shows them is not just a few scratches - it is a battlefield and a grave. His skin is heavily scarred and burnt, twisted in unnatural ways. Half of his left ear is missing, and his cheek bears deep, jagged lines. His face is enough to make some people run in fear. Not from him, but from the amount of pain one can survive. “The living will envy the dead” - that's what his face is about.

“Two thousand forty-one hour. Eighty-five days.” His tone is flat, calm even. It's not his place to share his pain - only his expertise. 

***

Their class goes surprisingly well. Chimera soldiers are catching every word leaving his mouth and ask smart questions, that sometimes leave Nikto himself wondering if there is a right answer to them. Although he hasn't that much of a theory teaching experience, his first try at it feels nice, kind of empowering even.

Nikto lets the feeling sink in after everybody else leave the room. Usually his guts would tell him otherwise, but right now sitting here in peace without half of his gear and completely unarmed feels ok. For some weird reason, nothing seems to be able to bother him. 

He fixes the straps of his mask, making sure it sits firmly again, and leaves to an already empty hall. Distant echoes of chatter and ambient noises barely reach this place. Without any thought behind it, Nikto just turns left and walks to see if this road leads him anywhere but an endless row of closed doors. He isn't trying to be nosey - just wants to give his legs a stretch.

To his relief, there is in fact one door open wide. It must their gymnasium - a dimly lit hall, the fading daylight casting long shadows across the room. The faint sound of punching and the rhythmic thuds of kicks echoes softly, punctuating the otherwise still air. In the far corner, illuminated by a solitary overhead light, Zhar is training with fierce determination.

Nikto doesn't know much about art, doesn't really care about all these museums, pictures, statues. He is as far from this world as it is possible. He thought, his knife collection is the nearest thing to art, he ever saw. But right now this changes forever deep in his mind. Because he sees art.

She moves with a fluid grace, each punch and kick precise and powerful. Despite not so young age, her form is impeccable, her movements a blend of strength and agility. The dummy in front of her bears the brunt of her relentless assault, swaying with each impact.

“How is this possible?”

“How is she possible?”

Nikto ignores awakening voices and watches, captivated by the raw power and beauty of her movements. He had seen many soldiers train, but there is something different about her - something that set her apart. And Nikto feels that just one more minutes needs to pass, and he will understand, what's the secret behind her movements.

“Stop ogling my lieutenant.” Nikto quickly turns back and meets Nikolais smirk. “Stop ogling my lieutenant and go talk to her.”

Before Nikto has time to react - Chimeras leader pushes him forward.

“I was looking for where you guys eat. Just the wrong door,” grumbles Nikto quietly. 

“Mhm, of course,” hisses Nikolai and giving him a final push adds louder “Olya, look who came to visit you!”

Dammit. So much for trying to not be a creep.

“Is it my little-” She turns back to them and a wide bright smile on her face weakens. “Oh. Hi.”

He still mentally disputes on turning back and leaving, but Olga steps away from the dummy and reaches out to him, so Nikto comes closer not wanting to make her wait awkwardly for a handshake.

“Nice having you here. Sorry for skipping your class, my last meeting ended way too late.” A touch of her fingers against his exposed skin echoes down his spine. Nikto tries to shake the feeling off with a joke.

“Nah, this won't be on the test anyways.”

She chuckles. Nikto saw her ‘work smile’ and he genuinely hated it. Too plastic, too fake for his tastes. But this is completely different - Olga somehow makes the whole room brighter and more safe. A subtle ornament or crinkles at the corners of her eyes, two soft dimples, the way she throws her head slightly back - this all feels precious, important. He drinks in the sight of her as she returns to the dummy.

“I want to work on one last thing here and then I'll go show you our common room, ok?”

She wants him to stay here? She will feel safe?

“No objections, lt.” Nikto leans against the wall watching her readjusting the dummy.

Zhar loosens a few fastenings around the dummies base and tries to move the main construction up, but it remains steady. She grunts and tries again, but nothing changes.

“Andrei, mat` tvoyu, ne nachinai!*” Nikto flinches at these words and looks at Olga.

Not entirely sure if he even got what she said, Zhar adds embarrassedly ‘I was talking to the dummy, we call him Andrei. This thing’s seen better days’.

“Then we happen to share a name.”

Nikto approaches and tries to help her readjust an old cranky construction, but the outcome is the same. "How about you train on me instead?" he suggests. "I'm taller, and I can take a hit."

“I don't enjoy the concept of treating a fellow soldier like a punching doll.” Olga frowns and shakes her head.

“Nah, you won't even notice the difference. Same name, same attitude. Besides, it's not like you can hurt me," he adds with a short chuckle. This last phrase may have been uncalled-for, because the lieutenant moves away from him a couple of steps and takes a fighting stance.

“My rear hook is getting worse lately. Need to work on it.” Zhar takes a deep breath, centering herself. “But I'm not beating a guy who doesn't defend himself. Thought, you remembered it after the first time we met.”

Ouch. So she does bite back when provoked. 

Nikto raises his hands slightly, ready to block if needed. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says, his tone seemingly flat despite the voices forming a good dozen of less neutral reactions.

Her eyes lock onto him, determination flaring anew. She begins with a series of high punches, aiming for his shoulder level. He blocks and parries, his movements fluid and controlled. She quickly adjusts her stance, her confidence growing as she finds her rhythm.

Her kicks come faster now, more precise. Yet Nikto notices the slightest pause in the middle of her rear hooks, just as she claimed. 

“You’ve got quite a punch,” he notices. “Keep going, don’t hold back. A bit faster so that I can't catch you in the middle of it.”

She pushes herself harder, her strikes becoming more aggressive, but there's still this little slowdown in the middle of her blow. And Nikto uses his reaction to demonstrate it. He meets her hand in the midflight and pulls her forward, causing Olga to lose her stance and improvise. She opts for another blow, Nikto feels that he's lacking time to keep pulling her and evade the punch at the same time, but still highers the other hand to defend himself.

It all happens so fast, he doesn't realize at first, what exactly he's done. His hand slides forward, and she hisses, when his wrist grazes against her head. He lowers his hand, but for some reason she follows it, falling on her knees before him. 

Nikto freezes in certainty for a moment and descends after her. Zhar reaches out to his hand and tries to pull it slowly away, and he finally sees it. The massive clasp on the sleeve of his suit got tangled in her hair, causing pain with every movement.

He curses and immediately starts untangling it.

“I'm sorry, I didn't think, fu-”

“The hell are you sorry about?” Olga cuts him off, and he notices that there is no fear or pain in her face expression - only calm satisfaction. “I came unprepared - I had it coming. Good fight, soldier.”

As he helps her to untangle the last strands of hair and stand up, it slowly gets to him: while he is here - she treats him as one of her own, and that includes celebrating his victories, even those that might feel undeserved. This is a strange feeling, but he likes it: to not just be here, but to belong, stay a part of something, she pours her heart into. 

***

It's not every day that Chimeras second in command walks in the common room with a sweet smile and without someone torturing her on the phone. Even on a more rare occasion does she stay in the dining area and not just grab whatever is left to eat and retreats back to her office. So while everybody tries to not be too obvious with their interest - they still can't hold back occasional long gazes. At some point, Krueger even suggest that he goes to join Zhar and their guest instructor, but Phayvanh grips his shoulder and pulls him back.

“You sit here and don't spoil anything.” Naks voice is cold and commanding.

***

After the dinner, Zhar leads Nikto through the living section of the base. Sometimes she excuses for the state of wall paint or an old door. ‘We are moving soon, so we didn't do any renovations here lately,’ she tells as if Nikto came here to inspect the state of their spaces.

“I figured, you would like a room with more privacy. No shared bathrooms, a more quiet part of the building, and so on. Due to the…” she draws a circle in the air in front of her face and Nikto guesses that she is talking about his mask. 

Usually this detail only causes annoying questions. But with her everything is different. No jokes, no unpleasant attention - just an attempt to help.

“Thank you,” he exhales as Olga unlocks the door.

At first glance, Nikto realizes that this is someone's room. Papers on the desk, a jacket hanging on the back of a chair, something large and shapeless lying in the far corner of the bed - it turns out to be a shark plushie, all this suggests that someone already lives here.

"Will the tenant mind?" He freezes on the threshold, looking at her with disbelief.

“This is my room,” she answers innocently.

“But what about...” Nikto points at the bed.

"Oh no, there was only one bed, what should they do!” Zhar sighs in an exaggerated, theatrical manner and cracks laughing. “Don't worry - I'm not going to sleep today anyway. I'm leaving in the night, need to pay a visit to our new base. Until then - I have a ton of work waiting for me in my office anyway.”

“But-”

“Nikto, enough ‘buts’. Our free rooms serve as storages now, I can't materialize an extra bed for you out of thin air, and I'm not letting our guest sleep on a floor.” She pats his shoulder and pushes him deeper in the room. “If you need anything - my office is three doors down the hall.”

She doesn't leave him any time to react, closing the door.

*Vsye v poryadke? - (here and further Russian) Everything's alright?

*Ty Phay- Fai- Fai-vahn, da? - Youre Phay- Fai- Fai-vahn, yes?

*Ne pytaisya po-anliyski chitat`. Vot tak nado. - Dont try to read it as if was in English. Heres the way to pronounce it

*Andrei, mat` tvoyu, ne nachinai! - Andrei, for fucks sake, don't start this now!

[rriavian]

Hey. I'm sorry about your migraine, I hope it's gone. I came to you with a thought. What if Corinthian had been there when Dream and Hob Gadling met at the New Inn in episode 6? Hob is really happy with the fact that he can finally talk to his stranger again, and in the back Corinthian wonders what the fuck is going on here. Dream and a human? how is it possible? I don't know exactly if he'll come near Dream and Hob or just stand there and have a fit of jealousy, but it amuses me to think about it.

<3 Thank you! It's still not great (and I should probably get off my computer) but it should hopefully start to ease off in a few hours. Or at least before tomorrow.

Hmm. That is an interesting thought! I've thought about it a couple of times before, I think the Corinthian would probably do his best to not be wherever Dream was but! If he was there I can imagine it might be him sensing Dream returning to the Waking World, maybe thinking his creator was after him, and being like 'best check this out'. And stalking Dream for a bit. But being very careful.

My minds gone off in another direction first but I have this bizarre image of the Corinthian sneaking around after Death and Dream. Like he comes across Dream feeding the pigeons- idek he has binoculars and is a whole street away just being like 'wtf is he doing?'. The Corinthian is trying to match the evil mastermind view he's got of his creator with the image of him sitting pensively feeding birds.

Obviously there's a plot here he's just got to figure out what it is.

So he sneaks around after Death and Dream while they have their sister brother chat. When Dream turns down the offer to buy an apple he diligently makes a note of 'doesn't like apples' in his brain/notebook/'plots against my hot creator' journal. Why would he need such a fact?

The Corinthian doesn't know but it might be important.

Getting back on track! He follows Dream to the New Inn and takes the risk of going inside. I have the most amusing image of him like...sat with a newspaper peering around it at them. Or still outside sneaking looks in through the window. Dream probably knows he's there (or maybe he's distracted by the post ruby power up?). The Corinthian may or may not know about Hob already, but I think perhaps if he does he's forgotten the details/deemed them unimportant.

The Corinthian sees Dream smile at Hob and adds 'kill Dream's random human' to his list of plots.

Beyond that I'm not sure, I have a feeling he'd come back and kill Hob later. Then be very confused when he doesn't die. Or Dream would be like 'One moment' (to Hob) and go over to his table and be like 'Did you think I wouldn't notice?'. Or Hob would lean forwards and whisper 'That guy has been staring at you for twenty minutes.' and Dream would sigh and be like 'Indeed.'

Hob's like 'I don't know if he wants to fuck you or kill you.'

And instantly regrets blurting such a thing out to the friend he's only just reconnected with.

But Dream just sighs again and says 'If he could figure that out it would save a lot of time.'

Sorry if this is a little incoherent I've been squinting at my screen as I type, but this was such a fun little scenario thank you so much for asking :)

[witches-pierre]

I recently have been getting back into divination and witchcraft as a means to try and unpack my rampant religious trauma. It’s been… a struggle to say the least. Some days are better than others, some days I get filled with an intense anxiety that maybe the god of my old religion will turn my life to hell for even daring to consider anything else.

But I now that’s not true; and that along with so many other ideas are so unhealthy.

That little dissertation out of the way; here’s a list of things I did recently that I’m proud of myself for doing. Cause we all need to be proud of ourselves from time to time; especially when dealing with trauma:

• Number one biggest thing! I’ve started doing shadow work! I’ve started to work through identifying my different triggers and it’s challenging to say the least. While I won’t get into it here let’s just say I’m not in the most accepting environment atm. So while I’m working to move out I’m hoping shadow work will allow me the mental clarity to survive just a little longer.

• I’ve managed to record my tarot readings somewhat often; sure maybe the longest I’ve gone is about 4 weeks between them but the fact that I had able to do it at least twice in one month is incredible by my standards! 

• Speaking of tarot; recently I’ve started to get better at interpreting the meaning of the cards outside of using books. I have about 3 tarot books that I read the meaning of my cards from (I like to get multiple perspectives) and recently started interpreting the cards myself, writing it down what I got and THEN consulting my books. More often than not my interpretations tend to lineup with the books. This is uber exciting for me since I have terrible memory and the fact it’s starting to stick makes me hopeful!

• I made my first oil; that being rose oil! And it’s been three months and it hasn’t gone moldy!! (Another incredible thing by my standards!)

• I made my first spell jar! (A protection jar of course) I usually stay within the realms of Knot magick, but I wanted to push myself a little further. I’ve spent months watching videos and reading books (both witchy and practical) about different herbs and ingredients used in this kind of spell work. Now the finished thing sits nicely in the corner of my room hidden from prying eyes.

• I figured out how to make my grimoire aesthetic looking! The key is, you don’t!

Well I mean, let me explain. I realized that the overwhelming pressure of making my writing look good was… overwhelming. So instead I use an old animal crossing themed notebook I got for my birthday. It takes a lot of the pressure off.

And I know what your thinking; Pierre that’s not really a solution! All the witch influencers always say that and then still have amazing looking grimoires anyway!!!

Well yeah; but here’s the kicker, that shitty little notebook that’s an unorganized mess where all your ideas go; that’s your working grimoire.

Think of it like a sketchbook; a place where all your incomplete thoughts and scribbles go. It’s okay to have it look messy cause it’s you learning. Write down work in progress spells; ideas, and the like.

That way when you come up with a spell that has results; or you feel like you’ve studied and gathered enough information on a topic; you comb over that information in that crappy little book; take the valuable bits and then take the time to put them in pretty little book.

I ramble to much about it already; maybe I’ll make a whole separate post on it. And if did it will be linked here

Feel free to join in with your list in the comments!

[marquis-of-writeblr]

20 Questions Writer Questionnaire

Tagged by @saturnine-saturneight

Is writing a hobby or way of life?

Still just a hobby, but I want to make it much more a part of my life. Getting off to a rough start, but this blog is part of that plan.

A journal full of writing notes or a clean, completed manuscript?

Hmm… I'd say 50/50 probably? During the planning stages, to figure out aspects of the world or my characters, I'll use notebooks as something like scratch paper to sketch things out (sometimes literally) before writing them up in digital documents. But all those notes are largely just for the sorts of things that could cause continuity errors. A character's appearance, the geography and climate of a location, etc. When I sit down to write, it's usually by opening a blank document and just writing by the seat of my pants.

Who (or what) is your writing inspiration?

Oh that's a tough one. There's a couple of authors who I look up to in aspiration, usually for stylistic reasons; Pratchett, Tamsyn Muir, Diana Wynne Jones…

But honestly? I think most of my inspiration comes from the people I think fell short. Like… "Okay, you had a couple good ideas here and there, but the overall story is just… so disappointing. Let me see what I can do with these pieces."

Oh! One work that does fall on both sides of this fence is Final Fantasy IX. Its world manages to feel so incredibly real to me, and I love how it manages to maintain an incredibly personal and intimate tone for all of its characters, even as the plot builds to saving all of reality from the manifestation of entropy (not kidding, the "Not Alone" sequence that kicks off the third act still makes me tear up). But it still has shortcomings inherent to being a turn-of-the-century JRPG, and not all of its characters get all the narrative attention they deserve. But writing a story that I can conceive as an improved version of FF9 (whatever medium it winds up being) is probably my number one writing goal.

Which is worse: someone you "idolize" reading your first draft or listening to you sing?

Probably singing? I'm not horribly self-conscious about it - I did have some lessons once (a long time ago) - but I pretty much always want people to read my writing, if only to give me feedback on what they did like, and what I might do better.

Has writing from someone else's POV ever changed your own perspective?

…Not unexpectedly. I'll actually sometimes do a little bit of writing as an exercise specifically to explore certain points of view. So like… usually, if my mind changes due to writing from a particular character's POV, I started writing with the intent to see if my mind might change. Granted, that's pretty oversimplifying of the process, and mind-changing tends to be pretty gradual and slow, anyway, but…

Tumblr, AO3, LiveJournal, or FFN?

AO3 and Tumblr. I've been active on Tumblr for years, though I've only recently started writing on it. Meanwhile, I've been reading fic on AO3 for ages, and …very occasionally post stuff to it. …I really ought to post a new chapter to my Freyatrix fic, thinking about it…

AO3 wordcount, and are you satisfied with it?

3,744 and I'm not horribly stressed about it, but as I mentioned in the previous answer, I should see about maybe hitting 5k soon.

What movie/book/fic gripped you irrevocably?

Counting games under this.

Final Fantasy IX, as previously mentioned

Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones

The Last Unicorn

The Locked Tomb

The Fallen Gods series by S.D. Simper

Backwards to Oregon by Jae

Heaven Will Be Mine

The Clinch by Nicole Disney (specifically for teaching me to appreciate present tense narration, which I had previously been firmly opposed to)

Carmilla and all its adaptations and spin-offs

The Harrietta Lee series by Stephanie Ahn

A Memory Called Empire

the mountain of unfulfilled potential in Warcraft has haunted me since I started writing

and a whole host of honourable mentions that I'd be listing all night, if I started

There will also absolutely be two or three things I think of tomorrow that I'll be slapping myself for having forgotten, but... alas.

What’s the highest compliment you’ve ever been given, and have you been given it?

I can't think of any single compliment I've been given, but the number of times people have complimented the flow of my writing has stuck with me.

What defines your writing style?

I think it's that flow, again, mostly. Whether it's action or description, I have a feeling I have a fairly signature way of handling it. I think I also have a knack for maintaining characterization.

Gonna pull the "I'm still new here so don't yet know a lot of people, so all of my followers may consider themselves tagged, if they wish." thing again.

[foxxdoolz]

Journal (6-15-24)

I wonder why I am so much more open to writing all my thoughts out in a place where they could be seen, versus just writing them in a Google Doc or a notebook. I don't fucking know, alright? Jeez, I don't have all the answers. Maybe it's accountability or something. Or the false anonymity that comes with having a username.

Or, maybe, it's the fact that we're all scared to be seen, but equally as scared to be unseen.

I like having things. Stuff. Objects. I'm a bit of a hoarder. Little, tiny pieces of trash that mean something to me. I have a lump of clay my old homeroom teacher carved a hall pass into when I was in high school. A hair tie that came from my best friend I was in love with, tied back together after it snapped. The t-shirt I wore to my first ever Warped Tour (fuck, who even remembers Warped Tour), that I've never washed, still covered in paint and reeking of Mary Jane (I don't even like that kind of music, but I think it was the sense of belonging).

There's a letter in my car that my dad typed and printed out and gave to me right before I moved away from home. It stays there, never to be brought into any apartment I moved/move into because that letter feels like home the same way my car does. In a way these apartments never will.

But, above all else, I collect records, vinyls, whatever. I actually collect most things of physical mediums, something tangible for something I like, but none more so than records. I have a spreadsheet that lists all of them, however, I need to update it. Right now, the spreadsheet sits at 197, but it is now well over 200.

I remember the first record I ever owned. I had to scroll through my mom's facebook just to figure out when. Six years ago, almost to the date shockingly, when I was 15. My family and I drove out to Washington to go to a wedding, and there was one day where my dad, my brother, my sister and I went into Seattle. My sister was, (and I apologize profusely if this is wrong now, but I swear it's what it was called) a coach for a special olympics team, and she wanted to surprise her kids and see them at their big game. It was very kind of her, my sister is very kind.

So, my dad dropped her off, and we had a few hours to dink around Seattle. We went to the Kurt Cobain park, even though none of us are big fans of Nirvana (they killed glam, we hold a grudge). And, then, we went to an antique store, Mr. Johnson's Antiques, I don't even know if they're still around today. The only reason I remember the store at all is their business card I've kept all these years. And I had been to plenty of antique stores, seen plenty of LPs and 45s, but for some odd reason, this was the time for me to buy one.

Joe Walsh's But Seriously, Folks...

I was chatting with the worker for awhile, he was cool, my dad was wary (always wary of people who are too nice, I wonder if he'd be wary of me now). I was nothing but a small town queer in a progressive big city. I had always been a fan of old stuff. According to people I both know and strangers I've chatted with, I was born in the wrong generation. I was called eclectic once by a family friend of my neighbors, and that has sorta always stuck with me. Not my sense of style or anything, just me, myself, my whole being, eclectic.

I flipped through all the records that they had, seeing names I recognized, names I would later recognize, and names I didn't know, and still don't know. But, out of all of them, I chose Joe Walsh. Who, I'm sure, I only vaguely knew at the time. But I recognized one song out of the eight.

Life's Been Good

I still think about that store when I hear the song, think about the eclectic man who worked there. And it makes me smile. Frankly, it's the only song on the whole album I can hear in my head, or even have any passing remembrance of.

He gave it to me for one dollar. I don't know if that was the actual price, or if he was just being nice. All in all, the album was (still is, I take care of my shit) in great condition. To me, it is priceless, a one of a kind.

We went and got Arby's after, and I will not stand for Arby's slander, it is gas, and that was our adventure into Seattle.

The albums that followed were Foreigner 4, Foreigner Double Vision, Kansas Overture, and Billy Squier's Don't Say No. I don't know what drew me to those albums, but they feel like home.

Then, the best friend I was in love with, sold me a record player, and that sparked an addiction that rivals nicotine for me.

Don't Say No was my favorite album for a long time, still one of my faves, but there's a few more that have bumped it down a peg. The title track is nothing special, but is has one of the best openings to any album I've ever heard. In the Dark into The Stroke into My Kinda Lover??? Absolutely insane. Great flow. I had to start listening to the album when I started writing this.

Nowadays, the lucrative pedestal for my favorite album of all time belongs to George Harrison's Living in the Material World. I don't remember when or where I'd gotten the album, opposed to the other five I've listed, but I do remember listening to it for the first time, which is a credit the other albums I own cannot possess.

I remember why I bought the album. My rising addiction to owning vinyl coincided with getting into the Beatles (nowadays I almost own all Original Pressings of their albums, my White Album has a serial number), and I bought the album because I wanted to also own solo albums from the Fab Four. Tug of War by McCartney, and Walls and Bridges by Lennon are standouts that I own, both are very good albums.

I must have been sixteen at the time, because this is the moment my life diverged. I remember struggling in school, because for the first time ever I got a C+ in a class. Such a big deal, I know, but I was dead set on going to Northwestern and becoming a Mathematician or Physicist or something smart like that. I had the grades and the history to do so, I was a total geek in school, math, science, history, english came so easy to me. Math makes sense to me, and math ties into everything else I had to learn. Everything was just an equation, and had an answer.

But that class was awful. It was about 3D modeling and stuff and learning how things move and stuff, I don't remember, I hated the class. The teacher was pretty awesome too. Well, the student teacher technically, the actual teacher was usually busy with a million other things to actually teach our class. The kids were alright. It was a bunch of conservative hicks, because it was technically a shop class, but I got along pretty well with most of them, even became friends with some of them.

But I still failed that final, the first time I've ever failed something. Sometimes I got Cs or maybe a D on a final, but that was usually because I didn't care if I passed or failed because I knew I'd still get an A or B in the class. It was a project instead of a test.

My mom would tell me years later, with a few drinks in her system, that she didn't know how to help me. I was crying at the dinner table because I knew I was going to fail the project, and my mom, bless her heart, wanted to help, wanted to see me succeed, wanted my tears to quell, but she didn't know how to help. I'd never needed help with anything before really. I was good at school unlike my brother, I never got into drama with my friends unlike my sisters. Gifted kid burnout I guess.

And I sat at that table feeling like a failure, that I could see all my hopes and dreams crumbling away in that instant (everything seemed like a much bigger deal when you're a kid). And my mom didn't know how to help me because I'd never needed help before.

I don't know why I gravitated towards listening to Living in the Material World. I can only assume, because my collection at the time was less than fifty, that I'd simply already listened to everything else. I simply put the album on the spinner, dropped the needle, and laid down on the floor.

Music, nowadays, is background noise. I can't work without music, but as soon as I heard the opening warm, gentle guitar of Give Me Love, I couldn't do anything but listen. I could feel every inch of skin that touched my scratchy carpet floor (the carpet had never been gutted from that room, mystery stains could write their own memoir). I can feel that same carpet now as I write this.

Give Me Love spoke to me, because I just wanted love like everyone else. Chasing that feeling, holding it close, and hoping it never leaves.

Sue You, Sue Me Blues felt petty and angry despite the timid tone of the song. Made me feel righteous in my hatred of that class, screamed into my head what I wanted to scream at that class. What I wanted to scream at that stupid project while sitting at my dining room table. But it was so timid. Basically saying, why do you need to feel so angry over something as small as this? Why let it consume you? So, just, sue me, sue you. Everyone is sued.

The Light That Has Lighted the World immediately shifted me into sadness. That piano is so fucking heart wrenching. Like watching my dreams shatter. That it was okay to feel upset, that I had the right to. "So hateful of anyone that is happy" is exactly how I felt at the moment. He says something about having changed at the beginning of the song, and I had changed at that moment. I couldn't be helped by my mom.

Don't Let Me Wait Too Long sounds like what my mom wanted to say to me at that table. With her gentle hands and gentler smile. And when she had told me that drunken tidbit, I just smiled at her, because she tried, she was there. And that's all I needed.

Who Can See It, I remember crying during this song during my first listening. Because it told me it was okay I failed that final, that my dreams were crumbling, because it'll get better, I'll find a new a new meaning because my life belongs to me.

Living in the Material World, the title track. Now that I was able to process my failure, this is what I needed. That I would find that new place to belong, a new dream to slot myself into. I may not have it now, but it would come, it would be okay. I think I latched onto the lyric "Just trying to get a message through" because that has sorta become my new dream. To let others feel seen through what I do. To feel like they belong near me.

I remember the record fizzling to silence, and I still just laid there, going through the songs again in my head. Feeling as they blew my mind, resonated in my soul.

When I did finally get up and turn over the album, I still liked the music, but it faded back to background music as I processed the A-Side. I think, maybe, I just haven't needed the B-Side yet. Still very good music, but it hadn't, hasn't, hit me as much as the first six.

When I graduated, I went out and bought a new copy of the album to give to my homeroom teacher. I told him "this album changed my life". The you did too was silent, but I think he got the message. I gave it to him at my graduation party, he didn't stay for very long, but it meant a lot to me that he came. When he left, he told me "I've met your parents now, and so much about you makes so much sense now".

It made me laugh then. Now it makes me kinda wanna cry and smile at the same time. I wonder if he's listened to the album. I wonder if it spoke to him the same way it did me. I wonder if, after listening, so much more about me made sense.

I emailed him recently, told him how much he meant to me.

He told me I was one of the rare ones, not one of the cookie cutters. Eclectic. And if I was ever gonna be back in town, that we should meet up.

I go home in July for a week.

-PCD

[just-call-me-angel]

Little Miss Loser

Chapter 3 - 101 Reasons To Worry

Warnings: none

Author's Note: Honestly, this was meant to be a self-indulgent fic for me so I can sit alone on the couch and twirl my hair and giggle while imagining being Dwayne's girlfriend. But I'm thrilled that you guys are enjoying it as much as I am enjoying writing it!

Summary: Dwayne makes a list of all the reasons why he should be worried about his best friend joining his family road trip.

Ao3

Chapters: || 1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 || 6 || 7

Dwayne looked down at you as you curled closer to him, mumbling softly in your sleep, blissfully unaware of the way you were making him feel. It was so stupid and cliche, realizing he had a crush on his best friend. In truth, he had known for some time that he was starting to feel differently towards you, but it had been different before. Now he was stuck on a stupid family trip with you where any number of things could go wrong and it terrified him.

So he did what he usually did when things made him anxious. He made a list of all the reasons why he should be worried and all the reasons he should have never agreed to go on the trip in the first place.

Number 1: He has to confront the feelings he has for his best friend

He had to ignore the feelings for months, even going as far as avoiding you for a few days earlier on in the summer. He had failed miserably of course, as soon as you stopped him in the halls at school to ask why he had been avoiding you he was putty in your hands. It was sort of pathetic actually, how easily any resolve he had would crumble just from looking at you. He wondered if his mother had ever felt like that with Richard or with his own father.

Number 2: His best friend finds out about how he feels

He knew you would find out eventually and it would be a wonder if he could manage to keep it to himself for the entire trip. At least with his vow of silence, it wouldn’t seem odd for him not to talk as much around you. Then again you always seemed to have a way of seeing straight through him and knowing exactly what he was thinking about. It honestly terrified him sometimes how easily you could read him. He prided himself on being hard to get to know and yet you managed to figure him out with a simple glance in his direction.

Number 3: He loses his best (and only) friend all because he decided to start falling for her

He highlighted the reason in bold letters in his mind. That was the most terrifying part of the whole ordeal he had found himself in. Despite all his blunder about preferring solitude, he’d be lost without you. He needed you in a way he had never anticipated needing anyone. He needed you to be there to fill the silence when he couldn’t. He needed your terrible doodles in his notebooks constantly making him laugh. He needed your laughter and your smile.

Dwayne looked down at you again, carefully brushing a strand of hair from your face, smiling a bit when you pressed your face into his shoulder. Before meeting you he would never have allowed so much physical contact, but you had a way of making him like things he normally hated. It was like you had hacked into his programming and flicked a couple of switches that made hating things around you damn near impossible. He couldn’t even confidently say he hated life if he had you next to him.

Number 4: He falls even harder for his best friend

He was already proving that line of thought to be warranted just by looking at you now. It was a wonder he hadn’t realized sooner that his feelings were beyond friendship. You were pretty and smart and you never failed to make him laugh, even when he tried desperately not to. You were loud and wild but you were also terrified of being too much for people, especially him. He hoped he never made you feel like that like you needed to make yourself smaller for him. He wanted you just the way you were. He wanted you wild. He wanted you free. He wanted you even when you annoyed the ever-living fuck out of him. Every moment with you was another moment he spent falling for you.

Number 5: He hurts her without meaning to

Dwayne was a pessimist first and a romantic last. As much as he would love to believe that nothing bad could ever happen to you if he loved you hard enough he had seen that love could fizzle out just as quickly as it came. He had seen it with his mom and dad and he was already seeing it again with his mom and Richard. Hell, he had spent enough nights holding you while you cried after sneaking out of the house to get away from your own parents' messy divorce. He wondered if maybe that's why he was so scared to love you. Maybe he was selfish for wanting to preserve what you already had, even if it meant you’d never know how much he loved you.

The list grew with every passing second and with each addition, there were two more reasons to worry that followed. He shifted slightly, holding his breath when he felt you stir next to him as if waking, only to quickly settle back against him with a sleepy mumble. For a moment he found peace, just taking the sight of you in. He smiled at the shirt you were wearing, were you anyone else he would have demanded you give the shirt back. But you weren’t anyone else, you were his best friend, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like seeing you wear his clothes.

It reminded him of all the girls at school who would wear their boyfriend’s jackets. He wondered if you had realized how wearing his shirt might be interpreted. He wondered if you cared. Most of all he wondered if you liked people thinking you were dating. You had on more than one occasion had to deflect Olive’s questions asking if you were his girlfriend. You never seemed to dissuade Olive or anyone else from believing the two of you were dating. You would simply smile and explain to Olive that you were his best friend, laughing when Olive eventually grew bored with the conversation and ran off to practice her routine.

He had noticed more than once how your cheeks would flush almost as red as his own. And he had also noticed the way you would sneak glances at him as if gauging his reaction any time someone questioned your relationship. Sometimes he fooled himself into thinking maybe you liked him back. He figured you simply wanted to make sure you were on the same page or maybe you were checking to make sure he didn’t get the wrong idea. Oh god. What if you knew he liked you and just didn’t want to say anything?

“You alright Dwayne?” a voice called out, bringing his focus forward to meet his Uncles gaze. He stared for a moment, a bit caught off guard by having been pulled from his thoughts so suddenly. Frank raised a brow at him and repeated his question. Dwayne glanced back at you for a moment, to make sure you were still asleep, before offering his uncle a shrug.

Frank nodded, looking between you and Dwayne, smiling a bit when you stirred slightly and sleepily tugged Dwayne closer to you. Dwayne froze, worried if he moved even a little he might wake you and Frank chuckled.

“You seem comfortable.” Frank teased, a knowing smile crossing his lips as if he was reading Dwayne’s mind. Dwayne clenched his jaw, looking quickly to the side to avoid looking his uncle in the eyes as his cheeks began to burn.

Number 27: His family was going to realize he liked you and they would make his life hell for it

Frank shook his head, still chuckling to himself as he turned back to sit correctly in his seat. Dwayne could swear he could still see Frank grinning to himself like he knew something no one else did. Dwayne huffed, biting the inside of his cheek as he watched the world go by outside the window, while you remained blissfully unaware of his thoughts running wild.

It felt like it took hours for the bus to come to a stop again and by then Dwayne had at least 20 more reasons on his list. He tried to wake you gently, brushing a hand through your hair and nudging your arm softly.

“Alright, everyone! Lunchtime!” Richard shouted from the front seat, completely ignorant of the sleeping girl in the back seat, “Let’s go people, I wanna be back on the road quickly.”

“Richard please.” Sheryl exhaled, shoving the passenger door open. Richard deflated almost instantly, suddenly going quiet as he shuffled out of the car.

Dwayne glared for a moment at his stepfather before turning back to tug on your arm gently. You grumbled a bit but soon you were staring sleepily up at him. He smiled and made a motion to mimic eating, and then pointed out the window at the little roadside diner they had parked in front of.

You blinked for a moment, rubbing sleep from your eyes, “Lunch?” you mumbled sleepily. Dwayne nodded quietly, moving carefully to pull you with him as he shuffled out of the backseat. You gave him the sweetest little smile as he helped you out of the car, hand resting on your lower back to keep you steady and suddenly all his anxieties were momentarily forgotten.

That was another thing you were good at. All it took was a smile from you for him to feel more sure of himself, even when he felt his worst. You convinced him that everything would be alright without even having to say a word.

He smiled back, guiding you alongside him to follow his family into the restaurant. You were quick to press into his side, bringing his arm over your shoulder while yours rested on his hip. Olive came skipping up to walk on the other side of you, tugging your free hand to hold hers. It didn’t take much for Olive to drag you along with her, leaving Dwayne to follow after you with a small smile playing on his lips as you grinned back at him, mouthing an apology. He shook his head and followed behind you, watching as you and Olive skipped ahead of him, giggling and chattering to one another. He decided then that he wouldn’t let anything tear you apart, even if it meant he could never tell you how he felt. It’s enough to have her like this. It has to be.

[dreamerstreamer]

A Terrible Tutor

Pairing: Dream / Clay x gn!reader

Summary: [High School!AU] He’s cocky, annoying, a total tease, has a laugh loud enough to shake the stars, and you hate him. But as luck would have it, he’s also your tutor.

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings: minor cursing

A/N: this is based on a classmate i had way back! (we did not fall in love. he was awful.) i’ve also never taken physics, but i tried something a bit new for the reader’s personality. i hope you enjoy :) <3

You glared down at your physics textbook, the open pages staring back up at you with beady eyes made of diagrams and labels. Off to the side, your notebook was strewn across your desk, a list of questions scribbled across the top line in a hurried rush. The handwriting was messier than you would have liked, but the thought didn’t irritate you.

What did irritate you was that it was nearly half past four, and your so-called tutor still hadn’t shown up.

You could still envision the concerned look on Mr. Craftson’s face as he held you back a moment after class, watching as the rest of your classmates poured out of the door with an anxious look. He had offered you a kind smile before pulling out your test from the week before, and you winced at the numerous red marks scattered across the front page alone.

“I know you’ve been struggling in this class,” he said, gazing at you almost pitifully.

You tried not to glower at the sight of his apologetic eyes trained on you, instead nodding your head slowly. “It’s been… hard,” you said slowly.

He leaned an arm on his chair, pushing your test toward you. “You ask questions in class,” he hummed, “and from what I’ve seen, you complete your homework diligently.” His smile fell. “Yet here you are me, with the lowest mark in my class.”

You wanted to shrivel up into a ball. Maybe he didn’t have to say it like that, but he wasn’t wrong, either.

At your silence, he prodded at you. “Is there anything going on at home that might be hindering you, or…?”

You whipped your head up, your eyes wide. “No! Things are—things are great. It’s just…”

You swallowed, then sighed, fidgeting your fingers on your lap. “I guess,” you murmured, trying to quell the shame flaring up inside you, “I’ve just been really struggling with the material, and none of it’s really been clicking.”

Mr. Craftson’s face softened in an instant. “That’s alright. Thank you for being honest with me. If my teaching hasn’t been working out with you…”

He paused, rubbing at the blond stubble on his chin for a moment. Then, his face lit up and he leaned forward. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ve got a great student who I think might be able to explain things to you in a way you might be able to grasp a little better. He’s got the best marks in this class.”

Your eyes widened. The best in the class? He had to be a genius.

“I have a good feeling he can meet you tomorrow at four after school to help you out,” he continued, leaning against the arm rest of his office chair. “What do you say?”

You blinked, a thoughtful look passing over your face. Lord knew you needed the help—you were practically failing the class—but an uneasy stone settled into the pit of your stomach. You’ve never needed tis much help to pass a class before. The thought made you want to gag. Slowly, you opened your mouth.

“Do I have to…” You gestured vaguely. “Pay him or something?”

His cerulean eyes blinked at you for a second, then he laughed—the kind of deep-belly laugh only teachers seemed to be able to have. “No, no,” he said, waving his hand at you, “not at all. He’s a good kid. He wouldn’t do something like that.”

You bobbed your head, your insides crumbling. You didn’t want to accept, you really didn’t. Part of you guys wanted to believe that you could just work harder, study by yourself even more. You were a dedicated student, and you were doing just fine in all your other classes. Surely the content couldn’t get that much harder, right?

But as your gaze lowered to the red ink staining your test once more, you felt yourself swallowing the lump in your throat. Straightening your back, you let your stubborn pride seep out of your shoulders and onto the floor.

It looked like this was a sacrifice you were simply going to have to make.

“Thank you so much for the offer,” you said, letting your lips curl up into a genuine, grateful smile. “It—it really means a lot.”

Mr. Craftson grinned at you, an easygoing flint shining in his eyes. “Of course. You’re a bright student. Sometimes we all just need a little push.”

You could still remember shaking his hand in thanks before bundling your stuff in your arms and shuffling into the hall, tucking your feet between the pages of your textbook. That had been yesterday, and now, the same one was sitting on your desk, open to a new page full of jumbled words you could hardly decipher.

The chair across from you was distinctly empty.

He—whoever he was—was late.

You distantly wondered to yourself who your tutor even was, your gaze drifting down to your textbook. Mr. Craftson had said he was the best student taking the class. Would it be George? He always seemed like he knew what was going on, and he never really asked questions. But sometimes, he looked like he was just zoning out. Maybe it was Technoblade. He was smart. You paused, then shook your head. No, everyone knew he was one of those English kids.

The thought made you furrow your brows, wracking your head even more. The words on the page grew muddled and fuzzy as you thought even more. Just who was it?

Just then, you heard the classroom door swing open with the same loud creak every door in the school seemed to have. The sound of heavy breaths and panting filled the air, then a haggard voice spoke up.

“Hey, I’m so sorry I’m late.”

You didn’t look up from your page, letting a sigh escape your lips as you lifted your head. Plastering a polite smile to your face, you let your gaze travel toward your tutor. “Hi, it’s nice to me—”

Suddenly, your voice died in your throat as your eyes locked onto the figure standing in the doorway. Towering over the desks with a duffel bag resting against his hip, his dirty blond locks were damp and matted against his forehead, his emerald eyes blinking at you. Something bitter and warm twisted in your gut at the sight, and the smile dropped off your face and into a scowl.

“Oh,” you said flatly. “It’s you.”

The smile he offered you was easygoing, but you didn’t miss the strain in his gaze. “It’s me.”

You bit on the inside of your cheek, your heart practically revolting against your rib cage with the way it was hammering. A million questions were darting around the inside of your skull, only making your blood boil even more with each passing second.

Of all the people you had expected to show up, Clay was easily the last.

The two of you had first met back in freshman year in your first science class—he had sat behind you and had the loudest laugh on the planet, or so you were convinced. You were quieter back then, but just as stubborn and snappish as now. Soon enough, one thing led to another, and you swore the two of you were suddenly enemies for life.

Although you couldn’t remember what had caused your little feud, you knew that he was the one who started it. He was loud and kicked your chair, he just loved to borrow your pens and never return them, and you could never figure out just why he loved to tease you so much. You don’t think you learned a single thing in that class, always distracted by the presence staring a hole into your back, and you wanted absolutely nothing to do with him.

Naturally, that meant your teacher assigned him to sit behind you for the rest of the year. To this day, you were convinced she hated you, and you still avoided her in the halls.

To say that science class was your least favourite would be an understatement, and soon enough, everybody was in on your hatred for each other. Clay never seemed to stop pestering you no matter how hard you tried to ignore him, and you would never forget the day you finally snapped at him, whipping around to glare at him with your cheeks on fire.

“Will you please shut up?”

The shocked look on his face was still burned into your memory as it melted into a wide, proud grin.

“Only if you make me.”

Even years later, he always seemed to find a way to worm himself back into your life, and you hated it. You hated him, simple as that.

So, seeing him standing in front of you like this, it took every ounce of your strength to keep your voice as neutral as possible.

“What took you so long?”

He patted his duffel bag before slipping it off his shoulder and setting it on the ground. “I just finished football practice. Coach ran a little long and I figured it would be polite to take a shower before so I didn’t smell all sweaty when I tutored you.”

You blinked, your mouth falling open. That explained his wet hair, you guessed. While you were vaguely flattered, you were distracted by something else. “You knew that you would be tutoring me?”

Clay nodded, pulling back the chair in front of you. “Yeah. Phil asked me.”

You gaped. “You call Mr. Craftson by his first name?”

His smile was a touch too smug for your liking, and you wanted to wipe it off his face. “Maybe. I was surprised when he asked, though.” He wrinkled his nose and shot you a teasing smirk as he sat down. “I didn’t think you would be failing this class.”

You glowered, that same bitter feeling bubbling up in your chest, again. “I’m not failing,” you snapped. “I’m just…” You paused, your cheeks growing hot. “…not passing.”

He gave you a deadpan look, then laughed. “That’s the same thing.”

You sent him a gesture that your teacher most certainly would have scolded you for if he was here, and he laughed even harder. You were suddenly reminded of just how damn loud his laugh was, sounding like fireworks in your ears. Slumping over, you hung your head in your hands.

“Ugh. I can’t believe you knew you were going to be tutoring me of all people.” You paused, then added, “I can’t believe you agreed.”

He tilted his head at you, brushing his damp hair out of his face. “Did you not know I was gonna be your tutor?”

“No.” You frowned. “If I did, I wouldn’t have shown up.”

His eyes flickered with mirth as a smile stretched across his face. “Aw, am I really that disagreeable?”

“Yes,” you said immediately, your gaze as sharp as a blade. “Without a doubt. A hundred percent. I didn’t even have to think about it.”

He whistled, feigning a wince. “Harsh.”

Wryly, you said, “You deserve it.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “I wasn’t that bad as a freshman, was I?”

You gave him a hard, callous stare. “Do you really think I’m the one you should be asking that question?”

He thought about it for a moment, then sighed. “Okay, point taken.”

You dragged a hand over your face, then pointed at your textbook. “Are you going to teach me now or what? We’re already behind.”

He winced for real this time, and you almost felt bad for him. Almost. “Sorry, again.”

“Seriously,” you muttered under your breath, reaching into your back to grab your pencil case, “and to think that you have the highest grades in this class.”

“Hey,” he shot back, “I’m brains and brawn.”

You shot him a look that was nothing short of disgusted. He cringed a little at the sight.

“Okay, that was cheesy, but I’m not wrong. Besides, coach says I have to keep my grades up or else I’m off the team.” He leaned closer to you, and you tried to ignore the feeling of his hot breath fanning over your skin. “You know I can’t let everyone down like that.”

You looked unconvinced. “Uh huh. Totally.” Whipping out a pencil, you tapped at the bottom of the page you had open. “Can you explain this to me, now? The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can leave.”

He quietly chuckled, and you hated how soft it sounded. Leaning closer to the textbook to read, his lips mouthed the problem silently. You tried not to stare at his mouth as it moved, your gaze tracing over the soft dip of his lips as his viridian eyes flashed with recognition. A moment later, he sat back and cocked his head at you.

“So, what exactly do you not understand?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Everything.”

He blinked, disbelief colouring his features. “Everything? Like, the whole thing?”

You scowled. “I thought that was obvious. All that stuff about velocity and the funny diagrams—” You shook your head. “—none of it makes sense.”

He raised a brow at you. “I thought you were paying attention in class. You really don’t understand a single thing?”

You bit back the urge to scream. “It’s not like you’re much smarter.”

Clay snorted derisively. “I am. That’s kind of the whole point.”

You groaned, letting your voice ring out in the quiet of the empty classroom. You caught a glimpse of his amused smile in front of you, and it only made you groan louder.

“You’re the one who ruined science for me, you know? I hated going to that class, and look at me now.” You gestured to yourself, using your finger to draw a ring in the air. “It all comes full circle.”

There was a brief second of silence. “I’m the reason why you hate science?”

You didn’t budge. “I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy knowing I was going to be stuck in a class with someone who never gave me my stuff back and kicked my chair.”

Another wave of silence washed over the two of you, but this one was tense—heavy. He swallowed, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob.

“You…” His eyes swirled with something sad and honest. “You really hate me that much?”

He suddenly looked a lot like a kicked puppy, and a pang of guilt shot through your chest like a bullet. With a panicked gaze, your voice grew shaky as you spoke. “I—I don’t hate you. I just… I had a grudge, I guess.”

Your tone grew soft, and you lowered your gaze to your lap. “I… I really didn’t like you back then, but things have changed.” You offered him a small smile, but it felt shy. “We’re not exactly fourteen, anymore.”

He returned your smile with one of his own. Just like yours, it was small and tender, and it sent something stirring in the depths of your belly. “No,” he murmured, “we’re not.”

“I,” you breathed, gulping down the last dredges of your grudge, “was stubborn back then.” You raised a shoulder. “In a way, I still am. I have too much pride for my own good too, but I don’t hate you.” The look you sent him had a spark of mischief, and his breath hitched. “Strongly dislike, at best.”

Clay blinked at you, looking half-surprised and half-awed at you. You squirmed under his gaze before he snapped out of his stupor, almost bashfully ducking his head. “I’m… It’s definitely too late for me to say this now when I really should have said it all those years ago, but I’m sorry. Really. I was a dick.”

You snorted under your breath, fondly mumbling, “Yeah, you were.”

His face perked up at the sound of your bitten back laugh. “I really shouldn’t have teased you so much. My reasons were… dumb.”

You cocked a brow at him, almost as if to say, Oh? Do elaborate.

But instead, you watched as his ears burned crimson red and he flashed you a pair of bright, pleading eyes. “Forgive me? Please.”

Your heart leapt into your throat, something new and warm bursting along the seams of your lungs. You couldn’t possibly say no to a face like that. Even the toughest person on the planet would crack under a look as sincere as that, you tried to reason, ultimately letting out a sigh with a stammer.

“O-Only if you actually can get me to understand this unit.” Pushing down the heat creeping up your neck, you pointed at him with an accusatory look. “Until then, you’re on thin ice.”

The grin he sent you was beyond dazzling—you couldn’t have brought yourself to look away even if you wanted to.

(And you didn’t.)

“Gotcha.”

Clay finished scribbling a diagram onto the new page of your notebook, flicking his thumb back to reveal the hordes of previous pages you had filled with other practice problems. If you were being honest, you were a little envious of just how neat his drawings were. No one should be able to draw a line as straight as that without a ruler, yet here he was, doing exactly that.

What a show-off.

Feeling your eyes on him, Clay lifted his head to catch your gaze, turning the notebook to face you. You tried to pretend the stumbling of your heart wasn’t because of him—not at all. “Do you get it?” he breathed.

You glanced back and forth between him and your page, your grip on your pencil falling slack. “I think so,” you said slowly. “Mostly, at least.”

He hummed for a moment, then flipped your notebook around until it was facing him again and holding an expectant, open hand toward you. Without even thinking, you dropped your pencil into his palm, a spark running up your fingers at the slight brush of his skin against yours. Carefully, he wrote a string of words on a new line, circling the sentence when he was done.

“Here,” he said gently, pushing the pencil back between your fingers, “try this question. This was one of the harder ones from my test.”

Gingerly, you peered down at the page, and your mouth fell open at the sight. This question was far more complicated than anything you had been solving in the textbook before this. What was he thinking?

“If you get it right,” he said suddenly, casting you out of your thoughts, “you should be all set.” His lips curved up into a taunting, knowing grin. “But it’s okay if you don’t get it—it is difficult, after all.”

You stared for a second longer, then grumbled under your breath. How could he read your mind like that? You were going to prove him wrong, even if only to knock that smug look off his face.

Leaning down, you tackled the problem head on, your pencil flying across the page as you spelled out formulas and equations, doodling a diagram when you had to and pausing to think every other breath. Before you, you didn’t see Clay watching you with a soft, tender gaze, taking in the way your fingers fidgeted against your pencil when you stopped and how you chewed on your mouth when you got nervous.

You really were more endearing than you could ever know.

Suddenly, you let your pencil clatter against the table as you pushed your notebook toward him, eyeing your pencil scratches with a wary look. “Done.”

His viridian eyes gleamed with excitement. “Alright,” he said, plucking the paper from your desk with a practiced ease, “let’s take a look.”

His gaze scanned your work intently, his lips pressed together in focus. You folded your hands onto your lap, trying to focus on his analysis of you work. But the longer you looked, the more you felt your gaze trailing up to graze his cheeks. Did he always have so many freckles? You didn’t remember seeing him with this many as a freshman, but you also spent more time glaring at him than staring at him back then.

In a way, he was kind of... pretty. Handsome, even. Not that you would ever say it out loud.

You suddenly had a strong urge to reach up and trace feather-light lines between each of his freckles, but before you could even take another breath, Clay’s eyes were on yours again. Unlike earlier, the look on his face was grave, and a small grimace overtook his features.

“I have bad news,” he said dryly.

Your heart fell.

Of course you got something wrong. You were a fool to think that things would change just because Clay would be teaching you instead.

But then, his grimace curled up at the corners, and your jaw dropped.

“I have nothing left to teach you in this unit.”

Your eyes widened.

“I got it right?”

He turned the notebook back to face you. A large check mark had been scribbled in pencil along the side of the page, a tiny smiley face decorating the corner next to it.

“Perfectly.”

The gasp you let out sent you barrelling for your feet, and you nearly started jumping for joy in the middle of your seat. “Yes!” you cried, pumping a hand up in the air. Suddenly, you whirled to point at Clay, a pout forming on your lips. “Oh my god, you scared the crap out of me! Don’t do that.”

He chuckled, leaning back with his hands up defensively. “Sorry, sorry. I saw the opportunity and just had to take it.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you stuck your tongue out at him. “You’re terrible.”

His eyes softened—sincere and sweet. “I know.”

Ignoring the sudden burst of warmth rushing through your veins, you huffed at him. “Well, at least I have two pieces of good news for you. First,” you said, sliding your notebook off your desk, “we can both go home, now.”

“And the second?” he prompted, looking at you inquisitively.

You folded your notebook shut, boring a hole into your backpack with the intensity of your stare. You couldn’t look at him right now, you just couldn’t.

“Second,” you nearly whispered, “I accept your apology.”

Slipping your textbook into your bag, you heard him take a sharp intake of breath. “Really?”

You reached for your pencil case, fumbling with the zipper. “Yes.”

There was another breath, but this one was gentler, less harsh. You peeked up at him from your bag, and your heart stuttered at the ecstatic look on his face.

“This,” he said, “is the greatest day of my life.”

You blinked wildly at him, zipping your backpack up all the way before slinging it onto the desk. “That’s a little extreme, isn’t it?”

He shook his head, his smile never once faltering. “Are you kidding? I thought you were going to hate my guts forever!”

You shrugged, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I might have.” You paused. “Actually, I probably would have. But luckily for you—” You shot him a sincere look. “—not anymore.”

His grin grew impossibly wider, yet it somehow still looked natural on him. Deep down, a part of you wanted to bottle up his expression and remember it for as long as you lived.

“Like I said, greatest day of my life.”

You giggled, rolling your eyes. “Weirdo.”

Pushing in your chair and gesturing for him to stand, you jutted your head toward the door. Clay didn’t need to be queued twice before he was rising to his feet, pushing the chair back to its rightful spot before heaving his duffel bag off the floor and onto his side. As the two of you headed out towards the door, a bought suddenly flickered across your head, and your lips began moving before you could even begin to think.

“One of these days, you need to tell me why you liked to pick on me so much. Like, seriously, why me?” You gestured to yourself as the two of you stepped outside into the school hallway. “I’m not exactly special.”

You hadn’t been looking at him in that moment, focused on closing the door behind you, but when he didn’t respond for a moment, you looked up and felt your lungs tighten. You had never seen Clay look so bashful in his life, with his ears flaring crimson red and a faint rosy tint dusting the panes of his cheeks. His freckles were only more noticeable with the pink background, and you nearly blurted something you knew you would regret.

“Maybe I’ll—” He coughed, rubbing the back of his neck with a smile. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

Before you could even ask what he meant by that, he was firing off once more. “In the meantime, if you still need help, I don’t mind coming in again next week or something.”

You nearly took a double take. Next week? He wanted to help you, again?

“Don’t you have more important things to do?” you asked, scanning him with wide, curious eyes. “Like studying your own stuff.”

“You’re important,” he said abruptly.

You choked on your spit, and by the way he went absolutely stock still in front of you, you had a feeling he hadn’t meant to say that.

“Oh,” you whispered.

That warm, fuzzy feeling from earlier was rising between your lungs again, only this time it sent your heart racing around your chest. Sucking in a deep breath, you nodded your head once, twice.

“Sure,” you managed to say as calmly as you could. “The, um, the next unit looks a little confusing, so I might need some help.”

Clay’s face suddenly brightened at your soft request for assistance, and you caught his shoulders slumping with relief as he smiled. “Awesome.” He paused, then waved his hand. “Not the part about you needing help, I mean.”

You laughed a little at that, your nerves calming a bit more. “I would hope not.”

He smiled back at you. “So,” he said, drawing out the syllable, “I’ll be back same time next week?”

You couldn’t help but reach over to elbow him a little playfully. “Try to be on time though, yeah?”

He flushed a bit, but cracked a crooked grin nonetheless. “I’ll try my best.” He glanced over his shoulder down the hall, and you suddenly realized you would be heading in the opposite direction.

“I’ll see you around?” he murmured gently, brushing away his now dry hair from his forehead.

One of your hands tightened around the straps of your bag while the other waved back at him. “See you.”

With one last grin at you, you watched as he turned on his heel, striding down the hall with his duffel bag bouncing against the side of his hip. Just then, your eyes grew wide, and you cupped your hands around your mouth to call after him.

“One last thing, Clay!” you shouted, your voice echoing down the empty corridor.

At the sound of his name, he whipped around again, his brows knitted together. Breathing in deeply, you screwed your eyes shut and called out once more.

“Thank you!”

When you opened your eyes again, his emerald green eyes were blinking at you with wild abandon, his lips parted in what could only be described as a look of pure wonder. Your heart skipped a beat, and you wondered why he was looking at you of all people like that.

Swallowing, he sent you a lopsided, earnest smile and cupped his own hands around his mouth to shout back at you.

“Anytime!”

You kept waving at him even after he let his arms drop back to his sides and he vanished around the corner of the hall. Almost immediately, you bent over to bury your head into your knees, letting out a soft, muffled yell.

Why did your chest feel so warm when he looked at you like that? Why did you want to count his freckles so badly when he smiled? Was he always so nice, so helpful and kind? Why did he look so cute when his face flushed all pink like the way it did before? When did he become so endearing instead of annoying?

Did you like him?

You let out another muffled cry into your hands, feeling heat flood every part of your body like a tidal wave crashing into your system. You could hear your heart ringing in your ears like a bell that wouldn’t ever stop, and your toes curled into your shoes.

You had so, so many questions, none of which you knew how to solve.

Hopefully Clay could help you figure out the answers.

[wearethestraydogs]

« Kunikida x Dazai headcannons »

Warnings : Yaoi, referenced sex

———

•Old married couple.

•From afar, it looks like they hate each other, but that’s just them.

•Kunikida, being the proper man he is, proposed first. It was elegant and since he’s into gold, Dazai’s ring was a gold band.

•Dazai loves to cuddle up to Kunikida, anytime, anywhere. He’ll be in the middle of work and will wrap his arms around Kuni’s waist or sit on his lap. At home, he will get handsy, clinging to his arm, wrapping his legs around his waist and nuzzling his head into his neck.

•these two LOVE movie dates. They enjoy outings but will opt for binging some Korean Drama while snuggling.

•Kunikida’s nicknames for Dazai are; “my beautiful”, “my love”, “baby” and “sweetheart”

•Dazai is obsessed with calling Kunikida “Kuni” or he’ll just call him “Doppo” and obviously “babe”.

•Kunikida is top. Dazai is bottom boy. Fight me.

• Dazai has nightmares constantly, and would cry in his sleep, whispering things about his life in the port mafia and Oda, Mori and Chūya. Kunikida would comfort him too, wrapping his arms around him and grounding him.

•Whenever Atsushi first joined the agency, it took him awhile to figure out his mentor was married.

•It wasn’t till he saw the ring on his finger.

“Wait…Dazai-san are you…married….?”

“Ah- yes. Why?”

“Really? To who? If I may ask,”

“It’s fine, I’m married to Doppo-kun.”

“…”

“WHAT?!”

•Takes Atsushi a minute to process. Everyone else in the agency finds this normal.

•Kunikida found out about Dazai’s past about a year into them dating. Dazai had been so scared Kuni would leave him he kept it a secret. Kunikida was disappointed that Dazai took this long to tell him ( or that he found out from Chūya, ) but isn’t mad about being in the port mafia. He says he’s a changed person. And that Kunikida sees that, and would never hate him for it or leave him.

• Kunikida hates it when Dazai makes attempts. Dazai always jokes about it and has even made attempts while they were married. It scared Kunikida to the point where he snapped at Dazai, making him flinch. And let me tell you, Dazai NEVER flinches. Kunikida apologized but explained that he was not okay with the fact that his only love was hurting himself. Dazai promised to stop, only if Kuni would help him and as always, he agreed.

•Dazai was insecure when he found Doppo’s ‘ideal woman’ page in his notebook. The list was so long, and so perfected, it made Osamu question if he was good enough. Dazai stayed up all night that night contemplating and re-reading that page. The next few days he changed quite a bit; he stopped chatting, stopped smiling and stayed glued to his desk, not bothering his boyfriend ( at the time ). Doppo started to take notice, finding it calming at first, a fresh difference from the constant nagging everyday. But soon it became boring and worrying. The whole agency seemed quiet, too quiet. He went to check on Dazai, only to find him quietly working with a dead look in his eyes.

• “My Love?” Doppo asks, eyebrow cocked up in worry. Dazai looked up, the dull-brown look in his usually bright eyes sending an uncomfortable chill down Kunikida’s spine. “Yes?” Dazai asks in return, no crude joke, or affectionate remark added. The blonde felt a pang to his stomach. What had happened? Did Kunikida do something wrong? Had he upset Osamu? He doesn’t remember having a fight with him. The poet huffs, stepping closer to his boyfriend. “What’s wrong?” He asks gingerly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Dazai pauses for a moment, then sighs, dropping his head down to continue scribbling on the documents Fukuzawa had given him. “I don’t know what you mean Doppo-kun.” He answers numbly, hair shading his facial features away from sight. Kunikida was starting to get angry, this wasn’t like Dazai. This wasn’t Dazai the Dazai he knew was amazing. He laughed constantly and made crude jokes and was always bugging his boyfriend. Something Doppo greatly misses. “Osamu-“ the blonde starts, only to get cut off by the brunette. “I’m quite busy, Kunikida, would you please leave me be..” Okay. That was the last straw. “What is up with you?!” He snapped, Dazai’s head shooting up at the sudden action. “Your always at your desk, you barely talk to anyone, you’ve not even made an attempt to bug the hell outta me, baby, what’s going on?” Dazai says nothing, only pulling out a piece of paper that was tucked away into his jacket and slams it on his desk, eyes now leaking tears. “There. That’s what’s going on. Happy?” Kunikida takes the paper curiously, unfolding it and glancing over the words. He recognizes it instantly, eyes widening at the title ‘my ideal woman’. “I tried changing, to suit you, to be the perfect boyfriend you wanted, but you never noticed!” Osamu confessed, Kunikida staring at him with a heartbroken expression. “I love you Doppo! And I want to be the person you wanna see everyday! Is it cause I’m not a woman? Do I need transplants? Is it my attitude? I can change! I can! I’ll change until you love me!” Doppo tried to blink away the tears in his eyes, efforts proving to be fruitless. He reached for his boyfriend, dragging him around the desk for a tight hug. One that was possessive, but filled with love. “You imbecile,” Doppo whispers, Dazai crying into his vest. “I already love you, more than life will ever let me express.” Dazai looks up, eyes wide and lashes damp. “But the list-“ “I made that list a long time ago, before I knew who I was, who I loved,” he smiled. “Before I met you.” He brought his lips to his, capturing them in a kiss. It got heated quick, Kunikida propping Dazai up onto the desk. “I love you Osamu….only you….just as you are…”

•yea that night ended with sex

•Kunikida is more into the term; “making love” then “sex”. He loves to praise Dazai, making him feel good. He isn’t into BDSM or Masochism. He thinks it isn’t right and he doesn’t want to hurt his love.

•Kunikida has a Daddy kink. It was purely by accident. Dazai was riding Kunikida and in the mist of euphoria, he screams Daddy at the top of his lungs and they both stop. Dazai looks absolutely embarrassed while Kunikida is frozen, before he nuzzles his head against the brunettes and whispers; “yeah baby, cry for daddy,”

•Dazai is the lord of praise kinks. He loves receiving praise and love since he’s never really had it in the first place.

•Dazai likes to ride Kunikida, since he’s able to feel closer to him by hugging him.

•Aftercare is always sweet.

•Doppo will clean off Osamu and kiss his forehead, cheeks, temple and nose repeatedly while praising him more, whispering things like; “you did so well” , “I’m so proud of you”, “I love you, my beautiful angel”.

•In the mornings, Dazai will snuggle with Kuni and sleep in, then he’ll slip on one of Kunikida’s shirts and roam around the apartment half-naked with a cup of coffee in his hands while Doppo makes breakfast.

•if by unfortunate chance they have to work, Dazai will end up passed out at his desk or on the agency’s couch.

•they never go too rough, it’s mostly slow or medium-paced and Kunikida was all about safety for a while, then got used to not using a condom.

•no sex on sad days.

•Oda’s birthday is also a no.

•They love waltzing. Or just slow dancing in there apartment.

———

Bonus! :

•Chūya is Dazai’s amazing wingman and got Kunikida to take Dazai out on his first date <3

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( I love this ship so much it is so underrated! )