#I swear I had a name for this particular thing but I don’t remember what

[quibbs126]

I was just randomly thinking about that “Descole in Stardew Valley” thing I did months ago, and I was thinking, if I had to pair him with any character, I feel like Elliott would be the best fit. I don’t know, I just feel like they’d gel well (then again, I’ve never really seen many of Elliott’s heart events, so maybe I don’t know him well enough to say)

[messylustt]

౨ৎ ‧˚

𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐨 (𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥) — 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬

miguel o’hara x fem!reader. 3.2k words

fic masterlist previous part pt seven next part

angst but kinda fluffy? straight after; mention of past violence (minor) — you wanted to know what those spanish sentences miguel made you say meant, him having kept that to himself. and when you do, having scouted miles, you’re left…well…shocked. your friends are also left shocked wondering who asked you to say those things. when you go to question miguel about it you find him in a state you’ve never seen him in before.

You had desperately wanted to translate the Spanish Miguel had chosen not to tell you. So much so, that you had began to scout HQ for a Spanish native speaker. You were too prideful to use your phone for translation, plus Miguel said nothing on not asking someone.

You remember Miles saying his mum was Hispanic. Even if his Spanish wasn’t top notch you’re sure he’ll understand at least a few words. Understand the sentences Miguel made you say.

You spot Pav talking with some other spider variants, using large hand gestures. "Pav!" You call, walking up to him.

He shifts his gaze to you, a smile soon following. “Y/n. How are you?”

You smile. “Good…yeah, no I’m good. I was just wondering if you knew where Miles was?”

“Oh.” He spins. “I swear I saw him over there.” He points in a random direction. “…now he’s gone. Maybe with Gwen.” He nudges you, raising his brows. You chuckle, understanding the meaning of those raised brows.

“Well, this will only take a moment. I just need translation for something.”

“Translation? To what language?” Pav asks.

“From Spanish to English. And I heard Miles knows a bit.”

“Ah…wait, but doesn’t Miguel fully speak it?” Pav pauses. “Yeah, he’d know a lot more than Miles.”

You nod. “He just won’t tell me.” You mutter under your breath.

“What was that?” Pav asks, brows furrowed.

You look back up. “Miguel’s just kind of busy right now.” You had no idea if he was or not. “And so I thought Miles might be free.”

“I see.” Pav nods. “Come on, I’ll help you find him.” Pav begins to head down one of the paths in the communal area where bunches of spider variants sat and stood talking.

“Miles!” Pav called out to nowhere in particular. “Miles!?”

“Is yelling his name really gonna help?” Your brows furrow.

“I like to think yelling will conjure up the whole ‘spider-sense’ thing.” Pav says, still gazing around. “Wait, maybe I need to sound more in distress.”

You chuckle, looking around. And that’s when you spot Miles and Gwen. “Miles!” You walk over with a smile. Pav is hot on your heels.

Miles turns, and copies your smile. “Y/n, hey.”

“Okay look, I’m sorry to ask this but can you translate something for me?” You ask, hopeful.

Miles tilts his head slightly. “Yeah, sure. As long as it isn���t French, or Dutch, or Russian. Or practically any language I don’t know.”

Your smile widens. “No, no. None of those. It’s just Spanish.”

“Oh.” Miles stands straighter. “I’ll warn you I don’t know a heck of amount. But I can give it go.”

“Thank you.” You grow more excited in way. All of last night you had been thinking about what you had said, really trying not to just roll over and grab your phone.

“Okay, so it’s two sentences.” You begin. Miles nods. “The first one is…’Me encantaría usar…tu cama para otras…cosas’.” You say it somewhat slowly, making sure you got it right.

When you look back to Miles, he’s staring at you blinking. You stare back. “What?” You ask.

“Um.” He scratches the back of his head. “I’m probably hearing it wrong.” He mutters to himself before he’s looking back to an expectant you.

“What was the second one?” He asks, a little more curious this time.

“Uh…’¿No crees que…me vería bonita atrapada entre…tus sábanas?’”

Now miles is staring at you. You eye him, brows furrowed. “What does it mean?”

He coughs. “Who said that to you?”

“Oh, no I said it to someone.” You answer. “Well, they asked me to say it…”

“You said it someone…” he drifts off, slightly gulping.

“What? Is it…bad?” Your brows are further furrowed. “Come on, Miles, please. I’ve been dying to know what it means all of last night.”

“Well, the first one…it means ‘I’d love to use your bed for other things’.” He mutters it out extremely quickly. That you think you don’t catch it right.

“What?”

“And the second one means ‘don’t you think I’d look pretty trapped in your sheets?’.” Miles’ has looked away, scratching the back of his neck again, clearly a fraction flustered.

This time you’re staring at him, or more so through him. Then you blink. “What?” You repeat stupidly. That can’t be right. Why did miguel ask you to say something about his bed…

Now you weren’t dumb you were just…in shock. Because how does that make sense. And as the words settle in your mind a little more, you begin to feel the familiar burn in your stomach.

Recently your skin had begun to feel hot. In specific scenarios, around a specific someone. Every moment that he had touched you in some way you had either been injured, or fainting, so you hadn’t realised the reactions in the moment. But now, having your mind clear and your body healthy enough your skin grows prickly.

Then there was the touches on your chin…

At first you thought that they were a form of showing his superiority. It seemed like something he’d do. But when you really thought about it, you realised that he wasn’t grabbing Peter’s face like that, he wasn’t leaning over a chair that Gwen was sitting at.

Now you’ve grown hot. And your cheeks are probably bright red, considering how Pav is eyeing you. “Um.” You nod. You don’t know why you’re nodding. You just need to do something that isn’t stare off into space.

“Who, um, asked you to say that?” Gwen asks.

You shift your gaze to her, still slightly stuck in your own head. You felt the urge to fan yourself, but realised how implicating that would seem. Miguel got you to say that stuff? That seemed to be a repeating question in your head.

“Oh, uh, nobody.” You didn’t really want to tell them that it was Miguel. You felt it would put pressure on something that you were sure wasn’t even something. It wasn’t…right?

But now as you quickly thank miles and skim past them, your mind is whirring. Did Miguel…? You press your lips together at the thought, unbuttoning the first button of your dress shirt. You were sure you were reading into it. Though…part of you was actually hoping the underlying meaning you were thinking of was the truth.

You were even slightly shocked at yourself at this revelation. It’s as if it had always been on the tip of your tongue. Not falling off because Miguel is well…Miguel.

;;

“What was that about?” Pav asks, watching your leaving form. Gwen watches you go as well, eyes narrowing in her own inspection.

Miles was still going over the sentences in his head, really double checking he got them right. “Yeah…nah, that’s right.” He mutters. “My translations right.”

“Who asked her—“

“Asked who what?” Hobie appeared, clearly just back from a mission, as he leaned against Miles, resting his arm on his shoulder.

“Y/n.” Gwen says. “She asked Miles to translate something for her.”

“See, I knew this guy would be helpful.” Hobie slightly shakes Miles’ shoulders.

“I think someone has a crush on y/n.” Pav says, making Hobie shift his gaze to him.

“Who?” Miles asks, suddenly interested in the small ordeal.

Pav shrugs, but Hobie shakes his head, scoffing. Pav hadn’t seen you and Miguel interact a hell of a lot. Gwen didn’t pay that much attention to people’s gazes, and Miles was well…new. So, maybe Hobie could give them a break, but he still couldn’t believe how oblivious they were.

Hobie began to figure out Miguel’s little crush on you when Miguel had called him in for a last minute mission that Miguel could have easily done himself. He hadn’t needed Hobie.

And when Miguel’s jaw clenched at the mention of how he was supposed to be hanging out with you, Hobie began to clock on.

“Come on, you lot.” Hobie says staring at them. “Tell me, who speaks Spanish here? Fluently?”

Gwen looks down, thinking. “Miguel.”

Hobie nods. “Uh huh.” He presses, seeing their slightly furrowed brows. “Oh bloody hell, you lot are thick.”

“Oh…” Pav mutters. “Oh!” He realises, and Hobie gestures to him, sighing in relief.

“Thank anarchy.” He mutters, thankful one person caught on.

“Miguel likes y/n?!” Pav practically exclaims, earning a few side glances from other spider variants.

“It’d seem so.” Hobie smirks.

;;

Later that evening, you stood, not meaning to feel as flushed as you were. Standing in front of Miguel's bedroom door, you felt hot, your breathing quickening. After having found out what he got you to say—and having gone through the stages of confusion, denial and then shock—you've arrived back to sweaty palms.

You take a breath, knocking, but instead of the solid feel of the door, your hand falls through, the door having been cracked open a fraction—your nervous state must have forced you not to notice. It swings wider and your breath hitches.

Miguel's room is a mess, and not just his bed this time. Things are smashed, and his chair is thrown, lying lifeless on the floor. You then shift your gaze up to a heaving Miguel. He finally notices your presence, meeting your wide eyes.

Miguel had always been someone who was controlled. Sure, he got agitated easy, and clearly had some anger issues to deal with, but 'messy' was never a word you associated with him. And here he was hair ruffled, wet from the outside rain, and covering part of his eyes. His chest heaved to a mismatched beat, as his nose twitched in a snarl, his fangs very visible in the dim light. He looked like the definition of ‘a mess’.

"What are you doing here?" His low tone breaks you from your silent stance, your lips coming closed to rub against each other in...thought? You weren't entirely sure.

You gulp. "Did something...happen?" You scan his body for injuries, but find none. You glance at his open window. "Did you go on a mission?"

"Did you need something?" Miguel doesn't mean for his tone to come out so harshly. And watching your face twitch a fraction made him grind his teeth in annoyance at himself.

"I was going to ask you something, but..." Now you weren't so sure that this moment was the right one.

Miguel gulps, turning slightly away from you. "If you have nothing to say…go."

Yes, Miguel was acting clip and rude with you. And yes...maybe he did turn away so he wouldn't see your expressions. But then he hears your steps slowly draw closer. He shifts his gaze back to you.

Right now was the worst time to see you, he didn't want you to see him, he wanted you to go.

"I thought you had nothing to say?" Miguel briskly asks, but you caught the slight crack in his harsh tone. A crack that displayed a mix of emotions—stress, anxiety,...fear?

Before you know it you're moving closer, your feet, the rain and his breathing filling the other wise silent room. "Now's not a good time." His tone cracked even more. This time with anger.

You stop, a decent distance away. And maybe you should leave, leave him to this. But what is this? You voice that. "What is this?" 'This' as in the mess. 'This' as in Miguel's body language. He looked like he was not even a minute away from exploding.

"Are you...okay?"

Part of Miguel's facade broke at that. "I'm perfectly fine. Do I not look it?" He spits this, fully turning to you. Some droplets of water, that had drenched his hair slides down his cheek.

You know not to be taken aback by Miguel's words. But you'd never seen the word 'crazed' written in his eyes before...'frantic'. "No...you don't look it." You say, eyeing him. "You look...you don't look like yourself."

Miguel mockingly nods, his tongue dragging across one of his fangs, and actually drawing blood. "Right." He forcibly chuckles. "I forgot, I'm supposed to look...what? Composed? On task? In control?" He's stepped closer to you, each word coming out like a snarl.

"Not everything stays the same." Miguel is saying. "Not everything goes the way we plan." He grits out 'plan' like he despises the word altogether.

And as you glance from his hair to the window, to then his too clean of a suit, you realise something. It wasn't a mission, but he had gone somewhere.

"Miguel, where did you go?"

"I didn't go anywhere." He scoffs out.

"Yes you did." You say, narrowing your eyes in thought. And maybe now would be a good time to leave, leave him be. But of course you wouldn't, 'worry' now tieing you up tight. Then you pause. "Why are talking about things that don't go to plan? What hasn't gone to plan?"

"You know, you can be real nosy sometimes." Miguel wanted to punch himself. Why did he say that? You had never been nosy, only observant. Maybe too much for your own good, but it was surely a talent of yours. And here he was shaming you.

But in this moment you weren't fazed. Something was wrong. "Miguel, you've clearly just come in here angry. You're hair's wet from the rain, so obviously recently. Your room is a mess. It's never a mess. You're...never a mess."

"Oh, plenty of things can become a mess, y/n."

"Yeah, but never you. Sure, you've gotten angry before, but you've never trashed a room. There's glass on the floor...you broke that mirror." You gesture to the one hanging on the wall, a prominent fist imbedded in the middle.

"Don't tell me you're gonna deduce where I've fucking been by the glass?!" He was yelling. Not at you. Never at you. At himself. But he's always been very good at projecting. Especially when you're around.

"No." You breathe. "I'm asking you." You say, letting a hint of your concern shine through. You were concerned. Very concerned. Maybe Miguel would have noticed your concern, if he wasn't slowly loosing it. If the messed up room wasn't enough of a tell, he's hit his peak.

"What happened?" You ask again, and this time you finally get a response.

"I fucked up, okay?!" He exclaims, his heart pounding a mile a minute. "I can't take it back. And I've tried. I've really tried. But you know what? Maybe this is meant to happen. Maybe I'm meant to screw everything up."

You stare at him. "What are you talking about?"

"I..." Miguel drifts off, fisting his already disheveled hair. "I let them take it..." Hs voice has softened. But not to a nice kind of softened—a broken one.

You step a fraction closer. "Who? And take what?"

You can visibly see Miguel's strength ebbing away. He looks exhausted, and all in all done. Done with everything. You didn't like that look, you didn't like the inclination of it. "Miguel." You say slowly.

But he's going farther and farther back into his mind, getting tangled up in thoughts you could tell had begun to haunt him. Screwed up? What had he supposedly screwed up?

Then before your mind could work on overdrive, millions of questions wanting to surface, and before Miguel could step further back from reality, you stepped much, much closer, reaching up on your tip toes. And then you wrapped your arms around his neck...hugging him.

Miguel is frozen. Entirely frozen. His mind stops trying to murder him and the drowning sounds in his ears fade away. Now he can hear your breathing, a nervous beat clear. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know if he should do what he’s thinking.

But then you’re slowly drawing back, arms leaving his body. And he can’t have that. He swiftly wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you back to him, as his hands clench around your shirt.

Your breathing hitches as Miguel’s breath hits your collarbone, his head choosing to rest in the crook of your neck, his lips grazing part of your skin.

No. He had told himself he wouldn’t think like that anymore. It was exhausting, and he was tired enough as is. His grip tightened around you. To all the doubtful voices in his head, he was using you to say ‘shut the hell up’.

You could feel Miguel’s entire body practically slump against yours. And though your cheeks were red hot, and your heart was screaming you wrapped your arms back around his neck, your wrists meeting together by his hair.

For once Miguel heard silence. He had always had too many voices in his head telling him this and that. And that ‘this was what has to be done’ and that ‘no, you can’t get distracted’.

Now he felt a much relieving calmness engulfing him. You. His breathing slightly shuddered against your neck, the open of his mouth leading his fangs to lightly brush across your skin.

You shivered at this, earning Miguel to lean his head back. But he didn’t let your waist go. You stopped those voices and he’d be damned if he let you step away from his body now.

Your breathes met, as did your gaze. You were close, the seeming millimetre making you seem even more so. You could feel Miguel’s fingers fiddle slowly with the back of your shirt, your front still pressed against his.

“I’m…” You gulp, your voice coming out much shakier than you intended. “Sorry…I probably shouldn’t have hugged you.” You could practically taste his breath.

“Yeah…you probably shouldn’t have.” His tone is breathy, sounding out of body, as his gaze flickers to your lips.

They’re dry—of course. And now at the close proximity licking them made you feel ten times hotter. You prayed he couldn’t see your blushing cheeks.

“I’m sorry that I just…sorta came in.” You felt you had to fill in the silence. Miguel didn’t seem to mind it though, cause it meant that he could listen to your voice. And replacing your voice with the one’s in his head is probably the smartest choice he could ever make.

Well maybe the second smartest choice… He stared at your freshly wet lips, breathing harder. His thoughts had changed from ‘how much more could he take’ to ‘how much more…more…more’. He wanted more. More of your closeness, this seemed to not be enough.

In response to his thoughts his hands glided up your back, making your body lean more against him. Chest to chest.

“A-and I probably shouldn’t have assumed all that stuff…” you breathe out, as Miguel tilts his head, looking down at you. It’s safe to say your were flustered.

“I think you did alright.” He partially whispered.

“Well…you’re not throwing a chair..so..” Stupid, stupid, stupid—you think to yourself. “I mean…”

And to your shock you notice his lips begin to curve up. And not just to stop at a certain point. No. His lips continued to widen until he was smiling. An actual, genuine smile, that oozed amusement, and it made him look…happy?

“Careful.” You say. “You look like you’re expressing a ‘sparkly emotion’.”

“Oh no.” His grin doesn’t fall, and it only makes your heart beat faster. “We wouldn’t want that…would we?”

You quickly shake your head, and Miguel presses his lips together with further amusement, his eyes darting. “…cute.”

You freeze. And Miguel seems to realise his small slip up, as his eyes grow a fraction wider. He had slipped up in English. Goddamn English. You understood.

But what he didn’t know was that you understood a lot more than just that word. And as the reason for your arrival to his room came back to you, the simple word ‘cute’ seemed to mean a whole lot, lot more.

I’m sorry this one’s kinda short, and not too much is going on. but I wanted them to have a close moment like this before they…well…y’know.

at this point I’ve decided to do nine parts (it fits better) so next part…mhm…FINALLY we can get some closer HaPpIniNgS

plus next part im gonna go onto a deeper dive of where Miguel went and who the masked men are — i just needed a bit of tension filled fluff

taglist: @dangerousdreamkitty @ale-maral @inosukesweirdwife @flooftoof @cynicallyaestetic @silassinclair @mariiyoushi @ilovedilfjake @toastlover21 @wlellsl @k1rbbo @bitchotine @guacam011y @blnk338 @wolfiepirate @kurxxmi @corpsebridenightamare @ohantonia @yunonaneko @irenered-20 @z3r0art @sunflowercandie @perilous-pasta @gloriouskryptonitecrown @whyamistillhere78 @ritzzzsblog @mm1sta @tealcoloured-murder @aweebsimp101 @livelaughlaurv @s0dium @roguepancake @sunshiines-stuff @internal-soundtrack @oscarisdaddy69 @clairacassidy @captainquake42 @nanaloverz @ilyless @sindulgent666 @shine101 @thebadasssass @hibeejibees @nirishin @ily2lia @lillunna @cinnamoncattie @futuristicpandakid @maroonobserver @thatsopanu @edgyficuselastica @kittekat420 @stararctic @maxi-ride @renn-pumkin-head @scaraza @justanotherkpopstanlol @fauxizs @cloudsandrenoswife @ilmovor @larissa-lolll @elliemm @httpkiyoomi @j2warren @arquiiva @ilovemiguelohara @a-monster-can-filled-with-cum @fandom-gal44 @elwyn7 @albiebright

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[chuunai]

I had an idea for the 100 followers thingy- so like the babies thing but you’re a single mother (maybe teen mom?) and dazai (pm) falls in love with you and your baby :} ps- I LOVE YOU TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF SUGAR 💗‼️‼️‼️

I’m trying I swear TvT

✧˚ · . you’re a virgin and I’m just a meth head - pm! dazai osamu

the new hire at the port mafia interests him. the baby, too.

summary ⋆ ★ comfort, fluff with a sprinkle of angst, mentions of teen pregnancy, reader and PM! dazai are seventeen, SFW, mentions of a former abusive relationship, mentions of suicide (it’s fucking dazai), happy ending.

Assistants were something he never cared for much.

They came and go, either requesting to work for a different department in the Port Mafia after witnessing his peculiarities or dying. He hadn’t ever formed any bonds with them. Hell, he hardly knew their names. Dazai preferred to give them childish nicknames such as ‘four-eyes’ for the ones with glasses or ‘baldy’ for the ones who had barely began balding.

No use in actually getting to know them.

All they were good for anyway was organizing his work and making a schedule of meetings and pointless missions he’d hardly follow. And what could they do? Nothing.

Once, he had attempted to get Ango to apply for the job during an outing at Bar Lupin, but that four-eyes declined. So did Oda. Geez, his friends lacked faith in him. Dazai wasn’t that bad of a boss. His subordinates didn’t die that often compared to the others.

Then again, his most recent assistant had died via overdosing. Straight from the Port Mafia’s warehouses, too. Dying of his own stupidity because karma struck him down. The high may have been sending him to the clouds, but he got too close to the sun just as Icarus did and burned—or in this case, vomited—to death. Fun.

A replacement would be needed, yes, but that would involve looking through so many applications and that was boring compared to strangling himself or pulling Chuuya’s hair when the redhead was speaking with Kouyou.

He’d pick irritating the slug over paperwork any day. At least one was fun.

So he just had Mori pick one out. As long as they wouldn’t be a nuisance and knew their place, he didn’t care who it was. Boy, girl, whatever. All ages welcomed. Dazai preferred younger though. The old farts were annoying and so utterly dumb! So when a subordinate gave him a file for his new assistant, he didn’t think anything of it. He always got those for record keeping.

Although this particular individual piqued his interest as his eyes gazed over the information attached.

The age was young—seventeen, same as him. A girl. According to the report, you were previously stationed as a secretary for some lower ranking member. And you’d just joined, too. Only a few blissful months ago. Just barely a baby in the crime world. All dewy-eyed and truly unknowing of the dark underbelly of Yokohama.

Most interesting, though, and the thing that struck his curiosity was the fact that a small sticky note was attached to the last page.

‘Single mother of eight month old girl’

There weren’t many parents in the Mafia, much less teenage ones. Nobody had time to have a baby with the lack of safety. But you did. Someone desperate enough to provide for their child to the point where they joined an illegal organization without even being an adult yet. That took will and selflessness. Something he lacked.

And without having even met you yet, Dazai found himself fascinated by you.

Murmuring your name to himself, he found himself a bit startled at how smooth it rolled off his tongue. He liked it, too. Your name was nice to say.

Tossing the file onto his desk carelessly, Dazai tapped his fingers on the desk, mind wandering once more. If you had a child then you’d probably work your best to support them. You’d be competent enough for him.

Apparently competent enough to the point where you felt like you could handle bringing the baby to the Mafia HQ.

“I don’t remember hiring two assistants.”

Dazai’s voice came out as slightly amused and startled. There you were, standing in-front of his desk while occasionally shushing your…daughter? It looked like a girl, anyway.

“Sorry- her sitter wasn’t available and I-“

His eyes stared at your reddening cheeks—embarrassment and shame, he could tell—as you spoke again.

“I don’t really have anyone to watch her. I’m so sorry, sir.”

Sir? You called him sir? That made him wave his hand a bit dismissively. The only people who called him ‘sir’ were the random grunts and gunmen that served under him. Or people who were scared shitless of him.

“Dazai. Not sir.”

Sitting up languidly, his uncovered eye focused on the baby. Curls of dark hair fell over her forehead while her tiny hands grabbed at your shirt and hair. Funny, he thought.

“And the baby can stay.”

She reminded him of some of the orphans Oda took care of. Especially Sakura. Maybe they had the same name, too. Unlikely, though. She didn’t look like a Sakura, really.

Picking up a pen, he pointed it at you, a small smile on her face.

“Speaking of, may I know her mother’s name?”

He knew it already. But it felt more right if he convinced himself you told him.

“Oh! Yes, uhm, I’m (L/N) (Y/N). And her name,” Tapping your baby’s forehead, she released a small coo, giggling slightly. “is (L/N) Yukirou.”

“Winter baby, huh. I’ll guess, December 16th?”

This was so much fun for him so far. Maybe Yukirou really could be his second assistant. As a joke, of course.

Nodding, you began to ramble on about the baby as he relaxed back in his chair, spinning around and making funny faces at Yukirou. The small child giggled and outreached her fingers to him, probably infatuated by his bandages and messy hair. He didn’t touch her, though. No need to let such a good small thing interact with a person like him.

And so minutes went by. Technically, he should’ve been doling out tasks and trying to kill himself again—he had heard of a technique where one could inject apple juice into their neck and die, but he wasn’t sure it’d work—but it slipped out of his grasp. Maybe it was the fact you two were so close in age. The fact that in another universe you could’ve been classmates fueled this moment. Dazai didn’t really know people his age other than Chuuya, but Chuuya was Chuuya. You were new.

New to everything in this line of business. The killing, the release of morals. Then again, you were just an assistant. You’d never directly be involved with that. Just helping him out with whatever was needed.

Dazai thought that was a smart choice, whether or not you intended for it to be. As an assistant, you’d be safe from the gunfire and outermost threats. More likely to live and protect your daughter.

So caring in a line of work where lives were dispensable.

He wondered how you got there. Not to the Port Mafia—the file told him. But how you took on such a frowned upon job to solely provide for your child. Was the father a deadbeat? Or actually dead? His father was the same. Dead five years into Dazai’s life.

His mother tried her best, but she died too and he slipped onto Mori’s grasp. Hopefully your baby wouldn’t end up in the same situation.

The peaceful moment was interrupted by one of his men who dropped off a load of documents, side-eyeing you before leaving.

Dazai wished you hadn’t turned the conversation back to work.

“Sir, sorry- Dazai-san, would you like me to organize the papers..?”

Why did he forget that you were just an assistant of his? The medication must be making his mind woozy again.

“By date and incident, yep. Also, if you see any that mentioned a Chuuya, please throw them out. Or burn them. Preferably the burning part.”

His office was always to be kept rid of that ginger.

“On it.”

And so he doodled a noose on the wood of his desk while you slowly put the papers away. It soon became clear to him that Yukirou was making the job a tad difficult by trying to grab at the papers.

A slight idea of letting her crawl loose in Mori’s office and destroying it entered his mind, but it quickly left.

“Y’know, if she’s being a devil, I can play with her for a bit. I swear I’ll be good!”

The words left him before he could really process them. Next thing he knew he was wearing the baby carrier with tiny fingers pulling at his shirt. Instructions poured from your lips as he nodded and patted the baby’s back.

“I’ll kill you if anything goes wrong.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at the sound of that. You? Kill him? Never going to happen. Unless it were a double suicide, but you probably wouldn’t say yes.

And he replied when the slight fear in your eyes registered after remembering that he was your boss in the Mafia.

“If course, cutie. I give you permission to kill me if theoretically anything goes wrong.”

Dazai made sure to sneak a peek at your reddening cheeks before leaving his office with the baby strapped to his chest and tugging at his bandages like a little snake.

That’s how it all started. A boy and a girl who happened to have a baby.

He’d never regret how months went by as you two became closer and closer. Joking around, complaining about work, all the stuff friends did. Hell, Dazai even watched Yukirou sometimes.

Thank god Chuuya wasn’t there to see him watching children’s cartoons on your couch with a baby in his lap and a stuffed animal in the other.

Or how he insisted on covering some of your rent when you were struggling. Yukirou needs a home, after all. He sees himself in her a bit. And he didn’t want her to turn out like him. If he couldn’t change his own life for the better, he’d change hers.

And yours.

Much better than that dickhead that fathered Yukirou. You told Dazai about it one night when he stayed over after babysitting once more. Yukirou was napping in her nursery, and you two were sitting on the couch just talking.

Talking turned into sharing details of your lives, and he came up. Your old flame who ditched you. Breaking a promise that he’d be there for the baby and you. Dazai was silent all throughout it. Quiet when you spoke of the emotional abuse and stress that you had, quiet when you began crying over the fact you never got to graduate high school.

He was just there, daring to awkwardly rub your back as you vented. He wondered if you had talked about it before. Probably not.

Dazai felt like he too needed to share a story of his childhood too in exchange for yours. So he told you about the poor neighborhood he grew up in and the horrors he saw daily.

Did it lessen the impact of your venting? Most likely, but in his opinion, he was trying to show you that he trusted you now too. He assumed it worked when you fell asleep on his shoulder. He took care of Yukirou when she woke crying an hour later. He would’ve been a much better father than that bastard.

It didn’t help either that Yukirou began to see him as her daddy. He was there when she turned a year old, gifting her all sorts of things. Scolding her when she nibbled on his hands. Doing nearly everything a dad would.

Even when she managed to say ‘mama’ and ‘dada’ for the first time, it was when all three of you were in the room together. In her tiny mind, it was her family. Her mama and Dazai—her papa. Oda congratulated him for becoming a father when you came along one day with him to Bar Lupin.

It didn’t live up to Chuuya’s reaction when he first heard one of his guys call Dazai a doting father. The shortstack had gone up to him asking if he really was Yukirou’s dad—rumors went around at HQ quickly—and Dazai had to sadly reply that he wasn’t. Sometimes he wished he was. Months of time with you led to nights in bed where he dreamed of a universe that he was really the dad. That Yukirou had his brown eyes instead of her dad’s blue ones.

It wasn’t fair.

Nor were his growing feelings.

Dazai was smart. A genius thinker and planner. So of course he noticed how his heart began to rapidly beat around you. The sweating of his usually cold hands.

He’d had crushes in the past, sure. But it didn’t equate to this. Such a strong connection only made it worse. Was it wrong his Google history lately was filled with questions about confessing to and dating a single mom?

Did you even like him back?

That question couldn’t be answered by anyone but you. It scared him. You probably didn’t. Not as more than a brother, anyway. His suicidal ideation and tendencies scared off any woman who wanted more than sex. But he probably wouldn’t be living long anyway. So he’d have to shoot his shot eventually.

Which he did after another five months of consideration and thought. Dazai committed this act by simply asking you to sort out some notes for him. A total of eight. Each one had a single word on it. If you correctly put them together, it spelled:

‘I like you. Do you like me back?’

Much to his relief and shock, you did. You did, and he had hugged you so tightly. Tightening their bond, too.

So he became your boyfriend. And he wore the title of ‘dad’ to Yukirou gladly. The little girl saw him as her papa, and he couldn’t deny it. Even if it wasn’t biologically, she was his. And yours.

Dazai’s life used to be mundane and slow, yet with his new…family, he felt genuine happiness for once. A reason to live.

That was the greatest gift he could receive of all.

Regular Tags: @twst-om-lover, @xxcandlelightxx, @sinfulthoughtsposts.

Tags for everyone who interacted with this post (it’s over 100): @walking-simp, @hypocritic-trash-baby, @heartsfourdazai, @cheriiyaya, @depressed-monarch, @nyxt0t, @baby-tini, @h0nk3rs, @internet-angell, @cupidszvlvr, @owosamu, @my-dear-melancholy, @dazaibae, @nekomafumafufan18-blog, @cvsmois, @lizsano, @nanamiinto, @inojuuy, @reomarys, @mayanakahara, @briiscoolig, @maislovebot, @syona-sachyo, @xieqq2, @angelof-darkness, @moriiko, @fuckthisfuckingshit, @daushu, @wrynue, @amnda-ft-fyodor, @rain-alucard, @hanayoshiii, @moemoekunn, @thatwasa, @miiiloo, @probablyzombiedinosaurs, @mauviese, @chips-and-vinegar, @https-dazai, @rragudoru, @leyla3x0, @cheetozai, @jillyfsh, @rylerboi, @linaaeatsfamilies, @zorizoras, @onlinewhisper14, @komicoral, @anim3-simps, @theoddsinner, @caayye, @scaramow, @such-a-silly-little-gy, @bunnybs-stuff, @psychiclovecollective, @sleepy-yumi516, @fromjas, @suzurans-world, @mrstengenuzui, @mitislm, @tealover111, @edgarallanpoeswifey, @baby-tini, @yaz4luvv, @deliciouscandysalad, @isrealityevenreal, @briefcreationcandy, @astr3eaa, @underscoredaniii, @nolongerhooman, @notalooo, @ratinawetsocksweater, @tomiroro,

Rest in comments I’m crying now also if your tag is white it’s because you didn’t pop up when I was doing the @‘s

[rootedinrevisions]

Up in the Air

SUMMARY: When WWE superstars find themselves with a rare day off, Rhea Ripley seizes the opportunity to play matchmaker at a local festival. As she drags her friends to food trucks, rides, and games, the sparks between you and Damian Priest begin to fly. With Rhea’s clever nudges and a series of comical misadventures, you and Damian are thrust into close quarters—sharing food, laughter, and unexpected moments of connection. But when a hot air balloon ride leaves you suspended high above the fairground, the thrill of the day turns into something deeper. THANK YOU TO MY BESTIE @caramara3 FOR GIVING ME THE IDEA FOR THIS ONE!

WARNINGS: None

WORD COUNT: 4.3k

TAG LIST: @caramara3 @miss-kuki-nz @terrortwinunicorn

If you would like to be added to my WWE Tag List (or be tagged for a particular wrestler) please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added!

The morning air buzzed with excitement as you, Rhea, and a few others milled around the hotel lobby, waiting to head out to the fairgrounds. It was rare to have a day off with no press, no match prep, and nothing but time to unwind and let loose. Rhea, as usual, had taken the reins, organizing a day packed with all the festival essentials: food trucks, rides, and even a hot air balloon finale.

As everyone piled into Rhea’s rental, she threw you a sly look over her shoulder. "Looks like we’re full up here,” she said, barely suppressing a smirk. “But, no worries! Damian’s driving separately. You can just hop in with him.”

A flutter of nerves hit you at the mention of Damian’s name. Sure, you were best friends, but there was that one night months back when you’d told Rhea—after one too many drinks—that Damian was, in your exact words, hot as hell and that, if given the chance, you’d “climb him like a tree.” You’d woken up the next morning in horror, hoping she’d forget the confession altogether. But the glint in her eye now told you she remembered every word, and by the look of things, she had her own plans today.

You swallowed hard, doing your best to keep your face casual. Just a car ride with a friend, you told yourself, ignoring the way your heart picked up pace. You looked around for him, half-hoping you could buy yourself some time, but there he was, rounding the corner, car keys in hand and that easy smile on his face.

“Ready to go?” Damian asked, flashing you a grin. 

You tried to keep your cool, but when his gaze lingered a second too long, it was hard to tell if it was just the morning sun or if there was something warmer in his eyes.

“Yep! Let’s go,” you replied, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt. 

You tossed Rhea a glare over your shoulder, but she just winked, making it painfully clear she knew exactly what she was doing.

As you followed Damian to his car, you couldn’t shake the little knot of nerves twisting in your stomach. God, please don’t let her have said anything to him, you thought, taking a deep breath and reminding yourself that this was still Damian—your best friend. That was all… right?

The drive started off smooth, and with each mile that passed, your initial nerves began to melt away. Damian’s presence always had a calming effect on you, and today was no different.

“Can you believe Rhea?” Damian said, shooting you a grin as he turned onto the main road. “She gets one day off and somehow finds a way to make it as intense as a match night. Gotta respect her energy, though.”

You laughed, settling back in your seat. “She thrives on chaos, I swear. It’s impressive, honestly. I’m just hoping we get a chance to sit down and actually enjoy some food. I’m pretty sure she’s got us lined up to hit every ride in the place.”

Damian chuckled, his deep, warm laugh filling the car. “Oh, no doubt. I wouldn’t put it past her to try and cram us into one of those kiddie rides just to see us squirm.”

You snorted at the mental image of Damian—towering, muscular, and absolutely not designed to fit in a kiddie ride—squeezed next to Rhea, her devilish grin intact as she laughed at his discomfort.

"Honestly, though," Damian continued, glancing over at you with a small smirk, "I’m surprised you’re up for a fair day with all the people. I thought you’d want a chill day off.”

“True,” you admitted, meeting his eyes briefly before looking back out the window. “But the food trucks and rides kind of makeup for it. Plus, it’s… it’s good to spend time with everyone.”

“Yeah. You’re right,” he said quietly, his tone softer than before. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. “And I guess if Rhea’s got us all there, it means she can’t get on my case for skipping something. Plus, there’s good food—and we’ll get to see Rhea’s attempt at ‘relaxing,’” he added with a teasing grin.

The drive continued like that, a comfortable back-and-forth of friendly jabs and easy conversation. A thought drifted through your mind as you watched Damian laugh and loosen up, more animated than usual. For all Rhea’s scheming, you had to admit she’d managed to put you both in a rare moment of peace, just the two of you, sharing a small slice of normalcy.

“Maybe she’s onto something with this,” you mused aloud, almost to yourself.

“Hmm?” Damian glanced over.

“Oh, nothing,” you said quickly, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. “Just—grateful for a chance to relax, I guess.”

He seemed to consider this, a glimmer of something unreadable in his eyes as he nodded. “Yeah. Same here.” And then, with a light laugh that softened the moment, he added, “Even if it means Rhea’s running the show.”

As the car rolled to a stop in the fairgrounds parking lot, you felt a flicker of excitement building. The buzz of the festival was already in the air—music drifting over the hum of people, bright colors, and the smell of fair food. Damian parked and flashed you a grin, opening his door as you gathered your bag and stepped out, feeling his presence close by as the two of you made your way toward the entrance.

The crowd thickened as you neared the gates, a mix of families, groups of friends, and couples swirling together. You were doing your best to dodge elbows and strollers, but one particularly enthusiastic kid darted right in front of you, nearly taking out your knees. Damian reacted instantly, his hand slipping around your waist to steady you.

“Whoa,” he murmured, steadying you with a warm, firm grip. “Didn’t think we’d need wrestling moves to get through the entrance.”

You looked up, finding him a little closer than you expected. The feel of his hand on your waist sent a flutter through your stomach, and for a moment, you both stood there in silence, caught off guard by the closeness. His hand lingered just a second longer before he cleared his throat, his gaze darting to the side as he let go and stepped back slightly.

“You good?” he asked, a slight flush creeping up his cheeks.

“Yeah, yeah—I’m good,” you replied quickly, suddenly aware of how warm your face felt. “Just, uh… hazards of fairgrounds, I guess.”

As you shifted, you caught sight of Rhea just a few paces ahead. She stood there, arms crossed, watching the two of you with a perfectly arched eyebrow and a smirk that spoke volumes. 

When you and Damian locked eyes with her, she only shrugged, biting back a grin as she turned and continued walking, pretending she hadn’t seen a thing.

Damian’s gaze flicked back to you, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “So… ready for this?”

You laughed, feeling the tension ease a bit. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

With that, the two of you fell into step, each hyper-aware of the other’s presence as you followed Rhea and the others into the heart of the fair. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted, and the look Damian had given you—just for a second—lingered in your mind longer than it should have.

As the group meandered through the fairgrounds, someone mentioned food, sparking an immediate chorus of agreement. Together, you all veered toward the food truck section, where delicious smells and sizzling sounds drifted through the air, setting your stomach rumbling.

“Alright,” Rhea declared with an almost mischievous grin, “time to do some serious food sampling. And I don’t want to hear anyone say they’re ‘not that hungry.’ This is a fair—appetites mandatory.”

The group dispersed, each person weaving between the trucks, picking up a mix of fried treats, skewers, tacos, and a few questionable “festival specials.”

After a few minutes, you and Damian met back up with Rhea, arms filled with an assortment of snacks. You eyed the collection with a laugh, impressed by the sheer variety.

“Think we got enough?” you asked, shooting a playful look at Damian.

“Maybe,” he replied, holding up a foot-long corn dog with a smirk. “But hey, Rhea said we’re sharing everything.”

As the group gathered around a picnic table, everyone started digging in, passing around baskets of food. It didn’t take long before Rhea nudged you and Damian with a sly grin. 

“Hey, you two—try this.” She handed you both a basket of churros dusted with cinnamon sugar. “Don’t be shy, share it.”

You exchanged a glance with Damian, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks as you broke off a piece and handed it to him. As he took it, his fingers brushed against yours, sending a small, unexpected jolt up your arm.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice softer, eyes catching yours for a moment too long before he cleared his throat, focusing intently on the churro like it held the secrets of the universe.

You both went back to sampling, but Rhea wasn’t done. She grinned wickedly, holding up a cup of chili fries. “Alright, Damian, you gotta feed her one of these. Fair food tradition.”

“Oh, is it?” Damian asked, eyebrows raising, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Definitely,” Rhea replied, not backing down. “You gotta play along.”

Damian shook his head with a chuckle, lifting a fry and holding it up to you, his eyes daring you to play along too. With a laugh, you leaned in, letting him feed you the fry while the group laughed and cheered.

As you settled back into sampling the food with everyone else, you couldn’t help but notice how easily Damian’s laughter blended with yours, each unplanned touch and shared smile making you wonder if maybe, just maybe, Rhea’s matchmaking antics were onto something.

Later in the day, Rhea’s gaze zeroed in on an old-fashioned photo booth nestled between a cotton candy stand and a ring-toss game. Her eyes lit up mischievously, and she nudged you and Damian forward.

“Oh, you two have to do the photo booth,” she said, already steering you both toward it. “It’s basically a requirement at fairs.”

You laughed, glancing at Damian. “Do we have a choice?”

Damian grinned, shrugging. “Not really, apparently.”

The two of you squeezed into the booth, realizing just how cramped it actually was. The narrow bench barely had space for one person, let alone two. You tried hovering beside him, half-seated with one leg awkwardly propped against the side, but it was obvious you still weren’t fitting in the frame.

Damian glanced up at you, a smile tugging at his lips. “This isn’t going to work. Here, just—” He reached up and, with a gentle hand on your waist, guided you down until you were perched right on his thigh.

You felt your cheeks heat up at the unexpected closeness, his hands settling around your waist for balance. 

“There we go,” he said, giving a soft laugh as he adjusted to fit both of you in the frame. “Comfortable?”

You nodded, trying to ignore the warmth spreading across your cheeks as the machine counted down to snap the first photo. The screen flashed, and you both instinctively leaned closer, your laughter filling the small space as the camera clicked.

By the time the last shot snapped, you’d both lost any semblance of forced posing, your heads pressed close together, and Damian’s arm wrapped loosely around your waist to keep you steady. When the flash went off for the final picture, he glanced at you with an amused, almost softer expression.

The booth spit out the photo strip, and you both leaned over to look. The first picture captured your awkward attempt to fit, both of you laughing as you tried to squeeze into the frame. But the last one…there was something different. You were both relaxed, his hand resting on your side, your shoulders leaning into him, and both of you grinning like idiots.

Rhea, waiting outside the booth, snatched the photo strip out of Damian’s hands as soon as you stepped out, her eyes dancing as she scanned the shots. 

“Well, well,” she teased, “I’d say you two look pretty comfortable in there.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile on your face as Damian gave Rhea a playful nudge.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, laughing. But he caught your gaze for a brief second, and you felt a shared, silent acknowledgment of the moment that had passed between you.

Next Rhea led the group to the Fun House, Rhea’s face lit up with a look that could only mean she had something up her sleeve.

“Alright, here’s the deal—this’ll be way more fun in pairs,” she announced, throwing a wink in your direction. Before you could even react, she nudged you closer to Damian. “Go on, you two. We’ll meet up on the other side!”

Before either of you could protest, the rest of the group had split off into pairs and slipped into the house, leaving you and Damian standing alone by the entrance.

“Guess it’s you and me,” Damian said with a shrug, though the hint of a smile tugged at his lips as he held the door open for you.

Inside, the Fun House was filled with dizzying mirrors, neon lights, and winding hallways that made every step feel like you were walking through a maze. Almost immediately, you and Damian lost sight of the others, the confusing turns and flashing lights making it easy for the two of you to drift deeper into the attraction.

“This place is like a maze,” Damian said, his voice echoing as you both walked down a narrow hallway lined with funhouse mirrors. “Good luck if they’re expecting us out of here anytime soon.”

You laughed, but before you could respond, a loud bang sounded from the wall beside you, and a mechanical figure sprang out, making you yelp and instinctively reach for Damian’s arm.

Damian chuckled, steadying you as he threw an arm around your shoulders. “Hey, don’t worry,” he teased. “I’ll protect you from all the creepy mannequins in here.”

“I appreciate it,” you said, trying to calm your racing heart but smiling despite yourself.

You continued through the winding halls, your laughter echoing off the walls as more jump scares and sudden noises popped up at every corner. The deeper you went, the darker and narrower the passageways became, and with each unexpected scare, you found yourself clinging to Damian’s arm a little longer, the mix of fear and excitement making it hard to let go.

Finally, as you turned another corner, a new scare jumped out—a skeleton puppet lunging from the side with a loud, exaggerated scream. You gasped, grabbing onto Damian and pulling yourself close to him, burying your face in his shoulder. His arm slipped around your waist instinctively, pulling you flush against him.

When you looked up, you found yourself staring into his dark eyes, the closeness and dim light blurring the rest of the world around you. Damian’s hand lingered on your waist, his gaze holding yours a beat longer than necessary. The energy between you felt electric, the laughter and adrenaline still fresh.

For a moment, you both seemed to realize at the same time how close you were, and you pulled back slightly, both of you chuckling as you tried to shake off the moment.

“This is the last time I let Rhea take us to a Fun House,” Damian joked, though his voice was softer, his gaze lingering just a moment more before he looked away.

But you couldn’t ignore the way his arm stayed wrapped around you as you both made your way out of the Fun House, the thrill of the jump scares leaving behind something deeper, a hint of a connection that you’d both felt—and maybe weren’t quite ready to let go of yet.

As soon as you stepped into the ride section of the fair, Rhea was already beaming with that mischievous look that had been her theme for the day. The bright, colorful rides spun and whirled around you, laughter and screams filling the air.

“Alright, who’s up for some classic carnival rides?” Rhea said, eyes twinkling as she glanced between you and Damian. Before you could even decide for yourself, she had her answer ready. “Oh, and you two, obviously, should ride together. You know, for moral support,” she added with a smirk.

Damian raised an eyebrow but shrugged good-naturedly. “Lead the way,” he said, gesturing to the first ride in line, which happened to be the Ferris wheel.

You both climbed into the cramped gondola, the small seat forcing you to squeeze close together. The wheel jolted to life, and as you were lifted into the air, the view over the fairgrounds spread out below. The sounds and colors felt a little more distant and surreal up there, the world condensed into a pocket of stillness where it was just you and Damian.

“Not exactly made for tall people, huh?” you teased, glancing at him as he shifted uncomfortably in the tight space, knees nearly pressed to his chest.

He laughed, glancing down at his long legs, awkwardly folded to fit. “Pretty sure this thing is meant for kids,” he replied, shaking his head. “I could practically lift it off the track if I needed to.”

As you both laughed, the wheel rotated again, giving you both a slight jolt that made you clutch his arm out of reflex. He turned to you, amused, but his hand found yours on his arm and squeezed it gently, giving you a reassuring smile.

When the Ferris wheel finally brought you back to the ground, you moved on to the teacups. As you got into the tiny seat across from Damian, his knees pressed against the side and his arms nearly hit the handles as he tried to situate himself. The sight of him, usually so composed and intimidating, squeezing himself into such a small space was comical, and you couldn’t stop yourself from bursting into laughter.

“Laugh it up,” he said, pretending to glare. “Just wait until I start spinning this thing.”

And he did. He twisted the wheel with surprising force, sending your teacup into a whirlwind of spins. You laughed as you held onto the edges, the two of you dizzy and laughing by the time it finally stopped. It wasn’t until you stepped out of the teacup that you realized you were still holding onto his hand, and he hadn’t let go either.

As you both stumbled out, laughing and catching your breath, Rhea waved at you from the next ride—a small roller coaster barely taller than you. She waggled her eyebrows suggestively, and you felt your cheeks flush, realizing she’d probably noticed every single moment of the chemistry she’d been sparking all day.

Damian cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck as he led you toward the next ride. “I think Rhea’s enjoying this way too much.”

You nodded, a smile creeping across your face. “But, you know… I’m not complaining.”

The group meandered back toward the midway, the sounds of carnival games buzzing around you. Plush toys hung from every booth, their bright colors beckoning players. Damian glanced around at the rows of games and muttered with a slight smirk, “You know, these things are just one big rip-off.”

“Maybe,” you shrugged with a grin. “But I’ve always thought it’d be cute if someone won one of those for me.” You nodded toward a particularly large, soft-looking bear dangling over the ring toss booth. “Unfortunately, none of my exes could ever beat the games,” you added with a playful sigh.

Damian’s smirk faded as he looked between you and the plush bear. “Well, maybe they just didn’t have the right skills,” he said casually, though you didn’t miss the competitive glint in his eyes. As if acting on impulse, he stepped up to the ring toss booth and slapped some money down. “Let’s give it a shot,” he said with a confident shrug.

His first attempt was… less than stellar. The ring flew far too wide and clattered pathetically off the side of the bottles. He rolled his eyes, huffing with a laugh. “All right, that was just a warm-up,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

As he tried again, his jaw set with a new focus, his competitive streak kicking in. He narrowed his gaze, lining up each ring with intense concentration, but each time, the ring either hit the bottleneck and bounced off or spun out of control entirely.

By now, a few onlookers had gathered, entertained by his serious attempts. You tried to stifle your laughter, but you couldn't help but crack a grin at the determined look on his face. Damian caught you watching and laughed, shaking his head. 

“This thing’s rigged,” he grumbled, picking up another ring. “But I’m not leaving without that bear.”

It took a few more tries, but finally, with one last, precise throw, the ring landed cleanly over the bottle neck. Damian’s mouth dropped open in momentary disbelief before his face broke into a proud grin. He raised his fist in victory, and the crowd of onlookers gave him a small cheer.

With a satisfied look, he turned to the attendant, who handed him the oversized bear. Damian held it up with a triumphant grin, and for a moment, you saw the thrill of his wrestling persona flash across his face. Then, he turned to you, holding the bear out with a proud smile.

“Here you go,” he said, his voice softer than before. “For you, from the master of ring toss himself.”

You took the bear from him, laughing as you hugged it to your chest. “Thank you, Damian.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Anything to make a day at the fair memorable,” he said, his gaze lingering on you as you clutched the bear.

Somehow, in that little exchange, the day felt different—more charged, more real. You could both sense it, though neither of you dared to name it just yet.

As the sun dipped low in the sky, casting a warm glow over the fairgrounds, Rhea gathered the group near the edge of the festival grounds with a mischievous grin. “Surprise! I booked us hot air balloon rides to finish off the day.” She beamed, holding up a handful of tickets. “Only four per balloon, so… here we go.”

In a practiced and subtle shuffle, Rhea partnered up with the others, quickly taking the balloon nearest her and flashing a wink your way as she climbed in. Within moments, the other three wrestlers joined her, laughing and getting settled, leaving you and Damian standing by the last balloon, alone.

Damian raised an eyebrow, half-smiling as he looked at you. “Guess it’s just us then?”

You felt your stomach twist as you took in the sight of the balloon’s basket waiting just for the two of you. Heights had never been your thing, and you could already feel a wave of nervousness inching its way in. 

“Yeah… just us,” you said with a weak smile, hoping he didn’t notice your hesitation.

As you climbed into the basket, Damian leaned over, catching the flicker of worry in your expression. “You good?” he asked, eyes softening as he stepped inside.

You nodded, though your voice betrayed you. “Fine, just… never been the biggest fan of heights.”

He chuckled softly, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you grounded… well, as grounded as we can be in this thing.” 

As the balloon began to rise, you felt his arm slide around your shoulders, guiding you to lean into his chest, keeping you steady as the ground below slowly faded from view.

You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply, the faint scent of his cologne settling your nerves. “Thanks. This definitely helps,” you murmured.

He chuckled, his voice a low rumble as he tried to distract you. “Want to know something? When I first got into WWE, I was all nerves. I couldn’t believe I was actually going to wrestle in front of thousands of people, live on TV, with my face everywhere.”

You looked up at him, surprised. “Seriously? You always seem so… sure of yourself.”

“Fake it ’til you make it,” he said with a grin, tapping his chest. “It’s easier when you have good people around you.” He glanced down, and there was a look in his eyes that made your breath hitch. “People like you.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, and as you lifted your head slightly, you could see a whole new world stretched out below, lit by the fading golden light of sunset. It felt surreal, hanging in this quiet pocket of the sky with him, where time seemed to stand still.

“You know,” Damian began, his voice gentle as he traced a thumb over your shoulder, “I, uh… I’ve liked you for a while. More than I probably should.”

You felt your cheeks warm as you looked up at him, heart pounding. “Yeah? I had no idea. But… maybe I’ve felt the same.”

His gaze flickered over your face, studying you as if trying to memorize every feature. “Then maybe I’m not crazy to think this is worth a shot?”

Before you could answer, he leaned down, brushing his lips over yours in a soft, tentative kiss, his hand cradling your face. You melted into him, any lingering nerves forgotten as you lost yourself in the moment. When you pulled back, you couldn’t help but smile, feeling lighter than ever.

“So,” you whispered, still inches away, “guess Rhea’s little matchmaking scheme worked, huh?”

Damian chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll have to thank her later… but right now, I’m more than happy just to be here with you.”

[devilfic]

Just an idea, but this is something I often do with my own grannies. So sometimes when I come visit, we'll chat and gossip about random things like what parties happened the night b4 in the community and how I got called into work b'cuzz I'm a matron at the station (I never give names I only call em by their prisoner #'s) and I just give em a general synopsis of what I had to deal with b'cuzz they were screaming, or banging on the door or flipping oit etc, or I show them some true crime podcasts or some interesting documentary about how barbies were made or something other. And then there's visits where we don't even talk, we just sit down in silence while the tv's on or the radio, while having some tea and snacks or supper if I come by at dinner time, and we just enjoy each other's company, it's honestly the best visits when we do that. So just imagine doing that with Battinson Bruce, no talking, just peaceful silence while he works and enjoying each other's presence while also enjoying Alfred's tea and snacks. That'd be so wholesome, and then he walks you home, or you just crash on his couch. That'd be so nice, just something platonic and sweet.

❝I want us both to eat well❞

plot: "It’s so complicated staying alive sometimes." — your friendship with the elusive vigilante is a special one in many ways. pairing: platonic!battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: partially inspired by the poem "our beautiful life when it’s filled with shrieks" by christopher citro, fluff, reader used to live on the street, reader knows batman's identity, bruce being bad at managing his meal times bc justice never sleeps, platonic but you can read it any way you want to. words: 1.5k. a/n: this is such a sweet anecdote, and I have had some not so great writer's block, so I really appreciated having a simple idea to work with! there is quite a bit of talking but it's not an devilfic fic if they don't yap a bit

It is a verifiable fact that Bruce will not eat at a reasonable time unless you make him.

I mean, he does eat. There are meal preps in the fridge that he unfreezes at sunrise, and there are pre-workout protein shakes and bowls of fruit Alfred leaves for him to graze on, and every once in a while he’ll come upstairs to the dinner table—Bruce and Alfred both know these particular dinners are as much case debriefs as they are eating together, but they’re together and there’s food on the table, and that’s something. Isn’t it?

But for all his effort, Alfred has never been as efficient as you.

You bump Bruce’s shoulder with dinner, a greasy paper bag full of what you promised would make up for the calories, and he inches his book away before you can get anything on it. He feels the residue on his skin, though. “Alright, up and at ‘em. Eat this before it gets any colder than it already is.”

“What is it? Exactly?”

You set the bag on his desk and hand him one paper-wrapped burger and a set of (admittedly) delicious looking fries. “That, my good man, is a delicacy on my side of town. Bizzby’s Burgers. I even splurged and got you a large ‘cause I know you’ll like it.”

Bruce can’t remember the last time he had either of these. As he plucks a fry out of its container, he wonders if it’ll taste good enough to jog his memory. You swear by it, and it feels like he’s more willing to just take your word for it these days. “You didn’t have to.”

“It’s alright. It’s your money anyway.”

“That’s not how a job works.” Bruce watches you drag a stool over to his side and take a seat, catching only a whiff of the rain clinging to the very ends of your sleeves. It was good to know the money he spent on your new jacket was worth it. “You earned it, it’s yours.”

“You gonna finger that fry all night or you gonna tell me I’m amazing?” Bruce grimaces at your choice of words. He takes a bite and, yeah, he sees where all the grease came from, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t taste good. “Well?”

“It’s good.”

“I’m amazing, right?”

“This is a delicacy?”

“Don’t be a smartass, rich boy.”

“I’m just asking a question.”

You take out your own food and he realizes you’ve got onion rings instead of fries. You stuff one into your mouth, savoring the taste for a little longer than necessary, and really—they can’t be that good. “When gramps ran the place, he’d usually sneak me something at the end of the night. Whatever the others didn’t take home. But it’s been ten years since his son took over and he’s a real hardass about that stuff. I would’ve sworn off the place for good if it wasn’t for the fact that he cooks just like his fucking dad.”

Bruce used to follow you when this all started—a precaution he took to ensure there was no conflict of interest on your part—and this Bizzby’s Burgers sat smack dab between your favorite alley and the shelter. He used to wonder why you never really went in, always lingering outside like it used to be your home, once. Now he knows.

You bring out the sodas next, except he didn’t want a soda, and the next best thing to a fountain drink at Bizzby’s is a milkshake. It’s strawberry and more milk than ice cream at this point, but Bruce dutifully reviews it for you all the same. His desk is slowly becoming a mess from dinner, but it’s been a slow road getting you to take up space like this again. He can be bothered not to be bothered.

“I thought you were just shy, or maybe didn’t trust me, but you really don’t talk much. Do you?” Your question sounds like it’s already been answered in the tone you use.

“I talk when I have something to say.”

“Yeah. You don’t just fill in the silences like some people.” Bruce thinks that’s all you have to say on the matter, but he should know better. You like talking to him. “People pretend you don’t exist when you live on the street. I think they feel guilty, but you sort of get it into your head that maybe you really don’t exist after all. That you stop existing the second you end up here- or… there. I guess. I’m not there anymore.” You look far away in that moment. Bruce watches your eyes flicker, stuck on some unknown memory of a life much harder lived, but then you come back to yourself eventually, “You scared the shit out of me back when we first met.”

Most people remembered him for the fear. You had shrunk in on yourself when he appeared, shivering from the shock or the wind chill or the lack of sleep that clung to your drooping eyes.

Bruce keeps eye contact with you, biting into his burger so slowly that the paper doesn’t even crinkle.

“Like that,” you grumble. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Help what?”

“Look, that’s not the point. My point was that, like, you were so scary when you first found me in that alley. I thought… I thought you were going to beat me to a pulp over something I didn’t do… or worse, something I did do. You started talking and it felt like all the sound dropped out around me. Like tunnel vision. Like I was the only thing in front of you, and it scared me. Even when you were silent, it felt like… I existed too much. I was too seen. It was overwhelming. But now that I know you…” Bruce’s eyebrow rises. He spares no energy for any other reaction. “It’s kind of nice.”

He wasn’t expecting that. He doesn’t know how to take it; he knows it’s a good thing but in the way a compliment sandwich is mostly a good thing. “Kind of nice” was mostly a good thing.

You must see the uncertainty in his face—a rare occasion he doesn’t hide it—because you rectify your wording, “It is nice. You see me and I exist and I know I exist because you treat me like a person. It was jarring back then but now it feels pretty good. So thanks for scaring the shit out of me, I guess.”

You squirm in your seat, taking a long drag from your straw as you wait for him to say something. Bruce leans further back into his chair, gazing sidelong at you.

In reality, he didn’t quite understand how anyone could miss you.

He’d seen plenty of people just like you on Gotham’s streets, turned away from shelters and scared out of gang territory, and yet you had stuck out to him. When he’d found you curled up in the dark, rain drenching through your clothes, it had been just his luck that you had been witness to exactly what he needed to know, and it was even more his luck that—after the catatonia wore off—you told him everything.

And you caught his eye again, and again, and again. Always on some street corner, shrinking away from the crowds but always on the outskirts, hanging onto the coattails of the bigger bads he stalked after. He supposed you just had something about you. It was hard to trust gut feelings about people in this city (sweetness turned rotten all too suddenly), but so far, he’d been right about you. “You’re welcome.”

You still at his voice. You catch his eyes and something softens in you. Then you sniffle, and Bruce kicks on the heater beneath his desk.

The two of you continue to eat and Bruce waits for you to share something else, but nothing comes up. When dinner’s trashed, you watch from the couch as he works away on a case you have nothing to do with, Bruce waiting for questions that never come.

It’s two in the morning when he hears your first snore. Then six when you come down from the bathroom with a tray of coffee. He thinks it’s Alfred’s, but one sip and he knows it has to be yours; it’s different, not as clear as he's used to, but not unpleasant. Did you ask Alfred to show you how to make it? Or did you just know, and this was how you liked it? You don’t say anything as you sit with him again, eyes crusted over with sleep as you huddle closer for warmth.

It’s Bruce who speaks first, eventually, “I'll call you a cab.”

“Nah, it’s fine. It's a subway kind of morning.” You hoist your bag onto your shoulders, a pound heavier with all the snacks Alfred slipped you in the kitchen. “I can meet you in Chinatown tomorrow night. I know a place with spring rolls to die for.”

Bruce hums, holding the front door open for you, “If you’re willing to wait for me.”

You punch his arm and it catches up to him that he hadn't expected it, that you could've done something much worse and he'd have missed it because... well, because he knew you wouldn't. He feels safe with you.

You’re all smiles, none the wiser. "Who else am I gonna gossip with?"

[loversofthegrave]

What are some of your fave wincest fics?

Oh I'm so glad you asked anon! I am always looking for fic recs so I'm sure some followers will appreciate this little one here;

(in no particular order)

try asking by applecrumbledore

“Jerry says he saw them going at it in the back of that car of theirs outside Atlanta last year, I swear to God.”

“Listen, man, I don’t like them either, but that’s a low blow. Jerry’s a fucking pervert.”

outside POV ftw

other brothers by homo_pink

A callow boy can go from infancy to someone’s lover in the space of two wildflower summers.

Another outside POV but this writer I kneel at the altar for, absolute perfection. Read all their work, you're in for a treat

Howls in my bones by weefaol

When John gets a call to investigate a series of grisly animal killings, he drops Sam and Dean at an abandoned cabin two towns over. The boys find ways to keep busy — playing cards, watching movies, chopping wood — but with a howling winter storm on the way, there’s nowhere for Sam to hide his illicit feelings for his older brother.

As the lure of desire threatens to devour him, Sam must learn to face the wolves that lurk outside and the monsters within.

weecest

In the garden where sin began by nyoka

Some places, they grow for you.

weecest, beautifully written, so tender

one on, two out by deadlybride

In the fall of 2001, Deacon gets a letter from his old friend John Winchester, asking if John's son can stay at his house for a while.

not exactly wincest but I want to recommend this because it's just a great insight into a young dean and his vulnerability and there's a sequel involving wincest elements. Really really loved this

it started out with a kiss by intrepidheart

Sam has a date. That's not the problem. The problem is that Sam's asking Dean to teach him how to kiss. The problem is that this kiss changes everything.

rightly obsessed with jealous dean

the repeated image of the lover destroyed by hathfrozen

"Do you really love me that much?" Sam asks.

Dean laughs, a harsh sound, his body shaking underneath Sam.

"Look at me," Dean hisses, eyes still shut. "What the fuck do you think?"

see things so much clearer by deadlybride

Sam's been acting oddly. Dean learns how to use the history on an internet browser and finds out why.

somewhere there's blue by linden

Dean was just gonna go ahead and call this one: evenings which ended with Sam in a river were not evenings which had gone too well.

nickle and dime by linden

It was unlikely, Dean felt, that they'd be coming back to Montana: Child Protection Services had a real nasty habit of not forgetting people's names.

here's a few for now, I have more but I need to remember the names! I will probably reblog this with them but I hope you enjoy! Also if anyone has any recs please point me in that direction

much love

[imaginesbymonika]

From the dining table | Part 2

Pairing: Damon Albarn × Gallagher! Reader

Plot: Everyone's favorite topic during the '90s and 'OOs; Y/N Gallagher. The mysterious and beautiful younger sister of the two loud brothers rarely spoke during interviews but played the guitar like no one else. And even though she never said a word about her dating-life, the list of her rumored boyfriends kept growing longer with each passing year. Yet, there was one name in particular that just kept on popping up...

Part 1

(2024)

It took a lot to convince Noel to give out Y/N’s number. There was a lot of swearing, ranting, and tons of “fucking knew it” involved before he sent it to Damon over Whatsapp. He is staring at the numbers as if they’re going to disappear the second he blinks.

“I haven’t heard it yet.”, Noel says after a moment, his voice much calmer now:” The song, ya know. You’re sure it’s about you?” The blonde sighs and tilts his head back. His bare neck made contact with the cold leather couch:” I’ve got this feeling in my stomach.”

There’s a long pause before he hears the older musician chuckle into the phone:” I always had my suspicions that it was you my sister was seeing. Couldn’t prove it. But it made sense in a way.”

“We both knew that if one of you would’ve found out you’d have me killed.”

“Oh yeah.”, Noel answers without hesitating and scoffs loudly:” That’s our baby sister, we’re talking about. Right now, I still want to kill you.” Damon softly giggles:” Can’t blame ya.”

“So…”, Noel pauses and Damon hears how he lights up a cigarette on the other side. The crackling sound of the lighter fills the peace. “What are you going to say to her?”

Damon bites his lip and shakes his head:” I don’t know. There’s so much I want to say to her, but I just- it’s suffocating yet. The truth of it all, I mean. I was stupid back then, immature and naive…and well, primarily doing coke.” “We all did that, I suppose.”, Noel reassures him and takes a deep breath.

“Yeah, obviously.”, He glances down at his bitten nails:” But well, you know… your sister, she’s the love of my life. I should’ve done something about that sooner.”

“Oh, wow.”, Noel mutters softly, there’s a new layer to his voice Damon cannot place:” Love of your life, huh? You mean that? Y/N never spoke to us about her love life. I get that. But I’ve been to her parties and I heard all those rumors… She said it herself “I am no man's peace”. Remember when Daily Mail plastered that quote everywhere?” He laughs quietly.

“Yeah, yeah. The first thing she ever said in an interview. How could I forget that? Well, Noel, for what it’s worth she used to be my peace.”, the singer replies and licks his lips:” And I haven’t stopped missing it since I lost her.”

“You know…”, Noel begins:” I shouldn’t be doing this, I really shouldn’t. But a few months ago Y/N moved to the coast. A sweet little house in Hampshire, I’ve seen it- gorgeous. Anyway, if you truly care that much about her…I’ll give you the address.”

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about Jesper Fahey and religion.

Whilst we know that Matthias follows Djel, Inej follows the Saints, Nina was raised with the Saints but is atheist because of her understanding about Grisha, and that Kaz and Wylan adopted atheism based on their childhood experiences, we don’t get a lot of information about how Jesper feels about religion. We know he was raised with the Saints and that when he swears he says “Saints”, as does Nina, where Wylan says “Ghezen”. It’s notable to me that Matthias and Inej either rarely or never invoke a name in vain; I think Inej may say “Saints” in that context the odd time I can’t remember, but I’d argue in that case it’s probably because she isn’t specifically naming them to do so whereas Matthias would have to but I’m working off memory there so please feel free to correct me. But Jesper’s actual relationship with the Saints is arguably quite ambiguous, with no particular passages that point us in either direction. (Show!Jesper is highly implied to be atheistic in season 1 when Inej asks him what he thinks about Alina and he says he doesn’t care whether she’s real or not so long as they get paid, but there isn’t really anything like this in the books to my recollection) I think that might be because he has a far more complex and painful relationship with religion than we see on the surface level, and this has particular links to Nina’s belief that the Saints were possibly real people but were simply powerful Grisha not religious saviours/martyrs.

When Jesper was a child, his father would read him bedtime stories “from his Kaelish book of Saints”. At the same time, Colm was unintentionally damaging Jesper’s view of Grisha power and of himself by forcing him to hide it and telling him “that’s what killed your mother. That’s what took her away from us”. Alongside the self-hatred this cultivates in Jesper, seen mostly in Crooked Kingdom since he’s most open about it in the beautiful, heartbreaking chapter 24, I think it may have also impacted his relationship with religion. To be told as a child that these people are worshipped and valued for the things they could do, the same kind of things he saw his mother do and that he could be capable of, but that his power is a curse and a shameful secret that has to be hidden from the world is so damaging. It effectively raises the question: If it’s different for me than it is for them, what’s wrong with me? Why am I less worthy of love?

When Jesper already had these feelings growing inside him, feelings that went on to massively impact all the relationships in his life (most notably his relationships with Kaz and Wylan but I would also argue his relationship with Inej is affected by this as well) and actively endanger him when he began to try and fill the void he felt with gambling, to emphasise these emotions with something that could have been so beautiful and given him so much comfort by turning it into something that can be used against him by labelling him as less than others is so heartbreaking and honestly painful.

Obviously this is just an interpretation or a theory but this is how I feel about it when I reread, if anyone else has thought about this please feel free to add anything or contradict it with your own interpretation I’d love to read it.

[storm-angel989]

Outside the office Part Three

Hi all! I'm so glad folks are enjoying this series! Let me know in the comments if there is a particular scene you would like expanded on- I am happy to obilige!

That following Sunday morning breakfast also proved mandatory. Snuggled tight in my bed, surrounded by fluffy pillows, I was sound asleep when a loud knocking rudely startled me awake. A brief moment of panic settled over me and it took a heartbeat for me to remember where I was. Unfortunately, I once again couldn’t remember exactly how I had gotten here, or how I had come to be dressed in fuzzy pajamas. 

“Reader! Wake up! Val made pancakes and they’re getting cold!” Velvette’s screech broke through the silence of the morning. 

I groaned but sat up, pulling a robe over my body as I made my way to the door. “What is going on?”

Velvette was dressed in a deep black robe covered with red fuzzy hearts- her typical morning attire. “I said, Val made pancakes and they’re getting cold. Com’on sleepy head. Val’s pancakes are the best cure for a hangover.” She turned and practically skipped down the hallway. 

I followed her, my head still fuzzy from the night before. We had spent Saturday night out at another one of Valentino’s clubs, dancing and drinking- and I guess once again I sipped too much too fast. 

“And pancakes for you.” Vox handed me a plate as soon as I entered the kitchen. “How’s that head feel, hm? Grab a bottle of Sweet Sixteen from the fridge and drink it down.”

I grabbed a bottle of the orange drink from the fridge. Why Velvette and Valentino had named it Sweet Sixteen was beyond me, but whatever was in it helped tremendously.

“I don’t understand why I get knocked on my ass each time I go out.” I complained, sitting down on one of the chairs at the table, my back to the window. “I swear, angels drink. Some of them pretty heavily, might I add.”

“Did you dance at the club while drinking?” Velvette asked, taking a bit of her breakfast. “In heaven, I mean?”

I shook my head vehemently. “Angels do not partake in such behavior.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, good thing you’re only half Angel, because last night showed you certainly do. Anyway, there's your answer- you dance, you drink. It’s simple math.”

“And that simple math is why my clubs are so successful.” Valentino slid into the seat next to me. He reached across and opened the bottle of Sweet Sixteen for me. “Drink. You’ll feel better.” 

“What’s in it anyway?” I asked, taking a sip before taking a bite of my pancakes. “Oh, these are yummy.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Vox bowed before taking his own seat. “I am, after all, the best chef in this household.”

“I don’t think so. I’ll get you back next Sunday.” Valentino said lightly. “And to answer your question Princessa- salt, water, sugar, electrolytes. Everything your body lacks after a night out.”

“Speaking of, can I tell you about fucking Hugo last night? That absolute dumb fuck….” Vox interrupted as he launched into a tirade about his current assistant. I listened patiently. Velvette seemed to tune him out and Valentino rolled his eyes. 

After breakfast it was back to work for the three of them and I found my place wherever I could make myself useful. Being in such close proximity to them made it almost easy to forget they were demons- especially with Velvette and Vox. 

“Are you joining me in the studio today, Princess?” Vox asked when I stood up. “Or will Velvette be hogging you once again?”

I looked at Velvette and she shrugged. “Your choice, but I absolutely need you back tomorrow. I have a new line of workwear that absolutely require your features.” 

“Alright, I guess I’m yours then, Vox.” I replied, then quickly corrected. “Not yours I mean, I can go with you to the studio.”

“Relax, babe. We all know what you meant.” Valentino said gently. 

I flushed. “Just making sure. I better go get ready.”

“My studio after your shower! I have a killer outfit for you.” Velvette hollered as I skittered down the hall. 

An hour and a half later I stepped out of the elevator and into Vox’s studio. True to her word, Velvette had me dressed in the height of what hell considered fashion, heavy on the blacks and the reds. I made my way to Vox’s office, stepping down the long hallway that led to his chair, surrounded by monitors. 

To my surprise, he wasn’t in his usual spot. I pulled out my phone and sent him a message. He replied back instantly. 

I see you. Look to the left. Black door. Just come in. 

I followed his directions and pushed open the door. He stood up when I walked in and handed me a laptop. 

“Go find a quiet place to work. I don’t particularly care where, but if you could read through and edit the documents on your email that would be great. Text me when you’re done- I’ll come to you.” 

I accepted the laptop and went to find an empty cubicle. When Vox initially asked where my skill sets lie, and the topic of editing came up, I didn't expect him to take me up on it. Or to value my input as much as he appeared to. But truth be told, it was something I enjoyed and, well, it was something to keep me busy. 

Several hours later I emailed him the edits, closed my laptop, and sent him a text message that I was finished. I heard the zap of electricity behind me and he appeared. 

“Ah. Good timing, I’m almost done for the day as well. Why don’t you head down to see Velvette? Have lunch down there and get ready for dinner tonight?” He picked up my laptop. “Come, I’ll walk you to the elevator.” 

“Okay, Vox.” 

I followed him and waited quietly next to him when he pushed the button. A few seconds later, I stepped in. 

He gave me a grin as the door closed. “See you tonight Princess.” 

I stepped into Velvette’s studio and one of her employees greeted me, whisking me to the back. She chattered at me about outfit changes, nail color changes, what was trending at the moment, and what wasn’t. 

“Wait,” I interrupted. “What is a sinstergram?”

Her eyes widened. “Omgomgomg.” she pulled her phone out and showed me an icon. She clicked on it and a website full of pictures appeared. “You don’t have one?” 

I hadn’t actually explored my phone that much- beyond texting. Typing on a laptop was easy- other than its more ergonomic design, it was basically the same as the one I was used to. But my phone was a big mystery I just hadn’t solved yet.  I unlocked my phone and saw the icon she was talking about. I clicked it.

Pictures flooded my screen- a photo of Lucifer and I when we first arrived in the lobby of the V tower. Pictures of the four of us on our night out. Captions I didn’t remember writing. 

“See your handle? It’s Princess.Reader. Morningstar . Not the most original, but I’m sure you wanted to keep it simple and straight to the point.” 

“Keep what simple?” Velvette’s voice came from behind me. 

“Sinstergram?” I showed Velvette my phone. 

She rolled her eyes. “Oh. You don’t need to worry about that darling, I control the social media for the four of us. You couldn’t post if you tried- Vox has it blocked. You can scroll through, however. See yourself how the world sees you.”

I scrolled down through the pictures. I almost didn’t recognize myself. In every photo I looked perfect, stunning. Almost too perfect. I expressed my concern to Velvette and she rolled her eyes. 

“It’s the image you show the world, not the truth behind it. But like I said, don’t worry your pretty blonde head about it.” She reached over and clicked off the app. “I got it covered. You just focus on being pretty.” She looked at her employee. “Veronica, take Chelsea’s place. I need you in my office.”

Wordlessly, they switched places and I watched as Chelsea followed Velvette. 

“Velvette wanted bubblegum pink nails?” Veronica asked, reaching across the table. “Let me see those hands. We’ll make them perfect.” 

The rest of the night went by in a blur. And then again. The more time passed, the more my comfort level with the three of them grew. I wouldn’t say I forgot about where I came from, or who I left behind. But the more hours spent together, the more normal our weekly routine became. Occasionally, Velvette or Vox would excuse themselves for the night for a work event, or a fashion show- and just the three left went out. It wasn’t very often, but the disruption didn’t break the rest of the routine. They would simply rejoin the next night, or sometimes find us later on that same night. 

Spending the time alone with Vox and Velvette in particular made them seem- well, safe. More like friends than demons. And although I didn’t spend any time alone with him, the more Wednesdays that passed, I found myself settling into Valentino’s arms as the movies played, craving the comfort and safety he freely offered. Even as I started to figure out my limits and  I didn’t always drink too much at the club, at the end of the night, my head fell into his lap, his hand stroking my hair. Something about the way he held me relieved the worry that even the time we spent together couldn’t fully shake.

It wasn’t until Vox and Velvette both bowed out of dinner one night that I first got to spend alone time with Valentino.

[cupidbedsy]

♬ the star ; ice bound

➪ summary: trevor goes over to his girlfriend's house and is met with a very festive and orderly chloe and a lot of christmas music

➪ warnings: chloe is very particular with christmas decorating

➪ word count: 0.5k

➪ file type: 12 days of au's: christmas edition (ice bound) blurb

➪ cupid's notes: the fic that is supposed to be out today will def not be out bc as i am writing this it is almost nine and i still technically have to finish this one rn. so tomorrow there will be two blurbs (hopefully, i do have to wrap all of the presents tomorrow and make three different kinds of cookes tmrw) and then christmas eve and christmas there will be one each! anyway sorry for the rambling... enjoy the blurb!

© cupidbedsy ; do not copy, repost, or translate my work and designs on any other website or here

It was no surprise that Chloe Hughes’ favorite thing about Christmas was Christmas music. Which is why, when Trevor walked through the door of her apartment, just at the beginning of December, he really should’ve expected All I Want for Christmas Is You to be blasting through whatever speaker his girlfriend had found. 

But sadly, he was so zoned out on the way up there that he didn’t even hear the music coming through the door as he stuck his key into the lock. Walking through the door, he jumped immediately, the music rushing to his ears as he quickly shut the door behind him. 

His eyes looked around frantically, trying to find Chloe, which in all, didn’t take very long because there she was, dressed in a matching white fuzzy pajama set, a Santa hat adorning her head, and singing her heart out. 

She didn’t hear the door close, simply going about placing the lights on the tree as she danced. It wasn’t until he was standing right next to her, reaching to place an ornament on a branch that she noticed him, panic crossing her eyes, “No!”

Trevor jumped again, this time startled by the sound of her voice, looking over at her, eyes wide, “What? What’s wrong?”

“Do not place that ornament on the tree Trevor Zegras. Put it back where you found it.”

He pouted at the use of his full name, “Don’t call me that.” But he did as he was told, placing the red-colored ornament back in the box where the other ones were, “Forgot how mean you get when you’re decorating.”

Her eyes narrowed, “I do not get mean! I just like doing things in an order. Lights, ornaments, tinsel, star. L.O.T.S, Trevor, lots.”

Truthfully, she didn’t know when she came up with that. Whether it was something her mom always did that she followed after, or it was something she started when she was in college and decorated her small Christmas Tree in her dorm room, she would never know, but it’s been with her since she can remember, so it didn’t matter all in all.

“Okay, okay. I’ll do it your way.”

ﾟ+*:୨୧:*﹤

When it came time, Chloe slowly got onto Trevor’s shoulders, warning him slightly, “Trevor I swear to god if you drop me- you’re going to have a lot of fans mad at you for why I can’t be on tour.”

“I’m not going to drop you! Why would I drop you?”

“Because you’re Trevor fucking Zegras.”

He pinched her thigh, grinning at the yelp she let out, and the smack to his head that came afterwards. He walked closer to the tree, following her instructions on where to move, waiting until she placed the star on top of the tree. Once it was placed perfectly, she patted his head, “Okay, put me down now.”

She slid off his shoulders, landing on the carpet with a soft thud before looking up at him, “Thank you.”

His features softened, leaning down to kiss her, murmuring against her lips, “‘Course baby.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing him down for another kiss before they inevitably ended up cuddling on the couch to whatever Christmas movie they found first.

꒰ ICE BOUND TAGLIST ꒱

@winterbarnesblog @bunbunbl0gs @fantillisgirl

ICE BOUND MASTERLIST ; AU'S ; 12 DAYS OF AU'S

TAGLIST ; NHL MASTERLIST ; NAVIGATION

[thewolvesof1998]

Last Line/Tibet Tuesday

Thanks for all the tags! I'm pretty sure I've been tagged by everyone at this point 😂

I do have something to share, this is from a new WIP (I know, I know, I don't need another WIP but I just couldn't help myself and @eddiediaztho is a bad influence) I'm affectionately calling it The Heatwave Fic and it was inspired by me being stuck in the heatwave in London and being delusional from the heat...

Eddie has many regrets in his life, lying on the floor of the cabin in the middle of a heat wave with his six foot two best friend pressing into his side while they were both trying to stay cool under the pitiful breeze of the ancient ceiling fan had the possibility to be high on that list. He turns his head to be confronted with a tattooed and freckle-covered shoulder, he can’t remember when they decided to strip down to their boxers but at the time it had seemed like a good idea, he wasn’t sure about that now considering this was the third time he’d found himself turning to stare at the miles of bare skin.  “Eddie?”  “Hmm?” He drags his eyes up over collarbones, an Adams apple, a chin that had more stubble than usual, lips that Buck had been nervously chewing on and off for the past three days and up until he finally meets eyes as bright as they are blue. So blue in fact that they somehow made his throat even more parched than it already was, he was truly getting delusional from the heat. “Eddie.” “Buck.” “I’m lying in a pool of my own sweat.” He grimaces, “Gross.”  “Eddddiiiieeee” Buck drags his name out in a whine that sounds an awful lot like Chris or maybe Chris sounds an awful lot like Buck, either way, Eddie finds it endearing as much as it is childish. He’s truly lost his mind.  “We have to save water.” He knows what Buck wants, another shower, but they’ve got a limited supply of water and they don’t know how long this heatwave will last.  Buck rolls over to face him, “But I’m so hot.”  Eddie snorts but his reply dies in his throat as his eyes flicker down to Buck’s chest and the way his pecks are squished together in his new position. He wants to bite them, see if they are just as soft as they look. The inappropriate thought causes his cheeks to warm and he can only hope that it blends in with the heat-induced flush that has been present on both of their faces the past few days.  “Just,” He waves his hand in the air, “think about something else,” he mumbles as he trains his eyes up to the ceiling as if the wooden rafters are the most interesting thing he’s seen in years and swears he’s not going to look at Buck until he’s sure he can control himself.  “Like what?” “I don’t know,” He says as he manages a half-decent shrug while lying flat on his back, finding what looks like faces in the wooden beams.  “What are you thinking about?” Buck asks, his voice is low and a little throaty and Eddie blames the lack of sleep for the goosebumps that rise on his arms. Because Buck’s probably just got a dry throat from the heat and here Eddie is lying sexualising his best friend, like a fucking creep. 

And the last line which is a continuation of the above tibet:

Eddie clears his throat, “Uh, that looks like a dog,” He points up to one of the particular doggish faces in the grain of the wooden beams like they’re cloud-watching because he is sure as hell not going to say ‘Oh I was wondering if you would sound like that after I fucked your brains out’. 

Tagging everyone because I honestly don't have the energy to figure out who's already tagged me and who hasn't sooo....

@wikiangela​​ @wildlife4life​ ​ @alyxmastershipper​ @disasterbuckdiaz @spotsandsocks @try-set-me-on-fire @jesuisici33​ @bekkachaos @buddierights @forthewolves @911-on-abc @hippolotamus @shitouttabuck @911onabc @exhuastedpigeon @eddiediaztho @your-catfish-friend @loserdiaz @ladydorian05 @watchyourbuck @king-buckley @chaoticgremlinwholikescheese @fortheloveofbuddie @sammy-souffle @steadfastsaturnsrings @mangacat201 @theotherluciferr @cowboy-buddie @eowon @rainbow-nerdss @nmcggg

[film-in-my-soul]

Positive Feedback | 1,602 | jedusaur / @jedusaur

Summary: Eric’s never had a postgame breakdown of sex before, but he’s not particularly surprised when, before they’ve even caught their breath, Jack says, “Tell me how I can do better.”

blaspheme | 1,811 | kirkaut / @kirkaut

Summary: It’s not that Bittle doesn’t swear. It’s more that Bits doesn’t swear as much as the rest of them, Jack thinks. Bittle swears for emphasis, carefully picking and choosing when to drop a curse into his sentence, just to pack a little punch in whatever he’s saying.

if there's anything on my face you put it there | 2,132 | jedusaur / @jedusaur

Summary: “You don’t have to tell them it was me. I mean, you don’t have to do anything. I’ll stop leaving marks if you want me to. Just..." He lifts up Jack’s shirt and touches one of the hickeys. When he looks back up, his eyes have gone dark. “I really, really like it. Do you mind?”

(see more recommendations below!)

Good Boy | 2,231 | annundriel / @annundriel

Summary: Bitty knows Jack likes to be on his knees. He just didn't realize how much.

Part of the Orientation Package | 2,409 | garden of succulents (staranise) / @star-anise

Summary: Eric can't believe that he just got propositioned on a hookup app on his very first full day at Samwell, but he's not questioning the good things that come his way.

my heart's against your chest, your lips pressed to my neck | 2,771 | theladyingrey42 / @thefangirlingrey

Summary: He can't believe they're finally doing this.

Distraction | 3,053 | rockinhamburger / @rockinhamburger

Summary: It starts with a fruit basket.

Three Points | 3,055 | kiwoa (Rinoa)

Summary: Settling his grip just above the muted curve of Bitty's hips, Jack squeezes. "Better." Bitty coughs out a laugh. "Glad you're satisfied." "Almost satisfied," Jack says. "I still have my shirt and socks on." "Good," Bitty says, and he leans to press them together, forehead to forehead, chest to chest with only cotton worn thin between them. "I like you like this. It's cute."

got bruises on my knees for you | 3,118 | jacksbits (fragilehuge) / @jacksbits

Summary: “Oh, honey, you don’t have to do that,” Bitty says, automatically. “That has to be hell on your knees.”

surrounded by your embrace | 3,200 | tiptoe39 / @tiptoe39

Summary: Boys doing things in the basement in July.

Tongue Tied | 3,384 | justaphage / @justaphage

Summary: Indeed, Jack had missed Hazeapalooza his first year on purpose, and the next two years it seemed either no one remembered he had missed out, or no one wanted to challenge their Captain. Either way, Jack had been okay with that before. At this particular moment though, he’s wishing he had gotten this out of the way some other time. Yes, he was aware that this was a thing that gets him, but if literally anyone but stupid, fucking perfect, Eric Bittle was the one to tie his hands, things would have been much less—um—exciting.

Love On Top | 3,405 | angelsaves / @angelsaves

Summary: Bitty's maple-sugar baking experiment goes even better than he planned: a 'swawesome afternoon at the Haus

can't breathe with these words in my mouth | 3,559 | robokittens / @robokittens

Summary: There are reasons he doesn't usually come down for the parties: people, mostly, and alcohol. But there's a reason he has, this time, and that reason made four dozen cookies earlier and is currently pressed up against his side.

worried about nothing | 3,914 | sarcasticfishes / @ebonybow

Summary: “What’s your name?” Jack asked again, between one kiss and the next. “Bitty,” the guy said. Jack had to hold back an incredulous laugh. “That sounds fake, but ok…”

never could be sweeter than with you | 5,024 | sarcasticfishes / @ebonybow

Summary: Eric came to a halt, finally noticing what was draped over the bare, stripped mattress. He frowned, picking it up. A jacket.

lost and found | 5,263 | wit / @parvuls

Summary: Jack loses a toy and needs help getting it back. The only person he thinks to ask is Bittle.

In Focus | 6,097 | sparklyslug / @sparklyslug

Summary: Jack's just taking pictures whenever he sees something worth photographing, something that seems to fit what he's being told in class, about line and shape and color and beauty. It's like the camera knew before Jack did.

Oh What A Feline | 7,518 | MapleleafCameo / @mapleleafcameo

Summary: Shitty convinces Jack they need a cat. Jack is dubious. Bitty is a little shit. As most cats are. And he's not all he seems.

naked ambition | 8,249 | asfroste / @asfroste

Summary: It’s one thing for Bitty to have a pathetic secret crush and maybe occasionally get off to vague thoughts of Jack-shaped people with blue eyes, and another, completely wrong thing, to actually jerk off to naked pictures of Jack Zimmermann.

It's a Lovely Day | 8,289 | PorcupineGirl

Summary: When a thunderstorm knocks out power in the Haus, Bitty somehow finds himself kneeling in front of a wet, naked Jack Zimmermann. In the dark.

Positive Image | 10,436 | twentysomething

Summary: When Bittle first showed up at a meeting with management, sitting next to Sara with wide, scared eyes, Jack didn't think he had a chance in hell. Sara hired new assistants all the time, most of whom barely made it through a season.

You Never Said You Wouldn’t So Here I Am | 10,656 | emmagrant01 / @emmagrant01

Summary: Eric just wants to get past this crush, but Jack keeps getting in the way.

shakes my tree, sticks to me by esterbrook

3 Part Series | Rated E + G | Total Words: 4,455

Part 1 Summary: Jack hasn't touched Bitty since graduation. That was six weeks and four days ago. Yes, he's been counting.

Love At One Night Stand by orphan_account

4 Part Series | Rated M + G | Total Words: 10,901

Part 1 Summary: “Kiss me,” Eric blurted, and lord he wished he could have blamed it on being drunk. And maybe he was, in a way. Drunk on Jack’s gaze, and his grin, and the way his hand was so, so warm against his skin. “I mean…um…” “Okay,” Jack whispered, and his fingers uncurled to palm Eric’s cheek, thumb brushing along the corner of his mouth before his head dipped in low, and their lips met.

Sledge Hockey by orphan_account

3 Part Series | Rated G-E | Total Words: 53,965

Part 1 Summary: When Eric Bittle gets the invite to not only join a sledge hockey team, but to live with several of the members after he's diagnosed with MS, he's a little hesitant. He wants to keep as much of his life as he can--his job, his independence, and his hobbies. But figure skating is impossible now with his nerve damage, so this may be the only way he can stay on the ice. And it all seems pretty great. If only the hockey captain didn't hate his guts…

2024 Reclists · INBOX · Blog Updates

[lesbiankimdahyun]

can we have a sneak peek at the alphas!minayeon fic you were writing 🫣

I'll do you one better-- here's the full prologue <3

OUT OF OFFICE: PROLOGUE

1.8K words

CW: A/B/O Dynamics

A/N: my first comeback with TWICE was Eyes Wide Open, so WEV’s name is homage to that album 🥺 

also CARATS forgive me for making wonwoo the p2 ceo, im one of u!!

[A!Mina x A!Nayeon]

Nayeon squinted at her computer screen, reading the words in front of her again carefully to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood. 

“The AI allegations? Why the fuck is she talking about that?” Nayeon leaned back in her office chair for a moment in disbelief, the online article she’d been reading still displayed on her desktop monitor. “That fucking journalist, doing exactly as I asked her not to…” The Alpha let out a frustrated huff, resting her chin in her hand for a moment while she thought. “And only someone with exceptionally shitty media training would even think of saying– ” she sat up straight suddenly, cutting off her own thoughts. “Oh…” She reached for the corded phone on her desk and quickly punched a few numbers in. She hit the speaker button, then sat back and waited. 

The phone rang. And rang. Nayeon sighed, fidgeting with the hair tie pulling back her long, light brown hair. “I know you’re in the office, Myoui,” she said under her breath. Finally, the other end picked up. 

“Ah, Nayeon…”

“Mina! I thought you might be in today,” Nayeon said, mustering up a fake, cheerful tone. “The article is out,” she said pointedly, drumming her fingers on her desk slowly. “Have you seen it?”

The woman on the other end cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Yes,” she said, her voice dropping in volume. 

“You know, I liked it,” Nayeon said, nodding her head as if Mina could see her on the other end of the line. “Until I saw the headline. And the first paragraph. And the way the entire article got derailed by the one thing I made that reporter swear up and down they wouldn’t bring up. Tell me there’s no way you’d comment on our competitor’s deep legal shit when your gaming company is doing bigger, better things, right? You wouldn’t comment, not when you’ve been working for the past four years to get this game– this particular game that you first started dreaming of creating in high school– out the door, right?” Nayeon paused for just a moment in case Mina wanted to get a word in, but the other end of her line was dead silent. 

Nayeone exhaled  sharply. “Instead of building hype for the game, now all anyone’s going to notice is the fact that you’re quoted in here saying…” The Alpha swiveled back over to her computer screen. “And this is your direct quote, Myoui: ‘Only someone as naive as PixelPulse’s CEO [Jeon Wonwoo] would have been stupid enough to believe he’d never get caught cutting corners by only using AI instead of real humans to test gameplay analytics and user interface’,” Nayeon read. “‘AI doesn’t test play with epileptic people in mind and now they’re the ones paying the price. I don’t know what’s more embarrassing, the fact that it happened in the first place, or that he hasn’t resigned yet,’” she let out a quick sigh after she finished the last line of the quote. “Mina,” Nayeon said exasperatedly, “You wouldn’t believe the numbers those quotes of yours are doing online right now. Can you please tell me what happened when you spoke with the reporter?”

Nayeon could hear Mina’s rapidly growing panic on the other line, as if she was just hearing for the first time what had been printed. “I- we were just chatting casually at the start of the interview... I didn’t think she would remember–” 

A beeping sound cut off the end of Mina’s sentence. 

“Shit,” Nayeon said, holding her head in her hand and rubbing her forehead. “I have the SVP of Strategic Comms on the other line. Don’t leave for the day until we connect again,” Nayeon said, then hung up her call with Mina. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for a moment, then hit accept on the call waiting. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

 An hour later, one of the worst press team calls of Nayeon’s career was over. She had survived, but barely. When it ended, she kept her office door shut and closed her window blinds slowly. She slowly paced around the rectangular room and stress-cried for a few minutes, allowing herself to sit in her overwhelm and frustration. When she’d had enough, she sat down in her office chair and pulled out her phone, swiping through her apps for a moment. She tapped on one of her favorites: an app connected to the doggy cam she had set up so she could check in on her beloved furry source of joy, Kookeu.

She smiled as the tiny pomeranian’s image came up on her phone screen. The dogwalker always left him with a food puzzle after his afternoon walk, and as expected, Kookeu was up and walking around in the kitchen, using his nose and paws to roll a round, purple food toy that dispensed individual bits of kibble when they fell through the holes at just the right angle. He got one out, and Nayeon turned up the volume to hear the tiny crunching noises Kookeu made as he ate it. 

She sighed softly, satisfied that at least someone’s day was going well, and closed the app. Then Nayeon got up. It was time to speak with her new full-time press project: Wide-Eyed Variant Gaming Founder and Director of Engineering, Myoui Mina. 

The farther Nayeon got away from the “hands-off” side of the company’s building and closer to the side Mina frequented, she noticed a severe spike in the number of monitors people had on their desks. It was well after 5:00 now, but she was relieved to see the lights still on in Mina’s large corner office. Relieved– but weirdly nervous. She didn’t like needing to track people down or give feedback people didn’t want to hear. And Mina’s elusive, quiet temperament made it somehow harder. 

She knocked lightly on the open office door. “Mina,” she said, letting herself in. “Thank you for sticking around. I’m sorry for being so…high strung earlier.”

Mina looked up from her four screen display nervously despite also brimming with annoyance. She couldn’t believe this day: to be the founder of her own company and yet now, in this moment, she felt more like a student that had been asked to stay after class. 

To her credit, the Japanese woman was brilliant, and she and Nayeon both knew it. Mina had received her bachelor’s degree in computer science and a master’s in software engineering from some of the best programs internationally; she was a gamer from the moment she developed consciousness, really. She made the papers when she launched her company, Wide-Eyed Variants, fresh out of undergrad from her childhood home, and made headlines again when she was still able to be the director of its engineering department while going back to school full-time for her master’s. 

She’d been profiled a few times by both gaming and arts and culture outlets, had hit a number of 30 under 30 lists, and even had a few op-eds ghostwritten for her in household name outlets like Forbes and The New York Times. The games Wide-Eyed Variant produced were so popular today that they hardly needed any advertising. Even other game series with heavy cult followings like The Legend of Zelda and Animal Crossing always fell short of the consumer-related numbers Wide-Eyed Variant could pull. And from the outside, she made her journey and career look totally effortless. It was no wonder she was considered a person of interest and expert in the gaming field, and that journalists constantly wanted to talk to her. But that’s why Nayeon was here. Mina’s only downfall was the media and being in the spotlight. The Japanese Alpha often got nervous while being interviewed. There was something so scary about consenting to being “on the record” to her, and even though she wasn’t a huge talker, any sign of the little red recording button tended to make her a little too chatty. 

Mina did her best to push her anxious thoughts away and braced herself for what Nayeon would have to say about it all.

“Relax, we’re fixing this,” Nayeon said, as if reading Mina’s mind. She closed Mina’s office door behind her and took a seat in one of the tan leather chairs reserved for guests across from Mina’s desk. “Crisis comms is doing damage control online and legal is working overtime in case PixelPulse comes for us with a defamation or libel case. But you should know…” Nayeon leaned in a little, her face becoming serious. “General Counsel Park Jihyo told me to tell you she’s actually going to need to speak with you like, immediately. She’s on her way down right now, she said this just couldn’t be done over the phone.”

Mina nearly jumped out of her chair. “WHAT??” 

Nayeon’s face broke into a grin and she crossed her arms. “So worth it,” she said to herself. Then, looking up at Mina, she said, “Ah, I’m sorry, that was a bad joke. I promise Counsel Park isn’t storming down here right now.” 

Mina let out a shaky breath, crumpling a bit in her seat. “What the hell, Nayeon! Don’t do that.”

Nayeon chuckled. “I won’t do it again,” she said, her smile slowly fading. “You’re safe from her wrath of legalese, but you’re not safe from me. Strategic Comms wants you to go through media training.” 

Mina couldn’t help but make a face. Hadn’t she done enough of that? “But… I already did…” 

Nayeon nodded. “Yes, you did. But that was before I joined this company. And I’m sure the training you had with whoever back then was fine. They just want you to…” Nayeon uncrossed her arms and waved her hand. “You know, refresh a few skills, maybe learn a new one or two. Plus, this will give me a chance to make sure the rest of my comms and digital teams have the most accurate sense of your voice going forward.” 

“Oh please,” Mina said, unable to hide her annoyance anymore. “Everyone is overreacting, I’m not that bad, really! This instance was– this—” 

Nayeon let out a laugh. “You’ve lost your privileges to say you’re ‘not that bad.’ At least not until we get you a better quote in another outlet,” she said. “Look, just a few media training sessions with me, and then Strategic Comms will get off my back, and I’ll get off yours. Okay?” 

Mina fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Why does it feel like I don’t actually have a choice in this?” 

Nayeon offered a weak smile. “Because you don’t. But thank you for being so willing.” Nayeon stood up, pushing in her chair as she turned to leave. “I spoke to your scheduler, by the way,” she said, opening the office door. “Plan on getting a few calendar invites from me soon.” 

[averagejoesolomon]

We made it, friends. Welcome to the final installment of Full Circle: 1986. It has been an absolute delight sharing this one with you. It is a downright gift to finally be able to commit this all to paper, after having been in my head for probably close to a decade now. This will probably be the last Full Circle chapter until ~November/December. I know this is longer than usual, but I've finally finished an original manuscript, and I'm going to take an honest shot at publishing it this fall. I so appreciate your patience while I follow that dream. I'll be back as soon as I can with more of Full Circle. There may be some surprises in the meantime (ahem—Listen Series 10-year anniversary), but as always, I can't wait to share what comes next. Those of you doing some math may have already realized we have a very familiar face coming in 1988 👀🍼 Until then, please enjoy. If you're new here, you can read all of Full Circle on Ao3.

Chapter Fourteen

“You’ve got to be goddamn kidding me.”

Joe Solomon can find a way to hide in just about every environment on earth. Anywhere he goes, he’s the figure at the back of the bar, the shadow at the end of the street, the ghost sitting in a blind spot security swears they don’t have. His face is never caught on camera. His name is never on any lists. If there’s darkness around, you can bet Joe’s managed to sink into it. Maybe it’s his New York roots, or old foster kid habits, or Blackthorne training he can’t quite shake, but one thing’s for sure—if Joe don’t want to be found, there’s not a soul on earth who can find him.

But something about the gray-speckled walls of Langley’s third floor draws him out, as though this place was designed to expose all the secrets it collects, starting with men like him. Of course, the hollering doesn’t help either. “Look at yourself.”

Matt turns just in time to see Joe barrel scowl-first down the hall. “Joe,” Matt says, smile wide and welcoming. “Nice to see you up and walking again.”

“Don’t start,” he barks. “You made me stay home, meanwhile you looked like this?”

Joe’s still got a slight limp to his gait, but that’s not much compared to the laundry list of fresh injuries Matt’s working with. He’s officially lost all leverage in this argument. “To be fair,” he says, trying his luck anyway, “I’ve only looked like this for the last 48 hours.”

Joe closes the distance between them, but his voice still stays at that same outraged level. “What the hell happened to you?”

This particular question can’t be answered in the lobby of Director Smith’s main office, which is almost certainly monitored by folks outside of their extremely limited task force—if not bugged by less friendly players. With one look, Matt’s able to tap into their shared shorthand and convey caution. “Details later.”

Joe catches the hint, even if he doesn’t look happy about it. He scans Matt up and down in that even, no-nonsense sort of way Joe scans everything. His voice drops to Matt’s level when he grumbles, “You just get to have all the fun, I guess.”

“If it helps,” Matt says, “I don’t remember most of it.”

“Jesus,” Joe sympathizes. “Would you at least sit down, already? It hurts just looking at you.”

The two of them usually share the same stick-straight posture, a habit leftover from their Army days that proves impossible to break. Joe’s wearing it now, softened over the years, but still there. The subtle draw of his shoulders. The top-to-bottom stacking of his spine. When Matt tries to mimic it, he comes up against the strain in his ribs and curls right back up. He hasn’t been able to pull himself upright since his third helicopter across the Alps, and Joe’s presence ain’t gonna change that, even if Joe’s always made him feel just a little bit invincible. “If I sit down,” says Matt, “I’m not gonna be able to stand back up.”

Joe’s jaw grinds. “I told you I’d get on a flight—”

Matt says, nice and easy, “And I told you I had it handled.”

“You’re never going solo on one of these things again.”

“I didn’t go solo. I had Rachel, and Rachel had a whole team.”

This ain’t much of a comfort in Joe’s book, and it shows. This is the same look Joe gives him anytime Rachel gets mentioned—and as it so happens, it’s also the same look Rachel gives him anytime Joe gets mentioned. Matt’s got no clue how the two most observant people he knows can be this blind to their own similarities. 

No doubt Joe’s got plenty to say when it comes to Rachel Cameron and her team, but he bites his tongue because good guys don’t bad-talk ladies when they’re not around to defend themselves. Instead, he keeps his frustrations broad. “It never should’ve gotten this close.”

“We’ve made some powerful enemies,” Matt says with a shrug. The movement aches, but no more than sitting, or standing, or breathing already does. “They were bound to get a couple hits on us one of these days.”

Joe gives him another surveying glance. “This is more than a couple.”

“It’s worse than it looks.”

“And they didn’t get hits on us. They got hits on you.”

Of all his hiding spots, Joe’s favorite is his own guilt. He retreats into it every chance he gets. Lingers in its shadow, sometimes for days at a time. Guilt is the thing that keeps Joe up at night and when he does finally fall asleep, guilt is the thing that brings him back to his feet, wandering down empty hotel halls well into the witching hour. Joe keeps a running list of sins in his head at all times, some small part of him always repenting for the orders he’s followed, the lies he’s told, the lives he’s taken, and a moment of weakness one Christmas Eve night when his own secrets finally became too heavy to hold all on his own. 

It’s constant, and Joe’s an old pro at finding new things to take the blame for. He’s doing it right now. Guilt that he wasn’t there to take his own beating. Guilt that Matt was.

This is all a load of hooey, according to Matt. A bunch of shame and remorse put there by the Circle of Cavan, because shame and remorse is exactly what turns Circle recruits into Circle agents. He’s said as much to Joe, but it’s never received well—doesn’t seem to help, anyway, so Matt focuses on something that will. “It’s worse than it looks,” he says again, and he meets Joe’s eyes this time. Lets the words settle how they need to for Joe to really believe it.  “Honest.”

Joe squints, assessing Matt with that sharp and attentive look he has. “Chrissake,” he finally sighs. “You lie to Soviet dignitaries with that mouth? Honestly Morgan, you’ve got a godawful tell.”

“Alright, so I’m gonna head down to the docs when we’re done here,” Matt admits. “But Joe, look at me. I’m fine. And if I’m not fine, then I’ll be fine.” Joe looks like he wants to protest and takes in a breath to do exactly that. But Matt’s in no shape for a fight right now, so he interrupts this one before it can even start. “Did you get to my safety deposit box while I was gone?”

This is a lot like asking if Joe got around to sleeping or eating while he was gone, which might be why Joe rolls his eyes. “You asked me to go,” he says, “so I went.”

“And?” Matt prompts.

Joe spots the change in subject, but Matt must look pitiful enough to let it slide. “Nothing,” he says. “No sign of a break-in—passport right where it was supposed to be.”

Matt’s heart drops into his battered gut, landing among the dread that’s been churning there for days. It takes every ounce of training he’s got to keep his face neutral, composed, when he lets out a matter-of-fact, “Huh.”

“Huh?” Joe presses. “What, huh?”

“One of my passports was in Moscow. Saw it with my own two eyes.” 

The lobby is empty around them, lined with unoccupied seats and filled with unread magazines. There’s no one to hide from. There’s not a sound to be heard. Not even the plant in the corner is alive, faded plastic leaves feeding off the fluorescents above. Even so, neither one of them risks a scene for fear that someone, somewhere is watching.

Joe’s words are quiet. Barely there. “If it wasn’t from your deposit box…”

“Someone at Langley is selling the passports they have on file,” Matt says. “And if we track them down…”

They don’t dare finish the thought aloud. They don’t have to. This has always been the endgame. The sole objective Director Smith gave them years ago, back when Joe still had an allegiance to the Circle and Matt didn’t know the name Ioseph Cavan. Find the moles, protect the agency, and save Joe’s reputation in the process. All these years, they’ve been tracking Circle agents from the outside in, working with any informant they could to get back to a source at Langley. This may be their one and only shot at an internal investigation.

But Matt’s ribs twinge against his breath, and the timing reeks of a trap. After all these years of looking, they finally reach a breakthrough on this op days after he takes a beating designed to intimidate. Maybe it’s working, because Matt’s not so sure they should follow this one.  “Conversation for another time,” he hints. “We’ll talk when we get back to the apartment.”

And Joe doesn’t miss a trick. “There’s more?”

When it comes to the Circle, there’s always more. No one knows that better than Joe Solomon. “There’s no such thing as coincidence, right?” 

Joe nods. “Right.”

“Let’s just say,” Matt cautions, “I don’t think it’s a coincidence I was there.”

Matt keeps this theory vague on purpose, trusting Joe to decode the rest.  There’s a glint in his eyes as he runs the numbers and plays out every hypothetical. Joe may not have been in Moscow, but that doesn’t mean he can’t piece together what happened. “Jesus,” he spits, realization playing out in his features. “You think Rachel set you up?”

Well. That sure ain’t the conclusion Matt expected him to make. “What? No. God, no,” Matt sputters. They don’t have time to walk back the math on this particular miscalculation, so Matt cuts to the chase before Joe can go any further down that path. “But Joe, listen. I think Catherine might have.”

This has Joe running a whole new set of numbers through his head, pulling the corners of his mouth into a hard, stoic frown. “No,” he says, definite. “Not a chance. You’re sure it wasn’t Rachel—?”

“Morning, Joe.”

With timing too perfect to be accidental, Rachel chooses this moment to round the corner and join their conversation. She has a cup of vending machine coffee in each hand, steam still rising from the slim notches in each plastic cap. As she sips from one, she holds the other out to Matt, and he’s been awake for too many consecutive hours to decline. It ain’t Joe’s coffee, but it’ll do.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” she says, and Matt has to hand it to her—she’s got this way of making something perfectly pleasant sound like utter devastation. “I heard you’ve been indisposed as of late.”

Joe’s answering glance is aimed directly at Matt, a scathing pout from someone who ain't above using his highly specialized skill set on a girl, just as long as his best friend gives him permission first.

Matt replies with his own warning look and a placating, “Play nice.” To keep the game fair, he turns to Rachel too. “Both of you.”

“What the hell is she doing here?” Joe asks.

Matt throws a thumb in her direction. “Talk to Rachel, when you’re talking to Rachel.”

“Alright.” His eyes flash to her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Rachel takes another sip of her coffee, entirely unruffled. “A pleasure, as always, Joe.”

Joe crosses his arms over his chest. Settles into a wider stance. “You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not at my friendliest,” he says. “It’s just that I gave Matt to you in pretty good shape, and you didn’t exactly return him in pristine condition.”

“All things considered, I’d say he’s in pretty excellent condition, actually.” She’s the cool and collected counter to Joe’s stinging emotion. “Despite your best efforts to put him in the ground.”

Joe huffs, a bull seeing red. “Excuse me?”

Matt physically steps between the two of them. “Alright,” he says. “A little civility, please. I’ll remind you both that there are plenty of things I need your help with, but getting myself into trouble ain’t one of them. If you wanna be mad at someone, you can be mad at me.”

They both look ready to follow through on that offer, so Matt holds out his hands in either direction. Before they can speak he says, “But you can’t be mad at me yet—I’m injured, remember? So, so very injured.”

Joe rolls his eyes and spits out a, “Chrissake,” at the same time Rachel says, “Oh honestly, Matthew.” The two of them seem to find some tentative common ground in their shared annoyance, temporarily refraining from any further bickering. That’s fine. Matt can be a common enemy for now. Maybe it’ll remind them that what they’ve actually got is a common friend. There may be hope for them yet.

He lowers his hands slowly, trying not to disturb the peace. “Rachel’s here on orders from the Director,” he explains, “on account of how she’s recently learned some new information.”

Joe deciphers this in a matter of seconds. “You told her?”

“What I could,” Matt confirms. “It was the only way to get her out of Moscow.”

For all his grumbling, Joe knows the same thing every spy knows—that Moscow is a desperate place in a desperate time, always calling for desperate measures. He won’t begrudge any decisions made within the city’s borders, because he knows firsthand how Moscow can wring a fella out and force him to find alliances in the damnedest places. 

So rather than holler any more than he already has, he turns to Rachel. Looks at her with a deadly serious intensity. “Then he must have told you that you’ve raised some flags?”

Rachel matches his gaze. “He did.”

“That these are dangerous people?”

“He said that too.”

Joe glaces at Matt, then lands back on Rachel one more time. He looks like he wants to hide, but instead he holds strong. “He told you that if you keep looking for them, they’re going to find you first?”

Guilt for pulling Matt into all this. Guilt for pulling in Rachel by proxy.

Rachel’s chin is in its usual place, high and strong. “I’m not afraid of making a few more enemies.”

“I’m not saying it to scare you,” Joe insists. “I’m saying it because it’s the truth, and because you’re smart enough to walk away while you still can.”

Joe Solomon can hide anywhere in the world, but there are some people not even he can hide from, even if he’s spent most of his adult life trying to do exactly that. His words lack all the signs of their usual squabbles, replaced by a man who has been running for as long as he can remember, and wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy.

Rachel Cameron is not his worst enemy, but she knows their rivalry well enough to understand this must be important, if Joe’s decided to put it aside for now. She surrenders her own fight, just temporarily, and grants him a nod. “I’ll do what the agency asks of me,” she says. Then, with some consideration.  “What’s best for Matt. And I suppose, by association, that means I’ll do what’s best for you, too.”

Sometimes Matt forgets that Joe is older than Rachel, by just under two years. In damn near every aspect of espionage and beyond, the two are evenly matched. But right then, Joe’s experience weighs down his every feature and makes him look horribly, achingly old. When it comes to understanding the toll the Circle can take on a person’s soul, few people know more than Joe.

“Do whatever you want,” he says, letting his head fall into a shameful shake. “But just know, as soon as you walk in those doors, you aren’t making decisions for yourself. You’re making them for Abby and your dad. For any friends you have back in Baltimore. For any future family you might want to have someday. Because once these people find out you’re onto them, they won't just stop at you.”

The best way to send Rachel into an uneasy spiral is to dig up her sense of helplessness. It’s something Matt’s only just started to learn, but something Joe seems to have known for a while now, given how easily he leverages her own fears against her. There’s some irony to the idea that a manipulation technique Joe learned in the Circle is the only thing keeping Rachel out of it.

She glances at Matt, but it’s quick. Like she can’t quite help herself. It’s gone before Matt can decide what it means, hidden behind another sip of coffee. “Fine,” she says, bored as she wipes the corner of her lip with her thumb. “Anything else?”

Joe starts to answer one way or the other, but he doesn’t get the chance. They’re interrupted by a petite woman in a pencil skirt, emerging from the office at their backs. She peers over horn-rimmed glasses as she says, “The Director will see you now.”

Best not to keep the boss waiting.

Rachel straightens her shoulders and starts to turn, leading the pack. “Ladies first,” she reminds them both, looking distinctly Abby-like as she shoots a carefree smile over her shoulder.

Matt starts to follow, the way he always follows her lead, but Joe hooks a hand around his arm instead, keeping Matt planted in place. He waits until Rachel is out of earshot and then, in the most covert voice Matt’s ever heard from him, asks, “Are you sleeping with Rachel Cameron?”

Spy training or not, Matt feels a flush crawl up his neck, as fresh flashes catch along his breath. Rachel’s cool hand on his hot chest. Rachel’s moan in his mouth. “Am I—?” he sputters. “Am I sleeping with—?”

But Joe’s just got this look on his face. Cover blown. 

So Matt drops the act. They’ve talked about matters of national security with less urgency when he asks, “How did you know?”

Joe points to the coffee cup in Matt’s hand. “You hate vending machine coffee,” he says. “Which I know, because every time you drink it, you bitch and moan about how my coffee is better.”

“Your coffee is better,” Matt contests.

“And yet, you’re drinking hers,” Joe says. “And the only way you’d ever drink that shit is if you were—”

“Yeah.”

“So you are.”

“Yeah.”

“About time.”

This is so wildly off-base from the response Matt expects that he has to do a double-take. Make sure he heard right. “Wait,” he says. “What’s that supposed to—?”

“Are you boys coming, or what?”

Rachel pops her head around the doorway and Matt resists the completely unspylike urge to throw both hands over Joe’s mouth. “Yep,” he says. “Be right there.”

She retreats back to the office, and Matt turns back toward Joe. “Not a word.”

Joe holds up both hands in faux innocence. “My lips are sealed,” he says, but he’s biting back a grin, and Matt knows he hasn’t heard the last of this. “Now let’s get this over with. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can watch the Royals game.”

Matt really is having a hard time deciding how to feel about Joe, right this moment. “You taped the Royals game for me?”

Joe shrugs. “‘Course I taped the Royals game for you.”

But Matt forgives easy, and Joe’s easy to forgive anyway. “Joe Solomon,” he says, with a grin of his own. “Did you miss me?”

“Alright,” Joe drones. “Get in there, or I’m gonna tell you the scores.”

Matt does as he’s told, because it’s Joe telling him to do it. Plus, the woman with the glasses is tapping her heel in their direction. Even though Matt regularly squares up against arms dealers and armed guards, he's still not willing to tick off the Langley secretaries.

They file into the familiar beige and black office, ready to give their usual debrief and sort out which details should be committed to paper and which should be left to rot in the wind. This process is routine enough that it’s practically scripted, and Matt feels a certain sense of comfort in the repetition, even with Rachel’s presence. In fact, some part of him is relieved for her to finally see all this. To finally understand a part of his life that’s been kept from her for so long.

But the moment he enters the room, he realizes that Rachel ain’t the office’s only new addition.

Director Smith is tucked behind his desk, just like always, shuffling through a stack of paper that never seems to get any smaller, no matter how many times they visit. Like always, his black jacket hangs on the back of his chair and his tie is loose at the collar. He’s filled out the mustache he started growing a few years back, in an attempt to look more like Tom Selleck. He looks mostly the same as he always has, except where age and stress make him look a little more weary.

The man across from him is unfamiliar—at least, Matt thinks he is. But a second glance triggers some deep down certainty that they’ve met before, somewhere, sometime, when Matt was least expecting him. 

The Director looks up at them all. Smiles. “Ah, welcome home, boys,” he says, in his easy Virginian accent. “And Ms. Cameron. I’ve heard wonderful things.”

“Likewise, sir,” Rachel replies, always the perfect lady.

“How is your sister?” he wonders. “Bored to tears, I suppose.”

“And healing up just fine,” she says. “Which, I keep reminding her, is the important part.”

“Yes, well, as soon as she’s ready to go again, we’ll be happy to have her,” he says. “Send my best to her—and to your father, while you’re at it.”

“Will do, sir.”

The mystery man turns to face them head-on, and Matt gets that feeling again. It’s the eyes that strike him first, dark in a way that makes them look endless. Something about the cut of his jaw, the angle of his nose, the furrow of his brow. It all sends a surge of hot familiarity through Matt’s veins, landing like metal in his mouth.

“I’m eager to hear about your latest findings,” Smith goes on. “But first, I suppose you’ve all noticed we’re not alone.”

It’s the start of an introduction and the mystery man stands to meet it, buttoning the front of his jacket as he goes. His movements strike more familiarity into Matt, resonating at a single frequency in his bones.

“Trusting that you’re all able to keep a secret until the news is made official,” says Smith, with some humor, “I’d like to introduce you to the new Director of Operations for the CIA—Mr. Max Edwards.”

Max Edwards’ dark eyes settle onto Matt, holding a hand out to shake. Matt takes it with a flinch, hand still sore from fighting off memories he can’t remember. “Nice to meet you,” says Max, in low southern drawl just barely above a whisper. “Alexander has told me great things about this task force.”

Max moves on to the next hand, and it’s Joe who has the wherewithal to ask, “New, sir?”

Director Smith stands to join the rest of the room, rounding his desk and leaning against its front. “I’ve been called up the ranks, Mr. Solomon,” he says, arms crossing casually across his chest. “Come autumn, I will be serving as the Deputy Director of the CIA.”

“Congratulations,” says Rachel, sincerely.

“That’s great,” Matt mutters, distracted.

Leave it to Joe to ask, “What does that mean for—?”

Director Smith holds up a hand, already well ahead of Joe and not afraid to show it. “We will, of course, have some details to work out. Rest assured we will have time to do so, though I’d prefer not to speak in great detail with Ms. Cameron present.” He turns to Rachel. “No offense intended.”

“None taken,” Rachel replies. Her gaze meets Joe’s, one final debate between the two of them. She must let him win, because she turns back to Smith and says, “As I understand it, my involvement is better left at need-to-know.”

Matt should be relieved. He should be thankful that something Joe said got through to her. That she isn't pushing for more. That she won’t be the Circle’s next target, and that she won’t have to spend a lifetime in this fight. But he’s just too caught up in the way Max walks. In the way he speaks, and moves, and looks.

Smith nods in her direction. “Unfortunately, I believe that’s a wise decision,” he says. “While your skills would be more than welcome, I’m certain I don’t have to share that the consequences could be quite dire.”

“No sir,” Rachel agrees. “That’s been made clear.”

“Then we will save our discussion for another time,” he concludes.  “Until then, the only thing you three need to know is that I will no longer serve as your primary contact on this case. I simply won’t have the time. But I do still hope to stay involved, which is why I wanted to ensure I had someone I trusted in this position.”

All three of them turn to study Max, the man to be trusted. He stands tall. Confident. Certain that he is exactly where he is supposed to be.

“Mr. Edwards will train at my side in the coming months, learning the ins-and-outs of our objectives here,” says Director Smith. “Boys, you’ll be asked to pursue new leads as they come in—no different than before. Ms. Cameron, we’ll work closely with you on your upcoming reports to ensure we commit the correct details to paper. This is among my top priorities as I transition, and Max has expressed similar dedication.”

This all feels so critical and immediate. Matt wishes he could focus, but his brain is caught on repeat, trying to fill the Max Edwards sized hole in his head.

Max clears his throat. “Everything alright, son?” he asks Matt. “You look shaken.”

The set of his shoulders. The crease in his forehead. “I’m sorry sir, it’s just—” he starts, but he hesitates, worried he’ll sound foolish. The whole room watches him, waiting for an answer he ain’t sure about. “I can’t shake the feeling we’ve met before.”

A small sigh rises and falls in Max’s broad chest, something close to a laugh, although Matt can’t imagine this man ever laughing. Max glances toward Director Smith, who grants a permissive node, and Max holds his hands out, putting himself on full display. “You caught me,” he says, simply.  “You have seen me before. At the Bolshoi Theatre.”

With the Bolshoi as a background, Matt’s brain handily fills in the rest of the memory. A bag of passports in his hands, Townsend’s voice at his back, and a mysterious man looking up at him from the ground floor. That must be it. “You spotted us,” Matt remembers. “In the balcony. Before we ran.”

To Matt’s credit, Max didn’t look at all like himself in Moscow, done up in a disguise that relied on dark facial hair and heavy Russian garb. That must be why Matt couldn’t identify him on sight. “You were not too hard to spot, I’m afraid.”

This sounds like it could be a joke, but Matt’s not sure, so he replies in earnest, just in case. “Yes, well,” he says. “Moscow has a way of bringing out unexpected circumstances.”

“I’d like to hear more, when we have time,” says Max. “Learn how we can do better in the future.”

“Yessir.”

When Max Edwards smiles, a chill runs down Matt’s spine, and it must be left over from Moscow. From that feeling of having eyes on his back, and not trusting a single step he takes. It always takes a few days to shake off the Soviet Union and this is no exception. 

Matt meets Max’s eyes once more, and he's got this strange urge to hide. Slip into a crowd, the way he always does. Let the world dissolve at his back, then come up for air once its safe again.

But Max already found him once, back on a balcony in the the Bolshoi. Who's to say it couldn't happen again? Matt may be a natural Pavement Artist, but Max seems like the type who can see straight through anything. “Gentlemen,” Max says, clasping his hands together. “I think this is the start of a beautiful partnership.”

[chrisisaboy]

Detrans Camp part 2

CW: heavy misgendering/detrans, drugging.

The next morning you wake up with your partner wrapped around your arms. You’re both still mentally trying to wake up while rays of serene sunlight and the exchange of body heat keep you both warm in this otherwise cold tent. Still sensitive from last night you keep lazily tracing each other and cuddling till the bell announcing breakfast rings. You stand up and drowsily walk outside to see the other couples leave their tents, all in various stages of the detransition process. It’s a secluded area away from the girls and boys tents, specifically for those that have a significant other mutually helping each other becoming more comfortable with their sex.

You decide to follow a particular couple, a tall one with both shoulder-length hair, to make you’re on the right way. A guy with black hair and a nose piercing turns around and looks at you. ‘Aren’t you the couple of last night?’ You nod in agreement after which they slow down their pace to walk besides you. ‘Sorry about last night. I swear we weren’t the ones to throw things at you. It’s one of the initiation rituals here.’ ‘One of?’ Your partner asked. ‘Yea there’s another one but, it’s best not to think too much about it. It’s not as bad as the first one.’ Your group enters the communal eating place and promptly sit together at a long picknick table. ‘Say whatever you want about the initiation rituals’ the girly blonde looking partner of the boy said ‘but it does break the ice. It’s quite the hurdle to just let go and admit to your primal urges.’ Clearly kneading his partners leg under the table. The ice might be broken but you’re not as mushy as the other couples. Meanwhile breakfast is being served by the people that had to do the kitchen chores that day. ‘Thank you for looking after us, what are your names actually? We don’t know many people here yet.’ ‘I’m Lisa’ answered the dark haired one. ‘You don’t look like a Lisa.’ It’s true, the person before you looks just like an androgynous guy forced into the girls uniform. ‘It’s a long process alright, at least I already accepted that I’m a girl. I even got a nice attentive boyfriend who used to be just as confused and insecure as the two of you’ as she lovingly looks at his blond, still effeminate, boyfriend. ‘And I’m James.’ He answered brightly. ‘It’s true, my girlfriend here is a godsend. Going back to a guy made my libido higher than ever, my dick works again and it just feels so good to admit that I want to fuck people like her.’ Higher libido as a guy makes sense, but then why do you feel so suddenly aroused now? Sexual frustration is quickly taking you over and your partner too seems restless, almost grimacing. Lisa smiles shyly at the two of you. ‘The second initiation is getting spiked by aphrodisiacs. I still remember our first time. We did so many things we’d normally regret’ slowly putting a hand before her face in embarrassment.

‘I think it’s better if we leave to our tent’ your partner says ‘we can just sleep the effects off.’ As you’re walking back to your tent you can’t help but notice your partner and her beautiful sharp chin, pink flush on her cheeks and the way her ass moves. In these clothes it’s impossible to hide arousal. She noticed but tries her best not to look. ‘Last night was fun, eventually, when we like, finally got into it.’ You say, slightly looking away from her. ‘It really was, your kisses where so sweet and you felt so good inside of me.’ Now you’re both red in the face. ‘Being inside of you felt so much warmer than I thought, I was so surprised by that. It was just really nice to feel your soft body against mine.’ The two of you are nearing the tent, not sure what’s going to happen now. ‘I really wanna do it again, the urge is too strong.’ ‘I need this too’ you replied.

Once inside you embrace each other in a deep kiss while pressing hard into each other. Tongues twirling as you’re grinding into each other. She places a hand on your groin and feels your hardness. ‘Do you perhaps wanna share deadnames. Our little secret.’ ‘Why do you wanna know that?’ ‘The thought of it really gets me going, for some reason. Just the idea that we share something so personal with each other. To imagine you as a guy with that name, that’s just so hot.’ The hungry look in her eyes, the buildup of her horniness, and her lips are too inviting. As you tell her your deadname your dick throbs in anticipation, right between her legs. She shared hers as well. ‘Would be a shame if you referred me by that name sometimes.’ ‘I bet you’d like that’ you correctly guess as her breathing is getting heavier thinking of the idea. She places her hand in your pants as you pull her in closer.

‘You’re such a cute girl when you jerk me off like that. Nothing but a girl in my arms.’ ‘Yes, and a cuter one than you ever were.’ You rub each other in heavier motions. You can feel her getting more wet the more you play with her. Being inside there felt better than anything else, you think to yourself. You allow yourself to finally grab her ass, feel the softness of it, bumping your erection into her, imaging what it would be like to feel her insides again. She bites her lip before releasing all the pent up energy, letting out an unwanted girly moan. ‘That was so intimate to see’ you say as the two of you are still embracing and kissing, her face more red than ever out of slight embarrassment. ‘Do you want to do it’ she asks between the smooches. ‘It just makes me feel too much like a guy, that’s all.’ But sweetheart, you are a guy. That’s just who you are and what you’re supposed to be. Isn’t that the entire reason we’re here? I genuinely prefer you this way. Dominant, confident, such a thick cock that’s just aching to get in me, I just need you to be like this all the time. ‘I do want to get in you’ you respond desperately. It’s been a while since you’ve been this hard.

You slowly push her onto the bed, as she slightly spreads her legs, allowing you on top of her. ‘This time without the ropes?’ ‘I’d love to, ropes aren’t my thing either.’ You pin her completely with your superior strength. ‘I prefer to restrict girls like you with just my hands.’ ‘You’re such a guy for doing this, for even wanting this.’ ‘You’re one to talk. Isn’t it you who opened her legs for a strong boy like me, isn’t it you that is quivering of the thought that I’m putting it between her legs.’ ‘Just take me like a girl already.’ She gasps lightly as you push it in, not breaking any eye contact. ‘I am so glad we’re doing this together again’ she says as the first few shallow thrust are being done. ‘Just look how cute we are, we just look like every other straight couple.’ ‘This time not even against our will, just the two of us, surrendering to our nature.’ Out of pure instinct you both push yourselves harder and harder into each other. Even the kisses are getting wetter and more desperate. ‘Don’t you like it how our genitals define us, how we’re nothing but what’s between our legs?’ She exclaims. ‘It feels so good to give in.’ ‘A real boy would never get this wet for me, only girls do.’ ‘A real girl would never get this hard either, only pent up guys.’ You’re pushing yourself fully into her, giving it your all. A genuine growl escapes you. ‘You’re such a good girl for taking it’ you say as you deadname her and stroke the hair on her head. The girly moans are coming back. ‘Im going to cum just like a girl.’ ‘you’re going to make me cum just like a guy’ you respond. Her walls contracting all around you, her mouth making noises right next to your ear. She moans your deadname as she grabs you tighter than ever, making you orgasm as well. Still slowly pushing inside each other with locked arms, you’re astounded at what a blessing the other person is to you.

‘I like having such a strong boyfriend’ she says. ‘I like having such a cute girlfriend’ you reply. With all the love chemicals in the air you spoon your cute girlfriend with a big protective hug while slowly dozing off to a nap. Still exchanging body heat, in this otherwise cold tent.

[veliseraptor]

🪐🌵🍄🔪🦷🏜️ 🪲🎨 for the Writers Truth & Dare Ask Game! Hopefully you're having a nice day💜

⇢ name three good things going on in your life right now

ooh this is a good one to...remind me of good things going on in my life right now, orz. not the easiest at the moment but

Writing is still going very slowly (more slowly than I would like), but last month I wrote the most in terms of word count that I have so far this year, and almost as much as in December despite the fact that I didn't have as much time off.

I'm really enjoying watching @ameliarating play Baldur's Gate 3 over her shoulder.

I'm planning on starting going swimming once a week, which is going to be a bit of a challenge to start but should be really good for me once I get in the habit.

⇢ share the link to a playlist you love

is it egotistical if I do one of my own? probably! I'm doing it anyway. I'm still very proud of my Exandria Unlimited: Calamity fanmix. I think it is a banger.

⇢ share a head canon for one of your favourite ships or pairings

while I think to start with Xue Yang hates Song Lan to absolute shreds after Xiao Xingchen dies, over time that changes and he gets increasingly attached to him, even though Song Lan doesn't, you know, have much of a personality at the time. He treats him sort of like he does, though, and by the time Wei Wuxian frees him Xue Yang sort of considers Song Lan his best friend, weirdly. Like, he's a science experiment but he's also a friend. It's the kind of relationship that only works if you're Xue Yang. The weirder thing is that it's not entirely one-sided.

⇢ what's the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project?

it's not that weird, but there was the time I had someone dig me up the translation of Ovid that existed in the 16th century for Lymond fic so that I could accurately quote what the English translation of a particular line would look like. Or maybe it was even more specific than that and I wanted to know what the Latin would look like, I don't exactly remember. I know it was specific. Most of the weirdly specific things I've researched for fic are Lymond-related and have to do with primary sources I'm borrowing quotations from.

⇢ share some personal wisdom or a life hack you swear on

I'm much better at giving advice than taking it - I know all kinds of things I should be doing that would make my life better but actually implementing them is, uh, another story. But I guess if I were to try to think of something that I actually do do that I try to implement in my own life, maybe I'd say it's getting a little bit of an attitude of "do it anyway." It's sort of like the "do it scared" thing but it also includes things like "I'm tired" or "I don't think anyone will like this" or "I don't know if I like this" and sometimes the thing to do is just. Do it anyway.

Maybe this comes out of my knowing that my brain and my emotions are inherently skewed and unreliable and so if I didn't have that attitude it would get in the way of me doing much of anything.

⇢ what's your favourite type of comment to receive on your work?

I feel like this is probably a common answer, but definitely I love a comment that does some kind of analysis/commentary on specific aspects of a work. it's not common, or anything, but I thrive on comments that take my work seriously in some way as worth lingering on things like word choice or what a particular excerpt says about characterization, or stuff like that. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside.

⇢ add 50 words to your current wip and share the paragraph here

When they settled down at their campsite, Xingchen reached out to grasp Xue Yang’s wrist only for Xue Yang to flinch away.  Both of them froze. Xue Yang’s mouth twisted; Xingchen’s expression betrayed frustration and hurt together.  “Don’t fuss, Daozhang,” Xue Yang said, his voice studiously light. “I’m good.” “You’re still weak,” Xingchen said, at the same time as a-Qing said, “don’t be stupid.”  “I’ll be fine,” Xue Yang said dismissively. “I just need a minute, that’s all.” His body language had gone tense and defensive.

⇢ link your favourite piece of fanart and explain why you like it

my favorite? my absolute favorite? ever?? I don't even know how to choose. I guess if I'm picking one out of the many, many works of fanart that I love (seriously, there's so many), I might have to go with this commission I got from @yutaan. I love the joy of it, the expressions, and I'm a huge fan of papercraft as a medium - the variety of textures and patterns is a particular treat. It's really a lovely piece and the fact that it was made for me just makes it even more special.

[writers truth & dare ask game]