imagine tim is busy but you need him soooo bad and you’re trying to seduce him but he won’t budge omg
baby, please...
IN WHICH... your boyfriend is "too busy" for you
MDNI 18+ — SMUT BELOW THE CUT
warnings: smut smut smut, established relationship, f!reader, afab, bf!tim, pet names, cussing, kinda mean!tim but its teasingly, also kinda brat!reader but briefly, fingering
wc: 1.4k
"Tim," you whine for the umpteenth time in the past few minutes. He's been cooped up in the Batcave for hours, trying to make progress with a case he's been working on.
You've been at his side the entire time, trying to entice him to just touch you.
His hand rubs soothingly up and down your side, letting you feel that he's here. But it's simply not enough. You need him, now. "Baby, what do you think of this lead?" he asks, ignoring your whining entirely.
You roll your eyes, what a dick. "C'mon, Timmy..." you sigh, flashing big, doe-like eyes up at him in hopes that he'll crack. "Can't you see how badly I need you? Just take me to your room," you purr.
He casts a sideways glance at you, smirking that stupid, oh so sexy smirk. "You can't wait?"
You shake your head, frowning. Your thighs clench together, hoping to relieve some of the insufferable pulsing between your legs. "I've already waited here for 2 hours. And I've been good! I helped you with the case...a little."
He laughs, shaking his head softly. "Oh, my baby," he coos almost condescendingly. "You're that desperate, hmm?"
You groan, rolling your eyes once again. "Yes, Tim. I am. And you're being mean."
"C'mere, then, love," he coaxes, gently pulling you into his lap. Your legs land on either side of his as he strokes your hair out of your face. "Am I neglecting you, sweets?" he teases.
"Ugh– you're such an ass," you huff, turning your face away from him. His fingers prod at your chin, trying to get you to look at him once more, but he won't budge.
"Baby, c'mon," he coos, "I'll take care of you but only if you look at me?"
You keep your little act up for a few more moments before finally—albeit reluctantly—turning your head back to face him.
"Yeah, there's my pretty girl," he hums, cupping your cheeks. "I'm sorry for withholding you, baby."
"Hmph," you grumble, a fat pout on your lips. "I don't believe you."
"Let me show you then, m'kay?" he whispers before oh so gently leaning in to press his lips to yours.
The case files are long forgotten on the counter as he cups your jaw, lips sliding sweetly against yours. The kiss is warm, kind, loving...Tim. After a bit his tongue slides against your lips, seeking entrance—which you happily grant him. Your lips part and his wet, slippery tongue meets yours in soft massages.
The feel of your tongues tangling and your lips sliding is nearly euphoric. You've needed your boyfriend so badly for so long, and now—finally—you get him.
"Timmy...please," you whine into his mouth, feeling the corners of his lips curl in amusement.
"I'm getting there, love," he whispers sensually against you. You then feel his hands begin to wander. Down your neck, over your shoulders, to your breasts. He stops there momentarily, his warm hands kneading the supple flesh, thumbs rolling over your sensitive nipples.
He coaxes quite a few moans out of you before deeming himself satisfied, hands continuing their journey down your sides and slipping to your lower back. From there, his hands knead your ass through your little lounge shorts.
"So beautiful, my girl," he breathes, mesmerized. His lips leave yours to trail down to your neck, where he sucks deep hickies into the flesh. "Spread these legs a little more for me, baby."
Obligingly, you force your legs to widen around his hips, giving his fingers better access to your wet pussy, which is already forming a damp spot in the middle of your shorts. "Aww, doll," he coos, fingers feeling the soaked fabric. Your hips jerk slightly at his fingers finally on your cunt, even if its not the real thing yet. "You really did need me, huh?"
"What, did you think I was lying?" you grumble.
"No, I just didn't know it was this severe," he chuckles, sliding his thumb up and down your cunt through the fabric. He can feel the imprint of your folds through the tight shorts, and he strokes them softly. He can't even see what he's doing behind your back, and yet he's doing it so good.
You moan softly. "Baby..."
"Magic word?"
"Please."
Smirking in satisfaction, his lips remove themselves from your neck, which is now blooming with deep red love bites that are sure to persist for a while. Both hands reach back to slowly slide your shorts and panties down your legs—you lift your hips to help him bring them down to your ankles. You kick both garments off, letting them fall to the floor of the Batcave.
He looks into your eyes as his fingers finally make contact with your bare pussy. He loves nothing more than the way your face contorts, eyes softening, bottom lip tucking between your teeth, brows furrowed.
"That's nice, baby, yeah?" he murmurs, his pointer finger massaging through the slick gathering in your folds, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your sensitive clit.
You whine, "oh, Tim, yes– please..."
"Please what, baby?" he coaxes, feeling a string of pure arousal drip slowly out of you. "What do you need?"
"Put them inside," you beg.
He smiles, tilting his head for confirmation as his middle finger begins to prod at your hole.
You nod, giving him the okay. His thick middle finger slides slowly into your wet cunt, not stopping until he's knuckle-deep.
"Mmm, fuck," you whimper, head falling into the crook of Tim's neck. You muffle your moans and whines there as he begins to move, his finger thrusting into your hole.
It starts slow, sensual...but after a minute or so he begins to absolutely pound his finger into you. His palm plaps against you where it meets your ass with each quick movement. Eventually, he slips his ring finger in as well.
"Oh! Tim!" you moan, head burrowing deeper into his neck. And, as if the quick, choppy thrusts weren't enough, he curls his fingers juuust right, hitting that sweet spot deep in your insides.
"Oooh, yeah, right there, doll?" he coos, hammering into that specific spot that had you all jerky and sensitive.
"M'gonna cum," you sniffle, hips grinding down against his fingers, riding his hand.
He lets out a soft sound—you can feel the hardness of his erection against your stomach, and it makes you bite your lip against the sounds spilling from you. "Can you take a third, baby?"
Sniffling and holding back pleasured tears, you nod. It's a tight fit as he begins to stuff his pointer finger into you as well. But, god does it feel good—full.
"Ah– oh, fuck!" you whine, legs getting shaky and weak where they are bracketed at Tim's sides. "So close, Timmy..."
His thumb begins tight, punishing circles against your pulsing clit, and it's exactly that which sends you over the edge. With a moan that you have to sing into his neck, your cum gushes out around his fingers, soaking his hand and the fabric of his pants beneath you.
His thrusts don't slow nor do they waver until you've completely come down from your high. Only then does he begin to gently pull out of you, his fingers wet and drooly with your fluid.
And, as if the fingering of your life wasn't enough, he looks passionately into your blown-wide eyes as he brings the 3 fingers to his mouth, lewdly sucking all your essence off of them.
"Fuck, baby, you taste so good," he groans softly, wiping the remainder off on his pants—he's going to have to change anyway, so who cares?
He swipes your panties and shorts off the ground, sliding them up your legs to where they belong. He gives your ass a gentle, approving pat, as if saying "good job."
He smiles softly at your face, taking you in. You're flushes, eyes watery, lips swollen from all his kisses...you look wrecked—it's a divine sight.
"Did I satiate you?" he teases, his clean hand coming up to stroke your hair tenderly.
You smile softly at your boyfriend, leaning into his touch on your hair. "Thank you, Tim."
He leans in, dropping a sweet kiss to your forehead. "You did a good job, my sweet girl."
Your eyes flicker down to the raging boner that's clear through his pants. Solid B print, you think to yourself. "You need help with that?" you tease.
His eyes glimmer and he wiggles his brows. "Why? You offerin' to help?"
ahhh hellooo!! i am going to be attempting to write a Toby Rogers x Reader fic based loosely on a visual novel created by @crushedsweets!
they are an amazing author and i was really inspired by their work, so here is my take on the concept! please keep in mind that the way the characters are written is simply my personal preferences on how i think they would behave in this au, if you do not like it, that is totally okay!! i will admit, they might be a little fanon (i'm so sorry </3) this story is going to include Tim, Brian, Toby, and possibly Kate :> i have a general direction for where i am wanting to go, but i am always open for suggestions! as of now, i'm going to see how much interaction i get and then decide if it's worth committing to. it is going to be a slow burn and will most likely delve into some triggering things such as SA, SH, grooming, drug use, PTSD and typical creepypasta violence. anyways, thank you for reading my word vomit, i hope you enjoy the first chapter!!
Chapter One: Return
Summertime had always found a way to creep into your bones and hollow out a space for itself there.
There was something about it all — the sticky, humid air that dampened your lungs, the days spent down at the rocks scraping your knees and slipping into the cool, rushing stream below. It thundered on like a barrage, and probably would for the rest of eternity (at least, you hoped it would). It wasn’t these things alone that made up your affections for the season, though. That devotion belonged to your grandfather’s farm, and the quaint farm house residing on the property that had served as your “home” for the past seven summers.
It had become a sort of seasonal ritual now, to be shipped off to spend those two grievous months serving time on the farm, tending to the crops and shoveling animal feces (so much fun.) It was grueling work at first, but it was arguably better than being trapped at home with your mother. At least your grandfather never sent you to the corner store for cigarettes or passed out drunk everyday. He was the complete opposite of your mother actually, which was strange because he had raised her by himself. You never blamed him for your mother’s insolent behavior though, and over the years you’d grown close with him. He had become a breath of fresh air in between bouts of suffocation, and how could you ever hate your escape?
This summer was sure to shape up exactly the same as the rest, with one new condition. You had turned 18 last Fall, and now that you’d officially graduated, this would likely be your last summer on the farm. You tried not to think too deeply about it as you stepped up onto the porch of the house, grimacing at the jarring protests of the dry rotted structure supporting you. The sun was settling in for the night, casting long contorting shadows on the farm around you and painting the sky an unsettling red. You stepped up to the front door, its sun bleached off-blueish color and chipping paint job greeting you like an old friend. You recall the door before the passage of time had desaturated it, the lovely baby blue color that might’ve made the house look lively if it weren’t for the bland scenery of the farm itself. Even the knob, once a gleaming gold, had worn into a fine bronze from overuse. The metal was warm against your palm as you twisted it, struggling a bit with the give before finally unsticking the door with a creak and swinging inside.
“Oh, I didn’ realize ya’d made it yet, I would’ve come ‘n gotcha, pumpkin’.” Your grandfather — who you fondly referred to as Papa — stood from his chair, which was positioned in front of the small box TV he refused to replace, with a groan, and hobbled toward you. He smiled wide, pulling you into a firm hug, slipping your bag off of your shoulder and onto his in the process. He pulled back from you, taking in your face with all the adoration of a loving grandparent.
“You don’t have to carry my bag, Papa.” You tried to protest, but the old man shook his head, dark eyes crinkling around the edges as he smiled in his toothy way that had always made you laugh as a child.
“Now you know that wouldn’ polite of yer ol’ PawPaw.” He spoke with a southern twang, his voice grainy from years of barking orders on the farm. Your grandfather was a kind man though, and it shone in his face. His eyes were always squinting with the force of his smile, his thin and sagging skin stretching taunt over the bones to convey his joy. He knew how to make a person laugh, but that wasn’t to be mistaken for weakness. Your grandfather had been a cowboy all his life, a fighter when he had to, and he’d let you know it — even if those days were far, far behind him.
You shake your head at his words, though you couldn’t help the smile that stretched your face. You had missed him. You were about to shoot back with some witty remark when a sudden scratching came from behind his bedroom door, which was located directly across the house from the front door. Your attention is immediately snapped to the door, worn like everything else in the house, but somehow buzzing with the novelty of something new.
Papa smiled, watching your face as another round of scratching came, this time accompanied with.. whining? He stepped back from you, walking toward the source of the alluding sound. “I thought ya might wan’ someone to keep ya company,” His hand settled on the doorknob, twisting and pushing back the faded wood, letting loose a small brown puppy who bounded immediately toward you with all the joy such a small thing could give. It yipped at your feet, its small body swinging wildly as it jumped to paw at your legs.
“Oh my god,” You breathed, unable to stop the smile on your lips as you dropped to your knees to greet the small thing. It immediately jumped into you, it’s small head colliding with your face as it licked and sniffed your cheeks and chin, nearly sticking its tiny pink tongue in your mouth with the ferocity of its uncontrollable excitement. You scooped it into your arms with a laugh, thanking your Papa as you stood with the puppy cradled to your chest.
“He’s a graduation gift, ‘m glad you like ‘im” Papa mirrored your own smile, nodding his head once as if he were satisfied with your infectious joy; which he was, as always. Papa lived to make you smile, even if just a little. “You’ll have t’ introduce ‘im to Tim ‘n Brian tomorrow.”
Your head shot up at that, attention pulled away from the pup in your arms. Tim and Brian. Your heart swelled at the mention of those two estranged men, who’d become something of older brother figures to you — or cool uncles, considering they both had to be at least five years into their thirties. They’d worked for your grandfather for some odd years now, maybe four? You weren’t exactly sure — they had a way of making you feel like they’d always been there.
“I definitely will.” You chirped back with a grin. Papa stepped toward you again, tenderly taking the dog into his hands. They almost looked the same, Papa and the dog. Papa’s wispy dark hair, or what was left of it anyway, had begun graying at the roots and was parted to the side. He’d worn it like that as long as you could remember. He had dark eyes, a deep chestnut like your mothers, and when you looked into them it was almost like seeing her staring back at you. It would’ve been haunting if it weren’t for everything else about the man — his thin, wrinkling skin that had withered from years of sun damage and over-expressive joy. The gap in between his front teeth that flashed every time he’d smile (he used to poke the tip of his tongue through it when you were young to make you laugh; he was always doing things like that.)
The dog, which you had decided to call Chestnut, had wispy, fluffy hair that puffed out to make him appear no larger than the average cantaloupe. His eyes were dark and glossy, like two tapioca pearls had popped directly into his little head. He had almost had a fully black nose, save for a large splotch of pink that overtook the left side of his nostril. He stared back at you, just as you had been staring at him, wagging his tail with so much force it shook his tiny body. He almost looked as though he had no idea what was going on as he writhed in Papa’s arms, but was happy to be a part of it, nonetheless.
—----------------------
After a bit of catching up with Papa and fawning over the new puppy, you had descended upstairs into your bedroom. Papa was kind enough to keep Chestnut for the night, knowing that you’d need the sleep — and though he wouldn’t admit it, you were sure he just liked having the dog around. It was already late when you had arrived, and by now it was nearly midnight. You knew you needed sleep, considering you had a full day ahead of assisting Tim and Brian on the farm.
Before they’d been hired, you and Papa had done most of the work —which of course meant Papa making you do next to nothing, because he couldn’t help but spoil his girl rotten — and as nice as that was, you could tell it took a toll on him physically. Sure, he was in shape for his age, but he was still his age, as vehemently as he tried to pretend he was still 40. You can’t remember when Tim and Brian showed up, it was like one day they were just there, and every day after too. You’d taken to them quickly, and as bothered as they’d tried to be with you, they had done the same. The pair never worked you too hard, but they definitely made sure you were never short on things to do. They had taught you a lot about wilderness survival over the years, about work ethic, how to fight, and some other less than responsible things, too.
You think of the memories fondly as you take in your bedroom, almost shot with nostalgia. You felt that very often in this house, especially now as you settle onto your bed. The sheets adorn a small flower design spotting them, faded from being washed. They’re old, like everything here, and have begun to develop holes through the soft cotton. You thumb at them carefully, frowning. You’ll have to patch those. The crickets sing restlessly outside, and you can hear some cicadas too, joining in on the symphony of the night. Your walls were littered with pictures of you with Tim and Brian, your grandfather, and miscellaneous polaroids you’d taken down by the stream of flowers and birds, the occasional bug. Toeing off your shoes, you pull your feet up into bed, your metal bed frame settling as you do. You don’t bother to change out of your day clothes; you’d be getting up early enough to dig through your bag anyways. From your bed, which is pushed against the left most wall of your bedroom, you have two windows which are easily accessible. One behind your bed, the sill positioned just below the ornate metal headboard which made it increasingly difficult to squeeze through as you grew (you’d tripped one too many times coming through that window, once even busting your lip open.), and the one opposite to your bed along the right wall, which was the most convenient to slip through. You’d spent many long nights smoking on the rooftop beyond, that was just perfectly slanted so that you were able to walk, sit, and lay on it without the worry of tumbling off.
You stare though the rightmost one now. The night sky back home had never had the same dazzling effect that it had here. The stars seemed to twinkle, and you swore you could see the galaxy if you looked hard enough, the purples and blues swirling together in their ethereal way. It was nearly a full moon, you noticed, as She cast her bright light onto the farm. When you were little, you had believed that the stars were dancing for the moon, celebrating Her return to them. Tonight, as you watched a million little stars waltz across the midnight sky, you wondered somewhere distantly if they might’ve been dancing for you, for your return to the farm. If only you had realized that the stars and the moon weren’t dancing for you. They were screaming.
Tim is a smoker himself, but he stays old fashioned. He sees no appeal in huffing smoke from a little usb looking box.
When he found out you smoked he was surprised, didn’t smell it on you or something.
You smoke together on the porch of the mansion sometimes, he lets off steam while your eyes start to gloss over and droop.
He caught onto to the fact that you smoked carts quickly.
You offered to let him hit and he’s hesitant the first couple times but eventually agrees to letting you shotgun him. He shotguns you right back.
He doesn’t like smoking weed, especially that often. Makes him off his game and sloppy.
He respects you for somehow managing to not run your face in dirt while having cannabis in your system during a mission.
A perfect date night is hotboxing in your room with a movie and take out. Netflix and smoke>>>
Brian
Similar to Tim
He’s more eager to do freaky things involving both your habits.
He basically begged you to teach him how to ghost. Failed miserably
Doesn’t usually smoke anything other than cigarettes but was a mini stoner when he was younger
You blowed smoke in hoodies face once and you ended up on the floor with your hands pinned.
When you’re high during missions, you’re usually fine but sometimes get pushed aside by Hoodie
He trusts your insight but doesn’t want to risk it
Doesn’t realize you’re tolerance is strong enough that your just a little slower and not fully on cloud nine
He brings you joints he either buys or found in some (now dead) guys belongings. You don’t ask.
The first person to willingly buy you shit, because everyone else is stingy or broke.
Toby
Bless this boys heart
Got too excited the first time and greened tf out.
Ended up hugging the toilet for an hour or so.
Accidentally bought you a nic vape when you phoned him and asked him to buy you a cart.
Didn’t have the fien or stoner high school/college experience.
Doesn’t have much of an opinion.
If reader is human or can have bad lungs, Toby might be a little concerned if I gets serious. But he never really considered actually worrying about your smoking.
You’ll have to teach him everything because he’s only ever been near cigarettes and hated their taste.
He’s an indica boy fr
It calms his tics. Most times you get High together he’ll lay against you and basically be half asleep for most of it.
Saw you doing a French inhale and thought it was the coolest shit ever
If reader gets the weed shakes infront of him, you are being taken to jack or any medical professional in the area. No matter what
Kate
She either hates smoking and thinks it’s annoying, with cigarettes being a little of the exception, or carries two vapes on her at all times.
Ok maybe not but you can’t convince me she’s never hit a nic vape
She probably doesn’t get high often, or maybe only after a stressful week
But seriously, your telling me a girl who used to spend her free time in the forest with her friend DOESNT smoke?? Bs
Didn’t “quit”, just stopped smoking as a hobby.
Doesn’t have a heavy opinion on smoking when it comes to reader
Absolutely HATES when somebody blows smoke on her face. They will be gutted so quick
Will deny it but you know she stole a weed pen from your room and put it back a week later.
You can choose whether this was some stalker perv shit or desperate smoker bs.
Habit
Pain kink.
Must I say more?
Seriously—you smoke? He’s gonna NEED you to burn him with a joint or cigarette
Will he ever be needy? FUHHH NOOOO! He’s too nonchalant for that…
The first time you’re passing the joint he holds your arm out and burns you. Says he’s “marking what’s his”
You do it back in the heat of the moment and are too high to notice he only pretended to put up a fight
Evan’s body can handle weed relatively well. Too healthy for nic though, so he stays away from cigarettes
Thought you were genuinely slow in the brain when he found you greening out on the couch.
Stayed with you the whole night but only because he “didn’t want to be the one cleaning vomit”
Bs
Doesn’t have a preference, both strands make him psych out
He doesn’t get normal high, he gets out of body high. Like a soul awakening experience everytime
Called you the “fucking stupid” when you tried to show him tricks but just kept getting higher and higher and failing
Can I request that maybe you can do one with the others as well?
Also, can I be 🫀 anon?
┗━━━━Shifting Is As Easy As Breathing━━━━┛
TW Mentions: Sex.
Author's note: I loved making this!! Lmk if you want a part 3 w lj, ej, liu, nat, kate and more. Also yes u can be 🫀anon :) AHHH IM SO HAPPY I HAVE MY FIRST ANON LIKEEEE
Content you’ll see here: Gen!neutral reader, yandere!tim drake, just Tim being an ass as a partner tbh
English it’s not my first language, so please be patient
A long night on February, that’s what Tim remembers it as. It all happened one night when he was scrolling through his phone, waiting for patrol to be over
That’s when his friend told him about you, a small chat about someone he would forget in a few hours, turns out he didn’t. After so many months pursuing Bernard, he never thought about something as falling in love could happen again.
You didn’t talk to each other that day, not even on the next days, but your account following his personal one meant something. He saw you have a life, sometimes replying to your stories in a way to start a quick chat, never doing more than that.
Until it happened, a small talk got into a daily chat, promises to meet up turned into “where do we go next?” And it felt so weird
So weird to be deeply in love, giggling whenever you got jealous of his friendship with Kon, kicking the air whenever you sent a voice message. That kind of stuff made Tim’s heart flutter like he was thirteen again, a big feeling that stopped.
Yeah, you kept being a sweetheart, loving him in a way everything felt right, it just Tim grew bored of it, your daily chats were boring and he started praying for you to not text him
He was busy doing stuff, but turns out he wasn’t up for having someone as needy as you. Yeah, it was nice to hear someone telling him how much they love him, but now he needs something more… interesting.
Then, if that’s how he feels, why does he suddenly feel so mad at seeing you, the person he thought he couldn’t care less with someone else? Is it something wrong with him? Oh, no, he just knows when someone belongs to him and that someone is you
You belong to him.
So, since you deeply cared about him, he just had to come back to your life.
Life came back as what it once was
Until he grew tired of it, again. But now you gave him a reason to leave, being jealous of his best friend was enough to want someone away right? So he left.
Life felt easier that way, he tried to get with more people, have a life. He swears he did but once life got bored and he found himself scrolling through your account he knew he had to come back
A girl he thought you wouldn’t look at was already getting comfy around you, a girl he despised as much as he despised The joker.
Hello! He is back again, calling you by cute names and pretending to be the sweet boyfriend, except you’re not back together
You don’t want to, and that’s okay, he just needs to have you for him.
He is such a bad person, he knows it, he doesn’t want you because he loves you, he just hates the thought of seeing you with someone else
No one has to know that, right?
So when you’re boring him, he starts doing new stuff. Making you jealous, fighting, making you believe you’re the bad person here
This is so fun, he feels himself smirking whenever you fight over text, already thinking how to turn things around so you feel bad
Ah, but don’t misunderstand him, he does enjoy your company. Whenever you get on call he is giggling like he did when the relationship started.
— You’re so immature — Your voice sent an electric shock through his body, did you really said that? His hands are shaking at the thought of you thinking that low of him
Who gave you permission to do that?
And everything changed, you changed.
You stopped treating him like a partner, more like a friend you would make fun of. Then you started to not care about what he had to say, every day he felt like he was fighting for your attention
And it felt so good.
The trill of wishing for a reaction, even if it was toxic, he felt he couldn’t be more enamored by the thought of a untouchable god in front of him. You really became what he wanted you to be, someone he can blame when he gets too bad
He loves you. He adores you.
Oh god, how much he wants your attention on him. You could literally have everyone and you still want him back. Such a god only can belong to him
— I think it’s best if we stop talking to each other — everything felt cold, you leaving his side just because he failed on replying to your text
This is bad, this is so bad
You can’t leave, you can’t abandon him like he means nothing! You’re his, you will forever be his.
And when he is biting his nail until it bleeds, he finds out you’re setting down with someone new
Someone, he hated, he never talked to him, he doesn’t need to.
He’s desperate, so desperate that he creates an online persona, someone to talk to this person and make him leave you. It all started small, chatting until he trust everything Tim said, then he flirted just the way this person wanted
Small gestures, compliments, everything he could dream off and then it came, Tim started spilling his tongue out, telling this person how bad you were as a partner
How you never cared about him, how jealous you were and he believed it
Fight over fight, he was there comforting your partner until it came
— Could you tell your friend to talk to them? They won’t tell me the truth about their ex — finally, everything got just like Tim wanted it to be
His fingers where already typing a text, now telling you how much bad he was, how much he missed you
Pretending to be the victim.
Now he told you how his online persona was so mean to him, manipulating everything so if you ever discovered his burn account you would think it was someone obsessed with Tim.
Whenever you damned this fake person, Tim only could smile and laugh his ass off.
You’re his, and your attention is back to him
He just needs to convince you to leave your new partner. And then everything could go as he planned
Except it didn’t.
You chose this person over him, no matter how much he tried for you to look at him. You chose the wrong person, the person you weren’t supposed to choose
You’re his! You are supposed to always choose him. But you’re tired, tired of breaking up and getting back together. Of not finding more than Tim playing with your heart until he got bored
If you have to be the bad person, then you’ll be it, you finally chose your happiness over his amusement
And when Tim is doing desperate movements to get your attention back to him
You’re being happy.
If you squint your eyes just a little, you’ll see myself projecting my love life on Tim— who said that?!
You'd spent the three days after your last session convinced you were going to receive a cancellation email. Or worse…a formal complaint. You'd already rehearsed your words of defense in the shower like a crazy person. You just wanted to help this poor guy! And getting his information for medical purposes is totally different from stalking! You meant no harm!
But nothing came. And he'd shown up. You watched Tim settle into the armchair, still very tense, and silently thanked every deity you could think of that he'd come back.
It was strange, really. Why did he come back to you every time? And although you’d like to convince yourself that it was because of your impeccable skill as a therapist and because he likes talking to you, you knew it was most likely because it was too much work to find a new therapist. Well…a win is still a win. And this time you'd learned your lesson. Or at least, you were pretending to.
After all he's your wallet, you reminded yourself firmly as you offered him tea for the third time. Your beautiful, bill-paying, rent-covering wallet who keeps coming back despite every reason not to. Do not scare him off again.
"No thanks," Tim said, exactly like he'd said the first two times.
Fine. No tea. No confrontation. No digging through his traumatic childhood. So be it.
Today was going to be simple. You’d just play it safe.
"How's the sleep been?" you asked, keeping your tone light.
"Same. Bad.Nothing unusual."
"Still doing the night walks?"
"Sometimes."
"And the breathing exercises?"
A long pause. "...Sometimes."
You chose to believe him. It was easier that way.
You made a few notes— “minimal improvement, continues to be weary” —and tried to remember what normal therapists talked about when they weren't accidentally implying their patients were hiding secret trauma.
The silence stretched. Tim stared at a point just over your shoulder. You stared at your notepad, which was frustratingly empty of anything useful.
Come on. Think. What would a real therapist do?
The podcast you'd listened to on your way to work had mentioned something about hobbies. People relax when they talk about things they enjoy. Shared interests create safety. Safety creates vulnerability. Vulnerability creates healing.
Or something like that.
Still, it was worth a shot. And as far as your socialization skills went, you were pretty sure that hobbies were a good subject for small talk.
“Well,” you started, not exactly coming off as confident, “Tell me, what do you usually do in your free time to relax? Any hobbies?”
Tim simply blinked at you, almost as if the question was unexpected.
“Well… uh.” he trailed off.
Goodness, did this man really have nothing going on in his life?
He sat for a few seconds in thought. And it wasn’t like he was trying to hide something, he was genuinely trying to think.
"I don't really have any," he said finally, and there was something almost embarrassing about the way he said it, if it weren’t for his nonchalant ‘I couldn’t care less’ expression .
"I mean, I go fishing with Brian sometimes,”
Fishing. You honestly could’ve guessed. It was the most average middle aged white man activity.
“But other than that..." He paused, rubbing the back of his neck in that awkward way of his. Now he did look somewhat embarrassed "I mean, I kinda did some acting back in uni. For a bit."
You blinked. Of all the things you'd expected Tim to say—woodworking, hiking, maybe some brooding hobby like photography—acting was certainly not on the list.
This guy was a theatre kid?
"Wait, really?" The surprise slipped out before you could catch it. "You?"
Tim's eyebrow twitched upward. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing!" You held up your hands, grinning despite yourself. "I just... you don't really seem like the type. No offense."
He huffed out a small chuckle "None taken. I wasn't." He shifted in the armchair, "It wasn't really in my plan. Brian dragged me along to an audition for some movie his friend was making. We both ended up getting roles."
You smiled, you were glad Tim had at least one seemingly good friend. Brian had come up in conversations before but Tim wouldn’t really say much about him. All that you knew is that they were friends for quite a long time and that Brian was the only one able to get Tim out of his comfort zone.
"That's actually kind of sweet. Him dragging you along, I mean."
"Brian's like that." There was something softer in Tim's voice now, "He's... persistent. In a good way. Usually. And I never really expected to actually get the role."
"So what movie was it?"
"Honestly I barely remember. Some indie thing. The guy was a film major, it was his year project i’m pretty sure. There weren't many of us, just Alex, a small cast, one camera operator, and the director's assistant. We worked on it for a few months but he ended up giving up on it."
"That sucks." And you meant it, strangely. There was something sad about the idea of a movie that never got made, a story abandoned halfway through. "Do you still keep in touch with any of them?"
"Uh." Tim's gaze dropped to his hands. "Just Brian." He looked uncomfortable again.
You tilted your head. "Oh. Why not? Not even the director? What did you say his name was again? Alex..?"
His shoulders tensed up and you noticed he started fidgeting again, " Alex Kralie. But no. They... uh, they just weren't the right lot, I guess." His hand came up to rub his neck again, faster this time. "Not really important."
Liar.
The word flashed through your mind before you could stop it.You'd seen that exact avoidance before. The casual dismissal. The ‘it's not important’ when it clearly was. The way his fingers curled into his palms like he was physically holding something back.
But you also knew you couldn't push. Not again. You'd learned your lesson last time. Well, sort of.
But on the bright side…Ladies and gentleman, you have a name! ‘Alex Kralie’ was now written down and circled in your notebook. If you could give yourself a pat on the back that very moment you would. You were honestly surprised that you managed to pry that piece of information out of Tim, he didn’t seem to notice he said it too. You didn’t think your masterplan of asking multiple questions at once would actually work.
You bit down on the follow-up questions and forced yourself to nod instead.
"That's fair," you said, keeping your voice easy. "Sometimes people are just... not the right fit for us. That’s normal"
You said whatever came to your mind first.
Tim smiled awkwardly, seemingly grateful that you let it go.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
"So," you said, reaching for safer ground, "fishing. Do you actually catch anything, or is it more of an opportunity to chat? Honestly it seems pretty boring to me."
"It's exactly as boring as it seems" you could see Tim visibly relax more.
"Sitting in silence for hours, waiting for something that might not happen?"
"Sounds like therapy, actually."
You couldn’t help but snort. Pretty accurate.
It was late in the evening as you lay on your stomach on your couch, almost giggling and kicking your feet. Your laptop was already open, your fingers already typing before you'd fully settled against the cushions. The screen glowed in the dim light, and you couldn't help the grin spreading across your face.
You started with the university. Tim had casually mentioned the name of the school once. You'd made a mental note at the time, not sure why, just filing it away like the useless trivia hoarder you apparently were.
Well, look at you now. Hoarding had paid off.
The fact that the film project was a senior year thing, which meant it would have been archived somewhere. University film departments loved archiving student work. It was practically their whole thing.
Tuscaloosa University. Film and Animation Department. Senior Showcase Archives, 2006.
Great detective work, you congratulated yourself, cracking your knuckles dramatically before placing your fingers on the keyboard. Sherlock who?
Your heart did a little jump.
A trailer.
You watched through.
It was definitely…something. This Alex guy was certainly not the best writer, the cheesy dialogues made you physically cringe. But then again, this was a coming-of-age romance drama made by an inexperienced film student with even more inexperienced, by the looks of it, actors. It still made you chuckle a few times, it felt like just a group of friends having fun while filming a short movie.
You paused at Tim. He looked younger, cleaner-shaven, with less exhaustion carved into his face. He was saying something you didn't catch, too focused on just seeing him like this. When things were apparently normal enough that he could joke around and act in a friend's movie and have a whole group of people around him. He looked a lot happier too.
You felt yourself pout slightly, you felt bad for him. He was just a guy, he deserved a nice life with friends surrounding him. Right, you were doing this for him after all.
The credits rolled at the end, and there they were—the names you'd been looking for.
Main cast: Tim Wright, Brian Thomas, Sarah Reid. And some other names playing the background characters.
You grabbed your notebook, scribbling down each name. Six actors' names, and Kralie himself.
Now, email addresses. That's what you needed. You could reach out, ask a few casual questions, get a better picture of who Tim used to be. Maybe one of them would know why he'd clammed up about the past. Maybe one of them would have insights that his medical records didn't. You almost felt giddy at the thought. What a great day!
An hour later, you were no longer feeling quite so triumphant.
Because you'd found them. All of them. And the more you searched, the more your stomach twisted into knots.
Missing person. Missing person. Missing person.
Three of them. Three separate profiles, three separate police reports, three separate families posting desperate updates on social media that hadn't been touched in the last three years.
You told yourself it was a coincidence. People went missing all the time. It was tragic, but it wasn't connected. It couldn't be.
Sarah Reid, Tim and Brian’s co-star. Missing. Also three years ago.
You pulled up each article, each police report, each desperate Facebook post from families who still shared photos on birthdays and anniversaries.
Four people. Four people out of seven who had worked on the same student film, who had disappeared over the span of three years, and no one had connected them. No one had noticed. And this was just the cast. You had no knowledge about the operator or the assistant guy.
What the actual hell…
You now sat back against the couch, laptop balanced on your knees, mind racing. Brian was still around—Tim mentioned him all the time. And Alex Kralie, the director... you searched his name next, half-expecting another obituary.
But no. Alex Kralie was alive. Or at least, not officially dead or missing. His social media had gone dark a few years back, but there were no reports, no articles, no frantic family members begging for information.
What happened to these people?
Your mind, always too quick, always too eager to connect dots that might not actually connect, jumped to the obvious conclusion.
Tim. His nervousness when you'd asked about the film. The way he'd shut down, changed the subject, dismissed it all as "not important." The insomnia. The memory gaps.
Could it be...?
No. No, that's insane. You're being insane.
But the thought was already there. Tim, surrounded by people who were now dead or missing. Tim, who refused to talk about any of them. Tim, who had gaps in his memory that conveniently erased... what? What was he hiding?
Guilt keeps people awake at night.
You pressed your palms against your eyes, breathing slowly.
You're jumping to conclusions. You don't have all the information. You're literally making up a murder mystery in your head based on a few Google searches and a guy who seemed mildly uncomfortable when you asked about his uni friends.
You needed more information.
You found Brian's social media next—public, thankfully, though not very active. A few photos of fishing trips, a job listing at some electronics store, nothing too personal. Email address listed.
Alex was harder. No public social media, no professional website, nothing. But after some digging—and maybe a tiny bit of database snooping that you definitely shouldn't have been doing on your personal laptop—you found an old forum account with a contact email.
Perfect.
You stared at the blank email draft for a long time, fingers hovering over the keyboard. What were you even supposed to say? Hey, I'm Tim's therapist and I think he might have murdered all of you, can you confirm?
No. No, that wouldn't work.
You started typing.
Subject: Looking for a little help! :)
“Hey! I'm Tim Right's friend.”— how do you spell his last name again? Right? Wright? Write? Ugh, his files are too far away. Well, ‘Right’ seems right. Oh, haha, that’s pretty funny. Anyway, email, yes.—”We've been hanging out lately and I wanted to do something nice for him. Since his birthday is coming up soon,”—you had no idea when his birthday was. But ‘soon’ could be anytime, really.—” I was hoping to get him a really thoughtful gift. The problem is, I don't actually know him that well yet, and I want to get him something meaningful.
Would you maybe be willing to meet up with me sometime? Just grab coffee somewhere in town and tell me a little about him? Tell me a bit more about his likes and dislikes, what he was like before, y'know, the basics. I promise I'm not a creep, just someone who wants to do something nice for a friend. If not we could talk about him via email too! Whichever you’d feel more comfortable with.
And please don't mention anything to Tim! I want it to be a surprise :)
Thanks so much!”
You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it. You sent one to Brian and then copied and pasted it for Alex as well.
Then you sat back, staring at the screen, heart still thumping.
This is insane. You are insane. You are literally contacting strangers to ask about a patient's past because you found some missing person reports and decided to become a detective.
But at the same time you couldn’t really stop yourself.
And if Tim was somehow involved in any of it...
Well. You'd cross that bridge when you came to it.
The next day came. No replies.
You checked your email a large amount of times between sessions. Nothing from Brian. Nothing from Alex. And you knew you had no actual reason to be upset, but…well, you were upset.
By the time you got home, you were chewing on your thumbnail hard enough to hurt.
Maybe they didn't see it. Maybe it went to spam. Maybe they're just busy.
You were expecting a response from Brian more than from Alex, simply because Alex was so inactive. For all you knew thai email could be abandoned, or hell, he could be dead as well.
You pulled up Brian's profile again, stared at his face for a long moment. He looked normal. Friendly, even. And hella handsome too. Messy dirty blond hair, charming grin, dimples. The kind of guy who'd have a lot of friends and probably make terrible puns.
Surely he'd respond. Surely he'd want to help.
You typed out another email, faster this time, less polished.
To: Brian Thomas
Subject: Hey again
“Hi, sorry to bother you again. I know this is random, but it's actually kind of urgent? I really need to get in touch with someone who knows Tim well, and you seem like his closest friend. Please just let me know if you're open to talking. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. :(
Thanks.”
Send.
You stared at the screen for another minute, willing a response to appear. Nothing.
Fine. Whatever. Maybe they'll reply tomorrow.
Neither of them replied tomorrow, actually.
You honestly felt a bit pathetic. Like you were texting your nonchalant boyfriend who doesn’t actually like you and being left on delivered. Truly a special type of feeling humiliated.
The workday went on rather slowly, nothing too interesting. You only had two clients that day which meant most of your time was spent on paperwork.
But at last it was time to go home.
The evening air was crisp You were scrolling through your phone as you walked (checking your email for the hundredth time), when you rounded the corner toward the parkin—
There was a guy leaning against the wall.
Right between your office exit and the main street, in a dark alleyway, like he'd planted himself there deliberately. His hood was up, a mustardy yellow, faded, and his face was mostly hidden in shadow. All you could make out was the lower half: a small stubble, and the glowing tip of a cigarette.
He smelled like smoke before you even got close.
You slowed your pace, instincts prickling. The street was mostly empty at this hour.
The guy caught you staring. His head tilted slightly, and one hand lifted from his pocket, he was curling his finger toward him. ‘Come here.’
You hesitated. You were already standing relatively close, just a few feet away maybe. Every rational part of your brain screamed keep walking, don't make eye contact, this is how horror movies start. But your feet moved anyway, carrying you a few cautious steps closer. Not too close. Just close enough to hear.
"Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong, kay?" the guy said, and his voice was a bit husky and you could hear a faint southern accent.. "Mind your own business, Doc."
You blinked. "I... what?"
He didn't elaborate. Just took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaled a cloud of smoke that drifted between you, and pushed off from the wall. You could see him almost grinning in a condescending way, dimples showing. Then he walked away down the alley.
What the hell was that about?
The cigarette butt lay smoldering on the pavement where he'd dropped it.
‘Don't put your nose where it doesn't belong.’
He couldn't have been talking about Tim. That was ridiculous. Nobody knew you'd been looking into Tim's past. Nobody knew about the emails, the research, the late-night digging.
Right?
Right.
You shook your head, forcing yourself to keep walking. Some homeless guy, probably. Maybe high on something. The city was full of weirdos.
He should get a job instead of lurking in alleys, you thought, gripping your bag tighter and getting in your car. Freaking people out for no reason.
Maybe you were sticking your nose somewhere it didn't belong.
You sighed as you checked your phone, which was probably not the smartest thing to do while running and dodging old people on a crowded sidewalk. Inevitably you bumped into a few people, one of them being a big buff dude whose withering stare followed you long enough that your speedwalk kicked into an outright jog.
Cw: gn!reader, comedy/crackfic(?), slowburn, throuple (sorta? they don't exactly figure out their relationship), canon typical violence, mild stalking, mental illnesses, unreliable narrator, illegal practices, morally grey!reader
Wc: 3.5k
The morning wind tousled your hair and sent a shiver down your spine, making you wrap your blazer tighter around you, yet still careful not to drop your bag filled with files.
‘Please be stuck in traffic. Please be running late too.’ you silently prayed, you really didn’t want to leave a bad impression, this morning’s first client was a relatively new one, having had only four sessions with him. Four. You were still in the fragile, getting-to-know-you phase. You really couldn’t risk seeming unprofessional and having yet another client leave you. You were already walking on thin ice with your job after five clients left in the same months. Sure, it was…partly your fault, but still! Like for example when you were sure your appointment with a client was at 7pm, not 7am! Who the hell makes an appointment to a therapist that early in the morning? Or when you had very confidently diagnosed a client with severe depression after accidentally switching up their files with another client’s.
But the rest? The rest were flukes. Bad luck. You were perfectly good at your job. Perfectly.
Your heel caught on a crack in the pavement and you stumbled, heart lurching as your bag swung dangerously wide. The office was still three blocks away. And you clung onto the hope that maybe your client overslept.
But of course, he was already there, at 8:16am, in your office, in his seat waiting for you as you caught your breath while leaning on the doorway; a man in his late-twenties dressed in a simple red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark wash jeans. Dark brown hair framed his face, softening into subtle sideburns, eyebrows so thick and perfect you found yourself a bit envious, and a light stubble shadowed his jaw.
His warm yet obviously tired brown eyes followed you as you stumbled to your desk,
"So sorry, Tim," you managed between breaths, collapsing into your chair. "The subway just wouldn't—"
“It’s fine, i get that” Tim smiled awkwardly.
Your gaze drifted to the deck of cards on your side table. ‘Metaphorical’ cards. You'd seen them on insta once, they were the kind with dreamy, surreal images. You hadn't exactly used them before. But how hard could it be?
"So," you said, reaching for the deck with what you hoped was casual confidence, "I thought today we might try something different. A technique to... bypass the internal censor, let’s say. Access what's underneath the surface-level stuff." You shuffled the cards with a smile.
Tim raised an eyebrow, eyeing the cards in your hand, “You’re sure this is somehow gonna help..?”
“Of course! Just pick whichever one speaks to you the most, Tim” You fanned them out on the table between you, the images catching the morning light—moons and forests and shadowy doors.
“Mkay,” the man said with the resignation of someone who'd long stopped being surprised by the strange requests of authority figures, he reached out and selected a card.
A night landscape. An empty bench beneath a single lamppost, lighting up the small area, everything else swallowed by darkness.
Okay..what the hell do you say about this? You frankly didn’t know what the card meant, but you had to say something wise. Something that would make him feel seen and understood.
You leaned forward, brain scrambling for something insightful. Something therapist-y. "Interesting. A lantern that shines, but..." You tilted your head, letting your voice go soft. "...is needed by no one."
Tim's lips thinned into an awkward line. "It's a picture of a bench."
"It's never just a picture." You smiled and shook your head lightly. "Loneliness. Uselessness. The feeling of being present but unseen. Does that resonate?"
You didn’t let him answer and nodded. "And why do you think your eye was drawn to this image, specifically, out of all the others?"
"Because it was on top."
*Damn it!* Could he not cooperate? You’re trying to do your job here.
You pressed on, undeterred. "Let's try another. This time choose one that represents something you're hiding."
Tim's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I'm not hiding anything."
"We're all hiding something." You gestured at the cards. "Go on. Don't think. Just pick."
He hesitated, fingers hovering, then grabbed one at random and flipped it over.
A figure stood on the edge of a cliff, back to the viewer, staring out at a churning sea. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon. The waves below crashed against jagged rocks.
Ah, you could work with this.
"The edge. The storm. The isolation." You kept your voice measured, gentle. "Tim, when you look at this—do you see a way forward? Or do you see... a way down?"
He blinked at you. "I—What?" Tim looked at you offended? Annoyed? Amused? You weren’t really sure. But his stare was making you nervous. Were you on the wrong path? Or maybe he was just deflecting, you should dig deeper.
"The pull of the void. The desire to step into the storm rather than face what's behind you." You leaned forward, earnest now. "Have you been having thoughts of—"
"Oh my god." Tim sat up fully for the first time all session, a flicker of something almost like amusement crossing his exhausted face. "You're trying to diagnose me with suicidal ideation because I picked a random card from a deck you definitely bought on Etsy."
"I didn't—it's a validated therapeutic—" Your eyes escaped his gaze,
"This feels less like therapy," Tim continued, gesturing vaguely at the cards, the diplomas, you, "and more like being forced to talk to a fortune teller."
"A Fortune teller?" You couldn’t help but sound offended. You quickly glanced at the diploma on your office wall before looking back at him and shifting slightly in your seat.
"You know. Smoke cleansing. Spirit animals. Interpreting the patterns in my coffee grounds. I wouldn’t be surprised if you started reading my palm,"
After a bit of silence while you were trying to think of what the hell to say to fix this situation you finally opened your mouth,
"Okay," you said slowly. "Okay. Maybe... maybe that’s enough cards for today."
"Yeah, I think so too."
"And maybe we just..." You set the deck aside, "...talk. About your sleep thing.” You saw Tim’s shoulders relax a bit as he leaned back in his chair and you got ready to listen to a podcast about things Tim does instead of sleeping.
“Yes, yes, I understand. Say, have you ever tried chamomile tea?"
You sighed for the tenth time that day as you watched the door close behind Tim. You’d managed to smooth everything out after the small ‘misunderstanding’, and you were relatively sure he wasn’t going to dump you. Probably.
You hadn't been working here that long, and honestly, sometimes it crossed your mind that what you were doing might not be entirely right or legal… but what choice did you have? Was what you were doing really so bad? You just talked to people, helped them.. Most of the clients who came to you were lonely, all they needed was someone who could listen. And maybe since you genuinely wanted to understand the people who came to you, asked for your help, you believed you weren't that bad of a person. You justified yourself by saying you were making an effort, buying reference books, those stupid cards you saw on instagram reels, and watching educational videos while eating breakfast. Surely that helped you be excellent at your job, right?
You glanced at the wall behind your desk where your newly framed certifications now hung. You'd maybe... slightly... embellished them. But people lied on resumes all the time! And besides it looked legitimate, and really, what was a piece of paper compared to actual clinical instinct? Qualified therapist or not, you wanted to get into Tim’s head.
You'd always been stubborn, even when things weren't going your way, like right now. You felt that Tim was hiding something from you. From you — his therapist, you decided that you needed to understand him not just as a patient, but at least as a person. However, that seemed like a problem, because Tim Wright, as you noticed with your therapist superpowers, was always closed off and seemed on guard *even* in your soft comfy armchair with fluffy cushions!
You could also note that, reading Tim's medical history before each session, some fields were missing, specifically he had some year gaps, and some pages were even torn out. During your first session, you asked him what was up with that, why it was so tattered. But Tim just rubbed the back of his neck and, as if playing dumb spread his hands, saying he didn't remember and backing it up by saying he didn't remember a lot of things (which was another strange symptom he didn’t want to elaborate on).
All of this fueled your interest. Because you wanted to help your poor patient, of course! Besides, you're his therapist, it’s your business to know this stuff. And so you started digging into Tim's medical history. After a bit of research you found out about Tim's previous hospital. You were lucky that Tim had previously been admitted to the hospital where you worked as a janitor 5 years ago, and you knew how to access and hack that old hospital website. Let’s just say this wasn’t exactly your first time doing something illegal like this.
Sure enough, you found a copy of his history, which for some reason was still in the database. Looking it over, you thought it was the same as what you had on hand. But looking closer, you realized: Tim was clearly a liar. There were 4 pages of diagnoses you had never seen. Why the hell would he hide this from a therapist?? Sure, maybe you’re not the best one out there, but still, why hide this?
Your eyes started darting across the lines, and your lips silently read, in a whisper, as if you were reading something secret, which in some way it was.
The document stated that Tim had been under observation at a mental institution since he was a small child, and it was a severe case. The boy was taken from his parents to the institution because he heard and saw things that weren’t there, couldn't sleep, and trembled all the time, stating that he saw a tall man watching him.After that, there was nothing written in the record, but you assumed he was discharged and that whatever it was that he had, it was well cured now. Well, you hoped.
You looked through all of the different diagnoses, your gaze fell on a specific one: dissociative Identity disorder. Huh.
All of this made you slightly tense. You didn't often deal with this. Actually, never in your life had you gotten a patient who was actually mentally ill and not just sad and lonely. Tim, however, seemed to be both. And, damn it, again, why didn't Tim say anything about this? Was he ashamed? Scared? Of what? Too many questions flooded your mind. But for some reason, you perked up after this mini two-hour investigation. And a small, determined smile appeared on your face. You now had access to all of his medical history, which meant you knew (sorta) what was wrong with him. So if you diagnosed him with the mental illnesses you now knew he had, you’d be right. It would be your very first correct diagnosis. Maybe your coworkers would finally see your genius and stop joking at you and hinting you weren’t a real therapist, which was right, but still! This was your chance to prove yourself!
Next week came around and you couldn’t help but feel giddy.
You watched as your dear patient took a seat in the armchair, your smile gleaming.
“Ah, Tim! Timmy Timtim! Good to see you! Nice day isn’t it? How was your week?” You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your desk, your voice cheerful.
Tim looked mildly uncomfortable, he raised an eyebrow, silently judging you, but still replied with a small awkward smile.
“I mean, fine I guess. You look pleased. Good weekend?”
You clasped your hands together, maybe a little too eagerly, and forced yourself to lean back.
Casual. Professional.
"The best," you said brightly. "Lots of... reading. But enough about me,"
Tim's eyebrow stayed where it was. "Right."
"So!" You grabbed your notepad, pen held with the enthusiasm of a game show host. "Sleep any better this week? Tried the breathing exercises I suggested?"
He settled into the armchair, his face taking a neutral expression as he shrugged,
"Breathing exercises are useless," he said, with no real heat. "They just make me think about how I'm not sleeping."
"Well, did you try them?"
"...No."
You made a note. *Non-compliant with breathing exercises. Possible resistance to relaxation techniques.* That was the kind of thing a real therapist wrote, right? It sounded official.
"Okay then." You tapped your pen against the pad. "No screen time 30 minutes before bed at least?"
“Oh please, I barely look at my phone and my Tv’s broken.”
You hummed in approval, but there was no weight behind it. This was the easy part—the dance of asking questions you both knew he wouldn't fully answer, of pretending you were making progress when really you were just... sitting together. In reality you could not care less about your patient’s sleep. Okay, that was a bit harsh, but it was hard to pay any interest to something so mundane. Most of your patients at least had some drama tied to their trauma: a cheating boyfriend, a fake friend, an immature mother— the usual, but it was interesting to listen to, it’s like your job consisted of watching a reality tv drama show and getting paid for it! This guy however… Well, to put it simply, all Tim was was a lonely, probably kinda broke man who couldn’t sleep properly. Boring! Now you knew there was much more to him than what meets the eye (only after you broke into a database for his info), it was the interesting parts that he kept from you. Sure, you felt guilty for having a mindset like that, it was..not very professional to say the least. You were supposed to help these people, not be entertained by them! But as long as they didn’t know, you figured there was no harm being done.
What you actually wanted to ask sat heavy on your tongue. *Why did you lie about your medical history? What happened when you were a kid? What the hell is actually wrong with you?*
But, sadly, you couldn't. You couldn't ask any of that, because you weren't supposed to know. You'd obtained that information through means that were, to put it delicately, not even adjacent to legal. If he found out, you'd be fired. Possibly arrested. And also most likely never allowed within fifty feet of him again.
So instead, you smiled and nodded and made more notes about breathing exercise (and doodling cute little cat faces)
Dissociative Identity Disorder. You'd read everything you could find on it: articles, forums, even a few true-crime documentaries that you watched with the lights on, of course. Most of it was probably sensationalized nonsense, but you'd picked up enough terminology to sound knowledgeable. Or at least, more knowledgeable than you'd been before, which was a bar so low it was basically in hell.
You also couldn’t help but wonder about his childhood. Growing up in a mental hospital must’ve been rough itself even without counting the illnesses he’d been diagnosed with. Schizophrenia had been one of them on the list,you recalled, but right now as you looked at Tim, took in his behaviour and mannerisms, while you were no professional, you didn’t see him as a schizo. He was just a guy. A tired guy.
Whatever it was, it was well cured now, you'd assumed. But as you watched Tim pick at a loose thread on his sleeve, shoulders hunched, you wondered if cured was the right word. Or if that was even something that happened with this kind of thing.
"Can I ask you something?" The words came out before you could stop them.
Tim looked up, wary. "Aren't you supposed to?"
You set your pen down, doing your best to look patient and non-threatening. "You mentioned before that you don't remember a lot of your childhood. Have you ever... wanted to?"
"Not really." His expression was grim, but he still looked like he didn’t really care. "If my brain decided to erase that part, it probably had a good reason."
You hesitated. The psychology 101 textbook answer floated through your mind: *repression, avoidance, unprocessed trauma, a therapeutic opportunity to explore underlying issues*. But those were someone else's words. Someone who'd actually gone to school for this.
"I'm just curious," you said instead, with a shrug that you hoped came across as casual and not desperately hungry for information. "You're a mystery, Tim. Mysteries make me curious."
He let out a snort, dry and surprised.
"That's kinda a weird thing for a therapist to say,"
"Is it?" You tilted your head, keeping your smile in place. "I think all my patients are interesting. It's why I got into this field."
It was a lie, but it sounded nice.
Tim didn't look convinced. But he also didn't look like he was about to walk out, which you were choosing to count as a win.
“Well, think about it.. Have you ever felt like there are *different* people living inside you?”
“Uh..?”
You pushed on,
"Imagine this: there’s “Nocturnal Tim" — the one who doesn't sleep,who lives through the years you can’t remember. And then here's "Daytime Tim" — the one who goes to work and talks to me. That could explain the insomnia too. Insomnia often arises from internal conflict. One part of the personality wants to sleep, while another part stays awake, guards, controls.”
You actually had no idea if this was true. Did insomnia and DID have any correlation? You didn’t know. Did it sound legit? Sure, good enough,
Tim stared at you, his eyebrows furrowed and a grimace on his face. "There's nothing going on. I just don't sleep."
“Okay but are you su—”
"I told you," he said, and his voice firm, "I don't remember. And I'm not interested in digging around for things that probably aren't there."
"I want to help you," you said finally, frowning, "But I can't help you if I don't understand what's actually going on."
“Well right now it doesn’t feel like you’re trying to help me. It feels like your trying to solve me like I'm some sort of puzzle. Like you just want to diagnose me with some nonsense and hop onto your next patient. My symptoms are insomnia and fatigue. Everything you've extrapolated beyond that is your own fantasy. ”
You sat up straight. "I'm your therapist. It’s my job to diagnose you. My job is to understand you. But I can’t do so accurately if you’re not cooperating."
"I think we're done for today." Tim stood up..
You rose too, hands raised slightly, palms out.
"Okay. Okay, I'm sorry. I pushed. That was—I shouldn't have—"
He paused at the door, hand on the knob, not looking at you. "You're right. There are things I don't remember. Things I maybe don't *want* to remember. " He stopped, jaw working like he was chewing on words he didn't want to say. "But at the end of the day I'm just trying to get through the night without losing my mind. And i’d appreciate it if you'd stick to helping with that. I come here to talk about sleep. About stress. About what's bothering me. Not for you to go hunting through what I'm hiding in the trash bin."
Then he opened the door, and you watched him walk out into the hallway with that same exhausted stride and you felt the guilt settle in your chest.
You sank back into your chair, staring at the now closed door, your notepad full of half-finished thoughts and observations you couldn't use.
*Dissociative Identity Disorder*, you thought again. *Childhood trauma. Visual hallucinations..*
And somewhere underneath all of it, was a person who just wanted to sleep.
Your eyes drifted to the wall of certificates, the one that still looked a little too gold. It felt like a costume that didn't quite fit.To be frank, it didn’t fit at all.
But at this point you were almost intruiged.
You just had to figure out how to help him without letting him know how much you already knew.
Please do not repost or translate my work. Reblogs and comments are appreciated though! Deviders are by @/strangergraphics cover art by @/xxyhaxx
