#a guiding hand

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Guiding Hand 9

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

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

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

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

Characters: Raymond Smith, Lee Bodecker in the background

Note: I slept in which hasn't happened in ages.

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

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

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The world lurches to a halt. Your eyes flick open and you take in the white brick of the city station before you. Your shoulder is against the train window, your head slumped, and you are stolidly warm. You blink again and shift to sit straight. You look down at the tweed blazer draped across your front. 

“We’ve arrived,” Professor Smith declares as he fixes his glasses.  

“I... I’m sorry. I fell asleep,” you croak and gently push his jacket off, smoothing it then holding it out to him. The armrest between you has been flipped up. “Thank you, sir.” 

He grunts, likely at the use of the formal epithet. You just don’t feel right calling him by his name. He takes his blazer, “not at all. You needed the rest. I only thought you might be cold as they had the air on high.” 

“Thank you,” you repeat again. Things aren’t so different, are they? You’re still a burden. You still have nothing to give but take all you can get. 

“We will wait for the rush to pass,” he stays as he is as the other passengers rise and shrug into sweaters or jackets and take down their bags from compartments.  

You are in no hurry to go, you’re not quite sure what awaits you and the general public has always reminded you of your greatest insecurities. You see the women with their styled hair, winged liners, and sleek outfits. They are all put together meanwhile you feel as if you’re falling apart. 

Raymond stands only as the aisle clears and puts on his blazer. He brings down the bags and steps back for you to sidle out. You walk ahead of him gawkishly, unsure of where to go beyond the train. An attendant helps you onto the platform and you turn to look at your escort as he steps down coolly. 

“We’ll fetch a taxi to see us home. I’ll have you settled soon enough. I’m certain you cannot wait to be still.” He says. 

You nod and shrug, then offer another wilted ‘thank you.’ 

He guides you through the station and out the front doors. There’s a row of cabs waiting for the arrivals. He claims one and the driver helps in getting the luggage in the trunk. You don’t have much more than that duffel he took of your thrifted clothing. 

You cradle your injured hand as you pass through the city streets. It’s a beautiful place. Vibrant, huge, much more than the gray town you spent your life in. The curated hedges and bunches of petals, the endless business marquees and the arched park entrances put to shame all you know. It feels like a dream; the sort of fantasy only written or crafted onto film. 

Raymond is quiet, pensive as you peek over at him. His golden hair shines in the sunlight that peers through the window. He watches the windshield past the seat. Just look at him, you feel out of place. His refined attire, his straight posture, he is precise in every way. 

As the ride stretches on, you worry. The city thins as you reach the outer bounds and the sprawling greens are specked with large homesteads. The driver slows and pulls up a long drive, capped by a set of iron gates. The house behind the bars is a mansion and half. 

Raymond fiddles with his phone and the gates open on a motor. The driver pulls through and rolls all the way up before the front steps. You gape up at the immense modern castle. This is all his? This is beyond anything you’ve ever seen with your own eyes. 

The driver opens your door as Raymond lets himself out. You climb out and stand to the side awkwardly. You don’t belong in a place like this. 

The trunk snaps as your eyes cling to the grand facade. Raymond thanks the driver before the tires roll back toward the gate. He waits until the taxi is gone and then the gates whir shut. He steps up next to you with the bags in hand. 

“Go on,” he nudges you softly with his elbow. 

“This...” you pause and look at him. He’s older than you. And established. He must have a whole life aside from this disaster of a student he pities to the point of charity. “I don’t know. Your family... wouldn’t they be upset?” 

He looks at you keenly with his pale blue eyes, “it’s only me.” 

You frown and face the house again. Oh. You didn’t mean to presume, you just thought... 

“I’m sor--” 

“Ah,” he quiets you. “No more of that. I’m rather content in my solace. Now, you need settling. You’ve been through enough.” 

You grumble and nod. Your shame and self-pity keeps you speechless. He’s confusing to you. How can he not see how pathetic you are? Why is he doing all this? 

You ascend the steps next to him. He goes ahead of you only as you reach the doors and he pushes the left one inward, waving you through first. You enter, shoulders and head down, and stay on the mat as the polished floors gleam around you. 

You sway in horror. What must he have thought of your mother’s apartment? And he went into your room to fetch your clothing? Ugh, he must think you entirely helpless and disgusting. You cover your face without a thought. 

“Dear, are you unwell?” He asks as the bags drop on the bench heavily. 

“Um,” you part your fingers then peel them away. “No, I...” you chew your lip and put your arms at your side, “it’s a very pretty house. Big.” 

“Yes, so it is. Try not to get lost,” he snorts. “I’ll show you where you can hang your hat, in a manner of speaking, but first, shoes.” 

You look down at your sneakers. Right. You bend to untie the stained laces. The applique is falling away from the seams and the treads are streaked and scuffed with dirt. You wiggle them off and put them over on the tidy shoe rack. 

Raymond tucks his leather shoes away and scoops up the bags once more. You wait for him to guide you. He steps ahead of you and you trail him. 

“I’ll give you a brief lay of the land,” he proclaims as he leads you through an open square doorway. Beyond is a high-ceilinged room which could contain your mother’s entire apartment. “The den or sitting room, whatever you might call it. Feel welcome to spend your leisure here. I’m afraid I never use the telly much.”  

He stops as you peer around. You try not to show your awe but it’s all so fancy and sleek. The TV is mounted to the wall above a fireplace and the leather furniture is puckered and perfectly place, along with the wood and brass accoutrements that decorate the space. 

“The kitchen as well.” He herds you onward into the hall and down to the kitchen at the rear of the house. It is as refined as the rest of the house, vast even; so many cupboards, a large island, and all the appliances you could dream of. “Don’t hesitate to help yourself. I am rather fond of cooking so I don’t mind at all. Or if you would need some assistance with anything, I’ll be more than happy to help.” 

“Oh, thanks,” you fold your arm to your chest and wring your wrist with your other hand. 

“And should you require anything, I’m certain you will, you may simply let me know,” he says. “I assume you would like to be in one place for what’s left of the day. I cannot blame you. I am fatigued of the upending myself.” 

He takes you down the hall and back to the foyer. You follow him up the stairs that bend halfway and down another hallway that overlooks the entry over the banister. He stops at a door and nods. You sheepishly move to open it yourself as he keeps hold of the bags. 

You swing the door open gently and peek inside. You turn and reach for the bag, “I can--” 

“I’ve got it,” he insists and steps through. He lays the bag on the desk in the corner. “The maid comes daily. I will inform her to knock. This is you space.” 

“Oh,” you utter. 

“My room is further down, at the very end, should you need to find me, though I am more often in my office, between this door and mine,” he explains, “a loo across from you as well.” 

“Yes, sir,” you twiddle your fingers and look around. The room is amazing. The daylight beams through the sheer curtains and lights up the decor. Gold and ivory, brighter than the rustic tones of the first floor. 

“I will leave you to your own devices. I’ve smothered you, haven’t I?” He nears the door. “If you are up to it, I will be preparing dinner for six.” He checks his watch and clucks. “Do you prefer steak or chicken?” 

You wet your lips and stare at the doorway behind him. “Whatever you like, I'll eat... I could help--” 

“You will rest. Your hand needs healing. Your spirit too.” He girds. “There is a tub as well, and all you should need with it. Salts and the like.” 

“Thanks, um, I think I’ll just... rest.” 

“There’s the bookshelf as well,” he points. “Thought you mightn’t agree with my taste, help yourself to the selection.” 

“Okay,” you murmur. 

“Very well, then,” he dips his chin and turns on his heel. 

He struts out and shuts the door in his stead. You stare at it. Dread curdles around you and makes you shudder. 

You shouldn’t feel worse, should you? But you do. He has such a nice life, a gorgeous house, a wonderful job. You don’t know why he should disturb it by inviting you in from the cold? 

Maybe he’s one of those people who uses those beneath him to build himself up. You’re a pet project for this man bored with his perfect existence. That must be it. After all, no man’s ever wanted anything from you but to make themselves feel big. 

You turn and cross the room. You stand at the window and gaze out at the lawn. Your eyes tinge with tears. You are still a slug. Still filth. You don’t want to stain his obsessively clean haven.  

Your legs wobble and you back away from the window. You stagger to the desk and sit in the swivelly chair. You lean your elbow on the desk and inhale with a quake. You hold your head as the memories swell in your head. 

Lee on top of you, hurting you, then all at once, chaos. Your mother, so helpless, so apathetic in her addiction, that she couldn’t do anything but squeal. He witnessed it all. 

How can he bear it? How can he be near dirt like you? The way he sanitizes everything around him, and himself. The intense attention to detail and spite for those out of order. You can’t live up to all that. You’re going to cross a line sooner or later and then what happens? 

You have no way home. He brought you here, on his dime. Now you owe him. As you always owed your mother just for being born, for being useless, a loser. That’s what Lee said and he wasn’t the first to do so. 

You shakily wipe under your eyes with your knuckle. You’re lost. You’ve always been, but right now, you are off in a desolate land. 

He might mean well. He might be honest, but that doesn’t make you feel any less a burden. That doesn’t take away the taint you’ve always carried. There’s no place for you in this world. Trying to find it, trying to better yourself, that proved it to you. You failed again and no matter what he believes or does, you’ll fail him too. 

You fail at whatever he expects of you. What that is, is a mystery. He’s seen what you are. Where you come from. You hide your face behind your hand and gulp as you think about it. 

[underforeversgrace]

A Guiding Hand

I had a random ADHD moment of a short story stuck in my hand and *vague gestures* this is what it became. Note: this is not fanfic. It is technically original short fiction.

Word Count: 1,134

~~

I forget how old I must have been the first time I felt them. Maybe five or six? Just a young child.

My mother had taken me to the mall, I know. Everything was too loud. There were too many people, and they walked around me as if I wasn’t there, as if I wasn’t real. I don’t know where my mother went or how she lost me – to this day I haven’t a clue. It’s a blur of legs and loud voices, a cacophony of humanity I couldn’t escape. I think I screamed for my mother. I think I cried.

I have vague memories of being curled into a ball near the bathrooms – a long hallway with a single flickering lightbulb, that occasionally cast the window-less path into a darkness that struck me with terror. It was in one of those periods of darkness when they came.

My hand felt like it’d been plunged into ice water. Or perhaps boiling water? It burned me with its cold.

“Come, little one,” they had whispered, tugging me to my feet. “It is not yet your time.”

Despite the pain from their touch, their voice brought me only comfort. When the lights flickered back on, their touch seemed to grow… lighter. Like something that had been torn from the plane of reality but was fighting to stay there, to stay as my guide, even as tears clouded my vision so entirely I couldn’t see them.

Yet for some reason, I remember the woman in white, who had begun to approach the hallway I’d hidden in. I remember her sky blue eyes that spoke of sunshine, and the frown that did not.

Perhaps it is simply a child’s memory, fleeting and faint? I simply do not believe this is true, however, because I remember growing to fear the flickers of light. The one helping me was in the darkness, after all. The light brought a suffocating loneliness. Still, they kept tight hold of me, even when we reentered the main atrium of the shopping center, even when there was no darkness left for them to hide in. They helped me find a room with a big, orange sign on it, though white decorations in seemingly random patterns disrupted the pretty orange.

I’d later learn this sign said MALL SECURITY.

Men in stiff blue uniforms sat me down in a stiff, plastic chair, and then a screech echoed through the mall, my name belted for all to hear.

My father came quickly from there, checking me over for injury. I remember tears of relief slipping from red eyes before he scolded me from wandering off from him. I remember asking what happened to the person who’d given me their hand and guided me.

I remember being told I’d walked there on my own, gentle smiles on the faces of the adults as they attributed it to a child’s overactive imagination.

I remember the way my father looked at me.

I’d grow up, but I never forgot the hand that burned me as it led to me safety.

Who’s hand had I held? Who had guided me?

~~

I was seventeen the next time it aided me. A party I had lied to attend, full of drinks I was too young to have. And apparently one drink with a little extra something in it, just for me. The world had begun to spin and I wasn’t sure if the nausea I felt was from the way everything was upside down or the alcohol I’d consumed.

I had stumbled outside, away from the one behind me, collapsed behind a bush. It was the dead of night and I’d found the all-encompassing darkness – the place that hid me from the light’s revealing glare as I was pursued.

The burning cold was a welcome agony as they again grasped my hand. It was the first time in a decade I’d felt them, but it brought me a peace no one else had. “You are not ready,” they hissed. While I heard the anger, I knew it wasn’t directed at me. I tried to look at them, but the blur of the spiked drink and the dark hid them from my view. “I will guide you.”

And so they did, slow and steady as I tripped over bramble and brush, though I never fell, they kept me on my feet. When we reached the sidewalk, we avoided the dim light cast by the street post. I couldn’t deny my relief, even in my drugged haze. Their hand meant safety, and that was what I craved in that moment. More than once, I heard twigs being snapped underfoot and the whisper of distant voices, but I remained safe, clutched close by the figure I couldn’t see.

When the house I shared with my grandfather came into sight, I breathed a sigh of relief, though I paused as I saw the porchlight. My safety, my guide, pulled me onto the porch, and the distinct feeling of their hand being not-quite-real as we crossed the light’s threshold made me ache with loss.

They didn’t release me until I had gone inside my home, casting a wary eye out for the man who’d first grabbed for me, the sparkle of the gold rings upon his fingers an unpleasant memory.

“You are protected here,” they said – and then they were gone.

It wouldn’t be until I trekked my way upstairs, collapsed onto my bed, that I realized – even in the light, I had seen nothing in my hand, despite the pressure of their grip.

What had held my hand?

~~

I’d feel them again several times over the next fifteen years, but I never saw them. Each time, they kept me safe, kept me protected from people who wished me harm.

And when they time came, they saved me from my own ignorance.

I stood at the balcony of the castle, watching the fires burn in the distance. How hot they must be, I wondered, for me to feel the heat against my cheeks? Were the people down there hurting, screaming?

The thought brought a smile to my face.

Cold shot through my right shoulder as they placed their hand on me. “It is nearly time, my love,” they said, another rush of pain as they stroked my cheek. “Are you ready for the ascension?”

My smile only grew as I nodded, and I looked over my shoulder at the empty space behind me, but where I could imagine a human’s head would be. It was time for the heralded end – the thing I’d been born to do, the destiny so many had tried to steal from me.

“Thank you,” they whispered in my ear, and the last thing I knew was the knife slid between my ribs.

[melandolia]

good morning fellow degenerates today i bring you this collection of lando norris slutty waist backshots. tomorrow who knows.

[finisnihil]

“They finally made this theme more blatant-" Why does it need to be blatant. What's wrong with subtlety? Concepts can be underused but subtlety is not neglect.

Blaring all your concepts and themes is not good writing. It's so disruptive to a story's flow when the characters look off the screen to be like "See? This is the concept. The idea. The theme."

If you can feel the hand of the author becoming too heavy that's bad.

For example: I see people saying Azula's abuse in ATLA is more blatant in the live action and it's good because "it's being discussed more". It already was discussed at length. The show made it clear she was a victim at every turn, every behavior, every reaction, it came from a place of trauma. It was made clear that she was scared of ending up like Zuko because Zuko was an example of what would happen to her if she failed. When she says she's better than Zuko it wasn't just because she was raised to think hersef superior to him but because Zuko failed and failures get mutilated and exiled, failures are abandoned. In that final Agni Kai the music is morose and somber because this isnt some epic battle its a fucking tragedy, the burning out of "Ozai's brightest light" and Azula finally succumbing to her terror and trauma she was repressing now that her worst fears are realized. How can you see a fourteen year old girl chained to a sewer grate wailing and writhing and breathing fire desperately as unsympathetic? Even Katara and Zuko are horrified as to what has become of her.

The writers weren't looking us in the eye and saying "See? She's a victim too" when they wrote this, they weaved it in. They weaved it into her obsesison with symmetry, her extreme perfectionism, the way she talks about Ozai, the ways she calls herself a monster, her isolation from those with healthy home lives, all the ways she held herself together and ultimately all the cracks and seams that she shattered down when she fell apart. It did not need to be blatant to be clear.

[sweetmapple]

I am going to turbo hell for this one

[backjustforberena]

I wonder if any of them knew it was all for her.

[tooquirkytolose]

Love Spell~

[stump-not-found]

just some stan appreciation for theseus' guide chap 1 <- (my cool fanfic where i beat him up yay)

[konigsblog]

mutual masturbation with simon riley...

simon's dick hardens at the sight of you getting off, that fucked-out stupid look in your eyes, with tears brimming in your waterline—he's obsessed.

it's addictive. simon's thick fingers prod against your tight hole while you wrap your hand around his veiny shaft. your strokes are slow, biting your lip and gazing into his eyes while attempting to calm your breathing. you pant like a filthy mutt in heat, your grip on his lengthy, slick cock tightening at the wet, throbbing sensation between your soft, supple thighs.

simon's dick pulses and aches at the pleasure, the softness of your hand in comparison to his rough, calloused, and scarred skin feeling heavenly. simon begins to push another digit inside your entrance, watching your jaw fall slack and your eyes glisten with delirium. he pumps two fingers into your swollen, soft folds while cooing at you for being so pent up, so sexually frustrated. you look perfect like this; legs spread wide open for him, gazing up at him needily, and jerking him off messily.

“that’s it, there we go. attagirl, you’re doin’ so well, ain’t‘cha? strokin’ my dick, that greedy cunt swallowin’ my fingers, yeah?” simon cocks his head to the side teasingly with a cruel grin plastered on his stupid mug. the effect he has on you leaving him feeling playful, sliding another finger into you unexpectedly, your moans only getting louder.

god, simon adores stuffing your pretty holes full, finger fucking you into stupidity until you're begging for permission to come all over his scarred fingers.

you watch as simon's tip begins to weep, oozing out strings of his creamy arousal. pearly orbs of his stickiness flow from the head of his lengthy, fat cock and run down his stuff shaft, acting as lube as you jerk him off rapidly and eagerly, tears beginning to roll down your cheeks from overstimulation and desperation, with pleas flowing from your lips.

[other-floret-friend]

Genuinely creepy goonerfinni.

She stalks you at night. Screens hooked up to the cameras in your hab, gently stroking at her injectors with that pink-gold glow in her eyes, observing you doing the most banal of things because you're just so precious. And when curiosity takes you over and you look up something like how it feels to be collared, her leaves visibly tremble from excitement.

Other Affini seem a little... strange around her, in a way that's pretty hard to explain. The visible sight of glittery pollen across her form despite not actually having a floret, being quite obviously her own, brings about intrigued looks - nothing accusatory, but certainly curious. She's a bit odd, perhaps, but not harmful.

She still watches, though. Seeing something like you making a sandwich with such a sense of lust in her form, giggling and babbling almost incoherently about how adorable you are when you drop the butter knife you're using, about how precious you are, how you're so helpless all on your own. She's got pretty detailed notes about you, and yet you've not met her.

Yet.

You seem to get this sense that someone's watching you, but maybe that's just normal. Sure, your hab's AI is always active, but sometimes, it's like it speaks with a different... purpose, behind it. Odd orders of Terran-compatible... "pleasure tools" keep "mistakenly" arriving at your door from unmarked senders, but you know this has to be a mistake, right? And surely the changes in recommendations on your infopad are just some sort of glitch, as they seem to suggest weirder and weirder florn over and over, almost insisting on it.

...maybe you shouldn't have refused those obscure, tiny little advances for so long. Your secret admirer's only more and more infatuated by the day, constantly on the precipice of putting out a notice of intent on you, but wondering if you'd turn it down. She just can't have that. An idea forms. Not something most Affini would do on a whim, but something that Affini like her seem to revel in. Fantasies shared with other plants. All of them like her, ending up with their own florets by some means or another.

Late one night, while you're snoozing, all tuckered out from tentatively looking up the effects of different xenodrugs out of "curiosity" on the overnet, she finds that she just can't help herself. She knows where you are. In fact, she knows how to effortlessly, silently slip into your hab, unnoticed, and she does just that. She's so close to you. She smells so, so sweet, reeking of spent xenodrugs and nectar. That look on her face is so controlling, but so loving.

Unfurling around your sleeping form, vines wrapping around you, exposing you to her core as you groggily bat your eyes to see her looking down at you, she shushes you, injectors slipping into your skin, so softly apologising both that she just couldn't hold herself back, but also for not doing this sooner.

You don't need to worry. You'll be such a good floret. This was always best for you, right? The biorhythm sinking into your soul, the class-C's entering your bloodstream, that look of tired grogginess giving way to flustered, pet-like adoration on your little face suggests as much. This is how it'd always end up.

...she'll file a notice tomorrow, make it official, all above-board. You're not going to turn it down, after all. :::)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Guiding Hand 7

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

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

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

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

Characters: Raymond Smith, Lee Bodecker in the background

Note: Happy Friday.

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

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

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The grocery store is a panoply of colours and sounds. You feel hollow as you lean on the cart and trawl the aisles. You won't fill it, you got it for support. Your legs are weaker by the minute.  

You balance out every credit in your shop. You can't go a dollar over the allotment. It isn't very much at the end. Better for you, you're worried about carrying it all. 

You swipe the card and crumple the list. You had to leave a few things off. You hook the bags over your shoulders, the effort further sending your burnt hand to pulse. As you come out onto the beaming light, you examine the tortured flesh peeking out. You unwind the fraying bandage and gasp, tears springing free as you peel it away from the sticky, stinky flesh. 

It stings in the open air. You keep it up against your chest and walk on. It's more of a lumber as your feet drag and your body moves stiffly. The sun beats down mercilessly and has you sweating despite the constant shiver rolling through you. 

You slow as you come in sight of your building. You look around cautiously, searching for the glasses and blond beard. Did he listen? Did he go away or is he lurking? Just like Lee, always waiting... 

You don't see him. The edges of your vision are so blurry, you can't be sure. You don't have the energy to worry about him. You just want to go back to bed. 

You cross the street and clumsily aim the keys at the slot. Through one door, then the next. You don't hear them catch behind you but you can only hear the echoing impact of each step. 

You stagger into the apartment and leave the chain to dangle, the latch flipped the wrong way. You trod into the kitchen but don't have the length to lift the bags onto the counter. You drop them on the floor and stare. You're so tired and you can't stop shaking. 

As you stand there, time and space pinpoints on you. You look around, the silence setting in. It's so quiet. You can't hear your mom. Or him.  

"Now aren't ya gon put that all away?" Lee drawls as his weight creaks in the floor. 

You nod without looking back and make a noise. You can't muster a single word. You bend to reach into a bag and take out the box of generic macaroni and cheese. You hobble to the counter and set it down, using your good hand to open the cupboard. You put it on the shelf and grasp the door. 

You're so dizzy. You lean on the counter and suddenly, the doors swinging shut. The edge hits your cheek and you yelp. You're crushed against the drawers as Lee pens you in from behind. 

"You're startin' to really tee me off. Takin' your time and all. Like you ain't good for nothin'," he snarls as you fold over the counter top. "Whatsa matter with you? You not gonna fight, huh?" 

He grabs a fistful of hair and wrenches your head back. You heave as your hand slaps painfully on the stained linoleum, the flesh radiating with flame. You whimper as his other hand creeps around your stomach. He pushes on your pelvis until his crotch is flush to your ass. 

"Let me show you what you're good for, huh?" He sneers and shoves his hand down the front of your pants. You whimper as he touches the coil patch of hair beneath, "mm, feel that? You want this. Ain't even got no panties." 

"Stop," you murmur as your head lolls from his grasp. 

"You'll be beggin' me not to in a minute," he snorts and forces his fingers between your thighs. 

"Sto-sto-stop!" You stammer out helplessly. 

"Now, you keep quiet. It won't be long," he leans into you until your hips ache, "teach ya to be disrespectful." 

He curls his fingers and scratches between your folds. You whine and gulp through your dry throat. Panic surges through your delirium as you reach back to claw with your injured hand. A shriek erupts at the the vibrant agony. 

"Ahhhhhh!" You wail, "mom! Mom! Help!" 

"She drank herself stupid already," he growls and nips at your ear, "just us, girl." 

"Mom!" You yelp as his fingers dip towards your entrance, his rough palm scraping against your soft flesh, "mom!" Your heart throbs and your head rings, "mom!" He pushes his fingertips through your tight slit and you erupt, "MOMMY!” 

Your knee hit the wood as you wriggle against him. You’re so weak. The walls close in as you feel yourself losing your grasp, not just on the counter but on the world. His fingers sink in deep, the callouses rough against your delicate walls. 

Suddenly, you’re jarred and the room tips over. You hit the tile in a heap and groan. Your fiery hand rests against the cool squares as your vision swirls and you hear huffing and puffing, grunts intermingled and the crack of violence. Thwack, thwack, thwack. 

Lee’s heavy figure hits the wall and his legs go out from under him as he slides onto his ass. You blink through the silty haze and shake your head. It’s all foggy and senseless. It wasn’t you who pushed him off. It can’t have been. 

“Mom,” you mutter as you try to sit up only to fall back as your hand burns with acid. Your blood is hot but your skin is ice. “Mom, what’s going on?” 

A dark shape bounces off of Lee’s jaw and red dribbles down his chin as he leans against the wall, slumping down onto his shoulder. You drone mindlessly as you bring your hand over your stomach and whine. It hurts so bad. The shadow moves to stand over you and you close your eyes. 

“Please...” you beg. It’s definitely not your mom; they’re too big, too strong. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” the grizzly timbre tickles in your ears as something firm slips beneath you; one arm around your shoulders, the other under your knees. 

You float in the air, eyes threatening to roll back as you fight through the clouds, your form jittering uncontrollably against the blaze that surrounds you. The man is hotter than fire. You tilt your head up and see the tufts of his short blond beard. 

It’s him. It’s Professor Smith but why is he there? Where is he taking you? All those questions merely stir in your slanted consciousness as your head falls against his shoulder. You’re too tired to think and you’re done fighting. It never you any good anyhow. 

You feel the motion of his steps and how he angles you through the door. Down the stairs and outside back into the unbearable light. You squeeze your eyes tight. He continues on, laying you into something soft. You look at him between your eyelids and garble. 

“Sweetheart, just stay here,” he bids in his lilt, pulling a lever to recline the car seat. The vinyl smells brand new and the upholstery looks just as pristine. It stamps your vision before you once more hide inside your head. “I’ll be back.” 

You don’t protest. Why is he doing all this? For you? He’s your professor... it doesn’t make much sense. Nothing does right now. Everything is just messy. 

He puts the engine on. The low whir is comforting. He adjusts the vents to blow air, though it feels hot to you. He stands and removes his jacket, spreading it over your quivering shoulders and chest. He huffs and cranes to see behind him. 

The door shuts and locks at his back as he leaves you. You stay as you are. It’s as comfortable as you’ve been in days. Time stretches on, crackling in your ears. You drift off into a void, brought back only by the hollow thunk of the electric locks. 

Professor Smith tosses something in the backseat and snaps the door closed, moving to the driver’s. He sits beside you and lets the car idle. He reaches over to touch your forehead as your lashes flutter at him. He hums as he appears as a ghostly smear. 

“Very well,” he says and the car rolls into motion. 

📓

You jolt up, a splash of water flying up across your face and chest as you rip your hand away from the electrifying pain. You’re caught by the shoulder and hushed. You blink tightly and lean back, looking over at the man on the other side of the porcelain. Professor Smith reaches over to take your hand out of the water, the ripples scalding on the tormented skin. 

“It’s already infected,” he says, “you’ll make it worse. I’m trying to dress it so be still.” 

Your confusion nips at your ears as you look down at yourself. You’re naked, in a tub of steaming water, the scent of lilies roiling up with the wisps. He sighs and you hiss as he presses a wet swab to the burnt patches of skin. Some of it even looks green. 

His sleeves are rolled to his elbows and there are cuts and scrapes on his own knuckles. Even so, his nails are cut and tidy and his skin is clean. He is diligent in his attention to your own mottled skin. 

You put your hand over your lap, trying to hide but all modesty is spent. You’re too dazed to care that much. There’s bigger questions. Where are you? Why? 

“I couldn’t let you to wallow in such a horrid place,” he speaks as he works, his touch gentle despite the thickness and firmness of his hand. “And after our last interaction, I could not just tuck my tail. It isn’t of my nature.” He tuts as he wets a new swab with alcohol, “and the filth--” 

“Professor...” you slur. “What... why?” 

“There are many details, yes, I had to jump through hoops but you needn’t worry for all that. What’s more important is we get you clean. The state of it,” he shakes his head, “a day or two more and you might’ve died.” He stills his hands and looks at you. You dare to meet his gaze, shame scalding as hot as the fever, “it wouldn’t do.” 

You frown, “I didn’t ask for help--” 

“Well, you are getting it,” he scoffs and sets back to disinfecting. “And a mother like that. Neglectful...” 

“She’s... lost.” 

“It doesn’t matter, does it? She’s still a mother. Bringing that man around. Certainly, he isn’t the first, either.” 

You lower your head. You wince and whimper as he carries on but you do not pull away. He works methodically. 

“We’ll get some antibiotics in you and tuck in,” he speaks to himself, “perhaps they can have some broth brought up to the room. Never fear, I’ve brought my own sheets and sanitized ever speck.” 

You cough and shake your head. You can’t keep up. 

“When you’re up to it, we’ll leave town. I do fear I will have to be back in office, at least my home office, within the week,” he takes out a roll of gauze and you wince. 

“I’m... what’s going on?” You ask. 

“Naturally, when you start something you need to follow through,” he says, “I’ve done and started this, haven’t I?” 

“Started what?” You utter. 

“Can’t take you back now,” he secures the bandage and lets your arm rest over the porcelain. “Don’t get that wet.” 

“Sir, professor,” you sit up, another spiraling sensation overcoming you. You look down and fold up to hide yourself, your exposure tingling over you, “what... please tell me what’s going on.” 

“Would you need help? Cleaning, I mean. Purely practical,” he offers, “I wouldn’t mind. Of course, I did wipe your face already, did my best with the hair...” he sits back on the low cushioned stool he’s on and puts his elbows on his knees, “there is soap and a fresh scrubber there.” 

“Can you please just--” you bluster and a faintness blows through you, sending you back against the porcelain. You slip down dangerously, your arm sticking up against the side of the tub. He catches your elbow, heaving you back up as he bends over you.  

“Yes, feverish still,” he says, “perhaps a hot bath is not the best for it.” He hauls you up and sits you on the ledge of the great basin, “hang onto me then, I will get you washed up.” 

You have no other choice but to obey. The humiliation cannot feed the strength you need to resist. You cling to him with your uninjured arm and lean your head on his shoulder. He pauses before he can grab the scrubbie and instead rubs your back. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he coos, “yes, right then.”  

His hand lingers before he reaches once more and swipes up the bottle and sponge, moving his arms around you. You collapse into him and groan. At least he isn’t hurting you. Not like Lee. 

[lotus-pear]

soukoku shippers can NEVER come after kunizai now with the excuse of them having no angst i think they honestly win tragic yaoi of the year award WAIT UNTIL DAZAI HEARS HIS PARTNER GOT TURNED INTO A 7/11 $2.50 FROST GLACIER SLUSHIE 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[heph]

I dont know if im allowed to just request in your inbox..

But can you feed us with some clingy wilson with house 😔😔

I wanna see the baby boys cuddle but we need clingy wilson 😙

Completely "platonic" snuggling

[sainz100]

x

[mondo994]

chapter I: "A Parade in Erhenrang"