#at least the clock isn't broken

[hyuneflix]

THE CURE • Bang Chan

sex therapist!chan x client!reader after years of unhappy endings, your friend suggests a trip to sydney's most up and coming sex therapist. you hadn't expected much, least of all to discover the cure you'd been looking for all this time was your therapist himself.

word count: 11k << back to dash // next episode >>

CONTENT WARNINGS

𐙚 - female masturbation, mutual masturbation, vibrator use, phone sex, guided masturbation, dirty talk, use of "slut" and similar terms, chan is called sir, lowkey orgasm denial, sub!reader, soft dom!chan slightly possessive chan, some mentions of a corruption kink.

! - inappropriate relationship dynamic (chan is her sex therapist), reader is written to be neurodivergent though it isn't explicitly stated, mention of dissociation and depersonalisation, brief descriptions of a dissociative episode, non-descript mentions of trauma around sex, therapy talk/setting. everything is intentionally vague but be careful nonetheless.

episode one - a cure for unhappy endings

Never in a million years had you ever expected you’d be sat in the plush, sleek office of one of Sydney’s most esteemed sex therapists.

You weren’t quite sure how your close friend had managed to convince you to make an appointment, her perky voice insisting it would magic away all of your problems while sliding an equally polished business card toward you. Perhaps it had been the conviction and openness with which she told you it saved her marriage that had you contemplating it in earnest. Alternatively it could’ve been her manner of being–the cheery disposition which led her to float into every room with a wide smile–one that made you sure she was doing something right. Whatever the reason you were here.

The waiting room looked akin to a modern showroom, the walls a crisp white save for a wide strip of matte black that accented one side of the room. Lounge chairs dotted the sizable space, the light grey of the velvety fabric contrasting against the one black wall. The greyscale of the room’s aesthetic was broken up by pops of green and gold, present in the flourishing of tall house plants that scattered the room beside towering, pale yellow-lit lamps. The floor looked to be a marbled stone material, perhaps a dark porcelain sleet or purbeck, partially hidden beneath a single rug that housed the centre of the room. Atop the geometric carpet a glass coffee table sat littered with pamphlets and magazines, a bouquet of white lilies placed in the very middle. The dreary silence of the near-empty space was compromised by the whirl of the air conditioning accompanied only by the occasional taps of keys echoing from behind the receptionist's desk. 

You tapped your foot soundlessly as you awaited your appointment, fingers curled tightly around a paper cup. The cardboard was hot beneath your already too-warm palms, the container half-filled with a surprisingly expensive tasting coffee. Perhaps you shouldn’t be surprised that Sydney’s most up and coming sex therapist spared no expense when it came to their guests, though knowing so little about the person you were due to meet, your expectations were caught in a chaotic flurry of uncertainty and nervousness. You tried to still your restless limbs, planting your foot firmly against the solid ground as if the feeling of the floor beneath your shoes would heighten your senses, stilling your mind. Attempting, instead, to focus solely on the white noise that exhaled from the AC vent. You couldn’t, though. You never could. That was why you were here after all. You were so entirely unable to relax–to calm your nerves and quiet your mind–that even a climax was too far from reach. Your leg bounced anxiously at this, a huff of air from your parted lips sending strands of hair catching in the soft breeze it created. 

Your eyes lifted to the clock above the reception, brows scrunching as the hand ticked slowly passed 3:15pm. Fifteen minutes behind schedule. It wasn’t the lateness that had your eyebrows furrowing in slight annoyance, it was the minutes more you’d have to spend in the presence of your own nervous thoughts. Swallowing down some more of your coffee you placed the paper cup on the small side table beside you, freeing up your hands as you dug around the contents of your tote for your phone. The aged white fabric, its front decorated with a bright sun and array of technicoloured pastel flowers, rarely left your side. It was a comforting piece of familiarity in the otherwise chaotic and ever-changing ambience of Australia’s once largest city. The external screen of your mobile lit up the moment it was freed from the shadowed confines of the multi-coloured canvas, revealing a few messages from the very friend who had placed you here on this day. 

[ from: Matilda ♥️]

2:32pm: don’t forget ur apt ik what ur like 😉

2:55pm: istg if ur still asleep ?? i juss knew going out last night was a mistake smh

3:01pm: k i see how it is ,, enjoy being pent up for the rest of ur life cunt ❤️

You snickered at her quick descent into petty remarks, fingers tugging at the folded screen until it opened. Tapping in your passcode you responded, letting her know you hadn’t missed your appointment despite the simmering of an ache in your temple. She wasn’t wrong, going out last night wasn’t the smartest idea but you’d insisted it would help you get out some of that nervous energy that threatened to spill over in instances like this one. You theorised that with a pounding head and an undercurrent of nausea your racing thoughts would have something else to fixate on. Imagine your surprise when you awoke in near good health. It was only natural that the one time you didn’t mind feeling a little worse for wear you felt on cloud nine. You were cursed, that was the only explanation; one that felt even more true given your current occupancy in the waiting room of a sex therapist.

The creek of a door drew your attention away from your phone, a deep voice calling your name despite the absence of other customers situated in the expanse he’d entered. Your gaze fixed on the figure half-hidden by the door frame, eyes widening when you took in the details of the person a few feet from you. It suddenly became abundantly clear why the man before you was so successful in his attempts to fix his clients sex lives; he was exceptionally handsome. Attractive in a quiet and unconventional way but undeniably so all the same. His dark gaze was soft despite the all-consuming black holes his deep brown eyes became. They sucked you in without warning, swallowing you whole the longer you held his stare. It wasn’t just his enthralling pair of aphotic orbs that had the breath catching in your throat, everything about him seemed crafted by an artist so proficient in their technique you failed to scrutinise a single flaw. 

You managed a smile as you grabbed for your coffee, swallowing down the last of the cooling liquid to discard in the metallic bin on your journey toward the magnetic man; the muted thud when it hit the bottom going unacknowledged as you passed. Your tote hung from your shoulder lazily as you followed him into his office, watching the way his upper back and arms flexed beneath his too-tight charcoal dress shirt. The silk-cotton sleeves, despite the slightly ill fit, remained rolled up mid-way; veiny arms on full display as he directed you toward another set of lounge chairs. You’d hoped to feel better once your appointment began–you usually did–but having laid eyes upon the man you were expected to speak openly with regarding such intimate details, you only felt worse. His pink, plump lips widened in a large smile as he motioned you toward one of the chairs. You complied, bag slipping from your shoulder as you lowered yourself into the comfortable leather.

“Sorry for the late start; had a meeting overrun.” He spoke with emphatic sincerity, dimples pressing indentations against his pale cheeks. You could only nod, mind preoccupied by the tufts of dark curls caught in the artificial breeze that pulsed throughout the space. The office was a little larger than the last room, the aesthetics similar save the large windows on one side of it; their transparency enveloping the area in a warm glow of natural light. The beating sun against the crystal clear glass contradicted the chill of the aircon, balancing the room’s temperature to near perfection. Yet, despite this, you felt far too hot with your flushed cheeks and sweaty palms. A symptom, no doubt, of the man sat across from you.

“That’s okay, I get it.” You murmured back, fingers toying with the hem of your checkered summer dress, the soft cotton providing your anxious energy with some relief. The man in front of you seemed to take note of your nervous fussing, eyes falling to your bare thighs momentarily to fix on the opening and closing of your fists around the hem. His tongue darted across his bottom lip adding a glossy sheen to his already enticing smile; deep brown pools still drinking in your itching fingers with an unreadable expression. 

“I know you must be feeling nervous–that’s normal–but you don’t have to worry about diverging anything until you’re ready.” His smile widened, reaching beside him to grab a large ipad from a short table, action in tandem with the raising of his gaze. “Why don’t we start with introductions and then we can go over some basics; try and set a baseline for what you’re comfortable discussing?” You nodded at this, words failing you for a moment. 

“That works for me.” Your mouth caught up with your brain, offering him a smile of your own. 

“Good, well I’m Chan; Bang Chan. My friends call me Chris though, so you’re welcome to call me that.” His disarming nature was impossible to ignore, the tone of his voice paired with his approachable expression relaxing your shoulders. It had been hard to imagine that a man with such stature and poise could be so easy-going, but the moment a smile tugged at his lips it was as if his entire being beamed with it.

“I’ve never heard the name Chan before, I like it.” You thought aloud, earning a wide-eyed grin from the man in front of you. It was hard not to allow yourself to stray when a sparkle lit up his gaze; the soft glimmer of something unknown swimming in its brown depths. Its mere presence making it near impossible to cling to your inhibitions, to remain anything but comfortable beneath his stare. 

“Thank you, umm, that’s the first time anyone’s ever told me that.” He practically radiated with warmth–giving the sun beyond the glass a run for its money–now shy gaze lowering to the device in his lap. Your confidence grew at this, the power balance between you shifting in your favour for just a moment. 

“Well, most people are dumb I've learned.” Chan stifled a laugh at this, looking up at you through his lashes in brief acknowledgment before the dull tap of his purposeful actions against his ipad screen stole his attention near instantaneously. 

“Hopefully I can be an exception to that rule.” He quipped back, earning a soft chuckle from you. “So your name is y/f/n, right?” 

“Oh, yeah, sorry, that’s me.” You exhaled a soft breath. Your newfound comfort was enough to simmer your busy brain, but your body had other ideas, hands fiddling with the decorative string of your pastel summer dress while the conversation flowed between you. 

“No, that’s okay. Always better to make sure in case another y/n somehow wandered in.” It was his turn to offer a laugh, the contagious noise a chortle cut off by the push of air from his lungs. Breathy and short-lived, but genuine nonetheless.

“Now that would be a crazy twist of fate.” You humoured him, smile widening with every moment spent in his company. It was inexplicable the manner with which the air around you had changed–as if something magnetic and charged hung within its formless presence. You couldn’t see it, just as you couldn’t see the crisp air expelled from the AC, nor the humid warmth that radiated from the sun, but you could feel it. 

“Truly, stranger things have happened though.” Chan looked up from his ipad, seemingly finished with whatever had occupied his attention. You figured it had been the documents you’d been asked to fill out before your session, pages upon pages of personal information and sexual history now ingrained in the confines of his mind. That was an odd thought to say the least. 

“Ain’t that a fact–did you ever hear about that dude Mike Madman Marcum?” You distracted yourself from the rising discomfort, brain making leaps and bounds toward a vaguely relevant subject in its attempt to retreat. 

“Mike Madman Marcum?” Another exhaled laugh from his nose followed his words, lips parted in a grin that showed his pearly teeth and a glimpse of pink gum. Again the craters grew in the soft dough of his cheeks, expression transformed from unreadable–nearly disinterested–to warm and inviting. 

“Yeah, bro literally invented some sort of black hole, time travel portal shit and then mysteriously disappeared, like what?” You kept talking, brows raised in disbelief as if you hadn’t heard the story spilling from your lips until now.

“That sounds fake.” He shook his head, tipping it to the side afterward in interest. 

“You’d think so but it's true.” You shrugged, ghost of a smile still present. It felt impossible not to have even a slight upturn of your lips around him; about as implausible as a rainy day during an Aus summer. 

“How can you know that?” His laugh grew beyond the point of breathy displays of amusement to a noticeable chuckle.

“It’s a long story but there’s a police report about him and his time machine, bro got run out of his hometown and everything ‘cause of his antics. Then he makes the machine again somewhere else and ends up missing. It’s crazy, truly insane.” You filled him in, fingers still picking at the hem of your dress, out of habit more than nerves now. 

“... You gotta send me that article ‘cause I’m curious not gonna lie.” His response had you tipping your head back in silent laughter, not expecting his genuine interest. 

“Yeah? I’ll email you the podcast I listened to.” You nodded.

“You better ‘cause I'll lose sleep wondering about Mike Madman Marcum otherwise.” Sharing a laugh at his words, you couldn’t help but notice how melodic the different tones sounded together. Almost as if you were harmonising one another’s merriment. It charged the air with a new kind of unseen feeling, almost as if giving what had once been there more fuel.

“Oh, I will. First thing I’ll do when I get back home.” You promised, bottom lip enclosed by your teeth while you fought back your widest grin yet. Was it too much to call that sensibility between you chemistry? Were you the only one aware of the electric buzz that emanated through the air, feeling most active in the space that kept you from one another. 

“Thanks, much appreciated. We should probably get back on track though, don’t wanna waste your money talking about time travel.” He maintained a smile, eyes leaving yours to trail across the brightly lit screen once more. 

“Yeah, sorry, that’s my bad.” You apologised, fingers intertwining with one another to refrain from picking at the stray threads of your dress any longer.

“Don’t even mention it. Are wandering thoughts something that you get often?” He voiced aloud his observation, your shoulders rising slightly as the atmosphere around you changed again. Only, instead of the impalpable gravity that drew you to him, you felt something indiscernible push you backward. 

“All the time.” You admitted, answer short.

“Do you feel that it encroaches on your sex life too?” He cut straight to the chase, your eyes blinking wide as your shoulders grew tense.

“Probably.” You retorted, shifting in your seat.

“Well, let me ask you this then–have you orgasmed before? Either from sex or masturbation?” He sounded so calm despite the words that left his plump lips, meanwhile your heart hammered in your chest, a contrast that felt improper, misplaced even. 

“Oh boy, straight to the big questions… I don’t know. I’m not sure. I don’t think so.” You countered. You’d already given him a list of answers to these questions, and you’d hoped at the time you’d forgo the awkwardness of the current topic as a result. It was clear you weren’t that fortunate, but when had you ever been? 

“What makes you uncertain?” The soft brevardo of his voice kissed the shells of your ears, so gentle and genuine in its delivery that it had you melting all over again.

“I wish I knew. I guess, when I’m having sex, at least, I don’t think I ever have. It’s like I automatically check out and leave my body. When it comes to… myself, I don’t know, that’s more of an unknown. It’s like I feel something but then right as the build comes I just can’t reach the end.” You said, as honest as you could be given the circumstances. Your cheeks were ablaze, heart nearly deafening in its antiphon.

“Okay, well there’s a couple of things to unpack there.” Chan nodded half heartedly, the thin apple pen pressed against the pout of his mouth in thought; eyes trained on the screen where a set of scribbles that made up his short-hand observations lay. 

“Probably above your pay grade.” You joked, though a hint of sincerity simmered beneath the chime of your tone. 

“Nothing is above my pay grade, don't you worry about that.” He offered you a reassuring smile, tongue darting out to wet his lips once more. It distracted you again, forcing you to once more confront the attractiveness of the man supposedly holding all the answers to your problems. “Let’s start with this, have you been to any form of therapy before?”

“Only when I was younger.” You blinked, willing your brain to focus on his words rather than the formation of his mouth as he spoke them.

“What was that for?” He queried, thick accent pulling at the syllables as they left his parted lips.

“My mental health among other things.” You retorted ambiguously, not wanting to ignite that storm within your consciousness. 

“Okay, we don’t have to get into the specifics, that's fine; did you find it helpful?” Chan seemed to pick up on this, you weren’t surprised, of course he would. 

“No, I’m not great with talking about my feelings–I don’t feel like it helps.” You admitted, shoulders slouching and rising in slight discomfort. You felt your foot shift restlessly, suddenly hyper-aware of every movement you made in the leather confines of your prison. 

“So what was your motivation for coming here?” The curious man inquired, no amount of austerity present in his tone. 

“My friend said I should try it, apparently you saved her marriage. She’s the most stubborn person I know so if she can do it I’m guessing I can too.” You were back to making light of the situation, hoping to pull another bright smile from the seriousness that clouded his expression. 

“Glad to hear she found it so beneficial.” You’d been unsuccessful, managing only to ignite a momentary spark within his dark gaze before he was back to scrutinising you, gently still, but profoundly all the same. “So what I’m getting from this is that talking to you about the root cause of things isn’t going to be the most helpful approach for you?” 

“Maybe, I don’t know.” Your voice came out sheepish, body almost crumpling in on itself. You wished you had the answers, wanted nothing more than to be the perfect patient just as he had been the perfect therapist thus far. 

“Well we can always try and go from there? We take a holistic approach to therapy so if one thing isn’t working we’ll switch it up, okay?” The man kept his eyes trained on you, flickering from corner to corner, taking in every nook and cranny of your features until they settled back on your uncertain eyes.

“Sounds good.” You forced a smile, the room around you shrinking in size in anticipation of what was to come. You could feel your mind failing you, the interior of the room transforming into a twisted, swirling haze of unfamiliarity. Of course, you didn’t know the place well, but all at once it didn’t feel as if you knew it at all. Like you’d never been here, like you didn’t remember coming here. As if you weren’t really here at all. 

“The other reason I asked about your history with therapy is that you mentioned leaving your body when you’re engaging in sex with someone–did you ever discuss dissociation or depersonalisation with a therapist in the past?” His voice felt foreign all of a sudden, as if he’d been replaced by someone who looked like him, felt like him, should be him, but wasn’t. 

“I did not.” You murmured, blinking in the hopes you’d return to your prior state of being. 

“This is a little more of a personal question: have you experienced a traumatic event associated with sex or intimacy?” His voice rang in your mind, sounding almost like a bell as it echoed within the confines of your skull. You’d heard what he’d said, but it hadn’t settled enough to register. Instead it kept repeating, your brain trying to make sense of the words strung together, just enough to elicit a response from your parted lips, but not enough to make you remember. 

“Uhh.” You felt like you’d been gawking for an hour, mouth opening and closing as you felt yourself move further and further from you body. 

“Are you okay?” His voice pulled your gaze from the floor to his own pointed stare, those all-consuming pools of dark brown just enough to settle your momentarily. 

“Yeah sorry, this- this is why I don’t find talking very helpful. It's like my brain just shuts down when shit gets real.” You stumbled over your words, fingers pressing against your temple in an attempt to coax your soul–or whatever it was that was retreating in haste–back to your body.

“Don’t apologise for that, you’re okay to react whichever way you need to.” He assured you, your heart dancing to the melodic tune his soft affirmations took on. “It sounds like what you’re experiencing are episodes of dissociation, and, while I can’t diagnose anything, or say for certain that’s what it is, it certainly appears that way. It’s common for people who have difficulties in this area to have a dissociative disorder or experience episodes of dissociation when they’re faced with a trigger.” 

“So my trigger is sex?” You queried, words coming a little easier now. It was as if this feeling, the one he’d named dissociation, came over you in waves. You’d felt choked up, near to the point of drowning, mere moments ago. Now it felt like ripples more than strong currents. 

“Maybe, that’s what we’re going to get to the bottom of. It could also be intimacy, your attachment to others or your own body. There are so many reasons why people feel they can’t cope with a situation, and their brain instinctually shuts itself down.” 

“Okay, I guess it's reassuring knowing my body isn’t broken.” You muttered back, feeling rather deflated by now. The air felt sucked from your lungs, replaced by the salt water of your apparently dissociative episode. It made it hard to breathe, only managing laboured, reluctant breaths as if expecting another wave. 

“Absolutely not, nothing about you is broken, not your body or your brain. Dissociation is a fear, stress or anxiety response; the same as fight or flight. It’s perfectly normal, your brain is just trying to protect itself as it's designed to do.” His smile was back, eyes forming crescents that threatened to conceal his caliginous orbs all together. 

“So, like self-preservation?” You attempted to piece together the sentiments that fell from his lips so easily. Perhaps he really did hold all the answers, and that gave you a sense of belief, or attachment, that suddenly wanted him nearer to you. 

“Exactly!” He beamed, fingers tapping mindlessly atop his meaty thigh. “What I want to start out doing over the next few sessions, however, is to focus on you and your relationship with your body. You should be able to pleasure yourself and know your body well before you trust someone else with that task, right?” 

“That seems okay.” You nodded.

“Right, well we won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with, but we’ll start you right from the beginning and we can skip ahead if needs be.” He continued, shifting easily back into the pensive professionalism that hid away his affectionate smiles.

“Alrighty.” Your foot bounced.

“Do you know where the pleasure points are on your body?” His eyes flickered from the ipad in his lap toward your furrowed features.

“I think so.” Your leg joined in the restless dance.

“Go ahead.” He urged, eyes tracing your figure in what you could only assume was acknowledgement of your nervous mannerisms. 

“Oh you want me to- okay- there’s the clit, umm, there’s the nipples and somewhere there’s a g-spot.” You tried to act like the mature, confident adult you surely should be when discussing this topic at your age.

“Yeah, those are the main one’s sure. There’s also your inner thighs, your neck, your lips; some people find the bottom of their feet to be pleasurable, their ears, lower back, armpits–”

“Armpits? That’s a new one.” You cut him off with a surprised laugh, hand coming to cover your mouth as if to emphasise your bewilderment.

“Yeah there’s a lot.” He chuckled, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek “I noticed you said ‘somewhere’ when mentioning your g-spot. Have you ever found it yourself?” Chan asked, eyes darkening as he did so, an outcome you didn’t think possible until now. 

“No, umm, my fingers aren’t very good at all that.” You shifted in your seat, pulling the hem of your dress further down your bare thighs, nails grazing your clammy flesh. 

“Okay, have you used toys?” His voice had dropped an octave, a sound that had the air instantaneously charged again. It was as if the pull was back, but not without the push; both worlds colliding in one disorientating, magnetic combustion. 

“I don’t even know where to start with all that.” You shrugged dismissively. 

“So how do you usually masturbate?” Your mouth grew dry at his words, the hypnotic buzz that seemed to exude from him almost impossible to ignore now. How were you supposed to take his words so lightly? So entirely void of all subtexts and implications when he was staring at you with such heated scrutiny.

“I just… you know… my clit.” It was a miracle he had heard you, you were almost sure you’d been whispering. In the back of your mind you could hear a white noise that sounded like the crashing of waves, almost as if threatening another trip beneath the surface of reality.

“Okay, and does that make you climax?” You focused carefully on his words, using the image of his mouth as it curled around each syllable to guide you from the deep end. That tongue of his, a threat in itself, traced the seam of his bottom lip once more, lingering for a moment too long. 

“I get close but err, I don’t know, I can never get all the way my mind wanders.” Distracting yourself from his plump mouth, you moved your own until a riposte drew from it. 

“Okay, have you tried watching porn to focus your mind?” His response was near immediate, chin balanced on an open palm now as he leaned back in his chair, legs parting, elbow pressing deeper into the armrest.

“No actually, I haven’t.” You retorted, watching him nod gently as if contemplating his next words, long, pretty fingers clutching the pen as it moved across the screen. His hand moved from his chin to his throat, the back and forth motion as his reflexive state persisted an image that would surely haunt you. You’d never noticed that a person’s hands held their own beauty until now, each digit perfect in length and adorned with ridged veins. 

“Alright, well then I think you have your first piece of homework.” He concluded, snapping you out of your day dream and forcing you to draw your eyes away from the sight. You managed a smile, waiting for him to continue. “I’m going to give you a starter toy, then I want you to go home. If you get in the mood, open up a porn site and type in solo female. Find a video that you think is going to be the most relevant to you and then, using your fingers or the toy, follow what the actress is doing in the video.” 

“Right, okay.” You nodded along, thankful that your first session was drawing to an end. However, the prospect of an at-home-assignment was one that brought a new wave of uncertainty. 

“Don’t be nervous, it’s just you and the video. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work and that’s okay.” His smile was back, stature adjusting as he placed the ipad aside, both palms planting themselves atop his thighs. 

“Uh huh.” You were distracted, but you’d heard him, contemplating his words with a degree of skepticism. 

“What’s making you anxious?” He asked, and on one hand you wanted to blurt out ‘you’. It truly was a challenge all in itself to hear him speak about such a personal topic while he unconsciously made every action attractive and impassioned. From the flicker of his brow, to the rise and fall of his chest, you’d gone from hyper-aware of yourself to hopelessly unable to pull your eyes from his motions. 

“I don’t know, guess I’m just not good at trying new things when it comes to this–I feel like I’m setting myself up for failure.” You admitted, the rise of his brows enough to have you wishing you’d kept it to yourself. That thought didn’t last though, not when the words that followed lulled your anxiety in a way never knew it could be. 

“Failure doesn’t exist in this sphere, you cannot fail, only try and then if you want to, try again.” He leaned forward in his chair, less relaxed in his posture as he grinned at you encouragingly. 

“Right, yeah. I don’t know. I feel like your positivity is so infectious but the moment I get home I’ll just be stuck overthinking again.” You chuckled, an undercurrent of nervousness pulling the whimsy from your tone. 

“Well, why don’t I give you my work number and if you get nervous and need me to talk you down you can call me, yeah?” His assurances continued, palm reaching into the pocket of his cropped suit trousers. 

“Are you sure?” You blinked at him, leaning down to pry at the strap of your trusty tote bag.

“Of course, whatever you need–I’m here.” He gleamed, and with the way he was looking at you so intently, you could tell he meant it. 

The moment you’d gotten home you’d done as promised, sending the podcast via email before opening pornhub preemptively to get ahead of your ‘homework’. It was intimidating to say the least, even more so when the toy Chan had given you sat beside your laptop caught your gaze. The box called it a G-Spot Vibrator, at one time concealing the long, slightly curved pink device from view. Now the vibrator led there, taunting you with its unfamiliarity as your gaze shifted to and from the screen of the laptop. Eventually you chucked in your desk drawer defiantly, fixing your attention on the brightly lit screen to begin scrolling through the wealth of videos. You couldn’t decide on one, none of them seemed to match your skill level; their wrists expertly shiting fancy looking toys in a thrusting motion while their bodies shook and convulsed with over exaggerated pleasure. It was off putting, almost taunting the manner with which they played up every action and sound.

It didn’t take long for you to lose interest, opting to go about your evening as normal instead. Easily the events of the day became background noise as you took care of the needs you struggled with far less than. By the time you’d finished your skincare you were crashing down in front of the couch, mind wandering back to the soft spoken man who’d assigned you such vexatious and troublesome homework. A drama played on low volume in the backdrop of your thoughts, your mind's eye picturing the way your therapist's tongue had travelled across his plump bottom lip. It was miraculous how you’d so easily managed to commit every part of him to memory. You could see him as clearly as the ceiling above you, his veiny hands tightening around his thighs while his dark eyes both provoked and lulled your anxiety. You didn’t realise the extent of his intoxicating stare until you were without it, nor the heat with which it took in every detail of your face as you did his.

Before you knew what you were doing your fingers had begun shifting toward your already hard nipples, one hand covering your t-shirt clad breast. You squeezed softly, head falling further back against the sofa with your eyes now tightly shut. Your free hand skimmed lower, tugging the hem of your oversized shirt to cup your bare flesh. The action of your open palm squeezing against your clit and dampening hole was enough to have your thrusting gently upwards. What a dilemma that the very person who was supposed to be helping you pleasure yourself had become the object of it. The mere thought had you huffing in disbelief–just your luck. 

Deciding to distract yourself you seized the opportunity to do the homework you’d been assigned. Getting up, you trudged the short distance to your desk, grabbing your laptop and the vibrator before returning to the sofa in haste. Your fingers continued tugging at your nipple, electric sparks travelling straight to your core. You kept the drone of the tv on as you clicked play on one of the videos, muting the sound to focus on the girl's actions. That earlier worked up feeling died down somewhat as you mimicked her movements. Taking the vibrator in your mouth you sucked on it stiffly, allowing your tongue to press against the base of it as you wet the velvet soft device. You should’ve known better though, then to think your mind could focus just because you willed it to. Instead, you began to wonder, deliberating whether Chan’s hard cock would feel this heavy between your lips; the thought drawing a hum from your stuffed mouth as you tried to concentrate on the video.

You felt yourself grow soaked at the image of your sex therapist pushing his member further past your lips, the tip of it entering your throat while he exhaled grunts. You thanked the heavens when the actress removed the toy from her mouth, switching the vibration on to press it against her clit. You did the same, body jolting at the unfamiliar feeling. You tried to keep up with her motions, alternating between teasing your soaked entrance with the toy and rubbing it against your clit. Your pleasure came and went as you did so, your clumsy movements trying to keep up with her own. You felt yourself grow frustrated as you did so, mind aching to return to the image of Chan using your mouth. 

Your head lulled back at the thought of his hand clutching your hair with those big, veiny fingers, pushing your head down against his cock until your nose met his muscular flesh. Your eyes glazed over, the video no longer in focus as you fixated on the memory of his slender digits. They were so long and shaped in such a way that you were certain, in your imagination at least, they’d have no problem fucking you open. Neither an issue finding your g-spot; bringing you to a satisfying climax again and again until your body begged him to give you a moment to recover. You could picture it now: his large body hovering above you, one hand pushing you against the mattress to keep you still while the other pistoned his skilled fingers in and out of your gushing pussy. You knew you’d surely be convulsing like the girls in porn did, hips unable to keep still despite his heavy palm.

The movie playing behind your closed lids was enough to have you more worked up than you’d ever been before. You pressed the vibrator into your entrance letting it linger before you thrust it past your walls, leaving yourself no time to prep like the man in your imagination refused to. He touched you with an air of impatience, desperation even, as if he’d deprived himself of you for too long; torturing himself with the thought of how you’d feel constricting around his rock hard length. You marvelled at the way his cock would feel spreading you open deliciously. You imagined his member to be as veiny as his arms, the ridges pushing against your spongy walls sending a new type of wave throughout your body. No disconnection, no retreating. Just the crashing of ecstasy that was building up with every desperate push of the vibrator. Moans fell from your lips as you thrust the toy in and out, the length of it brushing blissfully against your clit every few motions. You pictured the push of his hips against yours, the feeling of his breath against your clammy skin and the melodic muse of his groans. You just knew your moans would sound perfect together; as harmonious as your chorused laughter.

It felt so fucking sinful fucking yourself with the toy he’d given you, imagining him in place of it. The revelation had your high approaching and your walls tightening as you tried to push yourself over the finish line. It felt like a knot, or a rubber band, constricting and pulling until it threatened to snap. You tried to imagine him circling your clit with his soaked fingers, his teeth latching at your throat as he painted plum coloured hues against your skin. You kept your frenzied motions up–thrusting and rubbing in desperation to cum–but the band never snapped. The knot coming undone as your stamina reached its limit. You felt overstimulated, but without the post-orgasm floods of pleasure that should surely be wracking your body. Instead, you just felt tired, defeated even. 

You’d usually give up, the magic of the moment gone with the disappointment that overtook it. This time around, though, you were still endlessly frustrated. You wanted release so badly. Your hand pushed the toy back into your needy pussy as you let your mind wander back to the therapist clouding your mind with lust. This time, he coaxed you through it sweetly, whispering reassuring words in your ear as he took his time thrusting his fingers in and out of your hole. That dark gaze captivated you again. You imagined the way it would scrutinise you once more, peering up at your spent form as he trailed kisses down the valley of your plump breasts; close to where his busy fingers worked you open. Your imagination had you near sweet release again, the image of his plump lips latching at your clit was enough to have your back arching as you tried desperately to cum. 

Cruelly, despite your best efforts, the blissful feeling died out like the embers of a long forgotten fire. The feeling becoming duller and duller till the pleasurable light flickered out for the last time. You let out a whine of defeat, chest heaving as you caught your breath before trying again. You tried, and you tried, but no matter how many times you thrust the vibrating device in and out of your puffy cunt you ended up exhausted and disappointed. Realising it wasn’t going to happen, you got up with glossy eyes, tears lining their brim as you wobbled over to the desk. You found your phone discarded by the vibrators packaging, the sudden igniting of the screen reminding you of its presence. Reminding you of your plan b. 

You didn’t expect him to pick up, thumb between your lips as you chewed anxiously at your nail. By the third ring he did, though, your eyes widening not only at his quick response, but how real the situation suddenly felt. What were you doing? Had you actually called him? You had. That became abundantly clear the moment his voice filled the silence the call tone had left behind. “Hello?” The octave sounded a little rougher than it had during your appointment, leaving you suddenly panicked that you might’ve woken him up. Your eyes darted towards the time on your laptop’s screensaver 8:12pm visible in big letters.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, did I wake you up?” You quickly blurted out, back straightening in anticipation of his response.

“Oh hey, no you didn’t don’t worry. I was just listening to that podcast actually.” The strain in his voice dissipated, replaced instead by an enthusiastic tone. 

“Really?” Your hesitance was gone, the swirling of something close to affection beginning to churn in the pit of your stomach. It reminded you of that prior unseen tension between you, the kind that felt like a perfect storm; a destiny playing out in a beautiful collision.  

“Yeah, shit’s insane…” He trailed off, the muted clattering of background noise leaving you no clues as to what he could be up to. You wondered briefly how he spent his time when he wasn’t cooped up in his office. Did he frequent a bar? Maybe the gym? Did he have a favourite takeout spot? Or did he have a book of recipes he flicked through every night? Maybe he spent his time much the same way you did, curled up on the sofa with a show you only half-paid attention to. 

“I know right, it’s wild.” You agreed, pushing the far-too-domestic thoughts out of your mind. 

“Right? He just disappeared off the face of the earth.” Chan exclaimed, the distant, indistinguishable noises fading to a settled silence. “So, are you okay? Did your homework go okay?”

“Actually, that’s why I’m calling.” You admitted, growing a little sheepish at the turn in conversation. You couldn’t tell if you were flustered because of the subject matter, or because your cunt still throbbed and ached in desperate anticipation of something that would seemingly never come. 

“Sure, what’s the matter?” He spoke, voice level as always.

“I tried to do the porn thing but I don’t know, I just felt way too uncoordinated and ended up getting distracted. But, like, this time it was a good kind of distraction and I got close so many times but I just couldn’t cum.” The recollection of your disappointing evening had you shuffling in your seat, the friction of your bare clit against the couch setting your over-sensitive body alight. You got a bit more comfortable, squeezing your legs together in the hopes the pressure would lull the ache. It didn’t, it seemed nothing would. Nothing except an outcome that you couldn’t attain. 

“Okay, well that’s a positive development, right? You tried something new, it didn’t work but you gave it a really good go, yeah? You should feel proud.” His positive disposition had once filled you with so much assurance, but right now, it did nothing but taunt you. No shit it didn’t work, you were practically throbbing with desire, desperate for release. 

“Right, yeah, I guess so.” You muttered.

“Did you try the toy?” At the mention of the vibrator–still close to you on the sofa–you felt a knot form in the pit of your stomach. You weren’t sure how, in your frantic mind, you’d figured that having a sexually-charged conversation with your very attractive sex therapist was going to help your situation. Right now, it only worsened it tenfold. 

“I did.” You retorted shortly. 

“Did it feel good?” You felt like your ears were playing tricks on you. Could’ve sworn his usually balanced voice wavered with something unknown. You wanted to call it restraint, but you knew that was surely your desires playing out in your mind; your current disposition plaguing all reason. He was good at that–consuming every part of you–and you were starting to think that was exactly what you needed. To be consumed. To not be able to have a single sense focused on anything but him. 

“Uh, umm, yeah.” You felt your situation growing exponentially worse, body shifting again in a fruitless attempt at distracting yourself from the heavy throb between your thighs. You hadn’t even realised you’d managed a response, not until he was talking again, offering that same assurance that still held little weight. 

“That’s another positive step, maybe we can give you more toys to try out to see if there’s one that can help you finish.” 

“Uh huh.” You hummed, head pressing against the sofa, free hand skimming your bare thighs. You knew you couldn’t do anything about your situation, not with Chan on the phone, but frustratingly, you knew you couldn’t do anything about it without him either. It was a cruel catch 22; sit here and squirm beneath the mundane distraction his sentiments provided, or try and get yourself off again and again to the image of him in your head. 

“Are you okay?” He seemed to pick up on your absentminded demeanour, pitch raising in slight concern.

“Just… frustrated. I’m open to trying more things but, like, I’m just… what about now?” You admitted, perhaps if you were honest about his situation he’d know the right thing to say. The perfect affirmation that would finally have you climaxing after years of pent up frustration.

“Oh… right. So when you say frustrated…?” He attempted to connect the dots, your eyes squeezing shut as you released a huff.

“I’m really fucking desperate to cum.” You spoke bluntly, the hand that sat at your thigh itching to circle your clit. The thought alone had your hips rising in ecstasy, eyes rolling back as you imagined your fingers strumming your sensitive nub in a frenzied attempt to cum. You’d have to keep quiet, you wouldn’t want your sex therapist to know you were trying to orgasm to the sound of his perfectly innocent intimate questions “Chan?” You questioned, when silence followed.

“Yeah, sorry, umm, just thinking.” He seemed distant now, and you suddenly regretted being so honest. Had you crossed a line? Well of course you had, many in fact. You hated that justifications followed suit; so surely you can cross one more, right? To give your clit that attention it so desperately wanted.

“Am I hopeless? Is there nothing I can do right now?” You asked in defeat, the ache almost painful beneath your continued resistance. 

“You’re not hopeless, no– okay…” He started to speak, still sounding much different than he had moments ago. “I don’t usually do this, I’m not supposed to do this, but, if you want I can, umm, I can help you?” There was hesitance in his tone, uncertainty wrapped up in every syllable; leaking through each word the same way your cunt gushed at the prospect of his statement.

“Help me?” You uttered, not daring to believe he could mean what you thought he did. 

“Like guide you.” Oh, you thought. So he meant exactly that. The man of your prior fantasies wanted to talk you through your masturbation. If you thought your desperation had reached maximum capacity before, then you were certain you were at the breaking point now. Your pussy clenched around nothing, whole body suddenly heavy with thick hot lust as you managed a response.

“O-Okay.”

“Yeah, you want that?” He was back to sounding level again, and how he could be in this situation you didn’t know. You didn’t care, though, not when your deprived cunt was about to get abused once again.

“Yeah, so bad.” Your voice no longer hid your frantic state, hips rising from the sofa, hand reaching between your thighs to ghost over your sensitive clit in an attempt to feel any relief.

“Mm fuck, okay.” Whatever professionalism he’d mustered up had quickly faltered, something close to a groan falling from his lips. “We can stop whenever you want to, I only wanna help you with this if you’re comfortable with it.” Before you could register his new state, however, the collected therapist was back. You questioned your sanity, were you hearing things now? Your mind conjuring mirages of your hot therapist moaning in your ear as he got you off. Fuck you wanted to touch yourself so bad.

“I want your help, Chan.” You confirmed, gnawing at your bottom lip as you ran a finger through your soaked folds, digit quickly growing sticky, body jolting from the small amount of contact.

“You sound so strained, gonna help you okay?” His voice held promise, and your eyes practically rolled into the back of your head at the prospect of finally cumming. 

“Please.” You begged, restraint completely vanished along with any shame you might’ve felt about sounding so unbelievably desperate.

“You still wearing that pretty little dress?” His voice dropped an octave, his ability to stay unphased broken up by bouts of what you could only surmise was his body betraying him. 

“No, just a t-shirt” You responded, mewls falling from your lips at the prospect of him being affected by your insatiable lust.

“Nothing else?” Chan questioned.

“Just the shirt.” You confirmed, finger circling your gushing hole as you awaited your sign to begin pleasuring yourself properly. 

“Take it off for me, drag the fabric against your skin nice and slow. You doing that for me?” To your dismay, he had other plans, his request to take your time sending every one of your nerves into overdrive. You did as you were told, though, too turned on by the current events playing out to rush through it.

“Yeah.”

“Good, give your breasts special attention; squeeze them together, let the rough part of the fabric stimulate your nipples.” You followed his commands, putting your phone on loud speaker by your head to squeeze your breasts together; the fabric against your sensitive nipples sending waves of pleasure straight to your desperate pussy. 

“When your shirt is off, bring your fingers to your mouth and get them nice and wet. You doing it baby?” Behind closed lids your senses were heightened, the sound of his voice from the speaker–so close to your ear–jolting your forward. Leaving your breasts alone for the moment, you removed the thin clothing, the air of your cool apartment stimulating your bare skin in a way that had your head spinning. 

“Mhm.” You moaned loudly at the nickname, mouth stuffed with your fingers as you sucked on them. You were reminded of your earlier imaginings, the thought of his cock between your lips instead of your fingers pulling another pitchy groan from you.

“You like it when I call you that?” He asked, not waiting for a response before he continued. “Good, such a good girl, so responsive. Suck on your fingers till they’re nice and coated then I want you to play with your nipples okay?” You were frustrated at the pace he’d set, brows furrowed as you let strings of spit coat your fingers, hips continuously jolting as if trying to beg for your attention. 

You couldn’t help the moans that spilled from your lips at the state you were in, cool air stimulating your already needy clit as you rubbed your soaked digits over your nipples. You played with them harshly, almost annoyed at the pent up feeling that grew and grew. With each pinch your pussy clenched around nothing, the emptiness reminding you of what you wanted there most; his cock. 

“You sound so good, fuck, doing so well.” His resolve crumbled again, a huff of air the only release he could manage. “Take your time with yourself, okay?” Chan sounded strained now, the level part of him gone, replaced only by a man pushing his patience to unseen limits.

“It’s too much, wanna touch myself properly.” You whined, wetting your fingers some more to continue playing with your breasts. 

“You’ll get there baby, don’t worry, not gonna leave your pretty pussy neglected.” Another desperate moan fell from your lips, noises carelessly flowing from you with complete disregard for your neighbours let alone the man on the other end of the phone. “You like that? Like me calling your pussy pretty? Mmm, I bet it is. I know it is.” 

“Hmpf, Chan, please.”

“Ohmygod.” His ability to maintain level-headedness was slipping with every sound that fell from your lips. You sounded incredible, mind racing with vivid images of your legs spread, pretty fingers prying feverishly at your swollen nipples. “How does it feel baby?” He questioned, feeding his own thoughts more than yours with this request.

“Good but not enough, want more.” Your hips rose and fell, so unable to continue just playing with your plump tits when your aching, needy cunt was pleading with you to touch it.

“Okay baby, go slow, leave one hand playing with your nipples and let the other one start trailing down your body. Make sure you give every part of yourself attention, squeeze at your thighs, graze your tummy with your nails; do whatever feels best.” You released a sigh of relief, glad to finally be moving on from your top half. 

“I’m doing it.” You murmured, trying to follow his direction as best you could. However, your hand skimmed your flesh clumsily, hurriedly, squeezing at your thighs to keep them pressed against the couch.

“Good girl, brush over your clit when you get there, okay? use your finger to push through your folds and spread your juices over your clit.” You did exactly that, digits instantly drenched in the sticky, wet mess soaking the sofa beneath you. Your entire body moved in haste, pushing your fingers between your pussy lips and up to your clit over and over, hips thrusting with them. 

“Ah, fuck, that feels so good Chan!” You couldn’t control yourself anymore, moan after moan spilling from your gaping mouth as you repeated the motion.

“Yeah? fucking hell– sound so pretty, darling. Start circling your clit when you’re nice and soaked and make sure to give your entrance some attention too, okay?” 

“Yeah, okay, god so good.” You mewled when the tips of your fingers prodded teasingly at your clenching hole. With every tightening of your pussy a new stream of sticky cum would gush onto your fingers, coating them deliciously for your sensitive clit’s unquenchable thirst for more.

“You doing that?”

“I think so.” You whined, near sobbing by now. 

“Describe it for me.” He insisted, tone low with a growing impatience.

“I’m rubbing my clit with two fingers, now I’m moving them down and pushing the tips in.” You recited your motions, repeating each step with a thrust of your hips and a squirm of your limbs.

“Good, that’s good. Keep doing that for me until you’re ready and then I want you to get the toy I gave you.” His commands continued, the only thing keeping you grounded in this moment of uncontrollable, desperation for release. 

“Alright. I already f-feel close.” You moaned, that tight feeling growing expanding, filling the empty place you wanted Chan to most.

“Drag it out baby, take your time.” His words drew a frustrated sob from you, eyes screwing even tighter shut as you circled your clit furiously. 

“I wanna cum so bad though.” You cried, tears streaking your cheeks as your hips moved at their own accord.

“You’re gonna cum, baby, i’m gonna make you cum– fuck.” At his promise, you reluctantly pulled your hand away, blindly reaching for the vibrator. The moan that punctuated his sentence had a wave of arousal washing over you again. 

“Are you touching yourself too?” You asked, the mere thought causing your cunt to clench in a way it never had. You bet he looked incredible with his fist wrapped around his cock, fucking his closed hand with the same amount of disregard you showed your sensitive nub.

“No. This is about you.” He broke your illusion, a whine falling from you lips. 

“I’m getting the toy, what should I do with it, sir?” You clutched the vibrator, pressing it against your clit in anticipation of his next request. “Chan?” You spoke after a beat in time. 

“Uh huh, yeah, fuck, sorry I’m still here.” Whatever thread of resolve he’d been clinging onto desperately was audibly gone. He sounded like a man starved. As if he himself was beginning to understand the torture you must be feeling to be deprived of sweet release the way he currently was. 

“You sound good when you moan, can you do it again?” You pleaded, using the toy to circle your clit as you waited for him to comply.

“Mhm, yeah like this baby?” Chan didn’t disappoint, the sounds spilling from his lips sending jolt after jolt of mind-numbing pleasure straight to your core. “You like that, huh?”

“Yeah so much.” You moaned, rubbing the toy up and down your soaked folds; punishing your neglected hole with the velvety tip.

“God, so fucking hot, bet you look so good right now.” Chan seemed on a not-so-slow descent into madness, his palms no doubt twitching in place as yours had earlier, wanting nothing more than to palm his hard cock through his clothes. “Turn the vibrator on and do the same as earlier; give your clit and your hole special attention.” 

“I’m so close, sir” You moaned, fingers fumbling with the button until the default vibration setting turned on. “Please can I fuck myself with it? Feel so empty clenching around nothing.” 

“Fucking hell, your tight little pussy wants to get fucked so bad, yeah?” He moaned, so loudly that it almost felt like he was right there in the room with you.

“More than anything, please.” You pleaded, hips back to moving at their own accord as you circled your entrance with the vibrating toy.

“You sound fucking incredible begging for me like this baby–such a good little slut–so obedient.” his growls filled the air around you, cunt clenching at the image of his gritted teeth and clenched jaw. Gone was the pretty smile and the dimpled cheeks, no doubt replaced by a solemn expression and distant stare as his own mind busied itself with visuals of your submissive form.

“If I keep being good will you touch yourself with me?” You pleaded, tone wavering beneath the chorus of moans that flew from your lips with every exhale of breath.

“A-are you sure?” He stuttered, caught off guard by your comment. If you’d asked him to do this at the start of your call, he’d give you a categorical no. Now, though, beneath the heavy haze of lust, and battling with the feeling of painfully stiff cock confined beneath his work clothes, he could only comply eagerly. 

“Yeah, please, wanna hear you moan some more.” Your voice was starting to break now, tip of the vibrator pushing further and further past your walls with every flick of your hand. You pictured how he must look, strong hand clasping desperately at his poor neglected cock; not even bothering to remove his clothes entirely before he was circling the base with his first.

“Fuck this is so wrong. God if only you could see what you’re doing to me.” Chan sounded like heaven, puffs of air exhaling from his lips as small grunts filled the room. He was no longer moaning for your entertainment alone, no, instead the noises were accompanied by the wet sounds of his fist stroking his length feverishly.

“Mmm I wish, wish it was you fucking me right now.” Not a lie, either. Your head couldn’t settle on one script to stick to: him jerking off uncontrollably or you bouncing on his cock. The latter would be quite the scene, pussy gushing around his pulsing member as you rode him with haste. His hands planted firmly at your hips to spur you on. You imagined it must feel blissful to feel his palms clasping at your body, keeping you grounded, reminding you the best things weren’t hiding in the corners of your mind but right here in reality. 

“Baby, fuck, don’t say that.” Chan grunted again, sounds broken up by moans and curse words. “You fucking yourself nice and slow, yeah?” 

“Yeah, not enough.” You sobbed, drying tear tracks repainted with fresh salty tears.

“So greedy, such a spoiled little pussy, does it wanna be fucked hard and rough?” His voice couldn’t find an octave, one moment it was deep, controlling almost in its approach to commanding your every move. The next it reached new heights, pitchy moans interjecting each breathless word. You liked this, felt like you were adding new polaroid pictures to a scrapbook keep-sake. Finding new things to add to a growing collection of moments you’d replay over and over again in your mind. You were good at that, fixating on one situation good or bad, thinking about it from every angle until the edges of it became frayed and aged. Until it lost all meaning; all feeling.

“Want you to ruin it.” You could barely form words by now, you wanted nothing more than to quicken your pace. You wouldn’t though, not without his word. There was something so hot about doing what your therapist told you to, even if he couldn’t see you, nor hold you accountable if you misbehaved. You wanted to be his good girl, his favourite patient; the only one who could corrupt him into breaking every rule he swore he’d keep. Maybe it was the power in an otherwise powerless dynamic that had you so hot on bothered, but really, truly, that didn’t feel like the perfect fit. 

There was something about him, you couldn’t describe it. You could only remember how electric the air around you had felt, how badly you wanted to let yourself be pulled into his orbit, to centre him in every aspect of your life until he was the only thing that remained. All consumed, entirely taken up by him. Every crack in your broken mind filled with him, and his voice, and his promises to fix you. It was so undeniably unethical, let alone wishful thinking. You knew you were latching onto him, your next fixation, your special interest.

“Shit, you know I can’t do that, gonna have to learn to do it yourself.” His words reminded you just how hopeless your new infatuation was. Lust and affection were two different things, not mutually exclusive, in fact rarely hand-in-hand. Chan was trying to help, he took pity on you, right? Sure, somewhere along the way his cock had ended up in his fist, moans spilling from him like a pot left to boil too far too long. But that was a happy accident, an inevitability when you were moaning like a pornstar in his ear. 

You were losing focus again. God, who knew your distraction would become a distraction from himself. But just as you’d begun to run out of momentum, mind conjuring up anxious thoughts and momentary bouts of shame intermingled with embarrassment, his voice sliced through the noise. “Pick up the pace for me, keep going, keep fucking yourself like a slut if that’s what baby girl wants.”  

“So close. I-I’m fuck, fuck, so close.” You clenched around the vibrating device, the loud groans emanating from your phone’s speaker pushing you closer and closer to the edge. An edge… now that was new. Usually you felt a tightening in the pit of your stomach, an indescribable pressure that wanted to be released. But this felt more like a building of something that was destined to end in you reaching an undiscovered depth; the deepest darkest part of an ocean you’d yet to explore. 

“Yeah? You sound so fucking hot baby, you gonna cum for me? gonna cum for sir like an obedient little whore?” The filth that was spewing from his lips so easily had your mind racing in an entirely new way. You couldn’t keep up with your body anymore, vibrator plunging in and out of your abused hole as if running on a motor. The space around you smelled like sweat paired with the sweet scent of your cum; the sounds of your wet pussy battling to be heard above your shrill moans.

“Want you to cum with me, you gonna cum with me sir?” You spoke between pants.

“I’ll cum with you, yeah, that’s so hot– I can hear how soaked you are, bet you’re making such a mess baby.” His groans did indeed sound perfect in harmony with your own, you’d been right about that. 

“Would feel so good creaming your cock with my cum.” you murmured, biting down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from screaming. 

“Ahhh, fuck, fucking hell I’m gonna cum.” He stammered and you could hear so clearly the sounds of skin slapping against skin. You could tell, even through the phone that his release was already leaking from the top of his angry head, every thrust of his fist wet. You could practically taste the salt of his cum on your tongue, the image of him dumping its entirety in your wide, eager mouth enough to have your hips spasming uncontrollably. 

“Yeah? Me too, please, please.” You felt your body teeter so close to the edge you almost lost the ability to thrust the vibrator in and out of your desperate hole.

“That’s it, good girl– fuck– fuck yourself so good like you know I would.” It would appear that in his near-climax haze Chan had given up on the idea of not buying into your fantasy of fucking him. You liked to think he’d reached the point of complete inhibition, no longer able to keep up the facade. That perhaps he wanted your cunt just as badly as you wanted to feel his cock rammed deep inside you, tip prodding against your cervix with every well-timed thrust. “Would treat that pussy so well, yeah, would fuck you so well baby, fuck.” He was babbling now, barely indistinguishable beneath the sounds of wet fist fucking.

“Please, please.” Was all the words you could muster, so close now that you felt yourself being pushed from the edge you’d been almost afraid to fall from, vibrator hitting your spongy walls at just the right angle to have your toes curling and your body heaving. 

“Keep going baby, keep going. Imagine it's me, yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” Chan kept talking, seemingly unable to keep his desires pent up any longer as he too reached the edge. “Bet you’d love it, fuck such a good girl, taking my cock so well–you’d feel so good, tight cunt wrapped around me.” He was relentless now, words sending jolts of hot pleasure straight to your already overstimulated pussy. 

“Be the only man to make you cum, you know I can.” He continued, barely able to get the words out between broken moans, each one louder than the next. “Gonna make your cunt mine baby, yeah, you want that don’t you? I’ll treat you so good don’t worry; i’ll take good care of your desperate little pussy.” The possessive growl he let out, paired with the absolutely sinful rambles he couldn’t seem to stop from spilling out of him, was more than enough to send you tumbling from the edge. You were rendered near immobile, white light breaking through the darkness behind your closed lids. Your hips shook, every limb twitching and seizing until all feeling returned. 

You hadn’t even noticed you’d been moaning his name, over and over until your voice was hoarse and your throat felt raw. You could feel every part of you grow stiff, chest heaving as you tried to make sense of what had just happened. One second you were pushing the toy in and out of your clenching hole, the next you lost all control of your body. It was easy to see why they called it little death, that feeling of going into a place filled with light, a place that threatened no return. No way to flee back to the safety of normalcy. It was a contrast to his dark gaze, the one that consumed you in the same way. It was like fire and ice, light and dark, yin and yang. So entirely wrong but right.

“Ah, you came, fuck, yeah, you’re so– god, I’m cumming too, fuck.” You realised then, as you caught your breath, listening to the sounds of his own release play through the speaker, that you didn’t want to return to normalcy at all. You wanted the light, you wanted the dark, you wanted both of them at once. No, not want; need. 

You needed the dark to find the light. You needed him. 

<< back to dash // next episode >>

tag list: @mangojellyyy • @diekleinesuesse

A/N: this was made to celebrate the 100 followers milestone so thank you so much to everyone who has been a part of that. this one's for yous <3

hope you enjoyed my first written fic! this was semi-unedited so if there are any major errors let me know. haven't done smut in a long time so fingers crossed it was okay lmao. there will be another episode but not any time soon, please see "genre" for more details.

[chaoticwriting]

Part 2

GOTHAM'S NEW ROGUE 3

-An hour before-

Danny is hatching a new plan today. Usually, he goes after the rogues who decide to make a spectacle or show for the public. But today, he will be the one to make it.

As all the devices are put together, Danny readies himself to turn on the screen. Lightly slapping his cheeks a few times Danny brace himself for his first solo stream.

*Live On*

Trickster: Well hello everyone! Isn't today unusually too peaceful. With all the rogues in Arkham and no one for me to bother, I decided to do the most out of my time.

Danny walks to a big hulking machine under wraps by a big piece of cloth. Danny pulls the cloth revealing a big machinery that has a giant clock in the middle.

Trickster: Over here I have my latest invention. I realized that people in this city really love coffee so what I do is make a machine that will spread gasses of caffeine into the air for people to consume via breathing. I even make sure that the special caffeine concoction wouldn't affect children because if I know one thing, it is that children with caffeine are scarier than any rogue.

Danny walks to the panel with a comically large red button with the word 'start' on it right under the clock.

Trickster: Now, when I click this button, it will turn on the timer, which is 30 minutes by the way, and when it runs out, the machine will release the caffeine into the air making everyone unable to sleep for one whole day. What is the effect on the city you may ask? I honestly don't know. But it will be funny if tomorrow everyone just drops dead asleep on the ground at work tomorrow.

Danny suddenly stops talking and slams the button heavily.

Trickster: Anyway, the timer starts now. Come find me if you wanna stop it.

Danny then leaves the screen and lets the camera focus on the clock as it ticks down. Danny sits on a nearby table and continues tinkering with his new special glitter bomb.

It's been 30 minutes when suddenly a window is broken and comes in Batman in all his glory. Except what Batman sees isn't the machine or even Trickster. It is a maze full of what he deems as traps laying around. Batman carefully trudges through the maze as he skillfully disarms the traps that are laid on the ground.

It takes Batman a whole 25 minutes to finally pass the maze before he finally sees the machine without Trickster anywhere in sight. He slowly and vigilantly approaches the machine and sees a small blue button with the word 'stop' right beside the red button.

If Batman had more time, he wouldn't have done anything rash but right now he doesn't have the time nor the ability to safely disarm the machine without making any mistake.

He pushes the button and the clock stops right then and there. He stares at his surrounding vigilantly expecting an ambush. And he is not wrong. There is indeed an ambush. Just not a normal ambush.

The machine that has stopped moving suddenly begins to shake heavily and Batman immediately jumps back to distance himself from whatever the machine is about to do.

Except when he lands, an ice forms under his legs trapping him and he tries to break the ice but the ice is very hard and impossible for him to break immediately at least. He is going to request for backups when the machine turns into tiny robots that start to surround him. He tries to smash all of them but not only are they strong and durable, EMP bombs also don't work on them.

After struggling for a while, some of the robots finally climb their way onto his head. One of them hangs from his mask and releases a gas from its mouth. Batman starts to lose consciousness and just as he is about to pass out Trickster appears in front of him.

Danny looks at Batman and orders his robots to tie him upside down, while rummages through his belt. Danny pulls out a lot of things from smoke bomb that accidentally explodes when Danny throws them to a bat shark repellent? What the hell? Anyway, after going through his belt for a while he finally found his target.

The Batwallet.

Danny turns to the hidden camera and starts to monologue.

Trickster: Hello hello everyone. Today, we have a very special guest. Presenting to you an unconscious Batman! And right here I have the strongest weapon in the world. The Batwallet! Hahahahaha.

Trickster: Now, you might be thinking. What is so strong about the wallet? And that my dear friend is the reason I am here today. Let's take a look at what's inside shall we.

Danny pulls out a black card with a bat symbol in the middle of it. Showing it to the camera, Danny gives out the biggest smile he can (somehow).

Trickster: This is the Bat credit card. I know. Sounds stupid. But you know what isn't stupid. The limit on this card. There is no limit. That means I can buy whatever I want with this.

Danny then pulls out a few polaroid pictures from the wallet that catches his attention.

Trickster: What's this? The bats secret identity? Boring. Why would I need to know who they are? Wait. This one is funny. Is this little Nightwing? Hahahaha. He's so little. *Gasp* Little Red Hood. Aww schmuck. I wanna share this with someone. I'm keeping this. I'm sure Batman has backup of these pictures.

Danny then phases the card and the photos into his body and picks up the camera.

Trickster: All right. That's it for today's stream. Oh yeah. We are in the warehouse south of the Bowery. I will shoot a flare after this for you to come get Batman. Well, you better come fast or other people will come for him.

After that the stream is cut off and a flare is shot from one of the warehouses in the Bowery. When the Bats arrived, all that was left was an unconscious Batman, tied up from the ceiling with his belt on the ground.

While the bats are busy extracting Batman back to the cave, Danny is having a feast at the Batburger. On his table, there are 50 sets of burgers, fries and cokes (the soda). Along with his food, he has pretty much paid all the food for everyone inside the Batburger. People were pretty on the fence when he first entered, but Gothamite being Gothamite, they readily accepted him when he paid for their food.

While Danny is busy eating, a big buff guy in a suit approaches him with his own food.

???: Good evening, Mr. Trickster. May I eat with you?

Part 4

[eraserbread]

MEAN NANAMI, I BEG. He's so annoyed with his wife!! I'm talking hair pulling, (loving) slaps, all of it. I need you to write this I think It'll save me

i'm taking any reason to make kento call u nanami baby, im not sorry. also... who let her out of the house? (≖_≖ )

kento's in from work, exhausted to the bone, and thoroughly peeved. it's a long story, and he doesn't want to think about it anymore, so the first thing he does is phone his savior.

"dear?" he calls when you aren't at his beck and call immediately. the house was quiet... a bit too quiet for his liking. there isn't any comforting music playing, no comforting smell of dinner on the stove, and more gravely -- there's no you.

but, he gives it another try.

"nanami, baby?" silence. he's fuming.

that's all it took, now the straw is broken over the camel's back.

in your defense, you didn't think he'd be home right at 6. he usually takes his time on his commute back, but he got off a bit early today and didn't tell you. it's your biggest mistake to date. you failed at the one thing he expected of you.

so, you are definitely thoroughly surprised and a bit flustered when you come back home in the car he bought you, flushed from rushing home from a friends place, to see him right in the entryway, fist tightened against the handle of his briefcase.

"ken, i'm so sor-

"hope whatever kept you so long was worth it."

"it was just-" you pause, turning around to click the door shut and locked. with your back turned you make a small, pained face. he drops his briefcase.

"i'm waiting for the excuse..."

"i just got caught up at my friends, we started watching a show and I... i wasn't paying attention to the clock. i should've been home hours ago, I know. I'm so sorry, I'll get right to working on dinner, let me just..." you're all over the place, sliding off your own shoes and shedding your outside clothes. the only thing on your mind was 'what can I make him that takes the least amount of time?'

salad? no. ken would be even more pissed if you handed him a plate of raw vegetables and called it dinner.

omlettes? stew? chicken?

a million options come to mind, and you're not even thinking when you pass right by him and into the kitchen to begin. he just... watches you, shifting so he can keep a constant, deep glare on your back.

"hope you're not forgetting anything." he bites, then drops his briefcase, making quick work of his tie.

then, it fucking dawns on you and you're scurrying over your feet to help him shed his day away. but, you're too late. he already has his fingers tangled in the buttons on his shirt and isn't even looking at you anymore.

yeah, you're an idiot.

so, he has you by the hair, huge fist wrapped tight as he walks you to the bedroom. it's hard -- impossible, really, to keep up with him, so he's doing most of the dragging.

"i hope you see just how upset i am with you." though he's seemingly upset, his voice is still as soft as a whisper, clueing you into the fact that he doesn't actually hate you, but he'd fuck you like he did.

"i know, i'm so sorry. so-

"shut up." he doesn't even flex the single arm that sends you stumbling into the bedroom, needing to steady yourself across the footboard. it's still unmade from this morning, too. your stomach drops.

"just what have you been doing all day?"

he wants an answer. he expects an answer.

"I just - I..."

he waits, raised eyebrows and expressionless. you swallow back a lump, holding your breath as you try and gather your thoughts.

"surely you weren't at her house all day?"

"it was a high school friend, I had to." now, you're begging. for him, for mercy, for more. all of it. ken never gets too mad at you -- not like this. you can see it in his once-kind, welcoming eyes. they're shadowed.

"present yourself to me over the side of the bed." he begins, looking down as he pulls his belt off, whipping it through the loops and letting it drop in a shattering clang.

you don't move for a second, staring open mouthed at him like a fish out of water.

"need i repeat myself?" his tone goes completely left, treating you like an annoying student who wouldn't take no for an answer. he's holding it a bit louder, breathing heavily through his nose. "chest to the mattress. Now."

that gets you going in 2x speed, heart hammering cruelly in your chest as you rush to the bed, keeping your clothes on as you rest your front against the mattress. it's instinctual when you bury your face into the sheets, not wanting to see his disapproving face anymore.

you'd let him do anything to you if it means he'd wipe that look off his face.

"you remember, don't you?" he starts, unbuckling and letting his work pants pool around his thighs once they fall. there's no waiting for a shaky answer, he continues. "few weeks after I proposed, I told you what I needed from you... the one thing I always needed. what was it?"

it's like a fucking quiz. you suck at tests, and he told you a lot back then. "uh-

"you're not stupid." suddenly he's behind you, taking a grab of your ass under your loose cotton skirt. it's too long to pull up like he wants, so he waits. "the one thing."

"dinner?" then, he spanks you and it takes every ounce of willpower you have not to choke out a surprised cry. he's never shown you this side before... you love it.

"shit! i'm sorry, so sorry."

"i work five days a week, nine hours a day... everything you ever glanced at, I've given you. cars, this big house, this fucking skirt on your ass... it's mine. the one thing I've always wanted in return is your comfort after my long day."

you could cry right now, you're so mad at yourself. "so sorry, ken... i'm so sorry, i knew that."

"sorry is nice, but it won't make me feel better." he decides, then leans down to yank your ankle length skirt high above your waist. somewhere inside of him, he debates gagging you, but wouldn't want to miss your pretty cries. so, he decides against it.

he reaches, dragging two fingers through your cunt, swimming in the fact that you're already so wet for him. he was afraid his mood would turn you down, but if anything, you're weeping for him.

now, kento would never hurt you, really. but, he will and is about to fuck you black and blue. after all, you're the naughty one -- just you. he won't tell you his shitty day filled him to the brim with unkempt angst and he had to expel it.

you're whining under his touch, rising to your tippy toes to try and chase it once it pulls away. little did you know, you're trying to chase the quick little slap he lands right over your needy cunt, sending you crying into the mattress.

you're so turned on, it's scary.

but, when you try to turn around to see if ken's just as affected, he closes his hand around the top of your head and pushes you back into the bed. he's got a socked foot pressed into the mattress next to your hips, giving him the perfect alignment to ease inside of you ever-so-kindly, not giving you any clues to the way he's about to,

ravage you like a beast.

"oh, thank you. god, thank you. thankyou, mm."

"hate when you annoy me... just don't be annoying - fuck."

"this 's why i married'u... gonna -- mmf, fuck. I'm gonna make you limp, 'f you're not pre-mgh-gnant now, u're gonna be."

"need to hear you say... lemme hear it, n-nanami, mm, sweet girl."

"iloveyou." you squeal into his hand as he pierces you fully on his cock, feeling the throb and ache of him flooding your insides with him. it leaks and drips as he takes you through it, sneaking a few fingers in your mouth to play with your tongue.

he's panting like a heathen behind you. it's the most you've heard him speak in one sitting in... forever. it's the most expression he's ever showed.

if you could hear his thoughts right now, all you'd hear is s symphony of:

lovelovecomfortprettycomfortingbeautifulselflessselfishinterestinglovingcomforting

you're his everything. but most of all, you're his entire idea of comfort and safety personified. even when he's fucking you halfway to death, he stops to kiss your tears away and tell you,

"'m sorry for bein' so rough. thankyou for takin' it. love you s'much.."

lucky you

[witherby]

punchline, she can’t feel pain or something happens like she breaks an arm or something yet has no reaction or they do a health scan of her and she has some wounds.

-📝

Ok listen. It didn't feel like it was 3600 words when I was writing it. It just happened. Enjoy the feast though.

⚠️ Content Warnings: Broken bones, starvation/malnourishment, flashbacks, description of injuries, the Batfamily accidentally hurts you ⚠️

Punchline: Analgesia

Masterlist is Here!

You got out of the cell.

With no real place to put you, Bruce initiated a round-the-clock watch, both to monitor your health and make sure you didn't try anything dangerous. "Brucie Wayne" decided to go on a last-minute tour of Asia for a month so that he could take more shifts, allowing his sons time to rest and maintain their own lives without needing to stress as much over...

Well. You.

You, who spent the entire first day staring up at the ceiling and clicking your feet together, refusing to respond anymore to Dick or anybody else after telling them your name. You, who ignored your bed long after the time came where most people should be sleeping, then ignored any food and water delivered to you long after most people should be eating and drinking.

You just smile and click your feet. Click. Click. Click. Waiting. Lying still. Staring.

Except now you aren't. Bruce comes back from upstairs with another tray of food for you to find an empty monitor feed on the batcomputer. The bed is too low to the ground for you to hide under, and the privacy curtain isn't drawn to take cover behind. The pressure sensors on the floor don't indicate any signs of life, either — you aren't in there anymore.

He sets the tray down and starts rewinding the footage, panicking, when you click your heels behind him.

"Boo."

Bruce jumps. Honest-to-god flinches. His body moves automatically, leg kicking out and connecting center-mass with a heavy thunk. You go flying across the main area of the cave with a yelp, hitting the ground and rolling a few feet. The sound of your body colliding against smooth stone echoes in a way that it shouldn't, and you don't try to pick yourself up afterwards.

"Shhhit shit shit," he gasps, running over to your limp body and carefully cradling you. He triggers the scanner in his cowl, checking you over for injuries, and gingerly props you up against his chest. "Kid! Are you —"

You snort, shoulders shaking, then build up into a breathtaking cackle. Literally breathtaking — Bruce presses his fingers into your ribs and feels breakage on at least two of them. His lenses find fractures on three more. He needs to get you to the medbay.

"Kid," he says again, urgently, nauseous with guilt. God, you're just a little girl, heartbreakingly small in his arms. "Punchline —"

"I spooked the Bat!" You gasp, eyes welling with tears. Twin lines cut through your face paint, smearing some of the blue under your eyes with the white. It's haunting. You just continue wheeze and gently clap him on the shoulder, genuinely mirthful. "Fear was made fearful! Ohohoho, that's... that's priceless!!"

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Bruce says. You just laugh even harder at that, sharp, short gasps that only exacerbate your wounds and bounce off the cave walls around you in sickening stereo. He wraps one arm around your back and the other behind your knees, lifting you.

"Let's get you cleaned up, kid...you shouldn't be out here."

"I got you gooood, Batsy!" You grin. "Got you! Got you!"

Click. Click. Click. You knock your feet together again, wrapping your arms around his neck with glee.

"Spooked you baaad!"

His grip on you tightens slightly, then relaxes again. Anything he would've wanted to say to you gets trapped behind grit teeth.

--

Dick knocks gently on the door before he types in the code to your cell and watches it slide open. You chuckle, but don't otherwise acknowledge him as he steps inside with another tray of food.

"Yeah. I guess it would seem silly to knock on a see-through door," he says, sitting on the floor next to you. He sits the tray down and presses his back against the wall, lacing his fingers together. "Just trying to be polite, in light of..."

He glances around your bland accommodations and clears his throat.

"Anyway! You were so kind to tell us your name and we didn't even return the favor. I'm Nightwing."

"Wing-a-ding," you murmur, smiling at the ceiling. Click. Click. Click.

"Sure, you can call me that if you want." He uses his foot to gently nudge the tray closer to your supine form, then lowers his voice conspiratorially. "I'll even let you call me a bad word if you eat."

Your smile grows. "Silly Wing-a-ding. It's not mealtime."

"When's Mealtime?" Dick asks you. "Because, you've been with us for two days, kiddo, and you haven't eaten a bite. If you've got a specific diet, it's no trouble. You just have to tell us what you like. We don't want to hurt you."

You snort at that, lifting a hand to pat your stomach. Underneath your lime green shirt are thick bandages compressing your broken ribs. Your gasping giggles ring like broken chimes in the small space you're sharing with him.

Dick frowns. "I'm being honest. B didn't mean to do that to you, I promise. I'm really sorry it happened."

"Sorry? It was hilarious!" You chirp. "Shoulda seen his face. Popsy would have cracked up. Heehee!"

"Yeah..." Dick sighs quietly. "Can we circle back, kiddo? When's your meal time? If you don't try to eat or drink anything soon, we might have to give you some fluids. And I dunno about you, but I'm not a huge fan of needles."

The hand on your stomach drums the same pattern you knock your feet together with. Pat. Pat. Pat. Click. Click. Click.

"It's soon," you tell him simply. "Popsy says to eat when the world turns into a merry-go-round."

The knot of dread sitting in Dick's stomach tightens. He clenches his hands into fists in his lap and keeps his tone light and curious.

"What's the world look like now?"

You laugh. "Fun house mirrors."

"And...when do you get to drink?"

"When the lights start dancing."

Dick doesn't stay in your cell with you much longer, parting with a half-mumbled excuse of needing to go work on something. He hurries down the hallway and tries not to feel like a failure in his suit.

--

Damian wasn't factored in to the rotation, on account of being the youngest and needing to get up for school, but that doesn't stop him from sneaking through the cave to observe you anyway. Years of training in the League keep his steps light and his presence undetectable, until he's standing just out of sight to the door to your cell and able to watch you at an angle.

Your eyes are closed, your body having finally succumbed to exhaustion, and your breathing is slightly wheezy from your injuries. The bits of your arms poking out of your shirt sleeves are mottled black and blue from hitting the floor so hard.

Damian creeps in a tad closer to get a better look at you. Even unconscious, your resting face is a small smile. No doubt a conditioned behavior from your time under the Joker, he thinks.

There's no tension in your body, which is the most interesting thing. Even the severity of the bruises should be enough to cause a twitch or two as you shift on the floor, much less the broken bones, but it's like —

Oh. He needs to make a note in your file and alert the others promptly. As he draws a pad and pen from his pocket, his eyes glance over the simple observations he's already made of you, and stalls.

You're so small. It doesn't hit him until now just how tiny you are, even for your age. You've got the stature of a five or six year old, and there's clear signs of malnourishment in your body. It's hard to look at you and not feel pity.

It's hard to look at you in general. The face paint is slowly wearing away, revealing your natural skin color underneath, but enough of it remains that you look absolutely haunting. Like something designed for a horror movie.

You've refused to clean your face or change into the clothes others have brought you, clinging to the garish getup he and Bruce found you in. The vivid green of your shirt screams of where you came from, an unavoidable beacon that refuses to allow anyone to forget your legacy.

Damian realizes belatedly that that's the point. You aren't looking to separate your identity from your father. You likely can't.

He clenches his hands into fists and takes his leave. He returns to your cell once more that night, dropping his gifts off with reluctance, and sees his effort pay off almost immediately. The next time he catches a glimpse of you, you've freshened up the face paint with a slightly altered design and are wearing a bright green dress, with your typical bowtie and black shoes.

You, awake this time, catch his gaze and beam knowingly.

Damian looks away. Your genuine happiness twists his chest something fierce.

--

You're out of your cell again when it's Jason's turn to monitor you.

"I don't have the patience to deal with your escape artist bullshit," he calls, twirling a baseball bat in his hand as he walks along the caves corridors. "You can either go back to your cage and behave, or get dragged back kicking and screaming."

You giggle. Jason clocks it coming from his right. The bat switches hands and he walks towards the noise.

"This ain't a goddamn game," he says, "so don't get cute with me, kid, or I'll put the Punch in Punchline."

"That's a good one!"

Jason whips around, finding you sitting on the floor with your legs crossed. Today you're wearing a bright green blouse with suspenders and black shorts, always with the bowtie around your neck. You're holding a batarang in your hands, tracing idly over the shape of it with your fingers.

"Wordplay is my favorite! I'll put the Punch in Punchline. Heheha, classic! Now I know why Popsy liked you so much!"

You tilt your head back and cackle. It comes out in sharp, short bursts. It's so bone-chillingly similar to your dad's that it affects him immediately.

Jason blinks. Suddenly he's fifteen and cuffed, cowering before the Joker as he winds his leg back to start kicking him.

Jason blinks again. His arms and legs ache so badly from the repeated bashing of the crowbar. He's been screaming for Bruce for ages and he hasn't come for him yet, why hasn't he come for him, he promised he would always come and get him —

Jason blinks again. He's clawing at the door handle and trying not to cry as the timer counts down behind him, ticking closer and closer and closer to his death, inescapable. He wishes he'd never adopted the mantle. He wants his mom. He wants his dad. He doesn't want to die. He's too young to die. He's so fucking tired.

Jason blinks again. The bat is missing from his hands and his throat feels like it's on fire. Tim is crouched next to you and assessing the new break in your arm courtesy of the Red Hood. The bat is lying broken in half on the floor.

"Go," Tim says, voice flat with barely suppressed rage. He won't turn his head away from you. "Go home, Hood."

"Bye-bye, Birdy," you mutter, smiling at the ceiling, and knock your feet together. Click. Click. Click.

Bye-bye, Birdy!

Jason feels like he can't breathe. The swelling in your skin is already so bad. What has he done? He wasn't actually gonna hurt you, he just wanted to get you back in your cell where you were supposed to be. He has a code against hurting children, he would never do that on purpose no matter whose kid it was. He didn't mean it.

Jesus, fuck, he didn't mean it.

"I-I'm —" he chokes, warped and crackly through the helmet's modulator.

"GO!" Tim shouts.

Jason turns and walks away. After a tense conversation with Bruce, it ends up being his last time monitoring you alone. He doesn't get the chance to do it again for a month, but your serene smile is never far from his mind.

--

Tim takes over Jason's observation duty immediately. He moves you into the med bay again to set and cast your broken arm. You're quiet the entire time, save the clicking of your feet, and refuse to look at him.

He works quickly and efficiently, wrapping you up without issue, and you don't fight him. He comes to the same conclusion Damian did, when he accidentally brushes against another bruise but you don't so much as flex a muscle.

How entertaining it must be for the Joker, to have a child with congenital insensitivity to pain. How simultaneously infuriating, that one of his favorite methods of submission is unavailable.

Tim wants to throw up.

"There," he says. "I'm sorry, Punchline. Hood shouldn't have been left alone to watch you. It won't happen again."

You don't respond. Click. Click. Click.

"Why don't we get you back to your room? I'll find something for you to do so you're not as bored in there. I'm sure Agent A can get you coloring books, or some crafts..."

Again, you're quiet. Tim breathes in slowly, deeply, then lets it back out. He gently takes your hands and coaxes you to stand up, and you go without complaint as he starts walking you back to the containment cells.

Two sets of footsteps fill the silence of the cave's passageways. One set of lungs struggles to match pace. Tim slows down for you, and the wheezing quiets immediately.

"Do you need or want anything?" He asks. The same, easy smile on your face doesn't change. You walk beside him like he isn't even there. He has to try exceptionally hard not to take it personally, even though it is and he knows it. He knows what you've endured. He knows what you've gone through. He can make a damn good guess as to what you're thinking right now.

And he doesn't have the faintest clue where to start fixing it.

Tim was only under the Joker's clutches for a couple days, at most, and the brainwashing he underwent to become Joker Junior still haunts his nightmares to this day. The conditioning, the bargaining, learning the boundaries, the underlying fear of having to say the right thing, do the right thing, the obsessive need to earn his favor, he remembers it all. Even years later, seeing the Joker makes that sickly itch start up under his skin.

Maybe he's wrong. Maybe he doesn't know how you feel, because he only got the tip of the iceberg. Maybe your experiences are better. Or worse. Most certainly different. He doesn't know, and he hates not knowing things.

When you make it back to the cell, you walk in without complaint. Tim closes the door and keys in a new code to lock it, though he suspects you'll be able to crack it again soon enough. You've got nothing but time on your hands to play with the access pad.

He drops his hand when he's done, staring at you. You're back to lying on the floor in your original position, arms splayed and feet clicking together as you admire the ceiling. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Hesitates. Does it again. You just click your feet.

"Punchline. I'm sorry."

You blink slowly, mouth twitching like you've heard something funny but don't quite wanna laugh.

"If I knew, back then," he says, words stilted and strained. Tim nearly stops there, but he feels compelled to let you know. "If I knew that leaving him would've ended in him doing this to another child...I wouldn't have gone anywhere."

You stop clicking your feet. Your mouth curls into a grin, then thins out, then gets stuck in this uncomfortable half-smirk.

"Popsy misses JJ," you mutter, so quiet Tim only catches it because he's right next to the cell door. There's something sharp in your tone. "He was almost perfect. His first favorite toy."

Tim feels like he's been dunked in a tub of ice. The tips of his fingers go numb and he has to press a hand to his mouth while suppressing a gag. His eyes are stinging behind the domino mask.

"JJ ran away. JJ is a traitor. Popsy has a new favorite, now," you whisper. Click. Click. Click. "Wonder how long that will last." Click. Click. Click. "Wonder how long I'll be his favorite Punchline." Click. Click. Click.

"I'm gonna go talk to A, now," Tim says, stumbling away from you. The both of you feel more relieved the farther away he gets.

Click. Click. Click.

--

Alfred takes shifts for you when no one else is available. He doesn't do it at the computer, though; the screens are too bright for his aging eyes, and the chair isn't ergonomic enough for him.

So he watches you from within the cell.

"Good afternoon, Lady Punchline, my name is Alfred Pennyworth," he greets politely, setting a tray of soup and saltines next to your head. He steps carefully over your body on the floor and perches on the edge of your unused bed, crossing one leg over the other. "The time is just after one o'clock. Today I've prepared a simple miso soup, something light for your decidedly neglected stomach, and brought with me several activities we could partake in, either together or separate. The choice is yours."

He eases the tote bag he brought in off his shoulder and pulls out a series of items: A stuffed bear, which he perches on top of the pillow. A coloring book and a pack of crayons. A jigsaw puzzle. And several books.

"Might any of these appeal to the lady?" He asks.

Click. Click. Click.

"That's alright," he says, as though you gave him any kind of acknowledgement. "I will leave them here for you to explore at your leisure, and come back with more options the next we meet."

He pulls a novel for himself out of the bottom of the bag, gently flipping its weathered pages open, and settles it in his lap.

"Would it bother you too terribly if I read this aloud? You may stop me anytime, of course." You make no expression and take no action against him, so he looks down at the book. "Very well. This story is one of my favorites, so I'm interested to see if you find any enjoyment in it, too.

"When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. It was true, too. She had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sour expression..."

Alfred keeps his voice calm, clear, and steady. There are mild changes in intonation when he speaks for the characters in the book, but other than that, he lets the words wash over the room peacefully. He stays with you and reads for several hours, until he reluctantly excuses himself to tend to his other duties for the manor.

"I shall mark our place in the book and bring it back if you'd like to hear more," he says, stepping past you again. "If you've any other requests, please let myself or the others know. We shall be happy to accommodate you, Lady Punchline."

When he closes and locks the cell door, he almost startles at your soft voice.

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?" You mumble. The smile on your face seems a touch more genuine than before he entered.

Alfred dismisses himself with a final, quick bow, then walks down the halls as Bruce comes back to relieve him. Before the man even gets the chance to speak, Alfred holds a palm up to quiet him.

"I should like to have you place me in regular rotations with our guest," he says. "We have a lot of work to do if we're to rehabilitate the poor girl, and we'll get nowhere if everyone chooses to observe her like an animal in the zoo."

"That's fine, but —" Bruce says, watching almost helplessly as Alfred walks right past him. "Agent A —"

"I shall also request a home visit with Doctor Thompkins to sort out a proper treatment plan for her Analgesia, malnutrition, and very likely no vaccinations. Afterwards, we'll need to start considering educational deficits and behavioral therapy. There's much to do, master Bruce, so pick your jaw up off the floor and go spend time with your newest ward."

Bruce watches him disappear with fond irritation. He pulls the cowl off, understanding there's likely no need to maintain secrecy anyway, if you're going to be here for the long haul.

[harumwahsa]

── .✦ Harumasa makes a little wish after waking up from a nightmare.

WARNING(S): Brief mentions of blood, IV lines, and syringes.

NOTE: I just want to give him the tightest hug. 😞 Anyway, YAYY 1.4 is here!

White crows. Bustling city streets. Murmuring crowd. Flashing cameras. Accusing fingers pointing right at him.

Why is he here again?

Wake up. He needs to wake upーalas, misfortune has always been rather fond of him. No matter how much his mind screams, his body just refuses to listen. Imprisoned in a nightmare, all he can do is run in circles, a promise of escape nowhere within his reach.

The weight of his choker feels heavier than it should, and yet, he still thinks it should be wrapped around him tighter. Is he still human? With trembling hands, he holds his neck. His fingertips are cold. His body is cold. Are humans supposed to be so cold?

People are closing in, adamant about their accusations. A white flash blinds his eyes.

Wake up, wake up, wake upー

Syringes scattered all over the floor. Beeping machines. IV lines twist and tangle.

When will this end?

A room of broken mirrors. Ethereals reflected in the shards. A man in white coat. A child screaming. Blood on the walls. Blood on the floors. Blood on his handsー

"Haaー"

Finally.

His breath is heavy as he stares at the ceiling, eyes wide as if he were never asleep in the first place. Deep breath. In and out, in and out. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine other things. Something happier. Or something... less bitter, at least. But all he can see is himself; cursed and broken and everything he wishes he is not. Thus, he opens his eyes again, not wanting to see such a miserable view.

Another restless night for him, it seems.

As an attempt to cast his thoughts aside, he turns his attention to you.

...

You are snuggled up to him, seemingly all too comfortable and in bliss. Adorable. But isn't this when you should be awake and give him comfort? How could you be dead asleep whilst he was terrorised by his nightmares? How utterly unbelievable. Should he be offended? He should be offended, right? Instead, he scoffs in amusement. It would be nice to have you comforting him right now, but then again, he would not have known how to respond to such warmth.

He much rather you stay asleep anyway. Ignorance is bliss, no? He doesn't want to burden you. Plus, the fact that you feel safe enough in his presence to sleep so soundly puts him at ease. Seeing you like this alone is a form of reassurance. He knows he is still human when you are by his side.

He shifts slightly, bringing you closer to him, carefully so.

Harumasa is still getting used to these physical touches. More often than not, the hugs he shared with you were short, and so, too, your kisses. They rarely ever lasted longer than needed to be. He would joke and say that he has a clock-out countdown for his display of affection, when deep down he was struggling with his own fears. "If you want another kiss, then you'll have to wait after dinner," he would tease, even though all he wanted was to pull you back in. He wonders if you ever realized how much he actually longs for you.

Brushing his hand against yours when you walk next to each other. Lingering touches after messing up your hair. Glancing at you from across the room. Squeezing you in his arms before pulling away from a hug. Have you ever noticed?

Regardless, even the strongest man has moments of weakness. No matter how good he may be at concealing his true feelings, there were times when his vulnerability seeped through the firm walls he has built around him. There was a time he held your hands so tight, his lips chasing after yours, one kiss after another. There was a time he told you to stay and keep him warm, snarky tone out the window.

And now is another moment of vulnerability. Is he a child, needing comfort after a nightmare he has grown so accustomed to? No. He is very much a mature adult, so used to bitterness; pills and life and everything in between. The debate goes on in his mind, but it doesn't stop him from holding you tighter. It doesn't stop him from wishing that you would stay by his side... no matter what the future holds.

Is that a childish wish? Is that too much to ask for? Still, he yearns for itーthe little bit of sweetness in his bitter, bitter life.

Credit(s): Divider

[colorlessjay]

Does season16 dean feel bad when he looks at season6 castiel sometimes? Knowing what happens in the future and everything that happens between them?

Ya know, this is something I think about often, but angst is kinda hard to put into words, but I can try:

Life is funny. You spend half your life believing that when the lights go out, they go out dark and empty, that there is no 'after' when you clock out.

Then suddenly, you get proven wrong so hard that it rocks your world view. Everything you've ever believed in gets thrown back in your face, and all you can do about it is get angry. Because that's the only thing keeping you sane. Because it's all you can really do when faced with hell, and heaven, and angels.

Dean regrets being angry.

"It's not your fault." That's what Cas told him. That Chuck was the one that pulled anger out of him to progress his shitty story

"I forgive you" Cas tells him when Dean feels like he's being pulled down by the weight of his guilt

"I love you" Cas whispers to him, when doubt starts creeping in and clawing at his heart

Small words. Short sentences. But they do wonders keeping Dean up-float, keeping the itch of alcohol out of his hands and his mind at rest

The sight of his husband would usually put him at ease. Would shave away those feelings that often crawl up his spine when he least expects them

But Cas - Castiel isn't his husband right now. The man - the angel that's with him now is a curious, rebellious wave length of light and power who would do anything for the Winchesters

and Dean knows too well that it's not just anything, it's everything

And it's only the start of it

Castiel's vessel is still newly his. This is his first trench coat. His hair is still a wild mess. His voice is still hard and monotone. He still radiates angelic power, and stands as though he is an immovable mountain

and yet, in Dean's eyes, Castiel looks like a man yet to experience the true horrors of war

Ironic given what he's going through now

And it pains Dean. He stares at Castiel, knowing how Dean's younger self is going to hurt him, abandon him, kick him to the curve only to drag him back into their bullshit

Knowing Castiel would crawl back to him time and time again, bloody, beaten, and broken

Because of Dean

"Dean"

He snaps out of his dark thoughts, turning his gaze back towards Castiel who stands by the doorway between the kitchen and living room

"You were deep in thought" Castiel points out, his brow scrunching up and his head tilted to the side.

Dean swallows dry and offers a warm smile. He can feel it doesn't reach his eyes "Yeah well, age makes ya think"

"What were you thinking about?"

you

"Nothing you have to worry about right now" With a grunt, Dean pushes himself off Bobby's old couch and shoulder's his duffel bag "Sammy outside?"

"yes" Castiel stares at Dean. He can feel his eyes scanning his soul. He knows the angel can sense his reluctance to speak. Dean expects an interrogation. Expect Cas to call his bullshit. But Dean doesn't want to spill his guts, not when there's work to do

So with a smile and a pat on the shoulder, Dean saunters past Castiel to the door, knowing Cas would follow

It pains Dean to know how far Castiel will follow him

"Through hell, heaven, and purgatory

through every universe beyond and between

through death and back. I will follow you"

His husband's vows echo through his mind, but he looks over his shoulder at Castiel, those words don't bring the same comfort

--------

that was a long one. anyways, honk honk

[kamiversee]

➶-͙˚ ༘✶ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁*𝘾𝙆 𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏

✧.* CHAPTER 10 || The Hallway Incident

[ { SYPNOSIS } ] ➤ A tale in which Gojo Satoru blackmails you into seducing a list of people to clear his debt. Sounds easy enough, right?

[ { CHAPTER CONTENT } ] ➤ language & fluff.

[ { WORD COUNT } ] ➤ 3.2k

[ { PAIRINGS } ] ➤ jjk men x f!reader. gojo x f!reader. geto x f!reader. toji x f!reader. choso x f!reader. sukuna x f!reader. nanami x f!reader.

[ [ chapters mlist } ]

——THE GENTLE SOUND OF YOUR heel tapping against the ground due to the constant bobbing of your leg as your anxiety builds up inside can be heard beneath the sounds of Nanami and Toji engaging in conversation.

You've been waiting for about six minutes now, having watched every second of the nearby clock tick, and your nerves are all bundled up. In the time that they've been talking, you've mentally rehearsed a plan for yourself.

You're going to ask Toji for private lessons.

And no, not in a naughty kind of way. At least, not yet. But for the purpose of one, having an excuse to attend class with Gojo every Monday to really dedicate yourself to the lie you've given and two, to have one-on-one moments with Toji.

Is any of this going to work? Probably not.

The worst case scenario is that this all goes to shit and Toji rejects any advance you make at him, resulting in Gojo posting those videos of you. Great.

You draw your hand up to your face and begin to chew on your thumbnail as you wait, simply watching the two talk for a few more minutes until Nanami finally leaves.

When he does, you watch him walk away almost in a trance. He's got one hell of a back profile. Similar to Toji, the dress shirt that Nanami had did little to nothing to conceal the toned body that lay underneath.

You never used to undress people with your eyes like this before but then again, you never used to see this many attractive people at once.

The little trance you were in is broken when Toji suddenly snaps his fingers in front of your face, causing you to jump and turn your head to him. You hadn't even realized that he sat back down at his desk.

"S-Sorry Mr. Fushiguro." You apologize as you make eye contact with the man.

"You're fine," He says, his expression void of any real reaction to the way he saw you gawking at his student. "Now," Toji leans back in his chair, a slight creak heard as he does so, "Where were we?"

"Uhh..." You awkwardly straighten up in your seat, "I was telling you about the project I had for my sociology class."

"Right." He nods, "Well, I don't mind you coming to my class for a few weeks for this project of yours, just don't be a disruption."

"I won't sir." You hum.

The gentleness in your tone makes the older man shift in his seat a little. "Good. Anything else?" Toji questions, tipping his head to the side.

"W-Well, I was wondering if I could stay after the lecture as well."

"For?"

"Y'know, like, a more..." You look down at your lap. The eye contact was growing overwhelming. "In-depth lesson?"

The older man falls quiet for a second. Then, startling you, he chuckles at how fidgety and nervous you seem to be about your request. "You're not in any of my classes and yet you want a lesson from me? A private one at that?" He emphasizes.

You swallow hard and look back up at him, "Yes sir."

Toji folds his arms, the large muscles in his arms unintentionally bulging against the fabric of his shirt. "What is there for me to teach ya' privately that you wouldn't learn during the lectures?" He asks.

"Well..." Think, think, think, think, think.... "Students aren't the only people I have to study for this project. As a professor, you'd be a great example to use for how topics, such as economics, affect people in education." You manage.

He scoffs lightly, "So, basically, you want to study me after class?"

You wince a little at his words, "Study isn't really the word I'd use for it. Think of it more like an interview."

"An interview?"

You cross one of your legs over the other, "Yes sir."

He takes a long pause, simply staring at you in thought. Once he comes to a decision, Toji agrees with a nod and a shrug of his broad shoulders. "Alright. Every Monday then, I'll expect to see you during and after class. When's this little project of yours due?"

"Six weeks from now." That should be enough time for you to... seduce him, right?

Toji's eyebrows raise slightly, "Six weeks? Damn, must be some project."

"It's my final project, sir." You clarify.

He clicks his tongue and you watch the corner of his lips raise into a little smirk, "So your final grade will be riding on me then?"

Well technically you riding on him is more of the goal here but, there's no need for you to say that aloud.

You smile, "Yup."

"M'kay, cya next week then," Toji says dismissively. You give him a nod and both of you stand at the same time. He walks you over to his door and adds a simple, "I look forward to workin' with ya', kid."

His last word makes you halt. Slowly, you turn only your head back to him with a graceful smile on your face, "With all due respect, sir, I'm a grown woman. Please don't call me kid." You request.

With your head angled back to him, you notice that he's rather close to you. One of his hands was placed on his classroom door and the other was tucked into the pocket of his pants. His closeness causes whatever, obviously cheap, but rather pleasant-smelling cologne to run through your nose.

Toji tilts his head as he looks down at you, "Yes ma'am. My bad, it's a bit of a habit of mine."

The change in the way he addressed you has your heart feeling a little weird. It has to be that deep voice of his, the damn thing is intoxicating.

"You should get rid of it," You blurt out, referring to that habit of his.

An amused smirk spreads across his face. You didn't know it but, he found this one interaction with you slightly attractive. "I'll work on it." Toji hums casually.

You give him an approving nod and then turn away. His eyes follow you as you enter the mildly busy hallway and after you disappear from his sight, he sighs heavily.

You definitely made a decent first impression on him.

.　 . • ��� . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ .　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

As you rush down the hallway, you're lost in your head thinking about how you're going to pull this off for the next few weeks.

Subtly flirting and throwing small hints at him sound like your best options. Being straight up would be dangerous. You'll have to flirt and pretend like you aren't aware you're flirting-- 'innocently' making your way to what lies beneath his clothes.

You hope it works too. And while you're on that thought, you have to ask Gojo how difficult he thinks this will be for you. God, you hate that man. You don't want to talk to him about anything but you're forced to anyway-

You run right into someone in the hallway.

A phone drops and the binders and books you held make contact with the floor. "Shit," You curse, instantly crouching down to pick up the fallen items.

The person you ran into crouches down too, "Sorry," They apologize, even though you both ran into each other.

You go for the phone and motion the device toward the person, raising your head from the fallen items and meeting a new pair of eyes.

Holy fucking shit. It's another one. Another guy from the list.

And this one is... Well, if not for you picking Geto, this guy would've been your next choice.

Deep sangria-colored irises peer into yours, the shade veering more into the brown spectrum, and oddly attractive eyebags circle the male's eyes. There's a dark black tattoo running across the bridge of his nose and his hair is styled up in two messy ponytails.

You think your heart skipped a beat as you made eye contact with him. Hell, maybe it skipped a few beats-- maybe it stopped working for a second.

His face alone was tantalizing. The man was attractive in a way that made you unable to pry your eyes off him.

You think you flinch when he leans closer to you and tilts his head in concern, "You alright?"

Dazed by his caring voice and mesmerizing eyes, you nod your head. "Y-Yeah." You sigh.

You watch as the man looks down at your lips for a second, then right back up to your eyes as if he didn't mean to glance. The two of you grab all of the fallen items and stand up in sync. You extend your hand out, holding his phone and trying to give it back to him.

"Sorry for running into you," He apologizes again while taking his phone from you.

In return, he hands one of the items of yours he picked up back to you. "You're fine, I should've been watching where I was going."

He shrugs it off and his eyes drop down to the floor for a second before he speaks, "Me too. Also, I like your shoes."

You mimic his motion and look down at your feet, almost as if you'd forgotten what you were wearing. "Thank you," You reply as you look back up to the man.

If there's one thing they all have in common aside from being hot, it's the fact that they're all taller than you. It's something you mentally note as this man stands in front of you.

You smile and make a gesture to his face, "Nice tatt." You compliment simply.

His lips curve into a slight smirk, "Thanks, I did it myself."

"Really?" Your brows raise in surprise.

"Yup."

"Fuck, that's cool. Did it hurt?" You ask curiously, unintentionally leaning forward a little to get a closer look.

He shrugs, "Nah, not really."

You examine it for a second, only growing more and more impressed. "It's like, a perfectly straight line. Are you an art major by any chance?"

"Graphic design." He clarifies, "What about you?"

You shrug casually, "Psycology."

The male's head tilts to the side as he peers down at you, you can tell he's impressed. "Shit, psycology?" His head cocks back a little and he smirks, "That's hot."

"Hot?" You blindly repeat, chuckling at him. "It's just the study of behavior and mind, nothing special honestly."

He scoffs, "I'm pretty sure it's much deeper than that."

"It is but, it's more confusing than hot." You argue.

Your conversation with him is oddly seamless. He's now grinning at you, "The fact that it's confusing and you're still choosing to study it makes it hot."

"So, are you calling me or the major itself hot?" You ask teasingly.

He shamelessly looks you up and down and licks his lips before saying, "Both." He hums.

Your face grows a little warm. "Thanks, you too."

"You think I'm hot?"

"No, I think your major's hot." You utter sarcastically.

He laughs, "Yeah? You think graphic design is hot?"

"Mhm." You hum, "I mean, yeah, you're attractive but when you add on the fact that you're an artist? That multiplies it."

"Really?"

"Yup."

"On that note, you wanna see some of my work?" The man offers surprisingly.

"Yes please." You say with excitement in your voice.

Talking with this man in the middle of the hallway was by far the most refreshing thing you'd experienced within the last six days.

He chuckles and his thumb swipes through his phone for a second. When he finds whatever it is he wants to show you, he motions for you to come closer to him and you do.

Standing by his side and leaning over toward his phone, you see beautiful images of dark-colored designs that are nearly impossible to put into one word.

His art looks like... himself? It's almost as though he put his whole aesthetic onto a piece of paper. You catch shades of black, purple, and red ink swirled together in multiple different designs.

"Holy shit," You breathe out.

He chuckles at your reaction, "I've had a bit of art block recently but uh..."

As he trails off, you turn your head to look at him and notice that your faces are closer than you expected. Neither of you move but the eye contact held is almost intimate.

His voice drops lower and his gaze is unwavering, "I think I just found my new muse."

Heat rushes to your face as you grow flustered. By no means was he referring to you, right?

"R-Really?" You stammer.

His gaze dips lower, focusing on the curve of your lips, "Yeah," He hums.

The two of you lose yourselves in each other's presence for a moment. You nearly forgot about... well, everything for a second.

The male was enamored by you. You were just some random girl he ran into and yet he couldn't take his eyes off you. As for you, well, it's simple to say that you were just as infatuated. His face was so close, so flawless, and yet so mysterious.

You clear your throat and both of you snap out of the little trance you'd been in. Then, the two of you turn away from each other, clearly equally flustered by the closeness and lack of words.

"U-Uhm, your art is b-beautiful by the way." You stutter, physically cringing at the way you're tripping over your words.

You haven't been this nervous in a long time. This is worse than Toji, worse than Geto, and even worse than Gojo. Your heart is a pounding mess and you feel like a high school girl with a crush all over again.

"Th-Thanks," The man beside you chokes out.

A sense of comfort washes over you as you realize you're not the only one whose nerves are bundled up.

He suddenly clears his throat, "Well uh, I should uhm, probably get going."

You turn to look at him, "Right. Sorry for running into you again."

"No, don't apologize. I'm actually glad you did." He says, avoiding looking you in the eyes but smiling a little bit.

"Think I can get your name before you go?" You question shyly.

His gaze meets your face, still looking everywhere except for your eyes. "Choso. Kamo Choso, but you can just call me Choso." He tells you.

You stick a hand out for him to shake and give him your name in return. As his hand meets yours, you notice the slight claminess of his palms-- he was sweating... how cute.

Again, he clears his throat. "Since we're exchanging names, can I get your number too? I doubt we'll run into each other much since we have two entirely different majors..." Choso requests.

You're quick to nod and it's in a matter of seconds that the two of you exchange contact information with one another.

"It was nice meeting you, Choso." You voice out softly.

He nods his head, "Yeah, it was nice meeting you too."

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ .　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Alright, so today was an absolute rollercoaster.

From that morning being all lovey-dovey with Gojo, to hating him all over again, to meeting his stupidly sexy professor, to catching a glimpse of the stoic blond, and all the way to having an airy almost whimsical conversation with Choso.

What a day.

Seriously, what a day. Talking to Choso was so different. It didn't feel like you were talking to a target, it didn't feel forced or uncomfortable. Talking to Choso was the most pleasant thing ever.

As you made your way off-campus, your head was in the clouds-- filled with thoughts of the mysteriously artistic man you just had a conversation with. He was different, you could feel it.

You find yourself smiling at the little still moment the two of you had, how innocent it was, and how comfortable you felt. There's a sudden thump in your heart that makes your thoughts freeze.

Shit, the one thing you're not supposed to be doing. The one unspoken rule you'd set for yourself. You're breaking it already. You hardly know the man and you're breaking the single stipulation you'd put on yourself.

No feelings.

It's a simple rule. A needed rule. You can't go around sleeping with different men and fall for one at the same time. That'll never work out.

Imagine the look of disgust on their face when they find out they were just a name you needed to cross off. Hell no, the last thing you want to do is fuck with anyone's heartstrings-- including your own.

But...

Choso was so-

No. Stop it. You think to yourself. You nearly thought the same things about Gojo and look where that got you? In no way can you come out of this situation happy with any of the men involved.

This is just a one-and-done situation. No special cases.

Your goal is to seduce not swoon.

That's all your purpose consists of-- being a little whore for Gojo Satoru. As annoying as it is to come to terms with, that's exactly what your job is here. Fuck people, get paid. Nothing more, and nothing less.

No one becomes the exception. Under no circumstances do you allow anyone to fall for you; nor do you fall for anyone.

The smiles, the laughs, the ticklish feeling you get in your chest-- it all needs to be fake. Those special and cherishable feelings need to forever remain fake.

The second any of those emotions transfer into something real, everything will go to shit.

No relationships.

No feelings.

No romance.

Just sex.

You need to lock those words into your brain for the remainder of this list. Relationships would ruin things, feelings complicate people, romance will never work out, and sex is the only thing you need to focus on achieving.

You're not Gojo so you don't have plans on manipulating people. You simply want to be freed of the grasp he has on you and the only way to do that is by completing this stupid list.

As you made your way home, you thought long and hard about who you would go for first based on the three new people you met.

Toji would be a slow process since you gave yourself six weeks to figure him out. Nanami is a walking question mark since you have literally nothing to go on. And Choso seems all too sweet for you to think about seducing him just yet.

Based on that, you decide that Toji will be your biggest focus for the time being-- unless you spontaneously run into one of the remaining two unidentified people on the list.

With that being the most unlikely thing to happen given how lucky you got today, you end up organizing the list in a journal of yours at home. You'll put them into your own order and check them off as you go.

Yeah, you'll get through this.

...Right?

GOJO SATORU ✔︎

GETO SUGURU ✔︎

TOJI FUSHIGURO ☐

KAMO CHOSO ☐

NANAMI KENTO ☐

mlist || previous chapt || next chpt

[thepixelelf]

neurosurgeon wonwoo x reader x neurologist jihoon warnings: hospital stuff in general. an unnamed child patient in a life-or-death situation. I know how hospitals work even less than I know how frats work. wc: 914

love triangle au requests

[the quiet ones] "He's frozen," you tell Jihoon, eyes set on the operating table and the man at the head of it.

Jihoon lifts his eyes from the monitors to peer through the observation window. Wonwoo isn't exactly frozen like you said, but Jihoon can see the hesitation laced in his fingers. "He can't be."

"He doesn't work on children anymore. Hasn't since..."

When you trail off, an eyebrow rises behind Jihoon's hair. "He told you that?"

"He didn't mean to," you say with a sideways glance. Jihoon can tell he's not supposed to know this about the head surgeon in the operating room, but clearly, the situation is dire. "The assistants in there don't know the procedure like we do, Jihoon."

You both watch Wonwoo as he pauses again. His assistants all look up at him for direction, but he says nothing.

"I have to go in."

Jihoon stops himself from shaking his head. "Spark, you just clocked out after your ninth hour. Plus, you were the one who told me Wonwoo could do this. "

"He can, just--" You clench your fist and stop yourself from arguing. Now is not the time. "Let me take over."

Jihoon looks at Wonwoo again. You must be a prophet -- now, Wonwoo is truly frozen.

"Go," Jihoon orders.

You don't look back.

=

Wonwoo thought he was the only one who knew the emergency alarm connected to the escape stairs was broken. Evidently not, when the sound of the crash-bar doors swinging shut echoes off the concrete stairs. Even though Wonwoo can't see it from his position on the cold floor -- his knees halfway bent to his chest and his head ducked behind his arms -- he hears someone sit down next to him.

"Shouldn't you be overseeing someone?" Wonwoo mumbles.

Jihoon doesn't say anything for a few seconds. Then, he sighs. "Not sure if you've been keeping track, but it's been two hours. Spark is taking a well-deserved nap." His knee bounces in a rapid rhythm. "At least, they'd better be."

Lifting his head, Wonwoo looks at the way Jihoon glares down the stairway. His concern for you reads on his face like irritation, an expression he's seen on Jihoon more and more as of late.

He calls you Spark, and he's called you that for as long as Wonwoo's known either of you. It piqued his curiosity when he first heard it, but he's yet to find out what it means. He's never felt close enough to ask.

Stretching his legs out, Jihoon clears his throat. "The operation was a success -- not that you asked."

"No thanks to me, either," Wonwoo mutters bitterly, dropping his head again. That little girl's smile as Jihoon had walked her through the procedure yesterday shines on the inner sides of his eyelids. "I could've killed her."

"You didn't."

"Only because you replaced me with a real surgeon."

"Jeon." Jihoon's voice beckons Wonwoo to look up at him. "You're confusing real with perfect. There's no perfect surgeon, as much as people pressure you to be one. Real surgeons get tired. Real surgeons have problems. Real surgeons freeze."

Wonwoo curls his lips between his teeth. If he didn't, he wouldn't be able to stop them from shaking. He takes a breath. "They didn't."

You finished the operation Wonwoo couldn't even start.

"Sure, just keep convincing yourself that you're the world's worst fuckup. Keep telling yourself that every other doctor here is perfect and this one mistake makes you inferior. Keep thinking all of us are real while you just -- hell -- faked your way through medical school and six years of surgeries that went just fine. Yeah, that makes sense." Jihoon runs a hand through his cropped black hair. He meets Wonwoo's eyes. "Sounds stupid when I say it out loud, right? I'm not gonna bother pulling you out if you just keep digging yourself deeper."

Wonwoo shakes his head, even though he doesn't know what he's saying no to.

Jihoon lets out another sigh. "But someone will." His knee starts bouncing again. "Spark believes in you, you know? Didn't stop believing you could do it even after they took over. They were exhausted, but they still told me where to find you."

You would know, wouldn't you. Wonwoo feels the corners of his mouth begin to press into his cheeks.

"They're stubborn like that," Jihoon muses, eyes unfocused down the stairway, an unconscious smile on his face.

Something settles at the bottom of Wonwoo's stomach. His lips press between his teeth again. "You like them, don't you?"

Jihoon jolts back to the present, his brows furrowing at Wonwoo. "And you?"

"Me?"

"Are you gonna tell me you don't feel anything for them?"

Wonwoo blinks. His mouth opens, then closes. "I... guess not."

"Then that's another thing we have in common," Jihoon says, oddly calm after hearing the closest thing Wonwoo's said to a confession since high school. "Spark's always telling me we'd be friends if we tried. Calls us 'the quiet ones'."

Slowly, Wonwoo tilts his chin. "...I don't know what you're saying."

"Me neither." Jihoon gets to his feet, turns to Wonwoo, and holds out his hand. "I guess-- I can't say you're not good enough for Spark if the two things I know about you we have in common."

Wonwoo takes Jihoon's hand. "Two things?"

After Jihoon hoists Wonwoo off his ass, a shy grin spreads across his lips. "Quiet and in love. Welcome to the club."

[pastafossa]

When Heather said Muse and Daredevil are the same, just “underdeveloped boys hiding behind masks, trying to make it look more sophisticated”, do you think she might have a point? (Personally, I don’t — I think she’s speaking from a place of ignorance + trying to process her recent trauma + feeling some understandable anger. Also I think this is good indicator — and purposeful by the writers — that Heather doesn’t actually know Matt that well and their relationship won’t last much longer)

Eager to get your perspective — imagine me with my face in my hands, kicking my feet and giggling

NO BUT LET'S TALK ABOUT THIS, CAUSE I CLOCKED THIS TOO.

I think there's multiple things being brought together, a lot of which you caught here.

Going to put this under a see more cause it's a slightly longer dissection of this part of the episode.

DDBA thoughts beneath the cut.

"Underdeveloped boys hiding behind masks, trying to make it look more sophisticated."

If we compare this to the last time she brought this up, there's been a clear shift in perspective. Before, she was curious about the 'why' with vigilantes and masks - does the mask allow vigilantes/antiheroes to be their true selves, or is the mask about hiding those true selves, creating some sense of separation? She wanted to talk to Daredevil, even Frank Castle about it. Now, she seems (to me at least) to be working through her own trauma and anger, yeah - anger at Muse, yes, but at Daredevil too, because to her, at least right now, she's latched onto, 'Muse was a horrible person who wore a mask to hide his identity, which means horrible people wear masks. Therefore the people wearing the masks are the problem because if they were doing what's right, they wouldn't need to hide.'

It doesn't matter to her brain right now that Daredevil saved her life. He's part of the problem - especially since she just saw Daredevil at his most violent. I think with time she'll be able to process that and recognize it eventually, in the way that someone bit badly by a dog will often come to recognize that not all dogs are bad. But they're going to be afraid of dogs for a while, or maybe even forever. Especially if their sole experience with a dog is getting bit.

But if we set all that aside and just take the statement at its base value: she's both right and not, I think. We know how people are. We know how Muse is, calling his slaughter an 'art' and not just, you know, serial killing. There would absolutely, in this universe, be insecure, chest-thumping, underdeveloped dudes who'd slap on a mask so they can run out and beat people up and see themselves as heroes. But in reality they just like being violent, and the mask DOES help hide them from consequences.

But she's also wrong by applying it overall/to the masked vigilantes in general. Not just because of Matt/Daredevil, but because of people like Hector earlier in the season. With Hector, that was one of the whole plot points: he was (RIP) doing it because it's the right thing to do, and because he wanted to help. Matt, arguably, does what he does for the same reason: because it's the right thing to do. Hell, Frank isn't even hiding behind a mask for all that she included him on her list earlier. He's not calling it sophisticated, or hero work. He's doing it because he believes this is the only way to solve the issue.

They aren't playing at being sophisticated. What they are doing is trying to save lives in an inherently broken, corrupt, inherently unjust system: a system that killed Hector despite him being found innocent, a system that would rather spend more money jailing a hungry guy than feeding him, a system that allowed Muse to kill 60+ people before anyone noticed, a system that elected Fisk despite his loooong list of crimes. It's a system that will literally kill you if you help the very person the system is trying to crush, like Hector did. The mask is an added layer of protection so that they can keep doing what they can to help. It's not about 'allowing' them to be violent in the way the statement implies.

And the strongest evidence of that? If all crime stopped, they would give it up.

Frank would go into retirement.

Matt would hang up the suit.

And Hector would have been at peace.

That's something about the street level heroes. They're not up there. They're down here in the dirt with us. They're the ones who hear a woman get grabbed in an alley. They're the ones walking by the corner store when they hear someone pull a gun inside and demand money. They're witnessing all of this firsthand. And I don't think you can call them all underdeveloped boys playing at being heroes without acknowledging the reality that that the person being robbed in the alley needs a hero, because the system sure as hell isn't all that interested in doing anything about it.

And I think that's sort of where they're going this season. What they're leading us to. Because that's the reality that Matt's been struggling with - the system is broken. So what do you do when you have the ability to stop some of that suffering? Do you turn away and hope someone fixes it? Or do you fight?

We know what Matt's answer is, what Hector's was. And I'm not convinced it's the wrong one.

And I think you keyed in on how this relates back to their relationship: Heather doesn't know Matt all that well, not really. None of them do, really. Heather loves the image of Matt that he's shown to her, of course, but it's a false one, an incomplete one. That's not her fault, since Matt has been lying and frantically trying to hide that side of himself to her, and he also clearly hasn't been exploring his stance on various ethics with her like the regular debates he had with Foggy and Karen in the past. I do think the relationship's destined to blow up, though whether that might get mended in S2 is anyone's guess, but I just am noooot getting the feeling that relationship's going to be able to survive the fallout once she realizes just how much Matt has hidden from her.

[mari-lair]

Do you think Akane will lose the ability to see supernatural (or even worse, his memory of them existing) when the clock keeper inevitably lose their seat number power?

If losing their seat number means Akane contract it's broken, that is a very possible outcome.

Akane couldn't see supernaturals before his contract. The panel explaining us that has him holding a 'new student orientation' paper

So in the same day where he was an oblivious normal guy Kako did something so that Akane could conveniently see him to make this contract.

Cause Mei said "only people close to death can make a contract" to Nene but Akane was not close to death (hence why he couldn't see them earlier in the same day) so Kako had to do something to his soul.

I think there were more preparations involved in Akane's recruitment than just "let's make sure Mirai is on top of the truck that will put Aoi in danger" just saying.

And Akane believe without the contract he doesn't retain anything supernatural, he isn't close to death, he isn't even a kannagi: He is just a normal human of no grand bloodline.

When he wore his glasses he was suspectible to the confession tree and forgot Aoi's existence during the Misaki stairs. I truly believe he is still oblivious that Aoi was ever in danger because of Yako to this day, just as Aoi had been despite being transported to a boundary and turned into a puppet.

EDIT: There is a possibility Akane knew Aoi was in danger.

@/bjgffbnmvc pointed out that Akane doesn't show up even in the bg of the misaki stairs arc, so I re read the intro chapter and realized another strange thing: When Nene asks about Aoi the teacher says "There is no one in our class named Aoi." and everyone agrees.

Which is strange, at least lemon should have been saying "Aoi? The guy?" as he did after the severance

Akane looking for Aoi in secret is so cool! And i love that, but considering how we never get even the smallest of hints that Akane knew being in danger when he usually frets about her safety, and that even when Aoi was healthy Akane wasn't shown in the background, I can't rule out the possibility that Akane spent the whole day in a boundary for mysterious reasons and was still unaware Aoi went missing for some time. Who knows? But it is interesting.

[jasmineslonghair]

Another rant.

In a sense I do believe that Snow did love Lucy Gray, but I saw this tiktok talk about how it isn't a love story, it's a tragedy. I have to agree, because Snow was given so many chances to choose the good path, he had people that genuinely believe in him. Tigris, Lucy Gray and Sejanus but Snow is so emotionally stunted and not willing to progress. (At least from my view that's what I concluded)

So many times throughout the book I caught myself smiling or laughing at something he said. And I literally would be like "wtf" but Suzanne Collins is such a genius writer like that, and like a broken clock I'll repeat, she wrote this book so well that, I was genuinely forgetting that this young man will become a man I will hate and wish death upon.

Reading the original trilogy as a pre-teen I never truly understood the gravity of Snow's evil and watching the movies again recently with context from the book, made so many little actions and lines hold more weight.

I hate over-analysing books because of English in school, but books like this remind me why I love to read and get lost in worlds that are are different but the same.

I'm rambling but this book and this whole franchise has been on my mind for a while and I need a creative outlet.

[erinfern0]

late night fears.

simon "ghost"riley x gn!reader

— gender-neutral nicknames, gender-neutral anatomy, only pronouns used are you, etc.

summary: he's never this late, and you become terrified of his fate, even paranoid. soon though, simon helps you understand that you don't have to worry, but there's nothing wrong in actually worrying.

warnings: hurt to comfort and some fluff, some swearing, description of injuries.

You were sitting on your couch, eyes moving around as you tried to focus on anything else, than the clock on the nightstand. It's way past 3AM, and he still isn't home. You were worried sick as you heard another quiet click of the seconds passing by. Bouncing your leg against the floor, squeezing your hands together. Your heartbeat was getting faster with anxiety and worry. “He's alright”, you repeated under your breath over and over with your voice trembling. It wasn't the first time he was late, of course. But it was the first time he was late for that long.

You heard footsteps in the hallway before your apartment door, and you couldn't help but get up quickly enough to leave your mind dizzy. You heard someone looking through their set of keys. Your heart raced as you unlocked the top lock of the massive door. You opened and almost cried at just the sight.

His face was still covered with his black balaclava, but you could see the black paint smudged across his eyes with a mix of blood and sweat. A new, light scar going from the arch of his brow to his hairline and a dark red wound over his nose, implying it was broken recently. Again. His knuckles shone with tiny scratches as he held the keys you heard from the living room.

He gasped at the sight of your wet face, lips swollen from biting them repeatedly.

“Fuckin' hell, love...” he whispers, his voice low and raspy but clear and vibrant, making you burst into tears right in front of him. He's back, you knew he'd be back. You felt stupid, extremely stupid for not trusting him. You fell apart, collapsing into his tired arms, your own ones tightly wrapped around his neck, holding him as close as possible to remind yourself that he's alright. Not only that, but you felt anxious and selfish for allowing him to hold you close, walk you back into your apartment, lock the door, and guide you to your shared bed. You choked on your own tears as he placed you on the mattress, looking up at him through the darkness of the room. His eyes were closed as he slowly leaned towards you, lying down next to you, still wearing his patterned slacks, worn-out, stained hoodie, and balaclava. You have no idea when, but he took his shoes off. He throws one arm over your waist, placing your head on his shoulder, and you gladly comply. You slowly adjusted yourself against him, tears damp the warm material of his hoodie.

He didn't speak. Not yet, at least. He knew the state you were in, and he knew how much you just needed to get yourself together without anyone interrupting you with their rambling. He slowly caressed your hair, his other hand resting over your stomach. His eyes were still closed as you took deep breaths in. Between the smell of blood and sweat, you could just smell him. The scent of his warm skin, hidden under the material of his clothes, the scent of home.

You had no idea how much time had passed, but you raised your head slowly, your heart beating steadily. His eyes were shut, but you knew he wasn't asleep. He rarely slept, especially not when you were awake. One of your hands unraveled from under his grip just enough to reach the material that covered his face. You froze as he quickly wrapped his fingers over your wrist, eyes open just to glare at you. Instinct. The instinct to keep his identity safe under his balaclava, not letting go even around you. Seeing it's just your hand, his gaze softened, and he moved his hand over your forearm, holding you closer and letting you move.

Your fingertips grasped at the bottom, slowly curling just to play with the rim. You kissed his shoulder when you saw his jaw clench. Simon nodded his head and breathed out, leaving Ghost under the balaclava that you threw on the nightstand. Allowing Simon to spend some time with you.

“I'm... I'm so sorry I freaked out like that.” you whispered and chuckled nervously, almost completely quiet as his hand gripped your waist, feeling the soft material of your shirt under his fingertips.

“Don't apologize.” he shook his head, brows furrowing. He couldn't understand why would you ever blame yourself for getting vulnerable, especially since you were the person to allow him to do it first. He was never comfortable to speak about his feelings until he met you. You were the reason he attended therapy more, you made him comfortable to open up to you, and you not only listened to him. No. You also accepted and helped him when he needed you the most. You were his anchor, the one and only who grounded him and helped him to stay at peace during storms.

His arms wrapped around you a little tighter, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He was never good with his words, too much going on in his head to make clear sentences. Too much burden for you to carry. So he usually picked to just hold you, show him that slightly vulnerable and sensitive part of him that you unlocked from under his mask.

The way his chest expanded with each one of his breaths calmed you down, the pressure making you try to match the rhythm.

Soon enough, your breathing calmed down, your heart matching Simon's pace as you just stayed in his arms, admiring his presence, his smell, his kisses over your hair. Your worries were quickly replaced by exhaustion caused by your cries and fears, allowing you to melt in his embrace, slowly falling asleep next to the man who made you feel so loved with such simple gestures.

masterlist | request info

[webslingingslasher]

I miss peter and trouble :( what are they up to??

'if you don't get your hands off me right now, i'll scream.' peter unpeels his hands from your shoulders, you take a step away from him. he's radiating too much heat.

'sorry.' even his voice is sending you up a wall, you turn to give him a glare and sputter at his choice of clothing. 'we're in the middle of a heatwave, our ac is busted and you're wearing a jacket? what the hell is wrong with you? i'm over here sweating my tits off and you're just gonna walk in here wearing a jacket?'

looking at him makes you sick. 'oh my god, you just pissed me off. leave me alone.' peter doesn't leave you alone, he kisses your temple and makes sure not to touch you anywhere else. 'come to the bedroom.'

'i absolutely do not want to have sex with you right now!' peter takes your mood in stride, it's not him, it's the heat. 'i don't want you to have sex with me.'

'then what do you want?'

'you to listen to me.' your eyes narrowed into slits and you cross your arms over your chest. 'i'm not going anywhere until you take that stupid fucking jacket off.'

'that's a weird bargain but i'll take it.' he unzips it in a second, the knowledge of a shirt underneath it makes you unleash a layer of rage and disbelief. 'it's ninety degrees out there and you're wearing layers? our ac is broken, peter! broken and no hope of repair for at least three days and you're wearing layers. wow.'

you're not being dramatic in the slightest either. it's boiling outside, the complex pool is "closed for cleaning," and the stagnant air swarming around your apartment is making you go a little crazy.

'i know, trouble. c'mon, i have something to show you.'

'if it's another jacket, i'm gonna be pissed.' you follow behind peter and hold a sour look while you notice his back isn't soaked with sweat.

'it's not another jacket.'

peter gives you an extremely wide grin at the door, he's proud of what he has behind it. 'ready to love me forever and ever?' there's nothing that could boost your mood, you're currently hanging out in satan's lair.

'yup.' your whole body feels clammy. peter doesn't mind the attitude, he was right with you an hour ago. 'give me a countdown.' you hold no enthusiasm in your voice.

'i'm not going that.'

peter just blinks, you roll your eyes and rush through it. 'three, two one, go.'

your shared room is opened, nothing looks different from the outside but peter ushers you in and you feel... cold. the sheen of sweat that covered every bit of you was frozen in it's tracks, you bask in the temperature change while peter shuts the door behind you.

you look up at the vent, there's no running air but you can hear the faint buzz of it. as you turn to peter, you clock it. your jaw drops, sweet relief was blessed over you.

'oh my god, i love you so much.' you rush to stand in front of the window unit, the air hits your chest and you lift your tanktop up to soak it all in. 'holy shit, this feels so good.' you spin and let out a moan when the air washes over your back.

'uh huh, you're welcome.' peter's cocky and it's deserved. 'you're the best boyfriend ever, i love you so much, please marry me.' you don't care if peter's watching, you're about to get naked and dance in front of the mini ac unit.

'i'm borrowing it from chris, so don't get too attached.' it was an emergency patch for the time being, chris was in jamaica and had no use for the unit. peter was in a one bedroom apartment with a grumpy lover.

he only had to get halfway through his explanation before his friend gave him permission as long as he reinstalled it when his ac was fixed. 'tell chris i love him.'

'i'll tell him you said thanks.'

'close enough.' you bask in the blast of air for another minute before it gets icy, you've been so damn hot that you almost cry at how good it feels to shiver.

flopping to your bed, you welcome the air stream on your legs. 'give me ten minutes and i'll suck your dick.'

'oh, c'mon now. i don't deserve that.'

you sit up to point at him. 'you chose my window so it would be on me at all times. that's selfless love and you deserve to have your dick sucked, don't you dare fight me on it.'

peter sticks his hands up, 'i wouldn't dare.'

'smart boy, now come give me kisses.' 

[drowninginblox]

Light Laughter with Lighter Company

Inspired by this wonder by @notanonymous

Tags: brief mentions of politics, Kurt is very tired, and a subtle current of the Fem!reader being the comfort to his hurt. This can be read as platonic or romantic btw

"You look quite divine tonight..." He mumbles through the glass. The words hang in the air before his head follows. It's been him and only him at a table for two for god only knows how long. Jubliee pulled out all the stops for him. This would have been such a romantic sight, with the best view at this nook of a restaurant. The table he was assigned overlooks a lake that reflected the night sky perfectly. If only the person he was set up with bothered to show. Even if it was rotten company, at least he wouldn't be as embarrassed as he was now.

With an exhale, he pulls up his sleeve and checks his watch. "An hour and no show... Scheiße." He sighed before looking at his glass. In the tint of the red and looking past the moon, he saw himself amongst the flecks of overhead light. If it wasn't for the warm hues, he would have mistaken the string lights for stars. After a few moments of further contemplation of this otherwise shit scenario, he sips down the rest of his glass and looks for a waitress. "Ah, excuse me, Fräulein," He says gently enough so he doesn't immediately startle the woman. She looks back, at first in shock but that ebs into a smile. "Yes sir?" She offers. "I'm sorry to bother you but I'm ready for the check." She nods and offers him a small smile. "I'll bring that back to you soon then." He returns her smile before looking back out at the sublime view.

Kurt clocks her a few minutes later. She returns, but not alone. In one arm is a bucket and a covered plate. In the other, a checkbook. His glance and growing smile are laced with curiosity. "Now what is this?" He mutters as she gets closer. She sighs as she sets down the plate, shortly followed by a pretty-looking bottle of champagne "A thank you from the owners. And the managers, respectfully." She soon takes off her jacket and sets it on the back of the opposite chair. His smile grows as she sits "And the company is from whom?" She motions to herself "Oh this is free. I've clocked out now." He chuckles while she smoothes out her uniform. "Well then, it's nice to know this night isn't too much of a waste." He uncovers the plate to reveal a tiramisu. "Oh wow," He mumbles. She only smiles at his mild wonder. "You don't get the superhero treatment often do you?" She muses. Kurt's eyes wander back to her, taking in how she lets down and fluffs out her hair. He lets himself smile a little more. "No. No, I don't." He admits gently. She looks away from her hair to him, meeting his slightly broken gaze with a warmth he wants more than anything. "I'm sorry. " She murmurs while sitting up straighter.

He smiles warmly, but sadly back. "Kurt Wagner. Or ze Nightcrawler, if you want to be professional." She offers her hand to him, which he takes. "Y/n L/n, or... well I'm off the clock so I don't have to be professional now." Their chuckles, both tired yet genuine, intermingle amidst the cool air.

"Well then Fräulein, could you tell me why you have decided to join me tonight?" He offers as he reaches for the bottle. She fishes out a corkscrew to which he shakes his head. She shrugs and watches him ready the bottle from her. "Well, obviously I was curious." He smirks knowingly. "Most people are when they see a handsome devil like me." He mutters dryly, making her smile. "Yes, and when I heard your accent, I realized who you were." A huff breaks through the air as Kurt feels the cork loosen. "Ah, so you're a fan?" She chuckles again. "Well, yes and no. I appreciate what you and the X-Men do but calling me a fan? Eh... not me. My brother on the other hand-" A Pop startles both of them for a moment while the vapor from the bottle mingles with the atmosphere. Kurt soon recovers with a light chuckle, making her laugh along.

Once the atmosphere settles, he pours for himself. "Would the lovely lady like a drink?" She scoffs with a playful eye roll. "Thank you but no. I am my own designated driver." He nods along. "Fair enough. I respect a woman who knows herself." He settles the bottle back into the ice bucket before raising the glass. "To your health." She chuckles. "You have the more deadly career, you should be toasting to yourself." He smirks as he drinks. A few moments pass before a sigh breaks from bubbly breath "You are considerate. That's a rare trait in this day and age."

"Rarer still in this country." She muses, making Kurt wave a hand "Gott nein, nichts von alledem." He mutters. "No politics. Not now." She snickers while he reaches for his fork. "Fair enough. Enjoy that by the way, the tiramisu is a favorite amongst the staff." A smirk cracks his tired, but not exhausted, demeanor. "Oh really?" She hums. "We're petitioning for it to be a breakfast item for how often we eat it." He laughs out loud, the first of many that night.

[oddsconvert]

Shattered #10 - Happy Birthday, August! Part III

Previous / Masterlist

CW: kidnapped whumpee, captivity (kinda/kinda not), defiant whumpee, whumpee thinks caretaker is a whumper, forced to kidnap references, vampire caretaker, threat of violence/death, weapons, adult language (pls let me know if I've forgotten any!)

AND FINALLY! THE LAST PART FOR AUGUST AND LUCAS' BACKSTORY! 🎉 Thank you so much for your guys' patience, with this one - it means everything <3 We resume with our usually scheduled Declan next chapter! 😍 And a mahoosive thank you to @darkthingshappen for her beta and help!

---

August feels like a stranger in his own home. A prisoner in his own home; his sanctuary now nothing more than a gilded cage. He is forever and always a captive of his own compassion and a victim of his cowardice. 

But August curses himself for daring to think like that. It’s unjust to think like that, especially on a night like tonight. The frantic hammering of a human heartbeat upstairs is his bleak reminder that he’s not alone anymore, and yet somehow… he’s never felt more alone in his life. The quiet has never screamed so loud, and the walls stretch to endless empty space around him.

For decades, August has been a ghost haunting this house. Lost in the in-between, a nobody with nobody. For decades, August has been at peace with that. Or at least, he had convinced himself that he was - if he dared to admit that the solitude was crippling, then the silence would drag him under and swallow him whole. Contentment was a convenient lie for the last century, but August’s loneliness is a glaring truth rearing its ugly head. He isn’t ready to face it.

Despair gnaws at his insides, sharper than the bite of the cold nipping his skin. Daylight has been and gone, and now moonlight bleeds through the dusty drapes. The ornate windows have blurred over with swirling white as the blizzard wails like a banshee and rages outside. August waits and waits, the grandfather clock in the corner ticks with a maddening slowness. He waits for something, anything and nothing all at once. He doesn’t know what. His comeuppance, perhaps? A wooden stake plunged straight through his spine? 

The human is still hidden away upstairs. Hours have bled by without a sound, not a whisper of movement and not a creak of the floorboard. No doubt he is plotting and scheming, waiting for his perfect chance to strike. Who could blame him? If August were in the human's position, trapped and desperate, the only natural urge for survival would twist his mind too.

August repeats his earlier vow in his mind like a broken record, over and over. When the snowstorm clears, the human will be released, and not a second later. He is a healer, not a gaoler. Every fibre of August's being aches with the need to atone. He will right this wrong no matter the cost. 

A sudden chill snakes down August's spine. A different kind of chill than the frosty air that fogs his breath. He snaps around, his eyes zeroing in on the dark figure lurking in the doorway. The human. They hadn’t made a sound, they’d just…appeared. Materialised out of thin air. Their sunken-in and bloodshot eyes lock with August’s in the dim light. His stance is imposing, his demeanour threatening. August feels strangely diminished by the very sight of him, as though he’s two inches tall.

"Hungry."

A single grumbled word is all that leaves the human's lips. Barely audible but the demand is crystal clear. Not a beg for scraps or a plea, it’s a demand. An attempt to claw back a sliver of control in a situation spiralling wildly out of reach for both of them. The terse delivery, the lack of a complete sentence - it speaks volumes. August isn't worthy of conversation, of any respect or dignity. He isn’t human, afterall - why should he be treated with any humanity?

The realisation eats away at him more than the rumbling of the human’s stomach.

That’s another thing. August forgets how quickly the human’s digestive system and their metabolism works. It’s a miracle how they live as long as they do. It’s as though the second they swallow, their belly immediately roars for even more. It must be impossible to keep up. August can’t keep up.

"I-I'll see what's in the pantry," August stammers, his voice cracking under the weight of the human's burning stare. "It- It won't be much, but..."

He shuffles towards the kitchen and its meagre cabinets. A can of chicken chunks, a tin of kidney beans, cobwebs and layers of dust line the shelves. The human catches a glimpse of the miserable sight, his expression drops to a mix of disapproval, offence and somehow, something akin to pity.

“If you plan on keeping me prisoner, you need to feed me, vamp,” the human snarls with contempt, “That’s human biology 101. Didn’t you claim to be a doc?”

August's jaw clenches. That hit a raw nerve. He wants to retort, to defend his capabilities, but the accusation lodges itself deep in August’s gut. He feels a flush of shame and embarrassment fill his cheeks, because the man’s words were a bitter truth. How can he call himself a doctor? When all he’s responsible for is pain and misery? He can’t even provide basic sustenance.

August finds himself at a loss for words. He can’t even look at the human. Instead he hangs his head and anxiously picks at the skin on his fingers.  “I-I …I didn’t p-plan this. Any of this-”

“-Food,” the human makes his demand again. His fuse running short.

“H-Help yourself. You don’t have to ask. Please, just make yourself at home.”

“This will never be my home,” the human spits venomously, his hands balled tight into fists.

“No - I - I didn’t mean tha-”

The human tears past August in a huff, his body vibrating with barely contained rage. His shoulder slams into August with deliberate malice. August, however, stands firm and absorbs the shove without a flinch. He watches as the human throws himself at the kitchen with the ferocious hunger of a starved lion. He wrenches the cupboards open with bone-jarring bangs and slams them shut with enough force to rattle the windows.

“So what’s your plan?” the human side-eyes August, squatting down to the lower cabinets and flinging them open. They’re empty too. They all are, really. He groans in frustration and slams them shut. “Earn my trust to break it? I’ll be a mindless zombie in days?”

"My plan is to return you to where I found you. As soon as I possibly can. Without hesitation." 

“‘Without hesitation?’” the human scoffs, a bitter and humourless laugh, “what a fucking joke.”

He snatches at cans and packets, what few there are that he can get his hands on. He crams a half-empty bag of dry pasta and a tin of peaches into his arms - god knows how long they’ve been there. Nothing that constitutes a full meal but his stockpile will stretch to a couple days, at least. August feels a weight settle heavy on his chest at that. He knows with a devastating certainty that the bridge of understanding between them is crumbling away. The human will surely disappear upstairs again, never to be seen. There will be no getting through to him. Strangers, they will remain.

The human fills his arms and races back towards the stairs. August scrambles after him, his voice tight, "Please, can we just talk? Before you-”

“NO! Don't follow me! Don't talk to me. Don't you dare come anywhere near me. Don't even knock on my door. You want to make good on your promise? I don't want to hear from you or see your face until we’re heading back to human territory. Comprende?!”

If August had a tail, it would be between his legs. His shoulders slump as he nods solemnly, shamefaced.

“I understand,” August croaks,  “I’m so sorry. I won’t come near you until it’s time to go.”

“Not a moment before, and not a damn second later,” the human growls with a point of his finger, veins bulging in his neck that August can’t help but notice.

One moment he’s there and the next, he disappears up the stairs in a flash. He slams the door like a hormonal teenager and August hears the unmistakable screeching and scraping of furniture being dragged across the room all over again.

*!*!*!*!*

Lucas doesn’t count the days it’s been. He doesn’t need nor want to. Even if he tried, the numbers would slip through his fingers like grains of sand. He refuses to be one of those prisoners who scratches tallies into the walls until there’s no space left to etch, until their sanity crumbles to nothing.

Either yesterday, or three days, or a week ago - Lucas can only guess, everyday has turned to mush - the storm knocked out the power lines. The house plunged into pitch-black darkness and stayed that way ever since.

It’s now or never. The vampire or him. Lucas knows no-one is coming to save him. No-one is looking for him. He can’t afford to be the damsel in distress and wait for a saviour or a miracle. The gnawing ache in his stomach and the dwindling rations remind him that his clock is ticking. 

Only one of them walks out of this alive.

Lucas grits his teeth, his resolve hardening like steel. He will be the last one standing. He dismantles his barricade, and the stake finds its way back to his palm again. His fingers curl around the splintered, shaved wood. On tip-toes, he sneaks through the shadowed hallway. A too-loud creak of the floor and Lucas freezes on the spot, his ears pricking. When nothing comes of it, he creeps on towards the stairs.

How will it feel? Brief hesitation coils around his gut. His hands turn clammy. How will it feel to take another’s life? There’ll be blood on his hands for the rest of his life - maybe guilt will eat him alive. But needs must. If he doesn’t slay the monster, there’ll be no life left to be wracked with guilt. How many countless other lives will this save aside his own?

Lucas holds his breath, cautiously poking his head through the bars of the stairwell railing. In flickering candlelight, the vampire hunches over a worn chessboard. Its face etched with an ageless ennui, it tediously moves the black knight across the squares. Somehow, its pale skin seems even more ghostly in the dim light, but Lucas notices how its dark eyes seem to hold a profound loneliness and deep despair.

The vampire was playing all by itself; the opposing white pieces stood sentinel in their starting positions. A ragged sigh escapes its lips as it captures a white pawn with a languid grace. The victory, if it could be called that, brought no spark of joy or satisfaction to its eyes. The vampire simply reset the captured pawn. And played on.

Lucas watches the vampire, his mind in turmoil. This isn’t what he envisioned; being kidnapped by a vampire. He’d imagined a life of forced subservience, drained for every drop of his blood. He saw himself fighting tooth and nail for a life no longer worth living. A life as livestock, waiting for slaughter. His grip on the stake loosens, and he stares down at it with deep contemplation.

This doesn’t feel like the nightmare Lucas had always feared it would be. This vampire, this monster that stole him… has kept to every promise it’s made. Lucas can’t believe that he’s admitting that. It hasn’t used persuasion. Why? It would be so easy, like taking candy from a baby. Lucas would have no choice but to grovel at its feet and offer it a drink from his neck. But the vampire hasn’t even tried to feed, claims it doesn’t want to feed. The vampire hasn’t laid a hand on Lucas. It’s given him peace and solitude, food and drink, endless promises to return him to human territory, safe and sound. 

A wave of doubt crashes over Lucas. Could he dare to trust the vampire’s word?

“Care to join…?”

Lucas jumps out of his skin. The vampire is looking right at him, its gaze fixed and intense. For a moment, Lucas fears the worst. Has he angered the creature? But as he looks closer, he realises that the vampire's expression was not one of anger. Instead, there’s a raw desperation and longing in its eyes, a look that Lucas had never seen or maybe cared to notice before. He quickly and discreetly shoves the stake into the waistband of his jeans, and grabs the bars of the stairs like the prisoner he’s been so convinced he is.

“What do I win?” Lucas calls down. There’s still hesitation to his voice, an air of stubbornness. He’s not fully prepared to let his guard down just yet.  

For the first time, the vampire actually smiles. “Bragging rights. I never lose.”

Lucas hesitates, a mixture of curiosity and trepidation coursing through him. Perhaps this game of chess would help pass the time before he goes back, and maybe, just maybe, it would give him a chance to glimpse into the mind of this vampire. He nods and heads down the stairs as the vampire frantically and meticulously restarts the board.

“I’ll let you go first, of course. Give you a headstart. It would be unfair otherwise,” the vampire lightly teases.

Lucas moves first, his fingers hesitating slightly as he places a white pawn forward. The vampire responds with equal care, its movements precise and deliberate. They play in pregnant silence, the only sound the soft click of the pieces against the board. An eternity and a half passes before the silence is dared to be broken.

“I’ve been thinking,” The vampire ponders, “when the power is restored, is there anyone you could call? Just to let somebody know you’re safe? That you will be back as soon as you can?”

Lucas leans back, his eyes glued to the board, and without looking up, simply replies, "Nope."

“No-one at all? Not a single soul?” the vampire presses.

“That’s what nope means, don’t it?” Lucas takes a pawn, and the vampire uncomfortably shuffles in its chair. “You know that no-one’s looking, that’s why you chose me, remember…?” a condescending smirk curls on Lucas’s lips. Like he can afford to prod and jibe. He’s feeling more at ease, his confidence growing with each passing moment.

"Anyway. You must be the softest leech going. Either that or you're playing the long game. The self-restraint is mind-boggling... don't you want a bite? Bet the smell is driving you almost cuckoo," Lucas outstretches his arm and waves it underneath the vampire's nose.

Lucas doesn't know how much he even believes what he’s saying anymore. His thoughts are a whirlwind. He has been so hellbent on survival, on staying one step ahead of the vampire, that he hadn't had a second to breathe and take a step back to really think about what was happening. He watches the vampire's face closely, searching for any sign of weakness or desire. Is the restraint genuine, or is it just a facade?

Instead the vampire’s face falls and it gasps, reaching out for Lucas’s wrist, “Your wound-”

The gash on Lucas’ palm is deep, the edges jagged and uneven and the skin around it is inflamed and swollen. Lucas had bigger fish to fry than worrying over a silly little cut, but now he notices it, he feels it throb with dull pain.

“That’s not looking good. Would you let me take a look at it?”

Lucas quickly retracts his arm and cradles his hand defensively. His eyes narrow. “If you win. If you win, maybe I’ll let you. But what do I get if I win?”

The vamp seems satisfied by that. So certain of its inevitable triumph. “I told you. Bragging rights.”

Lucas isn’t so certain that the vampire will best him. He remembers the long days spent practising his moves against the undefeated champion. His grandpa was tough, but Lucas had always held his own. There were times when he thought he might just be able to beat him, but the old man always managed to pull through.

A flicker of nostalgia and a flicker of grief passes over Lucas's face.  “My grandpa. He was the undefeated champ. But I got pretty damn close on occasion. This will be childsplay.”

The vampire’s face softens, its voice gentle, “Is he…still with us?”

“If he was, do you think I’d be sleeping rough on some sopping wet cardboard?” Lucas makes another sharp move, capturing one of the vampire’s pieces. Silence fills the air, and Lucas sighs.

“Why aren’t you using persuasion? You could easily win this. Make me move my knight and the game’s all yours,” Lucas suggests, shrugging. The vampire lets out a low chuckle, his eyes scanning the board as he calculates his next move. But Lucas's words lingered, a nagging thought in the back of his mind.

“No…but, in all seriousness…why - why aren’t you using persuasion? Like, at all? I’d be powerless to stop you. I’d… be y-yours,” he stutters. “Entirely at your mercy. You wouldn’t have to follow through on your promise to free me.”

The vampire's ruby-red eyes widen in shock. Its mouth drops open as though he’d been struck. It averts its gaze down to the flickering candlelight.

“Why would I?” the vamp laments, “I don’t want to use persuasion. To what aim? I’ve made a promise to you, and I intend to keep it. I value your trust, and I would never do anything to jeopardise it. You deserve your free will. Your choices and your thoughts are, and will always be, your own.”

“I didn’t choose to be here-” Lucas' lips respond quicker than his brain can comprehend. He can tell those words cut like a knife to the vampire. 

“No… you didn’t.” The vampire whispers, its tone heavy with guilt. “And that will haunt me for as long as I shall live.”

Lucas is taken aback. He’d always assumed that vampires were cold, unfeeling monsters - devoid of all emotion. But here, he saw something different. He feels something different. The vampire’s words were filled with a mournful regret. He fears he’d been too quick to judge, too eager to paint the vampire as a villain. Maybe there is more to this creature than meets the eye.

The wind suddenly picks up outside, it howls and screeches, whipping against the glass. Lucas stares out the window, a chill running down his spine as he watches the snow swirl and fall.

“I hate to say it… I am glad you are here. Not out there tonight,” the vampire says, watching the blizzard too with a heavy heart.

"Yeah. Me too,” Lucas mumbles. 

"What would you do?” the vampire frets, dragging itself back to the game’s attention and playing its turn, “If you were? Where would you go?"  

"I...I don't know,” Lucas shrugs, “Loiter somewhere warm inside until they chuck me out?" 

"Is there truly no-one you could go to?" 

"No-one. I – I don't have any family left. And try making friends in a nomadic lifestyle. I'm never in one place long enough to keep friends. And if I'm honest? I'm shocked one of you lot hadn't snapped me up sooner. I was...kinda expecting it." 

Every night was a gamble, every morning was a blessing. Lucas always had to be careful, to seek refuge in shadows and find safety in numbers wherever possible. He knew it was coming sooner or later. He was always a sitting duck for a vampire to come along and nab.

“Forgive me if I do say, I am glad I was the one to snatch you up. And not another.”

The walls Lucas put up seem to be slowly knocked down brick by brick. He doesn’t feel like a hunted animal or a captive anymore. He doesn’t feel like he has to look over his shoulder at every turn. It feels almost…safe. 

“Yeah… guess I probably lucked out, huh?” 

Silence falls once again, Lucas looks down to the board. But now he sees an opportunity. With a swift and decisive move, Lucas advances his rook, placing the king in check. The vamp’s king is trapped, cornered by Lucas's pieces.

There’s no escape. The vampire’s face falls as it realises. Lucas has won the game.

“There’s no way-” the vamp mutters, shaking its head in disbelief. “Well played,” he concedes, offering a hand out to shake. Lucas takes it readily. 

“I - I know we made a deal, but please may I look at your wound?” the vampire tries its luck.

“Finee,” Lucas rolls his eyes jovially, “Guess I’m feeling benevolent. Coming off a high from my win.”

*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*

The human sits on top of the examination table, swinging his legs nervously like a child. His eyes flitter around the room, eyebrows furrowed. There’s no sign of the destruction and chaos he unleashed last week. 

August approaches him and gently lifts the human’s hand, examining the slash across the palm. “This looks deep,” he murmurs to himself, turning the human’s hand to different angles and reaching for a bottle of antiseptic.

“Luckily, I don’t think it’s infected. Just a bit swollen. I have some antibiotic ointment - neomycin - and we’ll dress the wound. Shouldn’t give you too much trouble.”

As August pours the antiseptic onto the wound, the human flinches and hisses through his teeth. His eyes squeeze shut, snatching his hand away. The sudden movement startles August, who flinches back too, his heart hammering at his ribs.

"Are you alright?" August asks once he’s caught his own breath, his voice filled with concern. He tries to appear confident and in control, but the truth is, he’s just as nervous as the human.

"Yeah, I'm fine," the human replies, his voice a bit shaky. "It just stung a bit, is all."

August nods, his eyes filled with a strange intensity. "Want to know something?" he asks. The human nods, his own eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

"I used to be terrified of humans," August confesses.

The human’s eyebrows shot up. "You? Scared of humans? A vampire?"

“My mother spun tales of hunters, mobs, and lynchers. I was taught hell hath no fury like a human. I grew up believing our own blood bags would tear me limb from limb should they grab hold of me. I thought humans were my natural predator."

The human is silent for a moment, his mind racing. "…when it was the other way around," he finally finishes. “I’ve lived my entire life in fear of you - of your kind.”

“Me too. Our practices are cruel-”

“What makes you so different?” The human cuts in, desperate for answers, “Why - Why are you being kind to me?”

August gently applies the ointment to the human’s wounded palm, then a clean bandage securing it with a strip of medical tape. He places a cold compress on the area to help reduce swelling and pain.

“Kindness costs nothing, but means everything,” August explains, “You were not put on this earth to suffer, or to be my food. Nor would I ever want that. You deserve your freedom -  your humanity. I will live my life, and you will live yours.”

“Why-Why did you take me? If you never wanted me, if you never wanted this … why am I here?” the human croaks, tears brimming in his eyes. 

“I was left with no choice, I promise you. I - I took you to save you. My family - they forced my hand. They said they would take you if I didn’t. They would hurt you. They would make your life a living hell. It was the only way I could stop them - It was the only way I could make sure you made it home again-”

A tear freely rolls down the man’s cheek, he quickly swipes it away. “You…You saved me?”

“I’m so sorry it had to happen this way. But I would do it ten times over if it meant I knew you were safe in my hands.”

The human closes his eyes, and exhales a deep breath of relief. August can see the weight of the world lift from his shoulders. “T-Thank you,” the human whispers.

“Please,” August shakes his head in abnegation, “Don’t thank me. I don’t deserve gratitude. You deserve every apology I could ever utter, and still it would never be enough.”

August scuttles across the room to his cabinets, rummaging around for the painkillers he knows are hiding in there somewhere.

“August?”

August’s heart leaps. He stops still, the world stops still. It’s the first time the human has spoken his name. Not vamp, not leech, or monster. August. It’s like music to his ears.

“My…My name is Lucas. Lucas Slater. I - I thought if I gave you my name… I was giving myself away. But I trust you with my name.”

It’s not much, but it’s more than August could have ever hoped for. It feels like the sun rising after a long, dark winter. His legs feel as if they might give out beneath him, he has to lean against the countertop to steady himself.

“Lucas.” August whispers to himself. He can finally put a name to the stranger.  “It’s - It’s nice to finally meet you, Lucas.”

*!*!*!*!*!*

The day finally arrived. The day Lucas had been waiting for was finally here. Hometime. To where or whatever his home is supposed to be. But home has never been just a place to Lucas. It’s always been a feeling, a sense of belonging. This house, that was supposed to be his prison, has become more of a home in this short time than he has ever known in his entire life. The days spent with August felt like a new lease of life, their connection grew day by day. At night, Lucas slept like a baby, without a care in the world. In a toasty bed, and not on cardboard and newspaper. With a warm belly, and no starved rumbling. For the first time, he feels that sense of belonging he’s craved.

He’s never belonged anywhere, and neither has August, it seems.

The snow has melted, revealing a landscape that was both familiar and foreign. It looked so much like human territory but felt worlds apart. As they drove through the countryside, Lucas couldn't help but think about all he would leave behind. The vampire's old, dusty house had become his asylum, a place where he felt safe and protected. He had grown to trust August, to rely on him.

Lucas couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had been gnawing at him all morning. He knew his time with August was coming to an end, and the thought of leaving filled him with a sense of loss. He had grown to respect the vampire, more than he ever thought possible. He glances at August in the rearview mirror. His expression is unreadable, dormant. He’d been quiet all morning. He stares absentmindedly out the window, lost in thought. Lucas wonders if August feels the same way. They both live such lonely lives. A nobody with nobody. What if he stayed? Would that be so awful? 

They continue driving in silence, the only sound the gentle hum of the car’s engine. Lucas watches the road pass them by from the window, edging closer and closer to human territory. Lucas feels his stomach sink. Going ‘home’ shouldn’t feel like that. This isn’t right.

"Stop the car," Lucas blurts out.

"You want to get out here? We're still miles away yet!" August queries.

"No, I... I've been thinking," Lucas stammers. "How do you... feel about a new roommate? I guess I'd feel bad leaving you to your lonely, boring self with your dusty, old books."

Lucas silently scolds himself, using his humour as a shield. He lets the mask slip, and his lip wobbles with impending tears.

"I - I have nothing back in human territory. You plucked me from the streets, my cardboard bed, my only possession was a paper cup with a few coins... I'll do anything. Odds are another vampire will find me again in no time and I - I doubt I'll be as lucky to get another one as kind as you - it'd be like lightning striking the same spot twice."

"If you truly wish to stay, you're more than welcome..." August began, his voice soft. "The guest bedroom is yours for the taking, stay as long as you need or want. Please do not stay on my account, or out of fear of me. You truly are free to go."

Lucas hesitates, a thousand what if’s fill his mind. This is quite possibly the most idiotic choice he’s ever made, but it just feels right in his gut. It’s the path he’s meant to take.  "I - god this is so stupid, I barely fucking know you but... I think I trust you. If this kindness is all an act or a game then hey, props to you for keeping it up this long, you deserve to feed off me."

August can't help but smile, a gentle expression that warmed Lucas's heart. "Only if you're absolutely, positively sure. You can change your mind at any time. But...I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."

Lucas takes a deep breath. He rests his head against the window.  "Turn the car around. Let's go home."

---

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@tobiaslut

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

It's BuckTommy Fluffebruary Day Twenty-Four (already??): Breakfast in Bed (another alternate). It's also, in the timeline of these fics, Tommy's birthday. Aw. For reference: it's mid-November 2026. I can't imagine what horrors await us as a society by then, but at least Buck got to make his husband an omelette. Can also be read on AO3 over here. Tagging @bucktommyfluffebruary

Buck isn't great at getting up early, because he's not great at going to sleep in a regimented way. His husband, who was raised by a military father and then joined the military and then became a firefighter, is like a superhuman. If their superpower involved having a great internal clock. His husband also doesn't stay up late reading, so that might have something to do with it. He also wakes up if even the quietest alarm goes off.

So he has to plan the surprise he has in store for Tommy. It involves him getting off a shift at 6 AM, hauling his ass home, and making breakfast before Tommy can wake up at 7 AM—his “sleeping in” time. Part of that does involve making croissants at the firehouse, which causes everyone to have a sort of thousand-yard stare when they come through the kitchen.

Chimney had helpfully reminded him of the six different flavors of croissant he'd baked in one day when he and Tommy were broken up in which no one had been able to get near the kitchen without having a morose Buck trap them with extended Tommy-related woes. In Buck’s defense, that had been a particularly hard day for him because they were supposed to go to a winery in Santa Barbara together, and that was almost two years ago.

He gets home with basically no traffic and hits every green light, and he has to restrain himself from celebrating when he pulls up to their house. He doesn't want to jinx it.

When he goes inside, he has to unlock the door—a good sign, unless Tommy had gotten up to go for a run—and disarm the alarm—an even better sign, because he never remembered to arm it before going for a run. The house doesn't smell like coffee, he can't hear any water running, and it's so quiet that Buck feels like he's making too much noise when he takes his boots off and leaves them by the door.

He creeps back toward the kitchen and starts pulling out bowls, pans, eggs, vegetables, cheese, potatoes, and milk. Normally, he'll listen to something when he makes breakfast, but he wants to be able to hear if Tommy's awake.

While he waits for the shredded potatoes to fry into hash browns—at which state do they become hash browns and stop just being shredded potatoes?—he thinks he hears something. He tiptoes toward the front of the house and realizes he'd just heard the neighbors leaving for the day.

The omelettes come out perfectly, the hash browns are golden and crispy, and the croissants are reheated in the oven just long enough to be warm without cooking any further. He's pouring the coffee, adding milk and the tiniest bit of brown sugar, and then he hears it.

The goddamn toilet flushes.

He is going to kill him. Evan Buckley-Kinard will be a widower at the tragically young age of thirty-five years old, because he's going to kill his husband.

He walks to the bedroom just as Tommy is about to cross the threshold, and he cuts off his husband's sleepy smile with a hand to his chest.

“Get back in bed,” Buck says firmly, and Tommy’s brows raise in a surprised and then sexy way, which is not what he needs right now. “Nope, get back in bed. You're awake five minutes early.”

Tommy raises his hands in surrender and then backs up toward their bed, climbing back in and folding his hands over his stomach.

Buck goes back to the kitchen and gets everything on the tray, carefully balancing it on his forearm and hand. The coffee gets held in his other hand, because he's not about to unbalance a tray that includes a mug of hot coffee onto his husband.

When he gets to their bedroom, Tommy’s staring at the ceiling.

“Am I allowed to talk or should I be fake snoring right now?” he asks, looking to Buck and then at the tray. There's even a tiny vase with a rose from the front yard. His entire expression melts into a soft, sweet smile. “Baby.”

“I have never been able to do breakfast in bed for you,” Buck says, setting the coffee on Tommy's nightstand. “Because you always wake up while I'm cooking or you get up before me. This was my one chance.”

“We're going to be together for the rest of our lives,” Tommy points out, shimmying up so he's sitting against the headboard. “You'll probably have more chances.”

“Well, you only turn forty-two once,” Buck says, setting the tray on his thighs and bending to kiss his temple. “So happy birthday, babe.”

Tommy huffs out a laugh and looks so charmed and shy about the entire thing that Buck wants to do something obnoxious like fist-pump. He settles for kissing his upturned face.

“Let me get my breakfast,” he says, backing toward the door. “Do you need anything?”

“A fork,” Tommy says after surveying the tray.

“Dammit,” Buck sighs. “I knew I forgot something.”

He grabs his own tray and coffee, two forks, and an extra croissant. When he gets back to their room, he carefully climbs in next to Tommy and holds out the fork. His husband is eating a bit of hash browns with his fingers already and takes the utensil with a guilty smile.

“Did you sleep at all?” Tommy asks.

“Few hours,” Buck replies, cuddling up against him until they're pressed together from shoulder to hip bone. “I'll take a nap after your surprise.”

“Is taking me to the Academy Museum a surprise?” Tommy asks around a mouthful of omelette.

Buck is going to kill Chimney. “He told you?”

“She did,” Tommy corrects. “Jee remembers, like, everything she hears.”

He groans. He can't kill his niece, she's the best person in the world, even if she has a huge mouth. “Okay, yeah. So that. But also—”

“That was all she said,” Tommy says before Buck can spoil any further surprises. “So the rest gets to be a surprise.”

“Good,” Buck says, leaning over to kiss him. “But I have your overnight bag packed, so add whatever else you'll need to that.”

Tommy squints at him suspiciously as he piles omelette and hash browns onto the croissant that he's split down the middle. “Do I get to look at what else is in the bag?”

He considers the question. “No. Just put toiletries in the side pocket. I took care of the clothes. We'll go after the museums.”

“Museums?”

Buck shoves half a croissant in his mouth so he won't say anything else stupid.

“Would it be easier if I flew us to wherever we're going?” Tommy asks nonchalantly, like he's not trying to figure it out. He's awful at surprises, because he figures them out immediately.

“Nope,” Buck says once he's swallowed enough of the croissant that he can speak clearly. “Also, yes, I did tell Eddie you won't be at basketball, so don't try getting it out of him.”

Tommy smiles and sets the tray on the ground before grabbing Buck’s to do the same.

“I wasn't done,” Buck protests half-heartedly.

“We'll get back to it,” Tommy murmurs, crawling on top of him and leaning in for a kiss. “Have I shown you lately how much I appreciate you?”

Buck tries to play it cool, but Tommy is only wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top, and he's looking at Buck like he wants to devour him.

“You show me all the time,” he says, soft and serious, because Tommy does and he wants him to know that Buck knows that. “But if you want to show me again—”

Tommy ducks back in for a kiss, pulling Buck’s shirt up and then off before doing the same to his own. Soon enough, they're both naked and Tommy is rolling Buck onto his belly. He kisses down Buck’s spine to his tailbone, and Buck arches his ass up, spreading his knees, already panting at the promise of what's coming. When he feels a kiss to the swell of his ass, he also feels Tommy's lips twist into a smile and braces himself, because he knows what's coming.

“Does this count as breakfast in bed?” Tommy teases, and Buck flings the pillow back to hit him on the shoulder.