#he knows the balance of power has shifted away from him

[modernwizard]

Why I love the Spymaster #98: "Call me by my name!"

Find my full series under the HELP I WUVS HIM tag.

#98: "Call me by my name!"

Check out this moment in Spyfall II, where the Spymaster, having just killed two people with his incredible shrinking device and thus intimidated an entire auditorium of people at a science fair, makes the Doctor kneel and call him by his name.

The Spymaster's eye contact -- or lack thereof here -- is fascinating. For his first two requests, the Spymaster glances in the Doctor's general direction, but also flicks his eyes to the side. His face remains still, largely devoid of expression. He seems distracted or disconnected. It takes him until request #3 to stick the eye contact, along with a sarcastic wince. Not until response #3 does he seem to have an emotional response to his name: a response of apparent distress, with unhappy eyebrows and a hand pressed over the mouth. Of course, he's just smirking underneath.

This little clip supports my interpretation that the Spymaster feels his sense of control, thus his Masterfulness, his very self, disintegrating--hence the somewhat vacant stare and blank expression in the beginning. That's why he's so fixated on his past greatness [#81] and why he's so obsessed with the "classics," particularly his TCE [#75]. We know that he's in love with his own stupid name [#37]. He's also always on a search for the right word [#57]. And he thinks in repetitions because he's always replaying the past to himself, evaluating his performances [#18 and #54]. It thus makes perfect sense that he thinks that his favorite enemy repeating to him his favorite word might bring him back to himself. He's also, of course, hearkening back to Simm Master's demand to Ten in Utopia: "Say my name."

Do you think that he says, "Can't hear you," because it's so loud in his head, full of conflicting dialogues and self-doubt, that he can barely hear himself think? Is that sarcastic wince a sneer at the Doctor AND a moment of contempt for himself because he feels like a failure? Do those distressed eyebrows indicate any frustration that his elaborately staged performance isn't working for him?

@natalunasans @rowanthestrange @timeladyjamie @whovianuncle @sclfmastery

[smileysuh]

real talk

🌙 starring. Mark Lee x afab!Reader

🔮 preview.“You’re Jeno’s roommate, Jeno’s my friend- I know we’ve just met, but I know things about you.” Hyuck explains. “When you were with your last girl, Jeno used to come to the bar and bitch about you never coming out- he’s been wanting you to meet the rest of the boys for a while, but never wanted to invite us over cuz your last girlfriend had some supernatural cootchie-grip hold on you or something- point is, I know you’re a serial monogamist. Two long-term girlfriends. You like the domestic shit, and I get that- but if you want domestic, it’s not our little Miss Sunshine expo girl. She can’t even sleep next to guys she’s fucked- wakes up at five am, and dips out without a word. Trust me on this, dude, you wanna stay far away from that man-eater.”

tw/cw. Unprotected sex, multiple sex scenes, reader has a hard time cumming, oral (f/m receiving), Mark is a MUNCH, deep throating, fingering, masturbation, use of toys/vibrator, dirty talk, praise, Mark is a simp, sex realism, overthinking during sex, mentions of sexual favours in return for affection, a string of bad ex-lovers, breast worship, creampies, aftercare, finger sucking, drunkenness, etc… I pet names: (hers) sunshine. (his) puppy boy.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 19.4k

🍭 aus. Restaurant au, line chef!Mark, slow burn, coworkers to lovers, fuck girl who looks like sunshine meets a serial monogamist who looks like a fuckboy, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. I wanted to touch on some realism to kick off the year. Not everything is as easy during sex as it appears in fanfic/p*rn, so I wanted to make something that might be more true to the real experience of afabs who overthink and need extra help to cum- I hope maybe this fic can normalize girls who need some extra machine power to get off ;)

One:

Mark has only been working at his new restaurant for two weeks, but he’s already fallen in love with the place. Morning shifts have been good for him.  With the help of his favorite expo girl - who always takes the time to explain small details and things he’s been messing up on - he’s already gotten used to the menu. Every day feels better and better.

“This tuna is looking so good, Mark,” you grin, inspecting the plate. 

When he’d first been hired, the fish he’d cut had come out mangled, but after talking him through it, you’d both realized it had been a knife issue. Sharpening his blade had led to Mark perfecting his slices, and now, he eagerly awaits your praises when he puts his food up in the expo window. 

Mark’s eyes follow you as you dart off toward the bar, the plate of tuna balanced perfectly in your hand. The new chef can’t help the smile that works its way onto his lips, and he leans forward, hand flat on the cutting board station in front of him.

“This tuna is looking so good, Mark,” Hyuck’s annoying voice snaps him out of his trance, and Mark turns to look at the man next to him. “God, can you two make it any more obvious that you’re into each other?”

“She’s just doing her job,” Mark assures the other line chef, but he can feel his skin heating at the idea.

“Sure she is. But she doesn’t compliment my cooking as much as she does yours.” Hyuck crosses his arms over his chest, letting out a sigh as his gaze shifts to the view through the expo line. You’re at the bar now, chatting with the man who you’ve just served. However, you’re taking longer than normal, and you’re smiling a lot too.

“No fucking way,” Hyuck breathes, leaning forward and narrowing his eyes. “That guy is hitting on her.”

“Is he?” Mark also dips his head toward the expo window, eager for a look.

“Yeah, mans just slipped her his number,” Hyuck laughs. “That’s our little Sunshine though, isn’t it? This restaurant is her playground.”

“What do you mean?” Mark asks.

“Just that she’s quite popular,” Hyuck brushes it off as you approach the expo line again. “Did you get a number, sweet thing?”

“Why, you jealous?” You grin, holding up the slip of paper with digits on it. 

“You wish,” Hyuck scoffs, but Mark gets the feeling there’s something else going on between the two of you, something unspoken. He’s still getting used to the dynamic of the restaurant, and in work spaces like this, relationships aren’t uncommon. He wonders what history you have with Hyuck, wonders what chance he has with you- wonders if it’s even a good idea.

Two

“Luna never runs her own food,” Sumi notes, standing with you by the entrance to the restaurant while you watch the tall waitress lean against the expo window. “I know that our new chef is cute, but, damn.”

“She can do what she wants,” you laugh, wiping down menus. “Makes my job easier.”

“You know, it’s kind of felt like you and Mark have some sort of understanding,” Sumi grins, moving close enough that your hips touch by the host station. “He watches you a lot.”

“Does he?” Your gaze moves back to the expo line.

“Uh huh, almost as much as Hyuck does- which, by the way, you sure did a number on him.”

“Hyuck will get over it, he’s a fuck boy,” you wave your hand. “I’m great at attracting that kind of guy.”

“Do you get fuck boy vibes from Mark?” Sumi wonders, tapping her pen against the top of her Ipad thoughtfully.

“He’s definitely cute enough to be a womanizer, don’t you think?”

“Key word being cute,” Sumi points out. “I don’t know, he doesn't give me fuck boy vibes like the other line chefs do.”

“Well, he’s roommates with Jeno, isn’t he?” Your eyes move to the bar. Jeno’s a night bartender, but his close friend, Renjun is working today. “Jeno’s a fuck boy, he got Hyuck and Jaemin jobs here. They’re both fuck boys. It would make sense if Mark was that kind of guy too.”

“I’m still not convinced,” Sumi states, crossing an arm over her chest. “Speaking of men though- whatever happened to that guy who gave you his number the other day? Are you actually considering a date with him?”

“I already had a date with him,” you admit. 

“Yikes, from the way you haven’t mentioned it at all, I’d guess it didn’t go so well?”

“Meh,” you shrug your shoulders. “He won’t be getting a second date.”

“How many first dates have you been on this year?” Sumi asks. “Didn’t you say it was like… a lot?”

“Too many to count,” you giggle. 

“So what’s the deal with that? Like- what’s your type? I know you were seeing Hyuck for a little while, how come that didn’t work?”

“It just didn’t,” you say, looking down at the menus you’ve wiped clean. “I try not to think about my failures too much.”

“Really? But you could learn so much from them,” Sumi frowns. “I mean- look at me and Doyoung. I was never into the more serious types, always went for fuck boys and younger guys- but after some soul searching, I realized I needed someone older who had their shit together.”

“You also have a thing for guys in powerful positions, and Doyoung is literally one of our managers,” you point out.

“Well, I’m still a work in progress,” Sumi winks. “Anyways- think about it. If you look at your dating patterns, you might be surprised by what you find.”

Three

There’s nothing like the air outside after being in a hot kitchen for a few hours. The lunch rush is finally over, and after having a 20 top that ordered an insane amount of food with an even crazier amount of modifications and allergies, Mark is ready to take a massive puff from his vape pen.

He stands by the back exit to the restaurant, looking out at the cars on the street as he takes a long drag. As he inhales, the door behind Mark opens, and he turns to come face-to-face with you.

The shock of seeing you makes him choke a little, and he begins to cough out a large puff of smoke. Mark’s lungs burn, and his skin feels even hotter, enflamed by the embarrassment of you seeing him take a crappy hit when in reality, he’s a vaping veteran. 

“You good?” you ask, reaching out and gently rubbing his back as you step past him.

“Yeah, I, uh-” Mark’s entire body tingles at the physical contact. “Sorry, you just surprised me.”

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” you grin, stopping in front of him. He notices the way your eyes go to his vape pen, and he immediately holds it out to you.

“Want some?”

“I mean, if you’re offering.” You reach out and accept the sleek black vape. “What’s the flavor?”

“Uh… cotton candy?” God, Mark feels like a fool, especially when you raise a brow at him. “I have a bit of a sweet tooth.”

“Didn’t peg you as a sweet tooth type,” you grin, bringing the refillable device to your lips. Mark watches you take a drag, focusing on your mouth and the way you look sucking on something- he starts to imagine what you’d look like sucking on something else, something substantially bigger. 

As you exhale, you cough a little, and Mark wonders if you’re doing that to make him feel better about his screw-up a moment ago- or maybe you simply don’t vape often, he’s not too sure. 

“Thanks,” you say, still coughing as you hand the vape back to Mark. Your fingers brush gently as he accepts it from you, and as Mark brings the device to his mouth, he’s extremely aware of the fact that your lips had just been where his now are. 

He wonders if it means anything that you’d be so willing to swap spit like this, even on something as innocent as a vape pen. 

“How long are you here till?” you ask, breaking him from his daze. 

“Started at seven am, eight-hour shift, should be off around three when the night cross-over guys come in,” Mark explains. 

“Any fun plans for tonight?” you continue to press. “It is a Friday after all.”

“No plans, will probably just go home, make some food, and watch Netflix all night… what about you?”

You sigh. “No hot dates, unfortunately. Will probably do the same as you. Do you have any good show recommendations? I’ve been looking for something new.”

“I mean, it depends, what are you into?” Mark asks, eager to hear more about your tastes, your likes and dislikes- he knows so little about you, mostly things related to work. He’s curious about what you do in your downtime, and he’s grateful he has an opportunity like this to get to know you even a little bit better.

As you part your lips to respond, the back door swings open, and Hyuck steps out, already mid-puff of his neon orange vape. 

“Oh,” the line chef grins, exhaling through his nose and flashing a grin, “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” you respond quickly, and Mark notes the shift in your energy, “I was just leaving actually.”

“See you later,” Mark offers, watching you hurry off. 

“Classic her,” Hyuck sighs, coming to stand next to Mark.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s a runner, that one,” Hyuck takes another puff from his vape.

“So you two definitely used to date,” Mark states. The interaction he’s just witnessed verifies his suspicion, and since they’re technically outside of work/the kitchen, Mark feels able to actually discuss this now.

“I don’t know if I’d call it dating,” Hyuck cocks his head to the side, eyes still fixed on you where you’re crossing the street a couple hundred feet away. “Look, do you want real talk? You wanna know about your favorite expo girl?”

“Yeah, I wanna know.” Mark lifts his vape to his lips, readying himself for whatever is about to come out of Hyuck’s mouth.

“I know she looks like sugar and sunshine, but I hate to burst your bubble Mark- she’s a bit of a fuck girl, that one.” 

“It takes one to know one,” Mark points out.

“Touche, but to be fair, I never claimed to be anything other than a guy who likes pussy, and little miss sunshine knew that when we started hooking up a few months ago.” Hyuck lets out another large puff of smoke into the air. “Look, I said I’d give you real talk so here it is. She’s got a lot of expectations. Girl reads those horny romance books-”

“Erotica.”

“Yeah, that’s it, erotica.” Hyuck nods to himself. “Well, she reads erotica, and her ideas about fucking are kind of hard to make real. She’s too in her head all of the time. Apparently - and don’t repeat this anywhere - but apparently no guy she’s fucked has ever made her actually cum. She has this thing where someone told her that if a guy doesn’t make you cum, he doesn’t add to your body count, so allegedly her body count is zero and she’s a virgin, but we both know it’s a lot higher than that.” 

“The whole body count thing doesn’t phase me,” Mark says quietly, although the wheels in his head are spinning.

“Sure it doesn’t,” Hyuck scoffs. “Just listen, if you’re into her, it’s not going to work out. She’s not for beginners like you.”

“Beginners like me?” Mark side eyes the line chef.

“You’re Jeno’s roommate, Jeno’s my friend- I know we’ve just met, but I know things about you.” Hyuck explains. “When you were with your last girl, Jeno used to come to the bar and bitch about you never coming out- he’s been wanting you to meet the rest of the boys for a while, but never wanted to invite us over cuz your last girlfriend had some supernatural cootchie-grip hold on you or something- point is, I know you’re a serial monogamist. Two long-term girlfriends. You like the domestic shit, and I get that- but if you want domestic, it’s not our little Miss Sunshine expo girl. She can’t even sleep next to guys she’s fucked- wakes up at five am, and dips out without a word. Trust me on this, dude, you wanna stay far away from that man-eater.”

Four

“Mark?” you ask, looking at the takeout bowl in front of you.

“Yeah?” he leans forward, lips parting as he waits for your judgment.

“Didn’t they order the spicy yogurt on the side?” You push the rice bowl forward, pointing at the lines of orange tinted cream that cover the veggies. 

“Shit,” Mark cusses, grabbing the chit-paper receipt and scanning it. “There were like, three other modifications, I didn’t even see the yogurt on the side.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him. “It’s takeout, and there’s pretty much no one in the restaurant, so you have time to make another… besides, I’ll just take this one as my lunch.”

One of the perks of the job is getting to take home the food that’s not correct. You’d been dreading going to the grocery store, your fridge empty of easy meals, but now you don’t have to make the trek, and you’re more than happy about it.

“You know, Mark, you’re my favorite new chef.” He’s also the only new chef, and you’ve been reaping the rewards of minor fuck ups the past two weeks. 

Mark, however, doesn’t seem to note your teasing, and he offers you a genuine smile. “You’re my favorite expo girl.”

“Yeah?” you grin. “And why’s that?”

“You’re really nice about things I mess up,” Mark’s eyes shift to the dragon bowl you’re packing up. “Like, you point things out, and you turn them good. As you said, it’s an easy fix, I have the time, and now you get to eat that.” 

“It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement, that’s for sure,” you laugh. 

“You’re also pretty happy most days, always makes me happy to come in and see our Little Miss Sunshine.” 

“Jeeze, not you calling me that pet-name too,” you roll your eyes. Hyuck had taken to calling you that a few months ago, and somehow the title had stuck. Mark was the only chef using your real name, but it looks like those days might already be behind you.

“It fits,” Mark assures you. “I think it’s cute.”

“Does it fit because I’m cute?” 

You notice the way Mark immediately swallows thickly, his skin turning a pretty shade of pink. “Uh- I mean, yeah,” his voice cracks, and he fiddles with his sleeves, pushing them up to his elbows, “you’re cute-”

“Oh my God-” you stare at his forearms, which are usually covered by his chef coat. “Have you always had all those tattoos?!”

“Did you really never notice these?” Mark looks down at his arms, lifting them so you can see the details.

“I have never noticed them,” you confirm, leaning forward. “Damn, how many tattoos do you have?!”

“A lot?” Mark’s tattoos are patchwork style, all black. They litter his forearms, and you wonder how high up the markings go- you wonder if his chest is covered, or his back- what about his legs?

“I need a tattoo tour,” you insist.

“I mean… I can’t show you all of them-” Mark says sheepishly. 

“Start with that one,” you point at a tattoo of three letters near his inner elbow, “What’s SSG mean?”

“So uh- the first restaurant I worked in, a few of us dishwashers worked our way into the kitchen with no formal training or anything- just started at the bottom, and went up from there. One of us came up with the idea of being the Soapy Suds Gang, like- dishwashers to chefs. Was at that restaurant from the age of fifteen to twenty, and when it closed down cuz the owners just didn’t wanna be in the business anymore, me and all the others got the matching SSG tattoo.”

Mark is adorable. Like, shockingly so. It’s such a stupid yet endearing story- and for some reason, it feels so on-brand for Mark. 

He begins to tell you about a few other tattoos. There’s a shotgun to commemorate his years playing Call of Duty online with friends. A cartoon puppy because apparently his mom never let him get a dog - something about him not being able to handle it if the dog ever died - so when he turned eighteen, he got a dog that could never bite the bullet, etched into his skin with black ink. 

All the marks have meaning, stories that make up the groundwork of Mark’s life. 

“What about that one?” you ask, noting a King of Hearts tattoo that he’d skipped over.

“Oh, uh…” Mark rubs the back of his neck shyly. “My ex-girlfriend wanted a Queen of Hearts tattoo, so I got this one, and… I mean, I don’t regret it, I was with the girl for three years- but, it’s not a tattoo I talk about too often.”

“Three years?” you ask in shock. “You were with your last girlfriend for three years?”

“Why do you sound so shocked?”

“It’s just- I mean,” you lick your lips, leaning in so Mark’s the only one who can hear you, “I hate to say it, Mark, but you look like a total fuck boy.”

“I’m really not,” Mark admits. 

“Even before your last ex?”

“Even before,” the line chef confirms. “I’ve got two ex-girlfriends. The last one ended about a year ago, dated her from age twenty-two to twenty-five. Had a girlfriend from when I was sixteen to twenty-one-”

“So a three-year relationship and a five-year relationship?” 

This gossip keeps getting juicier and juicier. 

“Yeah. The first one moved to another country to teach English, and I’ve never been that into long distance. We tried to make it work, but we agreed the best thing was to let each other go. Then the last girl decided she wanted more from life than some line chef so…” Mark trails off and you feel your heart hurt for him. “Anyways, what about you? How many relationships have you had?”

“A lot more than you,” you answer quickly, although, that’s only if you count one-night stands, flings, and situationships, but you won’t go into those details with Mark right now. “I mean… are you looking for anything right now?”

“What do you mean?” Mark cocks his head to the side.

“You didn’t hear it from me, but… a few of the waitresses are into you,” you whisper.

“Really?” he looks past you at the restaurant, and you see him trail Luna with his eyes. “That’s nice and everything, but waitresses really aren’t my type.”

“Then what’s your type?”

“Expo girls.” 

His words hit you in your chest, and you can feel your pulse quicken immediately.

“I mean-” Mark’s skin has returned to that pretty pink colour. “My first girlfriend- the five-year one, she was the expo girl when I met her- we got close cuz we spent so much time together. I didn’t mean you- I wasn’t trying to hit on you or anything- not that I don’t think you’re cute, cuz you’re definitely cute- fuck.”

You watch him, smiling and completely amused. It appears you’d read the new line chef all wrong. He’s not a fuck boy, he’s a lover boy, and you kind of adore that about him.

“I should uh- I need to remake this dragon bowl-” Mark turns away from you, and you watch him scurry off to the fridge to grab vegetables. 

You’re kind of hoping to tease him so more when he returns, but before he does, Doyoung appears from the back, and he waves you over. “It’s been dead for half an hour,” your manager notes, “you’re cut. Head home, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Five

Mark hasn’t been able to stop thinking about your conversation. All night, he’d had you on his mind- and he’d kind of been hoping to get to talk to you today, but you have the day shift and this is one of his first nights scheduled.

Even so, Mark arrives to work thirty minutes early just on the off chance he’ll catch you, and as he’s waiting outside the backdoor, hitting his vape, his hopes come true.

You step out of the back of the restaurant, looking down at your phone. The jacket you’re wearing today is vibrant in contrast to your all-black uniform, and the comfy sneakers you always put on after your shift in flats are beginning to look a little worn out now that winter is almost over. 

“Hi,” Mark says, drawing your attention.

“Oh,” you put your phone into your pocket, offering him a smile. “Hey- you just starting?”

“In ten minutes or so,” the line chef nods. “I uh- I wanted to apologize for yesterday.”

“Apologize for what?” You cock your head to the side. 

“All of it?” Mark suggests.

You laugh, and the sound does things to Mark that he’ll never be able to express. “Seriously, we’re all good,” you assure him. “I think you’re pretty cute too, so, don’t worry about any of it.”

Mark’s mouth feels dry, and it’s not just from the vaping. He fiddles with the device in his hand, working up the courage to say what’s on his mind. “I was wondering- I mean, it sounds like you’re still on the market and all- so I was thinking, maybe, if you’d like- maybe we can go out sometime, or something- but no pressure.”

Your smile widens, and you step closer to him. “What would going out with you look like?”

“Honestly…” Mark swallows thickly, “it would look more like staying in. Since we both work in a restaurant- or maybe it’s just a ‘me thing’, but I’m not super into drinks as a first date, or even food- I’m a bit of a homebody. I’d love for you to just come over, watch some netflix, talk- that sort of shit.”

You look him up and down, and Mark’s body tenses as he waits for your response.

“That actually sounds pretty nice,” you admit. “Here, give me your hand.”

Mark holds out his palm, watching you pull out a Sharpie from your pocket. You write your phone number across his skin. “Careful,” you say, as you draw the last digit, “Don’t wash this off or anything.”

“I won’t,” he assures you, already planning on taking a picture of it with his phone just in case. 

“I should get going, but yeah- text me when your shift is over and we can figure something out.” 

“You got it,” Mark grins, unable to hold in his excitement any longer. “Have a good night.”

“You too.” 

With one final exchange of eye contact that makes Mark’s heart lurch in his chest, you walk off, the line chef’s eyes following you all the way out of sight. 

As he turns to head inside, Mark bumps into Hyuck. “Don’t go in just yet,” Hyuck insists, “stay out here and vape with me for a minute.”

It’s hard for Mark to focus on anything Hyuck is saying about the afternoon rush, but he manages to nod and make sounds of affirmation while his coworker rants about some party of fifteen that walked in and only ordered appetizers. 

“Mark, you’re not paying attention,” Hyuck sighs.

“Sorry, I’m just kind of-” Mark swallows the lump in his throat, “yeah, I’m distracted.”

“Got a hot date?”

“What?” Mark looks up.

“Someone wrote their digits on your hand,” Hyuck grabs at Mark’s wrist, “let’s see-”

Mark tries his best to pull away, but Hyuck’s already assessing the phone number. After a moment, the younger man lets go, his mouth forming a firm line. “I warned you about her.”

Mark’s surprised that Hyuck - who has the memory of a goldfish most days - clearly recognizes your phone number. 

“I told you she’s not for beginners.” 

“Yeah, well, I don’t have to listen to you,” Mark insists. “And not everything is about fucking. She’s gonna come over, we’re gonna watch movies- nothing has to happen. I just want to know her better.”

“Lover boy,” Hyuck scoffs, “she’s going to eat you up, and spit you back out.”

“And if she does, then that’s my choice,” Mark says firmly. “I know she fucked you over or whatever, but that doesn’t mean anything to me, Hyuck. I’m sorry, but I really don’t care about what happened between the two of you.”

“Ouch, dude.”

“If she’s as bad as you say, then you can say you told me so when this is all over. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Six

“So this is Jeno’s famous fuck pad,” you tease, stepping into Mark’s apartment and looking around. 

“Uh, he doesn’t actually bring girls here that often,” Mark says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “He likes to go to their place, makes it easier to run than kicking a girl out the next morning, you know?”

“I suppose that makes sense,” you nod… you usually fuck guys in their homes for the same reason. “It’s a nice place.”

“Thanks, my ex had a lot to do with the decor and shit.” Now that Mark mentions it, the vibe definitely doesn’t scream ‘boy’, and it especially doesn't scream ‘home of a line chef and bartender.’ 

The cream-colored couch in the living room has pretty sage pillows, there’s a tasteful rug under a circular coffee table. On the table are three candles varying in size, as well as a design book that you’d bet has never been opened or looked at in detail by the men who live here.

It’s a comfortable home, but you wonder what it feels like for Mark to live in a space that constantly reminds him of an ex who ditched him for not having his own shit together.

“I didn’t realize Jeno was a tidy guy,” you note, thinking back to the line of dirty cups he always allows to build up in the bar dish area. 

“He’s not, but I am.” Mark enters the living room, and he takes a seat on the couch, kicking his legs up onto a small puff stool next to the coffee table. “I guess when you work on the line, you’re used to doing little clean-up jobs to keep everything smooth. I don’t mind moving two or three beer cans to the sink every day if it means there aren’t any piles building.” 

So he’s a sexy line chef, with tattoos, who likes long-term relationships, and also cleans up his home? Mark really is a catch amongst flounders.

“Are you going to come sit?” Mark asks, noting the way you stand at the edge of the room. “Or, shit, should I offer you a drink first? We’ve got beer, or I could make you a cocktail or something-”

“I’m good, just… getting used to this.” 

It feels kind of odd to be with Mark in a casual setting. You’ve only ever seen him in a professional manner, with an expo station between you both- now, Mark is right in front of you, and as you sit on the couch next to him, you’re hyper-aware of the way your thighs almost touch.

“So… Netflix?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Mark grabs the remote, the sleeve of his hoodie pushed up so you can see his forearms. 

“You still haven’t given me a full tattoo tour,” you tease, reaching out to gently trace the puppy etched against his skin.

“Maybe that’s a date number two sort of thing,” Mark suggests, tugging the fabric down to cover his skin.

Your grin widens. “Do I make you nervous, puppy boy?” 

“Definitely,” he lets out a shy laugh, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob with the effort of swallowing. “So uh… what do you wanna watch?”

You let out a sigh, relaxing back against the couch. “Surprise me.”

“Well, there’s this anime I’ve been wanting to get into-” Mark finds the show in his ‘to watch’ list.

“Let's do it.”

“Really? You’re down?”

“Uh huh, I’m not that picky,” you nod, offering him a smile.

“It can be…” he starts the first episode, “like- if you wanna keep doing this sort of thing, it could be our show.”

“That actually sounds nice,” you admit. You suppose it shouldn’t be a shock that Mark is thinking long term- you do work together after all, but when you’d been seeing Hyuck, every day was a question of longevity. Would he call? Would he not call?

Hyuck never talked in definitives. He never made promises. The only true thing you could count on was seeing him at work three of five days of the week when your schedules aligned, and he never locked himself in for any more than that. 

“Should I-” Mark licks his lips, “I mean, finding a show was way easier than I thought it would be. Do you want a drink? I’ve got chips?”

“I’m okay, but if you want something, you should grab it.”

“I’m good if you’re good,” Mark mutters, leaning back against the couch. Your shoulders are touching, and you’re already finding it difficult to focus on the tv screen as the anime begins to play.

You’re aware of each breath, each slight shift of Mark’s body. “Are you comfortable?” he asks after a short while.

“I mean, we could probably find a more comfortable position than this one,” you note. 

“Like… do you wanna cuddle?”

“If you want to, I’d be up for that.”

“Okay, one sec,” Mark turns, grabbing at the back cushion of the couch. He tosses it to the side. “I can big spoon you.”

In under a minute, Mark is settling behind you, pillows are adjusted, and a gentle hand finds your hip. You wiggle slightly, trying to get snug against the line chef’s chest. 

“Is this good?” he asks, his breath ghosting by your ear.

“It’s nice, but let me just…” you grab his hand, threading your fingers and bringing it up to your chest, so you’re truly wrapped in his embrace. You can feel his heart against your spine, and you can hear the way his breath catches. “That’s better,” you let out a sigh of relief. 

The anime is fun, but you’re much too focused on Mark. Something tells you he’s quite focused on you as well, and finally, your patience snaps. You roll onto your back, looking up at him.

“You good?” he prompts.

“Uh huh. Just thinking.”

“About?”

You shrug. “I guess maybe I’m just wondering what work is going to be like tomorrow.”

“Hopefully busy.”

You laugh at how innocent Mark can be. “I mean in terms of cuddling with you tonight, then working together in the morning.”

“I mean… how was it with Hyuck when you two were seeing each other?” 

Your heart clenches. “Oh… he uh… he told you about that, huh?”

“Mentioned it once or twice.”

“All good things, I hope?”

“For the most part,” Mark nods. “But just so you know- I don’t take everything Hyuck says seriously. You two had something going on, but every relationship is different. I’m sure you have your own side to the story. I know you’re a good person - that’s what my heart tells me at least - so that’s what I’m going off of.”

You stare up at the line chef. The man you’d pegged as a fuck boy, who is turning out to be the farthest thing from a womanizer that you’ve ever met.

You can’t help but reach up and cup his face. There aren’t words that come to mind, but you hope your expression shows your gratitude for his kindness.

Mark’s gaze dips to your mouth, and you watch the way he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing on his slightly. “So no pressure or anything,” he says, voice cracking, “but uh… can I kiss you?”

“You can kiss me,” you confirm, staying still and waiting for the precious man to make his move. Part of you is scared to take control- you’re worried about scaring Mark off, like you’d scare off a wild bird with one wrong muscle twitch. 

You’re still cupping his face, and Mark mirrors the act, gently cupping your cheek. He looks down at you, searching your eyes for a moment. You wonder if he’s looking for any hesitation, any sign that you regret your affirmative answer. Then he looks at your lips, and you can see some of the tension leave his body.

In fact, you see the exact moment Mark decides to give in to his desires. His lips part ever so slightly, his brown eyes shyly meeting your own as he begins to move in closer-

As his mouth presses to your own, you realize this might be the softest kiss a man has ever bestowed upon you. He’s not trying to shove his tongue down your throat- not biting at your lip and asking for entrance. It’s a simple brush of lips on lips, and it leaves you wanting more.

Your hand finds the back of his neck, and you drag him closer, letting out a small mewl. You capture his bottom lip between your own, suckling on it gently-

Mark pulls away, and your eyes open. You’re disappointed, but when you notice Mark breathing heavily, your annoyance dissipates.

“Was that okay?” you ask, worrying that maybe you’d been going too fast for the soft man.

“Yeah- better than okay,” he assures you. 

“Can we… can you kiss me again?”

“Uh huh,” he nods, leaning back down to press his lips against your own. His hand finds your hip, and you play with the hair at the nape of his neck. The kiss is just as gentle as the first, but the passion begins to burn brighter with each passing second.

No one has ever kissed you like this.

You can’t explain it- but in a matter of moments, your attraction to Mark has grown tenfold. 

When he breaks away from you for a second time, you’re both breathing heavily. You open your eyes to stare up at the pretty line chef, watching him swallow thickly.

 “Should we uh… should we keep paying attention to the show?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say after a moment’s hesitation. “Yeah, we should.” You roll onto your side again, and Mark settles against your back. He tucks you closer, his fingers threading through yours. 

It’s impossible to focus now, and you begin to wiggle slightly, pressing your ass back against the front of his jeans.

“Are you uncomfortable?” Mark asks, letting go of your hand to grab your hip, steadying you.

“I’m fine- I’m just…” - unbelievably horny - “you’re a good kisser.”

He lets out a small laugh. “Thanks. I liked kissing you too.”

“So…” you look over your shoulder at him, “wanna kiss me again?”

Mark grins, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to your lips.

As with the first two times, Mark pulls away much too fast for your liking.

Your head is spinning. You’ve never experienced a situation like this. Mark is being respectful- he’s keeping his hands in PG locations, and the kisses have involved zero tongue- does he not like you as much as you like him?

How much do you like this line chef?

Do you like him because he’s not completely fawning over you like you’re used to?

What is going on?!

“I just want you to know,” Mark says, “it sounds like you’re used to fuck boys and shit, and I uh- well, I’m not like them. There’s no pressure to get naked or anything today-” his voice hitches, “in fact, Jeno will be home soonish so it’s better if we don’t-”

“You don’t want to fuck me?”

Mark tenses behind you. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“If we move to your room, Jeno won’t walk in on us.”

“It’s not about that,” Mark assures you. “Look, I want to take my time with you. This is our first date. I want things to feel right. I want to do this right. Can you understand that?”

You think maybe you’re too horny to want to understand it. 

You want to tear Mark’s clothes off. You want to push him down and ride him until he’s gasping your name and filling you with his cum. You want to feel him still dripping out of you when you go into work tomorrow morning- 

No one has ever made you wait. You’re much too impatient for playing around- and your past lovers have been the same way. 

Even so, you respect the boundary Mark has just expressed. “No fucking tonight,” you agree, “I get that. It’s for the better.”

However, it’s not for the better of your throbbing pussy. 

Seven

God, Mark can’t take his eyes off of you. It’s been two hours since you arrived on shift, and Mark has been distracted for all of it.

You look adorable today. Your black outfit hugs your body just right, and Mark’s mind is consistently wandering to last night, when his hands had traced your hips before lacing your fingers-

When you speak, he finds his focus shifting to your lips- those pretty lips he’d kissed. The lips that had left him wanting more- the lips he’d thought about for hours after you’d gone home. He’d dreamt of kissing you, but it had fallen quite short to the real thing.

You’d sounded hurt when Mark had said you shouldn’t fuck last night, and part of Mark regrets drawing the line in the sand. But on the other hand, Mark had meant it when he said it wasn’t the right time. 

He doesn’t want to bed you after watching a few episodes of anime. You deserve so much more than that. 

Besides, if he had fucked you last night, Mark might have needed to take a sick day just to calm down. Even now, knowing he’s tasted your lips has his skin heating every time he looks at you. 

God, you’ve got him practically bewitched.

As the lunch rush comes to an end, Mark finds time to go outside and vape. He watches the cars pass while he puffs on his device, closing his eyes and imagining your lips.

As his little break is coming to an end, the door hinges squeak behind him, and Mark turns to find you standing there. 

“Oh, hi,” you grin. 

“Hey.” He looks you up and down. “You leaving?”

“Doyoung cut me again, it’s been slow this week,” you nod. 

Mark swallows thickly. He can’t help the way his gaze dips to your lips again.

You step forward, smiling. “You wanna kiss me again, don’t cha, Mark?”

He doesn’t even bother responding. He slips his vape into his pocket, grabbing your hips to tug you closer. As he brings his mouth down to yours, he pauses for a second, meeting your gaze. If you want to pull away, he gives you ample time, but instead, you wrap your arms around the back of his neck, closing the distance between your lips.

You take more control today than last night. You lick at his lower lip, not doing too much tongue, but providing just enough that it has Mark’s skin tingling with need. His fingers dig against your hips, pulling you tighter. 

The kiss deepens, and Mark’s entire heart lurches in his chest when you let out a pleased mewling sound.

Fuck, he loves your sounds already- you sound so fucking pretty-

“Jesus.” Head Chef John’s voice makes Mark practically jump, and he tears his lips away from your own, eyes immediately finding his boss, who’s standing by the exit door. “Damn, newbie, you work fast, don’t you?”

Mark’s skin feels like it’s on fire, and he’s quick to let go of your hips, stepping away and running an awkward hand through his hair, “Chef-”

“Don’t tease him, Johnny,” you sigh. “You nearly gave Mark a heart attack sneaking up on us like that.”

“I’m shocked neither of you heard the door.”

“We were busy!” you insist, raising your voice in jest at the head chef.

Mark is shocked at the way you talk so easily with his boss. But he supposes you’ve been at the restaurant for over a year- maybe you’re closer with the tall head chef than Mark realized.

“Look, I’ll say what I said when Hyuck was trying to get with you, sunshine,” Johnny grins, reaching into his pocket to pull out a jacked-up vape pen. “As long as you use protection we’re good, I can’t have my line chefs becoming fathers and taking time off.”

“And I’ll say what I said last time you told me to wrap it: never gonna happen.” 

“IUD’s aren’t a hundred percent viable,” Johnny points out, making Mark nearly choke on air.

“Mine has been so far, so stick it old man.” You turn to Mark, “Don’t mind him, he’s protective.”

“I was protective with Hyuck, because he’s a douchebag, but Mark seems okay,” Johnny laughs. 

“Thanks?” Mark can’t believe what he’s hearing. 

“Listen, I’ll text you okay?” You grab the front of Mark’s apron, pulling him in so you can press a chaste kiss to his cheek. “Have a good rest of your shift.”

Mark watches you dart off. He’s tongue-tied, skin still flaring, heart racing in his chest.

“She’s a good one,” Johnny muses. “Best expo girl we have. Don’t fuck it up, Mark, I’ll fire you before we get rid of her.”

“Trust me,” Mark coughs, “I wasn’t planning on fucking things up any time soon.”

Eight

In the year you’ve had your solo apartment, you’ve not had any guys over. Your MO is to go to the man’s place so you can dip out whenever you get anxious or tired. Inviting a man over to your safe space woman sanctuary is new. The nervousness is manifesting physically; you’re fussing over the overswept floor and the frill on your couch blanket when Mark texts you that he’s arrived. 

With one final breath, you head down to the lobby to let Mark in.

He’s in blue jeans and a black hoodie that sets off the blonde tone of his hair. You’ve been meaning to ask him about who does his bleach out, but you know men can be touchy about their physical appearance and certain body modifications, so you’ve been holding yourself back.

He looks good. That’s all that really matters. 

“Hey,” Mark grins as you open the door, pulling you into a hug. 

“Hey, yourself,” you smile back, pulling away from the embrace to lead Mark to the elevator. You can hear the line chef following you, and you suddenly feel self-conscious about your building. 

“It’s a nice place,” Mark notes, as if he can read your mind. “New build?”

“I think it’s been here like three or four years? I moved in last winter.”

“Right,” he nods, coming to a stop next to you as you hit the button to call the elevator. 

You can feel him staring at you, and it’s making you even more nervous. “What?” you ask, letting out a short laugh.

“Nothing, you just uh… you look cute.” 

“I’m literally in PJ’s.” Your gaze dips to your simple fuzzy purple shorts, and the tank top you’re wearing.

“But they’re nice. I’ve only ever seen you in work outfits, and when you came over last time you were in jeans. You look cute dressed down like this.”

You’d been worried about being so casual with Mark- dressing for comfort instead of the need to impress, but it seems you’ve succeeded in both comfortability and making a good impression. 

“Thank you,” you smile, your insides practically glowing from the compliment. No other man has seen you this way and called you cute- it’s one of the reasons you usually dip out from a man after sex. There’s no comfort or getting comfortable- your other relationships have always been rigid, a push pull and need to be perfect at all times in order to be deserving of attention.

You make it up to your floor, and another wave of anxiety washes over you as you let Mark into your small apartment. “It’s not much,” you sigh, “but it’s home.”

Mark slips off his sneakers by your door, looking around. “No, I like it,” he assures you. “No roommates kicking around- I bet living alone is pretty relaxing.”

“It can be, but it’s also lonely at times,” you admit.

“Well, if you get lonely here, you can always call me and I can come entertain you.”

Mark’s words give an air of longevity. He sounds certain about this, as if it’s a given that he’s part of your life now, as if he’s not going anywhere. 

You’re not sure what to make of Mark. You’ve never really had steady consistency from a man- but he seems so sincere, it makes you want to be hopeful, and hope can be a dangerous thing for a girl like you.

“So uh… can I get you something to drink?” you ask. “We’re just watching anime right?”

“I’m good. If I get thirsty, I’ll let you know,” Mark assures you, taking a seat on the couch in your living room. “Should we uh… should I move some of these pillows so we can cuddle again?”

You grin, pouring yourself a cup of water. “If you want to cuddle, we can cuddle.”

“I want to cuddle,” Mark states, immediately grabbing at the cushions and rearranging your space to allow for you both to lie down. 

He’s adorable. Laying down in front of him already feels kind of natural. The way he grabs your hip and tugs you close to his chest has your heart singing, and his breath against the back of your neck is as familiar as anything.

Not much needs to be said as you start your anime. You’re simply enjoying the comfortability of companionship- companionship lacking any pressures or timeframes. You’re two souls sharing your moments together.

It’s a different feeling for your mind to go blank while you’re with Mark. You’re shocked by how safe you feel in his embrace. 

You talk here and there, the two of you discussing moments in the anime, but conversation doesn’t get much deeper than that. You actually kind of enjoy not having to use your brain, and you’re definitely enjoying the warmth of the man behind you.

“I’m uh, gonna take my hoodie off,” Mark tells you, shifting slightly. 

“Okay.” You give him space, turning to look over your shoulder as he lifts the fabric off his body, revealing the white tshirt below. “Wait, can you give me a deeper tattoo tour now?”

“Uh…”

“You said you’d give me a proper tour on the second date,” you tease, hooking your finger in the neck of his shirt and gently pulling, giving yourself a tiny peak of marked skin along his collarbones.

“I guess I did say that, didn’t I?” Mark laughs sheepishly. “Okay,” he takes a deep breath, sitting up again and grabbing the hem of his shirt.

As Mark reveals his chest to you, you’re a little taken aback by what you see.

Generally, you’re pretty good at guessing a man’s build under his clothing, but Mark is much more toned than you thought he would be. It’s clear he works out, and the muscles you see are amplified by tasteful placement of tattoos littering his torso.

“Where do I even start?” Mark asks, looking down at himself.

“Wherever you want to.” You turn to face him, anime forgotten in the background.

He brushes his own fingers across one of the ferns decorating his collarbones. “These are my mom’s favourite plant.”

“Her favourite plant?” you grin.

“Yeah, I know, most moms have a favourite flower, but my mom kind of really likes ferns.”

“Sounds like you’re close with her,” you note.

“I’m a complete mama’s boy,” Mark admits with a laugh, which is when your gaze lands on a heart with the word ‘Mom’ tattooed on his ribs.

“I see that.” You reach out and gently brush the mark.

The line chef shivers under your touch, the muscles in his abdomen jumping deliciously. You wonder how ticklish he is. 

“Then this one,” Mark touches the moth blooming out from his sternum, “was just really cool and the artist needed someone to practice on, so I said, let’s do it, fuck me up.”

You grin at his choice of words. Mark can be kind of reserved at work, it’s interesting to hear his dirty mouth now that you’re alone. 

You kind of love listening to him as he continues with the tour, tracing the lined patch work. Each mark is another story or detail about the line chef you’re starting to fall for, and you commit his words to memory. 

He’s done the tour of his tattoos much too fast for your liking. You trace the last of the marks, a dagger on his bicep. 

Laying on your back with Mark on his side next to you, things feel very intimate, especially now that his focus has shifted away from his tattoos and is solidly fixed on you.

His hand finds your abdomen, and he gently lines the curve of your hip with his fingers.

Neither of you say anything, caught in the peaceful quiet and moments of mutual discovery. 

His fingers brush by your rib cage, and you’re struck by the need for more. Gently placing your hand over his, you prompt him up higher, until his palm is placed over your breast. You sneak a glance at Mark, noticing the way he swallows thickly.

“Are you a boobs man, Mark?”

“I mean… who isn’t?”

You grin at his answer. “Should I take my shirt off? It’s only fair, right? Yours is off.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he assures you.

“I want to take my shirt off.”

“Then take your shirt off,” he says quietly.

You sit up, quickly discarding the fabric before laying back down again. Now you’re just in a bra and PJ shorts. Mark sucks in a breath, his hand finding your bare hip. Once again, you have to guide his touch up to your breast. This time, when he squeezes you, his thumb rubs over the swell of plump flesh.

You can feel your nipple hardening with interest, pressing against the cup of your bra. “We should take this off next,” you suggest, grabbing at your strap.

“Yeah?” Mark’s eyes widen as he looks at you, his lips parting as he breathes heavier.

“I mean, unless you want me to keep it on?”

“Like I said,” the line chef brushes his thumb over your skin again, “do whatever makes you most comfortable.” 

You sit up again, reaching behind your back to undo the clasp. For a moment, you pause. This is a line you won't be able to uncross. You’re about to show your coworker your boobs. Your sweet, honest, adorable, line chef coworker, who gazes at you with stars in his eyes- your fuck boy look alike secret softie-

You undo your bra, throwing it off the couch before laying flat again. This time, you don’t have to prompt Mark’s hand, he gently traces his fingers up your ribs until he’s cupping your breast. He watches you tentatively, sucking his lower lip into his mouth as his thumb brushes over your hardened nipple.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers.

“You think so?”

“I know so,” Mark says, firmly this time.

“Come here,” you reach up to cup the back of his neck, drawing his lips to yours. He kisses you like he’s afraid you might break, but when you whimper, he responds with a groan, deepening the passion as his tongue glides against your own.

His hand kneads your breast, making you moan again, pushing up toward his palm. You can feel the desire growing between your legs as he kisses you, and you reach out to trace his chest. Your touch begins to lower, fingers grazing over his abdomen-

Mark breaks the kiss, nuzzling against your jaw to prompt your face to the side so he can access your throat. He peppers your skin in soft kisses, slowly descending until he reaches your collar bones-

You realize what he’s about to do and tangle your fingers through his soft blonde hair, pushing your chest up in silent affirmation. “Mark-” you whimper, rewarded when his wet lips wrap around your nipple.

Fuck, he feels so good-

Has anyone ever felt this good?

Maybe it’s the waiting- the going slow, or maybe it’s just the fact that Mark makes you feel safe, but regardless, each touch, each brush of his lips and tongue, has you mewling. You’re pretty sure you’ve soaked through your panties at this point, your pussy practically throbbing with each flick of his wet muscle against your pebbled nipple.

“Mark?” you whisper, tightening your grip in his hair. “Are you…” you swallow thickly. “Are you going to fuck me?”

The line chef pulls away from your breast, looking up at you with dark chocolate eyes. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do-”

“What if I want this?”

“I usually don’t sleep with girls on the second date-”

“Make an exception?” you plead. 

You haven’t been fucked in a few weeks, and you’re feeling desperate. You want to connect with Mark on that physical level, and sex is always the way you do that with men. You want him to feel good, to give him a reason to stick around like he says he will.

“But wait-” you feel your skin heat, “I have something I should tell you first.”

Mark cocks his head to the side, waiting for you to continue.

“I uh… I’m going to be super real with you right now.” You take a deep breath. “Look, I read a lot of smut? That’s like- I read a lot of erotica, written porn, I guess- and, in smut, and porn especially, girls always just cum so easily- and I wish I was that type of person, but I’m not. No guy has ever… you know, gotten me there. What I’m trying to say is, I can have fun even without cumming. So if I can’t get there with you, it’s not you, it’s literally me-”

“Hey,” Mark reaches up to cup your cheek, cutting off your rambling. “Thanks for telling me, but there’s no pressure. Whatever happens, happens. For some girls, you have to get more comfortable. My first girlfriend was like that too, and there’s never any judgement from me. I’m willing to wait for you to feel safe enough that your body relaxes.”

“You are?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assures you. “I mean, I can’t promise that I’ll be as good as the guys in your books or in porn. Dirty talk is something I have to get used to using too, but, if we give it time, I’m sure we’ll figure each other out.”

You search his eyes, processing what he’s just said. Then you give him a small nod. “That sounds good to me.”

“Good.” He leans forward, pressing his lips to yours. “But, if we’re going to do this, I’d like for us to go to your bedroom, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, of course.” You sit up, getting off the couch quickly while Mark follows. As you get to the door of your bedroom, you look over your shoulder, snaking your fingers into your shorts and pulling them down.

“Fuck-” Mark groans, eyes taking in your body.

You can see a half chub pressing against the denim of his blue jeans, and your pussy throbs again. “Come on, puppy boy,” you tease. 

He’s quick to catch you, wrapping his arms around you and pressing his chest to your back. His lips find your neck and you giggle, moving toward your bed while dragging the line chef with you.

“You’re so pretty,” Mark groans, tracing your curves with one hand while the other reaches to grab your breast.

Turning in his arms, you press your lips to his, enjoying the way each kiss gets deeper. He’s relaxing against you, his tongue exploring you more and more. 

When you make it to the bed, he gently prompts you to sit down. You look up at Mark, watching him take in your form. “How did I get this lucky?” he asks.

“You asked me out,” you remind him. “So you did this all yourself, Mark.”

“Did I?” he grins, sinking to the floor.

You’re surprised by the new position, surprised by the way he gently parts your knees, his gaze finding your hot core. 

“Can I take these off?” he questions, gently tugging at your panties.

“Yeah-” you whisper.

Most guys don’t eat you out as an appetizer. In fact, you have to ask most men to go down on you- but here’s Mark, doing it all of his own accord. And he looks so needy- in the best possible way.

Mark slips your panties down your legs, and then his lips find your calf. He begins kissing up your skin, spreading your thighs to accommodate him. 

“You don’t have to-” Your words are lost when he presses a kiss to your clit.

“Don’t have to what?” Mark asks, looking up at you.

“Don’t have to eat me out-”

“I want to eat you out,” he confirms. “I’ll eat you out for as long as you want me to- but, when you need more, just say something, and I’ll give you anything you want.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh,” Mark hums, immediately pressing his mouth against your core again. He licks a wet stripe of your pussy, and it makes your legs twitch on his shoulders.

You relax against the mattress, closing your eyes and focusing on the feeling of Mark pleasuring you. Your fingers tangle in his hair, keeping him where you need him. He focuses on your clit, circling it and toying with it.

It feels amazing- it does, but there’s some sort of mental block in your brain. You wish you could just cum from this, but the more you think about that, the more you distract yourself from Mark. God, you almost feel bad making him eat you out like this- he’s not getting anything-

The overthinking is something you’re used to, and try as you might to talk yourself down from the ledge of sexual issues, you can’t relax. You can’t focus on Mark, and it frustrates you to no end.

Finally, after what feels like hours of him eating you out - although it must only be a few minutes - you gently tug his hair. “Want your cock now,” you tell him.

“Yeah?” Mark wipes his hand across his mouth, looking up at you with pupils blown from lust.

“Please,” you nod. 

“Should I uh- should I grab a condom?”

You’re quick to shake your head. “We’re both clean right?”

“Yeah-”

“I have an IUD, remember? I want you to cum inside of me.”

Mark draws in a shaky breath. You watch him swallow thickly, then he stands up, undoing his blue jeans. When he pushes down his pants, he moves his underwear too, and just like that, your favourite line chef is standing naked in front of you.

He’s got a pretty cock. It’s girthy, cut, and must be around seven or so inches. The tip is curved slightly to his left, and it’s leaking precum even though you’ve hardly touched him.

Did Mark really get that turned on just from eating you out?

“Come here,” you offer him a small smile, shifting up your bed until your head reaches the pillows. You open your arms for Mark, watching him press a knee onto the mattress and approach you. Your legs wrap around his hips, and you drag him into a kiss.

The kiss is passionate, but there’s a tentative energy to it as Mark’s cock presses between your pussy lips, collecting the juice and saliva that’s congregated there. 

“Are you sure about this?” Mark asks, panting against your mouth. 

You open your eyes to look up at him, nodding.

“I uh… I need to hear you say yes.”

“Yes, Mark, I’m sure about this,” you say, trailing your fingers through his hair. “Please, I want you.”

He searches your eyes, then, with a final nod, he kisses you again. One of his hands slides between your bodies, and you feel him line his cock up with your core. Your legs tighten around his hips, and it’s something like a united effort when his length sinks into your pussy.

You both groan against each other’s lips. The kissing stops, but you remain close enough that your noses are touching. His breath is hot against your skin, and he begins to fuck you slowly, his cock filling you perfectly.

“You feel so good,” Mark groans. 

All you can do is moan in response, drawing his lips back to yours while he fucks you.

You get lost in the feeling of him, and the kissing does aid in calming down your tumultuous thoughts. You can focus on the pleasure that thrums through you with each thrust, the way his cock glides against your inner walls and stretches you out.

Mark grabs your hand, interlocking your fingers and pressing you against the bed, his hips working faster. His tongue is eager against your own, and he eats up your soft whimpers. His groans and grunts of effort make your soul sing, your heart beating quickly in your breast.

“Shit,” Mark pulls away from the kiss, looking down at you. “It’s been a minute since I’ve- since I’ve slept with anyone,” he admits. “I’m uh… pretty close.”

“Want you to cum,” you tell him.

“Yeah?”

“Please- want you to fill me up-”

Mark groans, pressing his lips against your own. You kiss him desperately, tightening your legs around his hips. He squeezes your hand, his groans muffled by your mouth.

His hips work faster and faster- then, all at once, he kind of just stops. You can feel his cock throbbing inside of you, and his grip on your hand is tight as he coats your insides with his cum.

You hold him through his high, your free hand petting his hair while he brings his lips to your neck, panting desperately and kissing your skin. 

He lets out a sigh of relief as he finishes. Mark pulls away from your throat, looking down at you. You can tell there’s something he wants to say, but it’s clear that he’s not able to find the right words. “I, uh…” he licks his lips. “Should I grab you a tissue or something?”

“Yes, please,” you laugh, letting go of him so he can get off the bed. You watch him look around your room, finding your tissues on the nightstand. 

His legs are as covered in patchwork tattoos as the rest of him, and you’re pleased that the tour will continue another day. He hands you the tissue. “Do you want to use the bathroom first?”

“You can go for it, I just need a second,” you tell him.

Mark nods, pressing one last kiss to your lips before he leaves your bedroom.

You lay there in bed, holding the tissue between your legs to capture any of the cum beginning to leak out of you. 

You’re glad Mark got to cum. You’re not surprised you hadn’t. You just hope maybe one day you will get there, and for some reason, you have a hunch Mark will be the one to achieve an orgasm for you. Or at least, you hope he will. 

Nine

“So did you do it?” 

“Hmm?” Mark looks up from the chicken he’s cutting.

“You had your second date with Sunshine last night, right?” Hyuck presses. “So…. did you do it? Did you make her cum, or what?”

“Why are you so obsessed with this?” Mark sighs, looking at the other side of the kitchen where John is working. “We shouldn’t be talking about this here.”

“Nah, this is the perfect place to talk about it,” Hyuck leans against the work station, his back to the head chef. “So I’m guessing you didn’t make her cum.”

“Is that all you were thinking about every time you fucked her?” Mark asks.

“Duh.”

“Did you ever stop to think that maybe that’s the kind of mentality that would make a girl overthink the situation?” Mark shakes his head. “I bet you would watch her super intently and then just ask her to cum.”

“That’s a move, Mark, it’s called having rizz.”

“But it never worked, so was it really rizz, or were you just fucking yourself over?”

Hyuck narrows his eyes. “So now you’re the expert on making girls cum?”

Over Hyuck’s shoulder, John stops what he’s doing and turns to stare at the line chefs. Mark can feel his skin heating, and he opens his mouth to rectify the situation, but Hyuck’s already speaking again. 

“I bet you a hundred bucks you won’t be able to make her cum.”

“Fuck you, I’m not betting money on this shit,” Mark hisses. 

“Sounds like something a pussy would say.”

“A pussy with a knife in his hand,” the line chef notes, his grip tightening on the handle. “Look, when I do make her cum, you have to stop bashing her like it’s her fault that you wouldn’t take the time to make her comfortable.” 

“And when you don’t make her cum?”

“It’s not going to happen.” Mark’s not sure where his confidence is coming from, but something in his heart tells him to be firm about this. He’s going to get you there. It might take a few weeks, hell, it might take over a month- but he’s going to get you to the point where you relax enough to cum for him, or so help him God-

Ten

Mark had cum inside of you three times since arriving at seven, and at two am he had finally broached the idea of heading home. “I should probably go,” the line chef had sighed, holding you closer to his chest.

“I mean… you could always just stay over?” you’d suggested.

“Yeah?”

“It’s our third date, why not?” you’d shrugged, cuddling tighter against him. 

You hadn’t planned this, it had just sort of happened, and that’s how Mark had ended up sleeping at your place for the first time. 

He’d woken up half way through the night, voice raspy, hands grabby, moaning about how lucky he was to be here with you. Falling asleep again after he’d railed you had been as easy as breathing, and now, in the morning hours, you’re in the shower to wash off all the cum he’d left on and inside of you. 

Neither of you have to be at work till the afternoon, and you kind of like the idea of lazing around with Mark, who’s still passed out in your bed. 

You take your time with your skin care and hair, and when you finally enter your room, you’re intrigued to find the line chef still asleep. He’s quite handsome like this, all bundled up in your white duvet, blonde hair shining around him like a halo.

You try to be careful as you crawl onto the mattress next to him, but Mark immediately rolls over to pull you tight to his chest. He lets out a soft groan, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

God, why are things so domestic with this boy already?

His hands trail up and down your back, fingers stroking your skin. You’d put on his shirt, but other than that, you’re naked, and it doesn’t take long for Mark to realize that fact. His touch moves down to your hip, sliding under the shirt. His thumb draws circles against your bare skin, and he lets out another moan. 

“Morning, puppy boy,” you laugh.

“Hungry,” Mark whispers. 

“Hmm?”

“I said,” he leans down, pressing kisses to your throat, his lips brushing by your ear when he repeats himself; “Hungry.”

“I can make you breakfast,” you assure him.

“Don’t want food,” Mark says. “Want you.”

In one quick motion he pushes you onto your back, getting on top of you. His breath is hot against your neck, and he tugs on your shirt, pulling it up to reveal your breasts. His mouth wraps around your nipple, and he sucks on it gently, releasing sounds of pleasure. 

You thread your fingers through his hair, letting out a sigh of relief. “Feels good,” you tell him.

One of his hands slips between your legs, his digits teasing your slit. “Always so wet for me,” he groans, releasing your nipple with a pop. “Can I taste?”

Mark is definitely getting more bold with you, but that’s what happens when you’ve fucked a handful of times, had three dates, and one sleep over. 

“You can do anything you want to me,” you tell him.

The line chef kisses down your abdomen, pushing your legs open as he settles between them. You thread your fingers through his hair as he brings his mouth to your core, licking at your pussy lips. 

Mark is really good at oral. This is the fourth time he’s eaten you out. With each time he presses his mouth to your pussy, part of you gets more and more convinced that you’ll cum this way. When he adds two fingers into your aching core, you’re pretty much sure that it will happen-

It feels so good, and the moans that escape you reflect that. Your hips buck toward his face, prompting Mark to press a palm to your lower abdomen, keeping you pinned.

But every time you think you’re close - every time you’re about to announce it to him - the feeling dissipates. 

You can feel yourself getting more and more irritated with your body, and soon, you give up entirely. “Mark?”

“Hmm?” The vibrations against your clit have your thighs shaking.

“Can I just- can we just fuck? Please? I want you inside of me.”

Mark pulls away from your pussy, his fingers continuing in your hole. “Are you sure? You know I enjoy playing with you like this.”

“I know- but, I just- I’m in my head again. Want your cock in my pussy.”

Mark takes his fingers out of your core, bringing them to his lips to lick clean. Then he crawls up your body, kissing you so you can taste yourself on his tongue. 

“I’ll fuck you,” he says, “but don’t ever think I don’t enjoy being between your thighs like that, okay? You don’t have to cum, I know from the sounds that you make that you enjoy it, and that’s enough for me until you get there, yeah?”

You swallow thickly, nodding. “I’m still in my head.”

“I get that, Sunshine,” he kisses you gently, cupping your cheek as he lines his cock up with your wet hole. “If there’s anything I can do to stop the overthinking-”

“Just fuck me,” you insist, wrapping your legs around his hips.

Mark laughs. “You got it.”

Eleven

“Dude, is that a hickey on your neck?” Hyuck’s annoying voice makes Mark flinch, and his hand immediately flies to slap against the side of his throat.

“What? No.” 

“It totally is,” Hyuck laughs. “Damn, you two must really be going at it a lot.”

“We’re having fun.”

“Fun like two times? Three?”

“Fun like five times in the past twenty four hours.”

“Jesus Christ.” Hyuck’s eyes practically bulge out of his head. “Are you serious?”

“I don’t know what you were talking about with her not being able to sleep next to you. She passed out just fine with me last night.”

Hyuck lets out a deep breath. “Fucking Hell. Maybe I underestimated you. So… did she cum?” 

Mark sighs. He hates to be talking about this while at work. You’re running food, but you could be back at any second, and Mark doesn’t want you to get the wrong idea about all of this. Hyuck is the instigator of these sexual talks, and Mark doesn’t know how much to keep to himself.

“So that’s a no,” Hyuck deduces. “Big ouch.”

“I feel like we shouldn’t talk about this anymore,” Mark says finally.

“Why? Is your pride hurt?” 

Mark lets out another annoyed breath. “I just think it’s disrespectful. You’re an ex fling of hers, you don’t deserve to know everything about her personal life.”

“I don't want to know about her personal life,” Hyuck rolls his eyes. “I want to know about her sex life, there’s a difference.” 

“I’m done talking to you about this,” Mark insists.

“Damn, someone is starting to sound like a protective boyfriend. Jeeze, calm down.”

Mark hates that there’s some truth in what Hyuck is saying. He already feels quite protective of you. He’s got dates planned, things that can make you smile. He pays close attention to you when you speak, looking for your likes and dislikes. 

Mark is falling for you faster than he’d ever care to admit, especially not to Hyuck of all people. 

Twelve

“Who does a staff Christmas party in January?” Jungwoo asks as a bunch of you take the big table after the restaurant has closed.

“We were all too busy at Chirstmas time, remember?” Jaehyun says, looking at his waiter friend. “And then there was New Years, and we closed early.”

“I agree with you Woo, a mid January Christmas party feels weird,” you grin, leaning against your favourite server. 

In all honesty, it feels like your managers Taeil and Doyoung just wanted to give you all some time to relax and celebrate. January can be a slow month in the restaurant business, and you’d heard Jeno mention yesterday that there are four or five bottles of wine that no one has been ordering that have to be used up. 

As you begin to drink the wine, the mid January Christmas party makes more and more sense. The chefs have finished their closing tasks, with John joining you first, followed by Hyuck, and finally Mark.

With Jaehyun across from you, Jungwoo on one side, and John on the other, you’re surrounded. Mark sits at the other end of the table, offering you a small smile. You give him a gentle wave in response, giggling to yourself over the rim of your wine glass.

“Gosh, Sunshine,” Jungwoo slides closer to you. “Are you drunk already?”

“You’ve been refilling my glass,” you point out, pouting a little.

“Because you’re a cute drunk,” he grins. 

“A very cute drunk,” Jaehyun agrees, eyeing you from across the table. 

The thing about dating a coworker and it being new means you can’t talk about it. Until there’s a label with you and Mark, you’re keeping your lips shut. As far as Jungwoo or Jaehyun know, you’re single, and the latter of the two has been hitting on you for months.

It feels odd to have Jaehyun calling you cute while Mark is just a few seats down. Your stomach twists into drunken knots, and you wish you could move to be closer to your new secret Boo-

In the periphery of your vision, you note Mark stand up and begin to head to the bar. It feels like the perfect excuse to get some time alone with him, so you hop off of your chair. 

Mark’s grabbed a glass and is beginning to pour himself a beer from the tap by the time you reach him. “Hi, puppy boy,” you grin.

“Hey, Sunshine,” he laughs, looking you up and down. “Jungwoo’s been feeding you the wine, huh?”

“Just like… a normal amount.” God, you can’t help but smile constantly at the boy who has your heart twisting into love sick knots. 

“Are you tipsy?” Mark cocks his head to the side as he finishes pouring his drink.

“Maybe…”

“Can I get you some water?” he suggests.

You lean forward over the bar top, lowering your voice so only Mark can hear you. “I’m thirsty, but not for water or wine.”

It takes Mark a moment to read the innuendo of your words, but then he laughs. “I should get you some water.”

“What if I don’t drink it?”

“What if I ask you to please drink it?” he counters, already filling a cup for you. 

“Okay, fine. Just for you, though.” 

Mark grins as he hands you the glass.

“Why do you take care of me so much?” you ask, as the two of you head back to the table.

“Because,” Mark pulls your chair out for you, “you’re my favourite expo girl.”

“I better be,” you say, teasingly narrowing your eyes at Mark before he walks back to his own seat down the long table.

You begin to nurse your water. Mark’s right about you needing it. The tipsyness has somehow intensified- probably because Jungwoo had insisted you finish your wine glass. You feel blurry as you sit there and listen to your coworkers chat.

“I just don’t like saying chicken breast,” Jungwoo states.

“But that’s what they are!” Yuta, one of the night line chefs, insists. “They’re breasts!”

“I just tell customers that the alfredo comes with chicken, they don’t need to hear me say breast!” Jungwoo fights back. “Jaehyun agrees with me, right Jae?”

“Yeah, I just say chicken,” the man across from you nods.

“Taeyong also just says chicken,” Jungwoo continues. “So right now it’s three to one.”

“Hyuck,” Yuta calls across the table, gaining the attention of the men at the other end. “Do you call it chicken breast, or just chicken?”

“Neither,” Hyuck says confidently. “Thems some chicken boobies.”

You can’t believe the conversation you’re hearing. “I think it’s time for me to leave,” you decide. 

“What? Why?” Jungwoo whines.

“I can’t be here for a discussion about chicken.”

Jungwoo slams his hand on the table. “See, she said just chicken too!” 

Yuta points his finger at you like you’re on a game show. “Is that your final answer?” 

You lean forward, pretending his hand is a microphone. “Chicken titties.”

“Yeah, we’re cutting you off,” Jungwoo decides. “You need to go home and sleep.”

“Someone should make sure you get back to your place okay,” Jaehyun notes, standing from his chair.

“I’ll take care of her,” comes Mark’s voice from the other end of the table.

Jaehyun turns to stare at the line chef, who also stands up. 

John is next to you, and you watch a knowing expression appear on his features, grinning as he sips his beer. 

“You still have half your drink left,” Jaehyun insists, “And, I’ve known our little miss Sunshine for much longer than you have. I’m sure she’s probably more comfortable with me taking her home.”

A muscle in Mark’s jaw feathers. You watch him reach down and grab his beer, downing the whole thing in three large gulps before wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

Fuck, the motion reminds you of what he does whenever he eats you out, and you feel almost dizzy thinking about it.

“Who’s it gonna be, Sunshine?” Hyuck grins. “Jaehyun, or Marky boy?”

“Let’s go, Mark,” you say, offering Jaehyun a small smile. “We’ll see all you guys tomorrow.”

Jaehyun looks pretty defeated, but you can’t even bring yourself to care as Mark comes around the table to offer you his arm. At first, you think you don’t his help, but when you stumble after one step, you latch onto his bicep.

“I was hoping you’d go home with me tonight,” you whisper as the two of you exit to the parking lot, where Mark’s truck is waiting. He helps you climb inside, smiling and shaking his head.

“Sunshine, if you ever want me to go home with you, you don’t have to get drunk, just ask.”

Thirteen

“I’m really not that drunk,” you insist, making your way over to the liquor cabinet again.

Mark sighs. You’re a grown adult, he can’t keep directing you away from the booze. “Okay, I believe you. What do you want? Let me make it for you.”

“I want…” you think about it for a moment. “An espresso martini.”

“It’s late, won’t the espresso make it hard for you to sleep?” You’re definitely drunk and you both know it.

“I don’t care. Want espresso martini.”

“Okay, Sunshine, you got it.” Mark moves through your kitchen, finding the espresso machine there. He slips a pod into the device, setting up a cup. 

“Can you add honey?” you ask, already moving to the cabinet to grab a bottle. Mark takes it from you, squeezing some of the honey into the bottom of the cup as hot coffee begins to pour over it. “I also want Baileys.”

Mark laughs a little, shaking his head as you stumble to grab the large Irish Cream bottle from your cupboard.

“And also ice,” you declare. “Frothed.”

“This is a whole thing, huh?” Mark watches you fill the frother with Baileys. 

“I like what I like,” you insist. “We’re gonna triple froth this.”

“You’re the boss.” Mark reaches into his pocket, pulling out his vape. You’ve been letting him smoke in here, and he appreciates the reprieve as the two of you make this very complicated espresso martini. 

By the time you’re done with it, Mark’s not even sure you could call it an espresso martini. With the amount of frothed foam on top, this drink is something else entirely. 

He watches you lift the cup to your lips, immediately getting foam on your face. You simply giggle and wipe it off, licking your finger clean. Then you dip your digit into the froth, scooping it up and popping it in your mouth.

Mark swallows thickly while watching you do this.

“Puppy,” you groan, “this is so good.” You offer him your finger. “Try it.”

Mark can’t say no to you, so he allows you to dip your finger into his mouth. He licks you clean, watching the way your breath catches. You bite on your bottom lip, swaying a little on your feet.

“Your turn,” you say quietly, holding out the cup.

“My turn?”

“I wanna suck on your fingers.”

Mark knows you're drunk. He knows this probably isn’t the best idea for either of you, but he simply can’t say no to you. Not now, not ever. 

He dips his pointer into the foam, then presents it to you. 

You grab his wrist, keeping him still while you move forward to suck on his finger, releasing a small groan. Mark can already feel the blood rushing to his cock, but he ignores it as he goes for another scoop of froth. 

“Tastes better on you,” you tell him, licking his digit clean again. “More. Please.” 

The way you look at him each time you suck his finger tells Mark that you’re as horny as he is. When he scoops with two digits, you practically mewl as you lick.

“I wanna suck on something bigger,” you state.

“Sunshine,” Mark sighs, “I really don’t want to take advantage-” 

“You’re not. Mark, you’ve eaten me out so many times, please let me return the favour?” You’re already sinking to your knees on the kitchen floor, and the sight of you makes Mark’s cock throb in his jeans. “Please, I just wanna suck you off.”

“You know I can never say no to you.”

As the words leave him your hands find his belt. In moments, you’re pushing his pants down, your grip wrapping around the base of his cock. He watches you lick your lips, your gaze meeting his as you lean forward to take him into your mouth.

Mark immediately lets out a groan. “You feel so good, sunshine.”

You whimper around his length, and the vibration has Mark’s fingers twitching. He reaches for your head, cupping your face while you suck him off. His other hand places your drink on the kitchen counter before falling to his side. The line chef’s head falls back, his eyes closing as he eats up the feeling of you.

“That’s it,” he sighs, loving the way you twirl your tongue around his shaft.

You take as much of him past your lips as possible, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat. You gag around him, causing Mark’s eyes to fly open. He looks down at you with concern, but you keep sucking him.

“You don’t have to deep throat me,” Mark assures you, pushing some hair away from your face.

You let out a whine, sinking onto him again, only for your throat to constrict tight around his tip. 

Mark groans. “Fuck, Sunshine, I’m serious.”

The line chef could never do what you’re doing right now. Not because he’s not into cock, but because he has the worst gag reflex ever. He knows what it’s like to choke, and he doesn’t want you sputtering on his cock in the name of pleasuring him. 

When you try to deep throat him a third time, Mark simply pulls you off of him. He’s struck by the view of a string of saliva keeping you connected to his cock, and the way you look up at him in a confused daze has his heart thundering in his chest.

“Enough of that,” Mark says softly. “Let me take care of you.”

He reaches down, gently taking your hands so he can help you to your feet. 

“Bedroom?” he suggests.

You nod, swallowing thickly and wiping at your mouth, then you dart off. You’re awfully agile for a drunk girl, and Mark smiles to himself before following you. By the time he’s made it to the bedroom, you’ve already stripped.

You’re sitting on the bed, grinning at him with a hint of mischief in your eye.

“Take advantage of me, Mark,” you say as he pulls off his shirt.

“Jesus,” Mark whispers. “I hate to say it, but that line is not enticing at all.”

He’s still kind of questioning if this is a good idea, but at the same time, you’ve already fucked on multiple occasions. He knows you want him sober, and especially - it appears - while drunk. 

“Come on, please?” You pout out your lower lip.

Mark slips out of his jeans, joining you on the bed. You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss while your legs encircle his hips.

As his cock slips past your core, Mark is shocked at how wet you already are. Booze has really done a number on you, but neither of you are complaining.

“You sure you want this?” he asks.

“Don’t make me beg,” you laugh, “Cuz I will.”

“No, it’s okay,” Mark swallows the lump in his throat. “Just checking.”

Before he can reach for his cock, you beat him to it, grabbing the base and lining his tip up with your entrance. “Fuck me, Mark, I’m begging for it.”

He presses his lips hard against your own as he pushes into your wet hole, both of you groaning loudly at the feeling. 

“Shit,” you whimper, breaking the kiss to look up at him, “I’m so sensitive today-”

“Alcohol does that sometimes,” Mark notes, bringing up a hand to cup your breast. When his fingers pinch your nipple, you let out a high pitched squeal, pushing your chest up toward his palm. 

“Fuck, Mark-” Your pussy clenches tight around him, and the feeling makes Mark dizzy. 

“You sound so good, Sunshine, and you’re gripping me so fucking hard-” Mark begins to fuck into you. Your nails claw at his arms, your head thrown back, eyes closed.

Mark reaches down to rub your clit. You shudder below him, legs tightening around his hips. “Fuck, fuck, fuck-” you moan loudly. “Just like that-”

He applies more pressure to your sensitive bud, making your hips buck toward him, your core clenching him in a death grip. 

“If you keep squeezing me like this, I’m not going to last long-” he warns you, tension building in the base of his cock.

“I want you to cum,” you insist, opening your eyes to look at him.

“Don’t you want to try and get there too?” he asks. 

“I don’t-” you swallow thickly, “I don’t think I’ll be able to.”

“Let me fuck you a little longer, yeah?” Mark prompts. “I can wait a bit. Actually, we should switch positions.”

“To what?”

“Can you get on your knees for me?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you nod quickly. As soon as Mark pulls away, you’re flipping over, pushing your ass into the air for him.

“Fuck, what a view,” he breathes, hands smoothing across your bum. 

You whimper, and the sound encourages Mark to slip himself into you again. The sigh of relief that leaves you has Mark’s skin tingling, his grip finding your hips. 

“It’s so deep,” you groan, tangling your fingers in the sheets.

You’re right about that- your wet pussy is taking every inch Mark has, and each smack of his hips against your ass has you getting even wetter. He’s pretty sure you’re dripping down your thighs at this point, and his fingers dig into your skin even harder.

The sounds you’re making are like music to his ears. Your grip on his cock is insane. Mark’s pretty sure tonight is going to be the night that you cum- but as he continues fucking you, it becomes more and more clear that only one of you is going to get there- and fast. 

“Fuck,” Mark grunts, his heart racing in his chest as he picks up the pace of his thrusts. 

“Cum in me,” you insist, reaching behind yourself.

Mark grabs your hand, lacing your fingers and holding you against the small of your back.

“You really want me to cum?” he asks, breathless.

“Please,” you nod, squeezing his hand. “Wanna be full.”

Again, Mark can’t say no to you.

“Okay, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he whispers, fucking you even harder. “Shit-” 

His orgasm hits straight on, tingling through his entire body like an electric jolt. He pushes his cock into you as deep as it can go, feeling it throb as he coats your walls in cum. Mark throws his head back, eyes closed, overcome by the pleasure that courses through him.

He’s not the type that can fuck someone through his high. When he cums, he has to stop, has to experience the feeling in full. His mind goes completely blank…

But his first thought when the words come back is that he should tell you he loves you.

Fuck. This is becoming a problem. 

Every time he cums deep inside of you, his feelings grow. He’s overwhelmed with this sense that you’re meant to be, that he should just lock you down and let you know how much you mean to him.

But as always, that logical side rears its head, reminding Mark that it’s only been a few weeks of seeing each other. He needs to take things slow- for your sake. He doesn’t want to scare you away. Being a safe space for you includes watching his tongue, it means not putting pressure on you like this- 

If there’s one thing that will pressure you, it’s the admittance that he’s kind of in love with you.

Instead of saying what’s on the tip of his tongue, Mark pulls out of you. He gets you a tissue for the cum that begins to drip out of your pussy, and a cup of water to make sure you’re hydrated. Once you’ve both cleaned up in the bathroom, he cuddles you close to his chest, stroking your back and listening to you breathe.

To Mark’s complete shock, you fall asleep on him within minutes. 

It’s a sign that you’re truly feeling safe with him, and Mark thinks he must be going in the right direction. He’s careful not to wake you up, he simply enjoys the feeling of holding you close while you rest.

Fourteen

You wake up slowly, cuddling closer to the warmth next to you. It takes you a moment to realize that the heat is coming from Mark, and you open your eyes to stare at him.

“Morning,” Mark grins, putting down his phone to watch you. “Sleep well?”

“Shockingly well,” you grin, snuggling closer. “You?”

“I like sleeping next to you,” Mark muses, wrapping his arms around you. “You know, I was thinking I could make you breakfast or something. Neither of us have work today.”

“Breakfast?” You perk up.

“Yeah, I can cook most breakfast or brunch foods, but uh… don’t ask me to make eggs.”

“Eggs?” You raise your brows, looking at him with a laugh.

“I know, it’s stupid cuz I’m literally a line chef, but I never went to school for it, remember?” Mark grins, stroking your skin. “John tried to teach me during brunch last week but I just- don’t have the patience for eggs.”

“Poor John, hired a chef who can’t cook eggs,” you tease. “Are you sure you don’t want something else for breakfast?”

“Like what?”

“Like… me?” 

Mark laughs. “As much as I’d love to fuck you today, I feel like- maybe it would be nice to not sleep together this morning... You know this isn’t just sex for me, right?”

“Yeah, but… sex is nice, isn’t it?”

Mark strokes your cheek, meeting your eyes. “Sex with you is always nice, but I think I kind of want to be domestic with you today instead, if that’s okay.”

Your heart clenches in your chest at his words. You can’t help but lean forward and kiss him gently. “That’s okay with me.”

“Good,” Mark grins. “Let's cuddle some more, and when you get hungry, I’ll take care of the food.”

As you slowly wake up next to Mark, you’re struck by how comfortable you are. Being with him like this feels natural. There’s no pressure to fuck, no need to suck dick in order to earn affection- Mark simply cares about you, and it’s clear in the way he holds you.

If you’re not careful, you could get used to this.

Fifteen

Since the ‘Christmas’ party, Mark’s been wanting to broach the subject of Jaehyun with you, but in the handful of times he’s slept over with you since then, it’s just never come up.

Today, watching Jaehyun talk with you by the bar, the question is fresh on Mark’s mind, and he only has one person he can justifiably ask about it.

“So… how close are Jae and y/n?”

“Hmm?” Hyuck looks up from the burger he’s stacking. “Oh, those two? Pretty close.”

Mark groans at the lack of detail. “Did they ever date?”

“I think she’s definitely his work crush. Pretty sure he’s asked her out a few times, but I don’t know if she realized it was a date sort of thing.” Hyuck laughs to himself. “I actually walked in on him asking her out around Halloween, but I think she thought it was a group idea. She rejected him though.”

“Looks like he hasn’t taken the hint,” Mark says, mouth forming a firm line.

“Nah, Jae has a pretty big ego. I mean, you’ve seen his face. He’s not used to rejection, it doesn’t compute for him.”

Mark doesn’t say anything, he simply goes back to the alfredo he’s cooking. But it becomes clear that Hyuck doesn’t want to let this go.

“You’re jealous, aren’t you, Marky boy?”

“No.”

“Yes, you totally are,” Hyuck grins. “How long have you and Sunshine been seeing each other now?”

“Like… three weeks? A month almost?”

“Have you talked about being exclusive or anything?”

“Not really.”

Hyuck rolls his eyes. “It’s a yes or a no, Mark. There’s no ‘not really,’ when it comes to ‘the talk.’”

“No, we haven’t talked about it,” Mark admits with a sigh.

“Sounds like something you want though, right?” Hyuck presses.

“I thought I said I wasn’t going to talk to you about this anymore.”

“You’re the one who brought up Jae,” Hyuck points out, raising his hands in mock defense. 

Mark supposes Hyuck is right about that. He’s been considering defining the relationship recently- thinking about how a label could offer you safety, stability, things that are needed to help you relax. 

But now, the label transcends the use for comfortability and cumming, it almost feels needed.

You’re hot. Mark knows that. He sees the way people hit on you every day while you’re working. At first, he’d been okay with it- but now, he thinks maybe he needs something more. Maybe he needs the comfort of knowing that you’re taken, by him. 

He’s not the type to feel insecure, and he’s not even sure that insecurity is the right word for what he’s feeling.

All Mark knows, is that he wants to get to the next level with you, and he’s going to pull up his big boy pants to finally do it.

Sixteen

You’ve been at home for a few hours, having been cut from work early since it was a slow day, and you’re a little surprised when Mark calls you around dinner time.

“Hey you,” you grin, collapsing onto your bed to give Mark your full focus.

“Whatcha doin?” he asks.

“Just sitting here, was thinking of watching a movie. How about you? Just got off work?”

“Yeah, in a minute, just taking a vape break first. I was thinking maybe you’d let me see you when I’m off?”

“Definitely, you know my door is always open for you. But I should warn you, I have literally nothing in my fridge.”

“That’s okay, I’ll make your favourite and bring takeout,” Mark assures you. “See you in like… half an hour?”

That’s how Mark shows up on your home a short while later. You look him up and down, taking in his work outfit. “Didn’t wanna change after shift?” you grin, holding your door open for him.

“I uh, wanted to see you. Need a shower, so I figured I’d put on my fresh clothes after that.”

“Sounds good, you know that my home is your home. Go shower, I’ll put our food in bowls.” You accept the takeout from Mark, intent on turning to head to the kitchen- only for him to pull you back into an embrace.

“Hi,” he mumbles, kissing the side of your head and nuzzling against your hair.

“Hi,” you grin, turning in his arms to press your lips to his. “Go shower.”

“You got it.”

Mark goes into your bathroom, and a moment later you hear the water begin to run. You take your time in the kitchen. Mark has made himself alfredo, and he’s cooked your favourite rice bowl for you. You smile to yourself while plating the food, loving how domestic things have gotten with Mark.

Part of you is tempted to join Mark in the shower, but you’re not sure if you’re there yet, so you wait patiently for him to finish. This isn’t the first time he’s showered at your place, and you trust he’ll see his designated towel hanging on the hook behind your door. 

You kind of enjoy that he’s gotten so comfortable at your home. You’ve been spending so much time with him here and at work that it feels kind of odd when he’s not around. 

Soon, Mark is coming out of the bathroom. He’s in sweatpants and a tank top that shows off his tattoos. You have to actively stop yourself from drooling as you move to sit at the dinner table.

“So… did you need to talk to me about something?”

“Hmm?” Mark sits across from you.

“We didn’t have plans, you called and wanted to come over, I guess I’m just wondering if you had a specific reason.”

“Can’t I just miss you?” he grins.

Despite his words, it’s clear that there’s more to it, however you drop the issue. When Mark is ready to be real with you, he will be. You have time until then.

Mark begins to talk about work, how it had gotten busy after you’d left. You listen, happy to chat with him while you eat. 

After food, the two of you move to the couch, cuddling up while Netflix starts.

You’re two seasons into your anime already, it’s funny how time flies. You can turn your brain off when Mark spoons you, his lips pressing soft kisses to your shoulder every now and again.

One episode in, Mark reaches over you for the remote, pausing your show. 

“I guess there is a reason I wanted to come over,” he admits finally.

“Yeah?” You turn onto your back, looking up at him. 

“I hate to say that I’ve been jealous, but uh… since the Christmas party, I’ve been a little jealous about you and Jaehyun.” Mark won’t meet your eyes, and you give him the space to continue. “I just… people are always hitting on you, and I don’t know, I think… I mean, I’m a serial monogamist according to Hyuck, and I know we haven’t been seeing each other for that long, but I only see you, in all ways, and I just… I don’t want to lock you down if you’re not looking for something serious, but I guess I wanted to know how you feel about exclusivity and that sort of thing.”

“With you? Mark… I’d love to be exclusive.” You let out a small laugh. “Don’t you realize that I have to watch girls flirt with you too? Maybe we’ve both been jealous.  I think… locking each other down would be good for us.”

“Yeah?” Mark’s beaming now.

“You’re special,” you confess. “I’ve never been able to sleep next to a guy I’ve slept with, which feels like such a contradiction- but sleep has always come easy with you. I’ve never felt such a lack of pressure- such acceptance, for all of me, the good and the bad. I like you a lot Mark, and I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clear.”

“It’s not that it wasn’t clear,” Mark assures you, cupping your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. “I just… I know you have that wild side, which is totally valid, I just wasn’t sure you were a settling down type.”

“I wasn’t so sure I was either, and then I met you.”

Mark kisses you instead of responding, but you can feel the emotion in the press of his lips against yours. He’s elated by what you’ve just said, and you’re close to floating to cloud nine too. 

Even so, there’s something else. You can feel it in the slight tension of his shoulders when your fingers brush over his skin.

“Mark?” you break the kiss, blinking at him. “Is there something else on your mind?”

“It’s just… I know I said there’s no pressure, but I really wanna help you cum. And I’ve been thinking maybe… maybe we could use some of your toys.”

“My toys?”

“Like… some girls cum better with a vibrator, and if you have one, I’d love to use it on you.”

“Really?” You’re shocked. Lots of men think their dick is good enough, they feel emasculated to bring sex toys into the mix- but here’s Mark, being as contrarian as ever. 

“Even if it doesn’t help you cum, I still think it would be fun. I’m not trying to pressure you-”

“We can use my vibrator,” you assure him, heart thundering in your rib cage at the mere thought of it. 

No man has ever used a sex toy on you- it’s probably one of the reasons you’ve never cum with a lover before.

“Come on,” you sit up, heading to your bedroom while Mark follows. “I keep my toys in the closet,” you explain, bending down to find the shoe box that stores your vibrator. You pull the device out, showing it to Mark. “Is this going to work?”

“Yeah, it will work.” Mark watches you stand up, and he holds out his hand for you to pass the toy to him. “I’m uh… I’m gonna put this down so I can get you naked.”

“Okay,” you grin.

He sets the vibrator on your bed gently, turning to you. Mark grabs your face first, pulling you in for a kiss. He’s gentler than you thought he would be, but you don’t mind it. You like getting lost in the feeling of Mark, allowing him to guide you toward the bed.

When you reach your mattress, his hands slip down to the hem of your shirt. He carefully removes it, and you lift your arms to help him with the task. Mark doesn’t immediately go for your pants next, he kisses you again instead, cupping your cheek with one hand while the other grabs the small of your back.

His touch is so gentle, smoothing across your skin. It’s making you even more eager, and you find yourself removing his shirt before he begins to work on your sleep shorts. Soon, you’re just in a bra and panties, but even those get taken off. 

When you’re completely bare, Mark gently pushes you down onto your bed, eyes taking in your body.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he muses.

Your skin heats at the praise, and you begin to close your thighs, only for Mark to gently prompt them open. 

“Don’t hide from me, please,” Mark says softly, getting onto his knees at the foot of your bed. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your clit before he pushes his tongue into your wet hole.

You breathe a sigh of relief, threading your fingers through his hair. You adjust your thighs on his shoulders, trailing your toes against his well-defined back. 

He eats you out for a little while, groaning as he goes. It’s clear to you now that Mark enjoys getting his fill of you, and it makes the experience ten times more enjoyable for you. You’ve been getting better at slowing your mind while Mark licks at your clit, better at focusing on him and not all the worrying thoughts that generally buzz around you.

You feel the bed shift, and you open your eyes to see Mark has reached for the vibrator. He turns it on, assessing the way the toy shakes on the lowest setting. “Do you wanna show me where to use this, sunshine?” he asks, holding it out to you.

With a deep breath, you nod, accepting the toy and bringing it to your clit. “I like… a good amount of pressure,” you tell him, showing him exactly where you like the vibrator to be held.

It feels kind of odd to be pleasuring yourself like this in front of Mark, but from the way his pupils are blown, eyes fixed completely on your core, you can tell that he’s enjoying the view. It makes you feel more confident, as you begin to drag the vibrator side to side, teasing yourself. 

“This sort of movement is good too,” you tell him.

“Can I take over now?” he asks.

You nod, allowing him to grab the handle of the toy. 

Now that you’re not the one holding it, you can focus completely on the feeling of your clit being vibrated. It feels amazing, your toes curling at the stimulus.

Mark’s free hand is on your inner thigh, smoothing against your skin, but soon, it joins the vibrator. He teases two fingers along your folds before pushing them into you, crooking them up to find the spongey spot that has you crying out.

“You make such pretty sounds,” Mark tells you, applying more pressure to your clit with the vibe. “Fuck, I could watch you like this all night.”

“Puppy-” you whimper, skin tingling at his words.

“You have no idea how good you look,” he continues. “I swear- I want you to cum, but even if you don’t, I’m not going to be able to forget about this. This view is- fuck, it’s the best view in the world. We’re going to be at work and this is all I’ll be thinking about. I won’t be able to get you out of my head.”

With each admittance, each uttered word of praise, you can feel the tension building in the pit of your stomach.

“Can you grind on this a little, sunshine? Grind on my fingers and your toy?”

“Yeah-” you whimper, hips moving as you try to follow with his prompt. 

“That’s it-” Mark groans. “Fuck, you’re so perfect.”

His fingers work harder inside of you, and the added pressure makes you squeal. You can’t help the way one of your arms comes up to cover your face, muffling your sounds as your body moves on it’s own accord now. You’re grinding against his hand, grinding against the vibrator that sends tremors of pleasure through your entire form.

“I’m so fucking lucky,” Mark tells you. “So lucky that you’re mine- I could watch you like this for hours and not get bored.”

“Mark-” you groan. Usually, when you acknowledge an orgasm building, it dissipates, like some cruel trick of fate, a complete defiance of the laws of physics- but this time, when you whimper “I’m close” the feeling doesn't fade, it only builds.

“Yeah?” Mark sounds shocked. “All it took was a vibe, huh?”

“And… and your praise-”

“You like when I talk dirty to you, sunshine?” Mark asks. “Like it when I tell you how perfect and pretty you are?”

“Yes-”

“Are you going to be a good girl and cum for me? Or should I finger fuck this cute little pussy even harder?”

“Oh my God-” you whimper. Mark has truly gotten comfortable with you now- he’s not holding back with his sinful words, and they make your stomach pull into a tight knot. “Please, harder-”

Mark presses the vibrator against your clit, turning up the vibration with his thumb while his fingers continue their brutal pace inside your core.

You find yourself gasping, unable to speak as he works you closer and closer-

“Cumming-” you whisper, your orgasm slamming into you like a train. 

Your breath catches, waves of pleasure surging through you. Your fists grip the sheets, your back arches, your thighs quaking around Mark. Whimpers and moans fill the room, your core pulsating around Mark’s fingers while he works you through your high.

“That’s it,” Mark groans. “That’s my good girl.”

“Puppy-” you breathe, the feeling almost becoming too much for you.

“What do you need, sunshine?”

“Your cock,” you blurt out. 

“Yeah?” Mark’s fingers slow inside your pussy. 

“Please, wanna cum on your cock-”

Mark lets out a breath. “Holy fuck.” He turns the vibrator off, taking his digits from your core. Mark licks them clean before he stands up, pushing down his sweatpants. “Move up the bed for me?” he suggests.

You wiggle up to the pillows, watching Mark get onto the mattress. He allows you to lock your legs around his hips, pulling him close while he crashes his lips to yours.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, kissing him deeply. He ruts his hips, allowing you to feel his cock dragging against your core.

Patience is a virtue, but you don’t have any left. You reach between your bodies, grabbing his hard length to line it up with your pussy. 

Mark slides into you, and you let out an immediate sigh of relief. His fingers had been nice, but his cock is even better. It stretches you open, you can feel him deeper than ever. You gasp against his mouth, dragging him closer as he begins to thrust into you. 

“You feel so good, sunshine,” Mark groans, breaking the kiss so he can press his lips to your throat. 

“Puppy-” you whimper, arching your neck so he has better access to find your sweet spot.

Mark captures your hands, lacing your fingers and pressing you into the bed while he fucks you. 

You can feel him everywhere. You’re completely bewitched by Mark Lee. Your core is practically dripping, each thrust made easy by the wet that exudes out of you. 

Then Mark is reaching for your vibrator. He sits up slightly, looking down at you. “Missionary? Or maybe doggy would be better?”

“I wanna see you when I cum again,” you tell him, accepting the vibrator he holds out to you. “Want you to see me cum with your cock in my pussy.”

Mark lets out a low groan, pressing his lips to yours as you turn on the toy, adjusting it onto your clit.

“If you can’t cum, that’s okay-”

“I think I’ll cum,” you assure him. “Just fuck me hard, and I’ll get there.”

“I can do that,” Mark grins, immediately picking up his pace and adding more power to his thrusts.

“And… tell me I’m pretty again?”

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” Mark groans. “I’m so fucking lucky- how did I ever get this lucky?”

“Puppy-”

“You have no idea how into you I am- I love your sounds, love your voice- love the face you make when you feel good- love your smile-”

Each admittance has your heart buzzing in your chest. It’s crazy how easy it is for him to praise you- it almost feels like all these things were built up inside, like he’s a dam that’s just been released, and God, you love the flood.

You press the vibrator harder against your clit, entire body surging with energy. 

“You’re squeezing me so well, baby,” Mark groans, and the sound has your pussy throbbing. “Want you to cum with me so bad, do you think you can cum with me?”

“Yeah, just- kiss me?” you suggest.

Mark presses his lips to yours immediately, cupping your face with one hand. His tongue glides against your own. You eat up each other's sounds, getting completely lost in each other.

In no time at all, another orgasm is building in the pit of your stomach. 

“I’m gonna-” you whimper against his lips.

Mark fucks you even harder in response, and the motion is dizzying. 

“Please, sunshine, cum with me- fuck, I can’t hold it, cum with me-”

His words are your last straw as you explode on his cock. Your core clamps down hard, gasps of extacy escaping you.

To Mark’s credit, he holds off his own high long enough to fuck you through yours, and the moment you begin to be oversitmulated, he cums too. You can feel his cock throbbing in your pussy, his load spilling along your insides and coating your walls.

You kiss him deeply, enjoying his whimpers of pleasure.

You’ve never cum with someone balls deep inside of you before, and there’s a voice in the back of your mind itching for you to tell Mark that you love him- but you bite your tongue. You simply kiss him, holding him close while he finishes.

Finally, Mark lets out a small gasp, pulling away from your lips. His forehead presses against yours, and you’re both breathing heavily.

You’ve never felt this connected to someone in your entire life.

“Are you going to get us tissues?” you ask after a moment, letting out a small laugh.

Mark chuckles, pressing his lips against yours in a chaste kiss. “I just wanna enjoy you a second longer.”

“Puppy, you have literally all the time in the world.”

☀️ mlist + an. Thank you so much for reading! I really wanted to kick the year off with something more realistic. I wanted to write about a reader who over thinks, who doesn’t cum super easily like we usually see in fanfic. I wanted to touch on the realism of relationships, the use of sex toys, things discussed in the bonus like whiskey dick, domestic showers together and troubles sleeping next to someone new- I really hope you guys liked this even though it’s not as classic fanfic as I usually write :) 

🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here - or become a patron to access monthly bonus content and extensions for fics like this one :) find the Patreon teaser below! 

🔮 preview. “I drank too much,” Mark admits. “Hyuck kept egging me on- I’m pretty sure he wanted to get me blackout so I couldn’t fuck you tonight- But I swear- whisky dick won’t last all night,” Mark tells you. “And, I mean, you know I love using your toys so it doesn’t even matter.” He’s adorable. Of course Hyuck wouldn’t take into account that sometimes Mark is perfectly happy making you cum with your toys and not fucking you at all. Mark truly is a man built for your pleasure, and you’re not surprised that ‘whiskey dick’ hasn’t phased him.

cw/ tw. drunk!Mark, shower shenanigans, fingering, pussy eating, use of toys/g spot stimulator, Mark has ‘whiskey dick’ and can’t get hard at first, unprotected sex, praise, dirty talk, munch!Mark, creampie/fullness kink, etc…  I petnames. (hers) sunshine. (his) puppy.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.3k I teaser wc. 250

🌙 starring. Mark x afab!Reader

bonus

“Puppy?” You sit up in bed, holding your phone close. Mark’s at some boys night thing, and you really hadn’t expected to hear from him, but here he is, calling you at midnight.

“Hi, Sunshine.” 

“Hi Sunshine!” Someone else screams in the background.

“Oh my god, fuck off, Hyuck!” Mark yells back. “Not you, baby, I’m talking to Hyuck.”

“Yeah,” you laughed, “I gathered that.”

You’ve also gathered that your boyfriend is drunk. You can hear it in his voice, and when he begins to hiccup, it’s even more evident.

“So uh, I wanna see you.”

“You can see me tomorrow, we have dinner plans, right?”

“No, I wanna see you tonight and tomorrow,” Mark insists. 

“You do, huh?” God, he’s adorable.

“Yes, please.”

“Don’t you want to finish boys night?” you prompt, not wanting to get in the way of his time with friends. You know Jeno would get mad about Mark spending time with his ex instead of his boys, and you don’t want to be that girlfriend who restricts her lover from his bros.

“Nah, fuck this,” Mark says. “Jeno went home with a girl, it’s just me and Hyuck and Renjun and Chenle and Jaemin and Jisung-” Sweet Jesus, he’s listing half of your work staff. “But I wanna be with you. I can call a cab and be at your place in like, fifteen minutes?”

“Whatever you want, puppy,” you grin. “I’ll be here.”

☀️ to read the full fic AND 2.3k bonus NOW, subscribe to my Patreon, then click here

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[sugudoe]

᭡ ★ ׁ ׅ 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐋𝐒 ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ ᝰ gojo satoru used to be a lonely child, that was until you started to be there for him — to hear his complains, to run away from the clan for a few hours, and to decorate his hair with flowers. you are his most sacred person, he is your most loved one.

ᡴꪫ a/n: bring me back my man, gege!!! this was inspired by the confirmation he would sneak away from home and this, he would’ve been a mama’s boy. @emilyywhyy. using new tag, masterlist.

ᡴꪫ c/w: child!gojo, teen!gojo \\ child!reader, teen!reader \\ fluff and angst \\ bittersweet ending, but happy. \\ gender neutral!reader \\ 1.3k words.

They say the day Gojo Satoru was born, the balance of the world shifted. Everyone would stare at him with reverence, as if he was a a saint and the gift from the gods, when in fact he was a martyr, born to suffer. For you, though, he was just a boy — just your Satoru.

You had been by his side for a long time, being born in a world where his presence was constant, just a couple months older than you. You father was an experienced teacher for the clan, and your mother their most loyal historian. Both of them had been tasked with helping Gojo to understand his powers and control it, and you, always so curious, stayed by their side. Quietly and cautious, staring at him.

White hair, blue eyes, stoic face and strange ways. Sometimes, too rude, others, too playful. Inside of him there were two personalities in constant crash, one that longed to be just a child and other that was meant to be the strongest.

He envied you for many reasons. You could play with the other children, your tasks seemed less rough than his, and… Oh, he envied how loved you were by your parents. When you would accompany him in one of his classes, arriving in your messy hair and dirty kimono for playing too much, eyes filled with happiness and your parents would beam at you, they lovely child.

Would they have sold you, had you been the strongest of your family? Or would they have fought? How much money, status and power would it take for any good person in this world to be corrupted?

Satoru didn’t want to know the answer to those questions, he likes you and your parents that way — warm hugs and sweet kisses. Never would Satoru trade places with you, for him, you were so pure to deal with what he has been going through.

You were the one to approach him first, finding him hiding between the trees that surrounded the clan’s houses, tears guarded by his hands, and he was betrayed by his trembling shoulders.

“Why are you crying?” You stepped closer very slowly, as if approaching a scared animal.

“I want to go home.” Satoru answers, making your small child mind wander what he meant. Isn’t this the Gojo’s lands? “I want my mommy.”

Oh.

Even naive as you were, you understood right away. You have seen her before, one of the most beautiful woman you have ever met. Quiet, walking around the gardens, her pale skin in contrast with the roses, but everything about her and around seems dull. Maybe it’s the lack of her child that makes her like this. No money in the world could replace it, and she was only a woman in a world controlled by men. Her wishes and demands wouldn’t be heard, never.

“Sometimes, they let us see each other.” You are putting daffodils on Satoru’s hair when he starts talking again. “She pretends she is fine, and tells me how proud she is. Her hugs are longer each time, and the meetings are less as well.”

“And how about your dad?” You ask, when he is the one decorating your hair with trembling fingers.

“He…” Satoru sighs. “He is just there. Tells me to listen to the maesters, to your father. That one day I’ll make everyone proud, and be the strongest.”

“I’m proud of you.” You feel the need to say it, so you do. And maybe, it’s what you had to do, Satoru smiles slightly, before raising to his feet and grabbing you with him. He starts to run in a direction you have never been before. “Where are we going?”

“Trust me.” You do. That moment and every moment forward, you would trust Gojo.

You both arrived in the city after an hour of walking and running, babbling about your favorites everything.

His favorite animal is a dog, but he can’t have one. His favorite food is taiyaki, but he never tasted it. And, his favorite color, he stops to think and stare at you for a while, before going with the one you think looks exactly as your eyes. You tell him yours, and that you both can fix all his curiosities, right now.

With your little purses, coins clicking inside as you run through the streets, buying whatever he needs and has never experienced before, Satoru learns that he doesn’t like taiyaki, rather he finds his favorite being Kikufuku.

Sharing a strawberry ice cream, Gojo halts his movements, and you sense something coming from him — it’s what makes him being called the stronger one, the so long awaited hero. Like gravity has gone away, and the sky is falling on top of you, ready to crush everything.

“They are watching us. Let’s go home.” Had he been alone, that wouldn’t bother him, but you were still innocent, not yet developed your technique.

So, with daffodils still in your heads, you both return home to disapproving looks and a stomach filled with sugar.

Inside the groves, a tradition was born. If the weight of the world became too much to bear, Satoru would find you there. You always knew when he needed you the most, like a calling only you could sense. It burned in your chest until you reached him, and in front of Gojo, you would pick flowers and decorate his wild hair with it, or teach him how to make flower crowns or… rings.

“I wish I could burn this whole place to the ground.” He says once, while admiring the petals on your finger, he proudly made. Anger had been his friend for a while now, when he learned he would go to Jujutsu tech. He was happy and scared, and already missing you. “Except you, of course, and your parents, and my mom and… and this woods. This is ours, right?”

“Yes, ‘Toru. This is ours.” You hold his cold face with your other hand, while smiling calmly. “It will always be ours.” Closing the gap, you rest your head on his. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

“I’m not going away forever. It feels like it, but I’ll be back, every weekend, I promise. And… I could exchange to the Kyoto school.”

“No, Satoru. You need freedom.”

“I need you as well.” He counterparts. “I’ll never be free from the expectations of the world, we could, at least, be stuck together.” He is nearly crying again.

“They won’t accept me, my cursed technique is nothing too special.” You sigh, falling in the grass, and he goes behind.

“I disagree. You will see, they will come begging for you, and you will tell them to go fu…” You raise your hands to his mouth, giggling as if you were seven, and not a nearly fifteen years old girl. “I’ll make them come for you, and if they don’t, I will. I’ll always come to you, and our daffodils.”

And indeed, he does. He comes for you months later, accompanied by two other kids and round sunglasses you’ve never seen before. Gojo Satoru comes for you, to grab your hands, pack your clothes, kiss his mothers cheeks knowing that won’t ever happen again, even if he wants so much.

She tells she is proud of him, his father tell him he is nearly there. Gojo wonders what would be enough to be enough. He tries not to care, inside the car with you, hands interlocked, jokes being shared and daffodils, always them, on both your heads and fingers.

You’re proud of him, and he is nowhere near his freedom, but the responsibilities feel less strong, his sadness less real. You’re here, always will be.

﹙⠀ ᭡ ࣪˖ 🍋.⠀﹚ 20243008⠀─┈ ⭑⠀ ͏͏

[clockwayswrites]

So far this file is called 'birdritch'. Those of you who follow my art tumblr might know where this is going. I needed something light to write, been a low day. There has been zero editing or reading through and it is past 2am, sorry and enjoy! (Don't need any typos pointed out, ty.)

---

“You are supposed to be home.”

Danny blinked up from his work to find Lucius Fox standing in the doorway of the lab. The man had the sport of expression one wore around a child who had just done something disappointing.

(Danny was used to the look, even if it had been a long time since he'd been a kid. Or seen his parents, for that mater.)

“Okay, but,” Danny started, “we agreed that I could start at ten and take my eight hours and one for lunch—”

“A mandatory one hour for lunch away from your desk,” Lucius interrupted.

“Yes, yes, I’ve been doing that! I’ve been eating out on the rooftop garden or even leaving the building and eating out or taking lunch to the park. I’ve been behaving, Lucius, I promise.”

Lucius raised a judgmental brow. “It’s after eight, Danny.”

“What? No. I have an alarm on my phone and everything… okay, well, that only works if my phone is charged.” Danny jabbed uselessly at his phone screen. He followed the charger, which was plugged in, all the way to the wall. He resisted the urge to let his head fall against the wall. “I guess Leslie fried the outlet again or something. I’m sorry, Lucius.”

“It’s fine, Danny,” Lucius said, “but only because, one, I know you have been trying, and two, I am going to buy you the most embarrassing alarm clock I can find and mount it to something in this lab. Now it is late and I am going home and so are you, Mr. Fenton.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Fox,” Danny said and made an exaggerate show of packing up his backpack, dead phone and all.

Lucius gave a little snort at the antics, but left with a ‘get home safe, Danny’. After his boss was gone, Danny took the time to actually make sure everything was in his bag and secure. He still didn’t get why he couldn’t just work late, but apparently WE had something of an insistence of work life balance. According to Lucius, Danny crossed the line too often and so was being kept in line. (Danny didn’t think mention he didn’t have much of a life, literally and otherwise, would help his case.)

Still, Danny mused as he stepped inside the empty elevator, the rules did keep him from becoming his parents. And that was a very, very good thing! Being a mad scientist in Gotham usually ended up landing someone in Arkham. It was just that after the chaos that Danny grew up with, going back to his empty apartment was depressing. It wasn’t as if Danny never got out and did things, it was just that all those things were mostly on the weekend. Most days he just didn’t have a reason to go back to his place.

There was no getting out of it tonight, the great and powerful Fox had spoken and Danny knew better than to try and sneak back up. He lifted his hands over his head, stretching as the elevator descended the last few floors. Oh well, at least it was before ten. He could still grab something on the way home and have a full, warm meal to take his pain meds on. By the pull along his forearm he would need them.

“Night, Bill,” Danny said as he passed the security guard who was on the evening shift. He got another ‘get home safe’ in response and gave a little wave in reply over his shoulder.

Even after the few years in Gotham, it still amused Danny how much everyone wished everyone else some sort of safe travels here. As much as Gotham was a city of hardened realists, there still was so much hope about it. Hope people got home safely, that the Bats would get where they were need in time, that the city would rebuild again and again and again. The undercurrent of hope was so strong that Danny could practically feel it moving through the city like a river.

It had been one of the reasons Danny had taken the job.

He could use hope.

He also had been very careful not to look too closely into it all. While Danny’s early life may have been dominated by the occult, he tried to stay away from it these days outside of the necessary visits to the Realm for his health. As much as the Far Frozen was full of ghost yetis, Frostbite was still a being of science and being there felt more like a cold vacation to his weird relatives than anything else those days.

Danny was actually worried that he was getting close to needing another visit. He shouldn’t, not yet. He wasn’t actually due back for another three months, but the thought of visiting Frostbite had been pulling at the back of Danny’s mind. The most annoying part of it all, is that there wasn’t any concrete reason that Danny felt he needed to go, just a lot of little things: the ache was deeper in his bones, he’d been missing noticing little things, his near constant vertigo was worse, and, oddest of all, he had been feeling chilled.

Maybe he should just take a long weekend and go for a quick visit.

Lucius would undoubtedly approve of the break.

Tomorrow, Danny would ask tomorrow.

(As long as he remembered.)

[tragedy-of-commons]

"You're burning up" + Aventurine?

"You're burning up."

Aventurine doesn't know what else to say, so he goes with those three words. Safe bet - the doting parents in all the movies and sitcoms say it just like that; with care and worry, palm splayed out across the ill's forehead.

And holy hell are you ill.

Collapsed on his lavish sofa, you groan in response, swatting his hand away. "I'm gonna be just fine..."

He's inclined to disagree. You're sweating buckets despite how he'd mashed the thermostat down to its limit - he even had to shrug on a jacket. Perhaps Aventurine would have poked fun at you for your intolerance, but he has enough decorum to hold his tongue. He really doesn't like seeing you so put out, as much as you're welcome to crash here.

"Your poker face could use some work. Save your words, we can hang out another time," he dismisses easily, bracing himself for your incoming opposition. He reluctantly breaks away from your side to amble over to the coffee table, beginning to clean up the remnants of game night.

"No way," in the corner of his eye, he notices you shifting restlessly, "finals are coming up. Won't have time after this..."

Aventurine sighs, sweeping his very nice clay chips into one hand while using the other to click open their case. This time of year, things become almost unbearably hectic. He has exams coming up in a few weeks himself, and though he never needs to study, he always adheres to your modus operandi of 'cram now, cry later'.

"Well, you're not going back to those dorms in that state."

"You sound like a dickhead," you murmur. "You think I wanna live there? Shitty thin walls... shitty dining hall food..."

He chuckles, snapping the case shut and dusting his hands of nonexistent dust. "You're cruder than usual when you're feverish."

Aventurine almost startles when you gasp. "I have a fever?!"

...and you're loopy, too.

He gets you to sit still with the promise of retrieving a fever reducer and some water. Aventurine roots through his bathroom cabinets, combing through his own extensive collection of self-care and skin products to reach where he keeps his medication.

It takes several minutes of crouching down on the tile for him to realize he doesn't have any. He clicks his tongue - well, it seems his own lifestyle has backfired on him once again. Aventurine doesn't get sick often, doesn't spend a lot of time at home, and has enough stubborn resilience to power through any ailment that might plague him.

But for you? The only reason he spends any time at all in this stupidly expensive penthouse?

Yeah, he'll make a quick trip to the drugstore.

When he walks back into the living room with his shoes on and wallet in his pocket, his heart warms. You've somehow slipped into an upside down position, hair spilling over the edge of the cushions. You somehow make it look comfortable, eyes closed and brow free of any creases.

"Does that help your sinuses?" he asks, really only to test if you're awake.

"You smell good..."

Aventurine ignores how those words make him feel, eyeing the door (and where your shoes are lined up neatly against the wall).

"I have to restock on Tylenol," he swallows. "Will you be okay by yourself?"

"Yes," you respond coherently this time.

Before he departs, he cajoles you into another position in case you throw up like that and end up choking - not without some strangely endearing complaints that you'd normally never voice, positive thing you are.

He doesn't get to the inside mat before you pipe up again, making him stop in his tracks.

"C'mere," you cough. "Please, humor a dying star's last wish..."

He really should be going so he can get your temperature down quicker, but leaving you on the sofa while you're about to cough up a lung strikes him as cruel. Aventurine gives into your dramatics - which happen to perfectly align with his own at times - and makes his way over to you.

"What is it? Did I forget something?" he sits down on the armrest, perching there with perfect balance. When you don't respond immediately, an odd little expression on your face, he rests his chin on his fist, pensive.

You hum.

He doesn't expect much; a request for another pillow, a plea for him to turn on a movie for you while he's out. Instead, he's caught off-guard as you throw an arm around his waist and pull, effectively whisking him off the high ground and right into your grasp.

Aventurine initially tenses but settles as you nuzzle closer. You're the only person in the world that can get away with loving him so easily.

"M'sorry I got sick on game night..." you whisper, uncaring that you're spreading your sickness (and your homely oxytocin).

He finds himself not caring much either.

"Do you believe me to be that hung up on you catching a cold?"

Aventurine's heart rabbits cruelly - he's sure you can hear it, with the way you're snuggled against him and whatnot, but maybe he'll get lucky like he always has, and you'll remain oblivious and perfect and unbothered, despite what you do to him.

You sniffle, words thick with exhaustion. "I dunno. Just stay."

He can't. Not just because he has to go pick up that Tylenol, but because he feels like he might die if you keep saying things like that.

"Five minutes," he acquiesces.

Aventurine waits for your celebration of victory, but no such thing comes. You're fast asleep, clinging to him like he's worth something.

He stays for a lot longer than five minutes, only wriggling out of your arms when he's sure you won't wake up to find him gone. When he returns later with his spoils (which also just so happen to include your favorite drink), you're cradling a pillow in his place.

Before Aventurine is your boyfriend or lover, he is a liar.

He is most definitely, unequivocally, one hundred percent hung up on you.

🏷️: @akutasoda, @aviiarie, @lowkeyren

a/n: modern au because i couldn't possibly resist. just wanted to mention here that u guys absolutely killed it with these quotes. you have my gratitude! also why is he like that. soggy wet cat

event post here

[d1stalker]

The Feeling's Mutual | Final Part

Summary: With Logan heading toward the enemy's clutches, you're left alone, questioning if you'll be able to stop her and finally put an end to it all.

ONE | TWO | THREE

Warnings: canon-level violence, death, some logan POV, arguing, angst, fluff WC: 9.5k - MASTERLIST

----

Logan regrets his decision to leave you the moment the warehouse door slams shut behind him, cutting off the desperate cry that echoes from within. The sound of your voice, the look of fear and pleading in your eyes as you begged him not to do this, haunts him even as he forces himself to move forward.

Every instinct in him screams to turn back, to protect you, to face whatever comes together. But he knows he can’t. Not now. Not with what’s waiting for him outside.

The sight that greets him as he steps out into the open is nothing short of a nightmare. A horde of mutants, all gathered outside, bodies tense and mouths practically frothing at the mouth, ready to take a bite. The moment he appears, they spring into action, launching themselves at him with everything they’ve got.

He grunts as the first mutant crashes into him, small bursts of electric energy crackling all around. Still, he doesn’t hesitate. His claws flash out, cutting through the mutant’s flesh with ease. Blood splatters across his face, warm and sticky, but he barely registers it. Another mutant charges at him from the side, and he ducks under the swipe of its tail, driving his fist deep into its chest with a snarl.

They fall one by one, but there’s no satisfaction in it. These aren’t enemies; they’re victims, Shadowmind’s marionettes.

Another one slams into his side, driving him back a few steps, and Logan snarls as he jams his claws through its chest. Still, they keep coming. He’s fought worse than this—he’s fought against himself—but the sheer number of mutants bearing down on him begins to be overwhelming.

He can feel the weight of them pressing in on him, the force of their combined strength pushing him, inch by inch. He fights them off with everything he has, each slash of his claws sending one after another to the ground, but it’s just not enough.

A particularly large mutant grabs him from behind, its arms locking around his chest, effectively crushing him. Logan grits his teeth, muscles straining as he tries to break free, but he then something—or someone—slam into his legs, knocking him off balance. He stumbles, and before he can recover, more mutants pile on top of him, their weight dragging him down.

“Get off me!” he yells hoarsely with exertion as he thrashes around, but still, it’s no use. They are like a tide, and they’re dragging him toward the location of the underground tunnels, where he knows she is waiting.

It’s like he can feel the ground shifting beneath him as they drag him closer to the entrance of the tunnels, the air grows colder, darker, more unsettling. With each passing second, he’s pulled further from the warehouse, further from you.

When they reach that damn metal grate it’s quickly pushed to the side, and he's roughly shoved down into the hole, grubby hands forcing him into the depths. He lands hard on the damp, uneven ground of the tunnel system, the impact jarring his bones, but he doesn’t let the brief pain slow him down. He clambers to his feet, his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement.

The remaining mutants surround him, forming a barrier between him and the way out, and Logan knows he’s trapped. He knows that there’s no way out except forward.

“Wolvie!” He hears, the voice a sing-song echo through the tunnel in false excitement. “Back so soon? You just couldn’t stay away, could you?

“What do you want, Lorna?” he growls, using her real name deliberately, trying to strip away the power she’s claimed for herself.

She steps out of the shadows, but she doesn’t answer his question right away. Instead, she lets the silence stretch, her predatory gaze fixed on him as if she’s savouring the moment.

“I want what’s mine,” she says finally, dangerously. “And you… you’re part of that.”

Logan’s claws twitch, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t take the bait. “You’re delusional,” he spits.

“Am I?” she replies, her tone laced with false innocence. She takes a step closer, her eyes never leaving his. “You and I… we were made by the same people. We’re two sides of the same coin, Wolvie. But there’s a difference between us.”

Nostrils flaring, he tries to keep his breath coming in controlled, measured beats as he fights to keep his mind clear, focused. “The difference is, you let them turn you into this, even after their downfall.”

Shadowmind’s laughter is sharp, biting, like the crack of a whip. “You think you’re better than me?” she hisses. “I fought back. I never let myself get corrupted by them. But you?” A laugh rips from her throat. “You were just waiting there, ready to be useful, weren’t you? Just a good little weapon, eager to please.”

Logan clenches his jaw. The words hit their target, but he forces himself not to react, not to let her see the impact. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“Oh, I think I do,” she purrs, her voice softening with false sympathy. “You didn’t fight back. You let them break you, turn you into their perfect killing machine. You were more than willing to do their dirty work, weren’t you? All those years, all those lives… They didn’t mean anything to you.”

His breath hitches, just for a moment, but it’s enough. Shadowmind’s eyes glint with satisfaction, sensing the crack she’s been looking for. “You couldn’t wait to sink your claws into anyone they pointed you at. But the worst part? You’re still that same weapon. All your talk about being better, about being in control… It’s all a lie, isn’t it?”

“Shut up,” he growls.

“And what about that little sidekick of yours?” she continues, her tone shifting to one of mock pity. “Knifey, you called her? She’ll never see you the way you want her to. How could she? You’re nothing but a relic, Wolvie. Too much baggage, too old, too damaged. She’ll realize it soon enough—she’ll leave you behind, just like everyone else.”

Logan’s hands clench into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fights to stay grounded. He knows what she’s doing—knows she’s trying to weaken him, to break him down until he’s vulnerable enough for her to control. But it’s working. He can feel the doubts creeping in, the old fears and insecurities clawing their way to the surface.

“You’re a failure, Logan,” She whispers, her voice slipping inside his head, bypassing the physical world entirely. “You’ve always been one, too. You can’t save anyone, and you won’t save her. All you do is destroy. That’s all you’re good for.”

“Stop it,” he snarls.

“You can’t escape your past. No matter how many times you try to change, no matter how hard you fight, you’re still the same broken weapon they made you. You’re nothing.”

His vision shakes, the darkness of the tunnel closing in around him as her words seep into his mind, pulling at the edges of his sanity. He can feel the walls he’s built around his mind starting to crack, the strain of keeping her out taking its toll. She’s pushing harder now, digging deeper, little by little, weakening his defences, until she can take control.

“You’re alone, Logan,” she pushes. “And you’ll always be alone. Because of who you are, what you are. You destroy everything you touch. You bring pain and suffering to everyone you care about. That’s why she’ll leave you.”

His heart pounds in his ears, the sound almost drowning out her voice, but not quite. He can feel the line between reality and nightmare beginning to blur, her words fading the edges of his perception, making it harder to distinguish between the two.

“You can’t break me,” Logan says, veins in his neck bulging at the amount of effort he's exerting, the fight inside him burning bright despite the wickedness closing in. “You’ll never break me.”

Lorna’s laughter echoes through the tunnel, haunting. “We’ll see about that, Wolverine,” she whispers, her voice dripping with malevolent glee.

----

The days after Logan sacrifices himself to the horde of mutants blur into one long stretch of despair and frantic thinking. You know he did it to protect you, to keep you safe, but the only thing it does is leave you feeling utterly alone and powerless. All you want to do is follow him, tear through those mutants and drag him back, but the door that closed so resolutely behind him now feels like an impenetrable barrier.

Self-sacrificing asshole.

You spend the first few hours pacing back and forth across the warehouse, your mind spinning with distressed ideas and plans that you know, deep down, are impossible. You think about sneaking back into the tunnels, maybe finding a back way in, using the element of surprise to take down Shadowmind before she can do any more damage. But the more you try to piece together a plan, the more you realize how futile it is. She could be hiding anywhere in the shadows of those damn tunnels, and if she has another group of mutants waiting for you... Every time you think you have a workable strategy, it falls apart under the weight of too many unknowns.

At one point, you even consider trying to bargain with her, offering yourself up in exchange for Logan’s freedom. But the idea of putting yourself at Shadowmind’s mercy again, knowing first-hand how she twists minds and breaks people, makes you regret contemplating it. And you know Logan would never forgive you if you did something so reckless, and let’s say if she agreed to the exchange, there’s no guarantee she wouldn’t just find a way to end you both.

So, you spend your days trapped in a cycle of despair and frustration, your mind constantly racing to find a way to get him back. Hardly sleeping, your nights are filled with restless tossing and turning, your thoughts consumed by images of what that wicked woman might be doing to him.

Is she torturing him, trying to break his spirit? Or is she forcing him to relive the horrors of his past, using his memories against him? Thinking of him suffering, of him being twisted and corrupted by her influence, leaves you feeling hollow and sick with worry.

You try to distract yourself, to keep busy in the warehouse, but everything reminds you of him. After all, it’s his place. The silence is deafening without the sound of his heavy footsteps, the gruffness of his voice cutting through the stillness. Even the small, mundane tasks feel impossible without him there. You find yourself flailing around in the kitchen, your attempts to cook a meal turning into a disaster. You can’t remember how he managed to make everything look so easy, his hands moving with ease as he salvaged your attempts at dinner. 

You stand there, staring at the mess you’ve made, feeling utterly useless. In the few short weeks you’ve known him, you always relied on him to help you with something, to have your back in a mutant-encounter, to steady you when you stumbled. Now, without him, you feel like you’re falling apart. 

At night, when you’re laying in bed—his bed—the thoughts never stop. Your thoughts wander, wondering how he’s holding up, whether he’s still fighting, still resisting. Or if he’s already succumbed to Shadowmind’s control. You absolutely despise the idea of him being forced to kill, to hurt others, knowing how much he loathes the things he’s been made to do in the past.

A small, treacherous part of you can’t help but hope that, if nothing else, Logan will find a way to end it. That he’ll kill her before she can break him, before she can twist him into something unrecognizable. You know it’s a dangerous thought, but you cling to it all the same.

She deserves to be punished.

If anyone can survive her, it’s Logan. If anyone can find a way to stop her, it’s him.

Yet, as the days drag on, that hope begins to fade. The longer he’s gone, the more your fears grow, until they consume you entirely. You imagine him locked in a battle of wills with her, his mind being torn apart, and it almost drives you to the brink of madness. You feel like you're unraveling, piece by piece, the threads of your sanity slipping through your fingers as you pace the warehouse, waiting for a sign, any sign, that he’s still out there.

The silence stretches on, building up to a crushing weight. Every time you hear a noise outside, every creak of the building, every gust of wind, you freeze, your heart leaping into your throat, hoping against hope that it’s him, that he’s somehow found his way back to you. But each time, you’re met with nothing but disappointment and the hollow emptiness that fills the space where he used to be.

You sit by the door for hours, just staring at it, willing it to open, willing Logan to walk through it and tell you that everything is going to be alright. That he’s beaten her, that he’s stronger than her. But the door remains closed, the warehouse eerily still, and your hope continues to wither away.

Just go. Help him. Do it yourself

These thoughts begin to swarm in your head. You realize that it’s been too long. If Logan were to do something, anything, he would have done it by now. For all you know, he could be chained up to those cold, damp walls, waiting for you to save him. 

Steeling yourself, you take a deep breath, gathering every ounce of courage you have left. You turn toward the door, ready to throw it open and march back into the madness, when suddenly, it swings open on its own.

And there he is. Logan stands in the doorway, his frame filling the entrance, the light from outside casting shadows across his face. For a moment, you’re frozen, disbelief warring with overwhelming relief.

He’s back. He’s here.

“Logan!” you gasp, rushing toward him, your feet barely touching the ground. “Oh my gosh, you’re back. Are you alr—”

But your words are cut off as his hand latches around your throat with a vice-like grip. Kicking the door shut behind him, the breath is driven from your lungs as he swiftly turns you around, slamming you roughly against it. Pain radiates through your back from the impact, your mind reeling, struggling to understand what’s happening.

“What—” you manage to choke out, but the words die in your throat as you feel the sharp edge of his claws pressing against your stomach.

Your eyes go wide, your mind a blur of shock and disbelief. This isn’t your Logan. It can’t be. Yet before you can process it, before you can even react, the claws extend with a sickening shink, and you feel them pierce through your flesh, cold steel sinking deep into your abdomen.

A strangled cry escapes your lips as the pain explodes through you, white-hot and searing, radiating out from where his claws are buried in your stomach. Your hands fly to grab his wrist, trying to push him away, but there’s no strength in your limbs, no fight in you. Your legs give out, and you slump against the door, held up only by the grip he has on your throat.

You try to speak, try to ask him why, but the words won’t come. All you can do is stare up at him as the reality of what’s happening sinks in.

There’s no recognition in his eyes, no hint of the man you’ve grown to care about. He looks at you as if you’re nothing, just another target, just another obstacle in his path.

“She… she got you?” you whisper, the question barely a breath, your voice breaking under the weight of your pain and confusion.

There’s no response. Hatred burns in his eyes as he pulls his claws free from your body with a slow, deliberate movement, the pain doubling as they slide out of your flesh. Blood pours from the wound, soaking through your clothes and pooling at your feet

You can feel your body beginning to mend itself together, until only a lingering ache remains, but the pain—oh, the pain—is still there, deep and throbbing, both physical and emotional.

Logan steps back, his claws dripping with your blood, his expression unchanged. The realization that you’re going to have to fight him slams into you like a fucking bus, and the thought of hurting him again makes you hesitate.

This is Logan. The man who’s fought beside you, who's trained you… But now, he’s under her control, and this version of him is not going to stop until one of you is down.

Trying to shake of the pain, you raise your hands in a defensive stance. “Logan, I don’t want to hurt you,” you plead, your voice trembling. But he doesn’t respond. He just charges at you.

You barely dodge the first strike, rolling to the side as his clawed fist collides with the metal door. Your mind is screaming at you to fight back, but your heart is in turmoil. Every move you make is half-assed, conflicted, as you struggle to reconcile the need to defend yourself with the deep, aching reluctance to harm him.

“Please!” you cry out, dodging another swipe that comes dangerously close to your throat. “You have to push against this!” 

This isn’t just a fight—it’s a mirror image of the horror you lived through not long ago. You know exactly what he’s feeling, the suffocating darkness that grips his mind, the tight grip of control that leaves him impotent to resist. Shadowmind’s influence is a force of sheer will, a crime against everything you are, twisting your thoughts, your actions, until there’s nothing left of you but a weapon in her hand.

You remember the way it felt, how every fibre of your being screamed to stop, to fight back, but your body moved on its own, driven by her malicious intent. The guilt, the helplessness—it had nearly broken you. And now, here you are, facing Logan, who’s trapped in the very same prison. 

The roles have been reversed, and the bitter irony of it a sick joke.

Hopelessness eats at your insides as you’re backed into a corner, your mind racing to find a way out of this without hurting him. He gives you no choice. He’s faster, stronger, and without the hesitation that’s holding you back, he’s going to overpower you if you don’t act.

He comes at you again, claws aimed straight for your heart, and you finally react on pure instinct. You grab his wrist just in time, using your strength to twist his arm away, the momentum sending him stumbling back for a brief moment. But it’s not enough to stop him.

“Come on, snap out of it!” you shout. You hate this—you hate every second of it. But you can’t let him kill you, and you can’t let Shadowmind win.

He doesn’t respond. All he does is attack, faster this time, his movements a blur. In a desperate move, you finally manage to knock him back, sending him crashing into a table. For a moment, he stays down, breathing hard, and you take the opportunity to plead with him one last time.

“Logan, I know you’re in there,” you say, eyes filled with tears. “You have to fight her. I don’t want to hurt you… I can’t.”

But when he rises again, there’s no sign that he heard you at all. He jumps in your direction once more, and your heart shatters as you realize that there’s no choice left. 

----

Lorna’s mental assault is relentless. 

“Just let go, Logan,” she hisses, a poisonous whisper that slithers into the cracks of his defences. “You can’t fight me forever. You’re not strong enough.”

Logan grits his teeth, nails digging into his palms as he struggles to keep her out, to hold on to the last shreds of his sanity. But it’s been days, and the gaps are widening, spreading like spiderwebs through his mind, and he can feel her starting to slip through, her presence growing stronger, more oppressive.

“You’re weak,” she continues. “You were always weak. That’s why they made you into what you are—a weapon. Because you were never good enough to be anything else.”

His vision blurs, the world around him fading as her voice fills every corner of his mind, pushing out his own thoughts, his own will. 

“Why keep fighting, Wolvie?” She ponders. “You’ve fought your whole life, and what has it gotten you? Pain. Loss. Loneliness. Just let go. Stop fighting. It’ll be easier that way. You’ll finally have peace.”

Her voice is all he can hear now, all he can feel.

“That’s it,” she whispers triumphantly. “Give in. You know you want to. You’ve always wanted to. Just let go. Let me take control.”

With one last, brutal push, she forces her way in, her power crashing through his mind. Logan gasps, his body going rigid as she seizes control, her will overriding his own, drowning out his thoughts, his memories, everything that makes him who he is.

He feels her in his mind, filling every nook and cranny. There’s no room left for him, no space to fight back.

“Good,” she purrs, “Now, do what you were made to do. Kill her.”

His body moves on its own, driven by her desires. He turns, face stoic, as he begins to move toward the warehouse, where you’re waiting, unaware of the danger that’s about to strike.  The chains around his mind tighten, pulling him along, guiding his every step.

Kill her, he hears again, and he obeys without hesitation. He’s powerless. And as he reaches the door, his hand reaches for the handle, the final barrier between him and his target, the woman he’s been ordered to kill. The woman he…

But the thought never completes itself. Lorna’s voice, dark and seductive, wraps around his mind once more, tightening the chains, binding him to her.

“Do it, Logan,” she whispers in anticipation. “Show her what you really are.”

The door swings open, and Logan steps inside, his eyes locking onto you. And as he closes the distance, there’s only one thought left in his mind, one command that drives him forward.

Kill.

----

The clash of skin against skin fills the warehouse as you and Logan engage into heated combat. Every movement, every strike delivered, but there’s an anguised edge to your attacks—one that comes from knowing you’re fighting someone you care about, someone who, under different circumstances, would never lift a hand against you.

But these aren’t different circumstances. This isn’t the Logan you know. This is Shadowmind.

Your body moves with the skill Logan taught you, every nerve on high alert as you parry his strikes and counter with your own. It’s a brutal dance, each of you trying to find an opening, but despite everything, the fight is even. You’re giving as good as you get, but you know deep down that his experience, his brutal history, gives him the advantage.

He fights as if he’s been doing this his entire life—which, of course, he has. You can see it in the way he maneuvers, the way he anticipates your strikes, even under her influence, the muscle memory doesn’t lie. Still, you keep going, keep pushing yourself to maintain your ground. Each hit he lands, your body heals, the pain sharp but temporary. You use your strength to block some of his strikes, to push him back, but he’s insane, his jabs coming faster, harder, until you’re struggling just to keep up.

Somehow you manage to sweep his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. But before you can capitalize on the moment, he rolls forward, moving on all fours as he reaches out and grabs your ankle. Then, he yanks you to the ground with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. The impact reverberates through your body, and for a moment, your vision blacks out.

You try to scramble to your feet, but he’s quicker. He’s on top of you immediately, his weight pinning you down, his hands wrapping around your throat. You gasp, your hands flying up to his wrists as you struggle to breathe, to fight against the crushing pressure.

“Logan, stop!” you choke out, clawing at his hands, your nails digging into his skin. You know he won't stop. Not when he's under her control.

The world around you begins to fade around the edges, your vision shrinking as the lack of oxygen sends you spiraling into darkness. You can feel your strength diminishing, your body growing weaker as your lungs burn, desperate for air. Your hands slip from his wrists, falling limply to your sides as your muscles give out, your last reserves of energy draining away.

You don't think your healing factor will allow you to survive this.

Just as your eyes begin to roll back into your head, just as you’re on the verge of passing out, something in him shifts. His grip loosens, the pressure on your throat easing slightly, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes—something human, something familiar.

In an instant, Logan’s hands release you entirely, his body going rigid as if struck by an unseen force. His wide eyes stare down at you, processing what just happened—what he just did. His breath comes in harsh, ragged gasps as he looks at his hands, the hands that were strangling the life out of you not even a minute ago, and then back at your face, colourless and gasping for breath. The horror spreads across his features like a slow, creeping shadow, and with a choked gasp, he falls to his knees beside you.

“Fuck,” he mutters frantically, running a shaky hand through his hair, his fingers trembling as if they’ve just been burned. He looks lost, terrified, as if the reality of what he’s capable of is crashing down on him all at once.

“You have to go,” he says in barely more than a hoarse whisper. “You need to get the hell away from me.”

You force yourself to sit up, ignoring the searing pain in your throat, the way each breath feels like it’s dragging over raw, jagged edges. Your vision is still hazy, the space around you spinning slightly, but you manage to shake your head, reaching out to place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “No. I’m not leaving you.”

The moment your hand touches him, his body jumps. It's as if your touch is the last thing he expected, the last thing he deserves. He flinches away from you, his eyes wide, but then it changes.

His expression hardens, the panic in his eyes melting into anger. “I’m not givin’ you a choice,” he spits out. “Leave before I hurt you even more.”

Deep down, you know he’s saying this to protect you, to push you away before he loses control again. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less. The fact that he isn’t even considering your help, that he’s so determined to shut you out, feels like a betrayal.

“Hey, stop,” you begin. “Let me help you.”

He shakes his head violently, standing up abruptly, towering over you with a clenched jaw. “You don’t get it,” he snarls, the desperation in his voice now masked by a biting anger. “I almost killed you! I could have—”

“But you didn’t,” you interrupt, pushing yourself to your own feet, making him look you in the eye. “You stopped. You fought her off.”

“For how long?” he snaps back, frustrated. Not with you, but with himself. “How long before she gets back in? How long before I lose it completely and—”

“And what?” you challenge, “And kill me? Logan, if she’s in your head, you need me here. I’m not running away just because you’re scared.”

“Scared?” He practically growls the word, his fists clenching at his sides. “You think this is about being scared? This is about keepin’ you alive! You have no idea what it’s like, what she’s doing to me—”

“I know exactly what it’s like!” you shout, your frustration finally boiling over. “I was under her control too, remember?”

“It’s different with me!” Logan barks, his voice echoing in the small space. “I’m not like you! I’ve got too much shit in my head, too much darkness, and she’s feeding off it,” he takes in a heavy breath. 

You run your hands down your face, exasperated. “Why are you insisting on doing this alone? First you leave me to sacrifice yourself or whatever that was, and now you’re just gonna do the exact same thing again? It didn’t work the first time and it won’t work the second. We need to do this together!” 

“Remember when I told you this wasn’t a partnership?” he snaps as he struggles to keep his composure, the battle raging within him evident in every tense line of his body. “When I said I needed to figure out what was happening? Well, I did, and guess what? You’re not involved. This is my burden, and I’m telling you to go.”

“You’re being so fucking stubborn!” You yell, trying to break through the walls he’s building around himself. “You don’t need to push me away in order to protect me. That’s not how this works!”

His face twists in irritation. “I’m dangerous! I’m a goddamn ticking time bomb, and she knows how to set me off!”

“Then let me help you defuse it!”

You’re beginning to take a step toward when when you see it—the twitch of muscle below his right eye, then his left, and the scrunching of his brows. His face begins to contort in pain, and a cold dread settles in your chest as you begin to realize what is happening to him.

She’s not listening to you, Logan hears her voice return in the back of his head, a small whisper. 

She never will.

His hands fly up to his head, gripping it tightly as if he could physically tear her of his skull.

You’re useless, the words seep into his thoughts. 

You were always just a weapon. Nothing more. Nothing less. And now you’re nothing.

Each phrase pounds through his skull, each whisper amplifying in volume until they’re not whispers anymore but screams. His body begins to tense, muscles locking up.

She won’t want you. It’s a ceaseless litany designed to break him, to shatter the last of his resistance once more. His vision wanes, black edges creeping in as Shadowmind’s influence digs deeper, rooting itself back into the darkest corners of his mind.

“Run,” he chokes out, voice strained, barely recognizable as his own. The command is laced with urgency, with the knowledge that if you don’t, he won’t be able to stop what’s coming.

But you hesitate, unwilling to leave him like this. “Logan, I can’t—”

“RUN!” he roars, the sheer might of the word almost knocking you back.  Then, every emotion drains from his face, wiped out in an instant, leaving behind that same expressionless mask you saw when he first attacked you. The last shred of control he had is gone.

You don’t need to be told again. You turn and bolt for the door, and as you sprint out of the room, Logan’s world narrows to a single point of focus—the voice in his head, now no longer just whispers but a deafening roar. 

He’s coming for you, and there’s nothing left of him to stop it.

----

Your heart pounds in your chest as you run, the fear and adrenaline fueling your every step. You’re going as fast as you can, the world around you blurring into streaks of colour as you race down the street, but no matter how fast you go, you can hear him—hear Logan—right behind you. 

His footsteps are heavy, persistent. The sound of his grunting ricochets off the buildings and into your ears, and you don’t need to turn around to know he’s moving faster than you’ve ever seen before, Shadowmind unleashing some berserk mode within him, and you know this won't end until he's caught you

You dart around corners, leap over obstacles, trying to put as much distance between you and Logan as possible, but it’s no use. And when you do finally glance over your shoulder, he’s there, closing the gap with terrifying precision, his eyes fixed on you.

Your thoughts race as quickly as your feet, desperately searching for a solution, a way to escape. Where can I go? What can I do?

And then, like a bolt of lightning, an idea hits you.

With a sudden burst of determination, you swerve sharply, changing direction on a dime. The abrupt move nearly throws you off balance, but you recover quickly, setting your sights on the entrance to the underground tunnels—Shadowmind’s lair. You can feel Logan’s presence behind you, so close now that his breath is practically on the back of your neck, but you force yourself to ignore it.

Approaching the metal grate, you lift it up and throw it to the side as fast as possible, and leap down into the darkness. There’s no time to catch your breath. You sprint through the dark, winding passages of the tunnel, your feet pounding against the cold, uneven ground. 

Behind you, Logan’s pursuit is unending. The sound of his claws whipping through the air is horrifying, but you can’t afford to slow down, can’t afford to let fear overtake you. You have to keep moving, have to find Shadowmind before he gets you.

Her voice slithers through the tunnel with cruel amusement, a taunt that weaves itself out from the shadows. “Did you do it, Wolvie? Did you kill her?”

It sends a surge of anger through you, a hot, burning rage that fuels your steps. Your voice reverberates off the walls as your scream, “Shut the fuck up!”

You can feel her presence ahead, the oppressive weight of her mind starting to press down on you too, and the need to end this—to end her—drives you forward.

Finally, you see her. She’s standing at the end of the tunnel, her silhouette illuminated by a light that seems to radiate from the very walls. Her eyes gleam with malice, a psycho grin playing on her lips as she watches you approach. It’s as if she’s been expecting you, waiting for you to come to her.

Without hesitation, you lunge for her, but just as you’re about to reach her, Logan intercepts you, his body slamming into yours from the side with brutal force.

The impact sends you crashing into the opposite wall. Pain blooms along your shoulder, the breath knocked out of your lungs. The rough edges of the room scrape against your skin, and the dampness oozes into your bones as you struggle to regain your footing.

“Logan, I’m not fighting you!” you shout, exhaustion and frustration blending in your voice as you try to reason with the man you know is still in there, somewhere. “I’m going to kill that fucking bitch!” you finish, pointing at the woman standing behind him.

But her laughter fills the air. “Oh no, darling,” she sneers, “That won’t be happening. After all, I have a good guard dog, dont I?”

If looks could kill, she’d be dead tens times over. Your blood boils as you stare at her, the rage bubbling up inside you at the sight of her face. Somebody needs to put her in her place.

“Bet you feel real powerful, huh?” you jeer, voice laced with venom as you take a step closer, your eyes locked on hers. “Getting everyone to do your dirty work for you since you’re too fucking weak to do it yourself?”

Her smirk falters for just a moment, irritation crossing her features briefly, but she quickly regains her composure, her eyes narrowing in dangerously on you. 

“Because you wouldn’t survive if I punched you, right?” you continue. “All this power, all this control, and you’re still nothing without someone else’s strength. You’re a coward, Lorna. You haven’t done a single thing without hiding behind someone else!”

The words hang in the air, and you can see the fury building in her eyes, her cool demeanour cracking under your insults. Her fists clench at her sides, her lips pulling back in a snarl as the mask of control she’s been wearing begins to slip.

“Shut up,” she snaps.

“What’s the matter?” you mock. “Is the truth too much for you? Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it, you cunt.”

“You know I’m right, don't you?” You press on. “Without someone to control, you’re nothing. You’re just a scared little girl playing with other people’s lives because you’re too weak to live your own.”

She’s seething. “Stop it!”

You grit your teeth, refusing to back down. “You want to get back Logan for hurting you all those years ago?” you shout at her. “When he was just a victim to the same mind control you’ve been inflicting on all those other mutants!”

“That’s not true!” she hisses, but the denial in her voice is thin, wavering. If Logan was himself, he’d think about how you’re getting to her the exact same way she got to him—and he’d be so proud.

“You’re no better than they were,” you carry on. “Making him hurt me won’t change anything. It won’t make you any better than they were!”

“Silence!” Lorna cries. “It’s not the same! He doesn't get to be happy! He deserves to suffer for what he did!

“What he did?” you retort incredulously. “What he did was survive. He was manipulated and controlled! Sound familiar? You’re no different from the people you claim to hate!”

“ENOUGH!” she screams in fury, the word bouncing off the walls. “I’m nothing like them!"

“Are you sure about that?” you ask, tilting your head to the side in faux confusion. "What are you doing right now then?"

The rage in her eyes flare, and her fists are clenched so tightly her knuckles turn white. You wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to attack you herself. But then her gaze shifts back to Logan, and a creepy smirk dances on her lips as she refocuses her control on him.

“Go get her, Wolvie,” she commands, like a queen ordering her knight to battle. His body tenses, and next thing you know, you've become his target once again.

You jump to the side, quickly evading the oncoming threat, your focus never leaving the woman. “This is between you and me, bitch!” you shout.

“Oh, it will be,” she replies, her voice dripping with malice. “If you can get to me.” 

You know she must have used her mind-control to speak to him again, because he moves mindlessly, his body blocking your path to her, working as a shield. All you can do is hold back the scream of frustration that’s building inside you as you take in the scene.

The Logan you know is trapped inside, buried under layers of Shadowmind’s control, and the sight of him standing there, ready to protect her, infuriated you.

A humourless laugh escapes your lips. “You think that’s going to stop me?” you mutter dangerously.

The rage, the pain, the fear—it all coalesces into a single point of concentration, you lunge forward, your fist glowing with that molten heat as you pour everything into this final act. As fast and hard as you can, you slam your first into his midsection, just like you had done once before. The sound of tearing flesh and the sickening squelch of your arm piercing through him reverberates through the room.

Grabbing his shoulder with your other hand, you shove him back harshly, using every ounce of strength to close the distance between him and his puppetmaster. The force of your push is enough to drive him backward, your arm still embedded in his torso as you reach toward her. Your eyes lock onto hers, and you see the shock at the realization that her plan is crumbling before her eyes.

Your fist makes contact with her chest, and you drive it in even further. Her mouth opens in a silent scream, eyes wide with terror. Logan’s body jerks violently, his muscles seizing as the control she had over him falters.

She gasps in agony, her power waning, her grip on his mind slipping away like sand through her fingers. It’s like you can feel it—the hold she had on him snapping, her influence retreating like a dying flame, flickering out.

But you can't celebrate yet. The job isn't finished. You yank your arm free from Logan’s body with a savage pull, and the force of your withdrawal sends him staggering to the side, body crumpling to the ground, finally free of her control but too weak to stand.

Lorna’s once smug expression disintegrates entirely, her eyes wide with unbridled fear once she senses her impending doom. 

“NO!” she screams in fright, but the sound is pitiful, and powerless. It’s too late. Far too late.

You grab her by the throat, her skin sizzling under your touch, the scent of burning flesh filling the room as she writhes in your grasp, her hands clawing desperately at yours, but you don’t let go. With a single, brutal twist, you snap her neck, ending her once and for all.

Her body falls to the ground, lifeless, and you stand there, breathing heavily, your chest heaving as the reality of what you’ve done slowly sinks in.

It’s done. She’s dead. 

As you turn your head to the side, your gaze falls on Logan. Your Logan. He's on his knees, blood pooling around him, his hands pressed tightly against the gaping wound in his midsection that’s slowly closing. His face is pale, drawn, and there’s a haunted look in his eyes, like he’s not entirely sure that he’s free, not entirely sure that he deserves to be.

He tries to speak, but the words seem to catch in his throat, his eyes glistening as he looks at you like he’s seeing a miracle. “Knifey,” he finally manages to say, his voice hoarse. 

You take a step toward him. “It’s over, Logan. We did it.”

Logan’s gaze drops to the ground, his shoulders slumping as he shakes his head, the weight of everything that’s happened pressing down on him. “You did it. I almost…” He trails off, his hands shaking as they drop to his sides, stained with his own blood. “I almost killed you.”

“But you didn’t.” You affirm, crouching in front of him. 

He doesn’t respond, his mind spiraling further into the abyss of self-loathing. “It’s my fault,” he mutters. “I let her do this to me.”

Shifting to your knees, you reach a hand out to rest on his arm. “It wasn’t you. Just like it wasn’t me when I was under her control. This was Shadowmind’s doing, not yours.”

He shakes his head, his hands coming up to tangle in his hair as if trying to tear away the thoughts that are consuming him. “It’s not the same,” he strains. “I was so close, if I just pushed against her harder…”

“No,” you say firmly, this time pulling him into a hug, your arms wrapping around him tightly. “You’re not to blame.”

“I hurt you,” he whispers, leaning into your touch. “I became the monster I’ve always been”

“You’re not a monster,” you murmur into his ear, “It’s over, she’s gone.” All you can do is try and erase whatever lies were put into his head. “I’m here, you’re not alone.”

Logan clings to you, the his actions pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket, but your words slowly start to filter through the haze that Shadowmind left behind. They’re so different—so completely opposite—from the venomous lies she used to break him down.

Where her voice was cruel and cutting, twisting the knife deeper into old wounds, your voice is gentle, comforting, like a balm to his battered soul.

You’re telling him that he’s not a monster, that he’s more than just a weapon. You’re telling him that you’re here with him, that he’s not alone. Your words wrap around him like a lifeline, pulling him back from the edge, anchoring him in a way that nothing else could.

A deep, overwhelming adoration blooms in Logan’s chest, spreading through him with a warmth that he hasn’t felt in what seems like forever. It’s counters the cold, empty feeling that he’s been always been carrying around with him, and that takes his breath away. He doesn’t deserve this—doesn’t deserve you—but here you are, holding him, comforting him, tugging him out of the void with nothing more than your presence.

He feels something shift inside him, breaking through the layers of self-loathing and hatred. It’s you—your words, your understanding—that does it, and it makes him realize just how much you mean to him, how much he needs you. For the first time in days, the fog in his mind starts to lift, and he begins to see things clearly again.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Logan brings his arms up around you, returning your embrace. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in the scent of you, the heat radiating from your skin grounding him in the present, in the reality that he’s still here with you. He's not under control.

His heart is pounding in his chest, but it’s not from fear or anger—it’s from the overwhelming gratitude and feelings that are flooding his system.

Without thinking, he presses a soft, almost reverent kiss to your collarbone, the gesture filled with a quiet, aching affection. It’s a wordless way of telling you how much he cares, how much he’s grateful for you, for your strength, for the way you’ve saved him from himself. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

You hold him even tighter, your fingers gently tracing soothing patterns on his back. The connection between you feels stronger than ever, as if this moment has solidified those unspoken, brewing, emotions between you. You tilt your head slightly, brushing a soft kiss against his temple in return. It’s simple, but it sends a rush through Logan, making his heart lurch in his chest. The tenderness of it all is almost too much, but in the best way possible. 

For so long, he’s been scared to open up, to let anyone see the vulnerable parts of him that he’s kept hidden. He’s always been the one to bear the burden alone, to push people away before they could get too close. But here, in your arms, all those fears seem to fade into the background. 

You’ve seen him at his worst—manipulated into a weapon, mindless and violent—and still, you hold him like he’s worth something, like he’s more than just a mutant to exploit. And in this moment, he realizes he wants to open up to you. He wants to let you in.

He feels a sudden, fierce need to protect this—protect you. He wants to try this out with you, see it where it goes. The fear of opening up to someone, of being hurt or abandoned, still lingers in the back of his mind, but now, it’s different. Now, he feels like maybe, just maybe, he’s found something worth fighting for on his own accord. No external influence. Just you. 

“Let’s get out of here” you say gently. “We can go back to yours, or mine. I have a bed we can share.”

Logan pulls back slightly, eyes softening at your suggestion. He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek as he looks into your eyes. “Yeah,” he says quietly, his voice filled with a depth of emotion that surprises even him. “Let’s get goin'.”

----

And that's exactly what you do. After the tender moment, you and Logan head back to his place, gathering what little you need and packing up the essentials. He doesn’t say much as he packs a small duffel bag with clothes, some weapons, and a few belongings. You can tell his mind is still elsewhere, likely replaying everything that’s happened, everything he was put through.

Once you’re both ready to go, you finally decide to ask the question that’s been nagging at you since he first came and attacked you. As you zip up your own bag, you glance over at him, who’s pulling on his jacket, and speak up, trying to keep your voice as gentle as possible. 

“How… how did she get into your head? How did she… take control?”

Logan pauses, his hand stilling on the zipper of his jacket as he looks at you. You can see shame cloud his vision, but he doesn’t shy away from the question. He lets out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall as he considers how to answer.

“She used my weaknesses,” he finally says. “Lorna knew what buttons to push, what wounds to press on… She knew how to get inside, to tear me down.”

You nod, trying to understand, but it’s hard to imagine Logan having any real weaknesses, at least in the way he’s describing. “What are they?” you ask quietly, stepping closer to him, wanting to offer whatever comfort you can. “What did she use against you?”

His eyes meet yours, and in it, there’s a vulnerability that you don’t think you’ve if ever seen. He hesitates, like he’s weighing whether or not to tell you, whether or not to let you in on the truth of what she did, or what you mean to him.

But then, his expression softens, and he simply says, “You.”

The word is spoken so tenderly, so earnestly, that it takes a second to fully sink in. When it does, your breath lodges itself in your throat, your heart giving a painful thud as you realize the full extent of what he’s saying. 

You are his weakness. You are the one thing Shadowmind can use to break him down, to get inside his head.

“Me?” you repeat, almost in disbelief.

“Yeah, you. You’re the only person who has made me feel like more than a damn killin’ machine, and I’m grateful for that. Grateful for you.”

His admission is raw and honest, a reflection of just how deeply you’ve impacted his life, even if it’s only been a few short weeks. You’ve seen the man behind the claws, the heart behind the hardened exterior, and even though you may not have started off on the right foot, being in each other’s presence constantly has allowed you to share sides of yourselves you otherwise wouldn’t have.

You step closer, your hand reaching out to gingerly cup his cheek, feeling the rough scratch of his facial hair beneath your fingers. “The feeling’s mutual,” you say teasingly, referring back to your first conversation together, but he knows you mean it, because it's true. You are just as grateful for Logan as he is for you. He came into your life amidst chaos, and helped you navigate through it. 

His support, albeit not always the most straightforward, has been the only thing keeping you sane.

He leans into your hand, a shy smile gracing his lips at the intimacy of it all, while reaching out and wrapping his arms around your waist, bringing you closer into his space. His warm breath fans across your skin, and for the first time in a long while, he feels something other than fear, self-hatred, or guilt.

He feels hope. Hope that he could move past this, live a normal life, one that's not shrouded in violence, manipulation.

“You’re too good for me,” he murmurs. 

You shake your head, a small, tender smile playing on your lips as you pull back just enough to look into his eyes. “Nothing is too good for you,” you say with conviction. “You deserve to be happy. No one, including you, can tell me otherwise.”

Logan huffs out a small, almost disbelieving laugh, his gaze dropping for a moment before returning to yours. “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”

“Yup,” you say, popping the “p” with a cheeky smile. “But you like it”

There’s a fleeting moment, where neither of you speak, where all you can do is stare at each other. Your surroundings seem to fade away, the previous events already pushed back into the farthest place in your mind. All you can—want—to focus on in the man in front of you.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, you’re both surging forward, crashing into each other with a passion that takes your breath away. The kiss is fierce, all-consuming, a collision of the feelings between you that have been building since the moment he found you on the street, since he told you he liked your smile, since he helped you in the kitchen. His hands are moving instantly, one slipping around your waist, pulling you in even tighter, connecting your body with his, and the other cupping the back of your neck. Your own hands grip the front of his jacket, your fingers curling into the fabric as you kiss him back, pouring everything into it.

It’s not gentle—there’s nothing tentative or hesitant about it. It’s hungry, desperate. You can taste the longing in the way his lips move against yours. Time seems to stand still, and all that exists is this moment, the heat of his body, the pounding of your heart, the way his breath mingles with yours in the small space between you. Each second blends into the next as you lose yourself in him. 

Eventually, the kiss slows, becoming softer, more tender. Logan’s lips brush against yours in a series of light, almost teasing pecks, each one lingering just a moment longer than the last. “You’re right,” he murmurs against your lips. “I do like it.”

Your chest swells, and you move your arms so they rest around his shoulders. “I knew it.” 

He grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re trouble, Knifey."

“Damn right I am,” you beam, stealing another quick kiss, savouring the way his lips curve into a smile against yours. “Too bad you’re gonna be stuck with me for a while, huh?”

Logan lets out a chuckle, the sound vibrating through you as he leans in, fondly nudging his nose with yours. “Yeah, too bad.”

----

A/N: thank you all for reading this series!!

----

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[miguelswifey04]

Reader cockwarming Miguel while he’s working and readers falling asleep with her head on Miguel’s shoulder facing him and every time she starts to dozy off Miguel moves

i love cockwarming sm (so sorry had to say this)

miguel o’hara x fem! reader

cw: cockwarming, p in v, smut; not plot, nsfw 18+

you finds yourself seated on miguel’s cock, feeling the heat of his body against your own. miguel, focused on his work, is diligently typing away at his computer. but as your movements cause friction between your bodies, a pleasurable sensation courses through you.

miguel continues to work, his mind racing with tasks and responsibilities, while you nestle closer, your hips pressing against his. your pussy envelops his fat cock, that has cock-drunk from how full he has made you feel. your movements become a slow, sensual grind, both stimulating and distracting. miguel’s concentration wavers as desire lurks beneath the surface.

with each passing moment, you grow increasingly comfortable, your head leaning against miguel’s shoulder. the rhythmic motion of your bodies creates a mesmerizing dance of pleasure and closeness. you can feel yourself starting to doze off, your eyelids growing heavy. but each time you begin to slip into slumber, miguel subtly shifts his weight or moves slightly, bucking his hips gently into your sopping pussy, rousing you from the edge of sleep. his focus on his work remains steadfast, but the desire to maintain that intimate connection between you is evident in his actions.

you stir, your eyes fluttering open, and you meet miguel’s gaze. you let out a small whisper as you felt him move inside of you. a knowing smile tugs at the corners of his lips, his eyes conveying a mixture of mischief and desire. he wields his power to keep you in a blissful state of half-awake pleasure. “mmm, can't let you fall asleep just yet, darling," miguel murmurs, his voice laced with a teasing tone. "we both have things to attend to, don't we?"

you chuckle softly, your body still tingling with pleasure. you understand the struggle between miguel’s responsibilities and your own desire for intimate connection. with a tender touch, you gently brushes your fingers along his jawline, your touch a silent reassurance.

“i-i know," you utter, your voice a whisper. "hut for now, let's just enjoy these stolen moments together, even if it means teetering on the edge of slumber." miguel’s gaze softens, his focus wavering for a brief moment. he leans his head against yours, your foreheads touching. in that quiet moment, you find solace in the shared energy and intimacy you’ve cultivated.

and so, he continued to buck his hips every so slightly to keep you away which elicited soft moans and whimpers to fall out from your pretty mouth. your sensual dance, the gentle sway of your bodies keeping you tethered to each other as you navigate the delicate balance between pleasure, work, and the desire to remain connected.

tags 🏷️!! @kairiscorner @emiemiemiii @meeom @sabcandoit @obi-mom-kenobi @astro1bloom

[revelboo]

RAHHHHHH👹

The way you write is so fun and feels so natural I always find myself coming back to see if there’s more

Thank you for the divine snippets 🫶🫶take care :]

Thank you!

The Weakends Pt 4

TFP Ratchet x Reader

• “Can you not break everything you touch?!” Looking up at the outburst, you bite your lip to keep from smiling or laughing. It hadn’t taken you long to figure out that the gruff medic’s anger is mostly bluster. An act, albeit a convincing one. And it’s particularly effective on Bulkhead, the huge mech’s shoulders hunching like a little kid being scolded. “How many times have I told you not to touch my things?” You must have snorted or made a noise, because Ratchet turns the full power of that scowl your way. Even if you imagine his optics soften ever so slightly.

• Gritting his denta to keep from smiling as your little shoulders shake with silent laughter, Ratchet is aware of Bulkhead taking advantage of the distraction to escape. “You think wanton destruction is funny?” He grumbles, as your face reddens.

• “I think the act is funny,” you say, chin lifting defiantly as his temper sputters out. The act? Venting heavily, he stands and looms over where you’re perched on a cabinet sorting odds and ends small enough for you to lift. “That act,” you clarify, arms wrapping around a part to lift it and carry it over to a drawer. Completely unbothered as his optics narrow.

• Oh, he’s doubling down now. It’s obvious in the angry line of his mouth, the set of his jaw. “What do you know?” He growls in challenge. When you try to keep working, he lays his forearm in your way and you glare up at him.

• “I know you.” Shifting the part to balance it on your hip, you gesture with your other arm. “I’ve seen you stay up all night with someone hurt. Worrying. I know you like to act like everyone is bothering you so they leave you alone and stay away.”

• You’re angry. No, he realizes. Not just angry. Hurt and he hates it. Hates that he’s causing it. That you see right through him. How can he explain that the attitude is a defense to protect himself? That he’s so tired of getting close to other Autobots only to lose them to the war? It’s better to be unapproachable. You’re wrong about one thing, though, it’s not an act. The gruff, old medic has been his armor for so long, it is who he is. There’s nothing else left of the mech he’d been before. That knowledge burrows deep inside him, hurting even as he shifts his hand. Wanting to reach out a servo to you. But unable to.

Previous Next

[criticallyinneedofadar]

The Weight of the Weary

A/N: Gil-Gadaddy was calling my name. Alliance of Shadows is still on it's way! I just needed to appease the high king a little bit.

Pairing: Gil- Galad X Reader

Warnings: None

______________________________________________________________

Lindon shines brightest in the evening sun, the tree casting the city in its warm glow, its warm light spills into your private chambers where you and Gil-Galad sit together, savoring a rare moment of peace. He’s quiet, his posture stiff, and you can see the weight of his duties pressing down on him, even in this brief respite.

You watch him for a moment, studying the lines of tension etched into his brow. His mind is far away, no doubt torn between Elrond and Galadriel—two of the most important figures in his life, and two of the most stubborn. A soft smile tugs at your lips as you think of Galadriel, so full of fire and willfulness, almost like a daughter to you both, despite being much older than you both. You glance at Gil-galad, raising a playful eyebrow.

“You were a bit harsh on her today, you know,” you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “Galadriel might act tough, but even she has her limits.”

He sighs, running a hand through his dark hair, clearly anticipating your teasing admonishment. His lips curve into a faint smile, but it’s tempered by weariness. “I was not harsh, merely... firm,” he replies, though there’s a trace of doubt in his voice. “She needed to be reminded of her place.”

You chuckle softly. “She’s not a child, love. You can’t keep her reined in forever. Besides, she’s as much your family as I am. You don’t have to keep your guard up with her all the time.”

He leans back, his expression shifting from playful to weary, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as if to release some of the strain. “I feel stretched between them—between Elrond’s endless optimism and Galadriel’s relentless determination. It is like trying to balance two storms, each one pulling me in a different direction.”

You place a gentle hand on his arm, drawing his attention back to you. “They both want what’s best, but they are different in how they go about it. They look to you because they trust your wisdom, your strength.” You pause, softening your tone. “But sometimes, I think you try too hard to keep them happy, to keep everyone in line.”

He sighs deeply, the sound of someone who has carried far too much for far too long. “I must. I am their king, their leader. If I falter, if I show weakness—”

“You’re not weak,” you interrupt gently, moving closer to him. “But you don’t have to carry all of this on your own.”

Gil-Galad looks at you, his deep eyes searching your face, as if he’s unsure how to accept that offer. He’s always been proud, always the one to shoulder the burdens of his people, his friends, and now you can see how that weight has begun to wear him down. Your heart aches for him, for the man who bears so much responsibility yet so rarely lets anyone see his vulnerability.

“You’re not alone in this,” you murmur, taking his hand in yours. “Let me help you, even if it’s just in moments like this. You don’t have to do it all by yourself.”

He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your skin as he looks at you with a tenderness that’s usually hidden behind the mantle of kingship. “I forget, sometimes, that I don’t have to. With you, I never have to.”

You smile softly, leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder. The warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his breath, brings you a sense of peace you know he needs as much as you do.

“You’ve carried so much on your shoulders for so long,” you whisper. “Let me take some of the burden, if even for a little while. You’re my husband first and a king second. Lean on me as much as you lean on them.”

For a moment, the world outside fades away. There are no councils, no pressing decisions, no wars or power struggles. It’s just the two of you, bound together by love and trust. His hand rests against the small of your back as he pulls you closer, his voice low and filled with a gratitude that touches your heart.

“You are my greatest strength,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “With you beside me, I know I can bear whatever comes.”

You lift your head, gazing into his eyes. “And you will,” you reply, your voice full of conviction. “But not alone.”

He smiles then, a real smile that reaches his eyes, and you feel the tension begin to ease from his body as he leans into the comfort of your embrace. You urge him to sit down in front of you. As he does, you begin to brush through his long brown hair, a hum of contentment leaving your husband as he relaxes into your pampering. Allowing this moment of relief, however brief it may be.

[sapphoherselz]

howdy!! two literal people have asked for some andreil rec so here they are!! my most favest fics EVER in the first 60 ao3 pages (I'll keep updating tho as I read!)

Not yours to bleed:

The Pros were never in the cards. Not for an ex-medicated alleged psychotic with a dysfunctional family and an Exy career he’d rather not have. But even if it wasn't his first choice, no matter what happens, it can’t possibly be worse than that one fucked up sophomore year when he stood toe to toe with the Yakuza-and won.

At least, that’s what Andrew thinks until a familiar face shows up.

Another Raven!Neil AU. Or, the one where the boys don’t meet until the Pros.

 

**Updates every other Wednesday, whatever hell may come.**

The Sun Still Rises:

Somewhere on the road, Mary Hatford gets pregnant with her second child. When she passes, she leaves behind not only Neil, but his toddler brother. Survival is difficult without also raising a kid. Worn out and desperate, Neil still somehow ends up at Palmetto, only this time, he brings his four-year-old brother with him.

TALE OF A MARTYR IN XII PARTS:

Neil closes his eyes and counts the things that he knows:

One: Death has a name.

Two: He has met Death before. Several times, in fact.

Three: Someone is trying to kill him. Permanently. But it's only kind of working.

Or, the one in which Andrew is the Grim Reaper, Neil is very, very good at dying, over and over and over again. They teach each other a few things over the centuries.

Hearthlines:

The Fae king and queens have gone away, closing the knowes behind them and abandoning their offspring to the mortal world. As the Fae have spread far and wide, their bloodlines thinning if not vanishing forever as they flee from mortal persecution... two Fae have found a way to reopen the knowes - Kayleigh Day and Tetsuji Moriyama. The Fae regroup once more, the balance of power shifted amongst them, and 'changelings' appear now and then in the mortal population.

Andrew Doe is one of those changelings, a young child suffering in the foster system, shunned by his peers for some reason and hearing voices in his head.

Alex - the latest name gifted to him by a charm - is on the run along with his mother from his father, using their talents as shadow walkers to slide between worlds and stay one step ahead of the powerful Fae. Except even that is not enough anymore. Except that's not Alex's only talent.

*******

An urban fantasy where I throw Fae, necromancy and magic at TFC characters, pretty much!

Scared to Live (But I'm Scared to Die):

Neil Josten goes to the Nest for Andrew, but he stays for a lot more.

~

"I'm sorry Coach," he muttered.

"For what kid?" Wymack shifted. "You've got to give me something to work with here."

Wymack watched the thin traces of sorrow as paper exchanged hands and he was looking down at a contract with the Edgar Allan Raven's.

"I signed them Coach, I'm sorry."

~

The one where Neil doesn't come back from Winter Break.

Amor Vincit Omnia:

“I said it already,” the man said, “Your cluster.”

“But what does that mean?” Neil asked.

“It means that you are no longer just you,” the man said tersely, “Congratulations.”

It didn’t feel like anything worth celebrating.

A Sense8 AU where the foxes all share one subconscious and kick a lot of ass

The Real Thing:

Andrew was more than willing to turn down the Ravens' offer to be their newest goalie, unwilling to play five more years of Exy - let alone for someone with a too-sharp smile and a manic gleam in their eyes.

That was, until he realized that a member of their Perfect Court was his soulmate. (That was, until Riko Moriyama realized that Nathaniel Wesninski, the Ravens' #3 in waiting, was Andrew's soulmate.)

Andrew always knew that Fate loved tormenting him, he didn't need a reminder yet again via a too-attractive soulmate who appeared to loathe him. Yet things aren't always what they seem, especially in the Nest.

mad girl says she's wolf-proof:

Keeping her grip light on Nina’s throat, Andrea drops her gaze to her plump lips. She smiles—coldly, slowly. Fangs on fangs. Salt tombstones. It is not a nice smile, none of Andrea’s smiles are, but Nina’s eyes are stuck in it regardless. “And I will answer, all the better to eat you with.”

 

(Andrea Dobson vs girlhood and lycanthropy.)

lessons in caretaking:

Neil was acting shifty, and Andrew knew why; that motherfucker was leaving. Despite the promise between them, Neil was prepping to run. Andrew wasn't upset about that, not at all. After all, if notorious Neil "No-Swing" Josten needed to leave after Andrew admitted his desires regarding his proximity to Neil's shorts, who was Andrew to stop him. But that doesn't explain why Neil was stealing socks, or why he wanted Andrew's clothes.

Whatever. That was probably unrelated.

Sauntering Vaguely Downwards:

They’ve known each other since the Beginning. Not the Beginning Beginning—they didn’t meet until after the War in Heaven, where they kept to their own sides, or until after the subsequent Fall. It wasn’t even until after the Exodus from Eden, but only by a couple minutes. They’ve witnessed the rise and fall of empires, sampled all the cuisines the world has to offer, and weathered several very silly fashion trends.

Andrew doesn’t think they’re friends, exactly, but it is natural to become accustomed to the presence of the only other being who has been around more or less consistently for six millennia. It wasn’t anything more meaningful than that.

A Good Omens AU where Andrew is a grumpy angel, Neil is a sharp-tongued serpent, and it takes them literally six thousand years to figure out they belong together.

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

Can you write something where Joel is trying not to fuck you (maybe because of your age or something), and then he caves out of pure horniness. I seriously have a kink for always in control men - losing control.

Thank you for the message!! I hope you like this little story!

title: the babysitter

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x babysitter!female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

content warnings/tags: explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), age difference (21F and 36M), power imbalance dynamics, begging, pet names, oral sex (f receiving), kinda perv Joel, no use of y/n.

You’re asleep on the couch when Joel comes home from a night at the bar with Tommy. The TV casts a blue glow over your soft features. Your plush pink lips are slightly parted, and your tits remain barely covered by the tank top you wore over that evening to babysit Sarah.

You’ve been Sarah’s babysitter since you were eighteen and Joel was desperate to find a balance between being a single father and getting the chance to spend some time out with his friends and brother, usually at a dive bar shooting pool like they did tonight. His neighbor had recommended you, a sweet young girl who just graduated high school and worked as a babysitter for extra cash while attending the community college.

Now you were approaching twenty-one, a whole fifteen years his junior. Something Joel has to remind himself on nights like tonight, when his eyes greedily roam across your exposed skin and commit the view of your nipples straining against your tight tank top to memory.

He’s had a few drinks tonight. Nothing crazy, but he feels the buzz in his veins as he continues to watch you. You shift positions, turning more on your back and raising your arms up, the motion exposing a strip of stomach above the waistband of the shorts you’d worn.

Joel can normally tamp down the thoughts he has about you, sweeping them under a metaphorical rug to be ignored. But tonight, he lets himself drink his fill, storing it away for later.

Surely there’s no harm in that?

He needs to wake you up, needs to hand you the handful of twenties and walk you to your car, just like he does every other evening you babysit for him. He reaches a hand out to grip your shoulder, giving it a gentle shake. Your brow furrows, but you otherwise don’t stir. He lets his palm linger in your warm skin, swallowing down the urge to drag his hand lower, to cup your breast in his palm and see if a pinch of your nipple makes your back arch in ecstasy.

He tries another shake, followed by a murmur of your name. That has you blinking up at him, eyes heavy with sleep.

“Mr. Miller? What times’it?” You slur. He checks his watch.

“Just past 12,” he tells you. His hand is still on your shoulder.

“Oh. I’m sorry I fell asleep,” you tell him with a yawn. “Guess I didn’t realize how tired I was.”

You lick your lips, staring up at him. His brain is screaming at him to remove his hand, to take a step back and take a breath, to remind himself that you’re the babysitter.

But your head tilts, appraising him. Keen eyes stare back at him like you know exactly what he’s thinking.

“Mr. Miller?” You ask again, voice breathier. Joel’s fingers flex against your skin. You press your shoulders into the couch cushion, the movement causing his hand to drift lower, the tips of his fingers just grazing the flesh of your breast.

Your breathing becomes rapid, but you remain still. Joel swallows harshly, his fingers inching the slightest bit lower. Your lashes flutter as he slips the tip of his pinky beneath the neckline of your tank top.

He takes a harsh breath, ready to withdraw his hand and chalk this up to a brief moment of insanity, but as he tries to move away, your hands grip his wrist.

“I can’t do this, honey,” Joel says. You whine, tilting your head back.

“Please?” You ask. Your hands release his wrist, and Joel knows he should hold strong.

But then your own hands are drifting down your body, caressing your curves before dipping beneath the waist of your shorts. Joel’s heart beats a mile a minute, a frantic pulsing in his chest as he watches you with unwavering focus.

Your hips jolt as your fingers swipe against your clit. His view is hindered by your shorts and he wants nothing more than to remove them and replace your fingers with his.

“It’s okay, Mr. Miller,” you say, eyes wide as you stare up at him. “You can touch me. I want it.”

“No,” Joel says, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. And you notice it, too.

“Please,” you beg. Your hips grind against your hand. “I’ll be such a good girl for you.”

Joel’s eyes flutter closed as he takes a deep, steadying breath. In through his nose, out through his mouth.

“You’re too young for me, darlin’,” he finally says. He lifts his hand from your shoulder and you give a sad little whine that has him grinding his teeth together.

“Why are you being so mean?” You accuse.

“You don’t know what mean is.”

“Why don’t you show me, then?”

You remove your hand from your shorts. Even in the dim light of the TV he can see the unmistakable shimmer of your slick coating your fingers. When you spread them, a thin thread stretches between your digits.

He watches it stretch to its limit before snapping. And much like that thread of fluid, the last of his control snaps, too.

“Take off your shorts,” Joel says. When you don’t move he snaps, “Don’t make me ask again.”

That gets you moving, your hips lifting from the cushions so that your hands can shove your shorts down to your ankles. You gaze up at him, waiting for instruction.

Joel moves your outer leg off the couch, your foot settling on the floor. He kneels between the new space and lets his hungry eyes consume you.

“Dirty girl,” he murmurs. He collects the saliva on his tongue, spitting it harshly against your pussy, your body jolting and your head dropping back with a moan. “Quiet. You gotta be quiet, okay.”

You nod your head quickly, teeth digging against your lip to make good on your promise. Satisfied, Joel leans down and licks a broad stripe through your slick folds, the tip of his tongue dipping into your entrance before he drags it up to circle your clit.

You’re writhing beneath him as he attends to your needy cunt, your whimpers such music to his ears that he doesn’t have the heart to tell you to be quiet again.

Your fingers grip his shoulders, the bite of your nails into the thick muscle making him groan against your center. He can feel your hole flutter against his tongue and takes the opportunity to slip a finger into your tight heat.

You gasp, back arching as you shatter around

him, cunt pulsing deliciously around his finger. He’d love nothing more than to feel you around his cock.

But this has already gone too far.

He withdraws his hand, reaching down to grab your shorts and pull them up your legs. Your brow furrows in confusion.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“It’s time you head home,” he says, not daring to meet your eyes. You’re still and quiet for so long he finally chances a glance.

To his surprise, your lips are tilted into a smirk. You shuffle onto your knees, bringing yourself face to face with him. You reach for his hand, keeping your eyes trained to his as you slip the finger coated in your release into your mouth.

You hum, and Joel has to fight the moan clawing its way up his throat. You release his finger with a slick pop before rising to stand.

“I’ll see you next week, Mr. Miller,” you say casually.

[peachesofteal]

How would Soap react if he saw that Cypher was being harassed or stalked by some other individual on base? This individual is completely unaware of Soap's fascination with and control over Cypher. Maybe she is being preyed upon by some stereotypically young and horny meathead and his buddies or an older officer who has never served in a combat role. What would Soap do to that person? What would he say to Cypher about it, if anything?

18+ mdni / dark and twisty themes / no smut, Johnny beats the shit out of someone / soap x cypher masterlist

Early morning is one of Johnny's favorite times. He enjoys the quiet pace, the peace before chaos, the relaxed, subtle silence that slowly gets washed away as people start their days.

He particularly enjoys you in the early mornings, watching you make your way across base before any of your counterparts, settling into your work without turning on most of the lights, tweaking the nuances of your new routine. Cup of coffee, speciality keyboard, water bottle, your favorite jacket. Every morning, he marvels at how stunning you are, how perfect, beautiful in every way, down to each individual strand of your hair. He watches how you tackle the things thrown your way head on, sinking into your expertise that surpasses, he suspects, every one else in the room, sees how you treat everyone kindly, how you work so passionately and diligently. It makes his heart glow in his chest, love and obsession and possession burning in his blood, always pushing him closer to get a better look, encouraging him to linger where he can't be seen.

But this morning, something is different. You're late, far later than normal, and you seem... off. There's something off balance in your steps, something in your face that unsettles him, worries him. You power up your work station, arranging your belongings as you like, but instead of appearing happy, healthy like you normally do when you're about to settle into your day.... you look distressed.

He badges into the building without another thought. Anxiety is churning through him now, mixing with fear until his steps are more than hurried, and people are throwing him bewildered looks as he barrels down the hallway. Whatever it is, he'll fix it. He'll make it okay. He'll take care of you.

He stops short just inside the room where you work. Some people look his way curiously, but when he returns their probing eyes, they flinch away in a panic, burying their noses back in their computers, pretending he's not there. Good.

He's about to start towards your console when someone else does the same, a private that doesn't even work in this building, his eyes narrowed and hungry on where your elegant fingers fly across a keyboard. What the fuck?

You don't notice the private at first, which irks him, makes him even more worried, your lack of situational awareness scratching at him beneath his skull. It's a danger to be here in the first place, so close to an engagement zone, and the fact that you're less than aware does not make him feel good.

When you do, finally, look up and spot the oversized low rank that's heading your way, you stiffen, fingers slowing to a stop, throat bobbing with a swallow. He says your name, informal as all get out, and you shift in your seat, fingers coming together, one of your many tells. You're uncomfortable, he realizes. This bloke has been making you uncomfortable. He's chatting you up, or trying to, brushing his hand against your arm, the motion making Johnny see red, and the way his face twists, like he's in on some sick joke, tells Johnny all he needs to know. Slimy git.

"Private. What's yer business on this floor?" Johnny barks, louder than necessary coming to stand beside your chair, across from where the private lurks, chatter around the room dying out as you stare up at him, wide eyed and... relieved.

"Sergeant MacTavish, I wasn't aware the 141-"

"I didnae ask ye what ye're aware of, private. I asked ye what business ye have here." He repeats, inflection flat, and the private gulps, stammering out some bullshit excuse until Johnny is excusing him, encouraging him to make himself scarce.

Once he's gone, you release a long breath, shoulders slumping. He wants to take you in his arms, and hold you. Wants to comfort you, tell you he'd never let anything happen to you, that you'll always be safe, as long as he lives.

But he can't. He knows what a brazen display of affection would do to you, in this setting. How it would harm, instead of help. So, instead-

"Are ye alright, wee sweet?" He keeps his voice low, and your eyes slip closed.

"Yes. Thank you... Sergeant." You whisper.

"Do ye need a break?" He'll take you back to your room, if you do. Or his. Make up some excuse for Price and get you out of work for the day, in a blink. You shake your head.

"No, sir." He nods, squeezing your shoulder with slow, gentle touch, before giving you a long look, and taking his leave.

The pub that everyone frequents off base is a dingy thing. It's dark, and dirty, just the way Johnny likes it. Simon can smoke inside here, right at the bar, and he's just putting his first cigarette out when Johnny's target stumbles, half drunk from the toilets.

"That him?" His LT grunts, and Johnny nods, swallowing the rest of his beer in one go. Simon slaps a folded bill down next to the ashtray. "See you in five."

It's not hard, to get the private outside. He's more drunk than Johnny originally thought, and ushering him towards the back door is as simple as telling him he wants to have a chat, keeping his tone light and easy.

The private doesn't realize the danger he's in until he gets to the alley, and sees Ghost stepping out from the dark.

"Wh-what is this?"

"This-" Johnny hums, removing his jacket as Ghost grabs the private by the back of the neck, turning him. "is a lesson for ye."

"A lesson?"

"The civilian specialist. Cypher." Ghost tells him, removing his hand, letting him shift fully to face Johnny, stricken.

"She doesnae like ye. She doesnae want ye, and she never will. Dinnae ever, ever, touch my girl again." He pushes him, just a little, as a pre cursor, a warning for what's next. The private's eyes are wide, and scared, and Johnny smirks. "If I ever see you-" He swings, landing his fist across his jaw, hard enough that he knows the private is seeing stars, and Ghost steadies him for the next. "looking at her again-" he swings, again. There's a satisfying crack this time, the private's nose, blood spurting from the wound like a fountain, and the injured man howls, loud enough that Ghost is clamping a hand over his mouth to shut him up. "or talking to her-" he lands two more punches to his face, a jawbone hit, and eye socket. Nothing breaks, which is ideal, but he puts enough force behind them that he knows the eye will swell shut, for days. "even breathing near her-" His last punch is the knockout. It sends the private stumbling backwards, and Ghost slides out of the way, letting him fall, his body sprawling across the pavement like he's fallen from the roof. "I'll fucking kill ye. I'll kill ye, and bury ye in a nameless pit. Do ye understand?" He spits, and the private tries to say yes, but it comes out as a cry.

"Nod your head." Ghost instructs, and he does, miserably. "You tell anyone about this, I'll do worse than what Sergeant MacTavish is promising. We were never here. Copy?"

"Yes sir." The private blubbers, and Johnny shakes out some of the tension between his shoulders. Much better.

You're still awake. He's on edge, and was hoping to have a few hours in your room, watching you sleep, listening to the rise and fall of your chest, soothing himself with your presence, but instead, you're still awake, and he's at a loss before he accepts he can't fight it, and knocks on your door.

"Sergeant?" You're surprised to see him, caught off guard, and he's driven to soothe you, stepping forward inside your room, clicking the lock behind him.

"That private won't be bothering ye anymore." He tells you lowly, and your eyes go wide.

"I- What? Sir?" He pulls you into his body easily, your nose in his neck, his cheek pressed to the top of your head. He can feel the tension slowly leaking from you, his hand working broad strokes up and down your back, murmuring to you about he'll always keep ye safe, how he'll always take care of ye, and upon pulling away, he's incredibly pleased to see that you seem happy... even relieved. "Thank you, sir." You whisper, and he rubs a thumb across your cheek.

"I want ye to call me Johnny, Cy. Instead of Sergeant." Not instead of sir, but he doesn't think he needs to tell you that. He presses a kiss to your forehead. "It's late, ye should be in bed."

"I couldn't sleep." You confess, and he nods.

"I know. C'mon. I'll help ye."

[garoujo]

!!nagi swears that kissing you before practice or a match gives him good luck!!<3<33

✩ ˛˚ . NAGI SEISHIRO ; — it seems the teams way to get nagi motivated has its drawbacks.

warnings: sfw! no warnings just nagi being the sweetest :3 note: hi nonnie!!! i decided to just write this lil thing cause i thought it was super cute so i hope u like it sob!!!

for the most part, it was beneficial when the team decided to start inviting you to their morning practice — as a means to motivate nagi, noticing that the usual sleepy, slacker of a striker seemed to have a little more motivation whenever he’d look over and see you in the stands.

but now.. actually getting him to come onto the pitch to play was a whole other problem entirely.

��hey, nagi! get on the field, jeez.. we’re still a goal behind, ultra genius.” you hear reo call from behind you, huffing when your boyfriend infront of you doesnt even seem to give him a second thought as he waves him off from over his shoulder. you think it’s amusing though, the pleading look his bestfriend gives you like he’s begging you to help him out.

nagi on the other hand, is currently leaning over the barrier at the stands — shooting you a starry-eyed look from under his messy bangs. his gloved hands fidget with the hem of your t-shirt and you feel them twitch tighter around the fabric every few moments, like an adorable little attempt to pull you closer as he sends you a pout.

“this is a pain, ‘ts in the way.” your boyfriend breathes as his longer limbs shift and fidget over the metal fence against him he’s referring to — surprisingly enough managing to support his weight as he leans against it, probably finding standing too bothersome given how long they’ve been practicing already.

but you give nagi an inch as you take a step closer, just enough to let his hands graze along your hips as he lets his head lean forward and rest on your chest. “you’re needed on the field, sei.” you try to reason as you push his snowy bangs away from his gaze, letting you take in the pretty, drowsy expression on his face when he blinks slowly up at you.

“eh, don’t wanna. wanna stay here.” another slow drawl and his fingers are squeezing at your skin, feeling him nuzzle deeper into your chest as he leans even further into you — making the barrier squeak slightly under his weight. you’re not sure it’s quite built to balance lazy 190cm strikers.

“but i wanna see you score more goals. we can get lemon tea before we go home.” it’s tempting, especially when you say it in that pretty little voice you know he loves. so you feel nagi’s head twist against you before he’s sending you a cute little look, cheek smooshed against you as he huffs.

“i’m sleepy though, i wanna have a bath and play video games with you instead. ‘ts no fair.”

“i’ll give you a kiss for every goal you score.” it’s quick, your reply — it doesn’t give him a moment to consider it because you know it’s a bargain he can’t pass up. only a few simple things could get nagi seishiro motivated and your kisses were right up there next to video games and well— that’s it.

“wan’ them now. need ‘em for a power up.” it’s hard to say no to him when he’s giving you that look, it’s sleepy and doe-eyed and there’s a soft glow that swims in the deep colour of his eyes that makes you smile before you’re scratching your hand through his hair. it makes your boyfriend shudder and he pulls you closer before you’re reminded of the time limit when reo sends you a wave followed by a grumpier sort of look.

“three goals for three kisses.” your words are rushed but they make nagi stand to full height just as quickly despite the way his arms remain around you — head leaning into the press of your palm when it cups his cheek.

“yay.” it’s soft, spoken under his breath when you push his hair from his features to peck him once on the lips, followed by another before he’s meeting you quickly for the last — urging it to be a little deeper than the other two as he pulls you into him. you hear him hum and you decide to give him a little extra motivation when you swipe your tongue between his lips, hearing a sweet whimper sound from him before he’s parting them for more — but just as quickly as it deepens, you pull away to grin.

“hey, why’d you pull away. wasn’t done yet.” nagi’s words are whinier now but there’s a soft flush on the tips of his ears and you think it’s cute just how easy it was to get him drowsy on kisses.

“it was just for good luck. three goals, sei. then you’ll get more!” you let your fingers scratch through his messy hair again as he groans, followed by a quick thumbs up to reo from over his shoulder before you’re pushing him lightly. he sways before he turns and you laugh at the next pout he sends you as his arms fall to sway by his side — his eyes still on you even as he makes his way back towards the team, although there’s something darker in his gaze now.

“eh, i guess. but it’s so bothersome, three goals is too easy.”

© 2023 GAROUJO. please do not copy any of my layouts or writing and translate or repost onto any other sites.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Habits 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, power dynamic, age gap, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Andy Barber, Cole Turner (Professor AU)

Summary: your life is thrown into chaos after a night out goes awry.

Part of the Bad Professors AU

Note: Please leave some feedback and reblog <3 As always, I love to chat with you all. 

The room is electric, colours glare and glimmer, music thrums, bodies writhe. You ride the wave of the rhythm, balancing your cup in one hand as you wave the other above you. You giggle and smile at Mercedes. It’s starting to hit, whatever it is she gave you. 

Your eyes roll back as your head dips and you sway to the pulsing beat. You gyrate and hum beneath the wall of sound all around you. You spin and gulp back the last of your mixed vodka. You flick your lashes up and search for somewhere to leave the empty. 

Mercedes is gone. Hm, she’s probably just off the restroom or the bar. Hopefully she brings back more. You find a table and slam the empty cup on it. You shimmy around as a cute guy presses past you. Hey, you know him. 

“Colin,” you slur, catching his hands as they creep up your hips. 

“Hey baby,” he speaks over the music as he leans in, “you’re looking loose. Like the music?” 

“Sure, I like the music,” you put your palms to his chest, “but I can’t stand you.” 

You stick your tongue out and shove him away. He’s such a slimy fuck. He huffs and drops his grip. That’s it. The shift. One minute, the smarmy smirk and the next, that evil fucking glare. 

“See ya. Try not to traumatize anyone, bud,” you slap his arm and carry on past him. 

“Slut,” he calls after you. 

He says so but you never lowered yourself to his level. Or under him. 

You stand on your toes, searching the crowd for Mercedes’ spiral curls. It should be easy enough to find her. She has those fuzzy pom poms pinned into her hair.  

You mutter to yourself and check your phone. Your balance isn’t exactly comforting but you have enough for another drink. Fuck it. You’re getting blitzed. 

You get to the bar and lean on it as you wave at the bartender. You nearly slip as you put your foot on the metal rod that trims the bottom of the bar and you cling to the edge. You smile and correct yourself. 

“Vodka soda,” you call above the hue. 

He squints at you and shakes his head, “no way. You had enough, sweetheart.” 

“What? I’m fffinnneee,” you whine. 

“Step away from my bar or I’ll call the bouncer,” he warns. 

“Damn, geez,” you put your palms up defensively, “fine. Don’t have to be nasty.” 

You spin and your legs tangle. You stumble and collide with someone else. You catch yourself against them. Oh, gosh. You can feel their muscle through their shirt. Mmf. 

You follow the body up to short stubble and recoil. Bit older than you expected. As much as you admire an older man, you didn’t come here to hook-up. You learned your lesson last time. 

“Excuse me,” he touches your hip lightly then rescinds his hand, almost shyly. 

“S-sssorry,” you laugh, “I’m a bit tipsy.” 

“Can’t be mad at a pretty girl running into me,” he grins and you notice his throat bob. That’s cute. He’s nervous. Kinda makes sense since he’s a bit out of place with the coed crowd.  

You keep your smile on, “that’s sweet.” 

You try to move past him but he sidles in the same direction. You end up bumping into each other again. He raises his hands helplessly. 

“Ah, sorry, I keep--” he gets in your way again. “Keep running into you. Maybe it’s a sign I should buy you a drink.” 

It’s almost smooth. Almost. He’s trying. It’s kind of endearing. And you won’t complain for a top-up, especially on his dime. 

“Sure, can I have a vodka soda,” you push your shoulders up and bat your lashes, “I’ll, er, go wait over there.” 

You peek behind you. The bartender is thoroughly distracted. The man peers back then at you again. 

“Sure. I’ll grab us drinks.” 

Your eyelids sag and you shimmy your shoulders, “you’re a real sweetie.” 

You flit off through the crowd and go to wait at the small corner table. You bop and keep your eye out for Mercedes. Come on. If she ditched you for another guy... 

The man approaches you, balancing the drinks with a wary look to those dancing around him. He breaks free of the crush and swiftly sets down the glasses. He shakes the excess of his fingertips and wipes a hand on his jeans. 

“Oh, by the way, I’m Cole,” he introduces himself with a handshake. That’s adorable. 

“Coral,” you say back. “Thank you soooooo much.” 

You take the vodka soda and slurp through the straw. Oof. It’s stronger than you expect. Or maybe you really have had enough. 

“Are you a student?” He asks. 

You dribble a bit over your lower lib and dab it with your knuckles. You swallow a belch and nod, “oh yeah. I’m in Communications. Fun times.” 

“Fun?” He echoes. 

“Sure, it’s all nonsense. I just need a degree to get me in the door but it’s nothing special,” you shake your head. “I’m gonna be a PR specialist. I wanna work for fashion brands.” 

“Fashion,” he nods as his eyes fixate on you, “you enjoy it?” 

“Yeah, if I could sew I might try design but I can’t draw either,” you garble and pause as your tongue sticks. Oof, are you even speaking clearly right now?

“That’s cool. Driven young lady,” his eyes drift down and you suddenly feel exposed. “Pretty too.” 

“Ah ha, yeah,” you blink and shake your head. Ooh, okay, the pill is really kicking you in the teeth right now. “Can you excuse me? I’m not... I gotta... pee!” 

You scramble away as your head spins and your limbs turn to sand. You can hardly push through the invisible waves holding you back. You search for the bathrooms and finally see the sign. You run into another girl coming out and quickly dip behind the door. 

You barely stagger into the stall as your vision begins to speckle. Something’s not right. What the hell, Mercedes? You might be careless for taking the pill but she also didn’t warn you it was that potent. You sit on the toilet and lean forward to cradle your head. You don’t sit back up as the darkness beckons you down and down. 

[sarahscribbles]

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤: 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐡

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐬𝐮𝐛!𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞!𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟒.𝟓𝐤

𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“Let me submit to you.” 

Loki’s plea is soft against your lips, it’s little more than a whisper and almost lost amidst a heavy haze of unbroken kisses. You’re breathless in their wake - drunk and warm and so dazed from his affections that you can only manage a questioning “hmm?” while you attempt to pull him closer. 

He allows it but keeps his lips frustratingly out of reach. A whine tumbles pitifully from yours because the taste of him still lingers on your tongue like salty summer air. You want to drown in this man, but he only rests his forehead against yours. You feel his hands curl around your hips and he breathes in as though readying himself for what he’s about to say. 

It makes your heart flutter, though with excitement or apprehension, you aren’t really sure. 

“I yield, darling. I yield to you,” he says quietly. His hands squeeze your hips at the same time his thumbs begin to trace circles on the exposed skin of your stomach. 

A trail of goosebumps erupts in the wake of his touch and, at first, you think it’s another one of his tricks. Loki’s always been the dominant one and, although your own dominant side has lived quietly inside you, you hadn’t believed a submissive one lived within him. 

But when you meet his eyes - those beautiful green eyes that you would know anywhere - you know that he’s never meant anything more. He’s yearning to give up control and it causes something molten to stir to life in the pit of your stomach. 

How many times have you imagined how sweet it would sound to hear Loki begging? Or how beautiful he would look on his knees before you? How often have you imagined his pleasure being in your hands and what you would have him do to earn it? The answer is too many to count.

And now he’s offering it up to you entirely of his own accord.

It’s both the fulfilment of a fantasy and the deepest expression of trust.

It’s something you can’t possibly deny him. 

You hesitate briefly, but only because you don’t know where to start with him. You’ve imagined this scenario so many times - how you could coax him into admitting he wanted to be dominated and the heady feeling of the power balance shifting - but now that he’s offered it up to you freely, you have no idea what to do. Loki notices your hesitance - of course he does - and gives your hips another light squeeze.

“Please, darling.” He raises his eyes to yours and the trust shining out of them almost takes your breath away. 

He trusts you with this, with this part of that you know few have ever seen. He trusts you enough to submit his body to you with certainty that you won’t hurt him. He trusts you.

You press one last lingering kiss to his lips - a “thank you for trusting me” and a promise that he’s safe - and step back from his embrace. “Strip, and get on your knees.” Your voice is steadier than you imagined, so much so that you feel yourself easily slipping into the role of dominant. In front of you, Loki’s lips twitch and you see him raise a hand to dissolve his clothing in a haze of green. “No.” You stop him. “No magic. Strip.”

His eyes blaze fiercely as they catch yours - it’s unmistakable arousal at how you’re the one taking control. “As my Queen commands,” he replies. His voice is smooth as silk as it wraps around you, but there’s something else colouring his words tonight. 

It takes only a moment for you to pin it as obedience. 

Appreciatively, you watch him pull his sweater over his head. It’s a mundane action, but one that Loki can easily make look elegant. Piece by piece his abs and stomach are bared before you, and your eyes follow hungrily along all the way to the planes of his chiseled chest. The man is a word of art. 

And he’s yours. 

Loki’s gaze never breaks from yours as his fingers move down to unbutton his jeans, barely even blinking as he pushes them off and tosses them to the side. He repeats the action with his boxers until he’s fully nude before you. 

And already halfway hard. 

You’ve seen him like this a million times before, but you can’t help but drink him in. From his muscled calves all the way to the light smattering of hair on his chest. “Beautiful,” you can’t help but murmur. “Now, kneel.” 

Part of you expects Loki to be brat, expects a small dose of resistance despite how badly he wants this, but he folds easily to his knees the moment the command leaves your lips. God, he looks exquisite. Those firm thighs are tucked beneath him and spread wide, and he’s folded his hands behind his back without having to be told. 

The perfect picture of submission. 

“Good boy.” They’re two small words, but you catch the small twitch of Loki’s cock as you speak. Your prince, it seems, likes to be praised. 

Wordlessly, you circle him. He kneels up a little straighter and you feel the suspense rolling off him in waves. Oh, you’re going to have so much fun with him. 

“What should I do to you, hmm?” you ask softly, stopping behind him to drop a kiss to the top of his head while your hands rest on his shoulders. “Should I edge you until you’re begging? Should I make you watch as I make myself cum? Should I use that whip that you enjoy using on me so much?”

You trail your fingers softly over his shoulders and he shivers beneath your touch. “Whatever pleases you, my Queen. I am at your service,” he answers almost instantly, surprising you with how deep his submissiveness runs. 

It sparks an idea in you, though. 

“Mmm, yes you are,” you say, dropping another kiss to his head and moving to stand in front of him. Gently, you cup his flushed cheeks until those beautiful eyes are peering up at you. “Colour?” 

“Green,” he answers quickly. 

“Safeword?”

“Red.” 

You run your thumbs over his cheeks, feeling him press into the palm of your hand. He knows he’s safe. “Good boy,” you praise him with a last kiss to his forehead.

His eyes bore into your back as you take the few steps toward the large chest beneath the window that houses all your toys. You make a show of sifting through the contents, noisily moving around various vibes and clamps and pieces of plastic until you know the waiting is driving him insane. As you expect, he’s staring at you intently when you straighten and turn, but his eyes immediately drop to the three items you’re holding in your hands. 

A length of rope, a collar, and a metal leash. 

His cock twitches and he licks his lips.

“Excited by a little rope?” you tease, coming back to kneel behind him. “I hadn’t realised you were such a whore.” You loop the rope around his wrists just as a quiet moan escapes him. You grin. “Oh, I see,” you purr, leaning in to nip at his neck. “You like being my whore.”

There’s a catch in his breathing and he briefly sways on his knees. How badly you wish you could see the fantasy playing out behind his eyes. “Y-yes,” he answers huskily. It’s followed quickly by a deep, satisfied moan when you again nip at his neck. 

You finish securing the first knot around his wrists and let your hand snake around his hips to circle his cock. Loki reacts with a broken cry of pleasure at your touch, but you stroke him slowly, languidly, with only enough pressure to tease. 

“My pretty prince,” you murmur softly, running your tongue over the broken line of bites decorating his neck. Loki keens and attempts to roll his hips into your hand, desperate for more friction. “My beautiful Asgardian whore.”

You give him four firm strokes, enough that his chest begins to heave and black curls dance along his back. “Please…darling…please…I need…,” he whimpers. 

“What is it you want, my love?” you taunt him. “Do you want to cum?” 

He nods eagerly, sending more curls spilling down his back. “Yes…please, darling.” 

“Too bad,” you say simply and remove your hand from his cock. Loki responds with something between a groan and a sob, and you watch his fingers curl with frustration against his back.  “You didn’t think I would make it that easy for you, did you?”

Between his deep, steadying breaths, you swear you hear a muttered “minx.” 

“Careful,” you whisper quietly into his ear. “I’m the one in charge tonight, remember? Are you going to be a good boy? Or, do I need to think of a way to punish you?” 

He’s silent for a moment, likely weighing up his options, so you give his cock another swift stroke. “No!” he shouts, whether in fear or at the sudden pulse of pleasure you aren’t sure. “I’ll be good!” 

You release his cock, but hum approvingly into his neck, breathing in the scent of him. “Good,” you say simply, and place another sharp bite just above his pulse point. 

You hear his shaky inhale and feel him shudder as you lean back. He doesn’t move an inch while you wind the rope easily around his arms in an intricate pattern of loops, doesn’t even test the strength of the binding when you bring it up over his elbows. He’s completely immobilised, completely at your mercy, and trusting you completely with his body. 

Your good boy. 

With a final check that he can wriggle his fingers, you move to stand in front of him again. Loki’s face is flushed pink with arousal and his eyes are dancing with anticipation. They flick expectantly between your face and the collar held in your hands, almost as if he’s begging you to place it around his neck. 

You realise then that he wants this. He wants the physical reminder that he’s yours. He needs it, needs the assurance it brings that someone loves him enough to want him wholly, that someone desires him enough to claim his body as theirs. 

He craves this level of submission. 

With one hand you brush some stray curls away from his face, allowing yourself a second to just enjoy the softness of his hair. “Who do you belong to, my love?” you murmur softly while unclapsing the collar. 

Loki is instantly angling his head to grant you access, eager - and almost impatient - to have the cool leather wrap around his neck. “You, my Queen. Only you,” he breathes out, and you hear his quiet groan when you snap the collar closed. 

You cup his cheek lovingly in the palm of your hand. “Are you going to be good for me?” 

Loki nods eagerly. “Yes.”

You run the pad of your thumb over his flushed cheek. “Good, because only good boys get their reward,” you tell him sweetly and attach the leash to the clip on his collar. 

With the other end in hand, you back towards the bed and perch on the edge, ensuring to spread your legs obscenely wide. Loki barely blinks as you flip your skirt up and dip your fingers below the band of your underwear, and you make sure to exaggerate how good your own fingers feel. 

You moan and arch your back; you throw your head back on your shoulders; you dig your grip into the bed covers between your free hand, which only pulls the leash around Loki’s neck tighter. 

For the briefest of moments, you’re so lost to chasing your own pleasure that you forget about the god on his knees for you. It’s the quiet clink of metal that pulls you back - a sign of Loki’s restlessness and desperation - and you open your eyes to look at him with a lazy smirk. 

“Something wrong?” you tease him, lazily circling your clit with a single finger. 

Something close to a whine falls from his lips, and you can see the desperation burning in his eyes. “Please, my Queen,” Loki begs. You refuse to believe there’s any sound sweeter than his begging. 

“Please, what? What do you want, my love?” Your voice is soft and sweet as honey. You know you’re playing a dangerous game - one that you’ll likely pay for in the very near future - but you can’t pass up the chance to play this game with him. 

After all, he’s played it with you so many times before. 

There’s another quiet clink of the leash as he shifts on his knees, but he doesn’t dare move without your permission. “I want to fuck you. Please, darling,” he pleads, the rough edge to his voice betraying just how badly he wants to fuck you.

You answer with a click of your tongue. “Oh, my love, why didn’t you say so?” Your words are taunting as you wrap the cold metal of the leash around your hand, tugging it to encourage him to shuffle toward you on his knees. 

The sight is sinful - this Asgardian god who refused to kneel for anyone is naked, bound, and collared before you, and shuffling on his knees because you’ve told him to. 

It sends a rush of power shooting straight to your head. 

You continue to pull gently at his leash until his head is between your spread thighs. Loki’s eyes are alight and blazing with hunger, but he goes still the second you let your hand fall back on the mattress. He’s desperate - a quick glance down confirms it - but he won’t move an inch with your permission. 

“Go on, then. Fuck me with that pretty mouth of yours. They do call you silvertongue, don’t they?” you say sweetly.

You expect the first flint of defiance to show, but he obediently bends his head to take the band of your underwear between his teeth, all while never taking his gaze off yours. 

You help him only briefly by lifting your hips from the bed to allow him to drag the thin scrap of lace over your thighs. The soft nudge of his nose against your skin has your pussy clenching with need, and it’s enough to make you bite back a groan. 

It never fails to amaze you how he can make something so small feel so good.

It doesn’t take long before Loki has dragged your underwear down your legs, though not without pressing a lopsided kiss to the bend of your knee. Once he tosses them carelessly to the side, he’s all too quickly bending back ravenously toward your cunt, but you stop him with a firm hand against his head. 

“You have five minutes to make me cum,” you tell him simply. “If you don’t, then you don’t get your reward. Understood?”

In the brief silence that follows, you’re sure that this is where he’ll push back. You wait for the shimmer of green that will release him from his restraints and send you slamming back against the mattress. 

But you were wrong.

“Yes, my Queen,” he answers huskily.

Your lips twist into a satisfied smile. “Good boy,” you say slowly, using the leash to steer him toward your throbbing cunt. 

A strangled groan tumbles from you the second you feel the wet warmth of his tongue because there’s no feeling comparable to that of this god worshipping you with his mouth. Every firm press of his tongue against you is a sacred prayer, every latch of his lips is a hymn of adoration. 

Tonight, he cares only for you and your pleasure, even if it means the denial of his own. 

His name is rolling easily off your tongue as the first sparks of your orgasm begin to shoot through you. He’s sinfully talented with that tongue, but you know it’s the closest you’ll ever get to heaven. Almost of its own accord your hand tangles in his hair, anchoring him firmly against you as he slips his tongue inside. 

You swear you die right there on the bed. 

All at once every nerve ending in your body is alive, but you feel yourself go almost boneless at the same time. He feels so good - so gloriously good - that you can longer sit up straight on the bed. You fall back against the mattress with a soft thump, feeling Loki’s proud grin against your cunt when you begin to grind against his face. 

“Fuck, Loki! Please! Just like that!” you encourage him breathlessly. His tongue is lapping firmly along your cunt and over your clit, making stars begin to dance at the edge of your vision. 

Your pleasure is his driving force, his end goal, and all it takes is a few more swipes of his tongue before the first powerful waves of your orgasm begin to roll over you like a tsunami. The force of it knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s overpowering, seemingly endless, and you can feel it all the way down to your toes.

Loki makes sure of that. 

He doesn’t ease off for a second, even when your cries of his name melt into sharp little pants of pleasure. Even then, he still uses that skilled tongue to guide you seamlessly through the aftershocks of your climax.

You’re certain you could come again easily, but the wet warmth of Loki’s mouth is suddenly gone and you fight the urge to beg him for more. 

You’re the one in control, afterall. 

Wordlessly, you prop yourself up on your elbows, taking in the sight of Loki still kneeling between your thighs. His cheeks are brilliantly pink and his lips are still shining with your essence. Beneath some stay curls, you see undisguised pride burning in his eyes.

“Three minutes, my Queen,” he says, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at his lips. 

It would be all too easy for him to tip the scales in his own favour, to pluck the power easily from your hands.

But that won’t do. 

You sit up in one fluid movement to grasp hold of the leash right where it clips to his collar, delighting in the momentary widening of his eyes. “Were you keeping count, my little whore?” you taunt him sweetly, letting a hand float to his cock. He closes his eyes and groans when you begin to slowly, lazily, stroke him. “Or, maybe, you’re just feeling a little needy tonight? Which is it, hmm?” 

Loki tries to speak - you can see his answer dancing on the tip of his tongue - but with your hand still stroking his cock he can only mouth wordlessly. You grant him a second of enjoying the waifish tendrils of pleasure that are curling around him, but when he still doesn’t answer and his eyes begin to flutter closed, you squeeze him lightly, to which he answers with a shout. 

“Answer me, sweet,” you warn him. 

Loki inhales deeply, steadying himself. “I…fuck…I need you, my Queen….ugh…please!” he pleads when you run your thumb teasingly around the sensitive head of his cock. 

You smirk as he groans, but don’t cease in the torment. “Mmm, you sound so pretty when you beg. Keep going, and I might give you your reward.”

He releases a huff of frustration, but you know he’s too far gone now. You have him exactly where you want him. “Please…please, darling…have mercy. I’ve been good…please…I need you.” 

Those big eyes are peering up at you again, soft and desperate and begging for release. While you would relish teasing him for hours, you’re as desperate for him as he is for you. You release his cock - and he whines pitifully when you do - but relief flashes joyfully in his eyes when you use the leash to coax him to his feet. 

“I believe you. That looks rather uncomfortable,” you say, nodding to his cock and shuffling backward on the bed. “What if I’m not finished with you, though?” you continue to taunt him, guiding him onto the mattress until he’s kneeling between your spread legs. 

“Darling, please.” His voice is throaty and rough.

He’s so beautiful like this. Restrained and desperate and begging you for release. It’s the only aphrodisiac you need and you’re now determined that he’ll be submitting to you more once tonight is over. 

Your pretty, desperate prince.

His gaze is hungry as it runs over you, even though you’re still partially closed and he’s taken you to bed more times than you can count. 

He can never get enough of you. 

You pretend not to hear his pleading and settle back against the pillows with a contented hum. It’s impossible to do anything but drink him in as you lie there - the taut muscles of his stomach, the broad chest, the way his black curls fall almost effortlessly around his shoulders in a midnight halo. He’s perfection. 

You see the small twitch of his shoulders as you admire him, and you can almost feel the unspoken plea burning off him. “Remove the rope, my love,” you tell him softly. 

In a shimmer of green it’s gone, but he still keeps his hands folded obediently behind his back - ever the perfect picture of submission to his queen. 

“Such a good boy for me,” you purr, resting your hands on his forearms. “I’m very proud of you, my love. You’ve done so well tonight.” 

Loki’s chest puffs out with pride and you see the fresh dusting of pink that paints his pale cheeks. 

Wordlessly, you guide his hands from behind his back to rest them on your sides. His fingers twitch impatiently against the fabric of your shirt, desperate to feel your bare skin beneath his. “Undress me,” you whisper, stroking his arms with the pads of your thumbs.

It’s like the strike of a match. 

Long, elegant fingers eagerly hook into the waistband of your skirt, tugging it easily off your hips and down your legs. The cool air washes refreshingly over you, but it quells the flames of desire for only a second. Loki’s large hands are on every inch of bare skin that he can find, as though this is both the first and last time he’ll ever touch you, as though he doesn’t already know every inch of you by heart. 

Hungry hands slip easily beneath your shirt, quickly making short work of both it and your bra. You hear the quiet rustle as they’re tossed to the side with the rest of your clothing. 

He takes a moment to marvel at you, drinking you in like you’re the finest piece of Asgardian art. You watch his eyes darken as they rake over you appreciatively, and you fight not to shiver under the intensity of his gaze. 

“Norns, you are beautiful,” he murmurs before burying his face into the crook of your neck. 

A cool hand finds your breast while he trails a broken line of kisses along your neck and over your collarbone. His lips are hungry and frantic and, mixed with his fingers twisting and pulling at your nipple, it doesn’t take long until you’re arching into his touch. You’re so submerged between the waves of his affections that you only just register his unbroken chorus of “beautiful thing…enchanting creature…darling girl.” 

Love and lust for this man mix deliriously in your heart, becoming so overwhelming that you can’t help but greedily pull his lips to yours. The kiss is feverish and passionate like you’ll never get another chance to kiss him again. Loki responds eagerly, moulding his body to yours. You feel cool fingers curl around your knee to place it around his waist, and when his lips break away from yours, you can’t help but to whine. 

“Please, darling,” he pants breathlessly against your lips. “Please let me love you.” 

Instantly, any half formed plans you had to keep teasing him fade away like smoke in the wind. 

You tangle a hand into his mess of curls to pull him in for another blistering kiss, and at the same time, you lock your ankles across his back. “Love me, Loki.” 

His cock is already nudging at your entrance when you press your heels into his back, silently coaxing him forward. Loki doesn’t say a word, but his eyes don’t leave yours as he slowly eases himself inside you until you can take no more of him. Despite the many times you’ve taken him before, you’re always left breathless at how good he feels inside you.

Instinctively, you clench around him, pulling a hiss from between bared teeth. “You are perfect,” he groans and rests his forehead against yours. “My perfect girl.” 

He rolls his hips against yours in a slow, deep thrust that sends your eyes rolling in your head. He does it again, and again, until you’re sure you’ll draw blood with how deeply you’re gripping his shoulders.

“Loki…ah!....more,” you plead with a shout when his cock brushes against that sweet spot deep inside you. 

His lips press firmly against your flushed cheek. “Anything my queen commands,” he rasps in your ear.

His thrusts pick up speed until you can feel him in your very soul. Warmth begins to blossom like a new rose in your core as he expertly builds you towards your second orgasm, groaning and panting deliciously in your ear while he chases his own high. The coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter with each thrust, and all you know right now is Loki. 

The feel of him, the scent of him, the taste of him. He’s all you’ll ever need. 

“Darling…darling, I’m close…please,” he whimpers in your ear. 

You’re teetering right on the edge, ready to tumble blindly into bliss. “Come. Come for me, my love,” you tell him hoarsely. 

He barely lasts a minute. 

Neither do you. 

Loki empties himself inside you with a symphony of groans and curses, slipping into some ancient language when you clamp down around him and dig your nails into his shoulder and scalp - deaf and blind in the tsunami of your own release. He drowns you so deeply in pleasure that you’re not sure you’ll ever surface.

You’re not sure you ever want to. This man has given you every part of himself, he trusts you so wholly and so deeply that he’s felt safe enough to submit to you. Gods, you love him so much.

He chases his pleasure ruthlessly, growling deep in his throat when you twist your fingers into his hair. “Good boy. My good boy,” you praise him softly as his thrusts eventually become sloppy and erratic. 

His warm breath hits the crook of your neck while he comes down from his high, completely spent. You cradle his head and turn yours to press a kiss to his temple, feeling him smile against you when you do. 

“You did so well, my darling,” you whisper in his ear, twisting some stray curls around your fingers.

Loki lifts his head to peer down at you, looking close to drunk in the aftermath of his orgasm. He kisses you deeply as his hands slide to rest on your hips, pulling back to grin at you so wolfishly that your stomach flips in anticipation. 

In a shimmer of green, the collar and leash disappear into the air. “Oh, darling, I’m not finished yet.” 

You return his smirk with one of your own. “I should like to think not.”

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XXVI. “grave responsibility”

parts: previous / next

plot: after months of hostile bickering, you finally complete an unconventional interview with Bruce. all’s well that ends well? not quite.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, suicide discussion, feelings of shock, brief mention of hallucinations, feeling unsafe, regret, nausea

words: 9.4k

a/n: the latter portion of this chapter discusses suicide, an attempt occurs offscreen and there are no descriptions of the act or injury. if you would not like to read this, the next chapter will include a blurb at the beginning to summarize what takes place in this chapter so you can still follow along!

"Bruce?!" His chest was heaving, and he had mud snaked up his legs to his thighs. You clutched the notebook tighter as he walked closer, nervous about his intentions as your eyes darted along his haggard frame. The single streetlight down this alleyway (which is why you chose it, it was the only one that was even halfway lit) cast a shadow across half his body, obscuring his face, darkening his hair and outfit until he was mostly a dark blob of nothingness. When you took a step back he stopped, and a single hand appeared with its palm facing you.

"I don't want to scare you." His voice was low and ragged from what looked like a full-send sprint the half mile distance from city hall. The only thing letting you know you weren't entirely gripped with fear was an initial reaction of laughing, which you stifled; what person says that of all things to calm their victim? But as you stood defenseless in the dirty, bloody corridor, panic encroached.

He saw how nervous you were as your face was cast in the dim light. He held both hands up now, submissively, looking nowhere but your eyes. He stepped slowly, methodically, gently to his left so he could be in your light. He had the sense you were as skittish as a feral cat, and once again he didn't blame you. As much as you put him in situations, he put you in them the same. "I wanted to tell you why I was upset that night." And why he needed you to help, but he couldn't get that sentimental of words out of him; they rung discordantly in his head. He diverted his eyes from you for just a moment, looking around to see if there were any place even slightly more private, but you startled at his shift and made that an impossibility. Now or never.

The lack of ache in your heel reminded you your amygdala was running the show now, adrenaline perking your muscles. You needed to focus and fully internalize the situation, or it would be a blur just like the last meeting with him. You watched him with a thorough stare; memorized what he was wearing, thought back to what street he was on, tried to recognize the watch on his wrist. How long has it been since I left city hall? Fifteen minutes? Ten? Less? It was instinctual, what you always did walking anywhere in the city in case the police needed a spotless report. His watch was silver, his shirt dark gray with a rounded neckline, his pants were black and lightly pleated. He smelled like smoked honey, and it was so deep even a hundred washes couldn't take it all out, in case he tried to play it off as some other guy, in some other outfit, in some other alley.

He soaked up your studying, making sure to keep as casually still as possible for you to get your read on him. Outside of the suit even he felt it a bit unsettling out here. As you scanned his outfit he flashed back to the tattered denim around your ankles, and how he held the same frame, the same power. Every defense melted from him in an instant. Standing wasn't going to do, was it?

Bruce sank to his knees, balanced a hand in front of him on the chunky concrete, and sat his ass flat in a mucky, lukewarm puddle. When he looked up at you he relaxed his shoulders, and took firm control to slow his breathing. The dilation in your eyes quickly shrank, the wide fear in your face washed away to pointed confusion. He tucked each leg under the other for good, deescalating measure.

Criss-cross applesauce. You blurted out a laugh that sounded more like a maniacal shriek, or some sound a seagull squawked. It was reflexive, coming more from the juxtaposition of the scene in front of you than anything light and humorous. Yesterday you'd scrolled through hundreds of fanfic blurbs and imagines about how distinguished, classy, and inaccessible the man was—if only they got a load of this. For the first time you'd ever seen him he seemed to embrace a speck of humility. You felt a wash of embarrassment at him acting so docile, unable to stop ruminating on how perceptive and analytical he was. You knew he sensed your fear, and it fucked you up.

"My head was jumbled that night. I didn't intend to find you, I was trying to find something on my own. But," His inhale was quick and deep. "I don't know how much I trust my perception anymore. When I saw you, I wanted you to help reality test my, sanity." He spoke the word with a deep sigh and rapid blinking. A slight scraping sound scored his words, anxiously picking at his nails, squeezing the tips of his fingers until they were blushed scarlet.

Sanity? When you peered more intently (which was possible only by him breaking eye contact) you noticed a slight tremble in him. Now your brow furrowed, desperate to pin down Bruce Wayne's thing. More than anything he seemed to be a chameleon, able to slip in and out of any situation through altering his behavior and appearance. You didn't want to be convinced too easily, knowing full well this too could be a ruse. Some final plea to empathy to guarantee you wouldn't tell before leaving forever, and his hail mary a show of humility. "Why would you need that tested?"

He peered up at you; when your eyes locked again that weird, illegal sensation gripped you once more. Could charisma and manipulation be this intense? Be translated only through agonizing eye contact? "Have you seen any owls around?" His words were barely above a whisper, and you had to strain your ears to hear, nearly forcing you to step closer. Owls? "Like the bird? Owls?"

He nodded. "But drawings. Etchings. In any jewelry, windows, streets, buildings, pins, papers?" Jesus, his eye contact... fucking piercing. Nothing rang a bell to you. You didn't know if they even had real, live owls in Gotham, but no, you hadn't seen any drawings, jewelry, anything owl-themed. Come to think of it, you really hadn't seen one since you were a child, on a school trip, or out camping. You shook your head, the confusion and loss in your body language flitting pain across his face. If this was an act, he was convincing, you'd give him that. The bags under his eyes, the tremble in his torso and hands, the desperate searching in his eyes as he tried to enter your soul through your eye-sockets. He averted his eyes again, and you could breathe. "I think I'm hallucinating them. That night I saw Vry wearing one again, and..." Why was he spilling all of it out to you?

Again? You'd never seen her wear anything with an owl on it. He paused and heaved more breaths, as if it were torturous for him to tell you these things, and maybe it was. How comfortable would I feel saying this to him?

The rest of that night spilled out of him, and it felt about as outside his conscious control as vomiting, and equally pleasant. "When I came home Alfred was... concerned. He showed me the death reports on my great grandfather, and the same thing happened to him. Hallucinating owls." He spit these words out like they were knives. "Right before he died." He crossed his arms over his shoulders in a makeshift hug, squeezing tightly as his now unfocused eyes stared absently down the alleyway.

Oh. Your first instinct was to hug him. He looked so decidedly small... maybe his charm was working, and you resigned to stay put. He sighed again, his shoulders going stiffly up and down with it. "Now I'm here. And you gave me your answer." He looked deep in thought, burrowed in it. Hallucinations? His great grandfather, right before he died? The two pieces didn't quite fit together for you; sure, he was stoic and antisocial, but he... when you came up with nothing more, you remembered how little you truly knew about him. He could've hid any symptoms easily from you, only having to be 'on' for two hours a week, a small handful of times. Maybe that's why he doesn't want to interview. Maybe that's why it's hard for him to speak about his family.

Scuffling, clamoring sounds muffled in the background alarmed Bruce, which alarmed you. He stood up swiftly. "It's paparazzi." His wide eyes were back on you, he looked like a deer in the barrel of a gun. He glanced behind you as if studying where he could run to. The butt of his pants and the back of his shirt were alight with mud, his hair mussed, collar of his sweater askew. You could practically hear the headlines if they caught the both of you.

He couldn't just ask you to follow him, not after you'd been so hesitant of it in the past, not in the middle of the dark evening, not when you were whizzing through unmarked alleys. Not a chance you would go for it. As much as he didn't do bribes, he was thinking about how much cash he had in his wallet and if the paps would go for it. Maybe he could ask you to leave, run to the end of the alleyway and turn different directions, and you’d be spared their invasion.

Your apartment was just three blocks further and your keycard let you into the parking garage. He'd know where you lived for one night, and far from the room you lived in... "C'mon." You motioned for him to follow and turned north, focusing on the weight of your heels as you ran so you didn't slip. You thanked yourself for sticking to shorter heels than Mar had recommended. Gotham even makes it hard to run away.

He also wondered how you could run in heels for the few seconds he was behind you, wondering how you weren't laid flat by a twisted ankle. Maybe he was just too anxious, his legs too rubbery. His feet were catching on every pothole and clump of rock.

Wordlessly, you both arrived not two minutes later to the parking garage. The streets were so dark he was easily camouflaged, and when there had been a car with particularly bright lights you'd paused and stood in front of him; you couldn't tell if he was annoyed by this or not, as you were still wanting to engage with him as little as possible. You had boxes to pack, Mar to hound for an answer, and the debilitating fear and confusion of starting over with no idea what to do with your life. Much to look forward to.

When the garage doors shut, he spoke. "Thanks. I'll call Alfred for a lift in a few minutes." He found a raised yellow parking block and sat down quickly, immediately placing his head back in his hands. This couldn't be happening. You'd acted so confused when he asked that, there was no way you'd seen anything like it. He was dumb to think it was anywhere but outside his head. Vry hadn't even glanced down at the ring, Gordon didn't even care to mention it likely because it wasn't there... jesus.

Your heels in his periphery reminded him he wasn't alone, and could save the spiral for later. He watched as you mindlessly kicked at pebbles and toyed with the phone in your hands. Why did you help him? Was it pity? He thought he was coming off pretty pathetic, desperate even. Shame burned white-hot in his gut. Why did he run after you? Why'd he tell you? Why couldn't he just believe what was right in front of him: he was sick, in the same way, the proof was quite literally sitting atop Alfred's desk as he sat here avoiding it. He stood abruptly, and a haze of dizziness struck him. He ignored it. "I'm sorry for asking you. For following after you." As much as he was physically here right now, he wasn't. Lost in twisting thoughts, a sudden desire to draw up a bucket list, to plan for handing over Wayne Enterprises in case things didn't help, in case—

You shrugged, not knowing quite what to say with the stale silence. "It's fine."

"The interview." He gestured to your hand, which was still gripping the recorder and journal tightly. He livened his posture, his tone, trying to deflect from the vulnerability he'd let slip out of him, teetering on the edge of a panic attack. "We can finish it if you'd like."

The disappointment at having to come to Dr. Vry's office the next morning empty-handed was gone now, and you were more upset hearing him give you another opportunity. You'd prepped yourself to distract with the last perishables in your freezer (a pint or two of Ben and Jerry's and whatever else you could muster eating so it wouldn't be thrown out) while you splayed out in bed watching something on streaming. The thought of such a task now... You shook your head and looked away from him. "You don't have to do that. She'll be fine, I don't ever have to see her again after, so."

"Are you sure? We can do it now, I don't mind." He sounded so genuine, suspiciously so, but you had no time to investigate or tease. You thought about how it would feel to be back in your room tomorrow night empty-handed with absolutely nothing having come from your time here. The thought was harrowing. Your degree was useless in this economy, Mar wasn't answering, and you'd gotten on the bad side of one of the most powerful men in America.

You needed anything you could get, and an interview with a notable figure was far from grasping at straws; it would give you a bit of a boost, something to put on a resume that could give you a much-needed leg-up over the competition... but trying to pull answers out of him would be a Herculean task. You stood awkwardly, looking vaguely in his direction. "You didn't really have answers for me before."

"I'll come up with something. Hit me." Anything to deflect from impromptu, hastily-shared vulnerabilities.

You looked around for a place to set the recorder, until you placed it on the ground. You pulled your knee up to rest the journal on it, but the balancing act had you hopping around nearly crunching the apparatus as you regained balance. Using a car window, bumper, or hood wouldn't do; you'd bumped into a few cars down here before, and they were uber sensitive... there was just no way. Would it be so bad if he knew where I lived for one night? The windows didn't open very well, he couldn't exactly swing in. The door was heavy and loud, and you'd be able to grab some sort of knife if he tried coming in the middle of the night. Christ... "We can go up to my apartment for a few, I guess." Get this over with. Finally! Done! Fucking done! Please!

"I don't want to intrude." He stood up slowly from the parking block, you didn't have any reserve in your patience to humor him. "I've got a fridge of perishables to eat through, if you can help me with that you'll do me a favor." You walked towards the elevator and heard his light footsteps follow. You felt a bit bad for him. His confession had been markedly vulnerable, and the box swiftly shut. Mar called them your 'mediator tendencies'; no matter how shitty you felt someone was, if they showed any meekness whatsoever you desired to soothe them like a sick, stray cat.

It was strange how quietly you both walked into your apartment. You flipped on your singular lamp, walked to the freezer, and had him choose a pint. Wordlessly he picked one, and within thirty seconds he was standing in your bedroom while you readied your things, popping open some Cherry Garcia. After you'd popped open your journal, clicked the pen, and positioned the recorder in his direction, you looked up to see him eyeing your armchair in the corner. His eyes flit back to yours and he immediately cast his eyes to the ground. "Ready." He nodded, but you didn't believe it.

You looked over to the armchair you'd sat in last night, feverishly finalizing these notes. Your mouth tugged into a slight grin. Bruce Wayne in the plush pink chair. You nodded your head toward it and he walked quickly, his legs taking long, sweeping, easy strides. He was extra tall with your heels off, plopped down on your mattress looking up at him. But as he walked past you noticed the gray, brown soak on his back, and hopped up. "I'll get a towel, wait." You trekked to the bathroom and grabbed your last clean one, groaning over why you'd bought white. Upon entering the doorway you tossed it to him, and it caught on the end of the spoon still in his mouth. He winced as a clack sounded, and you stifled a laugh. Even if he was being more humanoid tonight, he was still him.

Your bed felt extra warm after the cool bathroom tile, even with the chill of Bruce in the room. He broke the silence, which surprised you enough to turn toward him. He sat, looking about ten spoons deep into the pint. "I've never had ice cream like this." His brow was furrowed, much too seriously for the situation. You wanted to cackle again, but barely held it in by squeezing your fingers together. He sighed. "Alfred only gets Breyer's. Plain."

Maybe it was a coping mechanism, maybe it was your body dissociating from the stress of the rest of the night, of leaving, of a man you so disliked and so feared sitting alone in your apartment while you were otherwise defenseless, but you broke into furious laughter. You wanted to question him further but you couldn't. You fell onto your back and held your stomach. You couldn't see him but you knew he still had that look on his face, the one he always had with you. That bewildered, annoyed, specific fucking face. Stomach cramps plagued your fun, slowing your uproar and letting you sit back up to face him. A fucking pint? Of ice cream? He talked about it like it was alien. You made the mistake of glancing your eyes up to his, and he was making that face. You scrunched your face together tight, feeling like it was getting to the point of bullying the man.

"What?" Defiance coated his tone. He'd never seen you laugh like that, or really, at all. He shoved another cherry chunk into his mouth to abate his own grin. He didn't understand what was so funny, but it felt funny. You shook your head and picked up your pen. "It's funny because it's such a simple thing, and Breyer's is, that's, I don't know." The humor of it was beginning to leave you, and you heaved a sigh to recenter. "Are you ready to start it?"

"Are you?" He gestured with the spoon and you used every muscle in your face and stomach to reign in another laugh. His defiance had melted a bit. His next scoop sounded like it scraped the bottom, and you looked over, shocked. "Already?"

"Pints are deceptively small." He sat the empty cardboard on the desk beside him. "Not like Breyer's." The ghost of a snicker, the faintest smile tempted his lips. He cleared his throat. He played it off by biting the inside of his cheek. "You said you wanted me to clear it out...?"

You thought of the second pint sitting in your freezer, and signed it away to him in your mind. "Sure, get the other one." A moment later he was taking the lid off of a pint of Half-Baked. You waited for him to get situated and hovered above RECORD. "Can we start?"

He nodded, unable to speak as he chowed down, but he was moving the rest of the dessert off to his left. You pored over the questions left unanswered and unsaid, pain cinching your chest. This evening was so erratic. Frenzied. Fucking weird. You pressed the button and cleared your throat; it always made you anxious when the button hit, even when you did roleplays in class. It felt like signing a legal document, like someone could pore over your recording and read into every little thing. Dr. Vry had told the class to treat journalistic recordings with utmost integrity and professionalism, because if your name ever got called into question it could be incredible evidence to get you out of a tight spot, keeping your name and slate clean from people who may not have liked how they came off.

"Mr. Wayne." You felt uncomfortable saying it, but that's how it had to be done. "The public knows a great deal about your business ventures, your family history, and other professional pursuits. I want to dive a bit more into the personal. What do you hope to accomplish in your personal life, outside of career aspirations?"

Christ, he really didn't have an answer for that one. But he said he would, and after masking his mounting anxiety as 'thinking', he pulled something semi-accurate out of a lot of jumbled nothing. It felt strange to speak so formally, his voice twisting into shapes only ever bouncing off the walls of city hall. "I've put a lot of emphasis on helping Gotham; if I had to say, I would like to..." Nothing. It wasn't genuine. He hoped to eradicate violent crime in Gotham, but unless they knew he was also Batman, that would just be another career aspiration. Was Batman a career? He'd never thought of him that way. He didn't fully look up at you but he could see you glancing at him from the corner of his eye. Doesn't have to be genuine. More of a family name thing than anything. "In the next decade, start a family. Then live out the latter half of my years raising my children."

You stared at him, blank-faced. The way he'd choked that out was brutal; his face scrunched, his hands clenched over his knees, his foot was tapping obnoxiously against the ground... cool it, Y/N. Be grateful he's even doing this for you. You moved on to the next, then. You would've rather sliced off the edge of your tongue than ask this, but he'd tempted the topic and you'd deliver for all the teenagers in the world who thought they had a chance with the guy plastered to their wall. Be professional. "It's a question often posed in the comments of Scypher and across other social medias: are you currently in a romantic relationship? And if not, what do you look for in a partner?" Dr. Vry always said to throw in a 'smoothie' to every interview: something digestible and flashy to get the clicks, but still relevant. Something in popular discourse, Gen-Z. You didn't really know if she knew anything about 'Gen-Z' but—Bruce was staring at you, looking insulted. You shrugged and mouthed to him People want to know making him roll his eyes and sit stiffer in the chair. "Not at the moment. Currently very focused on getting through this election campaign and the Spring budget rollout."

Wonder how Scypher's gonna take that. You noted he refused to answer the latter half of your question, but the recording felt like a tight leash, giving no slack for side conversation. "Speaking about the campaign, The Gotham Times has speculated that you might have a mayoral stint in the future. Any plans?" This one should be easy for him.

"You never know." He let out a strained laugh you could tell was only meant to be transcribed in the article. Had he been media trained? He couldn't have... maybe when he was younger? Do little kids get media training? "My father would have made an incredible mayor. I fear I could never live up to that." He wasn't giving you anything extra; sitting there, still, looking the same as he did all evening with a bit more sweat, water, and wind having embraced him. Stoic. Unapproachable.

You checked the time; it was almost eight. You had to have enough time to write this, finalize it enough for the fucking world to see it, and have enough sleep to drive fifteen hours to get home just after midnight. "What's something that you wish more people knew about you?"

It was at precisely this point that he remembered he was debuting a new persona, a different persona, one that needed to be hyped up, more performative than genuine. The same refrain from the earlier conversation blurted out of him. Only after saying it did he realize you wouldn't get the reference, because you hadn't been in the group he was talking to. "Besides my appreciation for jetting to Dubai to work on my physique?" When you had no reaction but a dead stare, he rushed to explain, stopping just shy of anything escaping his mouth. The recorder in the corner sat like a menacing god. He gestured at it until you gave in and flipped it OFF. He waited for the red light to disappear completely to speak. "Do you, have questions written?" He was flustered, and noticed you fiddle with a beige paper when he said it. "I prefer writing things out."

Unconventional, sure, but it was hard to hide your laughs and even harder to witness him break his brain trying to concoct verbal responses. He spoke again. "Underline the questions you want me to answer." He was too embarrassed to act out Bruce Wayne in front of you, and too much was at stake to toss the boyish banter to the side. You felt the nervousness emanating off of him; how worried about ethicality could you be when you'd initially blackmailed him into doing it anyway? You acceded to him. "Sure." He buried the shock at your swift accommodation deep in his chest. As you underlined, you made sure to keep to the questions least interesting to you and most generalizable to the interests of the public. Who liked Bruce Wayne? Besides the many thirsting after him and the older people who had been enamored with his philanthropic parents, he catered to businessmen—people who thought if they only idolized him enough, they could become him.

Many thought your reclusive nature was due to hatred of the city that so cruelly took your parents, yet you seem to still have a passion for Gotham; what drives that passion?

As a burgeoning philanthropist, what was your 'aha' moment?

You're a very hands-on person. Does this drive your enthusiasm?

You do a lot of traveling?

How does your public-facing life now compare to your more private one before?

What do you think is the biggest challenge facing Gotham City today?

What values are fundamental to you, and why?

What's your favorite way to unwind?

As a celebrity from birth, how do you handle criticism?

What's a book that you'd recommend? Anything you're reading right now?

What do you believe in that others might not?

What's your favorite quality about yourself? Least favorite?

How do you spend your weekends?

What is your idea of happiness?

Any weird habits?

What's the best piece of advice you've been given?

You kept the rest untouched. Light, easy to format, mix of depths. Exasperation threatened to derail you completely; if they'd wanted a better interview, they should've cornered Bruce Wayne in a public setting themselves. You hopped off the bed and handed the journal, paper, and pen to him. "I have to finish packing. Lemme know when you're done." Being close to him felt like being on fire, and you splashed your face with cool water from the kitchen sink as soon as you escaped the deoxygenated room.

You meandered, wandered, skipped from wall to wall of your living room, occasionally stopping by for some grapes, a bite of apple, or a sip from the two different juices open in your fridge. Folded the blanket that was over your couch, stacked the pillows, rolled up the rug. Put all the silverware and dishes in a box, save the ones you would use in the morning for some last-minute snacking. Packed away some cans from the pantry, disassembled the lamp, dining table, and two of four dining chairs (why did you ever think you'd need that many?) before Bruce appeared with the journal in one hand, the empty ice cream in the other. "Finished." He set the journal and ice cream on the kitchen island's edge. His voice was low, his expression tired. He gestured with a nod of his head to the two standing chairs. "Need help?"

You wanted to say no out of some misplaced sense of feminism, but you needed to get writing ASAP. By now it was past nine, long past when you thought you'd start. "I just need these two broken down." In a blink he was knelt down beside you, expertly wielding the thick wood legs like he'd telepathically scanned the crumpled manual at your feet. In just a few more blinks he had the entire chair broken down and placed nicely on top of the other two. Without pause he shifted his weight toward the other chair, and within thirty seconds it was broken down. Each chair had taken you ten minutes at least. You bristled, but your curiosity outweighed the jealousy. "How do you do that so quickly?"

His voice was low, emotionless. Even less than usual. "I'm used to fixing things."

You bit back a snarky retort. This isn't fixing them, it's... You stood and walked to grab the journal while he heaved (well, very easily, like carrying an empty plate to the sink) the pile of wood into the large box with the other pieces. He started turning to face you and the rest of the room, and you quickly snapped the journal open to skim it. Your eyes bulged when your thumb kept turning page, after page, after page. You glanced up at him to see him studying your reaction. "Is it acceptable?"

Acceptable? He'd given you a damn dissertation. "Yeah, I mean," You kept flipping pages and noticed questions you hadn't underlined answered. You flipped more, more, and noticed he'd answered every one. The hour hadn't been long at all, if this was the case. "You didn't have to answer every one, I can't fit them all in." Shit, he'd even answered that one? You hurriedly shut the journal before you could dive too deep into whatever swirled around his head. "Um, thank you." Heat tinged your cheeks. "You didn't have to do that, you didn't have to do any of this, really." Had he written them to actually help you, or was he trying to make you feel guilty? Every passing minute you spent with him only added to his mystique.

He shrugged, just as emotionless and guarded, but somehow emptier. "I figured. Now you have options."

Now the both of you were at a standstill. You'd finally gotten what you wanted. "I'll have to take some artistic liberty on how things were expressed. Fill in some exposition."

He nodded. Stayed still as a statue in the back of your living room, the glow of the kitchen lights lighting half his face.

You skimmed the column requirements internally, making sure you didn't conjure up a question the second he left forever. "You seemed to be acting... social, and laughing. Do you want me to go toward that?" This wasn't usually what happened—usually you wrote what you saw.

His blue eyes were bright and heavy. "Use your best judgement." His eyes darted around the mostly empty room, and you wondered if he was picking up on microscopic hairs on the ground, x-raying through the walls, photographing everything with one look. He existed in uncharted territory between normal and superhuman. You rocked from side to side to self-soothe, anxiety bubbling in your gut. "Anything else you need help packing?"

Your head shake came before you'd even thought about if it was true. "I'm good."

Almost invisibly, he cocked an eyebrow. "You sure?"

Another autopilot response. "Yeah. Thanks though." This whole exchange felt surreal, between the weight of his presence and the weight of the column. You couldn't submit to your anxieties until you'd finished typing it or you'd freeze into a ball of overwhelm. Bruce walked toward your door with a slower, steadier gait, almost lingering, but there was no way you could internalize that. He doesn't want to stay, he wants to get the fuck out of here. How much restraint is it taking for him not to just bolt and say 'sayonara'?

... did you want him to linger? "Bruce." He turned across his shoulder, with his hand on the doorknob.

"Thanks again. This will really help me out. And the money, I'm still mad you didn't talk to me, that's messed up but," Quick, sharp exhale. "It's really helping my family." In the silence after, you wanted to tell him she was starting a new treatment, you wanted to tell him how it was going, you wanted to talk to him. After this you'd never see each other again, and it was... affecting. You still thought it was a bribe, you still thought it was to help you keep quiet, you still thought he was scary, and unnerving, and spoiled. But he hadn't hurt you yet.

He nodded, feeling like a 'you're welcome' would've been sorely misplaced. Seeing you stand in your kitchen, heels off, hair messy, dress wrinkled from cleaning, it all felt so normal. He felt an insanely persuasive urge to move toward that, to bathe in it, to finally let his chest relax, his shoulders drop and escape into everyday nothingness. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." The sound of both your voices in the abject silence was isolated and stark.

"Why do you hate Gotham?"

You fought the urge to sigh at him opening the can of worms again. "I'm just not built for it." He stared at you like you hadn't said a thing, his expression unchanged, still as a stump. You feared if you shrugged again your shoulders would pinch a nerve. "It's too fast. Can't keep up."

He squinted. "You can be honest."

"I am." But you quickly lost the defensiveness. "I have a friend here who loves it. She's thriving, she's not phased. But..." You stared at the wall beside him floating somewhere between here and Washington. The length of today, last night, and tomorrow was weighing on you. If you thought about this much longer you'd crumble back into your existential crisis. You didn't finish your sentence.

Bruce didn't know why his stomach clenched seeing you look sad, much like he didn't know why he'd felt the same pang at city hall... before you'd blackmailed him. But now you'd already done that, the interview was done, you were leaving the next morning, and the sensitivity remained. "What?" His voice was gentler, warmer. Your throat constricted, preparing for tears you begged your body to suppress. "She's tougher than I am."

He didn't miss a beat with his response. "You seem pretty tough to me."

"Yeah, sure." Please leave. I'm about to cry.

He was lingering, and at this point he fully knew it. He hadn't realized that, if he was successful with his newfound persona, no one else would ever know his identity. The thought was sobering, seeing how he'd taken for granted someone else knowing. The second he stepped out of the room he had no one to go to ever again outside of Alfred, and with his age... he'd be resigned to spending the rest of his life alone. Why was he worried about this? Why was he thinking about this?

He noticed the tears welling in your eyes. Was it your mom?

"What?"

Shit. The stress of the evening was wearing on him. He didn't make mistakes like that. "You don't have to answer that."

He'd said it like he hadn't intended to. His eyes searched the ground like he was searching for a way out. What the fuck's the harm in it now? The tears had been beckoned, you knew he saw you shaking... you almost gave in, but you couldn't even chance a look up at him under such wuthering eye contact, let alone talk about the complicated, insidious grief that was your mom's illness. You shook your head at him and leaned your hip against the counter, hoping he wouldn't say another word, praying he would just leave. Your heart raced, and only sped up further when you saw him take a step toward you. "Stop. I'm fine." It came out harsher than you intended, and you only doubled down on it when you saw his brow furrow through the crest of tears threatening to cascade past your waterline.

He wouldn't stop staring at you. You decided to face his eye contact unflinchingly, letting the tears stream down your cheeks without comment. His eyes squinted slightly, following the path of each tear down your cheek as if he were caressing each one, holding its weight, soothing it. His chest puffed like he was drawing in air to speak, and you intercepted, shame pummeling you indiscriminately. Fuck, his presence made you feel so vulnerable, so seen, it was excruciating and untenable. On impulse, you lashed out. "Can you just leave already?"

He looked away and nodded. You could barely see through drowning tears but he looked ruffled, sensitive, a bit upset. Almost like he was kicking himself for letting the question slip at all. He turned and opened the door to the empty, dark hallway, with its smattering of tiny nightlights an inch above the carpet. You squeezed your eyes shut tight, white-knuckling gut-wrenching sobs away. He paused halfway out the door, and your ears strained for any whisper from him, but nothing came. The click of the front door dropped you to your knees, choking out cries and stifling pained screams. The devastating loneliness was inescapably stitched into your side, stomping its dirty, muddy feet all over the parts of you that clung to hope.

In the same instant, the shame intensified; not only did you feel shameful feeling so vulnerable in front of Bruce fucking Wayne, the shame of casting him aside and being so curt mingled with severe FOMO of being able to tell someone who was willing to listen. He was willing to listen to me, and I fucked it. When will anyone else be willing to listen? You shoved yourself up off your knees and flung yourself toward the door, whipping it open to look down the hallway.

Silence. Unadulterated, empty halls. Punch to the gut.

You woke up the next morning plagued by the weight of the night before. After the sob session, you’d spent the next few hours typing, editing, formatting, and finally printing it at the 24 hour office a few floors below you. A solid hour was spent just reading through all of what he had written in your notebook: not only had he answered every question, he had given multiple paragraphs of answers to a few of them. Some of his answers had been so transparent you had to flip pages before more guilt visited about turning him away so coldly. What is your most treasured memory? was answered with this:

I remember camping with my parents once. It was the only time we went out as family in private. It was by a river, and I couldn't sleep because of the rushing water. My father woke up and walked me to it; we sat there in the grassy, dirty rock, and everything went quiet. He talked to me about the current, told me how it eroded the rocks underneath, pointed his flashlight at trout jumping above water. He let me dip my feet in, and I clung to his hand. It was steadying. I looked up and saw the stars—you can't see them in Gotham. It was the first time I felt real. I could see the size of the universe. He toweled off my feet before getting back into the tent. The next morning he got called for surgery, and we left. I asked him to come back, and he promised we would. Two weeks later they died. I haven't felt that feeling since. I cherish it.

You couldn't even think about publishing that. Most of it was relatively benign besides, as he answered much of the 'deeper' questions through the new playboy lens, talking extensively about yachting, spas, hunting trips, tennis, and other activities of the elite. The only other ones you'd felt had any real truth to them was What do you hope you grow out of? (He hoped to grow out of needing to 'save' everyone, which felt like a Freudian slip it was so candid), and the one that had caught your eye last night: What, if anything, makes you nervous? You were surprised he spoke frankly still; he was nervous about going to events, nervous when he put on the suit (that shocked you), and generally only didn't feel nervous when he was home with Alfred.

Except, there had been a question he left entirely unanswered: Say it's the end of the world: how would you spend your last day? You couldn't read too much into it before you slipped the copy into your backpack and set off to campus.

Dr. Vry will be thrilled. Finally, the first interview with Bruce Wayne! Finally, the journalism department could be saved! Huzzah! You snickered to yourself as you scurried through the last few blocks. Every footstep felt like a simultaneous step toward freedom and to the gallows; freedom from Gotham, imprisoned in small-town America destined to float around from dead-end job to dead-end job, with no friends and, potentially sooner rather than later, no family to show for it either.

Steps, steps, and more steps, then the old familiar hallway. I've made her happy. I did what I said I would. This is exactly what she wanted. You were stopped in your tracks by a spectacled man in the doorway of Dr. Vry's office. He looked over and motioned for you to come in, looking busied and lost in thought, even as he finished his sentence to her. Dr. Vry nodded for you to take the chair across from her, and you sidled past the stranger to slip into the seat. Like a switch flipped, all eyes aimed at you before you could even adjust in the seat. They stared at you a moment, and you held out your folder, plopping it neatly on the desk in front of her. You opened your mouth to tell her you'd gotten the interview, but the man intercepted. The folder laid untouched between you and your former professor.

"Ms. Y/L/N. My name is Dr. Jonathan Crane, I'm the lead psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. I wanted to meet with you this morning to discuss an urgent matter." He held out a stiff hand, and it was cold when you touched it; clinical, transactional. Thoughts swirled in the backrooms of your mind of how much warmer and more inviting Bruce's handshake was. You wondered what a psychiatrist was needed for; you stifled a chuckle thinking Dr. Vry was going to try therapizing you to persuade you to stay. Except the room was grim and heavy, and the silence weighed fifteen tons. You nodded at the both of them, your eyes shifting between in search of words that would close the chasm between what they knew and you didn't.

Dr. Crane took a horrifyingly deep breath, so deep there was a shudder at the end of his inhale. "Before we begin, this is highly confidential information that must be handled with the utmost care. In that spirit, in order to share this with you it is necessary to sign an NDA." The man with startlingly blue eyes unsheathed a stapled collection of papers from his bag that sat against the leg of the desk. The top of the paper read: RELEASE OF PERSONAL HEALTH INFORMATION – HIPAA REQUIREMENTS.

Dr. Vry nodded at you and bowed out of the room, saying she would be back as soon as 'Crane' welcomed her back inside. As soon as she shut the door, Dr. Crane announced he was going to be locking the door, and if you consented. You agreed, tentatively, adrenaline beginning to tense your muscles to fight. After the door clicked and the lock turned, he sat down a white noise machine by the door. "To enhance privacy." He gestured for you to look over the small packet, and you obliged.

There was a section underneath the title which had options, and one checked: If patient does not consent to release of records but professional judgement necessitates a duty to warn. Another box was checked underneath it, too: Imminent risk of harm to self or others. Your name was listed under the section Affected Parties, for which there were only two lines. The name right above yours: Alfred Pennyworth.

You looked up with your mouth fallen halfway open. "I don't..."

"You do not have to sign, but this ensures we stay as trauma-informed as possible for our vulnerable patients. This document simply states that you will not share or discuss this information with anyone outside of myself. The line for signature is on the third page." You skimmed the large-printed paper, and didn't see anything of note. You signed, but your signature was shaky, scrambled.

"Thank you, Ms. Y/L/N. We will make this quick, and I will only share information relevant to you." He stashed the document and took Dr. Vry's seat across from you. He looked very psychological, if someone could even look that way. Rectangular, rimless glasses in sterile steel; a scholarly suit that you'd imagine someone teaching at some place like Oxford would be outfit in. Brown blazer, white collared shirt tucked under a chunky knit sweater, a red tie peeking out. His fingernails were clean and trim, his face entirely smooth like he weren't even capable of growing a beard. You wrung your hands under the table, nervous that he was psychoanalyzing you as you both sat. His eye contact was unwavering; if you thought Bruce's was intimidating, this was terrifying. He didn't even blink.

"In preface, this is not an investigation. We are keeping things very close to the chest for the time being. We do not think you at fault for last night's events, this is purely an attempt at safety planning." By this point you were feeling dizzy. Heart-pounding. He paused too long, this wasn't right. Just as you were about to burst and shout for him to SPEAK, he clasped his hands together gently above the table and sighed. "Late last night at just past 10pm, Mr. Wayne attempted suicide."

You went still, tinnitus loud between your ears, fuzzing up the edges of your vision. He continued, as if you weren't visibly unable to process new information in such shock. "He's currently in the medical ward at Arkham receiving treatment. He'll be fine, for now."

The for now sat like a boulder in your gut. You sat further up in the chair and leaned your head down, bile rising in your throat. I'm gonna vomit. And vomit. And keep vomiting. You tried to speak but nothing came out, not even a squeak. Bruce had seemed sad when he left, sure, but he always seemed sad. Nothing alerted you to danger, but... you thought back to how he plopped down in the puddle, how weird the city hall meeting felt with him, the desperate humility tinging his aura and painting his behavior. A personality change. Suddenly you felt like an idiot. You felt like an idiot not taking more care when he opened up to you, not seeing it for what it was. His lingering. Was it a last-ditch effort toward connection? For someone to intervene? The unanswered question, you snapping at him... your gut knotted with guilt; you felt woozy. "I could've saved him, I met with him, I talked to him,"

"Hey." Dr. Crane reached out and placed a hand on your trembling wrist. "You couldn't have known." He gave a small grin that didn't reach his eyes. He had no smile lines there at all, actually. God, your mind swirled. "I know that he met with you, he told me. That's why I'm here, you were the last point of contact."

Your eyes snapped up to his from the now bloody hangnail you'd picked off during this conversation. He hadn't called Alfred for a ride? The thought of him leaving your apartment to wander around downtown, suicidal... fuck. Crane didn't waste time getting to the point. "He asked to see you. Multiple times, in fact. He said you worked for the Gazette, and I got in contact with Janay this morning."

"He wants me to see him?" Your face was scrunched with concern, your body vibrating with grief. Why would he want to see me? I was a fucking jerk. I probably pushed him over the edge, fuck, fuck. What did he do? Why did he do it? "What did he, what did he do?"

Dr. Crane shook his head. "I cannot disclose specifics unless he gives explicit consent. I only came here to safety plan."

Safety plan. He said that again. "What does that mean? You want me to see him?"

"Not quite." He adjusted his glasses and leaned closer. "It appears he's been in a mental decline for some time. He needs treatment, and in the meantime we need you to help monitor his safety."

He could see by your visible confusion you didn't have half the information you needed to make an informed decision. "I'm definitely not trained for that," Yeah, you weren't, but he didn't know that you were worried you had actively made his suicidality worse.

"If you agree, I will personally ensure you receive deescalation training and psychoeducation around psychotic disorders. You'll have my number, and if anything goes awry, I will respond swiftly and immediately."

It wasn't clicking. Why me? What about Alfred? But you were afraid to ask. Why had he asked for you in the first place? Why did he try to kill himself at all? Was it something you said? Something you didn't say? Was that insatiable urge to hug him a fucking cry from the universe to fucking do something?

"Janay informed me you were leaving your post here, and that you permanently reside outside of Gotham." Dr. Crane put a hand on the tabletop and peered at you with piercingly blue eyes. They were icy, and cold. Is that even legal for her to give out? "I say this with utmost delicacy, Ms. Y/L/N; you are at no fault for his self-injurious behavior, but my clinical judgement paired with his trauma history leads me to believe your leaving pushed him over the edge." He leaned in closer to you, his expression clinical, distant, with a tinge of rehearsed compassion from a one-week training on bedside manner.

Discordant guilt flushed through you. It wasn't your fault, but it was? You weren't at fault, but something you did made him decide to take his own life? "If he needs to be watched, I can't do that, he wouldn't even want that, I'm not trained," Hot, salty tears stung your lash line as your anxieties poured out of you. "I don't know him, I don't know how to help him,"

"You may not think so, but as far as his next-of-kin explained, he doesn't have many social contacts. You seem of particular importance to him." He glanced at the folder discarded on the table. "Even trusting you to give his first interview, impressive."

You sat, slumped in the cold, hard chair. The thoughts had quieted to a fuzzy, helpless sensation, but nothing concrete outside of the gripping, visceral feeling of I fucked up. Dr. Crane spoke again. "Believe me, this is certainly unconventional. However, his status as a public figure is critical context. He is refusing long-term care, and after the 24 hour hold there's nothing we can do to prevent this happening again."

"What about therapy, medication?"

"That's the very issue we've run into and why your cooperation is imperative. Mr. Wayne is refusing any medical intervention. As far as my assessment goes, he is not answering the risk assessments honestly. He's a smart man, knows how to work the system. I'm concerned if you do not agree to this, there will be nothing we can do to save the last member of the Wayne estate."

At this point you felt as if you were floating above your body. The stakes were too high, everywhere. Too high with your mom, too high with this, too high with the interview. How were you critically involved in the continuation of both Bruce Wayne's life and a major department at one of the biggest universities in the country? Anger boiled up in you, overtaking the shock and sadness. You were helpless; how were you supposed to say no? Whenever you stepped into this room you were made to feel like you had all the power in the world, yet you were so quickly discarded if you tried to take up any actual space. He sensed a clear shift, because he spoke up quickly. "This time is crucial and temporary. I have reason to believe that after no more than a few weeks, he will be able to stabilize with medication-assisted therapy. Then your post is finished."

"You want me to convince him to get help?"

"Precisely." He pushed up his glasses with his pointer finger.

"What about the other name on the form? Alfred Pennyworth?" Would be weird to name him as his butler.

Dr. Crane sighed, like he was giving up information he really didn't want to share. "I met with Mr. Pennyworth last night upon Mr. Wayne's arrival from Gotham General. I'm afraid he's already been trying to convince him for many months to begin therapy; Mr. Pennyworth worried that might have been a trigger in itself."

Fear ballooned in you. "Then wouldn't it be the same for me? I know him even less, I really don't think a single interview signifies..." you trailed off. How is me going to one city hall meeting a week enough? Does he know how often I see him? You imagined Bruce alone in some dark room, the walls covered in soft, spongy material. Chained to a bed. If those dark thoughts crept in again, at any other point in the week, there would be nothing you could do. You were afraid the responsibility of keeping him alive would consume you, and if it didn't succeed... christ. No matter what anyone told you, no matter if a higher power came down and denied your fault themselves, you'd never be able to forgive yourself.

Dr. Crane's face was grim, and he spoke like you'd already signed the dotted line. "All you can do is try.”