Nap

"Didn't sleep so well last night, I think" You say trying to burn the feeling on the sides of your throat. Shit. Swollen lymph nodes.

"I think you might be getting sick (Y/N)," another coworker enters your field of vision from behind. 'Holy- where did she come from???' Judging by the freshly made green tea she had in her hand. Probably a while.

"I… think so. Ughh I don't want to get sick," you rubbed your temple.

"The season begins," your office friend grins into his cup and takes a step away from you.

"Kindly hush, don't jinx the office," delicate bangle bracelets chimed accusatorily at your friend. Oh damn, you might be sweating despite being cold. You sighed before taking one last scalding swig of your hot drink, and waved off the other two.

"I'm going to go fill out a leave form for tomorrow, and delegate some calls and documents today. Don't want to get you guys sick when you all have stuff to do." It was like you can feel your sinuses closing up in real time, but you have to get through today at least. There at least wasn't too much to worry about at the moment. 

You closed your office door and sat down to pull up the previous email that you saw and print off the necessary documents. The office is trying to go paperless, but still insist on having physical copies to read through. Then preach about it at the next meeting about how even buying paper is a waste of funds, but wanting funding for ipads they won’t use and more in-person travelling conferences to Las Vegas, LA, and Metropolis. You sighed and stapled the papers in order,

"Just say you hate us," 

You finished up dealing with a case not too long ago that ended with putting the defendant, Black Mask, behind bars… well some sort of bars, it had to be better than nothing even if it was Arkham Asylum. You know that there could have been more done to protect the public safety and provide more justice to Roman Sionis' victims. You have a sneaking suspicion that the lawyer behind Black Mask's sentence is in his pocket as well. You have to handle him carefully, not out of fear of said lawyer, but what would happen to the rest of the cases and sentences that he had a part in. That piece of shit, now you have to comb back through his cases. Maybe you can hand it off in parts. Yeah, you can probably make it work. You have a list racking up already if you think about it. You'll make a formal complaint after gathering necessary evidence with something else, maybe even the "alleged" bribes and misconduct that got swept under the rug for the Black Mask case. This and that. You might need a list…

You sneezed loudly filling up your quiet office space. 'I can deal with this after I get better… now, should I take one day off or two… nah you know what, I can afford four days of sick leave.'

…Fuck, you hate this new human resources software, filling out Sick leave forms is a nightmare. Who even approved of this new district wide Clock-In system without properly beta-testing this and going through this thoroughly. Piece of fucking shit. IT, HR, and Payroll must be having an amazingly wonderful launch month… this is sarcasm. It's stupid, inefficient, and stupid, but, hey, what would you know you're not a bigwig. 

You can feel a sneeze coming on, but it goes away. You curse.

—

There was a light drizzle happening behind your curtains, your blankets have never felt better, and the muffled sounds of cars honking and speeding coming from below. This could have made this a very good day off. However; you called it. You were sick, not even social media could give you that dopamine rush, the uncomfortable pain in your ears ruins it. No matter how much you've grown up and become accustomed to it.

You recall a cold, gentle hand pressing against your forehead once. You couldn't remember if it was Bruce or Alfred, but once you made a sound the hand left with a cold wet rag taking its place. Cold. Everything in that manor was so cold, so big, and so quiet. You vaguely recall getting up to call for someone, but no one was home. The tall, winding halls seemed to spin the more you ventured around in a thin blanket. The cold seeping in from your bare feet, chilling your legs and crawling up your back, freezing sweat. Why did everything in that house have to be cold? You need to get up, you need to eat. You need to get up.

Your bones ached, feeling clothes stick to your body as you got up and walking the cool floor of your apartment. Making way to the kitchen area, it felt a lot like back then; although, there were a lot less stairs now. You can't remember whether you had slippers or your bare feet back then, memories only brought coldness. Bringing out a pot to make a simple porridge, soup, ramen, canned, homemade, it didn't matter. The action was practiced, didn't need much thought. A method that you always had. You didn't want the noise, so no phone nor tv nor radio accompanied you, just silence and foggy memories that resembled thoughts. 

The air was cold, as were the kitchen tiles. Only the gas stove fire underneath a boiling pot warmed you in a way that your blanket wasn't. It was quiet, in the kitchen, too quiet. You set aside a bowl of soup… or did you already have the soup in hand? You can't really remember anymore. It's been so long since you've been in that place. But you remember the feel of being an intruder in your own home. 

You can hear Alfred lecturing Bruce in the walls echoing, you can't find where the echo is, but it's getting closer. Then you finally hear the sounds from the hall outside the other set of kitchen doors. The one that leads to Bruce's study, somewhere in the wing of the manor that you've never been allowed to enter. You don't remember the reason why you felt the need to hide in the pantry, but you were there.

"…you can't keep running from them, Master Bruce. They–"

"Alfred, I don't have time for this, please, just deal with the kid. I'll be back in a week after the situation is handled. You know that this is more important."

"Sir, they just want to see you. Even if it's just for a moment. I remember when you–"

"Alfred." Something about the dark tone in Bruce's voice made your fingers unconsciously clench at the bowl of hot soup in hand.

"This is something that can't be put off because the kid is playing being sick. I'll see them when I get back. End. of. discussion." The sound of dramatic flare of a long fabric strikes you as odder as an adult than when it happened in the moment. All you could feel was the heat in your ears and the burning in your hands… You can hear that there was a sigh, but the tapping of tailored shoes goes back in the same direction, back to the forbidden hall. 

The soup isn't warm anymore.

The day passed in a blur. Sleep, headaches, medicine, and more sleep. You think you remember showering and brushing your teeth, but you could be mistaken.

You open your eyes to a brighter morning, well as bright as Gotham can get. Your throat still hurts to swallow, but at least you're not dead on your feet. The day passed much like the first except you at least have the energy to watch and read something. The lively noise from the TV becomes background noise as you remember. On your third sick day, you felt a little better and not like a hazardous bio-weapon. And your fourth day of being sick, you didn't even feel it. Feeling better after being sick and being away from work really makes you appreciate life and the small comforts afforded to you. Reflecting on cloudy days too… You wonder how Alfred is doing, is his back okay? Does his shoulder still hurt? Although you suppose he must be busy with all of his new wards. He always was a meticulous man. You mused, but notice that there's a feeling in your being. The feel… stings? Well, not stings, it doesn't hurt, but you know that it did, once. You're just aware of the feeling that this was once a person who was important to you, and now, isn't. It's both tragic and not. The feelings are conflicting and jumbled up into a pile that doesn't have any particular emotion to it. It just feels like nothing. It's nothing. It feels like nothing. But you can feel this nothingness so deeply, and you aren't entirely sure if you want it to keep feeling like nothing…

You stared into the empty space of your kitchen, and decided it's time to get some fresh air.

—

The bustling noise and the scent of coffee felt like a warm embrace from the streets of Gotham. You preferred the warmer touch of a local cafe, the rough layout, and the home-y decor. It's a "treat yourself" kind of day. 

As you get to the front of the register, one of the baristas recognizes you.

"WOAH HEY! You're alive?!" she exclaims, while slightly covering her mouth

"Uhhh… yeah?" You look at her questioningly. How did she know that you were sick a couple of days ago? You haven't been to this cafe since you were in college and that one building collapsed with the Joker- … ohhhh. The dots connected. 

"Oh. Yeah, that…" you shift side to side, well, time to ignore this conversation.

 "Can I get a-"

Just before you could finish speaking, you see on a screen behind the register, your back being filmed very blurred from dust. A news story highlight for Gotham, and you were the subject. Aah crap. You glance back to the barista who is looking at you expectantly.

"Hello?? People have been looking for you? The whole neighborhood really, how have you been?!" 

'Nooo, please, let's move away from this conversation,' you pleaded internally, shoulders dropping as you accepted your fate.

"Well I-"

"Raquel, what are you-" The barista, Raquel apparently, wasn't about to let you go now. She whips out her phone to rapidly start text people. Then she pulls up pictures and videos from a couple of years ago…

"This is the person who I told you about!! The one who saved those people from that collapsing building!" Your lips straightened as you could feel stares on the back of your neck.

"Dude, we've been looking for you everywhere, we- Oh!" Raquel the barista now notices the growing line behind you and her co-worker opening up the second register aggressively. Raquel looks at you conflicted, so you just sighed.

"I'll have a [drink order]... I have a bit of work to do, so I'll be in the corner seat," You vaguely gesture to a corner, and the barista brightens visibly. Her bright eyes and expectations kind of burns your soul.

"Okay, we'll have that drink right out to you-" you were interrupted by an impatient elderly gentleman behind you.

"Ok, their drink on me, I'll have-" The old guy must have gotten sick of waiting, but he surprises you. As you shuffle to the side after thanking the man, he comes back up to you. You straighten up as he takes a seat with you.

"You a lawyer?" 

"Uhh yes, yes I am I work at a branch office of Hewitt & Associates firm"

"How much do you charge for consultation?" the man stares at his coffee intensely

"$250 per hour, but there's-" You can see his grip tighten ever so slightly around his cup

"But a, conversation; however, and on my day off, doesn't cost a thing," You take a sip as the elderly man meets your eye. He talks to you about his troubles and his concerns about a legal matter he wanted to take care of with a certain company. You explain to him in depth about the questions he has and what to ask his future legal representative, and recommend some good colleagues that run non-profits and low costing civil lawyers; as well as low to medium costing attorneys that you can stand to put a good word in for. And, as much as you dread it, a few Wayne funded programs would be a good start for the old man.

As you got lost in thought about what else you could recommend to the elder gentleman, you didn't notice the seats around you getting filled as some listened to you intently while others are just enjoying the lively atmosphere. Raquel, the barista, was recording for both her socials and the cafe's social media page.

"Cafe hero: FOUND!"

—

"Sooooo, a hero huh." Your coworker corners you at the office vending machine.

"What are you talking about?" You don't even glance at her as you are too busy trying to choose a snack. You kind of wish that there were more options, but again not your department.

"Oof, they don't know," Your other coworker started to scroll on his phone for something on one of his socials. Then tapped your shoulder to show you a certain cafe's social media page. You stare back at yourself for a moment. It's an edit from that day, a scary dust cloud filled window, the barista's hand shaking the camera then pivots to you carrying people into the cafe, your back disappearing into the dust and emerging again with more people, then it cuts to you watching the happy cafe scene, reading the caption; until it loops over again.

"Oh fuck," you can feel the dread in your chest, it gets even worst when you look at the number of views it had gotten since yesterday. It's in the 500k’s and growing. Wow, you need to disappear into the dirt forever.

"You're not going to disappear into the dirt,"

Since when can she hear your thoughts? Doesn't matter, the dirt calls.

"Wow, you need some serious social media training, like ASAP. You know my brother and sister can help with that," your coworker glanced at his phone to the comments and paused.

"... Are you one of Wayne's kids?" They both look at you, but you can definitely feel more eyes in the room.

"Fucking hell."

—

Damien stops scrolling on his phone for a moment to see a person who looks like his father at a glance. Damien's face pinches when he sees the word 'hero,' he takes pride in what he and his family does. Why does this random person get a title like their for carrying a couple of people. They do that almost on a weekly basis. He rolls his eyes internally. On a whim, he opens and looks at the comments. Two comments catches his attention. With this new information he gets up and starts walking to the kitchen where he knows Alfred to be.

Passing a large portrait, he pauses and glances up at his father and brothers looking down at him. A moment flickers.

He continues on his way to the kitchen, and as he swings the kitchen door open and feeling warm food being prepared with the utmost care washes over him. Alfred is sautéing something, and Damien stands beside him for a moment watching.

"Yes, young master Damien,"

"Who is (Y/N)?"

"... " Damien watches as Alfred looks lost in thought for a good minute before he notices the burning smell.

"Alfred, the pan"

"Ah," The vegetables had a bit of a char on them. Alfred and Damien look at the vegetables.

"I think a beef vegetables stew would be most appropriate," as Alfred grabs a red wine to deglaze the pan

"... agreed, but you still haven't answered my question."

"They're Master Bruce's first born, they left some time ago,"

"Why did they leave? Why are there no pictures of them anywhere? How comes I’ve never heard of them?”

"They're, a long story," Damien watches Alfred's back and walks to the kitchen island to sit in a tall chair, getting comfortable. Alfred feeling the expectant stare of Damien on his back. Alfred stares into the pot as he finished preparing the soup, and turn to grab some bread to toast.

" (Y/N) was the first, and I'm sorry to admit, but they were the first of everything for both Master Bruce and I,"

—————

Authors note: Hungry for soup rn

SUNDAY, the spoiled rich idiot.

Truth be told, you never really knew him. His sister, though — Robin — you knew well. She was everything Sunday wasn’t: respectful, kind, approachable. Though she carried noble blood, she never let it wedge between you. Not that your family was lowborn, but the Oaks stood at the pinnacle of wealth, and Sunday believed that title demanded your deference.

She didn’t wear the title like armor. Not like him.

Whenever you played with Robin, he would find a way to intrude. A pointed glare. A reminder of her lessons. A smirk that cut deeper than words. Robin would assure you his cruelty meant nothing, calling him a meanie with the blind optimism of childhood. But his disdain stuck — sharp, unshakable.

You clung to her reassurances. Believed there was no divide. That shattered the day you were accused of theft, branded with a crime you hadn’t even known existed. Your family pulled you away without hesitation. You wept in the carriage, watching Robin blur into the distance. And there, framed in the doorway, Sunday smirked as though satisfied with your exile.

Years passed. You rose, inherited your family name, earned respect. Then the invitation came: the Oak Family gala. The feud was never resolved, but the world had changed. Favor mattered more than old wounds. Still, forgiveness was not yours to give.

The estate hadn’t changed. Same grand ceilings, same chandeliers glittering like stars. As you walked the familiar corridor, portraits of the family lined the walls. The last was of the current heads — Robin, and Sunday.

They looked different now. Older. Sharper. So did you.

The gala brimmed with nobility. You wore your mask of smiles, ignoring the ache in your cheeks, until the moment arrived. Robin and Sunday stood before you. The room stilled as you bowed, formal and cold. Robin shattered protocol with an embrace, gasps following her warmth.

Then — his voice. A whisper at her ear.

Sunday.

He didn’t touch you. He didn’t speak your name. But his gaze — unyielding, relentless — never left.

Robin brushed him off, but your gaze locked on his. A blank bow was all you offered.

The night turned into a dance of shadows. Robin at your side, Sunday always near, hovering at the edge of every conversation, watching with a hunger he couldn’t hide. You told yourself he was waiting for the chance to ruin things again. In truth, he was starving for the chance to make them right.

Then the waltz began. Couples spun beneath the chandeliers, Robin pulled away in Argenti’s eager arms, her laughter trailing behind. Alone, you stood at the wall, glass in hand.

Then — white gloves at your side.

You turned. Sunday. His hand extended, steady, insistent. You wanted to refuse, to humiliate him with a public rejection. But family honor bound you. You set your hand in his.

On the floor, he surprised you. He didn’t force control. He didn’t sneer. He only danced, measured, careful — as though afraid to break you. And when he drew you close, his voice was low, raw.

He confessed. Pride, jealousy, the weight of a name that had poisoned him. His weakness that cost him Robin, cost him you. You prepared to spit out that apologies meant nothing. But he cut you off. He didn’t ask for forgiveness. He only wanted you to know he had never meant to hurt you.

The dip came sudden, his arm strong beneath you. The rise was slower. The applause thundered, but for a heartbeat it felt like only the two of you existed. He pressed his lips to your hand, reverent, aching, like it was sacred. A worship he denied himself too long or as if to erase the boy he had been, you will never know. Then he turned and vanished into the crowd.

No, you did not forgive him.

But your heart whispered treason all the same.

When did Sunday become so compelling?

DANHENG, the loner.

It wasn’t like you never tried. You’d always been good at coaxing people out of their shells, good at making new friends. And every day at lunch, there he was — alone, tucked behind some book or another. You weren’t trying to bother him. Just… curious. Why did he always keep his distance?

Your approach was the same one that had always worked: warm, bubbly, easy. But with Danheng, you never got the chance. His rejection was instant, sharp. “Get lost.”

It was the first time anyone had said something like that to you so boldly. It stung. Your childlike wonder cracked, tears slipping free as you ran to tell March.

She was furious. Promised to give him a piece of her mind. He shouldn’t treat people like that. You agreed, and when she came back assuring you it was “handled,” you foolishly expected an apology. But visiting him again only earned the same cold dismissal.

It confused you. Why could he be friends with March and not with you? People said you and her were alike. Shouldn’t he like you too? But in the end, you learned something valuable: not everyone wants to be your friend.

So you stopped trying. You gave him the distance he seemed to want. And you kept it — for years.

By the time you reached university, you had plenty of friends. You weren’t obsessed with collecting them anymore. You joined March’s photography club, and today was practice day: models, lights, lenses. Most of the volunteers were there for the free gift cards March promised, or just to hang around her.

You drifted with your camera, snapping shots of the crowd: classmates surrounding March, fellow photographers fussing with equipment, the wide open space filled with laughter. You were in your element — until you turned. Click.

And froze.

Short black hair. Pale teal eyes.

Danheng.

You blinked. So did he. And then you scrambled — apologizing, promising to delete the shot. You even showed him proof before scurrying away, giving him no chance to speak. You already knew what he’d say. Something sharp. Something that would bruise the child inside you all over again.

But no matter how you avoided him, he slipped into your photos anyway. In every frame, somehow, there he was — those eyes staring through the lens, straight into you.

And then came pairings. Photographer with model. Of course, March sent you with him. You begged her not to, but she only smiled, calling it bonding.

All you could do was apologize. Promise you’d work quickly so he could go about his day.

“It’s fine,” he said at last. His voice low, measured. “The last photo you took was pretty nice. Even though you deleted it.”

You froze at the words, stunned. Compliment? From him? You buried it, forced yourself to focus. You snapped photo after photo, pretending not to hear your own pulse in your ears — until March called for everyone to switch.

You handed the camera over. He held it like something fragile. “How does it work?” he asked.

You guided him through the buttons, the dials, and then—

“Pose,” he said.

You had never been on this side of the lens. Every shift of your weight felt wrong. You knew you looked as awkward as you felt. Danheng lowered the camera. Stepped closer. Too close.

This close, you could smell him. Jasmine trees and coffee. He adjusted you gently, moving your feet, tilting your chin with the lightest touch of his hand. And you — helplessly — you locked eyes with him.

The air shifted. The closeness was too much, too intimate, too raw.

A flash startled you both. March, laughing, had stolen a shot, and Danheng lunged to snatch the camera back. They bickered playfully, her laughter ringing bright.

You barely heard them.

Because all you could think was—

When did he start looking at me like that?

When did he get so beautiful?

WELT, the nerdy boy in your English group.

You used to think he was the sweetest thing. The boy with wide-rimmed glasses, a shy stutter, and a habit of raising his hand with answers so careful it felt like he was afraid to be wrong. Welt was the quiet heart of your English class, and to you, he was perfect.

Your friends teased you relentlessly. They said your “crush” was just a ploy to get help from the smartest kid in the room. But you didn’t need his answers — you just wanted him. The way he pushed his glasses up when nervous, the way his ears turned pink when the teacher called on him.

But you never had the courage to talk to him. And he never found the courage to talk to you. So your crush stayed unspoken — one-sided, at least in your mind.

Time pushed you apart. Graduation came. Different partners, different paths. He vanished into the current of life, and eventually, you told yourself it had been nothing — just a silly teenage crush.

Except it hadn’t been nothing. Not really.

Years passed. Decades, even. You built a life, a career, friends. But every New Year’s party, every crowded room where couples kissed at midnight, you’d catch yourself remembering that boy with the stutter, and wonder where he ended up.

The countdown was still thirty minutes away, but soon the upstairs accounting unit would pour in, doubling the chaos. It wasn’t that the space couldn’t hold them — it just meant shoulder-to-shoulder noise, too much heat, too many voices. Without a partner to share midnight with, you felt no pressure to linger.

So you slipped away.

The rooftop air was crisp, carrying the promise of fireworks. From here, the whole city square stretched before you — open sky, perfect view. And you weren’t alone.

A man leaned against the fence, lighting a cigarette. For an instant, the flame illuminated hard brows, a scowl etched deep. You weighed your options: crowded room or brooding stranger. The breeze made the decision for you.

Your footsteps crunched on gravel, drawing his attention. He angled his head, blowing smoke away from you. A small gesture, but it softened him in your eyes.

Silence stretched — until you both spoke at once.

“Want one?” he asked, offering the cigarette pack.

“Escaping the chaos too?” you asked.

You both laughed, shaking your heads at the overlap. He turned toward you, still smiling — and in the moonlight, the glasses caught your eye. Ordinary, at first glance. But you noticed the tiny detail carved into the side, the same kind he used to wear back in school. You knew those glasses. You knew him.

Your heart stuttered. Welt.

Your heart thudded. “This is going to sound strange, but… did you go to—” you named the high school, tentative.

His brow lifted. “Yeah. Why?”

You whispered his name.

His breath caught, your name tumbling from his lips so fast it tripped into a stutter — that stutter — before dissolving into a cough. You reached out without thinking, hand on his back, and suddenly you weren’t in an office building on New Year’s Eve. You were seventeen again, watching him turn pink at the ears.

“It’s been forever,” you said, patting his back until he caught his breath.

The conversation flowed easily after that, warm and oddly youthful. You hated how it made you feel — like teenagers again, like no years had passed at all.

Then the countdown roared from below. Ten. Nine. Eight. You both turned toward the city, joining in, your voices trailing behind the crowd’s. Fireworks streaked across the sky, bright and bursting.

You looked back at him.

The boy you remembered was gone. In his place stood a man — worn, steadier, still carrying the quiet patience you had admired all those years ago. But there was something new in his eyes as he looked back at you, fireworks reflected in their glassy sheen.

And you thought, helplessly—

This will update with works of fandoms I’m in along with updates of what im currently working on and future ideas!

KEY= fluff ◡̈ | angst 𖦹 | smut ღ | head-canons ⌗ | TBW ✎ | series 𝄞

ᯓ DATE EVERYTHING

╰➤ MAYBE ITS ME… | Date Everything x gn!reader 𖦹 𝄞

Part One | Two | Three | Four

You aren’t sure why but almost every dateable hates you and you’re starting to wonder if you’re the problem.

╰➤ OBJECT WHISPERER | Date Everything x gn!reader ◡̈ ⌗

Before you got your dateaviator you unknowingly had made relationships with the appliances and knickknacks around you home.

╰➤EVERYTHING HAS A PLACE | Date Everything x gn!reader ⌗ ◡̈

How life is with the objects and their autistic homeowner.

╰➤ DISH IT OUUUT | Curt ‘n Rod x gn!reader ◡̈

Curt and Rod tease you, so you dish out—not just shade—but playful revenge.

╰➤ WARNING SHOCK | Volt x Eddie x gn!Reader ღ ✎

Eddie and Volt find out you have a voice kink.

╰➤ HOUSE FIEND | Date Everything x gn!reader ◡̈ 𝄞

Part One

You are the friend of the Homeowner, they need you to house sit for a month. During the time weird things happen that you hope to ignore.

ᯓ ARCANE

╰➤ TIL’ WE MEET AGAIN | Silco x Fem!reader (HIATUS) ◡̈ 𝄞𖦹

SERIES MASTERLIST

Young, dumb, and mostly feral is how some would describe the new underground rebellion group within the shadows of the undercity. You were indifferent to the revolt— in favor of worrying about your own survival, but you morals have seen to shift when you rescue someone in fending off an Enforcer. Morals in support of the birth of Zaun.

ᯓ K-POP DEMON HUNTERS

╰➤

She’s pointing fun yet logical, allowing you to rant about what you did and where you possibly went wrong with each. She sat across from you, leaned forward with her elbows on her knees in full concentration. You were sat back practically melting into the furniture that didn’t despise you, moving a hand around to exaggerate your speech with the other stuffing your face with food like you haven’t eaten in weeks. Lowkey, you haven’t.

“When I talked to Hoove, being nice and supportive while telling him not to work too hard—I thought I was being sweet ya’know—“ You stuff your face and swallow.

“—but apparently NOT?? He got angry with me, when I tried backtracking and apologize which crazy by the way he said he HATED ME?!” You shout, you can feel your face heat in anger at the thought before tears well up.

“Or how I tried to speak with Daisuke—“

“Who’s that one?”

“Oh my tableware, he’s like tall about yay-high with black hair a portion of it in a bun with like dishware themed robes…I heard from others in rhe kitchen that he’s into taking things seriously” You explain with a wave of the hand.

“I actually…heh I thought that we’d get along, he likes taking care of the dishes and even tries to fix them if they crack due to me but that’s not the point I too like fixing things, I want to fix things…but I guess unlike him or fake it till you make it like Tony…I just make it worse…”

“I…I just wanted to be friends or the I don’t know? Date? The whole reason of the damn glasses.” You mutter, you push the snacks away and use a napkin to clean yourself.

Dating them, any of them wasn’t the main goal. Sure it’s interesting but realizing the things around your home have their own lives in the house was so cool!

Being a hermit, a homebody it felt like a this was a way to help you as well, to get better with being social and maybe let you learn that the outside wasn’t so scary and not everything was out to get you.

But, you messed it up—perhaps you tried too hard, pushed too much, didn’t push enough, didn’t flirt when needed to, too flirty for some, or didn’t have enough specs for the correct dialogue and it came out lame. Now, you’re both miserable in the house and out of it.

Sam was trying, really was. As you spoke she’d occasionally glance around her apartment as if the ranting was making her paranoid about her house. Sighing she runs her hand down her face. She should’ve said something about the weird black stuff in that bathroom, maybe it was the fumes getting to you, but she shook her head.

“What else happened?…”

“The breaking point?”

“Yeah, what made you take off the glasses?”She asks, you groan, slumping back and wiping away a few stray tears as you remembered.

“I was going to the Breaker Box Club, ‘cause Eddie and Volt were still nice-ish from our previous conversations—I hadn’t talked to them in a bit by then cause I was trying to salvage whatever was going on between Harper the hamper and Dirk dirty clothes. I wanted to catch up and help Eddie with some of his work like last time.” You shift in your seat uncomfortably.

“When I entered it was packed, I was happy for them that their business was getting bigger but I knew it was gonna be a lot to take on so I went to find one of them to offer help…”

“…you try and help a lot…”

“I do, it’s…the only thing I can give to them—“ you stop yourself, continuing the story of the night prior.

“But, I knew I wasn’t welcomed. Everyone avoided me, whispering around like I was back in school. Again, Volt saw me. I remember waving at him as he walked over way too quickly. We talked as he pushed me along the way I came from, when I noticed I was confused and…worried I lost another person again…” You take in a deep breath.

“I did…the gossip around the club didn’t go unnoticed by the owners he wanted to get rid of me so it didn’t disturb the customers. I tried talking to him saying that I wasn’t a bad…person…” You don’t sound convinced yourself by that statement.

“He wasn’t having it, his…skin almost turned this light blue? His hand gripped my arm to drag my away from the prying eyes, it hurt…not to make him anymore mad I let him, throw me out…” Voice trailing off, Sam looks stunned, like this was the most juiciest soap opera ever.

“You got kicked out of your own break box—“

“YES, I GOT KICK OUT” you yelled but not at Sam, yelling at the absurd thought of being thrown out of your own break box.

“Crazy…” She elongates the ‘zy’ in the word, unsure how to handle the rest of this.

“Do you think there’s a way to start over with them? All of them I mean?”

The sun was setting, making the silence seem light and comforting. You’re tired, and don’t know where to tread next, so many ideas run in your mind that you—wait…

There might be a very dubious way to get your life back to normal. The thought felt terrible, too personal and guilty, but you don’t seem to have any other option. At least not right now. So, you’ll pin the idea with Keith in the back of your mind. And let it fester or wilt as you and Sam brainstorm together.

Back at the house.

The ones that cheered for your leave are quiet, basking in the dullness of the house. Sure they can talk to one another but…that’s uneventful. The house is missing apart of itself the part of you. The human part. The fragile, unpredictable, unproductive, and lonely ways of you has gone missed.

But everyone refuses to say it out loud. They’re all still bitter and angry with how you treated them—wait…why exactly are they all mad? Some can’t remember but feel justified, although, looking back they just remember you trying. No.

No. You hurt them. They think…

…

…

Okay—well they aren’t sure…not anymore.

The lights are off because there’s no need to see, the sinks and baths don’t run because there’s no one to draw it for, the wall creaks and settles sadly, coffee pot remains unused along with the beauty products, television, books, sofa, stove—all of it. All of them are…completely bored?

Maybe, making your life inconvenienced and almost down right harassed in your day to day life after you stopped interacting with them wasn’t the right way to express their anger. A day turned to four then a week then two weeks.

Dorian can feel the worry in every room about when you’ll return, he huffs. Bedroom Dorian stands still, looking up at the ceiling then down to the floor, watching Florence quickly scramble around her time book with all the new complaints and meetings for Celia.

He reluctantly…steps forward. Away from his position to stand right in front of the poor woman. He rather be doing his job, the thing he thinks so highly of. However, he too is miserable more miserable than laundry room closet Dorian because what is his purpose now that the one who he open and closes for…is gone?

But he’s convinced himself that speaking with Celia will help.

Or so he hopes.

Taglist:

@hhhhthththrd

@diablosinners

@4rt3m1y

@stargazer0x0

@apearlyheart

@airyravenmaid

@writing-munchies

@suck-me-sideways-blog

@trixie541

@redjeanjacket

@xxxshadowl0rd420xxx

You became a psychic when you turned three, and life has been miserable since then. The universe seems to choose you specifically to make your life worse as it already is.

Everything was fine at first, and you often used it to your advantage to make good decisions and connections. You made good friends, and you helped a lot of people. You were unstoppable.

At least that's what you think growing up.

However, the more minds are read, the more you find it annoying and more disruptive in your routine. You can read it all once brief contact is made.

From the person's troubles, their intrusive thoughts, their secrets, to their desires. All of it.

Until you finally snapped during your time in university. It became more of a disturbance, and you decided to distance yourself from contact completely, and life was rather peaceful since.

You'd listen to music whenever someone makes an accidental contact, you'll force your mind blank to keep unwanted thoughts of others away, and complete your studies like how it has always been.

You've even bought yourself a house and worked from home to avoid reading people's minds. People may think you were a germophobe. But it was far from that. You just wanted to be alone, no mind reading, all by yourself in your house.

But, who would've thought your whole house could speak, let alone think with their own minds? Everything in your house is alive ever since you have the spectacles, and it was a nightmare.

“Wait. Are you saying…” You inhaled sharply, eyes widening at two people who are the personification of the dateviators and your door. Your front door, alive and breathing. The same door you take comfort in greeting whenever you come home.

“Are you saying everything…” You motioned your finger in circles. “...in here, my house… is alive?”

Skylar rubbed her nape, pursing her lips sheepishly. “All of them? Kinda…?” Her hesitation didn't reassure you one bit.

“We are, in fact, alive.” Dorian seems so calm, in contrast to your panicking state. You aren't alone in your home, after all. The door watched as you rubbed your face in distress, letting out incoherent mumbling.

“Oh, God.” You rubbed your face even harder. You felt a headache coming in, and this worsens it. If everything is alive, then that means they all knew you, and the toilet…

“No, no way…” Skylar and Dorian watch you mumble. The woman seems worried at your shock, trying to reassure you that it wasn’t that bad.

Meanwhile, Dorian was amused. Who knew their homeowner could be this shy despite your non-sociable exterior? And if he looked closely enough, he could see the visible flush of embarrassment from the base of your neck to your forehead hidden behind your calloused hands.

“Is it alright if I wanted to think things through?” You asked Skylar with tired eyes, and she stuttered in agreement. She looked reluctantly worried to let things go, and now you felt bad. That's when you gave her shoulder a small pat.

Surprise flashed her eyes for a moment. “Maybe I was being too forward in my approach. I really hope I didn't scare him away…”

Oh, shit. You didn't mean to read her thoughts like that.

Somehow, she reminded you too much of the women you befriended when you were still in university. A sister, almost. You couldn't say no to her. Not when she looked so defeated. If she really wanted you to meet everyone in the house, then, you shall.

“Uhm, I'll just come back tomorrow.” You didn't miss a beat from seeing her eyes sparkle when you said that. “I still have to rethink everything…”

Skylar agreed to let you think of everything for the day and gave you space. Holding onto the hope that you’ll come back tomorrow. You spend your day deep in thought. The way you move around is suddenly cautious, aware of the sentient beings around your house.

You started subtle, and you slowly met a decent amount of them and got to know them better. It was rather hard to see them as lovers though, and you have personal stuff to deal with and it may ruin your relationship with your potential lovers. A quiet friendzone and avoiding skin contact should do the trick.

Of course, you tended to their needs and paid attention to it. If Betty needs a change of sheets, you oblige right away with fresher ones. Wiping away the spills on Abel, done. Offering to keep some of Hoove's hoard, you'll just take it to Jerry, who was more excited than anything. Evacuating Dolly and Lint to lightly sweep the floor, helping Mateo with the inanimals, done. Oh, Florence and Celia needed help? Sure thing.

It was a never-ending task to fulfill their requests.

Everything you handle is done with precision. It was easy. Befriending them with—accidentally—or without reading their minds became simple. As you found yourself to care for them as weeks passed by.

Until something odd happened.

You didn't know why it came to it. But it was any other normal day, and you planned to clean Jean Loo since his breath started to worsen. As a homeowner, as you are, you wanted to help. Now imagine to your surprise when you couldn't get the lid to open, and it was evident he tightened his mouth closed.

“Come on, Jean Loo… Don't keep me waiting.” You beckoned, patting the lid in hopes that he'd open it. It didn't, and you sigh. Dropping the toilet brush, you went to get the dateviators and an extra toothbrush upstairs.

You walked back to the ground floor bathroom wearing the dateviators only to see Jean Loo backing away to the wall defensively. Who could've known that a guy like him is nervous to brush his teeth?

“Do not let that monstrosity go near ‘Lil Crapper! His vocal cords already do not deserve this treatment!” You almost mistake it as a screech but he really is anxious despite babbling how the brush could scratch him.

You grumbled. “Being a Crapper means you have to take care of your throat, y'know! Your voice is your tool!”

You hopped onto the sink with your back facing the mirror, and you decided to be quick. Without a minute to spare, you immediately grabbed Jean Loo's collar and tugged him in front of you as your ankles locked itself around his waist.

He was caught off guard when your hand grabbed his jaw to straighten his gaze on you. The handle of the toothbrush was in between your teeth. You used your other hand to squirt the toothpaste on and finally held it towards with his mouth ajar.

Your eyes flashed with hesitance for a moment, but the growing smell from him kept you going. His thoughts were so loud on accident, yet you brushed it off when the stench permeating from him was even more distracting.

“Hold still.” You scrunch your face and draw the toothbrush in. Brushing the back rows of teeth while ignoring his dramatic gurgles.

“Non, non–!”

The taste of strong mint and close proximity of your face immediately filled Jean Loo's senses and his struggle went by unnoticed as you kept brushing his teeth. Your hand on his jaw would often tighten whenever he wanted to pull away, giving you more control.

You brushed his teeth with care unbeknownst to his hands reaching to your hips and clawed your clothing to steady himself. Eyes darted anywhere but on you as he can feel a raging heat growing from his neck. Maybe it started from his groin which explains the slight and painful strain in his pants. Who knows…

“Fuck, mon cherie. You are driving me insane. Merde–”

His thoughts captured your attention instantly, startling you out of the blue. You even almost dropped the toothbrush till you finally realized the very sensual position you placed both of yourselves into.

The way Jean Loo's eyes gaze at you heavily and the same flush he suffered from blooms over you. It was no doubt he was aroused by how he steadied your hips instead, with Jean Loo's groin ghosting over yours.

You have gotten so used to blocking out the thoughts that it has become so easy to forget that you have mind reading in the first place. Their thoughts would easily consume your sanity.

If you expect their words to be the only thing they thought about, then you're wrong. Most of them used their imaginations to put you into dirty fantasies parred for their satisfaction.

Nevertheless, it gets worse from there...

The scenarios started small.

You were with Cabrizzio in the kitchen. He was leaning on the countertop as he let you inspect the loose hinge on his door. If it were clothing terms, the seam of his jacket was torn. However, Cabrizzio seemed worried. He looked like he had committed something he shouldn't have done, despite it being a simple accident. Again.

“Are you certain it is fixable, Amore?” He asks, glancing down at you on the chair to take a good look at the seam. Your face is filled with focus.

You nodded. “Luckily, it's only loose. If it's broken, then Tony has to fix you up. But he's not available at the moment.” You leaned back to the chair, smiling to offer him reassurance.

“What a relief.” He sighs. “It is unbearable to think of discarding this part of me.” The jacket was a part of him, his life. It makes Cabrizzio, Cabrizzio.

“If you'll give me your jacket, I could fix it up right away.”

He did, and you went straight to work with the screwdriver in hand and held the screws in your hand. Cabrizzio had nothing to do at the moment that's why he took a seat before you. Watching as you raised your leg and placed its ankle on your other knee, and let his jacket fall onto your lap without falling.

You were working in pure concentration, and he loved that. His attention was caught when you would scrunch your face whenever the insertion was wonky, and he'd be able to notice the small shifts in your expression every minute.

The cabinet was distracted.

It didn't take long for him to slump on his chair with his legs parted, similar to a manspread. He hums a small tune while he watches you closely. That was until his foot adjusted, grazing yours.

You poured your focus onto screwing the hinge tight, securing that the man won't accidentally loosen the seam again. Twisting the screwdriver and you let yourself do the work. Unaware of the subtle movement of Cabrizzio, who sat—rather closely—before you. You noticed a shift, then another and–

You turned to the cabinet to ask if there's something bothering him. But you were cut off when a hand jumped to hold your nape and pulled you onto a pair of warm lips. It was sudden, and it caught you off guard. Your hold onto the jacket loosened to your lap from shock, and a wet sensation suddenly prods in-between the seams of your lips.

You groaned when Cabrizzio's tongue managed to slip itself inside your wet cavern and urged it to lap with yours to fight dominance. Grinning when he finally got a taste of you. You tried to fight back as your hands made its way to grip his shoulders without stopping, but he was hungry from desperation and in need of attention. It was difficult to defeat him.

An irresistible heat coiled around your groins, and the obvious tents on your pants speaks louder than any words for the growing lust you both need to satisfy. You moaned when you pulled back from him to catch for air and the cabinet admires the masterpiece he influenced you into. Slumped onto your chair, breathless with your cheeks scarlet, eyes hooded with pleasure, and your lips decorated with gloss from his saliva—

“Italy to Cabrizzio?”

You watched with a suspecting brow when Cabrizzio's train of thought came to a screeching halt, and he snapped his startled face to you. Embarrassment begins to flood within his cheeks, where a bead of sweat comically drips from his temple.

You sighed. Not from his distracted state, but his thoughts that you shamefully watched and embarrassingly so, found it amusing.

The same thing happened with Tony. You were lending him a hand when a couple of floorboards in the attic needed to be hammered down. It was a good thing that Memoria was able to address you with it. Seeing the floorboards can really injure or trip anyone who passes by.

Both of you got to work and crouched. He was on a floorboard right beside yours. The air between you was surprisingly peaceful when working with a guy like Tony. He can actually be professional.

At least that's what you thought. The floorboard he was on seems so hard to hammer down. You didn't hesitate to offer assistance and moved beside him and held the floorboard down with your foot while he hammered down in ease. Little did you know from the slight brush of your other knee to his foot, his mind began to wander.

“Tony, you dickhead.” A sneer from you.

You found yourself on top of him. Fisting his collar out of frustration as you can feel his cock filling the rim of your ass, that electrified to the tip of your erection.

Both of you were supposed to fix the floorboards, but this son of a bitch already dragged you into this before you even realized. It was irritating. He was irritating.

The said man you called out to smirked. Seeing you crinkle your nose, knuckles turning white, and your eyes filled with nothing but aggressive sends a chill down his spine.

But he loved it, he found it so hot when you're angry at him. Just from the thought of your sneering expression and how you get so worked up from irritation forms a hard tent on his pants.

And look where he is now: below your scowling, flushed face and enjoying your warmth wrapped around him.

Curses and moans spilled from your lips as you rode him at a surprisingly brutal pace. Tony can feel himself thrash under you by how aggressively fast you were thrusting his erection inside of you, and—

“Tony?! Tony–!”

You called out to him in sheer frustration. Just like Cabrizzio, Tony snapped out of it and saw you standing in-front of him. Arms crossed, and the frown on your lips tells him that you were unimpressed.

Who wouldn't be, when he was suddenly out of it, and at the same time hammering with a nail so sharp that it can pierce through his hand if you hadn't called him.

Meanwhile, Tony doesn't look guilty. Not one bit. Oh, he was aroused. The way you're looking at him was ecstasy. He can really feel a tight tent growing in his pants. Just keep looking at him like that.

But once you knew why he was biting his lips with hooded eyes, you almost scoffed. Tony was enjoying this too much.

You eventually sighed, frustration subsiding. “Don't zone out next time. It's reckless.”

“You don't need to worry, handsome.” Tony playfully winked, and you rolled your eyes. But somehow, there was that faint grin on your lips.

You really hoped they were the only ones who're shamelessly fantasizing you. It was already embarrassing when there was three. Now, imagine them being a lot, and I mean a group of them.

Unfortunately for you, it wasn't just your cabinet and your toolbox. Consider them as the warning and the beginning of your endless misery.

Amir considers you as his favourite reflection, and you were flattered. There was never a day he missed just to give you a very honest pep-talk, showering well-deserved compliments in hopes to boost your confidence. He was a man filled with honesty, and you liked that.

So honest that he imagined you looking at the mirror—him, to be exact—and see both of your reflections on how he was working himself inside you.

Whispering to your ear about how good you are to him. Tears would eventually pour on your cheeks when embarrassment washes over you. Don't worry, you're doing so well. He'll just have to kiss those tears away. You'll be fine, azizam.

“Woah!” Your hand slipped by the bathroom mirror when you were wiping off the steam, hunching over the sink.

You were trying to catch your breath from the sudden slip as Amir's thoughts were long-forgotten. Almost.

“Are you alright, azizam?” You hear him popping beside you. His hand was on your back, and you shut your eyes in hopes to block his thoughts away.

“Uhm, never better.” You croaked nervously.

Speaking of slipping…

It was your fault why Daisuke was chipped. You really didn't mean to trip to cause him trouble. But it happened anyway, and he unfortunately disliked you for it. It was the inevitable. Now here you are, doing errands for him left and right.

This also include sparing a couple of minutes after deliveries where you would give him a massage. His chip is equivalent to a strain on his ankle, and now you kinda owe him one after he caught you.

You offered one after writing poetry with him, and surprisingly, he didn't decline. He seems to like the idea.

Your hands worked their way to his ankle with gentleness as you kneaded on the sore area. That's when you can sense eyes boring on the top of your skull. His eyes were filled with intent. So much so that it almost made you squirm.

Now, Daisuke was thinking how thrilling it would be if you'd work on his cock instead. Placing both hands on either side of your head, petting your hair as he gently encourages you to keep bobbing.

Shaky exhales would slip out of him as he watched with keen eyes how your tongue was lapping against his base and then to the tip. Messily coated with your saliva and tears glistened at the corner of your eyes.

You can feel your jaw tightening whenever he softly buck his hips until his tip reached to the back of your throat. He'll hum in satisfaction.

“Oh, are we already finished?” Daisuke asks when he misses the warmth of your hands on his ankle. Tilting his head and reaching out to pat your mop of hair out of gratitude.

You nodded and you didn't raise your head. Refusing to let him see your flustered state from the base of your neck to your forehead.

“Y-yeah..!” Your voice ended up oddly high-pitched.

You were exhausted hearing the fantasies whenever they needed your help, and it sometimes wouldn't let you rest properly by how ingrained it was to the back of your mind. You'd remember every movement whenever silence greeted you, and it was excruciating.

The choice of avoiding them wouldn't be a nice decision either, that only makes you a bad homeowner. And you don't want that to happen.

That's why you craved other activities instead when you're free for the day. Fortunately for you, Chance and Parker seem to know how to have fun with their specialties.

You just wanted to have fun, having to play or not, but just enough to distract you.

Chance suggested making character sheets. What a great idea. It really is a great idea. The three of you huddled in a close circle together and let teamwork work on its own.

This was pretty much the best distraction you could ever ask for and you can let your ideas sculpt your character into your will.

Everything seemed fine at first.

But everything went downhill when Parker brushed his knee against yours. It stayed that way until he imagined you both playing twisters. Stripping yourselves from every clothing or accessories you were both wearing whenever someone gets a turn. Until it leaves you both in your boxers.

You still expect Chance is innocent? Tell that to him when his was roleplay. Which was worse than Parker. This man who's a freak in the interior imagines you wearing a warrior's armour with a cloak behind you.

You laid on the floor sideways, struggling with a fierce glare that matches well with your gruff character. You didn't move an inch, not when you were tightly bounded by red rop that's wrapped around your chest and your legs. Your arms tightly tied behind you. It was truly a sight in Chance's eyes as both of you grinded your erections in sync.

Both of their fantasies lead to a full-blown, slobbering sex. Obviously. Like how it's always been.

You tried another method of activities, and an idea of doing the extremes would let the adrenaline kick in, and it'll make you forget anything. You hope.

That's why a group of radical individuals popped into your mind. The Hanks. Luckily you were just in time to join them to go windsurfing.

Words couldn't describe how fun it was riding the whirlpools and letting the wind take you away. It felt ecstatic. All of you took turns, round after round as you did so.

It was Hank #4’s turn, while Hank #3 handled the flushing. You stood in anticipation by the sidelines with Hank #5, and all of you cheered for Hank #4, who immediately hollered in excitement when his board spun.

That's when he performed a handstand, and it caused the six of you to express your excitement and applauded.

Hank #5 glanced to you cheering for Hank #4 and couldn't help but let a blush wash over him by how close you were. It was nice to see you this excited. His attention diverted back to the sport while his elbow was unconsciously placed on your shoulder without warning.

He imagined you crying naked above him where he let his cock slowly drag itself out of you. It wasn't just him, but all 5 of them ganging up on you.

Hank #1 was kneeling before your head, his cock enveloped by your saliva, pushing himself in then out eagerly to come inside your mouth. Hank #2 kept himself busy and used your hand to fist himself, and you can feel veins throbbing around your palm, causing your cock to twitch under Hank #4’s care. The blonde was using his hands to pump both of your erection and planted bite marks on your back for display that makes you more fuckable. Meanwhile, Hank #3 was behind you, hands spreading your plush cheeks apart and grind the tip of his cock where Hank #5 was in.

The pleasure became too overwhelming and heated that you didn't notice Hank #3's finger dragging out of your puffy and swollen rim. He guided himself on top of Hank #5.

Until without warning, he thrust his hips forward and sparks of pleasure made you arch your back and moan around Hank #1. The ginger chuckles to himself when he can see the both of their cocks buried to the hilt inside your ass. You can feel them throbbing inside you as your knees buckled again, and whines seeped out of your lips.

Hank #5 begins to thrust, and so does Hank #3. Both were synchronised in their thrusts, and their girth inside you was tormenting. Hank #5 watches as tears glistened your cheeks and cum smeared your lips. The dazed look on your face tells him that you were too cock-drunk to comprehend anything and the way your eyes rolled to the back of your skull causes him to thrust harder. Then—

“AGGGHHHHHHH!”

That was your last straw.

You were tired, exhausted even when the thought of sex would always and unfortunately pops into your mind. It gets worse when you were talking to the individual who was making those fantasies about you.

And you couldn't even get to jack off anywhere in the house due to embarrassment, and to the knowledge that everyone is alive and is watching you.

The worst part was, it was inevitable to not touch anyone. You actually have to if you want to help and eventually read their mind whether you like it or not.

You wanted to drink, maybe a glass or two would suffice.

You still come by the Breaker Box after resetting Volt to help around, which they finally didn't mind. It's been a week since, and they both see you as a 'friend' they held dearly and who's also as supportive for their needs.

You have just finished fixing the wires backstage and tiredly slumped on the stool as Eddie quickly fixed you a drink.

“Tired?” He asks and pours non-alcoholic drinks to concoct a mocktail. You nodded in response and let yourself tiredly lean back to the counter. Eddie carried your drink along with his as he sat down on the stool beside you.

Eddie slips your drink to you as you thanked him. You drank your mocktail in peace, the air between you was nothing but comfortable. It was silent for a moment. Peaceful, even.

The kind of silence that you craved for weeks after being spoonfed by never-ending dirty thoughts on accident. You just wanted to spend your days like these.

Coming by the Breaker Box was a really good idea.

Although, lady luck seems to hate you when Eddie's elbow brushes against your finger—wrapped around your drink—on the bar counter.

There you are, your back pinned on Volt's chest as you could feel his hands fondling your clothed erection. His teasing touch left you whining, wanting him to do something more. Eddie stood in front of you. You watch him drink his rum before he hastily pressed his lips to yours in a heated kiss. The rum he kept within his mouth poured from the corners of your mouth, his tongue swirling against yours to shove the flavour to your system.

The coil on your pelvis worsened when you let out a startled groan when Volt began to stroke your cock, flaccid with your pre-cum. You whined under Eddie who held your head in his vice grip, and kept pushing himself to you until your back pressed against Volt who tightened his hand around your poor cock. While the other wrapped itself around your arms to prevent you from doing anything.

You were helpless in between them.

Tears pricked your eyes when Eddie wouldn't let you catch your breath and the pleasure that Volt teased you with felt excruciating. You to buck against his hand in desperation and Volt laughs in amusement from your sudden initiation. Whereas Eddie exhales a guttural groan, before his lips finally leave yours.

The man before you scoffs in satisfaction, and he savored the sight of your slumped figure. You were breathing heavily after your release, tears soaked your cheeks, and your eyes drooped from pleasure. A complete mess.

To Eddie, it was a sight to behold—

The sudden scrape of glass on the counter immediately snapped Eddie out of his thoughts. He glanced beside him to see you ingesting your drink with one full swig.

How your Adam's apple bobbed as you swallowed every last drop of the drink he made you might drive him closer to the edge. Almost.

Once you set your glass down, he can see the flush radiating from the base of your neck to your forehead. You look out of it by how your eyes narrowed in frustration and your brows furrowed until Eddie could see a wrinkle right in-between.

“Do you have something stronger?”

You returned to your room for the night. But you didn’t reach your bed and instead slumped down on the floor right beside the door. A prolonged sigh left you, swallowing onto nothing unnecessarily but the ghostly flavor of your drink.

You just couldn't help but think that you were spiralling into madness. Too uncertain on what to do with them with every bit of your sanity on the line.

Including what to do with your ability.

You reek of alcohol, but you were able to think just fine when you did so. There was a sigh of distress again, pouring out of you that ended with a groan.

You were thinking so hard to the point you started mumbling under your breath for the nth time.

“You looked bothered, friend. Something on your mind?”

You glanced to see Dorian crouching beside you with a quiet wonder. The look on his face, however, remained as stoic as usual. His elbows were resting on his knees, and his forearms extended before him.

There was an evident strain on your grin. “Kinda? I’m sorry… There's been a lot on my mind lately. I mean, numerous.”

“Ah, yes. The good old mind reading.” Dorian hummed, and he immediately didn't miss the way your head slowly turned to face him.

He almost smirks once he sees the bewildered look on your face. Words betrayed you, and he took it as an opportunity to continue.

“It's been a while since you've done that… considering you’ve been isolating yourself inside your house.” He mused, and he watched as you blinked away the shock.

“How did you… know that?” You readjusted your slumped posture in hinted interest and sat on your knees. You were whispering at this point.

Dorian let out an amused scoff. “Do you expect I didn't hear your mumbling complaints whenever you bash your head on me, would you?”

The tone he used was far from his usual one, it sounded as if he knew.

He does. You had this habit that you needed to fix, venting how terrible your abilities are and how it was torturing you with certain thoughts of other dateables fantasizing about you.

You were lucky he was the only one who knew you can read minds.

Meanwhile, you found yourself stammering in defense and words tumbled out in a rush, as if you couldn't contain your embarrassment any longer.

You do remembered all the muttering and lightly bashing of your head on him. But you couldn’t help it. You were trying to get a grip after all that happened.

“Dorian, no one has to know about this.” You moved closer to him, and your hand made its way to grip his arm. It wasn't as tight, just pleading.

“Of course, no one has to.”

Dorian’s voice seems to drop an octave lower than normal, and he stands up from his crouching stance until the points of his shoes brush against your knees. You watched him, too dumbfounded to react on whatever Dorian was trying to do.

He intimidatingly towered over your kneeling figure with newfound confidence, and you were caught off guard when he extended his hand to you. Snaking his fingers around the trail of hair on your nape, caressing it tenderly.

You stuttered his name, too flustered to form words. Dorian looked like he was enjoying this. He is actually, now that he finally sees you flushed in the face because of him. He was watching you for a while now, and he's finally satisfied from all the waiting he had to endure.

There will be no other opportunity to see you like this, and he wanted to savour it before anyone else does.

Nevertheless, Dorian's hand slightly tightened at the back of your neck, and you realized the gravity of the situation when you found yourself facing his crotch coincidentally.

Then, he smirked when you noticed.

"What do you say we reenact those naughty fantasies of theirs, hm? Let me be your first?"