#sorry to that one person who sent me an ask! its been a wild fee days and will probably continue to be but ill try to get to your ask at

[shesmore-shoebill]

huh. wild couple of days to be out of the loop on smosh stuff, apparently. Fucking thrilled about dirty laundry smosh ep, and really fucking thrilled about shayne's insta story (please donate to the tiltify campaign he highlighted if you are able, especially if you've wanted to contribute but have been unsure or overwhelmed on specific actions to take).

[cosmiclatte28]

6 Shots of Coffee (Jaemin x you + Dreamies)

a/n: I am back! With a sudden wild oneshot. Please be aware that this is purely fan-fiction. Anything happening here is mere pure imagination. I did not intend to connect any disorders with the idols in real life.

Warning : characters with disorders, a lot of dozing off characters, character with slight adhd (i tried my best to picture them correctly but I’m sorry if everything is wrong, i only did a short research). Mentions of orphanage, drunk parents, and a broken family. HAPPY ENDING! 

CHARACTERS : dream (minus Hyuck and Mark), Taeyong, and Yuta also our brave (y/n)! 

here we go, 

If there are three things in life you hate, that will be Jaemin, Jaemin, and oh god another team assignment with Jaemin!

Jaemin has been the most excruciating classmate you ever have! Not only did he tease you about your freakin need of keeping things in their proper place and keeping things spotless, but he also keeps using you to help him pass his classes. Yet no teacher minds your complain, and all the school girls think you're a freak for being mad about sharing a group project with the handsome guy.

No you’re not sick or weird. You just love organizing things and you like clean things a bit too much. Why? Coz you've had some bad memories with dirty things. Okay Jaemin is just another naughty kid in your class who likes to play and have fun with others, but you certainly did not find his jokes funny.

“Come on calm down (y/n)! It's only coffee, we can clean that.” Jaemin tries to laugh it off despite seeing you standing completely frozen in front of him with an empty cup and you with a  brown uniform. Although you clearly see there is a slight worry in his eyes.

You hold yourself back. How come the worst day has to become worse?! You woke up to period cramps, you forgot a homework thanks to late night distracted room cleaning, and as you were about to rush to type your homework in the library, Jaemin decided to meddle and spill his coffee on your white uniform.

A part of you want to scream and yell and pull his hair apart, but you're too tired to talk with Jaemin. Let alone think about Jaemin, there's just so many things you hate related to Jaemin.

Despite him trying his best to apologize and to help you wash your clothes, which is something new… Jaemin never cared if he messed up with you. You ended up slapping his hand away when he wants to drag you to the office to ask a spare uniform.

“Go away! I have to rush,” you push him aside with your shoulder and run to the library. Knowing so well you'll probably get another minus score and a weird look from the library thanks to your stained uniform.

You hate the feeling of sitting down with this coffee stained shirt, and as much as you want to open that shirt and change into something else, you don’t have the energy. So, after sitting down on the table with the library's laptop you stare into the keyboard only to focus more on your uniform and the least wanted thing happens.

You cry. You cry by yourself in the corner of the room and you don’t really mind the stare they give. You just want to end life here, can anyone just stab you? Or can the ground split and swallow you?

There’s another thing you hate other than Jaemin meddling with your ugly life. It's dirt and unorganized objects. Why? Well you were once a very regular kid, always playing in the rain mud and all kinds of sand. You don’t mind having dirt all over your body you know when you go home you can shower. That's until you grow up and notice how your family is different. Your parents look like they are okay, but every night you hear them argue and argue. The argument gets stronger and scarier, they shout, scream, throw things down and you were always awaken to the no longer comfy homey house. You realize one day you woke up to seeing your dad getting drunk, your mother depressed, and the house super dirty like a tornado just hold a party. It’s awful to wake up to the smell of cigar and alcohols instead of bacons and eggs. You had to keep one plate with you or else it will end up like its friends, lifeless, prickly, sharp, on the ground.

Your maid stopped working, you're moved to a new school, this middle school where you meet Jaemin and some other annoying problematic students. Your once colorful life turned dark and gloomy. No longer you woke up to morning kiss and breakfast. You find yourself sitting alone in the dining room, preparing your own sandwich from some cheap dry bread. No more nutella and you're grateful for butter.

You tried to understand, keeping all to yourself as you grow up and noticed your family is broken. You thought everything will get better, one day mom and dad will love each other again and you'll be back with the bright family you love.

Life is not that kind. Life is cruel, on your 14th birthday your dad left for another woman and your mother dropped you off to an orphanage. She said she can no longer pay for your school and living fees. Heck she even had to borrow money to buy you your monthly pads.

The cheerful friendly you turned 180° into a mournful secretive teenager. You hate everyone who looks bright and you hate every single dirt. Seeing unorganized things and dirty objects just remind you of the dark memories you want to forget.

The orphanage found your smart talent and you got a scholarship making you still able to attend the school. The orphanage you live in has a rule where there is a schedule for cleaning up and preparing dish. You meet a similar boy who has the same problem with you; just that he looks like he had overcome his bitterness and chooses to live a happy life. Which you deadly want to do but cannot.

Renjun, is the only person you talk to in that house. The adults taking care over you, still cannot make you talk comfortably with him and you're not planning to do any sooner.

“Hey, it's me. Should we make a letter to the office and go home?” Renjun's soft voice comes to your ear and you look up to him with blood red eyes.

“How long have I been crying?” you sniffle.

He shrugs his shoulder “I just came an hour ago when I noticed you're missing Chemistry class and Jaemin too. I thought he was with you.”

You scowl “Why would I be with Jaemin?”

Renjun scratches his head “I don’t know… you were always assigned a team with him… I thought both of you are rushing a task.”

“I am having a bad day.” You exhale.

Renjun shakes his head “That is more than a bad day. Here, put this on that coffee is hot or cold?” he gives you his school blazer and you gladly put it over your stained uniform.

You sigh, of course Renjun noticed. He is also like you, despise any single speck of dust.

“Jaemin spilled his cold coffee on me. Now I am late to submit my work, I'll never get the essay done and I am skipping classes. GREAT! Looks like I will be kicked out of school next week.”

Renjun shakes his head again “Silly, you're dramatic. They won’t kick you just because of that. What about your achievements?”

You scoff “They can always find another better painter. I could barely tell difference in colors.”

Renjun smiles well that’s what makes you different. The school honors your brilliant talent of drawing although you have a hard time distinguishing colors. But your emotions are well delivered on every picture you paint. That gives honor to the school when the art teacher secretly sent your works to different curators and exhibitions.

“Come, we will go home. I'll make your letter. Can you wait for me in the lobby by yourself?” Renjun smooths your hair away.

You shake your head and clearly looks afraid “Can I join you?”

He nods and lets you go with him, blaming himself for ever offering you that option.

You got home, Renjun fixes your mood by giving you new clothes. Yes, as simple as that, and you’re already less scarier than before. He makes you tea when he saw the circled date on the calendar and drops you some pain killers.

“It's that month, sorry for not noticing had I known, I'd bring you home when I heard Jaemin looking for you around the school.”

You pause from cutting the potatoes, well you need to start cooking dinner for the others. “Jaemin looked around for me?”

Renjun nods “Uh huh that's also how I know something is not right. Jaemin never looked for you except when he needs your score.”

You curl your lips “Weird. He also wanted to bring me to the office, which he never did before.”

Your sudden emotional change is a regular thing to Renjun. Although at first he has to bear with your monthly exploding sensitivity since you're the first teenage girl in this house, Renjun manages to tame you down when he calmly offer you a cup of warm chamomile tea you love.

“Maybe it’s the coffee.” You shrug it off. Come to think of it, you never see the school selling coffee but Jaemin always brings his cup of super dark coffee.

“Oh home early?” Taeyong, the oldest son of the orphanage owner, greets you both. Well Taeyong is like the head matron here, every school letter directed to him and every new kid will meet him.

“It's not her day. I brought her home before she spent another day dozing off in the school's garden.” Renjun whispers to Taeyong and the older just nods his head.

“Oh! Did I mention to you we will have a new family tonight? Please be nice, he comes from this neighborhood and we actually had been waiting for his arrival since last month, but he always escaped before his vise parents want to drop him here.

You grow annoyed at this news. Well you don’t really like having to act kind and good in front of the others. Especially when meeting new members. Taeyong always asked you to at least be welcoming and less patronizing but you cannot keep your resting bitch face to yourself.

“I might as well skip dinner.” You taunt at Taeyong “No way I am acting kind in front of that person when I had a shitty day.”

Taeyong just hums to your threat, it is nothing new. You're a stone heart and he doesn’t want to have to slap you because of your stubbornness.

“I don’t mind. Just try to be welcoming, he had a rough time too.” Taeyong waves his hand and disappears behind his study room.

“I wonder who is going to join us. Our dining table is empty after Mark and Hyuck got adopted.” Renjun is excited to welcome the new family, maybe because he really likes it better here and therefore, he wants to make sure everyone else is welcomed.

Unlike you who still can't swallow the bitter truth. For you, your real family was the best, yet you didn’t know when everything started to fall apart.

The other comes home, you see Jisung, Jeno, and Chenle coming from the backyard and you hide yourself back on your room. Dinner is ready they just have to heat it up. The stew.

You close your window and come back to sit in front of your paper. Trying to remember what project you missed and have to do.

You look around the room, you used to have a bigger room, but after Taeyong knew you cannot stay still when there are mess, he moved you to a smaller room where you cannot store so many things. He said its for your own good. He doesn’t want you to stress yourself and distract your studies just to clean things up.

You feel your stomach rumbling but when you hear the noisy sound downstairs, you remember the new family. Actually, you are curious, so you sneak from your room and take a peek from the walls.

Your mind might be playing tricks on you, you rub your eyes and focus more to the familiar man in the same uniform as yours. You want to doubt it, but when you hear Jisung repeats his name you want to jump away from this house and run far away.

Life must have hated you so much to send Na Jaemin not only to your school but also to your “house".

Although you try to ignore him, your mind wonders what makes him come here. He looks like he is okay, only naughty, but he doesn’t look like an orphan.

“Dinner?” Yuta, Taeyong's younger brother asks you when he was about to go down and greet Jaemin.

You quickly gasp and shake your head before making a quick run to lock yourself in your room.

You try to think of any reason why Jaemin is here… from dinner to nine you cannot think of doing other thing rather than fiddling with your pen as you let your brain wonder and wonder.

Only around twelve did you suddenly jolt and realize you've wasted another night without doing your paper. You hear a step on the squeaky floor, and you have to stay quiet. Taeyong and Yuta wouldn’t like seeing you still awake this late. However, you don’t recognize the footsteps. Must be Jaemin’s.

The next morning, you escape earlier from the house. Leaving before breakfast for the sake of not meeting Jaemin. You're still mad at him and you hate him. You hate him for giving you hard times at school and now at “home".

You were waiting in the class when suddenly Jaemin comes into the class with a nervous face. You wonder did he just see a ghost? Jaemin really looks out of his place. Did he finally realize he is thrown away to the orphanage? Or did he finally realize you're secretly writing foot notes to the teacher that Jaemin is only leeching on your grades? Did he get called by the office?

You try your best to stop distracting your mind and continue working your essay. Thank goodness you can submit the work when the teacher leaves the class, only then did you see Jaemin's frozen state on his chair.

“Jaem?” you surprise yourself too for calling out his name. He also looks surprised.

“Yes?” he puts on his damn sickening pretty smile back like he always did to other students.

“Erase that smile. It's creepy.” You mutter and the other girls in your class is wanting to end you up there and then.

“Sorry, it’s just that… I … I didn’t get my coffee this morning.”

You raise your brow, oh right. Taeyong and Yuta are not giving us caffeine until we are 20.

You raise a brow “And? Can’t you skip once?”

His feet thump on the floor and he looks around nervously “You're right. I- don’t mind me.” He stands up and suddenly leaves you with bigger question mark in your head.

He sure is weird. What’s wrong with skipping one cup of that bitter liquid?

--

“(Y/n)! Come let's go home.” Renjun greets you on the lobby as you wait for the youngers to come too.

“Noona, you should meet Jaemin hyung! He is so sweet last night!” Jisung tugs on your uniform.

You frown and shudder your shoulder “Jisung, I hate that man.”

Jeno just laughs at your words and at Jisung's surprised expression “So, should we wait for him?”

You click your tongue “Actually that weird man left class after the first session and did not come back to class. Maybe he ran away. Let's go before it rains.” You start leaving the lobby, but no one follows you.

“Is it because of us?” Jisung worriedly asks his brothers.

Renjun thinks for a while “You mean what happened this morning?”

Jisung nods. Your ear can still hear them, for they start walking after you too. You have to hold yourself from turning around and asking them what happened this morning that made him weird!

When the five of you enter the house, that's when your brain finally clicked on what Jaemin must be suffering.

There in the middle of the living room, is Jaemin looking so uncomfortable as he forces his hand to write on a paper with a textbook opened by his side, but what comes out of his hand is just scribbles of lines and curves and he looks like he is painting instead of writing an essay.

“So damn hard to be productive!” he suddenly throws his pen and pulls his hair. All five of you are shocked to see this. Even you! You never see this side of Jaemin in school.  He always looks like the charming prince every girl’s crush, but this is definitely not the same man.

His lips are trembling, limbs unable to stop shaking and he looks in pain. And he starts to hit himself as if scolding his body for not cooperating.

You are in awe and you have to quickly usher Jisung and Chenle away.

“Jaemin! Calm down okay.” Jeno and Renjun quickly stand by his side and tries to keep the boy from hitting himself.

You bring Jisung and Chenle to their rooms while your head is quickly thinking of what to do. You sure see he is panicking and he's throwing tantrum. Taeyong and Yuta are not here yet but when you see your reflection on the window with a clean uniform suddenly your mind reminds you of the incident yesterday.

Coffee. Na Jaemin needs coffee. As silly as it sounds, you've read somewhere that coffee can help someone with ADHD or something like that. You're not sure, but you want to give it a chance. You run to your room, break your saving jar and pick out the bills you've been saving.

“Jaemin, how many shots?” you ask him when you pass through him.

Renjun and Jeno look at you with question in their face but Jaemin understands you and holds out a number with his hand.

Your eyes widen but you run to the nearest coffee shop, the one with the brand you always see Jaemin holding.

“Give me americano with six shots of espresso. Cold I don’t know with water or not.” You sound as mad as a hatter, but the barista seems to notice something.

“Are you by any chance taking an order for Jaemin?” he asks you nod your head baffled that he is a regular here until the shift knows his order and name.

“I was confused when the morning shift told me Jaemin skipped his coffee today. Alright i'll make it like how he always orders.” The man with a name tag Mark punches the bill and gives you the amount.

You don’t mind paying such high price for the black bitter drink you never like, as soon as Mark hands you the drink you walk as fast as you can back to the house.

You see Renjun waiting for you in the porch and he looks pale.

“Where did you go?! I was worried.” Renjun almost scolds you for leaving suddenly.

You walk past him “Jaemin! I have your coffee.” You yell at him, who is currently staring on the TV that's off. Jeno is still sitting next to him, afraid that Jaemin will do anything dangerous.

Jaemin's eyes widen as he quickly takes over the drink and gulp it down like his life depends on it.

All three of you wait for him to finish half of his drink and like magic, Jaemin looks calmer.

He closes his eyes and leans on the couch. His head rests on the small pillow Jeno tosses to him and you can see his usual self back.

After ten minutes, he opens his eyes stretches his body and like a robot who has his reset button pressed, Jaemin shoots a “what?” look to the three of you.

“Sorry if I freaked all of you out. I…” he shyly scratches his head “I have a minor ADHD and … coffee seems to be helping me focus and calm down.”

Now everything clicks. You understand why the teacher actually always assigned you with him, because no one else can handle Jaemin as patient as you and you're too blunt to notice he has his own trouble. You understand why he always brings a coffee to the class and why he looks calm when he has them. Unlike yesterday when he spilled it over you, you clearly see a slight terror in his eyes, and he disappeared from class. Maybe he was shy of showing his true self in class. You now know the reason he skipped class today because of the lack of caffeine and you just didn’t know he is also as wrecked as you guys.

That night, Jaemin knocks on your door and invites you to join dinner.

“You skipped dinner last night, I don’t know if it’s because I was there… and yesterday I was really ruining your day. I'm sorry I wasn’t a good friend too at school.” Jaemin speaks rather in a calm tone and you're taken aback he can speak in a soft kind voice and not the high pitch annoying teasing voice you regular get in school.

You're flustered, but you quickly put back your cold face “It's okay. T'was my fault too not looking the way.  Don’t worry I skipped dinner last night coz I am not hungry.” You lied.

No way you were going to spill the truth to him, not when you already know how hard his days are. He was not as bright and happy as he looks like.

“Renjun told me last night everything about you. I am so sorry…I didn’t know my jokes were very painful and disturbing to you. I should’ve stopped but you know I sometimes cannot hold my brain back.” Chuckles Jaemin nervously.

You sigh and place a hand on his shoulder “Life is hard right?” He nods his head and you squeeze his shoulder, “We also find it hard. But at least we're not alone now. We have each other and the others too. I am also sorry for picking on you to the teacher for leeching my score, but I promise I won’t do that again. I'll help you Jaemin.” You smile sincerely to him.

His face brightens “You're the best! I always have hard time focusing! Well coffee helps me, but still it's not healthy.”

You take his hand in yours “Na Jaemin, you're a part of our family now. Since we're family, we will get each other's back! Don’t worry things will be okay and you too will be okay!”

He Smiles and that is a new smile you've ever seen on him. A smile that's pure and true. That shows he too is also a human who can feel pain not just the angelic handsome boy in class.

“We should eat. The others are waiting,” Chenle's appearance in the hallway makes you and Jaemin turn your heads to him.

“She's right. We're family, now family eats dinner, together right? Come on! Taeyong hyung got us some pizzas for your welcome party.” Chenle drags the taller man's hand which automatically pulls you too.

A smile comes to your face when you realize just how perfect this imperfect family is!

Yes you also struggled focusing on a certain job, yes you also hate messy stuffs, yes it's true Renjun took three months to open his mouth and speak complete sentences, it also takes Jeno five months to be true about his feelings, and Jisung plus Chenle? They also have their fish to fry. Now Jaemin, is here with his own battle that will soon be shared within us.

Just like the famous quote, Ohana means family and family means no one is left behind.

Looking around the table, although you really wish you have a sister or a mother figure here, you're more than happy to call the 7 men your brothers and families.

end

please let me know if there are anything I can fix. I am trying a new genre and it’s a bit challenging but I am happy with finishing this. 

Contact or reach me out if you have any curiosity of what happens to the members or maybe you wonder what their problems are. 

Thank you for reading :D 🤗💖

[honeymoonjin]

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 namjoon x reader || 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 9.7k || 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆 smut

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 desperate to finally break your masturbatory dry spell, you seek out a professional.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 explicit sexual content, cursing, sex work, masturbation (f), fingering (f), soft dom!namjoon, sub!reader, light degradation, roleplay, oral (f), use of sex toys, crying during sex woo, namjoon is a professional

---

“So; you’re having problems in the bedroom?”

You choke on your own spit and your cheeks flush a violent red. “Um, I- I guess? It’s not, uh…” You trail off uselessly, keeping your eyes firmly focused on the bland, off-white wall behind the man’s head.

He doesn’t seem fazed by your response, choosing to move past it. “Are you having problems being pleasured by a partner, or problems pleasuring yourself?”

If your cheeks could get any hotter, they do then. You let out an uncomfortable laugh. “Sorry, that’s a little… I didn’t realize this would be so…”

“So personal? This is a sex clinic, Ms. L/n, it’s why you’re here. There is nothing to be ashamed about. How about this? I’ll ask you yes-no questions, and then you don’t have to give up information yourself. Saying it is often the hardest part, I’ve found. Alright then; are you having problems bringing yourself to orgasm when masturbating?”

You bite down hard on your lip as you nod, beyond ashamed. It was good that the doctor seemed so blasé and unbothered and professional about it, but you were starting to regret coming.

Doctor Kim flashes you a reassuring smile and clicks his pen against his chest to open it, scribbling a note on his clipboard. “Okay, that’s fine. Is this a recent issue?” You nod stiffly. “Alright. You used to be able to achieve orgasm, but in recent times that’s changed, correct?” Another nod. “Would I be correct in assuming you have had a lot of stress in your life crop up?”

You let out a small huff. “Look, I wrote all this down on the application form. I don’t see why we have to go through it all again if you already have the answers.”

You jump a little in your seat as he slaps the clipboard down on his desk, fixing you a focused stare. “Y/n- may I call you Y/n? Y/n, quite frankly, if you’re not mature enough to hold a conversation about sexual activity like an adult, then I’m afraid you’re not mature enough to be using my services. This isn’t some back-end business; I’m not a prostitute, this is my profession, and I take it rather seriously, you’ll find. Sex is natural. Our bodies are natural. Now, do you want to stay and talk to me so that I can help you, or is this too much? If it is, I suggest you take your leave.”

Inexplicably, his firm tone has a heat rising deep within, something you haven’t felt in a while. When you speak, your voice is hoarse. “I’ll stay.”

And with that, his body and face relaxed, as he leans back in his chair comfortably. “Wonderful. Continuing on, then. What exactly have you tried to get an orgasm? Just your fingers, toys, what?”

“I thought…” You swallow hard. “I thought you said you’d give yes-or-no questions?”

“And I thought you said you wanted this.”

You sigh again. Fuck, why was it so hard to just say it? “Um, I use fingers and… that’s about it.” You swallow again and clear your throat.

“No, it isn’t,” he shoots back immediately with a raised brow, clicking his pen against the surface of the paper. “Honestly, Ms. L/n, I’ve worked at this clinic for six years. Nothing you could possibly say would faze me. I once had a client who confessed he had tried to reach orgasm by putting a blunted letter opener into his urethra.”

Your mouth gapes open. “He what? Wait, you’re not supposed to give details about clients. Isn’t that breaching, like, patient confidentiality?”

The doctor simply shrugs. “I asked his permission to use it as a teaching moment. I found it’s been rather helpful to assure people that there is nothing too ‘wild’ or ‘out-there’. Everyone has different tastes. As a matter of fact, that man found it incredibly effective.”

You blink. “Well, uh, mine isn’t anything like that. I just have a, you know,” you break off to gesture at your crotch in a vaguely penetrative motion.

Doctor Kim pinches his lips together, a dimple appearing on one cheek. “A dildo? Or a vibrator?”

“First one,” you admit. “Is that… That’s all the questions, right? What else could you possibly ask?”

He raises an eyebrow, taking some notes before he puts his full attention on you again. “Plenty. How fast do you penetrate yourself with the dildo? Could you indicate the speed of your hand?” You go dead pale. He holds a neutral expression for a moment longer before he cracks, laughing loudly with his eyes scrunched shut. You go limp against your chair, cheeks red for a different reason. “Sorry, I’m just playing with you. The inquisition is complete, I promise. Now, Sandra at the front desk can make you an appointment, and I’ll be sure to send you out an email with any instructions prior to our session. Thanks for coming in.”

 --

With the session being made for that Friday, it was Thursday afternoon that the anticipated email came through. You were at work, stuck in meetings all morning and desperately trying to catch up on your personal stash of work after lunch, when a ping sounded, lighting up your screen with a notification from kimssexualhealingclinic@donotreply.com. Hurriedly, you fumble to turn the screen dark, glancing around to make sure no one around your desk had somehow read it.

You stewed in nervous energy for the rest of your day, only opening the email once you were in the privacy of your own home with a freshly made hot drink to calm you down.

Expecting the instructions from the donotreply email address to be generic, you were surprised when it instead instructed you to click on a link to their database, with a random string of letters and numbers as an access code.

On the official website (which looked unbelievably slick and professional like any other business’ page), under a section titled MyHealing, you put in the code as requested, eyes widening as you saw just how organized the system was.

There was a tab for Customer Info, one for Session History, one for Calendar, and a final one with no name, just a little envelope symbol with a small, red 1 above it. You click on it and are taken to an inbox with a single message from Doctor Kim Namjoon.

Y/n,

Thank you for booking an appointment. Your session is slotted in for Friday 9th, 5:15pm. Should you need to cancel or reschedule less than 24 hours before, keep in mind the $40 fee will apply. Personalized instructions for this appointment are below. Please note that new instructions will be sent out for every appointment; these are not intended to be used for anything other than this specific session.

You take another sip from your mug as you read that line. ‘Every appointment’. How often did he think you were going to be coming back? You had booked in imagining once you got some sexual release, you’d be fine again. Perhaps it was a blanket statement he told every customer. You let it slip your mind and continue reading.

I advise you first and foremost to get a good night’s sleep on Thursday. Since your appointment is late in the day, I would also suggest a midday nap if possible. I assume you’re at work during the day. Make sure you have enough water, and if your job is at a desk, use your lunch break to go for a walk, preferably outside. When it comes to orgasms, one part is physical, one part is mental, and only a small part is the actual stimulation. So, you can understand how important it is to make sure your body is physically primed and ready for exertion.

Secondly, the mental side of things. I know it’s hard but try not to get too stressed out about the appointment during the day. It’s understandable that you might be nervous but putting too much pressure on yourself will only make reaching orgasm more difficult.

Instead, keep yourself occupied with things you enjoy as much as possible. Consider taking the afternoon off if you have enough leave.

Finally, stimulation. We didn’t cover if you’re still currently attempting masturbation regularly or not, but I would like you on the Thursday night to get yourself as aroused as you can. Watch pornography, read erotica, touch yourself. But don’t try to actually achieve an orgasm. If you simply-

You toss your phone on the couch beside you and huff. Fuck. He really wrote you a whole essay, huh? Did he do this for every customer, for every appointment? He had said he took his job seriously. You just didn’t realize it was to this degree. Hopefully he was as thorough in the practical side of his job as he was in the administration.

Later that night, you decided to treat yourself to a hot bath. Relaxing in the perfumed waters, you lazily bring a hand down to rest between your legs. As Doctor Kim said, he didn’t know whether you were still trying to get yourself off or not, but in reality, it varied greatly. Some evenings you'd spent hours, with aching wrists and tears of frustration, to no avail. Other days you gave up completely and wallowed in your sexual frustration, haplessly grinding against a pillow between your legs for the minimal relief it provided.

But you had re-read over the notice a couple of times, and it was clear that Doctor Kim didn’t want you cumming tonight. Just getting a little riled up in the hopes that your body would be more desperate to cum tomorrow.

Water always gives a weird kind of friction, so it’s somewhat of a hassle trying to rub at your clit, but once you settle into a natural rhythm, you close your eyes and lean back until the water laps over your shoulders. You hitch a leg up over the side of the tub and let out a deep breath.

It always started out nice. You’d get a false sense of hope, that the flicker of pleasure would ignite into anything more than a low smolder, but it never did. Although, this time, knowing full well that cumming isn’t a goal, you find yourself enjoying the relaxing stimulation for its face value. You knead lazily at your breast, rolling a nipple between your fingers as your other hand continues its circling motions. Gradually, your mind naturally begins to float, and a scene begins to materialize in your imagination: in your mind’s eye, your fingers are replaced by much larger and thicker ones, and instead of the grazing of your fingernail it was teeth latching around your nipple, tugging lightly to make your toes curl. Fingering yourself is generally a fruitless endeavor, but you can’t help but clench, longing to be filled by him.

Him… Whether by the context of your relationship, or genuine attraction, it’s Doctor Kim Namjoon that fills your thoughts, the way the water would stain his button-up sleeves rolled up to the elbow, but not quite high enough to avoid the sloshing of water.  You hear the scribble of a ballpoint on that clipboard, like he’s taking note of your reactions, like you’re something to be studied and analyzed.

Below the water level, you grind your hips into your hand, rubbing yourself with the flats of four of your fingers know in an effort to increase the surface area. One of your nipples is flushed from being pinched and tugged at, so you clumsily cross your arm over to the other side, whining into the damp air of your bathroom once you begin repeating your ministrations. You should probably open a window. The vents aren’t great and the last thing you need is a moldy ceiling. 

You grunt low in your throat, shaking your head. You can worry about that later, dammit. With added vigor, you press at your clit, biting down on your lip to try and out all your focus into going faster and harder. Only it doesn’t feel as good as before. 

Where was I? Doctor Kim’s arms. Maybe he’d forgo the button-down shirt completely and decide to strip down, getting into the tub with you, wrapping his arms over your front and pulling you down onto him. You huff, furrowing your eyebrows, holding onto your breath, feeling that pleasure slip away from you. Come on, imagine him fingering you or something, what’s wrong with you, he’s hot! That smile, the thick thighs straining under pants material. Not long before you’d see him again, tomorrow night. It was strange that he worked nights, though you supposed considering his job it made sense that people might prefer-

“Fuck!” Your hands have come to a halt, too distracted to continue, and that slow burning of pleasure in your gut has been extinguished as if from the now-lukewarm water you sit in. You let out a frustrated cry and kick out with the leg that’s still in the water, splashing water up the wall in front. “Fuck off! Are you serious?” You force yourself to take a deep breath and tamp down your rising frustration. The kind doctor had told you not to cum, so it was probably for the best that you didn’t get too into it. Still, it’s irritating you that even the thought of a… a sex professional getting you off isn’t enough to actually get you off. You huff, picking up the bar of soap off its dish, and begin to lather yourself up. “Good luck, Doctor Kim,” you mutter.

--

Surprisingly, you sleep well and have a productive morning. Missing the morning traffic and arriving at a quiet office lifts your mood, and you have just enough work to remain mentally and physically occupied. In fact, you’re sure you would’ve spent your whole day in this calm working mentality, were it not for the phone call that comes just after midday.

Most of the office is out on their lunch break. Only a few of you hang around this time; you know others just prefer to eat earlier or later, but you actively hang around because you appreciate the chance for some peace and quiet. That tranquility is broken by the aggressive buzzing of your phone on your desk. Anticipating a call from a client later on, you figure they’re just phoning in a little early, and you answer it without checking the number.

“Y/n L/n speaking,” you rattle off automatically, “how may I help?”

A low chuckle on the other end gives you pause. It certainly doesn’t sound like the retired seamstress you were expecting to hear. “Did you give me your work phone number, little miss?”

A shot of electricity shoots up your spine and you sit bolt upright in your office chair, instinctively glancing around the five or six people milling about the office floor. “Doctor Kim,” you reply in a low voice.

“Correct. Have you suddenly entered a library or is there another reason you’ve gone all quiet?” His voice is lilting with amusement and you can almost picture him sitting back in his office chair, dimple sticking out as he grins.

Your fingers curl around your phone, and you use your other hand to cup over your mouth, leaning forward over your desk. “I, uh, wasn’t expecting you to call,” you reply honestly, “is there a problem?”

“Of course not. My clinic has a policy of always giving a reminder call the day of or before the appointment.”

You pout. “Oh.” Somehow, the fact that he calls everyone makes you feel something akin to disappointment. “Shouldn’t your receptionist do stuff like that?”

“Would you prefer I put Sandra on the phone?”

“No,” you blurt out reflexively. The doctor rewards your honesty with a breathy chuckle. You press your knees together and clench your thighs. “So, just a reminder then? Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten. Thanks for the call, though.”

“You haven’t?” You can hear the teasing smile in his voice, and it affects you more than you care to admit. “You’ve been thinking about it, then? Have you been trying to guess what I have in store for you? What I’m going to do to you?”

You clear your throat awkwardly, sensing the conversation taking a decidedly sexual turn. “I’ve been trying to focus on my work, actually. Like your message said.”

“Ah, that’s good. Did you take the afternoon off like I suggest, or are you just on your lunch break?”

You barely hear him speak, your heart skipping a beat when a crowd of some of the older employees starts filing back in. Fuck. 12:32pm. People were going to start getting back to work now, you couldn’t be on the phone with a sex therapist. “Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”

He pauses for a moment. “Are you still at work?”

You clear your throat, ducking your head as one of your superiors walks past. “Uh, yes, sir. Will that be all?”

He chuckles, though it’s more a sharp exhale through his nose, slightly crackly through the receiver. “Spending company time talking to the man who will fuck your brains out tonight?” You cringe at how loud he speaks, mind going blank with shock. You can’t find your voice to reply, though you have no idea what you would even say. He listens to you splutter for a few moments, your lack of response an answer in itself. “Naughty girl,” he chastises. “What would your coworkers think if they knew who you were talking to? I bet you wish you weren’t at work right now so you could just slip a hand into your panties, isn’t that right?” You bite down hard on your lip, using the ruse of sliding your office chair further in as cover for rubbing your core against the seat for some relief. “Come on, Y/n,” Doctor Kim’s voice echoes in your ear, “what did we say about yes-no questions?”

“Yes, sir,” you make out through a tense jaw, hoping your voice sounds as bright and customer-friendly as it normally would be with anyone else, even as your thighs clench together. “My office hours are 8:30am to 4:30pm Monday to Friday.”

“Oh?” His laugh bubbles through your phone and makes you absentmindedly start scrunching up a scrap bit of paper on your desk. He was enjoying this. “So, you’re there for a while still, hm? I wonder if you can make it until 4:30pm or if you’ll have to sneak into the bathroom and get some relief. It’s a shame I can’t stay on the line; I’d have loved to hear you moan over the phone, unable to keep quiet as you touch yourself. Oh well. I’ll make you moan for me later tonight.”

You slowly slip your hand down, tucking it between your legs and shifting your hips slowly beneath your desk, grinding against the delicate bones of your wrist for some friction. “The, uh, the appointment is confirmed, sir, thank you. Is there anything else I can help you with before I go?”

You hear a pen clicking, and some hurried strokes against paper in the background. The thought that, like your fantasy last night, he was writing down notes on all your reactions and desires, brought a rush of heat between your legs. You can feel the fabric of your panties, wet through to the outside of the fabric and dampening the skin of your arm. Oh god. “That will be all, Ms. Y/n. I look forward to our appointment tonight very much. Don’t forget to drink enough water to prepare for the fluids you’ll be depleting in our session. Have a splendid day.”

All the energy leaves you the moment the line goes dead, and your top half slumps forward onto the desk. You pull your arm out from between your legs, rubbing away the slippery patch on the side of your wrist before anyone can see it. You didn’t think you were going to get much work done for the rest of the day.

--

 “Are you nervous?”

You lift your gaze from your trembling hands to the man sitting across from you. The two of you were the only ones in the cosy waiting room you had been led to. It was something halfway between a bedroom and a spa, with a great long bed covered in cushions and blankets, a bench laden with food and drink, and several diffusers spraying gently perfumed mist into the air.

The stranger was there when you had arrived moments prior. A green silk robe loosely tied around his waist was the only thing he was wearing as he lounged on the bed, lazily scrolling through his phone, black hair curled and damp, sticking haphazardly to his temples and cheekbones. He had watched you in mild curiosity as you walked in and stiffly sat down on a cosy armchair, and didn’t take a moment before initiating conversation.

He looks at you now with an expectant glimmer. You recall the question and flick him a shy smile. “Mm. First time,” you explain with a sheepish shrug. You let your gaze linger on his attire. “Are you...waiting to go in, too?”

His brows lift in surprise, along with a toothy grin. “Oh, no! I just got out of my sesh with the doc. This is just the whole aftercare shtick. I’m Jungkook, by the way,” he adds with a jaunty wave of his hand.

His languid ease has you relaxing a little, and you crack a smile. “I’m Y/n. So, how many times have you come here exactly? I thought surely once he fixed you, you’d be fine?”

The corner of his mouth quirks. He tosses his phone carelessly onto the bedcovers and sits up a little, the robe falling open to reveal his chest, all defined muscle and tanned skin, glimmering with a sheen of sweat. "Hey, that's what I thought. But honestly? This shit's addictive. I work an extra ten hour shift every week now to afford one hour of bliss. I think I may be in love with him. Or at least, I'm definitely in love with his mouth."

Your eyes drop to the thick carpet as you flush with the mental image that provides, but you can't help but glance back up out of curiosity as his words sink in. "Wait, his mouth? I thought he was meant to just..."

"Jerk people off? I mean, sure, he can do that, but the doc tends to mix it up. With how packed his schedule is, he'd probably get fucking carpal tunnel or some shit if he just jacked his patients off all day. He's a pretty creative dude when it comes to this, you know?" He breaks off with a faraway smile. "Actually, I consider myself a bit of an innovator, too. One time I had this letter opener, right, and-"

"Mister Jeon," an unimpressed voice drawls from behind you, "please refrain from accosting my clients with your sexual history. I am sure they don't find it as enlightening as you do."

You whirl around, heart immediately returning to its aggressive thudding, palms dampening in moments. Standing in the doorway, in a three-piece suit, is Doctor Kim Namjoon, one leg crossed over the other as he tucks a hand into his pants pocket. It's a vast difference from the simple shirt and pants combo he had on when you last saw him, and it seems he takes note of your startled reaction.

"It's casual Friday," he jokes with an easygoing grin, and it only strikes you then, as his eyes lock with yours, that you're about to have sex with this man. Maybe not in the traditional sense, but you'd be leaving this building feeling fully fucked out if all went well. Your nerves return with a vengeance, and his face softens. "Come on inside, Y/n."

A scoff tears your attention from the doctor. "Oh, so I'm Mister Jeon, but she's Y/n?"

Doctor Kim's jaw ticks, though it's bemusement rather than anger on his face. "Would you like me to call you Y/n?"

Jungkook pouts, picking at a loose thread on his robe petulantly. "No." He pouts deeply, looking up at the older man reproachfully. "If you keep being mean to me I won't come back anymore."

The doctor nods patiently like he's heard it a thousand times. "I'll see you next Friday, Jungkook. Do well on your bio exam next week and I might just show you how mean I can really be."

Jungkook's face clears and his eyes gleam. Without speaking, he simply gets up and jogs over to the little set of lockers by the exit, gathering his belongings. Doctor Kim doesn't spare him any more attention, and simply gestures for you to follow him.

You make your way down a dimly-lit corridor with wobbly legs, trying not to stare at the way his pants strained around his behind with every stride he took. Although there’s a distant wisp of relaxing piano emanating from the waiting room, the silence is unbearable. 

“So,” you blurt, cringing at how loud your voice sounds in the stillness of the corridor, “what do you have planned?”

“Well, if Jungkook inspired you, I did bring along a letter opener,” the doctor calls out pleasantly, tilting his head, though he doesn’t turn to look at you.

Your step falters uncertainly. “Oh, I don’t…” You watch in dawning realization as he stops in front of a closed door and swivels, face scrunched up with delight as his shoulders shake silently. Although it was a dig at your naivety, you can’t help but crack a smile at him. “Aren’t doctors meant to be nice to their patients?”

He fumbles in his pockets, producing a keycard to scan at the entrance. Once it’s opened, he holds it there and turns to you expectantly. As you catch up to him and slip through the opened door, you can’t help but brush past his chest with your shoulder, breathing in his soothing scent of raspberry and vanilla. You hadn’t expected him to smell so...sweet.

You hear the door click shut behind you, self-locking, and that layer of security reassures you. Your attention, however, is quickly caught by the contents of the room itself. 

It’s this disconcerting mix of a massage room, a doctor’s office, and a sex dungeon, and your head whirls as Doctor Kim preoccupies himself with messing with the heatpump settings on the far wall. 

In the centre of the room is a traditional massage table, lowered to around the height of his hips, covered in a lush-looking slate grey towel. You figured the usual white wouldn’t fare so well with his line of work. Two of the walls make great use of shelves and cabinets, and you can’t help but be bewildered at the strange way they’re organised. A man like him surely had a system to keep everything in track, but dildos were beside bottles of massage oil and ropes, and a collection of gags and leashes hanging from hooks dangled above a little pyramid of neatly rolled towels and a steaming metal bowl of warm water. 

“Please, take a seat anywhere you feel comfortable.” 

You jerk out of your gaping stare and clear your throat awkwardly, moving to take a seat on a little wooden stool that sat in the corner of the room in front of a small dresser covered in props like handcuffs, some blindfolds and, strangely, a black ski mask with eye and mouth holes cut out. The image of the friendly doctor fucking someone in a full burglar outfit makes you snort out a laugh before you have the time to clap your hand over your mouth. 

You press your lips together with a muffled giggle as the man himself flattens a stare. 

“Is my job funny to you?” 

Your smile drops as you recognise the change in his tone. Gone is the somewhat clumsy, joke-cracking doctor. Now he’s in his role. The session has begun. “No,” you deny weakly.

His deft fingers gravitate to the buttons holding his suit jacket together, and you feel the room become hotter as he walks the perimeter of the room slowly, eying up all the offerings he has to play with while he slips off the expensive material. Hanging the jacket on a coat rack beside the black cape and what looks like priests’ robes that already reside there, he turns on a heel to face you. His eyebrows are low, narrowing his eyes, but you can see the dark heat that radiates off him. You tuck your knees together. God, he’s good and he hasn’t even done anything. “My profession isn’t something to be laughed at,” he chastises lowly. “We had this problem the other day, didn’t we? With you not taking this seriously. It’s disappointing, Y/n.” 

Your heart thuds uncertainly in your chest. The natural instinct to get upset from being told off mixes with the warmth building between your legs. “Sorry,” you offer up, voice lifting at the end like it’s a question. 

He’s on the other side of the room to you. You wish he were closer, though now that he’s unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and beginning to roll the sleeves, eyes locked on your hunched-over form with an unreadable look, you don’t know that you could handle it. “No, you aren’t,” he brushes off, “and it’s very important that in this next 90 minutes, you only say things you absolutely mean. Understand?”

You take a steadying breath, feeling it expand your chest. “Yeah. I understand. It’s just… a lot. I’ve never done this, and I don’t know what’s going to happen, and-”

The tension disappears from his jaw and his eyes soften. In mere moments, he’s crossed the room in strides to crouch in front of you, catching your lowered gaze. “Woah, settle. First of all, everyone starts somewhere, so don’t feel anxious. Secondly, how many times have you had sex and known exactly what was going to happen in advance?”

His palms are warm and grounding as they gently rest, wrapped around your calves. You breath deeply again, appreciating this break in character. “I… But we’re not having sex though, right? This is, I don’t know,” you shrug futilely, “different.”

He returns your shrug, but with a far more carefree attitude. “It doesn’t have to be.” As he talks, his grip tightens a little on your calves, gently pressing into the tensed muscle. You find yourself relaxing without noticing, going lax in his touch, as non-sexual as it may be. “But, for the most part, people that come here do want it to be different. More exciting, more taboo, more intense. You need to communicate with me now. Do you want me to go easy on you, or do you want me to be thorough?”

Your mouth goes dry. With his hands on you, with the room you’re in, with the way his eyes linger heavy on yours, the word makes your toes curl. “Thorough,” you croak out.

He searches your face once more, then a slow grin spreads across his. “Excellent. Then get up on the massage table.”

He stands up; the lack of his touch on your legs makes you shiver. You follow him over, feeling your palms damp with nervous sweat. “On my front, or…?”

“Just sit on it for now, baby.” His eyes are alight with mirth when you blush at the petname, but he’s quickly snapping back into that dominant role, jaw muscles popping out as he watches you get up, facing him as your legs dangle in the air, not quite reaching the ground. You wait for him to get closer to you, but he ticks an eyebrow in affirmation and turns abruptly, stalking across the room to a tall, thin cupboard. He reaches in without speaking, and when he turns, in his hands he carries a vibrator in his hand, a relatively friendly-looking, gold bullet that looks rather small in his hand. 

You think you recognise the brand, and if you’re right, it’s unbelievably high end. As he makes his way over to you, his gaze drops to your legs, which you’ve begun absentmindedly swinging back and forth. “Cute,” he remarks with a small sneer, and you abruptly stop, embarrassed at the childish action. “Don’t be so shy,” he advises, “I plan on hearing you scream for me tonight at some point or another. These walls are soundproof, you know. Every little sound you make will only be heard by me. Now spread those pretty legs.”

Suddenly, even though arousal steadily rocks through you, your legs lock up and you go stiff. The room is being pumped with warm air and yet your skin breaks out in goosebumps. 

The doctor notices this, of course he does, and fiddles with the bullet, flipping it over and over in his palm as he makes his way back to you, stopping when his upper thighs brush against your knees. “What’s wrong? Second thoughts?”

You shake your head hastily, though you’re no less tense. “Just- just really nervous.”

His eyes warm in sympathy. “Hm, that’s no good. I can’t get you to cum with your legs shut tighter than a vice.” A quirk of a smile. “Well, I could, but we don’t have time for that today. So, let’s help you relax.” His free hand reaches up to brush against your shoulder. Even though he’s fully clothed as well, you still feel strange still wearing the large sweater and leggings you had arrived in. The fabric feels itchy on your skin, and you yearn for his palm to warm your skin instead of your sweater.

He lets out a breathy laugh as his hand rubs slowly up and down your upper arm. “God, look at you,” he marvels, “I’ve never seen someone so stressed still look so beautiful.” You manage to crack a reluctant smile, cheeks heating. He places the golden bullet vibe on the towel beside you, and pats your knee warmly. “Would it help if I kissed you?”

Your mouth drops open a little. You have to swallow away the dryness. With eyes unable to leave his perfect lips, you nod. 

“Good, I can do that,” he soothes, “can you part your legs for me so I can get a little closer?”

The moment you shakily do as he asks, his hips are pressing against your thighs, pushing them wider still. You hastily dart your lips out to wet them, but he’s in no rush. The doctor slips a hand into your hair, brushing it off your face with fondly gleaming eyes. 

It’s an expression you’ve never seen someone look at you with before, and you let yourself sit in the fantasy that it’s anything more than acting. 

“C’mere,” he murmurs softly, before pressing lightly on the back of your head so that you straightened up to meet him halfway. You sigh into him when your lips touch, unbelievably soft yet insistent as they move against you. 

He’s clearly experienced; you quiver inside with every movement, and he barely moves at all, drawing out the languid embrace. Your jaw falls slack, and you let yourself be guided by him, following his patient lead. 

The room itself is quiet, and you can hear the way he lets out the smallest of grunts, delicate sounds of affirmation as you part your lips and feel the very tip of his tongue swipe against your lips, sucking the bottom one into his mouth and tugging it lightly, chuckling when you let out a throaty whimper.

“Do you feel better now? Hm?”

He pulls away but your eyes stay shut, your whole body stretched up towards him. You nod, licking over your slightly swollen lips, humming in agreement. You smile dopily when he caresses your face, leaning into his touch, as his silken voice reaches your ears. “Are you ready to play?”

Your breath leaves you in one shuddering gasp. “Yeah,” you whine pleafully, eyes slowly slipping back open. 

He’s standing over you, closer than you realised. Only a mere few centimetres rest between his crotch and your spread legs. Still, he uses that space to dip his hand down, brushing the back of it between your thighs, knuckles pressing teasingly lightly over your clothed core. “I bet you want these pants off, huh? You wanna take ‘em off for me?”

You nod obediently, kicking off your shoes before you wiggle your leggings and underwear off your hips awkwardly, lifting your legs up onto the bench to tug them off your ankles. Doctor Kim takes them and places them in the corner of the room by the door, and by the time he comes back, you’ve crossed your legs, leaning forward so that your sweater hem covers your naked center. 

His eyes fall down to that dip in the hem, darkening. His fingers come up to lazily tug at his tie, loosening it and undoing his top shirt button so that the white pressed fabric parts, revealing a golden upper chest. “You sure seem to like that, don’t you?”

You frown. “Like what?”

“Acting innocent like that.” He’s in front of you again, hands immediately wrapping around your thighs, and the touch is electric, making you more aware of how naked you are. “There won’t be any of that innocence left when I’m done with you,” he promises lowly, before bending down to capture your lips again.

You let yourself be taken over by him, drunk on the arousal that glows warm within you. The heat your own body is enough that you don’t notice the missing presence of a palm resting on your inner thigh, until your sweater is shifting and something ice cold is slipping between your folds.

You hiss in a breath and jerk in his grasp, causing him to shush you, lips still firmly attached to you, though they leave your mouth and migrate southward, nibbling along your jawline up to your ear. “The vibrator,” he explains gruffly, “I’m going to turn it on. Just relax.”

Your legs shift, ankles uncrossing slightly so that you’re more open to him, though you can’t bear to open your eyes, trying to stop the nerves from getting to you. 

The moment he turns it on your back arches from the immediate shockwave of pleasure that radiates from that tiny yet strong vibe held directly against your clit. You swallow your moan, breathing heavily through your nose as you fight to keep quiet, letting the mechanic buzz fill the silence instead. 

“Is it good?” the doctor questions, making you tremble as his lips dip lower, brushing over the column of your neck with just the slightest hint of tongue. You nod feverishingly, attempting to push your pelvis forward for more of it, rocking your hips in small circles to increase the surface area. The hand still on your thigh tightens, and you open your eyes blearily at the grip. Doctor Kim’s eyes are hard. “It doesn’t sound like it,” he comments flatly, turning up the vibe to a higher setting, making your mouth drop silently open.

“It is good,” you force out, beginning to pant.

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. I know you want to moan for me, baby. Let me hear you lose control.”

You whine through a closed mouth, eyes screwing shut again in focus as he lets you chase your own please. How could he seriously expect you to moan in front of him? He was basically a stranger, and although the way he pinned your thigh spread for him, holding a sex toy to you as you got off on it was hot, you were still in a room alone with him on a Friday evening, paying for him to bring you to orgasm. He was probably just staring at you, waiting for you to hurry up and come already.

“Stop thinking, Y/n,” he chastises, “stay in the room.” You shake your head, wishing you could, but it’s too late. The weirdness of the situation hits you, and you open your eyes, searching for a clock on the wall.

The price of this 90-hour appointment was practically highway robbery, and all he was doing was something you could’ve done yourself at home. And as your eyes coast around the room and the curve of your spine settles, you realize that what’s worst of all is that he won’t even be able to do it. You’ve lost that thread, the one that leads you over the edge, and he won’t have time to get it back before-

You shoot up straight when a stinging slap lands on your thigh. You gape at the man in front of you in shock, hand instinctively going to the pinkened flesh to soothe it. “Ow!”

You realize belatedly he’d turned off the vibe, now holding it between two fingers and a thumb. It’s shining with your slick, but less than you’d have expected by this point, and he sighs in disappointment and tosses it onto the towel beside you.

You suddenly feel, as he cocks an unimpressed eyebrow and tenses his jaw, like you’re a child being scolded for breaking a vase or skipping class. Your legs tighten up together, and you gather a fistful of sweater fabric in your hand, pushing it down to cover yourself. 

“You know why I stopped?”

You nod shamefully, eyes dropping to the carpet below. “You couldn’t do it. There’s something wrong with me, I guess. Sorry for wasting your time.”

He pauses for a long moment. You almost glance up out of curiosity but can’t stand to see the look of disapproval that no doubt resides in his eyes. “No, Y/n,” he explains tiredly, “I can see clearly now that your problem is that you’re too in your own head, and no amount of stimulation can break through an unwilling mind. So, like any good doctor, if something isn’t working for one of my patients then I stop and reassess. What was on your mind?”

You breathe out heavily, not wanting to have to sit and talk about feelings, but he’s not satisfied when you shrug, simply pulling up a stool and waiting for your answer. 

Your mouth tightens and you stare at the ceiling. “I just feel stupid,” you admit finally, “like… you’re just standing there waiting for me to cum and I’m just… not. I don’t know.”

Out of your peripheral, you see him nod slowly, processing your words. “Well, no wonder it wasn’t working. You feel pressured to cum.”

You furrow your eyebrows and look back over to him. “Well, yeah, that’s the whole point of this session.”

He just opens his palms out in a shrug. “Of course, we had booked it in for that, but that’s not my only job as a sex therapist. I have clients that come to learn how to better pleasure a partner, clients that want to explore their kinkier sides without judgement, clients that perhaps are wanting to indulge in something that could potentially be dangerous and want a professional to spot them. I’ve had couples come in and have sex with my supervision because they’re trying something new and are concerned about injury. My point is, not everybody comes here for me to simply bring them to orgasm and go.”

You shake your head quickly. “Oh, I wasn’t- I wasn’t trying to say that your job was just-”

“I know, I know,” he soothes, “I just want you to know that sessions with me aren’t a complete failure if the client doesn’t orgasm. Perhaps you need a little more trust and we can work up to it.”

You bite your lip, uncertain. “I can’t really afford a bunch of sessions like that other dude. If you can’t do it today, I’ll just go-”

“How about this?” The doctor rests his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands together. With the nearly see-through white shirt rolled up to the elbows, a slackened tie, and straining pants, he strikes a powerful image. “If you promise me to come back, I’ll give you the next session for free. Since you came here expecting to be brought to orgasm, we can call it fair compensation. Today you won’t orgasm. Sound fair?”

You relax a little as you perch on the massage bed. “Okay… But what would we even do then?”

“Like I said, orgasming isn’t the only thing I offer. You mentioned earlier you felt uncomfortable with me waiting for you to come, is that right?” You nod slowly. “Well, perhaps if you didn’t feel that I was expecting anything from you, you could relax more.”

“I don’t understand,” you admit, trailing off. 

“Stand up, I have something for you.”

You do so immediately, needing to use the massage bed for support as your knees buckle slightly. The doctor slips a hand under his waistband slightly, drawing your gaze lower to his crotch, where a bulge strains against the fabric. 

“I think you would benefit from focussing on yourself a little less,” you hear him say as his hands pop open his pants, dipping into his underwear to pull his straining cock loose, “and focus on me a little more. Do you see how horny you made me, grinding on that vibrator?”

Your eyes widen. You watch his hand, defined by thick veins and delicate bones, stroke himself, a thumb dragging over the slit to spread the beads of precum that were produced. “Is this what you have for me?” you question in confusion.

He laughs. “No, although I do love the way you’re looking at it like a three-course meal. Eyes up,” he commands with a bite of humor in his voice. You hastily obey, and his warm eyes crinkle as he jerks his head to the side. “Let’s go; we’re changing location.”

You frown. “Sorry, what? Changing to where?”

You watch in wonder as he casually strides over to a bookshelf near the far corner of the room, clothes disheveled and leaking cock still in hand. What you had failed to notice when entering the room was a sliding door just past it, the same unassuming wood finish as the shelves. He slides it open, removing the hand from around his dick to wave you through. 

Tugging on the hem of your baggy sweater to attempt to cover yourself - though you weren’t sure there was anything of you left to hide - you let him lead you through the small opening into a far darker room. You squint, eyes adjusting, and slowly the gentle light of several flickering candles is enough to see by. They’re scattered around the room, and you notice soon enough that they’re all electric. 

“Safety hazard,” the doctor explains. “Me, not the candles.” The rest of the room, in a hazy warm glow, is outfitted in a very different vibe from the previous one. Instead of containing all the erotic bells and whistles, this room could be easily mistaken for a honeymoon suite. On the outskirts are a bar fridge, a few armchairs, and a coffee table, but the main event is the gigantuan bed that takes up almost all the floor space, even more lushly covered with blankets and pillows than the one you had seen in the waiting room. 

“Far out,” you breathe, “this is impressive.”

With a rakish grin, he remarks, “what? The purpose-built sex room didn’t do it for you?” Doctor Kim gently slides the door shut behind the two of you, making his way over to a small bluetooth speaker resting on the coffee table. “I had suspected when you responded so well to that kiss that you might be the type to need a comforting environment to keep you in the moment.” He fiddles with the settings, slipping a phone out from his back trouser pocket to select some gentle instrumental song with a muted beat and hypnotic melody. “I’d like to propose a roleplay scenario.”

You bite your lip. “Don’t we… There can’t be much time left of my appointment now, right?”

“Don’t worry about that.” You’re not convinced. He gives you a warm smile, leaning against the arm of the chair. “My next slot is empty. How about we let you book out that one as your compensated session? As far as that pretty little head of yours is concerned, we have all the time in the world. Now: roleplay. Have you done it before?”

You shrug awkwardly. “Not really. I’m not a good actor or anything.”

He shakes his head. You appreciate the way the flickering lights play with shadows over the planes of his face, his neck. “This isn’t the Oscars. And it’s not going to be anything difficult. I was thinking perhaps an anniversary date night. We rented out a fancy hotel room to celebrate. We’ve hand some drinks from the mini fridge,” he waves a hand towards the aforementioned appliance, “and now that the evening is drawing to a close, we’re going to share each other’s company on a more… intimate level.”

You take a deep breath and nod slowly. “Okay, that sounds good. Thank you, Doctor Kim, I appreciate your-”

“Shh, baby,” he soothes, pushing off from the armchair to stroll over to you. He waits until he’s in front of you, hands cupping your face tenderly and looking deeply into your eyes, before he continues. “We’re married; this is our anniversary night, remember? I want you to call me Namjoon.”

“Namjoon,” you repeat dreamily, blinking up at him. In the dim lighting, he looks even softer than before. There’s no tension in his face, and his rumpled clothing looks awfully… domestic. 

His eyes turn up at the edges with his smile. You feel safe yet weirdly vulnerable with your face in his hands and his gaze deeply focused on you. “Do you want me to kiss you again?”

You nod eagerly, just about pushing his hands off you, and his lips quirk up. Without any further words needed, he ducks his head down and slants his mouth across yours, reigniting that flush of want inside you. One of his hands slides around into your hair, playing with it lightly, and the other presses on your jaw, tilting your head back so that he can deepen the kiss. You whimper when you feel his tongue make contact with yours, teasingly swirling inside your mouth, and your hand flies up to curl around his wrist, needing to anchor yourself to him as much as possible.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs against your lips, pressing his body against yours. “I missed you so much. Did you miss me?”

You pause, feeling his lips keep moving against you, nibbling at your bottom lip when you don’t answer. “Y-yeah.”

“Yeah? You don’t sound like you miss me.” He laughs breathily, taking his hands away from your face. One links up with yours, squeezing your fingers reassuringly, and the other snakes around your back to hold you even tighter against him. “I wanna show you.”

Your eyes flutter uncertainly, so overwhelmed by the sensual kisses he gave you that you only process what he says belatedly. “Huh? Show me what?”

“How much I missed you,” he replies, the arm around your back sliding lower until it’s slipping under your sweater hem to grasp at the flesh of your ass. You tremble, knees going weak. He leans down to your ear, dragging his spit-slicked lips your face like he can’t bear to part with it. His voice is like honey in your ear, whispering in between teasing nips at your earlobe. “Can I show you how much I missed you?”

“Please, show me,” you plead, not even sure what he means by that, but letting him walk you backwards until the backs of your thighs hit the bed. He lays you down gently, rubbing soothing circles over your naked flesh. You gasp with anticipation when he drops to his knees in front of your legs, pushing your knees apart to slip in between. 

The bed is comfortable and the room is perfectly tiered for a romantic environment. You try and keep yourself grounded, letting yourself drink in the sensation of his hands on you. 

“Can you scoot forward a little for me? Legs over my shoulders.” Namjoon’s instructions are easy to comprehend but harder than expected to execute. Your body feels a little dead, and you shuffle your butt lower, thigh muscles complaining when you lift them up. He helps you, hands on the backs of your knees to hook them up onto himself. “You look so beautiful, spread out for me. Will you let me have a little taste?”

If orgasms weren’t so hard to come by, you’re sure you would’ve come from that statement alone. You make a whined noise of agreement, shuffling your shoulders down the bed so that you can arch your back a little more, needing to feel him. 

With palms sliding up to wrap around and hold down your thighs, the doctor gives you no other warning before he descends on you, slurping noisily against your center. Your mouth drops open and you clench around nothing automatically, simultaneously embarrassed by the loud sound and turned out by his enthusiasm.

He wastes no time in teasing, instead devouring you like a starved man, putting everything into it. Your brain has no time to process the sensations your nerves are being assaulted with; his tongue is inside you and his nose is bumping your clit, then he moves up to wrap his lips around that little bud with a demanding suck, slicking his chin with your wetness. He changes from place to place, never the same speed or intensity. If your lack of orgasms are like a failing heart, Namjoon going down on you is the defibrillator, the shock to your system that you needed.

Your fingers clench tightly onto his hand, moaned-out sighs and shuddering muscles the only sign your body is able to give that he’s doing well. In the back of your lust-addled mind, you feel a single finger slip between your folds, passing over your center to collect wetness before dipping inside. You clench at the intrusion, feeling him groan against you at your tightness. 

He crooks that finger, slowly thrusting it in and out like he has all the time in the world, and you whine, mouth dangling open and drooling, eyes clenched tightly shut. With its proven success, it’s not long before that one finger becomes two, and he has you writhing on the bed. 

You whimper when he gives your clit a final flat drag of his tongue before lifting his head up again, continuing to work his fingers inside you. “When was the last time I got to make you feel this good, huh? It’s been so long, hasn’t it?”

Your body curls in and you keen as a third finger joins the other two, beginning to provide more of a tight fit, preparing your inner muscles for what was to come. You realize he asked you a question and force your tongue to form words. “I, ah, I can’t think,” you blabber out in a slur.

“Good.” And with that, his mouth is on you again, this time with renewed vigor. When he speaks again, he doesn’t even bother removing his lips from you, lapping at your clit between words. “I want to see you fall apart on my tongue, baby,” he confesses, “gush all over my fingers.”

Like a train hitting you, you feel your nerves deep inside shortcircuit at his words, and you let out a little scream when an orgasm abruptly hits, your legs closing to tighten like a vice around his head as he works you through it, speeding up his tongue and grinding against that rough patch inside you with his fingers as your pussy locks up. Your muscles push against the intrusion, though he refuses to let up as violent tremors wrack your body and leave you shuddering hopelessly under his ministrations.

You don’t realize until wetness hits your temple and slips past your hairline that you’re crying, but when you press a shaky hand against your eyes, they’re soaked with tears. The fact that you’re crying, as well as finally achieving the orgasm that was feeling more and more impossible, just makes your lip tremble harder until you’re sobbing against your hand, beyond overwhelmed.

Your legs are taken off his shoulders without ceremony. They flop limply over the edge of the bed. “Hey, hey,” Namjoon’s voice is concerned, though not surprised or frantic, and you suppose he must deal with this often, “you did it. I’m so proud of you. Do you want me to get you some water, or stay here with you?”

“Stay,” you plead brokenly, voice breaking even on the one syllable. He acquiesces, crawling up on the bed to lie beside you, rubbing your shoulder. You feel yourself calm down slowly with his presence, letting out one shaky exhale. “Fuck.”

“You can say that again,” the doctor jibes. “I don’t mean to be crude, but the way you came like that? It was fucking hot. Shit, I’m harder than a rock right now.”

You laugh breathily, sniffing and wiping away your tears. “I can help with that if you want.”

He swears under his breath. “You can’t say stuff like that. Sex with patients is where I draw the line, and as much as I’m hating that rule right now, I need to keep at least an inch of professionalism here.”

You turn to face him, propping your head up on your hand. “I regret to inform you, Doctor Kim, but I won’t be needing your services after this session. There; now I’m not your patient anymore.”

You watch his pupils dilate, eyebrows narrowing. In mere moments, the more dominant personality from earlier has been brought out again. “Well, then. I’m not going to fuck your tired little pussy, because I’ve worn it out for the day. So if you’d like to give me a helping hand, you better get on your knees.”

[how-to-survive-a-factory-tour]

How to Survive a Factory Tour - Chapter 1

A Sanders Sides / Charlie and the Chocolate Factory FanFiction

—————

”Hey, what can I get you?”

”The usual, Virge. To go.”

”Oh, hey Remy.”

I turn and grab a plastic cup from one of the many stacks.

”You okay?” the guy on the other side of the counter asks, looking over his sunglasses at me. I just sigh as I turn back around. Remy Sleep can’t tell if the dark marks under my eyes are eyeshadow or tired bags.

”I’m not okay (I promise),” I reply.

Remy rolls his eyes, pushing his sunglasses onto his forehead. “Virge, I want a serious answer. I haven’t been able to check on how you’re doing as much since you dropped out.”

”You know I had to. I’ve told you before.”

”I know. You had to get a job, so you can pay for Thomas’ university fees.”

Thomas is my twin brother. Our family is in a rough position. We live in a run-down shack with only our mother, our father having passed on when Thomas and I were five. The only income we have to support us is the small amount our mom earns from her job as a dishwasher at a restaurant, which is not nearly enough. As our eighteenth birthdays had drawn near, I had realised there was no hope of us both being able to go to college with the money we had. If we did, we’d never eat again, and there’s not much you can do with an education when you’re dead. So, instead of completing my final year of high school, I decided to drop out and get a job. That way, Thomas will be able to go to university, get a good paying job and be able to live the life he deserves.

I don’t care if I lose the chance for a future. As long as Thomas is happy, I am too.

”Anyway, did ya hear the news?” Remy asks, changing the subject.

”What news?” I question.

”You don’t know?” Remy gasps. “It was everywhere! All over the internet and TV!”

I raise an eyebrow at the guy on the other side of the counter.

”Oh, right, you don’t have a TV... or a phone... or laptop. Anyway! You’ll never believe this, but Wonka is opening his factory again!”

”No fucking way!”

”Yes way! Look.” Remy pulls out his phone and holds it in front of me. I read it over.

Willy Wonka is the most famous chocolatier in the entire world, and his factory is situated in our town. He has created things that had previously seemed impossible: ice cream that never melts, sweets that allow you to spit in seven different colours, gum that never loses its flavour and so much more. About seven years ago, he hosted a competition in which he sent out five golden tickets hidden under the wrappers five chocolate bars. Five kids won them and got to go on a tour around his factory. Afterwards, four of them left, all in... interesting states. I remember, one was really thin and covered in melted chocolate, one was blue from head to toe, one was covered in trash and the last was paper thin and twelve feet tall. The fifth kid was never seen again.

Rumours spread about what happened to them. Many thought the four kids were insane because of the stories they told. Pipes, chocolate rivers, defective gum, giant blueberries, squirrels, garbage chute, televisions, cameras... I won’t bore you with the details when there’s a book based all around the stories they told. Just go read that. It’s called ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’, I think.

But, anyway, back to now.

According to the article Remy’s showing me, Wonka’s sent out five more tickets. This time, however, he’s specified the winners have to be seventeen to twenty one years old.

”You know what this means?” Remy grins. “The age restriction mans there’s a higher chance of us winning tickets!”

”A higher chance of you winning a ticket, don’t you mean,” I correct him. “I can’t waste anything.”

”Seriously? Not even a dollar for chocolate?” Remy raises an eyebrow. “Here.” He pulls five dollars from his wallet and places it in the tip jar. “For a few Wonka bars. Treat yourself for once.”

”Thanks,” I nod as I hand Remy his drink. “That’ll be four dollars.”

He hands over the money, which I place in the register.

“Good luck,’ he wishes me, pulling his sunglasses back down over his eyes. He gives me a wave before turning and leaving.

I let out a sigh as I glance at the tip jar. Maybe I can spare at least one dollar for candy...

-

”Ma! Pa! Emile! Did ya hear?!”

I run through the house, newspaper in hand. I speed into the living room, where my Ma’s ironing and my Pa’s playing Mario Kart against Emile.

Emile’s my younger brother by eight years. Once I asked why my parents why the age gap was so big, and they said that it took them a long time to decide that they wanted another child. According to my gran, however, Emile wasn’t planned. It doesn’t mean they love him any less, though. My family and life’s pretty much as great as I’d ever want it to be.

I’ve lived in Ireland my whole life. I really like it here, but I’ve always wanted to travel. I don’t want to go yet, however. Gran’s been having problems with her memory; Alzheimer’s, my parents say. I don’t want to go away for a long time and come back to find Gran’s completely forgotten about me. I guess I’m going to wait until... Well, you know.

My parents and Emile all look up as I enter the room, grinning ear to ear.

”Willy Wonka is opening his factory again!” I announce as I hold the newspaper above my head, showing the headline off.

”Really?” Emile gasps, pausing his game and leaping to his feet. He runs towards me, jumping up and trying to grab the newspaper. “Come on, Patton, let me see!”

I hand Emile the paper, and he reads it over, face lighting up with excitement. “It is! It’s true! Aw, but it’s only opening to people between seventeen and twenty one...” Emile’s ten years old. “Oh, wait, you’re eighteen, Patton!” Before I can say a word, he grabs my arm, trying to pull me from the room. I laugh at his eagerness before turning to my parents.

“Be back by dinner,” Ma says, folding one of my blue polo shirts.

“Okay. Bye!” I let Emile pull me to the front door. I grab my wallet and pull on my coat before the two of us step outside. Emile starts running down the pavement ahead of me.

”Be wide on the road!” I call after him, running up to him and taking his hand. “Ma and Pa will kill me if you get hurt.”

”Sorry, I’m just excited!” Emile grins. “You’re gonna go to Willy Wonka’s factory!”

”Emile, it’s really unlikely I’ll actually get a ticket,” I reply. “It’s, like, super super, near impossible.”

”Well, with the age range, it’s even more likely!” Emile points out. ‘”And you deserve it for being the best brother ever!”

I pull Emile into a hug. He’s lying. I’m not the best brother ever, he is. I wish he could go to the factory, he’d love it.

I’m going to try to win a ticket, not just for my own enjoyment, but so I can share the stories with Emile and so he can experience it, even if not in person.

-

Well, this is a new low. Usually they at least leave a note at least.

I chuck my schoolbag onto one of the chairs at the kitchen table. I check one more time to see there isn’t a note anywhere. No, there definitely isn’t. Great.

I open the fridge and grab a jar of Crofters Wild Blueberry Jam. I retrieve a spoon from the cutlery drawer and sit down at the table. I pull my book from backpack and start reading. It’s relaxing for a bit... until the front door slams open.

There’s the sound of footsteps running and into the room come my parents and my brother, Robert, all of them carrying two shopping bags each.

‘Salutations,’ I greet. Not that they notice me at all...

My parents neglect me. There’s no other way to phrase it. Mum and Dad are sports fanatics. Football, Rugby, Cricket, they’re invested in it all. And with Robert being captain of almost all the sports teams at his university, they love him and praise him like he’s a God. However, I myself am more academically inclined. For example, I am currently taking physics, chemistry, computer science and mathematics at college. This basically resulted in my parents not caring about me at all. It doesn’t matter I got all A*s and A**s at GCSE, it doesn’t matter my prospects are Oxford or Cambridge, it doesn’t matter I have an IQ of 200. No, because I can’t play sports, but Robert can, so he’s automatically better than me.

Multiple times, my parents have forgotten I even existed. Once, them and Robert went on a four-week holiday to Australia and left me behind. If I didn’t know how to effectively look after myself, I’d have died.

I was seven at the time.

They all take seats at the table and unload the shopping bags, placing the purchased items onto the table. They’re Wonka bars. They didn’t buy anything else. I raise an eyebrow.

”May I inquire why you bought so much chocolate?” I ask as Robert and my parents start unwrapping the bars.

None of them respond, they just continue what they were doing. I sigh, getting to my feet and leaving the room. I head upstairs and go into my bedroom, sitting at my desk and opening my laptop. I google Wonka’s name, and the first article that comes up immediately makes me slightly intrigued.

It says Wonka’s opening his factory again. Just like the last time, he’s hidden five golden tickets under the wrappers of five Wonka bars, and those who win them get a guided tour and a lifetime supply of sweets and chocolate. The only difference is, this time, it’s for seventeen to twenty-one year olds.

To be completely honest, I don’t really care much about it. Yes, I’m slightly intrigued, but not enough that I’ll waste money on buying a bunch like the rest of my family. Even with the new age requirements, the odds of winning are pretty much infinitesimal. There’s really no reason to try.

I go back downstairs and take a seat on the sofa, reopening my book.

“It’s got to be here somewhere!” I overhear my brother growl as he furiously tears the wrappers off chocolate bars.

“No, it doesn’t,” I respond, not even looking up. “There are over seven point five billion people looking for these tickets, and even more Wonka bars than that being sold a day. You can’t expect to win on blind luck on your first try.”

I hear footsteps coming up behind me and a shadow looms over me and my book. I close it before turning around and making eye contact with Robert.

“Listen here, you little smartass,” he growls. “I will win a ticket, because I am winner, unlike you.”

He gestures to the trophy cabinet in the corner of the room, where he has a bunch of sports trophies. I resist the urge to remind him of the box of academic awards I have in my room.

“You may as well not bother trying,” Robert continues. “Smarts aren’t going to help you get a ticket. You’re not even that smart anyway.”

How fucking dare he.

I wasn’t going to take part in the contest, but I sure as hell will now.

“Okay then. You go ahead and tell yourself that,” I reply, standing. “Meanwhile, I am going to go to my room and use maths, science, geography and research to find the exact location of the tickets.”

Before Robert can reply, I turn and leave the room. I have a ticket to find.

-

“Yo te quiero enseñar Un fantástico mundo Ven Princesa y deja a tu corazón soñar!”

I use my hairbrush as a microphone as I continue performing to the handsome man in the mirror. Oh wait, that’s me!

I can hear your judgement. Shut up, I’m beautiful.

As I make sure my hair is perfectly styled, ready for Valerie’s party later, I suddenly hear a yell from downstairs.

“Roman!” Pa calls.

“Yeah?!” I call back.

“There’s some news I think you might want to hear!”

Intrigued, I leave the bathroom and head downstairs. What is it? New Disney movie announced? Surprise Steven Universe episode drop? Gravity Falls is coming back?! TICKETS TO SEE HAMILTON?!

I head into the living room, where my Dad and Pa are sat on the sofas, Dad reading a book, Pa holding the TV remote. The TV’s showing...the news? Why would I be interested in the news? I’m not really the most topical or political person.

Nevertheless, I take a seat next to Pa.

“So, what’s this thing you wanted to show me?” I ask, checking the time. I promised I’d help Val set up, so I’ve got to get to her place early. This hopefully won’t take long.

Pa presses play on the remote. As I watch the report, I leap off the sofa, punching the air.

“¡SI! ¡SI!”I say, slipping back into Spanish, despite Dad saying that we were going to stick with using English until exams, so I’m as prepared as I can be for my English-speaking exam. Don’t see why, though, I’m already fluent.

But the news! The news! It’s amazing! Wonka’s opening his factory yet again! I tried so hard to get a ticket seven years ago. When the tour was announced, eleven-year-old me was quaking! But now it’s my chance! I can finally go and see the what lies inside that mysterious building. I bet it’s full of wonders beyond my imagination...

“I gotta go!” I call to my parents as I run from the room. I pull on my jacket and run from the house. I’ve gotta step into a candy store and buy some Wonka bars before I head to Val’s.

Yep, that was a Heathers reference.

“Honey, what you waiting for? Welcome to my candy store You just gotta prove you’re not a loser anymore And step into my candy store!”

----------

NEXT

[insideabunker]

The Curve: May

May

Lexa hadn't slept that first night in Clarke's apartment.  She'd stared into the quiet darkness, the only noise the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears.  Clarke was the daughter of Jacob "Wild Man," Wechadtowski.  The thought became an infinite loop, as Lexa stared at the sleeping girl curled up against her chest.

Long into the night, Lexa had wracked her brain for a way to broach the subject when morning came, bringing with it the incontrovertible realization that Clarke's secret was out.  "But why on earth was it a secret?" Lexa wondered.  A second date being what it was, keeping one's personal information precious was understandable.  On the other hand, choosing not to mention that one's father was a famous sports icons seemed a somewhat deliberate subject to avoid.  What was more, despite several opportunities she'd had to bring it up, Clarke had chosen to withhold; going so far as to play coy with Lexa.

In the wee hours of the morning, it had finally dawned on Lexa that Clarke's omission was nothing if not purposeful.  Thus far, everything she'd learned about the girl had proven her to be an intensely guarded person.  The reporter had apparently gone to some lengths to conceal her father's identity, and bearing that in mind, Lexa decided to put aside her many questions.  She would allow Clarke to bring the subject up organically, whenever she was ready.

To that end, Lexa had remained silent about what she'd seen.  When Clarke finally woke up, the pitcher pretended she'd been fast asleep all night, avoiding any glances toward the bedside table.  Luckily, even with the truth lingering like an itch, there had been plenty of other things to distract her that morning.

Much to Lexa's relief, Clarke had risen sans hangover, pleased to find the pitcher's arms were still wrapped protectively around her.  The blonde had been all sleepy smiles and roaming hands.  It was one of the best wake-ups Lexa had had in a while, and with Clarke's fingers ghosting over Lexa's shoulder bicep, the moment had felt almost perfect for a first kiss.  The brunette had leaned forward, determined not to waste her opportunity.

That was until Lexa's phone had exploded to life unapologetically, interrupting their almost moment with it's demanding alarm.  A second later, Lexa had flown out of bed frantically, realizing that she was in danger of missing a meeting with her field manager.  She'd hurriedly made her excuses, giving Clarke a sincerely apologetic look as she'd raced to gather her belongings.

"I had a good time last night."

"Me too."

"I'm so sorry about rushing out like this.  I swear this is not representative of my normal post-sleepover behavior."

Clarke had laughed, taking the situation in stride.  "And here I was beginning to think you were the cut and run type."

"No. I save that for the fifth date."

Lexa lingered in the bedroom doorway, overcome with the impulse to ask Clarke to attend the day's game.  As soon as she'd issued the invitation, the mood shifted.  Clarke had become distracted, excusing herself due to a weekend full of catching up on work.  They attempted to rain check, discussed schedules and time off with little success.  Clarke worked days, and Lexa had night games all week, followed by eight days on the road.

Clarke had stretched out in bed suggestively, adding an extra element of difficulty to Lexa's attempts at making a hasty exit.  "What about the week you get back? We could do first Friday fireworks on the river."

"Sounds perfect.  Text me!"

Leaning over to hug Clarke goodbye, Lexa had been rewarded instead with a sweet, soft kiss on the corner of her mouth.

"What was that for?"

"For being such gentleman last night… Gentlewoman, I mean."

"No thanks necessary," and with that and a wink, Lexa had been out the door.

By the beginning of May, the weather had finally started to turn, bringing with it the first sweltering days of the year. They passed slowly, heralding the scorching summer that was just around the corner.

More than two weeks had passed since she'd last seen Clarke, and the more Lexa thought about it, the less she knew what to make of the photograph on Clarke's nightstand.  Part of her was sure that the reporter had meant for her to see it, though, on the other hand, she rationalized that Clarke had been half asleep, mostly drunk, and had probably forgotten it was there.

Even so, Clarke must have realized by now, and surely she'd be wondering if Lexa had, indeed, noticed it.  And, if that was the case, why had she not mentioned it during any of their phone calls while Lexa was on the road?  Was it a test?  Was she waiting to make sure that Lexa was honest enough to come clean about what she'd seen?  Then again, perhaps Clarke was too shy, or too private to broach the subject.  The many possibilities made the pitcher's head spin.

To make matters worse, Lexa genuinely disliked withholding information, primarily when it was from someone who had just begun to trust her.  It had kicked her supremely guilty conscience into overdrive, making her feel like an overinflated water balloon, fragile and ready to burst at the slightest provocation.  By the first Friday of the month, she'd decided she could no longer keep the matter a secret, unwillingly.  Lexa was determined to come clean to Clarke about what she knew; consequences be damned. But, before she had a chance, fate intervened on her behalf.

It began as a brief article in USA Today; a few short paragraphs tucked away in the middle of the sports section.  The Mets had called up a pitcher from their farm system, a young Venezuelan with a dirty, breaking curveball that was purported to be nearly unhittable.  He was handsome, talented and flashy, but what drew people's attention the most was his age.  At 20, he was the youngest pitcher to start for the Mets since the Wild Man.  People had been bound to liken the two to one another.  It wasn't long before sports commentators were dissecting the men's similarities ad nauseum, reviving the long-dead ghost of Jacob Wechadtowski, pulling his specter from the grave, and plastering televisions and newspapers with his visage.

In the years since his strange and untimely death, Wechadtowski's name had faded from the spotlight.  His the more infamous elements of his career, including his frequently raucous off-field antics, had been forgotten over time, leaving behind only the legend of his numerous records.  In a week, however, all of that changed, and suddenly he was everywhere again, both a reminder of athletic greatness and a cautionary tale regarding wealth and fame achieved at a young age.

In the middle of the frenzy, a detail emerged that provided an additionally stark, almost eerie contrast between the two men.  Bartolo Montillo, the Mets' new star pitcher, was revealed to have fathered a child during his time in the Mets' farm system.  His progeny had been kept a secret, due in part to Montillo repeatedly failed to meet his mandated financial obligations.  

The young player's defenders argued that, during his tenure in the minor leagues, Montillo had made barely enough to pay his club fees and feed himself, much less support a child.  Supporters were quick to point out that, what little money he had saved had been sent to his mother and siblings in Venezuela.

Still, Montillo's detractors would have their say too, and they were quick to bring up the paramount responsibilities that were inherent to parenthood, willingly come by or not.  These individuals frequently brought up the legality of Montillo's relationship with the child's mother, though he was, in fact, younger than her by her several months.  Critics painted an especially hyperbolic picture of the poor example set by the pitcher, bemoaning how frequently professional athletes fathered illegitimate children who failed to support them.

And, of course, the story had immediately sparked comparisons to Wechadtowski, who had been hounded by rumors of lackluster fatherhood throughout his career.  By that Friday, the media storm had culminated in a New York Times article regarding the similarities between the two men.  Its characterization of the Wild Man was, to say the least, deeply unflattering.

"Wechadtowski's incredible talent, as well his colorful, on-field antics, made him a favorite among fans.  In spite of his success, however, the Wild Man seemed unable to find balance or control.  At his best, he was nearly untouchable, but at his worst he was confrontational and reckless, arguing with referees, and employing inside pitching to a degree that many considered negligent, even dangerous.  Off the field, Wechadtowski was equally unpredictable, his hard-partying lifestyle frequently landing him in the tabloids and resulting in multiple game suspensions.

Towards the end of his career, the pitcher's behavior became even more erratic.  Unprecedented winning streaks were punctuated by periods of remarkable inconsistency, during which Wechadtowski would throw wild balls, start on-field fights, and insult officials.  He also fell into legal trouble, incurring several disorderly conduct charges, and injuring his pitching arm in a drunken car wreck that would ultimately cut his playing days short.

What was perhaps most troubling, however, were the rumors that Wechadtowski was an absentee parent, maintaining little if any no contact with the child he fathered at eighteen.  Wechadtowski barely mentioned the relationship during his career, the famously cagey pitcher remaining tight-lipped when it came to the subject, insisting that he preferred to keep family matters a private affair.  The following is the only known photograph of Wechadtowski with his daughter, Clarke Griffin, raised in Atlanta, by her mother and grandparents.”

The picture that accompanied the article showed a young, burly Wechadtowski, on the field after a decisive win, his hand held high to the crowd, and a small blond toddler clutched in one of his arms.  Lexa had seen the photograph before, in the glossy pages of Mets: The Complete Photographic History.  The book that had graced her family's coffee table growing up, Its pages worn and fingerprinted from countless rereading and referencing, as though it were a family Bible.  Lexa had always liked the picture, imagining the little girl lucky to have such a famous, talented father.  But with her childhood hero's dirty laundry airing for all the world to see, Lexa now saw the picture in a new light.  The sweaty young man in the photograph looked overwhelmed, anxious even.  He clutched the little girl in his arm awkwardly, as though he might break her, as though it was the first time he'd held her at all.  The tiny blonde child had her face turned away, frightened by the crowd, terrified by the strange man holding her.

Lexa sat on a bench along the riverway, staring at the photograph and she balanced the newspaper on her legs.  When she'd seen the New York Times article that morning, she'd been sure that she'd be receiving a call from Clarke canceling their plans.  After all, what girl would want to go out after having the ghost of her absentee father dragged through the mud all week.  When Clarke had texted, around noon, Lexa had been sure the message would be a polite request to raincheck.  She was shocked when, instead, it had turned out to be a note confirming their plans for the evening.

Clarke snatched the remote off the counter, thrusting her hand aggressively toward the television, where impassioned sports personalities were hotly debating what was quickly becoming the bane of her day.  One especially red-faced man gesticulated wildly at another, practically yelling his comments across the semi-circular desk they sat behind.

"The man was a legend, pure and simple!  How he behaved in his personal life, and what kind of parent he was is beside the point."

Clarke groaned, pointing the remote at the screen and hammering the off button as hard as she could.  She pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance.  For the most part, she'd been able to avoid the media storm the had rolled in over the past of the week.  Sports shows could be ignored, as could the television news, and radio programs. It was a kind of storm she'd weathered before, and given the new city and her relative unimportance in it, she'd managed to remain comfortably anonymous, for once.  That was until the morning's Times' article had mentioned her by name.

Growing up with a father whose face was frequently fixed to front pages, Clarke was indeed no stranger to public scrutiny.  The unwanted attention had been her constant companion during childhood, acting as a proxy in Jacob's absence.  In the years since his death, and with her decision to attend college in California, Clarke had finally begun to enjoy a degree of anonymity.  It was something she'd longed for in her more formidable years, and by the time she'd moved back to Georgia for work, she was able to blend in, flying blissfully under the radar.  Jacob was gone, her name was her own, and the people she surrounded herself with didn't follow baseball.  In Savanah, people barely even noticed her, and Clarke reveled in the feeling of being a "nobody," rather than someone famous's poorly kept secret.

But, when Clarke arrived at work that morning, the office had been buzzing with excited chatter and whispered conversations, all of which had stopped the moment she entered.  The reporter was no stranger to the feeling of walking into a room, only to realize that everyone had just been talking about her, and it didn't take long to understand what all of the spare copies of The New York Times littering the office meant.

She'd spent her lunch break locked in a supply closet, pouring over the damning article, forcing back tears of indignation at the article's callous inclusion of her private information, which was more than enough to blow her cover.  Clarke's inner sense of justice raged at the nerve of the Times reporter, though she knew well that it was within his legal right to write what he had. The remainder of her day had been a have of fielding questions from overzealous co-workers, and trying to ignore people's lingering, obtrusive looks.

Clarke shook her head, clearing her mind of the fog of the terrible day.  She shifted uncomfortably, checking her reflection in the hallway mirror and eyeing her worn-out jeans and the soft, old raglan.  Her appearance wasn't impressive, it wasn't sexy, but it was honest, and as much as the blonde pined for the mischievous smirks that her dresses elicited from Lexa, tonight seemed like the wrong time for that kind of effort.  Clarke took a deep breath, hoping that the pitcher would enjoy her in faded cotton and flats as much as she did in sundresses and heels.  A moment later she caught herself, wondering why she was worrying in the first place.

"Stop that," she scolded her reflection.  "It isn't even a date," she thought.  "Not really."  Her conscience strained against the thought, knowing its relative falsehood, though it had become a mantra of late.  She found herself repeated it over and over on her walk toward River Street.  "Not a date."  "Not a date."

Date or not, she had bigger things to worry about that evening.  The week's media storm was sure to have caught Lexa's attention, and with a newspaper article exposing her name, Clarke was going to have to address the issue, whether or not the pitcher had put two and two together by now.  Clarke thought back to the last time she'd seen Lexa, nervously wondering if she'd managed to notice the old photograph in the bedroom.

She turned the corner onto River Street, making her way through the crowd until she spotted an old bench with a single occupant.  Lexa was leaning casually against the old wood of the backrest, cradling a newspaper in her lap.  Clarke's heart sank as she realized what the pitcher was reading.

Clarke was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to run.  Whether it was to the brunette's arms seeking comfort from the awful week, or away from the awkward conversation that was waiting for her, she wasn't sure. But in either case, her feet compelled her to move in one direction or the other, and fast.  She had begun to favor the later, when Lexa finally looked up, folding the paper and setting it down with a shy smile.  Clarke approached Lexa slowly, half looking at her, half glancing at the sidewalk.  "Hey, you."

Lexa smiled the kind of smile that was all restraint and propriety, unsure of what the appropriate reaction was.  She grabbed the paper and set it aside, patting the bench for Clarke to sit down.

"Hey."

"Welcome home."  Clarke sat down, giving the brunette a quick but sincere hug.  She tried not to notice the warmth that radiated off of Lexa's sun-kissed skin or the way the pad of the pitcher's thumb felt as it gently stroked her arm.  Clarke pulled away, barely able to make eye contact with the tanned pitcher.  The girl kicked the ground anxiously as she tried to remember the speech she had prepared.  Suddenly her pulse was racing.  She felt the way she had coming home with a C on her middle school report card, all shame and nerves, and poorly articulated excuses.  Her words began to flee her as panic took hold.  

"So…"

Lexa bounced a knee up and down anxiously, feeling as though she were seven years old again, waiting for to be punished for breaking a window or tipping over a vase by accident.  The overinflated balloon that was her conscience had stretched to its limit, and Lexa finally burst, mumbling through a rushed apology before Clarke had a chance to speak.

"Clarke I know about your dad."

Clarke screwed her eyes shut, frustrated with her inability to confront the topic.

"I take it that means you read the article."

"No.  I mean, yes, but I knew before.  I saw the picture on your bedside table the night I stayed over. I'm sorry.  I should have said something sooner."

Clarke nodded slowly.  "Why didn't you?"

Far too flustered to articulate the hundreds of internal conversations she'd had regarding that very question, Lexa merely shrugged.  "Because I wanted to see you again.  You knew I was a fan of your father, and I was worried that if I admitted it, you'd think my wanting to spend time with you was some kink."

"Is it?"

"Of course not!"

Lexa leaned back again, staring out across the water before turning back to the reporter.  "Clarke, why didn't you say anything?"

Clarke's brow knit, her forehead creasing as she picked the bridge of her nose.  "It's hard to explain."  She considered the brunette for a moment, looking down at her feet as she continued to kick loose pebbles around with a toe.

"Did I ever tell you that I had five different boys ask me to my high school prom?"

The pitcher cocked her head, taken aback by the seemingly tangential statement.  "How is that…

"All within a day of each other, no less."  Clarke continued, unswayed by Lexa's confusion.  "I was surprised by it because honestly, I wasn't popular.  I mean, I wasn't unpopular.  I suppose I had popular friends, but for the most part, I wasn't that social.  I was too busy studying, or participating in student government, or doing model U.N to notice anything else."

Clarke ran a hand through her hair, glancing over at Lexa with a melancholy smirk.  "It's a little cliche, but I was pretty excited at the idea that five different people could have been harboring secret crushes on me."

"But they hadn't?"

Clarke shook her head.  "The next day, my best friend Octavia found out from her boyfriend that those guys all had a bet going about who could get Wild Man Wechadtowski's daughter into bed.  I suppose I should have known; they were all on the baseball team.  Stupid me."

Lexa frowned.  "Clarke, don't say that. What those guys did was awful."

Clarke sighed, "No, it was predictable.  Lexa, stuff like that defined my whole childhood.  Jacob Wechadtowski's shadow followed my mother and me around everywhere we went.  If he had a big game, everyone at school would ask me for an autograph.  If he got into trouble, reporters would come knocking on my mother's door for a comment.  If he showed up to see me, there'd be a news van camped across the street the whole time."

Lexa recoiled at the thought of the many intrusions Clarke had suffered because of her famous father.  It made her regret ever feeling jealous of the little girl in the glossy photo of the Mets' history book.  She studied Clarke's face, wondering how much more there was to her story.

"All that horrible stuff about him being an absentee parent, was that true?"

"It's not wrong," Clarke admitted, "but there is a lot more to the story than that."

"Would you tell me?"  Lexa looked at her hopefully, not wanting to press the issue if Clarke wasn't ready to open up.

Clarke looked around nervously, surveilling the people on the sidewalk.  She didn't want to seem paranoid, but after the events of the week, the conversation wasn't one she felt comfortable having out in the open.  "Look, I know we said we'd do the fireworks tonight, but if this is something you want to hear, I'd feel better telling it to you in private.  Would you settle for beers at my place?"

The pitcher stood, smiling as she took Clarke's hand to help her off the bench.  "I thought you'd never ask."

Lexa perched on a tall stool along the kitchen island, the rigid uprightness of her back betraying her nerves as she watched Clarke lean into the depths of the refrigerator and retrieve two beers.  The blonde reached reflexively towards a wall mounted opener, popping the caps off with a practiced fluidity.  She slid one of the long-necks across the granite countertop to her companion, before leaning against the other side of the island, pawing at the glass of her bottle.

"So," she paused, staring at her hands absentmindedly.  "What do you want to know?"

Lexa rotated the bottle of beer, focusing on the sound the tiny glass ridges along its base made as they scraped the stone counter.

"Well, I gave you my origin story.  I think it's only fair you share yours."

"It's long."

"I've got time."

"You might not like what you hear."

"Try me."

Clarke studied Lexa's face, analyzing it for any sign of insincerity.  Her jaw clenched as she pulled in a slow breath, her mind made up.

"Lexa, look… You have to understand that what we're talking about is privileged information shared by less than a handful of people.  If I tell you this stuff, I have to know that you won't repeat it.  Not to anyone. Not ever."  Clarke stared hard at the pitcher, studying her face for signs understanding.

Lexa ran a hand through her hair, exhaling a breath that she felt as though she'd been holding forever.  "Clarke, I don't know what happened between you and your father, but I do know what it's like to have things about you, about your life that you don't want people to know.  No matter what you tell me, I won't repeat it.  You have my word."

Clarke sighed, crossing her arms.  "Alright, I trust you."

She took a long sip of her beer, hoping a little liquid courage would assuage her nerves.  "The first thing you need to know is that my mother wasn't some random woman or a short-term girlfriend."

Clarke frowned, tapping the folded copy of the Times that was now laying on the counter between them.

"Articles like this one always seems to be insinuating that, but it's not the case at all."

"They were high school sweethearts who had known each other since they were children.  Mom grew up in Madison Georgia, and my dad was from Rutledge, the next town over.  That part of the story, at least, is sweet."

Lexa watched Clarke's face shifted, her mind lost in what she was saying.

"Jacob had a rough start in life.  His father was in prison by the time he was born, and his mother died of cancer when he was young.  His uncle Royal raised him, a guy who was a green beret in Vietnam, but never worked a steady job after that.  Roy was a bit of a wild man.  He hunted and fished, he drank steadily, the whole middle of the woods, bushmaster thing, and he raised Jacob the same way.  He also wasn't much for rules and didn't care about school, so Jacob ended up skipping whenever he liked.  Uncle Roy did teach Jacob how to play baseball and pitch, though."

Clarke smirked, thinking back to the single time she'd met her great-uncle, on a trip to Rutledge with Jacob.  Royal had been heavily tattooed and had smelled of stale Marlboro Reds and cheap beer, but he'd made her laugh, and used slight of hand to pull candy bars from her ears, so she had liked him all the same.

"The older Jake got, the more out of control his behavior became."

Clarke paused, suddenly pensive.  "My mother has always described him as emotionally labile.  He'd be on top of the world one day and moody and irritable the next.  He was in trouble a lot, mostly for drinking and causing trouble with his friend, but the police let most of it slide because he was a such a standout athlete.  By the time he was a sophomore in high school talent scouts were showing up to his games."

Lexa rubbed the back of her neck, considering the characterization Clarke was providing, noting how the blonde always called her father by his first name.

"Did he treat your mother well?"

"Yes. My mom has always insisted that Jake was incredibly thoughtful, really sweet and gentle.  In some ways, I think the relationship meant more to him than it did to her."

Clarke took another sip of her beer.  "Which is not to say my mother didn't love him.  She did a great deal.  For Jake, though, my mom and baseball were his whole world.  Unfortunately, my mom's father hated him, partly because he was a problem child from a troubled family, but mostly because he didn't trust Jake with his daughter."

Lexa bobbed her head, secretly thinking that Clarke's grandfather's concerns had been reasonable.

"My grandfather was a doctor, and he wanted my mom to follow in his footsteps.  Just before my mother's senior year of high school, he was offered a job teaching at Emory's medical school.  My mom was supposed to matriculate there in the fall, but by that time Jacob was being scouted by major league teams.  My grandfather was afraid that if mom stayed with him, she'd end up dropping out of school, getting married young and ruining her life. Relocating the family to Atlanta mean putting fifty miles of distance between them, so he leaped at the opportunity."

"Since you're standing here, telling me this story, I take it the distance didn't stop your parents from seeing one another."

Clarke shook her head, smiling.  "If anything it only encouraged them.  Jake would drive up to see her whenever he got a chance, and my mother would sneak back to Rutledge on weekends.  She'd pretend she was staying with friends when she was camped out at Uncle Roy's house with Jake."

"I'm assuming that's how you got here."

Clarke pressed her right index finger to her nose.  "Correct.  As soon as she told him that she was pregnant, Jacob went straight to my grandfather, and insisted that he wanted to marry my mom."

"Your grandfather must have been thrilled about that."

Clarke rolled her eyes, recounting the many times her mother had told her the story.  "He was mortified.  He threatened to disown my mom if she went through with it."

Clarke finished the last sip of her beer and tossed the bottle into a bin under the counter.  She opened the fridge and grabbed two more, sliding one over to Lexa.  

"Grandpa was old-fashioned, very prim and proper, relatively conservative. The idea of abortion was off the table, but he was convinced that he'd lose face with colleagues if people found out his unmarried, teenage daughter had gotten pregnant. When my parents graduated high school that May, he made her defer her admission to Emory, and sent her sent her to live with his sister, in Boston, for the rest of the pregnancy. That's where I was born, by the way."

She smirked. "Go, Sox."

Clarke winked at Lexa, eliciting a grimace from the native New Yorker.

"Ugh!  And here I was starting to like you, Griffin."

Clarke stuck out her tongue playfully.  She walked around the counter, taking a seat next to the brunette.

"Where was your father in all of this?"

"Stuck in Rutledge.  As soon as he was declared eligible for the draft, he went to my grandfather to try and convince him of his good intentions."

Clark drummed her fingers on the granite counter, blowing out a steady breath.  "My grandfather was an intelligent guy.  He realized that if he refused to support my parents outright, it would only make them more determined to be together, so instead, he got in my father's head about his draft prospect.  Grandpa pointed out that if Jake let the world know he had a baby on the way, it might sour scouts on him."

Lexa shrugged.  "Why would that have mattered?"

"Maybe. My mother hadn't turned eighteen yet, and that brought legal issues into questions.  My grandpa warned him that if major league scouts found out, the potential negative press could scare them away, and he might end up getting drafted low, or not at all.  He also pointed out that teams were less likely to offer him a substantial bonus if they knew my father had gotten his girlfriend knocked up and was desperate for money.  Anyway, what he said struck a nerve.  The next time Jacob spoke to my mother, he told that they should wait until after he'd been signed to make any big decisions."

"What happened next?"

"In June, Jacob was drafted.  The Mets selected him in the first round and sent him to Kingsport for Rookie ball.  He played well, and halfway through the season, he got bumped up to short-season A ball, in Pittsfield Massachusetts."

"Did he get to see your mother?"

"Not exactly.  Pittsfield is on the other side of the state, about two and a half hour away from Boston.  Plus, you know how schedules are at that level.  There are games every day and lots of traveling.  He was only able to visit my mother a few times during the season, but he swore to her he'd be there when I was born."

"Was he?"

Clarke shook her head.  "Their season was supposed to end in early late August, but because of weather, it ended up running long.  Then his team made the playoffs.  My mother was due at the end of September, so on the sly, Jake explained his situation to his field manager, who agreed to let him slip away when my mother went into labor.  But, on the day that call came, he was pitching the final game of the league's championship series."

Lexa's eyes went wide as she blew out a breath, her cheeks puffing.  "Wow."

"Wow, Indeed.  My mother's aunt called during the seventh inning to let Jacob know what was happening, and he swore he would leave as soon as he could."

"But?"  Lexa looked at Clarke incredulously.

"But, the game went extra innings, and there was a coach from the Florida State League there evaluating him.  He ended up closing out the game with a win."

"And then he left?"

"Yes, but not before having a few celebratory beers in the locker room with his teammates."

"Oh."

"Yeah.  Jake took the backroads to avoid getting caught, but somewhere around Belchertown he fell asleep at the wheel."

"Was he ok?"

Clarke shrugged.  "He got lucky. It was late, and there wasn't anyone else out.  His foot slipped off the pedal, and he rolled into a shallow ditch on the side of the road.  A cop woke him up just before dawn, and he ended up getting to Boston a few hours after I was born."

"Your mother must have been furious."

"She was.  It was the first time Jake been genuinely unreliable when it came to their relationship, and the fact that it had all been due to alcohol and the game wasn't irrelevant to her.  Jake promised that he'd never do anything like it again, but I think the whole thing rattled my mom.  After that, it was easier for my grandfather to get in her head about things.  He encouraged her to think about what her future might look like if things didn't work out for Jake, and offered to let her move home.  A month later we were back in Atlanta, living with my grandparents."

"Jake spent fall and winter for that year working construction back in Georgia. He was getting bumped up to Advanced-A the following season, and he wanted my mother and me to come with him.  Initially, my mom agreed, but then my grandparents offered to support her and hire a nanny for me so she could honor her spot at Emory.  Mom knew if she didn't go back to school she might never finish, so she decided to stay."

"How did Jake take that?"

"Not well, but he finally agreed that it was for the best, at least until his career prospects were more secure. The next season, Jake started to get some media attention.  There was talk about him making the jump straight to the Majors, but he ended up getting into a fight during a game.  The Mets front office decided that Jake needed more time to mature, so they sent him to the Double-A affiliate in Williamsport for their postseason, then to the Arizona Fall League.  He was gone for the next eight months, and when he came back, I was walking and talking, and my mother was in school full time."

"That must have been a strange adjustment."

Clarke leaned over the counter, crossing her arms and closing one eye as she considered the statement.  "I was too young to remember any of it, but I think it was for my parents.  My mother said that when he came back from Arizona, Jake was different.  He was moodier, easily irritated, a little possessive.  He was frustrated that she was studying so much, and he'd get jealous when she spent time with friends from school.  It didn't help that my grandfather made it impossible for Jake to see me when my mother wasn't around.  Still, Jake was determined for us to be a family."

Clarke stopped abruptly, walking over to the stove as though she'd just remembered that a lit burner.  Two canisters full of cooking utensils sat on the counter to the right, and these she pulled aside, fishing a small, frame out from between them.  She resumed her seat next to Lexa, pushing it towards her.

Lexa accepted the offering with great care, handling it as though it were a rare collector's item.  She peered down, examining the images inside thoughtfully.  A figure lay motionless on a floral print couch, asleep with his mouth hanging wide open,  He looked more boy than man, despite his strong arms and rough stubble.  A tiny toddler was sprawled, belly down, across his chest, dead to the world as well.  Clarke leaned over, peering down.

"When Jake got home from Arizona, I was teething and waking my mom up every few hours during the night.  Jake was having trouble sleeping anyway, because of the time difference, so he volunteered to stay up with me when I was fussy."

Lexa studied the scene a moment longer.  "So he was trying?"

Clarke ran a finger slowly over the glass of the frame.  "He was."  She turned the frame over, placing it face down on the counter.

"Jake was gone again in February.  He'd been invited to the Mets spring training in Port St. Lucie, and it seemed likely that he'd be called up sooner rather than later.  Still, with no guarantees that he'd be in one place for more than a few months, he and my mother started arguing about long-term plans.  In the end, they agreed that she and I would stay in Atlanta until he was called up to the majors."

"That spring, Jake was added to the 40 man roster and sent to Norfolk, Virginia to play Triple A. He got the call in the middle of June, and a few weeks into July he was headed to New York City to make his Major League debut."

"Youngest Mets starting pitcher since Dwight Gooden."

"Ok, so you're a fan."

Lexa blushed, biting her lip.  "Sorry."

Clarke rolled her eyes, poking Lexa in the ribs playfully to ease the awkward tension.  "Anyway, I'll spare you the professional details since you already seem to know them.  Jake did well, but he hated the city.  He was a country boy, and New York was too big, too noisy, too full of people for him.  He missed my mother and begged her to visit him.  When the Mets made the postseason, she and I flew up to visit.  That's when this photograph was taken."

Clarke unfolded the paper, pointing to the picture that was attached to the article.  "Jake wanted to try and go public with details about my mom and me.  He convinced her to let him carry me onto the field after a particularly big game.  I hadn't been around Jake enough to get used to him, and by then he'd started growing that ridiculous mustache and those massive sideburns.  I didn't recognize him at all, and when my mother handed me off, I got hysterical."

Clarke looked down at the newsprint. "There were a bunch of photos taken of us that day, but that was the only one where I didn't look like I was being kidnapped."

It was a funny joke, so Lexa laughed, but the sad reality of where Clarke's story riverway was becoming evident.  The blonde folded the paper closed again and sighed.

"His plan backfired.  We were barely a side note in articles, and seeing my picture in the newspaper made my mother nervous.  It freaked her out even more that every time she and Jake were out together, photographers would follow them.  She felt like they didn't have any privacy, and she was worried that he'd gotten too into partying and staying out all night.  Even so, she agreed that if the Mets offered him a Major League contract at the end of the season, she and I would move up permanently to be with him."

"So why didn't you?"

"A week after we left Jake and some other players were photographed drunk at a strip club.  She and Jake started fighting after that, but my mother was still planning to keep her word.  When the postseason ended, the Mets signed my father to a new contract with a no-trade clause.  Mother agreed to move up at the end of the school year, but a few months later the thing with the woman in New Jersey happened.

"What thing?"

"Some woman in Atlantic City claimed to be pregnant with Jacob's baby. Suddenly, that photograph," she tapped the paper again" was everywhere.  People wanted to know who I was, and whether or not Jake was some lothario, leaving a slew of illegitimate children in his wake.  It didn't help that reporters found out that my mother had been seventeen when Jake had gotten her pregnant.  They had a field day with that one."

Unsure what to say, Lexa took a long swig of beer.  She glanced at Clarke nervously, unwilling to ask the uncomfortable question that was lingering on the tip of her tongue.

Clarke seemed to realize what Lexa was thinking.  "It turned out not to be true about the woman in Jersey, but the fact that it had happened convinced my mother that Jake had probably been unfaithful.  He swore up and down that he hadn't slept with her, and that the whole thing was a publicity stunt, but it was too late.  My mother's mind was already made up, she told Jake that it was over, and she was staying in Atlanta."

"And Jake?"

"He lost it a little bit.  He accused my mother of letting my grandfather brainwash her.  I think he felt like she had abandoned him.  The fallout was a mess.  Lawyers were hired, custody arrangements were argued over.  In the end, they awarded my mother full custody of me, but Jake was allowed yearly visits.  That's why he bought the apartment here.  Savannah was close enough that he could see me without my mother having to put me on a plane, but far enough away that reporters wouldn't catch on to where she and I lived.  Every winter break, my mother would drive me down, and I'd spend the holidays with Jacob.

"Your mom trusted him?"

"Not at first.  When Mom was still in college, she would come down with me.  I think she and Jacob were still on and off with each other then, but after she started medical school, she couldn't get the time off.  She agreed to let me go on my own, provided I call every night and Jacob promised he wouldn't drink while I was there."

"And he kept his word?"

"He did actually.  My father was different when he was around me."

A loud boom could be heard in the distance as the Friday fireworks began over the river.  Clarke hunched over the counter, her elbows propping her up as she began playing with her thumbs.  "He wasn't a perfect guy, but I do think he wanted to be a good father."

Lexa smiled, watching for a moment as fireworks broke in the distance.  She stole a glance at the girl next to her, her blue eyes grown glassy, still preoccupied with her digits.  Gently, the pitcher reached out and took one of Clarke's hands in her own, turning it over and tracing small circles into its palm before lacing their fingers together.

"What was he like, Clarke?"

Clarke sniffed, her voice cracking a little as answered the question.  "Funny. He used to make me laugh so hard that I could barely breathe.  He was always telling jokes or doing something silly.  He was pretty patient too.  I'd talk his ear off for hours, and he'd just sit there and listen, even though I think it was hard for him to hear about my life when he wasn't a part of it.

Lexa took Clarke's other hand, wrapping her long fingers around it.  "What was your favorite thing about him?"

Clarke laughed.  "His terrible narration.  Jake was quite a slow reader, but even so, he insisted on reading me to sleep every night during my visits."

"That's pretty charming."

"That was Jake. Petty charming, but not very consistent."

"No?"

Clarke shook her head.  "When we were together, he was present, focused, but when we were apart, his life always seemed to eclipse me.  He'd say he was going to call after a game and then he'd fall asleep or forget.  He'd promise to come to see me for school plays and soccer games, but then he'd cancel because of training or show up days late because he'd had to do an interview, or got into trouble."

Clarke wiped the beginnings of tears away from her eyes, refusing to let her emotions get the better of her.  "That photograph in the bedroom, it wasn't even my birthday.  Jacob missed the real party because he'd gotten arrested for being drunk in public.  He showed up a week later and insisted we have another so he could celebrate with me."

Lexa felt heartbroken at the knowledge that Clarke had experienced so much disappointment so early in life.  She thought of her childhood, guiltily remembering the many times she had imagined her father was something more than a town plumber, now profoundly thankful that he'd been so dependable and ordinary.

Clarke straightened up, pulling her hands from Lexa's.  Her composure regained, she began clearing away the empty beer bottled on the counter.  As she moved around the island, she continued to talk, her eyes never glancing up.

"When I was still little, I'd see him on the cover of tabloids and magazines, but I didn't understand any of it.  Back then, he was my hero.  He'd show up out of nowhere and take me out of school so we could spend the day going to the movies or getting ice cream.  He'd send me gifts out of nowhere. But, the bigger his career became, the more often he got into trouble.  As I started getting older, Jake's problems became more visible to me.  For a while, I didn't believe any of it, but then he got his first DUI."

Lexa's brow knit, remembering her uncle and father discussing the debacle in their family's kitchen.  "That was right after the world series, right?"

"Yep."  the reporter continued to busy herself with straightening up the counter.  "Suddenly kids at school were telling me what a jerk my father was.  She paused, filling a glass with water.  "It's the first time I remember being embarrassed about who my dad was."

Clarke sipped her water, tentatively looking at the woman across from her.  "After the DUI, my mother insisted that a nanny had to supervise my visits to Savannah."

"He must have hated that."

"He did.  He stopped coming."

Lexa's eyebrows shot up several inches.  "He stopped coming all together?"

"When I was ten, he told my mother that he was going to start spending the offseason in New York.  He offered to fly me up to see him, but my mom wouldn't let me go, and he didn't put up a fight about it.  He still came home to see me once in a while, but his visits were getting less and less frequent.  Right before my twelfth birthday, he got into that big car crash.  I saw him about a month afterward.  He came home for this important softball game I was playing in.  Like an idiot, I got all excited, because for once he'd showed up when he'd promised to. Afterward, he took me out to dinner.  I thought it was to celebrate, but instead, he ended up telling me that he thought it was best if we didn't see each other for a while."

Lexa had known the detail was coming.  She remembered Clarke telling her that she hadn't had much of a relationship with her father towards the end, but somehow she'd imagined a less abrupt falling out.

"That's… That must have been so hard."

Clarke shrugged.  "Actually, no. It helped.  Granted, it hurt at the time, but I finally realized the kind of man Jacob was.  That was the last time that I saw him before he died."

Something in Clarke's face shifted then, the lines becoming harder. Her shoulders tensed, and the muscles in her neck strained ever so slightly.  "Lexa…"

Lexa held up her hands.  "It's all right Clarke.  We don't have to talk about the accident if you don't want to."

Clarke held in a breath.  "There was no accident."

Lexa froze, suddenly understanding the oath of secrecy Clarke had asked from her.  At that moment, there was nothing to be said, and so she sat, her stomach coiling as though she were watching a bomb fall from the sky.

"Lexa, my father shot himself."

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[kris10inger]

Excerpt - Open Wounds - June 28th, 2017

Hope’s small body shook in his arms, and he wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. Abel had pulled the item from the box, but barely had time to examine it before she nearly ran them off the road. Glancing back at the truck, he amended that thought, she had run them off the road. His blood had heated at the slight glance he’d gotten at the sight of the lacey garment. Hope shifted in his arms, her face leaving the comfort of his chest.

She pulled away from him, tears and rain streaking down her pale face. “Sorry, I know you said not to leave the truck, but I couldn’t stay.” She grabbed her chest and sucked in air. Her body lay half in the water, half on a bright green patch of grass.

The summer storm had ceased, leaving behind the aroma of rich earth and the sight of his woman’s tears. If Abel hadn’t already been on his knees, the sight before him would have sent him there. He stood, taking her with him as he headed back to the car. Once again, he gently placed her inside. Rain water soaked her clothing, leaving them clinging to her flesh. Abel reached under the seat and found a flannel shirt; after making sure it was clean, he wiped away the rain and tears from Hope’s face. Thinking of how the box had affected her, he covered it with the flannel shirt.

The ride home was long and silent. As soon as they made it into the loft, Abel helped Hope to remove her wet clothes, dress her in one of his shirts, and put her to bed. He would review the contents of the box and folder while she slept because the alone time would do him good. He needed to sit down and figure out why he’d called her his woman and why the sight of her so shattered and terrified had broken his heart.

Abel sat at the table with the contents of the box and the envelope laid out before him. “Fuck.” He thrust his hands through his hair and cursed again. Before him lay a collar made of red lace and leather, with a small lock holding together the ends. From the collar hung a long, shimmering chain—similar to a lead from a leash. He shuddered at the thought of what Mark had used it for.

With the collar came a note, but the collar nor the note were what bothered Abel. Instead, it was the photos he’d removed from the envelope and placed on the table in front of him. Four, eight-by-ten photos, all of him and Hope together at the grocery store. The note, while vital on its own, didn’t concern him the way the photos had. Two were close-ups of his face, and someone had scratched in an X over his face and on the other they had written Get rid of him.

The letter—just as threatening as the first—made it clear Hope and Abel were losing time in the count down. With gloved hands, Abel lifted the letter and read it again.

 If he’s touched you, I’ll kill him and make you watch.

I’ll give you to the count of three to come home to me—untouched.

                                                                   TWO.                                         

 He picked up the phone and placed a call to the one person who could help him find the man in the video. There were probably very few men in the world who were still on good terms with their ex-fiancée, but he was one of them. When he and Ivy had gone their separate ways, they had done so amicably. It’d been two broken souls coming together, when there had been nowhere else to run.

“Hello?” answered a groggy voice on the other end.

“V, wake up. What in the hell are you doing asleep, vampire?” He chuckled when she yawned and cursed.

“What in the hell? They let you out of jail and you couldn’t even stop by?” He could hear the rustling of bed sheets on the other end and he wondered if he’d interrupted something.

“Just got out not too long ago, and picked up a job. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Hmmm . . . you could have at least called sooner. After all, I was the reason your ass ended up in jail in the first place.” Abel didn’t say a word. If placed in the same situation again, his actions would not differ. “Abel?” she called out in his silence.

“I need your help.” He got up and paced over to his laptop.

“What’s up?” She sounded more alive now, her sleepy state lifting at the idea of having some work to do.

“I need you to run some faces through your facial recognition program, then see if you can run it through the current and past warrants.” Clicking on the screen, he brought up the video of the intruder at Hope’s place. Freezing it at different points, he took screen shots when the man’s face was visible.

“Ah, back on the job?” she asked.

“Not back with the old job, but on a job, yes.”

The sound of excitement flittered through the line. “Freelancing? Even better money. You still have my email?”

“Sent. And of his tattoos as well.” Abel closed the laptop and made his way to the door to check the lock.

“Got it. What are the parameters?”

Abel made his way to each window, prudently checking each lock. “Criminal. This state, and New York.”

She hummed her approval. “That’s specific enough, though New York will definitely slow down the search. How soon do you need this?”

“Yesterday,” Abel admitted. Walking over to the bed, he watched as Hope slept. She turned over, nestling deeper into the covers. Quietly, he moved back to the table, where he’d set up his work.

“That soon, huh?” The sound of tapping on a keyboard came through the phone. “Okay, uploaded, and parameters set. I’ll allow this to run with an alarm that will send the results straight to your email.”

“Good.” He wiped his face as exhaustion claimed him.

V cleared her throat. “Now that that is done, did you want to talk about—”  

“No,” Abel said hurriedly.

Her sharp sigh was all he heard. “Okay then. Was that all?” her tone lowered.

“How much?” He knew her fee, but wasn’t sure if her prices had changed. He opened his laptop again and typed in his banking information.

“Free. Consider it a parting gift.” Though V’s voice held not a trace of anger, Abel knew her better than most.

“V, come on—” His words were met with a dial tone and that worried him. V never made idle threats, and if she decided to kick a person out of her life, there was no changing her mind. A soft gasp from behind him had him dropping his phone instead of redialing. He spun around and stood up to meet Hope; her gaze riveted on the items he’d laid on the table.

“Shit.” He reached to shuffle the photos into the envelope, but she’d already seen them.

“He knows,” she whispered. “I should leave. I can run. I don’t need much; I have jewelry I can hock.” Her eyes finally met his. “Maybe you can help me find a place?”

Abel had thought her voice would sound panicked or drawn, but instead, Hope seemed calm and prepared—as if a life of running was one she’d always expected to live. His heart ached, but he couldn’t let his emotions run wild or guide his actions.

“I’ve got someone matching the face of our mystery FedEx man with a name. She’s good and working under the radar.” He hoped this turn of events would lessen the shock and fear wrought by the array of shit spread out on the table. Removing the gloves he’d been wearing, he tossed them on the table.

“Good. Who is she?” Hope moved away from him and sat in his seat. She pulled a picture closer and examined it.

“She?” he asked confused. “A man delivered the box not a woman.” Abel placed a hand on the back of Hope’s seat and turned the swiveling chair around to face him. Maybe she hadn’t gotten enough sleep, and fatigue had messed with her memory.

Hope rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I know. I’m talking about the woman helping us.”

His eyes widened. “Oh.” How would he explain that? If she caught him in a lie, she’d never trust his word again, and that was something he couldn’t allow. But did he have to tell her he’d once asked V to marry him to protect her? “I worked with her—” he started, but the trust in Hope’s eyes made him stop. “Look, she and I have a past, but it isn’t like you think.”

“You didn’t date her?” There was no jealousy in her tone, just pure curiosity.

“Yes and no,” he answered honestly.

Her brow raised and her arms crossed over her chest. “What in the world does that mean? You either dated her or you didn’t.” Her nervous laughter betrayed her casual tone.

“You’re right. But she was much more than that.” Abel was thrown back to two years earlier with his client Ivy, hacker extraordinaire. Since then, she’d quit hacking for the shit company she worked for that nearly got her killed, and started helping him by freelancing.