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yandere-sins · 22 hours ago

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The Orcas’ Tale - After End

[My Commission Info] | [My Ao3] | [Ko-Fi]

a/n: Another lovely commission for a sweet anon ♥ Thank you for commissioning me to write about my sweet fishy boy again!! :') It was a lot of fun!!! ♥

Characters: Nerrocan (OC) x AFAB!Reader Warnings: Yandere, Sexual Content (Non-Con, Rubbing, Penetration with too big penis, Reader's first time, Breeding Kink, Cuminflation, Creampie), Violence (Biting, Blood mention, Scratching, Mentioning of wounds), Mentioning of Testing on the Mermaids, Obsessiveness, Overpowering, Monster, Monster Features, Dual POV, Long Post Words: 8157

You should have been used to emerging from water by now, yet, you still gasped for air the moment you breached the surface.

The pool water parted to reveal the indoor basin of the new cave constructed in Nerrocan's habitat. For a moment, you were almost taken aback by the deja vu as it reminded you of the original cave you had been relocated to by the three orcas way back at the beginning of your journey. But the longer you looked around, the more the illusion vanished. It was familiar, but not the same.

Strong arms wrapped around you from beneath the blue. Arms that should have induced a fight or flight instinct inside you, but the feeling had long turned into acceptance. After so many days spent together, there was almost nowhere Nerrocan hadn't touched you, and considering he swam across the ocean with you, there had been much more closeness between you two than just this simple touch.

"How do you like it?" he whispered expectantly into your ear as he emerged after you. By now, he usually let you swim alone if you two had some time together aside from the experiments. Nerrocan found watching you use all your limbs to get through the water amusing, and you wanted to go easy on him, especially whenever he had gone through something painful or gotten wounded.

Somehow, this only made this situation more nerve-wracking for you.

"It's familiar… and yet, not at all," you replied vaguely, assuming he knew what you meant. Nerrocan hummed softly in agreement, and you swam to the edge of the water, putting your hands on solid ground. By then, all the memories shattered as you felt the unnatural material beneath your fingertips, a stark contrast to the stone cave Nerrocan had lived in before with his cousins. The material this cave was made of was nothing like that. It was just an imitation—a fake. Because that's all it was.

"I wanted it to resemble your old home. I was hoping you'd feel more relaxed in a familiar environment."

Lifting yourself out of the water, you were given a small push as Nerrocan used his tail to help you up. It didn't make for the most graceful landing, but you were thankful regardless for the assist. Now standing in the cave, you inspected the dimensions, glad the facility hadn't saved on making it big enough for a species like Nerrocan. This way, he could move around comfortably, although you observed him pacing around the pool even after receiving a proper retreat. Staying indoors must have made him restless regardless of how much effort you put into making him comfortable. It still hurt in your heart that he let himself get captured just for the sake of bringing you back to your people.

You heard Nerrocan come out of the water behind you as you checked out the cave, walking the perimeter around the exit. Very quickly, you found where he stored food and, strangely enough, stones. Even though you didn't question him why he'd pick out stones from the bottom of the pool, you made a mental note to ask other researchers if this was perhaps a sign of boredom and if you had to get him something to busy himself with. It wasn't always the best idea to ask Nerrocan directly, as he usually resorted to saying he was fine as long as you were around. No matter how close you two lived, you couldn't always be there. So, instead, you would have to ask around later what others thought. It was just how things were done here in the facility.

Another thing you noticed was the lack of decorations. You remembered the cave of the orcas had trophies and skins hanging on the walls. Nerrocan wasn't allowed to make or wield weapons anymore, obviously. Still, since he couldn't hunt, there was no way for him to actually decorate. Maybe that's what the stones are for, you thought quietly, furrowing your brows.

"Something displeases you?" he suddenly asked, and you had almost forgotten that he was still around, observing you like he did most days.

"Oh! Oh, no! It's fine!" you replied quickly, moving on from the barren walls. Although, you wondered if Nerrocan would appreciate art. But how would you get a painting down here without the water ruining it?

Next up, you found an obviously assigned sleeping space, and you sighed a sigh of relief, seeing that, at least here, the makers of the caves had taken note of what you told them. It was a more private corner in the whole cave, even slightly covered by an extra wall so Nerrocan had at least a tiny bit of privacy from the cameras that you saw blinking around the wall encircling this space. It would probably be your job to analyze the materials and repair them if they broke, which would be a hassle. But not anyone could just jump into Nerrocan's pool and especially enter his cave. That privilege went to only one person: you.

"Do you get some good sleep here? Looks comfy!" you asked, pointing at the fur-bedding. It wasn't as smooth as seal fur but thicker, slightly elevated from the ground, reminding you of a futon. Perhaps Nerrocan could like this new added comfort. You definitely were glad about lying down on a mattress again rather than fur on the ground.

"It's fine," he answered, a familiar response. You almost jumped a bit hearing him right behind you, looking back to find him having closed the distance to you while you were thinking about his bed. His eyes dragged away from the fur, Nerrocan's expression unreadable. Still, somehow, it gave you the feeling he didn't like the bed as much, considering it was just "fine". He might not have been an orca of many words, but you did feel he'd expressed himself differently had he actually liked it. It was time to change tactics!

"Do you prefer seal fur for–"

"You can sit down if you–"

Both of you looked at each other, stopping halfway through your sentences. It was rare that you two spoke up at the same time, but even Nerrocan's lips curled into a smile as you chuckled about it. However, he had no idea what that invitation elicited inside you, a knot forming in your stomach as you stood there, nervously thinking about your options.

You two were a team; it wasn't right to distrust him. He had done a lot for you, and you weren't ungrateful for all his efforts, but you've noticed Nerrocan pushing. Pushing for something that you simply couldn't wrap your head around doing.

The staff and the professor had told you extensively about your role and how to conduct yourself. They weren't shy and didn't make any of it sound goofy or pitiful as they explained the terms and what to do. Somehow, you were able to avoid it all this time up until now. Yet, the thought came back to you with the same fear and reluctance as when you first listened to them explain what it meant to mate.

Essential, they had called it. The most important factor to the whole facility. Mermaids that didn't bond and mate with their caretakers were usually dead within months as they slowly withered away without a reason to live. Nerrocan had to have a mate, or he would probably die too. Despite your best care, the stones possibly were the first indication of his mental health declining. It was for the best of the test subjects, but you… you couldn't do it.

Taking a deep breath, you nodded, giving him a fake smile before replying, "S-Sure!" as confidently as you could. Carefully, you took a seat at the edge of his "bed", feeling the soft material below you give in beneath your body, yet cushioning you all the same. It didn't feel bad at all, but when you brushed your hand through the fur, you noticed how different it was from the softer seal Nerrocan was used to.

"You know, it's no trouble to change this if you'd prefer a softer material to sleep on. How about we add some pillows? Do you know what a pillow is? You place your head on it. It's pretty nice!"

Perhaps you were rambling a little as you drew in your knees, hugging them tight to your chest like a defense barrier. You had to accept his invitation if you wanted information that would ultimately help him. Knowing what he was sleeping on right now would later benefit your case if you needed to ask for other things for him. Even if you didn't like how exposed you felt like this, it was your job to take care of him and make sure he was doing fine, even if he wasn't the best to communicate his feelings and thoughts to you. He had no one besides you to rely on, so you couldn't let him down even if you were uncomfortable.

Nerrocan had crawled closer once you took your seat, waiting for something it felt like as his muscles kept tensing and relaxing visibly. But there was a small sparkle in his eyes that you couldn't quite pinpoint. Maybe excitement? He seemed happier when you two talked about whatever came to mind, so perhaps he enjoyed the conversation despite your rambling. If you could make him happy just a little bit, that would be good. It would keep him healthy in the long run despite the awful things he had to endure. Tightening your arms around your legs, you tried not to think about it and instead focus on him.

"It's fine. Perfect, now, actually."

There it was. Nerrocan, sly as he was, knew how to intensify words if he wanted. He had no problems with telling you if he liked something, if he actually meant it. And he did, now, after you sat down… in his sleeping spot… oh no.

Nerrocan let out a soft chirp as he leaned down more, almost bending over you and trapping you in his resting area with his big body. You couldn't outswim him, but a moment of surprise could be the only reason you left his cave alive. No matter how well-disposed he was towards you, you could never let your guard down around a predator like him.

"Well! Great! I see you've been settling in nicely!"

You laughed nervously as you jumped up with too much vigor, almost banging your head with his, but Nerrocan reared back just in time. He was just like an animal in such moments, immediately alert and reactive. And you were just a human, you… you couldn't be his mate. You couldn't stay here and pretend that wasn't what everyone—including Nerrocan—seemed to want from you. Hell, how would that even work?! He was so big and you were average at best! You two were so different, there was no way he would even fit—

"I-I should go!" you announced, suddenly overrun by your emotions. Somehow, you had managed to spiral yourself back into a state of panic, your heart racing while your head filled with unnecessary ideas. Imagining yourself with Nerrocan… that was simply too much for you.

"Wait!" Nerrocan called out as you stormed to a smaller part of his body so you could step over him and get to the pool. You didn't need to look back to know he was following you, the cave slightly creaking as he turned over to go after you. You had freaked yourself out enough that you didn't stop. This wasn't the ocean, and you were good enough of a swimmer to get out of the pool on your own. However, your footsteps grew smaller as you got closer to the water.

Your reaction wasn't fair. Nerrocan had done nothing to you, and yet, you treated him like a pervert just because some scientists wanted you to think about him that way. Mate this or that, but in the first place, he was your savior and fellow sufferer. If anything… he was your friend. He didn't deserve to be treated this way. It was only you who interpreted the things you were afraid of. Nerrocan wasn't at fault.

Taking a deep breath, you turned around, laying your head to the side questioningly, deciding to give it one more go before you chickened out for no apparent reason. "Are you okay?" he asked, shifting slightly from side to side to look you over. Worried, he stared at your body, goosebumps erupting on your skin as your stupid brain imagined him undressing you with his eyes. You told yourself he was just concerned about you, but the icky feeling remained.

"Your heart was beating very fast. Do you need to rest?"

"Ah, you know…" you stumbled, avoiding eye contact with him. Of course, he heard that. Stupid orca senses! "I'll just get back and take a nap. I'm sure it's going to go away again soon!"

You gave him a curt smile, pointing at the water. But before you could turn even to look at the pool, his big hands reached out, faster than you could register, lifting you up from the ground.

"Woah!" you exclaimed as Nerrocan tugged you in against his chest, twisting his huge body over and facing his bed again before scooting closer. Even this touch wasn't unfamiliar, and neither was the feeling of his skin against your palms and face. But your body only decided to freak out more. What was he going to do? Would he demand his right to mate? Did you delude yourself into honestly thinking Nerrocan wanted you like this? Did you really think he'd be okay without a mate?

With your eyes closed tightly, you only felt yourself lifted off the orca and sat down on the soft bedding again. Once more, you had let the intrusive thoughts take over your critical thinking, and when you slowly blinked open your eyes, you looked straight into Nerrocan's, his gaze filled with concern. One hand supported you on your back as if he was afraid you were going to faint at any second now, while he used the other to cup your face, clearly still looking for wounds he had missed. He would have smelled the blood, of course, but it seemed even his rationality could be thrown out of the proverbial window when it came to you.

"Do you need food? Water? Are you in pain?"

His questions were so innocent, his voice breaking with worry, making it hard for him to speak clearly. No matter how well he spoke the human language, his instincts were always at the forefront, and those allowed only the orca way of communication, the soothing rumble in his chest being evidence of this. When you didn't immediately answer him, his expression merely darkened as he chortled, trying to coax what you needed out of you.

"I'm really fine, Nerrocan," you reassure him, much softer than you thought you were able to. Somehow, his concern and efforts to make you comfortable warmed your heart. You were unjust to assume the worst of him, and he had proven to you yet again that he was simply concerned about your well-being. Maybe he was right, and you needed some rest, this situation had already taken its toll on you.

"Good, okay. Your heart is still beating very fast, what can I do?"

"Maybe… let's just talk?"

"Sure." Nerrocan nods thoughtfully, imitating your gesture while seemingly trying to fulfill your request. "What is that thing you talked about like? That… pillow?"

"Oh!" you exclaimed, delighted to hear him remember. It seemed like such a small matter to talk about, but you were happy that he listened and followed up on what you said. "It's soft and slightly elevated! You can tug it beneath your head so your spine rests evenly, although I know you can't lie on your back, but at least turned to your side?"

You took a moment to think about whether Nerrocan could sleep with a pillow in the first place, something you should have considered much earlier before suggesting it, but now, you just had to go with the flow. However, you didn't notice him shift, laying down flat on his stomach before asking, "Like this?" And suddenly, with no small strain on your thighs, his head fell into your lap, arms reaching up and around your body, keeping it in place.

"Y-Yeah," you mumbled, stunned. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that Nerrocan could really understand you and make logical connections. And in moments like this, it was even harder to make yourself believe he didn't do it with some ulterior motives. Not like this was the first time he ever laid his head in your lap, but still, under these circumstances, it made you nervous again.

Inhaling deeply, you reminded yourself to trust and stay calm, slowly letting your hand fall on top of his head and brushing through his hair. Nerrocan's lips trembled before he gave up his composure and smiled, the rumbling in his chest almost like a purr while he made a few satisfied clicking sounds.

"Don't get too comfortable, big guy. I'm just taking a quick rest before going back to work!" you joked with him, running both of your hands through his slick hair. As always, it was untangled despite the length, still as beautifully shimmering and glossy as you were used to it. A good sign, you figured, considering his hair had fallen out yet from the stress and procedures.

Making a sound of disapproval, Nerrocan turned his head forward. His arms tightened around you, and you gave a small, nervous chuckle as you watched him nuzzle his face into and between your thighs. His hold on you got even stronger as you noticed his upper body lifting and staying like this for a moment before sinking, as if he just took a deep breath. Shame ran over you, the wetsuit you wore smelling like water and fish, but who knew what he could smell with his enhanced senses? You washed up this morning, but that was a few hours ago…

While fearing about your body hygiene, you didn't notice the mischievous glint in Nerrocan's eyes as he watched your expression, his body weight shifting more and more on top of you. It wasn't until you felt yourself losing balance, toppling backward, that you started to struggle against the inevitable, big hands catching you before you could hurt yourself. At the same time, Nerrocan took the chance to scoot up higher, hovering above you when your head fell into the cushioned bed.

"I've waited a long time for this," Nerrocan mumbled, a guttural sound as his head dipped into the space between your head and shoulder, slick skin against your wetsuit, the tip of his nose dragging down the side of your throat, smelling you again. "For this place to be set up and for you to visit here. It being just us."

"Ne- Nerrocan!" you protested, bracing your hands against his shoulders. It was foolish to think you could lift him off you. Nerrocan's head dipped lower and lower, driving between your collarbones and your breasts, the feeling of his breath pervading even your clothes and tingling over your skin. His hand slid out from beneath you, and you saw your chance of slipping upwards and away. But the second you moved, his palms closed around your sides, holding them firmly in place and tugging you back down again beneath him.

"Nerrocan, stop!" you said more firmly this time, and he stilled as if snapping out of a trance.

"Why?" he asked, looking up again. This time, his expression seemed hurt, as if you denying him this was causing him physical pain.

"We aren't the same species! We can't do this!"

"We can," he replied without hesitation.

"They told me it was possible. That if I prepared you well, you'd be able to take me. It's okay to mate with a human, they said."

"They? Who told you these things?! How would that even work?! Do you even know what that means?!"

Panic raised your voice, and you watched his expression change briefly. Perhaps the sound disturbed him, or he was questioning what either of you knew, but eventually, he simply replied, "The other humans. Those with the white clothes," and it dawned on you. While you thought you had things under control, the other researchers started feeding Nerrocan a very different narrative. One where all of this was normal. One where he could do as his nature demanded.

And when you didn't react fast enough, nature won over him.

One hand retracted from the side of your body, reaching down between your legs and settling right against your pussy. You squealed as a bolt of surprised arousal drove through your body, Nerrocan rubbing his dangerously clawed finger up and down your slit. Immediately, you shut your legs around his wrist, but it did nothing to stop him. Instead, it made your pussy grind upwards into the touch, and you bit your lip.

"It's- It's not right!" you stammered, reaching for his hand.

"But you smell so good. You came here to mate, claim my cave as yours. That's a sign, right?"

"N-No! I didn't! I never intended to claim this place or you! Stop smelling me!"

"It's tough," Nerrocan admitted, gulping while his finger worked a unique magic on your cunt. He could move his joints much like a wave, teasing your clit at one point and your entrance at the next. Together with the friction of the wetsuit it was a deadly combination. Yet, you didn't want to dwell on it, feeling the treacherous heat spreading through your body. "Every inch of you smells so good, mate."

His head reappeared in front of yours, his massive form crushing as if he was going to swallow whole. Nerrocan's eyes were lidded, dark dots one could get lost in, but as if sniffing wasn't enough, his tongue suddenly slipped out of his mouth, dragging from your jaw to your cheek bone. You'd never taken much note about how long it was until he was licking you, making you feel even more like a delicious snack rather than a respected friend. This was getting out of hand, and you had to do something fast!

"Nerrocan, we can't– Mmpf!"

Not giving you the chance to finish the sentence, Nerrocan slipped his tongue between your open lips, his mouth crashing down on yours while his fingers stopped for a brief moment. He dipped deeply into the kiss, filling you with his tongue and breath, both hot and relentless as they explored every inch of your mouth. Your head was spinning with how much Nerrocan there was and how little of you. But even when you tightened your grip on his shoulders, nails digging into them, he didn't let off, instead picking up the teasing with his finger again, although his movements were rougher now than before. It felt like he was desperate to make you agree with him, however he had to. Perhaps those were his instincts taking over again, forcing him to claim his mate however possible, but it didn't help you at all.

Shrieking into his mouth was all you could do as his other hand furled inwards, claws snagging at your wetsuit and running over your back. The sting revealed the damage to your skin, yet the fabric ripping was what horrified you. Pulling your head back, you tried to escape, tried to appeal to his reason, but Nerrocan followed every one of your movements with the precision of an instinctual predator.

All this time, you tried to assure yourself it wouldn't happen. That you two were better than the vulgar things the researchers had told you about. Just because some caretakers had intimate relationships with their protégés didn't mean it had to happen to you two! You thought you were better than this! That you could make it without crossing the line between two species…

You should have listened to your gut telling you to run a few minutes ago.

Because now you were stuck.

The sound of a big chunk of your wetsuit tearing, pulled you out of your spiral of misery. The hand that had fondled you through the fabric slipped into the tear, going straight back between your legs even though you shut them tight. However, your strength was nothing compared to Nerrocan's, and he easily reached his goal with the sheer mass of his palm.

You wanted to yell at him, insult and tell him how dare he did this to you, but instead of your anger, an unwelcome moan slipped from your tongue over his. Immediately, it was answered by a rumble from his throat. Nerrocan's tongue kept assaulting your mouth, flopping out whenever it became too much to lodge it inside you, all while he was prying open your lower lips, coating his hand in unmistakable arousal. Even though your body's reaction wasn't your fault, you felt ashamed of the squelching and sloppy sounds coming from above as well as below.

It also made you wonder if Nerrocan knew what he was doing. Because you did, but only to a certain extent, and if you both had no idea, that could be deadly.

With all your strength left, you finally turned your head, signaling the kiss to stop. Nerrocan was like a truck, speeding through this process as if he had something important to deliver. But at the same time, he was crushing you with his instincts that were driving him wild. It almost seemed too late to stop, but you had to do all you could to tell him how you felt and how this wasn't right.

"I can't!" you gasped, coughing really hard once his tongue had pulled out completely. "I can't take you! It won't fit! I never… I've never done this before!"

Nerrocan said nothing, the silence stifling. What was he thinking? Did he understand what you meant? Would he stop now? His finger ceased moving, although his palm kept cupping your pussy, completely covered in your slick by now.

"I am… your first," he finally said, but it didn't sound like a question. "No one's ever touched you before."

Heat rose to your head as he spoke it out so clearly. Hiding your face with your hand, you whispered, "No," hoping this would finally deter him. But when you snuck a peek through the gaps between your fingers, all you saw was a mysterious glint in his eyes, and the next thing you heard was a deep rumble resonating through the whole cave.

"I'll take such good care of you," Nerrocan said solemnly, his free hand falling to your head and brushing back some of your hair. He kissed the top of your head multiple times, muttering promises like, "You'll lack nothing, my mate," in between kisses. It didn't seem like he had any intentions to stop, you realized, if anything, this had turned him on even more.

"That's not what I meant!" you protested, but he wouldn't listen. His hand between your legs tensed, pressing outward, the fabric giving way quickly and exposing you completely.

"I'll make you happy, I promise."

"What?! No!"

Panicked, you tried to sit up, only to brace your arm against Nerrocan as he began to move. His weight could crush you, so you had to relent when he rolled onto his chest, hovering above you. Your legs spread outwards to accommodate his tail between them, and Nerrocan crouched a bit higher to line up your hips with his. Still, he was arching his back, keeping his head close to yours.

Even though you found hold on his body, no amount of strength could push him away. Horrified, you looked down between your legs, watching as the tip of his cock pressed out of the slit on his tail, and before you knew it, the massive shaft emerged completely, already twitching as beads of precum ejected from its tip.

"That– That's not possible! We can't! I absolutely can't!"

"You'll do well, mate. I believe in you. I know you can take me, relax."

Lining up his tip to your cunt, more precum bubbled from his cock, the fluids almost as heavy as the air suddenly felt. You'd be fucked to death if he managed to get this monster cock inside you. This was it. This would be the end. And all because you hadn't been more careful, didn't keep your distance like you should have. Trusted him.

"No, no, no, no…" you mumbled, looking up and giving Nerrocan one last fearful look, which he reciprocated immediately. However, instead of understanding, all you saw was desire in his eyes. Lust, pleasure, want. Nerrocan couldn't be reasoned with, not when he wanted to spear you on his cock and use you as his toy to satisfy his needs. You didn't believe he truly thought of you as a mate. A mate would take care of the other, right? Help them get through these situations that made them anxious and afraid! But he was doing the complete opposite, not even giving you a chance to safe yourself.

With a pained groan stuck in your throat, you felt his cock move slowly inside you, prying open your walls. The preparations had given him a small chance to penetrate, but your hymen was tearing just from inserting the tip. Nerrocan, too, took a sharp breath, feeling your tightness as he nudged his shaft inside with small pushes, and already, you could take no more. Nerrocan was going to ruin your poor pussy, and take your first time as if it belonged to him.

"It hurts!" you whined, tears shooting into your eyes as the pain was threatening to overtake you.

Immediately, the merman sprang into action, leaning down, kissing your forehead and face, chirping encouragingly between his sentences. Every time he pushed, a new praise fell as a reward. "You're doing so good," he muttered as you shrieked, his bulbous tip reaching its biggest point. Worse was yet to come, but it hurt like hell. You knew that in a matter of a few pushes, Nerrocan would take your virginity and your pussy for his own pleasure. There was absolutely nothing you could do, and it made you despair.

You clung to him desperately, no deep breath helping you relax. "You can do it; look at you taking me," he tried to soothe you, but there was no chance you could do either. You didn't even want to see him getting inside you, much less experience it. But Nerrocan left you no choice as he advanced. With one rough push, he finally breached the abilities of your pussy, and it gave way to him much too easily.

Your back arched, voice getting stuck in your throat, and you blacked out for a short moment as your hymen tore. The pain of his massive cock taking your first time was too much to handle, but after Nerrocan let out a guttural moan, more juices mingling inside you that were probably equal parts yours and his, he pulled his cock out again before jutting it back into the same place and shaking you awake.

Even though it felt like a nightmare, it was very real and frightening, especially as Nerrocan advanced.

"That's it," he praised, kissing the top of your head. "You're doing so good, my mate, just a little more."

There were more words, but you could barely register them as you felt your walls spread impossibly wide around his shaft, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside you as if to make more space for itself in a completely cramped place. It still felt impossible, but Nerrocan managed to keep digging inch by inch, spreading and claiming more of your pussy for himself. Nerrocan kept trilling next to you, working his shaft back and forth to ease it inside, and you were stuck between helplessness and feeling your body slowly adjust. The idiotic thought of "maybe I am made for this" came over you as you felt the tears spilling from your eyes, allowing you to realize it wasn't supposed to be like this at all.

But here you were, betrayed by your only friend in this strange life you were thrown into, allowing him to call you his mate and fuck you with his big, monstrous cock. You had screwed up, that much was sure, and you didn't know if you'd ever recover from it. Especially not when instead of a scream, another moan escaped you, the moment Nerrocan finally had used up all the space inside of you to claim you.

You sounded so heavenly.

Not only that but your scent, body, everything about you was perfect. The researcher told me that the moment I got to claim you would be the most wonderful thing I ever experienced in my life. And for once, they weren't lying. You smelled heady, the air around us filling with the scent of your need. A need for me. Finally, you wanted me, too, taking me and uniting us as we should be. This was what mateship was all about, the feeling of belonging together, both body and mind.

It was exhilarating.

Your body wound itself beneath me, squeezing and moving around my cock that I finally filled you with. You said you couldn't take it, but you did. My mate. My perfect, beautiful mate, your eyes dazed and filled with tears as I bucked my hips forward gently. You made the most adorable gurgles, biting your lip, although I would have preferred to hear all of your voice, you really didn't have to hold back. Surely, you, too, must have felt the bliss of our union, the beautiful play of our bodies?

And even more exciting than that, you gave me your first time. Your insides were shaping themselves around my cock, learning to accommodate it despite the tightness. Yet, you did so well taking every inch of me, your beautiful thighs pressing against the sides of my tail, keeping me firmly situated inside you. Our mateship must have been meant to be if you waited for me to come into your life before giving me your new, beautiful pussy to mate. To fill, to breed.

Sinking my hands into your hair, I couldn't help myself from pulling your head back, exposing your throat, the most vulnerable part of your delicious body. The slight smell of blood coming from your cunt only made my cock twitch more, tingling all the senses of a hunter. I wanted to bite you so badly, taste your blood on my tongue, and coat my teeth with it that it hurt. There was way too much of your body still covered, even though we had no need for clothes any longer. I almost felt resentful towards the fabric covering you, denying me the view of the most beautiful treasure of this world—you.

I had waited too long for this moment to not leave my mark on your body as I should.

If you were to get lost, anyone should know who you belonged to. Whose fangs they'd have to go against to claim you in the same way I had. As if I'd ever lose a fight when the prize was my mate and the right to keep calling you that. I didn't fight, hunt, and train for so long that just anybody could waltz in and take you from me now.

"I'll be gentle, I promise" I murmured, driving my lips over your shoulder. It was the perfect place, above your heart, next to your throat. My face fit nicely in the curve between your neck and arm, as if this spot was made for my mark. Perhaps, you were. Made for me, that is. I had never seen someone rouse as many emotions in me as you did or induce this constant, mind-numbing heat that I was acting on now. With your pussy around my cock and my teeth about to sink into your body, I was the closest to you that I ever had been, and there was no place I'd rather be.

My throat rumbled in contentment, my whole being agreeing with the thought of marking you. Lips splitting, my teeth were ready to punctuate, to clamp down, to tear. But I wouldn't treat you like that. I'd only taste the sweetest prey I had ever encountered. I wouldn't linger, wouldn't hurt you more than necessary. Hurt, it would, so I fastened the pace of my hips, distracting you with the added friction until you were whining softly with every push. It was adorable when one of your hands clung to my arm, digging your puny little nails into it. But I hoped it would scar. That you'd mark me just like I would, you.

Which gave me the idea to cup your face, prying your mouth open by pushing a finger between your blunt teeth. The damage would be small compared to mine, but it was only right you got the same chance as I did. With all the preparations done, it was time to claim you. I knew it was meant to be, and yet, I hesitated because of the thought of hurting you. But I had to believe in myself. I knew I'd never cause you great harm. I could control the urges and stop when it was necessary. You and I had been through worse together; we'd also get through the stages of mating.

At least, mating was more pleasurable.

"Shh, it's okay, I'll be gentle," I repeated softly, hearing how your breathing turned unnaturally fast after seeing my teeth. A shudder went through you, and I couldn't help groaning as I felt it around my cock, too. Your voice grew louder, vibrating against my finger, but I gave it no heed. Resting my lips on your body, I took one more deep breath, soaking in the scent of your body, your arousal, the tinge of blood I had smelled before.

Delicious.

And with that, my teeth opened, sinking deep into your flesh. The fabric covering you was no more a hindrance than uncovered skin, giving no resistance. But my tongue immediately went to lap up the droplets of blood that formed around my teeth, a strong, desirable taste filling my mouth. Together with the smell of your body they completely fogged my mind, my hips snapping forward harder as your cunt tightened around my cock, reluctant to let me go.

Was this it? The sign that you were cumming? Would I be the first orca to take and claim his human mate in every aspect? A guttural groan resonated through my body, my pace growing harder. I knew it instinctively, it was a mating call. We were now bound to each other. There was no more space to stuff my cock into, but I still hadn't had enough. Gripping one of your beautiful thick thighs in my hand, the flesh so soft and pliable in my grasp, I adjusted our position and brought us even closer together. Our size difference was but a small obstacle when it came to mating, and I was determined to make up for it with my strength and skill.

I had barely heard the first scream you let out when I bit you, much less the beautiful symphony of moans and cries that my finger muffled. Blood coating my tongue, my lips, my throat, I felt my cock swell inside you, the feeling eliciting another shriek against my finger. However, this time, I did notice it. You were biting down so hard as if your life depended on it. It was a cute effort, considering you barely broke through my skin, much less tore junks out of it like I wanted. I could feel your heartbeat in my mouth as it wouldn't stop hammering in your chest, and your pussy held on tight to my cock as I lodged it as deep as possible inside you.

I was going to fill you up to the brim. As much as your little human body could hold of my seed, I'd give to you and then some. Everything was perfect, the sound of your voice, the beating of your heart. The taste of your blood on my lips and the tightness of your cunt as I made the last few pushes towards my release. They promised everything would turn out well, but no one could have prepared me for how wonderful it was to finally be with you.

Roaring wildly into your shoulder, my cock exploded. Little stars clouded my vision as I felt your body spasm beneath me, trying to adjust to the amounts of seed I was pumping in you. A small part hoped it would take root inside you. Would make you round and full with our calves, and I got to care for you throughout the whole pregnancy. Even if this was our first time, I couldn't help but want to breed you to the point you'd be unable to walk on your own anymore. I wanted you to depend on me, lean on me, letting me do everything for you while you created our beautiful little babies. The product of our love for each other. We'd be a perfect little family; nothing could take this from me.

We'd have to wait and see, but I couldn't wait for the day to come.

As fast as it had happened, it was over. My cock was still splurting more cum inside you, but you laid limply beneath me, your own orgasm having taken all your energy out of you. I unlocked my jaw as slowly as possible. However, it made a slight jerk despite my best efforts. But my teeth were finally pulling out of your flesh, leaving only the beautiful marks of our mateship behind, bleeding and sullying the bed, which I more than welcomed.

You groaned, and I finally pried my finger out of your mouth so I could listen to the sound. Your eyes were unfocused and dull. The intensity must have taken a toll on your strength, but you were no less beautiful, your belly swollen with my seed, and your body marked and satisfied.

"You did so well," I purred, giving you small chirps to ensure you'd understand my sincerity. Not everyone could have done so well, but my mate. My mate could. You were beautiful, perfect. Made for me, for our family. I had regretted it many times to have brought you to this place, but just as often did I think it had been the right choice. Now, we were inseparable, and I felt more validated in my choice.

Slowly, I pulled back my cock, your pussy making it hard to exit with how much it clung to me. All while cooing and kissing your face and your body. Already, I felt myself grow hard again, my cock barely able to retract into its slit with how massive it still was. There were still so many things I wanted to do with you. The thoughts of marking other places like your breasts and those delicious thighs were driving me insane with their allure, but I stayed strong for you.

It's what we did for the people we loved, and right now, you just needed me to hold you as your body tried to come down from the height and adore you like I always did. The humans called it "aftercare," and I listened closely to their tips, although I couldn't bring myself to fetch some food and water for you yet. Not when you were curled so adorably in my arms, my hand on your swollen belly, making it easy to imagine what it would be like if you were carrying our little pup inside you. I did feel spent, ready to take a long nap by your side, but not before I made sure you were settled in comfortably, your eyes still wide open as you lay limply on my bed.

Even if this was only the first time, it had made it all worth it. All the pain and suffering, all the fear and traumatic experiences. The fights, the humiliation. Now that I had you by my side, able to call you my mate completely without any doubts, it had been worth the troubles. It would be worth anything that may come in the future as long as I got to hold you again like this, fill you with my seed, and forget everything else that was happening around us. It had taken so long until we finally got this space we could call our own. Decorate, be together in, share love. This was where only we existed, and I couldn't wait to see what we'd do with it in the future, but I knew it would be great.

And no one would get in the way of our happiness, even if you still had doubts.

You let out a quiet shudder, feeling Nerrocan's hand combing through your curls, ruined and messy from what had just happened. It still felt like you were waking up from a nightmare, but the pain had always been there. Both your shoulder and your pussy hurt. You felt the semen run down your lower lips and coat your thighs. Every time Nerrocan rubbed over your belly, another spurt of his jizz shot from your hole, and you felt degraded and disgusted with the feeling of semen sloshing in your womb. It wasn't possible to get pregnant, right? Was it? They were half human-like… that didn't mean you two were compatible, right?

Tears filled your eyes as you couldn't help sobbing out loud. The bitten shoulder had no strength to pull up your arm so you could muffle yourself and the other was almost as dead still from the shock. Even though it hurt, even though you didn't want it, eventually, pleasure caught up to you, making you cum on his huge, massive cock as if you wanted it. It had felt good every time the pain vanished. And even now, Nerrocan was purring and chortling, soothing the pain in your soul even though he had torn it apart.

You'd never be able to trust him again. To work with him even. You'd have to find a new purpose in this facility, but something inside you told you they wouldn't let you. This would be your new life, and you'd have to adjust to it to survive. It was unfair. Painful. You wanted to hate him, yet you still couldn't because of all you two had been through and all he continued to do for you. And although it wasn't right and should have never happened—not like this, at least—you could also understand him to a degree that it was the comfort Nerrocan needed, even if he made it seem like you did, too.

"We're going to have such beautiful calves. You'll be such a good mommy," he praised you, and you sobbed out loud again, taking a deep, unbelieving breath. This couldn't be real, it was just too cruel.

Nerrocan kissed your forehead, cradling your back further against his chest, his cock having slipped back into the slit, and you were thanking any god that was listening for that. You couldn't take any more fucking than that, and you'd never come down into his nest again and indulge him like you had that day. He had already ruined to much, destroyed your body and the relationship you two had.

Moving you only made you feel more of the cum spurting from your pussy, coating you both as you whimpered, and Nerrocan trilled excitedly. "We're going to make so many babies!" he announced, and you wept, the image alone too hard to handle.

"You did so well, today, my mate. I can't wait for the next time," he whispered into your ear, kissing your temple all the way down to your jaw. Every bit of adoration, praise, and intimacy appalled you, and you turned your face away, wanting to grieve your innocence and stupidity as you swore to never allow a repeat of what happened.

"I'm not your mate," you slurred as the exhaustion hit you hard. Even in this situation, dangerous as it was, your body still felt safe enough around Nerrocan to sleep. Traitor, you thought as your eyes closed.

"Yes, you are," he replied softly, noticing your drowsiness as he placed an arm beneath your head, cushioning it. Ironic, wasn't it? Luckily, you were already asleep when he spoke up again, able to preserve the last bits of your sanity from being lost forever.

"I'll do everything to change your mind."

#orcas #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x you #yandere tw #yandere fanfiction #yandere scenarios #yandere headcanons #yandere drabbles #yandere oneshot #yandere stories #yandere writing #yandere imagines

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xoswiftieprincess · 2 days ago

Text

i know heaven’s a thing, i go there when you touch me. honey, hell is when i fight with you.

no smut! only comfort + fluff :)

this takes place in the winter and i know it’s nearing summer (where im from anws) but for the sake of fiction let's please pretend

✗♡✗♡ ✗♡✗♡ ✗♡✗♡ ✗♡✗♡

you and sam don’t fight very often, but sometimes things go awry during a hunt. some cruel words are exchanged, creating heated conversations. it was a witch hunt gone wrong, involving a group of close-knit high school girls with terrible family backgrounds that made the case hit a little too close to home.

it had clouded your judgement and you were convinced they were innocent. of course, you were wrong. sam had been a little on edge because more people had died on the previous cases you worked on, way more than the usual. it wasn't your fault either, but you knew he was getting fed up with the increasing amount of casualties.

you sighed as you sat near the fireplace that you were lucky the motel room offered. it was negative degrees out and you decided to stay in doors to cool off while sam and dean went out to get dinner. music swelled softly in your ears with your headphones on, playing one of your favorite sad songs.

you were angry at first, angry that the blame had fallen on you when even they were convinced at first too. now you were just reeling from the roller coaster of emotions you’d been through in the last eight hours, and the sadness had finally creeped its way in.

fighting with the person you love the most feels like absolute hell. baring your heart to one another, letting them know each and every single one of your vulnerabilities, but in the midst of tension, words are twisted and you're no longer on the same side— suddenly, their sweet words you once considered lullabies are now daggers thrown at the opposing side.

it was like going to a boxing match with no gloves on.

you sighed, curling up in the thick sweater you had on. normally, during the cold days when you weren't working, you and sam liked to make hot cocoa and stay all day in bed wrapped in each other's arms. now, this would be one of the first few where it felt like he couldn't even stand to be in the same room as you, in your mind anyways.

that wasn't how he felt, but he had to be there for you to know that.

it was ironic how the person who broke your heart was also the only one who could mend it.

the need for him to be here with you weighed on your heart heavily. tears began to cloud your vision, and everything came crashing down.

little did you know, that was the exact moment sam had walked in to your shared motel room. your soft cries broke his heart, and you hadn't noticed his presence because your back was turned and your headphones still on.

you looked so small and defenseless, and it pained him to know that he was the one who caused that.

as you cried your heart out, you felt a warm hand on your back and you looked up to find sam with an apologetic look on his face. it only made you cry even more, and he wrapped you in his arms and settled you on his lap. his body warmth transferred onto yours, coating you with the love and affection he held for you, and everything felt right in the world again.

he took your headphones off and let you lay your head on his chest, making you listen to the beat of his heart instead, which grounded you from the sadness that consumed you. “i’m so sorry, honey,” he whispered, planting a kiss on your forehead. “i’m so sorry for hurting you. for making you cry like this.”

you shook your head. though the apology was appreciated, that wasn't what mattered the most. the only important thing was that he was here with you. “it’s okay, just hold me please.”

he kissed your tears away and laid his head on your shoulder. “i love you so much, baby,” he whispered. he held you for as long as you needed him to in front of the fireplace amid the harsh winter. it was all you could ask for.

“have you eaten?” he’d asked and you shook your head. your appetite had been long gone since he left the room hours ago. “i got you some take out, and a bottle of your favorite wine. how about i pour you a glass, hm?”

“yes, please,” you sighed, feeling all the angst in your body fade away, “thank you, sammy.” and you finally managed a small, fragile smile.

he laid a sweet kiss on your lips before he got up. you stared into the fire as you waited for him, feeling the warmth of it engulf your heart as well.

he came back with two glasses and the bottle of red wine. once he’d poured enough for both of you, he put you back on his lap. since you hadn’t eaten yet, he also spoon fed you bit by bit to fill your stomach before drinking.

sam whispered sweet nothings in your ear as he made sweet love to you all night. he made sure to take extra good care of you, knowing how delicate you still were.

you thought it didn’t matter how many times you and sam would fight in the future as long as it was with him. you would never give anyone else the same power he had over you.

he could crush your heart and you’d still love him for it—but you knew he would never do that because he loves you in the most beautiful way, a way that no one ever could.

and when the time came that all of this was over— no more hunting monsters and drifting through states, you knew you had been right all along. the day you and sam finally found a permanent place to stay and you bore a ring on your finger, you knew you didn’t want any other shade of blue in the world but him.

✗♡✗♡ ✗♡✗♡ ✗♡✗♡ ✗♡✗♡

author’s yap: this is something a little different than my usual! i hope you guys liked it as much as i enjoyed writing it :)

tagging my sweethearts : @littlesoulshine @losers-clvb @nymphet-quenn @sacr1ficialang3l @starzify @rositaslabyrinth @saltcxrcle

#sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester x you #sam winchester comfort fic #sam winchester fanfic

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spr1ngtweaks · 2 days ago

Note

Can I ask what you think would happen if pre-doctor Harley Sawyer had an S/O who has been with him for so long to the point of marriage being the next goal, but some kind of accident happens and they lose their memories of him? I was curious to see what you thought he'd react like, shading this "bond" with someone who worked so hard to gain his trust and love only to forget everything they had with him.

And maybe if you're up for it cause it could mix with the scenario, what's he like as a husband of he for some reason got to that point?

He’s already a man who struggles with trust, with connection, with letting himself have something good. And then to have that ripped away?

Yeah. He wouldn't take it well.

💔 Harley Sawyer & an S/O Who Lost Their Memories 💫

Initial Reaction – Shock, Denial, & a Deep, Ugly Fear

Harley isn’t a man who loves easily. If he got to the point of marriage? That means you had to fight, push, and tear down every wall he built around himself. You were different. You got through to him.

And then, just like that, it’s gone. You don’t know him. You don’t remember him.

At first, he thinks he can handle it. He’s logical, right? He can fix this.

But when he looks at you—when he sees the blank stare, the way you flinch when he reaches for you, the way his name means nothing to you anymore—

That’s when it really hits. That bond you both built, the one thing he let himself trust, it’s shattered.

How He Handles It – Badly, But He Won’t Show It

On the surface? He’s calm. Composed. Maybe even a little cold. He won’t let you see how deep the damage goes.

But behind closed doors? It wrecks him.

He stays up at night, replaying memories that you no longer have.

He clenches his fists hard enough to leave marks, fights the urge to force the memories back—because logic tells him he can’t.

He stares at old pictures, whispers your name like it’s a prayer, like saying it enough times will bring you back.

Would he try to make you remember?

Yes. But not by pushing you. Harley is methodical—he’ll watch, wait, test small things. He’ll see if old habits stick.

He’ll leave your favorite coffee on the table, just to see if you reach for it the way you used to.

He won’t tell you who he is to you. But his actions will.

And if you never remember? If he has to live with the fact that you’ll never look at him the same way again?

He’d rather you be safe, even if it means losing you completely.

Would He Stay? Would He Let Go?

Harley Sawyer does not let go easily.

But he’s also a man who knows what it means to lose everything. And if he thinks staying will hurt you more than it’ll hurt him?

He’d leave. He’d walk away before you could reject him—because that’s a pain he doesn’t think he could survive.

Maybe he disappears from your life entirely, watching from a distance, never interfering.

Or maybe, just maybe—he stays in the background. A shadow of what he used to be to you. Someone important, but no longer in the way he once was.

Harley Sawyer as a Husband – If He Ever Got That Far

"Husband" is just a word. What matters is that you’re mine. And I don’t let go."

He’s not a conventional husband. Marriage isn’t something he dreams about—it’s a risk. A vulnerability.

But if he got there? He’d take it seriously. You would be the only person who’s ever gotten that far, and that means something.

Protective as hell. He doesn’t get jealous, but he does get possessive. The kind where he doesn’t need to say anything—just a look is enough.

Acts of service > words of love. You won’t get flowery speeches, but you’ll find a knife at your bedside if he thinks you need protection. He’ll know you’re stressed before you say anything. He’ll have already handled it.

Physicality matters. He’s not one for PDA, but behind closed doors? His touches are grounding. Steady. Not always gentle, but always intentional.

He’s in it for life. Divorce? Not an option. If you get into a fight? He’s not leaving the house until it’s resolved. If something threatens you? It’s already handled before you even know about it.

What If You Started Falling for Him Again?

Would he let it happen?

At first, he wouldn’t believe it.

But if you started looking at him the way you used to? If your body remembered what your mind forgot—if you reached for him in your sleep, if his voice became a comfort again?

He’d try to stay distant. Try to convince himself it’s not real.

But the moment you tell him, even hesitantly, “I think I love you”—

That’s when he breaks.

That’s when he exhales the breath he’s been holding since he lost you.

And that’s when he finally, finally lets himself believe he hasn’t lost you after all.

#harley sawyer #poppy playtime #harley sawyer x reader #the doctor #poppy playtime x reader #the doctor x reader #dr harley sawyer #imagine #angst scenario #kinda mix with comfort #╰₊✧ ﾟ⚬𓂂➢ 👁📺💉🩸

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cafechichay · 1 day ago

Text

Paris, Texas

Pairing - Theodore Nott x Fem!Reader

Word Count - 19534 [2 to 3 hours of reading time - depending]

Content Warning - Slow burn Angst, Unrequited love, Pining!Reader, Being taken for granted, google-translated italian and french (i am an asian woman, i don’t know a lick of french)

Summary - Loving someone they way you want to be loved, doesn't always mean you will be loved the same way back

A.N. - Writing this whenever I got the chance (which also the same days that I don't speak a word of English). Thanks to ChatGPT for making this readable. Also dividers by @firefly-graphics <3

Poll Results: Literally everyone said to post this "now" (as in 4 days ago "now") but I ended up working 38 hours at my part-time since then so I apologise. Also this was also redrafted about 7 times because I wanted a realistic ending.

Enjoy! <3 (commenting and reblogging feeds the writing gremlin)

Wizards slowly began adopting Muggle holidays sometime around the 18th century. Those living in London found themselves enjoying each little tradition, each celebration the Muggles offered.

Valentine’s Day was one of the latest fads in the British-wizarding forums. Some had said a big-time French socialite had apparently introduced the tradition to his British amour, and since then, the excitement spread through the grapevine. From gifting beautiful, forever-blooming flowers to your beloved, to others frantically checking their Chocolate Frogs were not spiked with Amortentia — young wizards started basking in the celebration of young love (or platonic love for some).

Everyone, except you.

Classmates, dorm mates, and even your own best friends — Joycelin Sweeting and Astoria Greengrass — were ecstatic over the festivities. They had dragged you each weekend leading up to the big day to Hogsmeade and even trekked up to Diagon Alley for the perfect presents for their other halves. You were happy for them.

Truly.

They both had that beautiful twinkle in their eyes — and even though they were the most bubbly, fun-loving duo, you were almost 100% sure that their pupils turned into literal love hearts around their respective partners. Their hair was always curly or wavy (you had read in some book in the library that the magic surrounding a girl in love made their hair wavy for some reason), and their cheeks ached and flushed red with blush. You promised you were happy for them.

You had promised you were fine, telling Astoria to go on her date and reassuring Joycelin that you had more than enough on your plate. (That was a lie.)

The sun had barely risen but the time you sat in the Great Hall, the low chatter of students around you creating a hum that felt more distant than comforting. The flickering candles overhead cast shadows that danced lazily across the table, but you could not focus on the warmth. You felt the coldness inside you, a familiar emptiness that had settled in your chest ever since things had started to change. You could not help feeling sorry for yourself. Sitting here, on the morning of Valentine’s Day, seemingly the only student sitting alone. The dining hall was already quiet as it was, with many students opting for more romantic settings.

Your eyes flickered to the Slytherin table, your gaze inevitably falling on Theodore. He was there, of course, just like he always was, wrapped up in the world he had created around himself. The world that no longer seemed to have much space for you.

You could feel the ache settle into your bones, a quiet reminder of everything that had gone wrong—or seemingly, what seem to have disappeared over the winter break. It was not that he did not notice you; it was that he seemed to look through you these days. Every time you tried to get close, tried to bridge the growing chasm between the two of you, he had backed away, like you were not worth the effort.

And that was it. You were not worth the effort.

Theodore’s eyes did not meet yours now, and you were not sure if it was out of avoidance or simple disinterest. He had the same nonchalant air about him, speaking to the people around him in a tone that was not sharp, but cold enough to make you feel it in your gut. His friends, his fellow Slytherins, hung on the few words he said, laughing and teasing with ease. They did not know the quiet pain you felt just from being in the same room with him.

You turned your attention back to your plate, pushing food around without really touching it. The silence between you and him had become more deafening with each passing day. You tried to ignore it, to accept that it was what it was, but that did not stop the small part of you, the part that still hoped, from holding on.

A sharp pang of disappointment twisted in your chest as you watched a few girls from the other end of the table approach Theodore. Their laughter rang in the air, a sound that was light and carefree, like the weight of everything was irrelevant. You knew how they looked at him. You had seen it before. He was everything they admired—charming in a nonchalant type of way, and, for every reason you had been drawn to him in the first place, they couldn’t get enough of him.

A wave of frustration washed over you. You wanted to get up, leave this place where you felt so invisible, but the more you tried to retreat into yourself, the more desperate you were for Theodore to reach out for you.

But just as you were about to turn back to your breakfast, a voice broke through the quiet hum of the hall, this one different — more polite and genuinely warm.

Theodore was halfway through taking a bite of his toast when a voice rang out, light and sweet, carrying through the quiet of the hall, uninvited and unwelcome. “Theo, you are coming to the party tonight, aren’t you?”

The girl who spoke was one of those faces you often saw in the Slytherin corridor but never paid much attention to. A pleasant sort of girl, pretty enough, but always with a crowd. She had the kind of attention that came effortlessly, like a polished stone that had been smoothed by years of admiration. Her soft blonde curls bounced around her face as she leaned toward Theodore, her eyes wide with the warmth of something unfamiliar to you, something that felt a little too bright, too alive.

Her voice, though melodic, carried a subtle undertone of expectation. “It’s going to be fun,” she added with a smile, drawing the words out as though she was fishing for an answer. She did not care about the casualness of the conversation; she knew exactly what she was doing. Her fingers brushed lightly against Theodore’s sleeve as she spoke, and you could almost see the way her confidence bloomed in the space between them, wrapping around him as if they were already connected.

Theodore looked up slowly, his gaze flicking toward her, but the moment his eyes met hers, he seemed to settle into a practiced nonchalance. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it was not the kind that reached his eyes. He gave a slight nod, still not meeting your gaze. “Yeah, I’ll be there,” he replied, his voice cool and flat, the same as it always was these days. Detached.

The girl beamed, as if the words were all she had wanted, but before she turned to go, she finally, almost reluctantly, glanced your way. Her eyes lingered on you for the briefest moment, as if she just remembered you were there, as if you had somehow faded into the background of the conversation she had been having with Theodore. It was not an unkind look, just distant — as though acknowledging your presence now was an afterthought.

“Oh,” she said, the pitch of her voice softening just a touch. “What about...” She slowly turned her head to your table. Her smile was kind, but it lacked warmth, like a perfunctory gesture more than a genuine inquiry.

You blinked, suddenly aware of the space between you and Theodore. The hall became so much larger than you had imagined, yet feeling narrower and overwhelming at the same time. You wanted him to say yes—better yet, walk down that endless hall to ask for your opinion. But you were also terrified. You did not want to admit that the very thought of being around people, of pretending to be something you were not, made your chest tighten. At this point, there was no telling what kind of relationship existed between you both. Your thoughts were swarming you these past couple of weeks— with one that had been quietly overcoming your mind for weeks, months now. You wanted to be seen— wanted to be wanted, even if just for a fleeting moment.

But before you could speak, Theodore’s voice cut through the tension, his words sharper than usual. “You know her,” he said, his tone distant and dismissive, “she’s not really a party person.”

And just like that, the words sank into your skin, prickling with discomfort. It was not a lie, not exactly, but it felt wrong. There was a bitter edge to it, something unspoken that settled over the dining hall like a growing storm. You were not a party person, no. But that was not the real reason you’d rather stay away. The truth was more complicated, more suffocating, and Theodore was too busy with his own distractions to notice.

The girl smiled again, this time with a hint of pity that stung more than it comforted. “I see,” she said, her voice dipping into something softer, almost apologetic, but you could see the beginnings of a smile on her lips. “I mean, no matter- we can always have fun for her. Right?”

She turned on her heel, slipping into the crowd of students with ease, leaving you in the quiet bubble of awkwardness that you had somehow found yourself in. The weight of his dismissal hung heavy in the air, suffocating you, even though he was not looking at you. His focus had already shifted to his friends, already lost in the rhythm of the day, and you felt the distance between you grow even wider.

You could not help but glance at him again, watching him talk to the group of Slytherins across the table, his face set in a way that looked practiced, familiar. His eyes never once flickered toward you. The indifference stung more than anything. He had done this before, turned his attention elsewhere, as if you were no longer worth the effort.

There was a knot in your stomach, tight and unyielding. It was hard to breathe around it, but you did not dare let it show. You did not dare let anyone see how much it hurt.

You knew better than to try and get his attention, though. You had learned long ago that when Theodore was not looking at you, nothing you did would change it. So you turned your gaze back to your untouched plate, pushing the remaining food around as if it could give you something to focus on, something to fill the hollow space.

The longer you sat there, the heavier the weight in your chest became — suffocating, relentless. The pitying look from that girl lingered in your mind, curling uncomfortably around your thoughts. It was not just the way she’d glanced at you like an afterthought — it was how right Theodore’s words had felt, how easily they’d seemed to confirm something you’d been trying to ignore for weeks.

You are not really a party person.

The words repeated in your head, twisting and distorting until they felt less like a passing comment and more like some unspoken truth — one you could not shake. It was not just that you did not belong at parties. It felt like you did not belong anywhere. Not with your friends, who had drifted into their own little worlds of whispered conversations and excited plans. Not with Theodore, who barely looked at you anymore — and if he did, it was only to find some way to push you further away.

And it was your own fault, was it not?

Your friends had tried — really tried — to keep you close. Joycelin and Astoria had spent weeks begging you to come with them — to Hogsmeade, to the common room, even just to sit with them in the Great Hall. They had coaxed you with warm smiles and reassurances that you’d have fun, but you never did. You could never quite shake the feeling that you were just… there. A shadow lingering behind them, dulling the brightness of their excitement.

It had reached the point where you almost felt guilty for saying yes — because each time you did, you could see it in their eyes. That flicker of hesitation, that subtle change in the air when you sat beside them. As though they were quietly waiting for you to dampen the mood.

You knew they loved you — you knew that. But sometimes love was not enough to stop you from feeling like a burden.

You wondered when it had happened — when you had become this person. The one who sat quietly at the edge of things, watching her friends smile and laugh from somewhere she could no longer reach. The one who had once been so full of warmth, now cold and withdrawn, retreating deeper into herself with each passing day.

It was not that you did not want to fight for what you once had — for Theodore, for your friends, for yourself. It was that you did not know how.

Because the truth was, you were tired — tired of trying to pretend that you were fine, tired of convincing yourself that this hollow feeling was not swallowing you whole. And most of all, you were tired of caring so much when it felt like no one seemed to care about you.

A dull ache settled behind your eyes, and you swallowed hard, blinking quickly to push the feeling down. You did not have the energy to fall apart — not here, not now. Instead, you kept your head low, eyes fixed on your plate as you tried to shrink into the silence, as if that might somehow make everything hurt a little less.

Just as you were about to sink back into your own thoughts, another voice broke through the fog of disappointment. The sudden shift in tone was enough to catch you off guard.

“Excuse me, are you… Y/N, right?”

The voice pulls you from your thoughts. You blink, not expecting to hear anyone speaking to you. When you look up, you are met with a pair of eyes. His eyes, a striking shade of blue, seem to gleam with an unexpected warmth. He stands there, leaning casually against the bench, his posture effortlessly confident. His dark hair, not quite as dark as Theodore’s but with a similar tousled quality, seems to catch the light in all the right places, and you can tell it’s the sort of hair that naturally falls into place, no matter what.

Adrien Delacroix.

His features are distinctively sharp, but there is a softness to them, too. He has a smile that feels almost practiced, easy, as if it is a shield he is worn a thousand times. His bone structure is different from Theodore’s—more delicate, with high cheekbones and a straight nose that seems to be chiseled perfectly. He’s stood there, looking down at you with an easy smile that barely hides his curiosity. He is tall—definitely taller than most guys in your year—and his gaze is steady, almost like he’s trying to read you.

The thought hits you immediately, almost involuntarily. What does he want?

You manage a quiet nod. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”

You blink again, not sure what to say next, but Adrien doesn’t seem to notice your hesitation. You hate how small your voice sounds, especially compared to Adrien’s friendly tone. You immediately wish you could say something more—something to make this interaction feel less awkward, but your words feel like they’re stuck somewhere deep in your chest.

“I thought I… ah…” He pauses briefly, brow creasing as he searches for the right word. “Reconnu — recognised you,” he corrects himself, his accent curling softly around the syllables. He leans casually against the table, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I’m in a couple of your classes, and I’ve seen you around… but I’ve never had the chance to actually talk to you.”

He pauses for a moment, his hand lifting to push a strand of dark hair behind his ear with the same effortless grace that seems to define him. The way his accent lingers, slightly melodic and smooth as it dances in his words, makes you feel different. There’s something about him that feels different, refined—but not in an obvious, boastful way. Just in the way he holds himself, the subtle lift of his chin, the quiet confidence that lingers even in the simplest gestures.

“History of Magic, right?” Adrien asks, as if pulling you out of your thoughts. “You’ve been in my class the last few weeks… I think I sit behind you.”

Your heart beats a little faster, and a flush creeps up your neck. Adrien notices, a quick flash of amusement crossing his face, but he does not make a big deal out of it.

You force a smile, nervous and unsure. “I dunno… I sleep through most of it.”

His lips twitch as he laughs softly, his voice rich, and the sound catches you off guard. “Vraiment? Really?” he says, his grin widening. “You should definitely stay awake. It’s fascinating stuff.” His tone is teasing, but there’s something more in his eyes — something that almost makes you wonder if he’s being sincere.

“I—I’ll try,” you murmur, pulling your sleeves down further, hiding your hands in the folds of your robes. You are not used to this, not used to being noticed like this. Especially not by someone like Adrien, who seems to draw people’s attention without even trying.

You cannot help but notice the way his eyes linger on you for just a moment too long before he blinks and looks away. It’s a small thing, but it sends your heart racing, and you cannot figure out why.

He leans in slightly, his voice lowering a little. “You’ve got that quiet thing going on… makes you seem a bit… mystérieuse.” His lips twitch with a small smile. “It’s cute.”

The words hit you like a shockwave. Cute. The simplicity of it, the way it feels like a compliment that doesn’t carry any weight behind it, makes your chest tighten. It’s not an insult, but something about it makes you feel exposed, like you don’t deserve the attention he’s giving you. You’ve never thought of yourself as someone who could be “cute,” not the way the other girls are. You’ve spent so long hiding in the shadows, and now someone like Adrien is standing in front of you, treating you like you are someone worth noticing.

You do not know how to respond, so you just nod, suddenly feeling even more awkward. You can’t help it, your mind races with the thought that maybe he’s just being polite. Or maybe he’s just like the others who like to talk to you out of some weird obligation before moving on to something—or someone—else.

Adrien tilts his head, and for a moment, you are not sure if he’s trying to figure you out or if he’s just watching you. His lips twitch into a smile again, this time a little more knowing. “Well, if you ever need someone to keep you awake in History of Magic, I’m happy to help.”

You try not to smile, but the way his gaze lingers on you, the way he speaks, it’s hard not to. He seems genuine, yet you wonder how much of that is just the way he is—easy, charming, and unbothered.

“Or maybe we could catch up on what you’ve missed in the library?” He smiles, “I noticed you usually run off there as soon as Binns finishes.”

You shift slightly, the discomfort rising in your stomach. “I don’t usually spend much time in the library,” you say, almost apologetically, though you know it’s not entirely true. You’ve been there often, especially in the past few weeks, lingering in corners, trying to lose yourself in the quiet. You’ve seen Adrien there before, too, always focused, always absorbed in his reading. But you don’t mention that. It feels too intimate somehow, like acknowledging his presence would make this interaction even more real.

Adrien’s eyes soften as if he can see through your discomfort. He doesn’t push, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s actually paying attention to you—or just looking for something to fill the silence. He shifts, stepping a little closer, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

“I get that,” he says, his smile growing a little more genuine. “Hogwarts can be… eh… accablant… too much, no?” He chuckles softly. “I’ve only been here a little while, and I’m still figuring out where everything is.” His words are easy, his tone casual, like he’s trying to make you feel less out of place. You can tell he’s trying to make this conversation feel natural, but you can’t help but feel like you are failing at being natural, like every word that leaves your mouth is a stilted attempt to keep up.

You want to say something, to let him in, but the words feel wrong. Why is he even talking to me? You want to scream it, want to ask him why someone like him—who clearly fits in with all the bright, shiny faces at Hogwarts—would want to talk to someone like you. You are used to being on the outside, used to standing in the back while others take the spotlight. And here is Adrien, offering you a sliver of attention like it’s no big deal. You don’t know what to make of it.

But then he continues, his voice slipping back into that light, teasing tone. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while, actually. I just didn’t know how to approach you though—thought it might be best find away to do it differently…”

You freeze, caught off guard by the statement. Differently? It feels like a compliment, but it also feels like a judgment. You never meant to be unreachable. Is he saying I’m weird? You can’t stop the flash of insecurity that rises in your chest. You are not sure whether to thank him for the words or shrink away in embarrassment. You barely know him, yet somehow, his words feel like they’ve carved into you in ways you are not ready for.

“Hey — I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable,” Adrien adds, as though sensing the shift in the air. “I just thought… maybe we could hang out sometime? I mean, I’ve seen you around, and you don’t seem like the type to just…” He pauses, brow furrowing slightly as he mutters, “Comment on dit… ah…” His fingers drum lightly on the table as he thinks. “Go with the flow?,” he finishes, a little unsure but still smiling. “You seem… hmm… like someone who thinks for herself. I thought it’d be nice to get to know you.”

The offer feels too big, too much for someone like you to take in, like a question you are not sure you are allowed to answer. You want to say no, to tell him it’s fine and you are used to being alone, but there’s a small part of you that wonders if maybe, just maybe, he’s being honest.

Before you can figure out what to say, Adrien’s smile softens, and he steps back, giving you a little more space. “I’ll see you around then?” His voice is lighter, not pushing, but still there, lingering.

You sit there, watching him walk away, still unsure whether his invitation was just a formality, something said to pass the time, or if he genuinely meant it. You don’t know. You don’t know him, not really, but the thought of being wanted, of being seen by someone like him, leaves you feeling both lighter and heavier all at once.

You can’t shake the comparison in your mind—the way Theodore’s presence always felt heavy, like there was something between you that you could not name. But with Adrien, it’s different. He’s easy. He doesn’t feel like a storm waiting to happen, like Theodore did. And yet, you feel unsettled, unsure if you should let yourself enjoy this attention.

But why would someone like him be interested in someone like me? You can’t shake the doubt, the feeling that this is all too good to be true.

The first few days after Adrien introduced himself passed with little fanfare. You found yourself thinking back to his words, but they felt like little more than a fleeting moment in the midst of your usual routine. School was still a whirlwind—lessons, assignments, and the ever-present hum of your friends dragging you along, their chatter and laughter filling up the corners of your days. You barely had time to notice the absence of anything new.

It was only in the quieter moments, when you found yourself alone with your thoughts, that Adrien’s voice would drift back into your mind. “It was nice talking to you.”

You weren’t sure why it lingered. He’d said it casually, a throwaway comment as if it was no different from any other greeting. But it was different. You weren’t used to being treated like that. It was a small thing, but in a life that had felt so filled with noise and obligation, it felt like a small light. Yet you pushed it aside. You didn’t know him. He was a stranger, no matter how pleasant.

Days passed, and you carried on as usual. You caught glimpses of him in the halls occasionally, but he never approached you again. You hadn’t expected him to, really. And you didn’t know what you would have done if he had.

But then, a few days later, you were walking down the corridor on your way to the library, a pile of books pressed tightly against your chest. You had your mind on your homework and what you had left to do that afternoon.

As you passed a corner near the library’s entrance, you nearly collided with someone. You glanced up, startled, and there he was—Adrien, his warm eyes locking onto yours as though he’d been expecting to see you. He stepped back just in time, allowing you to continue walking.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Hi,” you answered, a little caught off guard, though you couldn’t quite place why. His smile was warm, genuine, and it did something strange to your heart—a soft flutter that you quickly buried under a sense of confusion. Why did it feel different when he smiled at you?

“I was actually heading to the library, too,” Adrien continued, his words stumbling slightly before he found the right phrasing. “I… uh… if you, uh, don’t mind, maybe I could… walk with you?”

His words came out with a slight hesitation, but his smile remained steady. You caught a soft ‘D’accord’ under his breath, as if he had been about to say something before stopping himself.

You didn’t answer immediately, unsure why it felt so difficult. But then you just shrugged. What harm could it do? It wasn’t like you had to say yes, but his offer felt casual enough—so you nodded.

“Sure, why not.”

The walk wasn’t long. You had a few moments of awkward silence, your footsteps echoing slightly in the hallway. But Adrien didn’t seem bothered by it. He didn’t try to fill the silence with pointless chatter, as some people would. He just walked beside you, the occasional glance in your direction almost like an invitation to speak, but never pushing for it.

When you arrived at the library, you felt an odd sense of… expectation. But why? You weren’t sure, and you couldn’t figure it out. He hadn’t even asked to sit with you. And yet, when you found a quiet corner, Adrien dropped down across from you with a casual air, pulling out a few books from his bag. You didn’t speak much at first, but the way he settled next to you, not intruding on your space but in a way that made you aware of him, was somehow comforting.

You focused on your work, but there were moments when you found yourself glancing up at him. His eyes were always so soft, always paying attention to the books in front of him, but you could tell that sometimes he looked at you, too. It was subtle, but it was there. He was careful, though, and never pressed you. You never felt like you were being watched. But there was something there, something unspoken.

It wasn’t like you’d thought anything would happen, but somehow, you felt a little lighter in the moments you shared with him, even if they were silent. You told yourself it was just the solitude of the library making it feel that way, nothing more.

The next few days followed a similar rhythm. Adrien continued to show up, not in an overwhelming way, but in the way of someone who was content with simply sharing space. You’d find him walking beside you in the halls, or—more often than not—he’d be sitting across from you in the library, quietly reading. Some days, he’d nod in your direction, offering a small, knowing smile. Other times, he would remain absorbed in his books, but you’d catch a glance his way, and his eyes would flicker toward yours before he quickly returned to what he was doing.

You still didn’t know how to feel about it. You weren’t used to the attention. It wasn’t anything grand or demanding, and maybe that’s why it unsettled you. Maybe it felt too easy. And maybe that was why you kept waiting for the moment it would end—waiting for the point where you’d both go your separate ways, like you always had before.

But that moment didn’t come.

A week passed, then two. Adrien didn’t disappear, but his presence began to feel familiar. Not in a bad way, but in the way that something small can slowly start to settle into your life without you quite realising it. You found yourself moving through your days in that strange mix of normalcy and anticipation.

By the third week, he’d started sitting next to you before you even had a chance to settle in. No longer waiting for an invitation, he simply dropped down next to you, book in hand. The quiet exchanges—small smiles, the soft rustle of pages turning—began to feel almost like a routine. Not something you had to think about.

And then, one day, he spoke up as you were gathering your things.

“I was thinking of going outside to study today,” Adrien said, looking at you as if the question were almost an afterthought. “Would you like to join me? The grounds look quieter with it being a little colder, no?”

You blinked, a little thrown off by the suggestion. You’d never thought of studying outdoors, especially when it was getting colder, but you couldn’t help but feel the soft pull of the invitation. There was something about the way he asked—it wasn’t pressure. It wasn’t forceful. It was simply an offer, the kind of offer you didn’t often get. No one had ever asked you to just be there, to sit in the open air and study without some ulterior motive.

“Uhm… yeah, sure,” you said, almost before you thought about it.

Adrien gave you a soft smile in response, and you noticed the faintest ‘Merci’ slip from his lips, as though he was thankful you’d agreed.

You couldn’t help but notice how your heart beat a little faster as you walked with him to the grounds, the soft crunch of leaves beneath your shoes, the crispness of the air making your breath visible in the autumn light. Adrien didn’t speak much during the walk, but there was an ease to it. A peaceful silence that you didn’t mind. You sat together on the grass, your books spread out in front of you, and for a few moments, the world just… slowed down.

The next few weeks felt much the same—slow, but different in a way that you couldn’t quite explain. You and Adrien started meeting more often, sometimes in the common room, other times out by the grounds. Conversations that had once felt awkward or forced now came more naturally. You weren’t always talking, but there was a sense of comfort in simply being near him.

You also started to notice the little things. Sometimes, when you were walking to class, Adrien would fall in step beside you. And not just to the library or the grounds, but even to places you didn’t have class together. You found yourself looking up, seeing his warm smile as he walked with you—just there, beside you. It wasn’t a big gesture, but there was something so simple and steady about it. You didn’t have to ask. He was just there.

Occasionally, he would notice you struggling with your bag or books, and without a second thought, Adrien would take them from you.

“Here,” he’d say, ‘Mon dieu,’ he’d mutter under his breath as he adjusted the weight, realising it was more than he anticipated. “I might have underestimated that.”

His touch was gentle, but firm, and his eyes always met yours with that same warm, effortless kindness. It wasn’t anything big, but it made you feel strangely cared for in a way you hadn’t expected.

And then, one day, you realised you were no longer simply meeting him in the library or on the grounds. Adrien had started showing up outside of those places, walking you to and from your classes. Even when you didn’t have class together, you’d find him walking beside you. Sometimes, you’d talk, sometimes not. But you always felt… lighter, more grounded with him by your side.

By the fifth week, something had changed. You were running late, as usual. You rushed through the hallways, trying to make it to Potions class on time, your bag slung over your shoulder and your books clutched tightly in your arms. You were almost there when you heard Slughorn’s voice, carrying through the door as he gave his typical greeting.

“Settle down, everyone!” Professor Slughorn’s booming voice echoed, followed by his characteristic chuckle. “We’re about to begin!”

You pushed the door open quickly, slipping inside the classroom and feeling a rush of embarrassment. As you entered, your eyes immediately searched for a spot. The room was buzzing with conversation, but the first thing you noticed was Theodore’s desk—his books already neatly arranged on the surface. He was speaking to a group of students, laughing softly, not yet noticing you.

Your gaze flicked over to the other side of the room, where Adrien was sitting alone. His posture was relaxed, his usual calm expression on his face. He seemed unaware of the subtle tension you felt, but when his eyes met yours, there was a flicker of warmth, a quiet understanding between you both that had grown stronger over the past few weeks.

You hesitated for a moment. Theodore’s desk was set up just a few feet away, and yet, it felt so distant. You swallowed, glancing back at Adrien, who was looking at you with that familiar, soft smile.

You took a few steps toward his desk, feeling your heart race a little. Your thoughts collided in a whirlwind—Should I? Will it be okay? You were almost at his side when you stopped, unsure. Was it too bold, too sudden?

“Is it… okay if I sit here?” you asked quietly, your voice small but sincere, the question almost slipping out before you could stop it.

Adrien’s face lit up, his smile widening with ease. There was no hesitation in his response. “Of course,” he said, his accent slipping through just a bit as he added, “It’s… it’s more than okay.”

The words had a warmth that settled in your chest. You nodded, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over you. There was something comforting about the way he made you feel, like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

You slid into the seat beside him, your books still clutched in your lap, and glanced at the front of the room where Slughorn was still greeting the class. Your thoughts, however, lingered on the quiet space between you and Adrien. You couldn’t help but notice how easy it felt to sit next to him, how his presence made the world feel just a little bit softer.

Adrien shifted a little closer to his desk, leaning slightly in your direction as he began to unpack his things, but not too much—just enough to let you know he was there. It was subtle, but it made you feel less alone. You were here, in this moment, and for some reason, it felt like it mattered.

You settled into your seat, feeling the class start to hum around you as Slughorn continued his instructions. The words were a distant background noise now, and for a brief moment, you felt as though the world outside of this room had faded away. You were no longer rushing to catch up or trying to keep pace with your thoughts. You were just here, with Adrien, and it felt… easy.

The days had started to drag on, and with each one, the sense that something was off between you and Theodore Nott grew heavier. He couldn’t pinpoint it at first. There hadn’t been a single moment where you had argued or said anything that would cause him to doubt things between you. It was all the little things—the quiet shifts in your behaviour that he couldn’t ignore.

At first, he tried to brush it off, telling himself it was just the usual school pressure. Everyone was busy, and he knew you had other commitments, other friends. But the more he thought about it, the more something didn’t feel right. You hadn’t been by his side in the usual places—the library, the courtyard, the dining hall.

Theodore had always found comfort in those small, predictable routines you shared. The moments where you’d sneak into the library early, books scattered around the table as you both tried to get ahead on your assignments. The way you’d meet up in the courtyard after class, sharing a quiet moment before heading off to your next lesson. It wasn’t anything extraordinary, but it was your time, and it made everything feel familiar, safe, like the world around you could be chaotic, but at least you had that.

But now, it was as if those small moments had slipped away. You weren’t there waiting for him, and you weren’t with him when he expected you to be. At first, it was easy to ignore. But then, one morning, when he entered the dining hall, he caught sight of you. And his heart sank.

You were sitting with Adrien Delacroix.

It wasn’t that you weren’t allowed to sit with him—it was more that it was so different. You weren’t sitting with him like usual. You hadn’t even looked in his direction when he walked in. You and Adrien were talking, laughing, your heads bent close together as you shared some private joke.

Theodore’s eyes narrowed. Okay, he thought. It’s nothing. You were just talking to Adrien. He had no right to be bothered by it. It’s not like you weren’t friends with him. But still—something about it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel normal.

He tried to ignore it as he sat down at his usual spot, forcing himself to focus on his food, but the image of you and Adrien stayed in his mind. He pushed it down, telling himself it was nothing, but the feeling lingered, twisting in his chest.

Days passed, and it didn’t get better. It only seemed to get worse.

Theodore started to notice more subtle things. Like how you always seemed to be in the places that were once yours—the library, the courtyard, the dining hall. And each time, you weren’t with him. You were with Adrien.

It wasn’t just that. You weren’t sitting where you usually did anymore. In the library, you used to sit next to him, always the quiet corner by the window where the light slanted just right. But now, when he walked in, you were already there—across the room, seated next to Adrien, books laid out in front of you both, engrossed in whispers of conversation.

The first time it happened, Theodore had walked in expecting to find you at the usual spot, but you weren’t there. He scanned the room quickly, his heart sinking when he finally saw you. And Adrien.

The feeling in his chest shifted—unsettled, uncomfortable—as he walked past you both, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than it should. You hadn’t looked up, not even when he passed. It was almost like you hadn’t noticed him at all.

The second time it happened, it was during lunch. The same table. The same seats. But again, you weren’t sitting with him. You and Adrien were deep in conversation, the two of you leaning toward each other, laughing about something that seemed to have nothing to do with him.

Theodore sat down, trying to pretend it didn’t bother him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at you. And when he did, his eyes would flicker to Adrien, to the way you smiled at him. It’s fine, he told himself again. You and Adrien were friends. But it didn’t feel fine. It didn’t feel right. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being pushed out of the space you once shared.

He couldn’t quite put it into words, but it hurt.

The courtyard was the same. He had always expected to see you there, waiting for him, ready to talk about whatever was on your mind. But more often than not, you were already with Adrien.

It was small at first—those little moments when you weren’t there—but it was consistent. It was happening so often now, he couldn’t ignore it.

Theodore’s eyes followed you from across the courtyard. You were walking with Adrien again, your arms swinging lightly at your sides as you exchanged easy words with him. It wasn’t just that you were walking together—it was how naturally it seemed to come to you. There was no hesitation, no wariness. You were laughing at something Adrien had said, your body language open and comfortable.

Theodore felt a twinge in his chest. It wasn’t jealousy—not exactly. Or maybe it was. He couldn’t quite sort through the jumble of emotions.

You had been so quiet with him lately. But here, with Adrien, you were lighthearted, carefree. So different. It stung.

He’d caught glimpses of this before, bits and pieces—your laughter a little louder when Adrien was around, your smiles more frequent. But seeing it like this, with the two of you walking side by side, so effortlessly close, made it feel… final.

The weight of the past few weeks pressed on him then—the subtle shift, the moments when he’d felt you slipping away without even realising why. You used to seek him out, find excuses to talk to him, to share your thoughts, even your silence. But recently… it had been different. More distant. More reserved.

And then, as if to confirm his suspicions, he saw you—laughing, your eyes bright as you interacted with Adrien and a group of friends. You were introducing Adrien to them, your hand lightly resting on his arm as you made some joke. Astoria and Draco were laughing along, their approval written across their faces. They exchanged knowing looks, their smiles stretching in approval at the ease with which you were interacting with Adrien.

Theodore stopped, watching from the edge of the group, unnoticed. His breath caught in his chest. You were so at ease around him. So different. Your laughter wasn’t strained or forced. It was free. Unburdened. It didn’t take much to see how much more comfortable you were around Adrien than you were with him.

You were surrounded by your friends—laughing, joking, pulling Adrien into the conversation with ease. Their eyes flickered between you two, and he saw them exchange smiles, clearly pleased with the dynamic between you. As if they were glad to see you so happy.

Theodore’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. Was this what you were becoming? The person you were without him?

The contrast was sharp. There you were, surrounded by people who seemed to appreciate you, who saw the side of you that he hadn’t seen in weeks. That he’d stopped seeing.

He couldn’t remember when things had started to shift. When had you pulled away? When had Adrien stepped into the spaces that were once his?

His heart ached with the realisation that you were no longer the person he shared these moments with. You weren’t the same. And worse still, it was clear you didn’t need him the way you had before.

But how had it happened? He thought, watching you, his mind spiralling.

By the time Potions class rolled around, the feeling had only grown worse. Theodore had arrived early, as he often did, hoping to settle in before the class began. He made his way to the table you usually sat at, gathering his books and preparing for the lesson, but he was soon called over by a classmate.

He gave the table one last glance before walking over, but something gnawed at him. He hadn’t seen you yet. Was she late again?

He thought nothing of it, you usually took a nap before Thursday’s potions class—often finding an empty nearby classroom to get yourself 20 minutes of sleep.

When Slughorn called for everyone to sit down, Theodore returned to the table, expecting you to already be there, as usual. He looked up, ready to greet you with a casual smile, only to pause to realise the seat was empty. He became confused.

Was she ill? Is she okay?

As he took his seat, he started twisting and turning, looking for all the other possible entrances—waiting for your hectic entrance. His heart dropped as his eyes landed on you—sitting with Adrien. Right there, on the other side of the classroom, with someone who wasn’t him. He blinked, almost thinking he had seen wrong, but no—the reality didn’t change. You were sitting beside him, your focus flicking between Slughorn and Adrien.

Theodore froze , his breath caught in his chest. At first, his mind registered the strange emptiness in his stomach, like something was missing. And then, his thoughts shifted.

She’s okay. Just not with me.

The words in his head felt like they were slowing down as he settled on his stool, trying to gather his thoughts. You and Adrien, already engrossed in a conversation, hadn’t even noticed him yet. His confusion only grew as he glanced at your table, trying not to show how the tightness in his chest was making it hard to breathe. Why weren’t you sitting with him?

Theodore’s grip on his quill tightened until his knuckles whitened. It had been weeks since you’d sought him out, and now… now, it was like he didn’t even exist in the spaces you once shared.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something had changed.

Theodore had never considered himself an impatient person. He knew how to wait. He had spent years perfecting the art of watching, observing, and keeping his emotions neatly in check, tucked away beneath layers of carefully constructed indifference.

But right now, sitting in this godforsaken Potions lesson, he felt like he was unraveling.

His grip on his quill was tight, the feathered tip bending slightly under the pressure of his fingers. He forced himself to focus on the instructions, on the slow, deliberate movements of slicing up the ginger roots in front of him. But his hands were tense, his shoulders stiff, his entire body wound so tightly that he thought if someone so much as breathed wrong in his direction, he might snap.

He had been watching you. He hated that he had been watching you.

But how could he not?

You were right there, just a few feet away, your head tilted toward Adrien, your expression soft in a way that Theodore hadn’t seen in what felt like a lifetime. The two of you worked side by side, close enough that your elbows brushed every now and then, and each time it happened, you didn’t flinch away. Didn’t seem to mind at all.

It was infuriating.

He didn’t understand it—this shift, this change, the way you had slipped out of his grasp so seamlessly that he hadn’t even noticed until it was too late.

Maybe that was the worst part.

He could still remember the way things used to be—the way you used to seek him out, even when he wasn’t looking for you. The way you’d drop into the seat beside him without a second thought, a quiet presence that had never felt intrusive, never felt unwelcome. The way you had once laughed with him, not the way you did with Adrien now, but in a way that had been just for him.

But that version of you was gone, wasn’t it?

Theodore’s jaw clenched, and before he could stop himself, his fingers tightened around his quill—too tight.

The wood snapped between his fingers with a sharp crack.

A few students turned at the noise, but Theodore didn’t move. He barely even registered the ink that dripped onto his parchment, spreading into dark, messy blotches. His pulse was hammering against his ribs, a steady, unrelenting rhythm that did nothing to soothe the weight pressing against his chest.

He had to get a grip.

He forced his fingers to relax, letting the broken pieces of his quill drop onto the desk. He exhaled slowly, but it didn’t make a difference. The irritation still clawed at him, sharp and unrelenting.

He was tired of this. Tired of pretending that it didn’t matter, tired of convincing himself that it didn’t get to him every time he saw Adrien carrying your books, or walking beside you like he had always belonged there.

Because he hadn’t.

That was Theodore’s place.

Or at least—it had been.

He hadn’t been able to talk to you properly in weeks. Not because he didn’t want to. He did. He wanted to find you alone, wanted to pull you aside, wanted to demand answers that he wasn’t even sure he could put into words.

But every time he tried, Adrien was there.

It was infuriating how easily the other boy had slid into your life, how effortlessly he had taken up space that should have been Theodore’s.

He had tried to tell himself that he was being irrational. That there was no reason to feel like this, no reason to let something as simple as your choice of company bother him.

But it did.

It fucking did.

And what made it worse—what made it unbearable—was that you didn’t seem to notice.

You didn’t notice how he looked at you when you weren’t paying attention.

Didn’t notice the way his hands curled into fists every time Adrien slung an arm around your shoulder.

Didn’t notice the way he had started walking slower in the hallways, lingering just long enough to see if you’d turn to him, if you’d say something, anything.

But you never did.

Theodore inhaled sharply, forcing himself to keep his expression impassive as he glanced toward you again.

You were laughing.

Not just a quiet chuckle, not the polite kind of laughter you gave when you were only half-paying attention. No, this was different. This was real. Genuine. The kind that made your eyes crinkle at the edges, that made you drop your head slightly like you couldn’t quite contain it.

And Adrien—fucking Adrien Delacroix—was looking at you like you had given him the best gift in the world.

Theodore’s fingers curled around the edge of his desk, nails pressing into the wood.

The sound of Slughorn’s voice cut through the air, signalling the end of the lesson, but Theodore barely heard it.

He was still staring at you, at the way you gathered your things with an easy, unbothered grace, completely unaware of the storm raging inside him.

He should say something.

Now.

This was his chance.

Before he could overthink it, before you could leave the room, before Adrien could whisk you away yet again.

But just as he stepped forward—

Adrien turned to you, saying something quietly, something just for you. Whatever it was, it made you smile, and then, just like that, you were walking toward the door with him, the two of you slipping effortlessly into the current of students flooding the corridor.

And Theodore—

Theodore was left standing there, fists clenched at his sides, frustration coiling tightly in his chest like a noose.

He couldn’t do this anymore.

This wasn’t just irritation. This wasn’t just some fleeting annoyance that he could brush off with a sharp exhale and a roll of his shoulders.

No—this was something else entirely.

Something heavier.

Something dangerously close to regret.

Theodore barely felt his feet against the stone floor as he stormed through the castle. His mind was racing, his pulse pounding, the frustration still simmering beneath his skin like an open wound.

He couldn’t shake the image of you and Adrien in Potions. The way the two of you worked so easily together, the way your elbows brushed when you leaned too close. The way he murmured something low, just for you, and the way your lips had twitched with amusement before you gave him that look. That soft, private look that Theodore hadn’t seen in weeks.

It was wrong. It should have been him sitting next to you, not Adrien. It should have been his shoulder brushing against yours. He should have been the one pulling your cauldron closer when you got distracted, the one smirking as you muttered something under your breath about how you hated Slughorn’s tedious assignments. He should have been the one you turned to with that easy familiarity, the kind that once belonged to him and only him.

But he wasn’t.

Because you had stopped turning to him at all.

And now? Now you had Adrien-fucking- Delacroix acting like he had any right to step into that space, like he had the right to replace Theodore without a second thought. Like you had simply let it happen.

His hands clenched at his sides.

He had to know. Had to understand why this was happening, why you had pulled away, why it felt like you had disappeared from his life without so much as a second glance. Because if he didn’t get answers soon, he felt like he might lose his goddamn mind.

He took the corner sharply, heading straight for Draco’s dorm.

Someone moved into his path.

“Theodore?”

It was the girl from before—the one who had approached him at breakfast, the one who had tried to invite him to the Valentine’s party some weeks back. The same girl who had looked at you with thinly veiled amusement, like you were some afterthought to her plans.

He didn’t care about her.

She stepped toward him with a bright, expectant smile. “I was wondering if—”

He walked right past her.

Didn’t slow down. Didn’t acknowledge her.

Didn’t even hear what she had been about to say.

Her voice faltered, her footsteps pausing behind him, but he didn’t bother looking back. He was already moving, already set on what he needed to do, already too far gone to stop now.

Draco was going to tell him what the hell was going on.

His patience had finally run out.

By the time he reached the door, he didn’t hesitate. He slammed his fist against it, hard enough that the hinges rattled.

“Malfoy,” he bit out, voice sharp, demanding. “Open the fucking door.”

Nothing.

His fingers curled into a fist again, his knuckles burning.

“If you don’t open it right now, I swear I’ll—”

The handle gave way easily beneath his grip. The door wasn’t locked.

He shoved it open, frustration spilling over—

And immediately regretted it.

Draco Malfoy was on his bed, half-naked.

Astoria Greengrass was also half-naked.

The sheets had barely been pulled over her, her blouse abandoned somewhere on the floor, her curls disheveled in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Draco was sitting up against the headboard, shirtless, his hair a mess, looking every bit like someone who had just been interrupted at the worst possible moment.

Theodore froze.

Astoria froze.

Draco blinked once, then exhaled like this was nothing more than an inconvenience.

For a full, excruciating moment, nobody moved.

Then Astoria let out a noise of sheer disbelief, scrambling for the sheets to cover herself. “Are you actually fucking serious, Nott?”

Theodore felt like he’d been dropped into hell.

His eyes snapped to the ceiling. “For fuck’s sake—” He turned sharply, facing the door, but didn’t leave. His fingers dug into his temples as he let out a slow, aggravated breath. “Why the fuck was your door unlocked?”

Draco just rolled his eyes, completely unbothered. “Didn’t think a lunatic was about to barge in.”

Astoria scoffed from where she stood by the wardrobe, still tying the belt of Draco’s robe around her waist. “Merlin, if I had a Galleon for every time a Slytherin boy had a meltdown in this room, I’d be rich.”

Theodore barely heard her. His patience snapped.

“What’s going on with her?”

Draco raised a brow. “Who?”

Theodore saw red.

Before he could stop himself, he grabbed Draco’s collar and yanked him forward, the frustration that had been simmering beneath his skin finally spilling over.

Draco barely reacted, unimpressed as ever, but before he could pry Theodore off—

Astoria grabbed Theodore’s collar.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she groaned, physically pulling Theodore back with both hands, forcing him to let go of Draco’s shirt. “If you’re about to start some macho territorial bullshit, at least have the decency to do it outside where I’m not half-naked.”

Theodore barely stumbled, but his glare snapped to her. “Stay out of this, Greengrass.”

Astoria barked out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, sweetheart, I wouldn’t dream of it.” She crossed her arms, gaze narrowing. “What the hell is your problem?”

“My problem,” Theodore hissed, shaking his head, “is that you two clearly know something and are dragging this out instead of telling me what the fuck is going on.”

Draco straightened his collar like nothing had happened, exhaling in exasperation. “I already told you—”

Astoria cut him off, rolling her eyes. “He’s too dense, Malfoy. Just tell him what your dear cousin is doing before he starts breaking furniture.”

Draco shot her an unimpressed look but obliged, sighing as he finally leaned back against the headboard.

“She’s seventeen, Theodore.”

Theodore clenched his jaw. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Astoria interjected, raising a brow. “Because you’re acting like it’s some great mystery why a girl like her is suddenly acting her age.”

Theodore snapped his head toward her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Astoria exchanged a slow glance with Draco, like they were having a silent conversation. Then she sighed dramatically, sitting on the edge of the bed and propping her chin on her palm.

“It means,” she said slowly, “that it’s embarrassing how blind you are.”

Theodore’s nails dug into his palms. “Watch it, Greengrass.”

“Or what?” she shot back, unimpressed. “You’ll shove me into a wall next? Gods, you are so obvious.”

Draco smirked. “She’s right, you know.”

“Of course I am,” Astoria said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Here’s the thing, Nott. If you wanted her to stay in your orbit, maybe you shouldn’t have acted like she was nothing more than some convenient little thing to have around.”

Theodore’s jaw ticked. “That’s not—”

“She’s moving on,” Draco interrupted, his voice eerily calm. “Because that’s what people do when they realise they’ve been wasting their time.”

The words landed like a slap.

Theodore swallowed, something bitter curling in his stomach.

Astoria hummed. “I mean, you didn’t actually think she’d wait around for you forever, did you?” She tilted her head, watching him. “Poor thing probably woke up one day and realised she was chasing after a ghost.”

Theodore’s hands curled into fists. “That’s not how it was.”

Draco gave him a flat look. “Wasn’t it?”

Theodore hated the way his stomach twisted.

“She’s not stupid, Nott,” Draco continued, voice cool. “And she’s not waiting anymore. She’s looking for something better.” He smirked, slow and sharp. “Someone better.”

Astoria whistled. “Brutal.”

Theodore exhaled harshly through his nose, shaking his head. “That’s not—” He stopped himself. His voice had wavered. Fuck.

Astoria’s expression shifted, like she had caught something in his face that he hadn’t meant to show. Then, to his absolute fury, she smiled.

“Oh, this is rich,” she mused, eyes flickering over him. “You actually thought she was always going to come back to you, didn’t you?”

Theodore froze.

Draco chuckled under his breath.

“She did, though, didn’t she?” Astoria continued, tapping a finger against her knee. “Every time you got too cold, every time you pulled away, every time you treated her like a second thought—she still came back. And now that she’s not?” Her lips curled, saccharine and cruel. “You don’t know what to do with yourself.”

The words dug in deep, cutting through skin and bone like a blade.

Draco sighed, stretching out his legs. “You’re pissed off because you thought you had all the time in the world.” He gave Theodore a lazy once-over. “But newsflash—you don’t.”

Astoria nodded in agreement. “Adrien Delacroix is looking like a much better option than a boy who can’t make up his fucking mind.”

Theodore’s breathing was sharp, unsteady. His mind raced, but his lips remained pressed in a tight, stubborn line. He refused to acknowledge the sickening feeling twisting inside him, the one whispering that Draco and Astoria were right.

They weren’t. They couldn’t be.

You weren’t moving on.

You weren’t choosing Adrien over him.

You couldn’t be.

“I never treated her like a second thought,” Theodore muttered, voice tight, controlled—barely masking the storm raging inside him.

Astoria let out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, really?” Her arms crossed over her chest, her expression sharpening into something lethal. “Then what the hell do you call the past few months, Nott?”

Theodore’s jaw clenched. He opened his mouth to argue—

But Astoria gasped dramatically, her hand flying to her chest in mock horror.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she sneered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Did I say months? That was a huge mistake.” She took a step closer, her smirk turning cold.

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with something vicious.

“Years.”

The words landed like a curse, slamming into Theodore’s chest, wrapping around his ribs like an iron vice.

His stomach dropped.

Astoria scoffed. “Yeah, years, Nott. Years of you keeping her close enough to touch but never letting her hold on. Years of her looking at you like you hung the fucking stars, waiting—praying—for you to see her the way she saw you.”

Theodore’s breath was coming in short, uneven pulls.

“But you didn’t, did you?” Astoria pressed, her voice razor-sharp. “Or maybe you did, and you liked knowing she’d never leave. That no matter how many times you ignored her, no matter how many times you pulled away, no matter how many times you made her feel like she was nothing—she’d still be there.”

Theodore’s stomach twisted violently.

Because she was right.

You had always been there.

And he had been stupid enough to take that for granted.

His throat felt tight. “That’s not—”

“That’s exactly what happened!” Astoria screamed, her voice cracking, raw with frustration. “She spent years orbiting around you like you were something fucking sacred. Like you were the fucking sun and she was just lucky to stand in your light.”

Theodore felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“But stars burn out, Nott,” Astoria spat, hands trembling at her sides. “And eventually, people stop waiting.”

His chest ached—something sharp, something unbearable, something he hadn’t even realized was there until this moment.

You had waited for him. For so long. And he—

He had wasted it.

Astoria wasn’t finished.

“And you know what the worst part is?” she demanded, stepping even closer, fury flashing in her eyes. “She never even wanted to say anything about it! She just took it.”

Theodore blinked. “What?”

Astoria let out a hollow laugh. “Oh yeah, she never complained. Never confronted you. Never demanded that you finally make up your fucking mind.” She sneered. “But Draco noticed, didn’t you?”

Draco exhaled through his nose, nodding, his expression unreadable.

“She never told me,” he admitted. “But I saw the red eyes. The tear-stained sleeves. The way she always looked away when she thought no one was watching.”

Theodore’s chest constricted, a sickening pressure building in his ribs.

No.

No, that wasn’t—

You had never—

Had you?

“She thought she was hiding it,” Astoria continued, voice filled with something dangerously close to disgust. “But I got her to talk. Eventually. And do you know what she said?”

Theodore couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

“She said it didn’t matter.” Astoria’s voice softened for just a second, something bitter laced in her tone. “She said she was fine. That you weren’t doing anything wrong—that it was just how you were.” Her expression hardened again, her hands clenching into fists. “And do you know how fucking heartbreaking it is to watch someone shrink themselves into something manageable just so the person they love doesn’t feel guilty?”

Theodore’s hands were shaking.

“She acted like it was normal,” Astoria went on, her voice rising again. “Like it was fine that she spent years being treated like an afterthought—like she should just be grateful for the scraps of attention you gave her.”

Theodore felt like he was going to be sick.

She had hurt because of him.

She had cried because of him.

And he had never even noticed.

Astoria exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “And now you have the fucking audacity to stand here and act like she’s the one abandoning you?” Her voice broke, half a laugh, half something furious. “No, Theodore. You don’t get to do that. You let her go. And now she’s choosing to be happy.”

Theodore’s nails dug into his palms so hard he thought they might draw blood.

Because he saw it now.

Every moment he had let pass. Every glance you had given him that he had pretended not to notice. Every fucking time you had stood next to him, waiting for him to say something, to do something, and he had done nothing.

And now you weren’t waiting anymore.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “I care about her.”

Astoria’s laugh was vicious. “No, no, you fucking don’t.”

Theodore flinched.

Astoria stared at him for a long moment, her eyes still burning. Then, she exhaled and threw up her hands. “Oh, my god.”

Theodore swallowed hard.

Astoria turned to Draco. “Why are boys so fucking stupid?”

Draco sighed. “It’s genetic.”

Theodore’s control shattered. His pride was in ruins. He took a step forward, his voice breaking. “Please.”

Astoria blinked.

Draco raised a brow.

Theodore swallowed hard. His throat burned, his chest ached, but none of it mattered. Not compared to this.

“I can’t—I can’t lose her,” he said, voice shaking. “I can’t—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching as he forced himself to meet Astoria’s gaze. “Just tell me what the fuck to do.”

Astoria studied him.

Then she sighed, rubbing her temples. “God, you’re pathetic.”

Draco hummed. “Painful to watch, really.”

Astoria rolled her eyes. “Fine. Fine.” She took a step forward, poking a sharp finger into Theodore’s chest. “You want to fix this?”

Theodore didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

“Then stop thinking about it and do something, you absolute coward.”

Theodore exhaled shakily.

Astoria didn’t let up. “You don’t get to just show up and expect her to forgive you. You have to fight for her. You have to prove to her that you give a shit.”

Theodore swallowed hard.

Draco smirked. “Sounds like a grand gesture is in order.”

Astoria snorted. “Not even. Something consistent, Nott. Because trust me—Adrien is making it very, very easy for her to forget about you.”

Something flared hot in Theodore’s chest.

No.

You weren’t going to forget him.

He wasn’t going to let you.

And for the first time in his life—

He was going to fight for you.

Theodore woke with a start, the sharp knock at his door pulling him violently from the tangled haze of restless sleep. His head jerked up, and for a disoriented moment, the room swayed around him—stacks of parchment, ink-stained hands, the bitter taste of exhaustion thick on his tongue. His cheek had been pressed against his desk, the parchment beneath it crumpled, words smudged into an indecipherable mess. His body ached, stiff from the awkward position he’d fallen asleep in, and as he blinked blearily, the sight before him sank in with a slow, leaden weight.

His desk was an absolute disaster. Papers—so many of them—scattered across the wooden surface, some half-crumpled in frustration, others folded neatly, all of them failed attempts at something that should’ve been simple. Letters.

He had tried to write to you.

The realization clawed at him, dragging its nails down his ribs. The ink had bled through some pages, the sentences struck through with such force that they had torn, his frustration laid bare in every scratched-out word. Apologies he couldn’t get right. Apologies that, even now, felt meaningless. His own handwriting glared back at him in different variations of the same pitiful attempts:

I should’ve—

I never meant—

If you could just—

None of them were right. None of them would fix it.

A second knock echoed against the heavy door, firmer this time. He exhaled sharply, running a tired hand over his face before pushing himself up from the desk. The room felt suffocating, a mess of discarded pages, ink bottles knocked onto their sides, the air thick with the weight of too many unsaid things. He barely remembered falling asleep. He barely remembered anything past the spiral of last night—pacing the room, writing, tossing letter after letter into the pile, his mind a hurricane of words he could never bring himself to say aloud.

And now, someone was here.

Dragging himself toward the door, Theodore pulled it open without much thought. The sight that greeted him made his stomach drop.

Packages. Stacked haphazardly outside his room, almost comically abundant. A house-elf stood beside them, looking mildly unimpressed as he shuffled the last box into place.

“Delivery for Master Nott,” the elf announced, then, without another word, disappeared with a sharp crack, leaving Theodore standing there, staring at the pile of things he had—

Merlin.

His fingers twitched at his sides, a slow, creeping horror settling into his bones as he took in the sight properly. Wildflowers, their petals pristine and delicate, wrapped in deep green silk. A book—the one you had mentioned in passing months ago, the one you had run your fingers over in the shop window but never bought for yourself. You've probably found a way to read this already. Jewelry, carefully selected, gleaming in the light. And more—small things, tokens, pieces of something that, at the time, had seemed like they would mean something.

His gut twisted.

"Cazzo," he muttered under his breath, running a hand down his face, pressing his fingers hard against his closed eyes.

This—this was pathetic.

A short, breathless laugh left him, bitter and self-deprecating. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging slightly at the strands as if it might ground him, as if it might undo whatever this was. What had he been thinking? That he could throw money at this, at you, and somehow that would fix it? That he could neatly wrap up his guilt in expensive gifts and you’d just—what? Forgive him? Pretend none of it happened?

Theodore swallowed hard, his gaze darkening as it lingered on the unopened packages. The weight of it all—the sleepless nights, the letters he could never finish, the sharp edges of regret cutting into him—it crashed down with a force that made his chest feel hollow.

Because he saw it now.

You wouldn’t take any of this. You would look at the flowers, the book, the jewelry, all of it—and you would see right through him. You would see the desperation, the guilt, the pathetic attempt to mend something that was already broken.

He saw you standing there, just beyond the mess, your figure sharp against the blur of his exhaustion. The tilt of your head, the steady weight of your gaze—it was you. It had to be. You were right there, arms crossed, expression unreadable, watching him in that way that always made his chest feel tight.

For a split second, relief surged through him, raw and unfiltered. You had come. You had seen the mess, the letters, the wildflowers, the pathetic attempt at fixing things, and you had come anyway.

But you weren’t saying anything. You were just standing there, your eyes scanning the disaster around him, and when they met his, they weren’t filled with anger. They were filled with something worse.

Disappointment.

His stomach twisted, his throat tightening painfully. He opened his mouth, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "I know—" His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "I know it's not enough."

You didn’t move. Didn’t react. The silence pressed against him, heavier than anything he had ever felt.

He swallowed hard, shifting on his feet. "I just—" He let out a short, unsteady breath, raking a hand through his hair. "What the fuck was I thinking?"

Still, nothing. Your gaze didn’t waver, and that was what made it unbearable. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t cold. It was just… resigned.

"Cazzo," he muttered under his breath, dragging his hands down his face. "I should've—"

You can’t buy my forgiveness, Theodore.

The words weren’t loud. They weren’t cruel. But they might as well have been a curse, sinking deep into his chest, curling around his ribs like something inescapable.

He inhaled sharply, closing his eyes, willing the vision to disappear.

But when he opened them again—you were gone.

He exhaled sharply through his nose as if that could push the thought away. As if he didn’t already know, deep down, that you had every right to say it.

Because this wasn’t about the gifts. It was about everything before them. The years of taking you for granted. The dismissals, the avoidance, the ways he had let you slip through his fingers like something he had assumed would always be there.

And now, when he was finally ready to reach for you—you weren’t waiting anymore.

The realization hit harder than he expected, slamming into him like a punch to the ribs. His throat tightened, and for a long, unbearable moment, all he could do was stand there, staring at the mess he had made.

Then, with a sharp inhale, he turned away. The packages remained where they were, untouched, as Theodore shut the door behind him, pressing his back against the wood.

He needed to do better.

But for the first time, he wasn’t sure if it would be enough.

How was he supposed to reach you now? How was he supposed to even begin to fix this? He couldn’t just show up—not after everything, not after the silence he had let stretch between you like an uncrossable chasm. And yet, the thought of doing nothing, of letting this fester, made his stomach churn violently.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening. He had spent so long keeping you at a distance, and now that you were truly out of reach, all he wanted to do was find you.

But how?

Theodore wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting there.

He had come out to the courtyard for a cigarette—just one, just long enough to clear his head. Long enough to pretend that he wasn’t unraveling from the inside out. But the hours had slipped by like water through his fingers, and now the sun was setting, casting the sky in deep purples and burnt oranges. His cigarette pack was almost empty. His fingers were stained with nicotine, raw from how many times he had burned each cigarette down to the filter.

The taste of smoke lingered thickly at the back of his throat, acrid and familiar, but it wasn’t doing anything to settle him. His nerves felt frayed, his thoughts tangled in a loop he couldn’t escape. The mess of the morning still clung to him—Astoria’s words, Draco’s sharp-edged amusement, the unbearable weight of knowing he had let you slip right through his fingers.

He didn’t want to talk to them again. Pushing harder would mean Astoria telling him to fuck off or worse—another lecture from her sharp tongue. And Draco? Draco was already entertained enough by this whole thing. No. If Theodore was going to understand what had changed, there was only one person who could give him that answer.

Adrien Delacroix.

The thought of Adrien gnawed at him. He’d noticed him the second he stepped into the courtyard, but Adrien had been here first. That should have meant something. Should’ve given him the right to ignore him, to pretend that he wasn’t watching from the corner of his eye as Adrien sat with his group of friends.

"C'est insensé," one of them muttered, shaking his head. "Tu as vu? Since—je ne sais pas, maybe une hour?"

Adrien exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. "Je sais."

The boy scoffed. "Mais pourquoi? What is his problem? He just—stares, like—like he wants to kill you."

Another boy chuckled, glancing over his shoulder. "You steal his girlfriend or something?" His accent thick but teasing. "He looks at you like... like you took something from him."

Adrien smirked, shaking his head. "Non. But maybe he thinks so."

Theodore’s chest tightened, his hands shaking, his cigarette burning down too quickly in his hand. He could feel the jealousy curling in his gut like a fist. The idea that Adrien could have anything to do with you—it shouldn’t matter. He knew it shouldn’t matter. But fuck, it did.

His teeth ground together, a bitter taste rising in his mouth. The laughter of Adrien’s friends, casual and light, sent a flare of irritation through him. He hated how Adrien made everything feel easy—like he was untouchable. It burned even worse when Theodore had to rely on him to understand what had changed.

And still—he couldn’t just let it go.

The thought of asking Adrien for help was almost unbearable. His pride bristled at the idea of begging, of needing someone like him for something. Adrien had a way of making everything feel like a game, like Theodore was just another piece on his chessboard.

But fuck, the thought of not asking him was worse. The knot in his chest tightened. If Adrien was the answer, then he’d have to go to him. And that was the last thing he wanted.

But what else was there? How else would he get to you?

Adrien laughed again. The sound caught him off guard—light, unbothered. It threaded through the crisp evening air like it belonged there. Theodore didn’t want to hear it. But somehow, it clung to him, stoking the fire in his chest.

"Merde," one of Adrien’s friends muttered, and Theodore’s stomach twisted. "Regarde encore— he’s still looking."

Adrien sighed, rubbing his temple. "Je sais."

Theodore’s shoulders tensed. The idea that Adrien could sense him watching—feel his gaze—made his blood boil. He dropped his gaze, flicking the last of the cigarette, trying to feign disinterest, but it was too late. The damage was done.

"Mais pourquoi?" the other boy scoffed, laughing in confusion. "What is his problem? Il te déteste ou quoi? He stares—like—comme un chien abandonné."

Theodore’s heart raced, the words biting deeper than they should’ve. He wasn’t staring—he wasn’t! Just watching. Just—he wasn’t sure what it was.

But Adrien—he huffed out a short, tired laugh, stretching his arms behind him. "Non. Mais—" He tilted his head slightly, like he was thinking, like he was weighing something. "Maybe he doesn’t know what he wants."

Another boy snorted. "C'est triste. Feels like he wants to fight you ou beg for something."

Laughter, casual, and it dug at Theodore, twisting inside him. He could almost hear the amusement in Adrien’s voice—like he knew exactly what he was doing to him. It was infuriating.

But worse, much worse, was the sinking feeling that had settled in his chest. Adrien was playing some game—he always did—but now, it felt different. Every second he spent here, just watching, was another second he was losing control. Losing ground.

Theodore ground his teeth together, the ember of his cigarette flaring briefly with the tightness in his grip. He wasn’t even sure why he was still here—still stuck in this courtyard, pretending he didn’t care. He didn’t need to care.

But you do, a voice in his head whispered, and Theodore slammed it down immediately. No. He didn’t need to do this. He didn’t need Adrien. Didn’t need anything from him. The thought was a bitter taste at the back of his throat.

His gaze had drifted again. Adrien was still there, still with his friends, still being him, laughing, existing like the world had nothing on him. Theodore’s eyes narrowed, but his thoughts felt like they were slipping away, growing foggy, distant. It wasn’t that he wanted to look—he didn’t, not anymore—but his mind wouldn’t stop replaying everything. Every word, every laugh, every glance.

Before he knew it, he was no longer paying attention to anything around him—just lost in the buzz of his own thoughts. Adrien’s presence was like a shadow he couldn’t shake, hovering at the edge of his mind, no matter how much he wanted to push it away.

That was when he felt it.

A shift in the air. A pressure building. Like the ground was vibrating, or the space around him had suddenly grown too small.

Theodore’s heart skipped a beat, a flutter of panic rising in his chest. He hadn’t heard any footsteps—hadn’t seen Adrien moving, hadn’t noticed him leave his friends.

But then—

Adrien’s figure appeared in his peripheral vision, and Theodore’s breath caught in his throat.

He didn’t know how to process it, how to even think about it. Adrien was walking straight toward him, cutting through the space between them like he had every right to.

What the fuck is he doing?

Theodore’s mind raced, panic flooding through him in an instant. He hadn’t planned this. He hadn’t prepared for this. His fingers tightened around the cigarette, and his pulse quickened as he tried to steady his breath. His thoughts crashed against each other, the sharp throb of confusion making him dizzy.

He didn’t know why it hit him like this. Adrien never approached him like this—never. Not without purpose. Not without making some fucking joke or saying something sarcastic. And now—

Is he coming to confront me? To mock me?

Theodore’s chest tightened at the thought. No. No, that can’t be it. He wouldn’t... would he?

His heart pounded in his ears as he fought the urge to stand up, to run, to hide, to do anything but stay frozen in place. Adrien was still coming closer. Still making his way to him with that effortless stride, like he had all the time in the world.

What the hell does he want?

Theodore’s mind screamed at him to stay calm, but the tension in his body was unbearable. He wasn’t hidden anymore. He couldn’t hide anymore.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t ready for any of it. Not for this moment. Not for whatever Adrien was going to throw at him next. The weight of everything he had been avoiding crashed down on him, and in that moment, all he could think was one thing: I’m not ready.

The frenchman stopped just short of Theodore, standing for a moment as if assessing the space between them. Theodore’s stomach twisted, every instinct telling him to look away, to say something, to do anything but sit there in silence.

Adrien didn’t seem to mind the quiet. With a casual flick of his wrist, he pulled a fresh pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and glanced at Theodore. “You got a light?”

Theodore hesitated, fingers hovering over his own lighter in his pocket - scratching at the engraving. The boy was giving him the most horrid once over - as if judging the sham-confidence that he was trying so hard to convince himself was real. He considered not handing over the lighter—to not say anything at all. But Adrien wasn’t waiting for permission, just standing there, waiting for Theodore to respond.

Finally, Theodore pulled the lighter from his pocket and handed it over. Adrien took it without a word, lighting the cigarette he was balancing between his teeth. As the flame flickered out, he sank down on the bench next to him, taking a deep inhale of the cigarette. He glanced down at the lighter and raised an eyebrow.

“Teo?” Adrien said, his tone teasing, yet genuinely curious. He turned it over in his fingers, inspecting the engraving. “Someone special gave this to you?”

Theodore’s chest tightened. He didn’t answer, couldn’t. The air felt thick, heavy, with Adrien just sitting there— just a a meter away, eyes flicking between him and the lighter, like he knew exactly how to get under Theodore’s skin. He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly.

“So,” Adrien said after a moment, the word hanging between them like a challenge. “What is it that you think I’ve done?”

Theodore’s heart skipped a beat. His instincts screamed at him to push back, to protect whatever was left of his pride, but he stayed silent. Adrien’s eyes never left him, his smirk widening.

“You’ve been staring at me like you’re planning my funeral. Is it that bad?” Adrien said casually, taking another drag from his cigarette.

Theodore’s grip tightened around his near-dead cigarette, the ember flaring with his barely restrained irritation. He should say something, anything, but the words were caught in his throat.

Adrien, sensing the tension, continued to poke at him. “Well whatever, it is, it must be bad enough that you've spent the last 3 heures burning holes into my head.”

Theodore’s jaw clenched. He wanted to fight back, to get under Adrien’s skin the way he was doing to him, but the silence between them felt like a trap. Adrien was waiting for something. A reaction. A slip-up. He was playing this game, and Theodore was losing.

The weight of it pressed against his ribs, coiling tight around his lungs, making every breath feel too shallow. The courtyard stretched vast and open around them, but the air between them was thick—choking, stagnant. Something waiting to snap.

A shift of movement. The subtle inhale of someone who had already made up their mind.

Adrien exhaled first. A slow breath through his nose, smoke curling from his lips before he flicked what remained of his cigarette to the ground. The ember sizzled faintly against damp stone, dimming instantly, disappearing.

He didn’t leave.

Instead, he lingered, rolling his shoulders back before tilting his head just slightly—casual, practiced ease masking something sharper beneath the surface.

"So." His voice was light, too light. A forced contrast against the weight pressing down on them. "What’s with the lurking?"

The silence that followed dragged.

It should have been broken by something natural—a scoff, a sigh, any acknowledgment that the words had even been spoken. But nothing came.

No response. No movement.

Just tension, settling deeper, embedding itself into every unspoken second.

Adrien’s fingers twitched. "You know," he continued, tone shifting toward something drier, "if you’re going to stand there and stare at me all night, you could at least pretend to have a reason."

Still, nothing.

Not a single flicker of acknowledgment, save for the way Theodore’s fingers tightened—so slightly it would have been easy to miss—at his sides.

The tell was small. But it was there.

Adrien hummed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Long day?"

A pause.

Theodore’s jaw clenched, a flicker of tension in his shoulders so brief it could have been imagined.

Not an answer. But not nothing, either.

The corner of Adrien’s mouth curled—not in amusement, not really. It was too exasperated for that, too dry. "Or are you just like this now?"

That got a reaction. A sharp inhale, controlled but still noticeable.

Like the comment had landed.

Like it had hit somewhere.

The silence that followed was different. Sharper.

Adrien exhaled, running a slow hand through his hair, the weight of his own patience wearing thin. "Right." He nodded to himself, voice dipping into something lower, something edged with something just slightly irritated. "You’re really gonna make me work for this, huh?"

Another pause. Another beat of nothingness stretching too long, stretching so far it started to feel personal.

Adrien didn’t miss the way Theodore’s gaze flickered—not toward him, never toward him—but past him, around him, away from him.

Avoiding.

Not engaging.

Something about that settled wrong in Adrien’s chest.

Because why was this his problem?

Why was he standing here, trying, when the weight of what had gone wrong between Theodore and her had nothing to do with him?

He hadn’t been the one to pull away. He hadn’t been the one to let her think, even for a second, that she wasn’t important enough to fight for.

And yet, somehow, he was the one standing in the cold, dragging words out of someone who clearly had no intention of speaking first.

His fingers twitched at his sides before curling into fists.

Yeah. No.

"Right. You know what?" A step back. A shake of the head. "I’m not doing this."

He turned, already done, already moving.

Then—

"Wait!"

The word came rough. Unsteady.

Like something had slipped before it could be swallowed down.

Adrien stopped.

For a moment, he didn’t turn back.

Didn’t move.

Just let the silence stretch impossibly thin, let the weight of the word sit between them, heavy and unmistakable.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned.

The silence stretched between them, thick with something neither of them wanted to name. Theodore shifted, his jaw clenching as he exhaled sharply, forcing himself to meet Adrien’s gaze. The Frenchman, still standing with his weight lazily shifted to one side, raised a brow, unimpressed.

Adrien let out a breath of laughter, though there was no real humor in it. "What? You gonna keep staring at me like I stole your inheritance, or do you actually have something to say?"

Theodore's fingers twitched at his sides. He wasn’t in the mood for games, but he couldn’t blame Adrien for being like this. Not really. He had spent weeks resenting him, watching him from afar, convincing himself that Adrien was the reason everything had changed. But now, standing here, with no one else to turn to, he found himself swallowing the words that burned in his throat before finally forcing them out.

"I want her to know that I've made the effort—that I've changed. But how do I make her see that?"

Adrien blinked. For a moment, his expression was unreadable. Then, a slow, exaggerated sigh left his lips, and he ran a hand down his face. "Oh, mon dieu," he muttered, shaking his head. "You cannot be serious. Is this really happening?"

Theodore’s hands clenched into fists. "Just answer the question."

Adrien gave him a long look, and for a second, Theodore thought he was going to walk away. But then, the amusement in Adrien’s eyes dimmed, something steadier settling in its place. He tilted his head slightly, assessing him.

"Why are you asking me?" Adrien asked, his voice quieter now, less sharp. "You must have learnt something in the how many years she's been pining after you."

Theodore swallowed hard. "I—"

Adrien cut in. "You’re just hoping I’ll say something that makes it easier for you, aren't you?"

"And what, let me guess," Adrien exhaled, crossing his arms. "You’ve finally realized you’ve been acting like a complete idiot, and now you’re desperate to fix things. But you don’t know how, and instead of figuring it out yourself, you’re here, asking me for some magic solution to make it all better." He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Incroyable."

Theodore stiffened. He deserved that. He knew he did. But the weight in his chest didn’t ease.

Adrien watched him for another long moment, then sighed, his frustration fading just slightly. "You want an answer? Fine. Here’s the truth. You don’t just tell someone you care; you show them. It’s not about words— it’s not about grand apologies or empty promises. It’s about actions."

Theodore stayed silent, absorbing his words.

Adrien’s gaze sharpened. "And you’re not just competing with me. You’re competing with yourself. The version of you she remembers - apparantly the only one she knows. The version of you that made her feel like she wasn’t enough. She needs to see that you’ve changed, not because you’re scared of losing her, but because you want to be better—for her, yes, but also for yourself."

Theodore’s throat felt tight. He had spent so long convincing himself that the problem was Adrien, that it was about who she was spending time with now, that he had ignored the real issue: himself.

Adrien sighed, rolling his shoulders back. "Look, I don’t like you," he said bluntly. "Not after what you put her through. And honestly? I wasn’t sure what kind of person you were. I’ve heard things—seen the way you act. I figured you were just another pureblood Slytherin with nothing real to say. But…" He hesitated, then gave a small shrug. ""She cares about you. For some stupid reason, she does. And because of that, I have to at least try to believe you can be better. But if you don’t—if you mess this up again—I’ll make sure there’s no coming back from it. She means a lot to me, Nott. She’s important. And if you sorting your shit out means she’ll be happy, then fine, I’ll entertain this. But if you hurt her again? I’ll personally make sure you never get the chance to fix it.""

Theodore exhaled, the weight of it settling deep in his chest. "And how do I do that?"

Adrien smirked, though there was a sharp edge to it. "Alright, Nott, let’s break this down. What exactly have you done so far to show her you’ve changed?" He leaned his head back over the bench, waiting. "Go on. Impress me."

Theodore hesitated. "I… talked to Astoria. And Draco. And I—" He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "I bought her stuff— apology stuff to show her I thought of her too..."

Adrien let out a slow, dry laugh. "Oh, merveilleux. Let me guess—flowers? Jewelry? Maybe a book she already read three times over?" He clutched his chest dramatically. "Mon dieu, Nott, how could she possibly resist such a display of heartfelt remorse?"

Theodore sat there in silence.

He scoffed, shaking his head. "And you—really—thought that would fix everything? Just throw a bunch of gifts at her and hope she magically forgets how much you hurt her?" He let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "Brilliant plan, Nott. Truly inspired. Nothing says 'I understand my mistakes' quite like expensive shit."

Adrien exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "Tell me, did you even put any thought into it? Or did you just grab whatever looked fancy and hope it would do the talking for you? Because if you think that stacking a pile of presents in front of her like some pathetic shrine to your guilt is going to fix anything—mon dieu, you’re even more clueless than I thought."

Theodore clenched his jaw. "That’s not—"

Theodore looked away, his grip tightening at his sides. The worst part was that Adrien wasn’t wrong.

Adrien sighed, rubbing his temple. "You don’t buy forgiveness, Theodore. You don’t hand her a pile of gifts and expect her to believe you suddenly care. If anything, that just proves you don’t get it. If you want her to see you’ve changed, then you actually have to change." Not just panic and start running to everyone around her hoping they’ll do the work for you. You need to show her—through your actions, not just whatever self-pitying monologue you’ve got running in your head."

Theodore swallowed hard. "And how do I do that?"

Adrien’s smirk returned, but this time, it was less mocking. "Now that, mon ami, is the real question."

The sheets were too warm. Or maybe not warm enough. Every time you tried to settle, your thoughts seemed to slip between the covers with you, circling your mind like an endless, insomniac spiral. It had been like this for days. You rolled over for the fifth time, trying to bury your head in your pillow and ignore the feeling clawing at your chest—frustration, loneliness, the unrelenting ache of missing something you weren’t sure you could have anymore.

You turned again, staring at the shadows that crept along the stone walls of the dormitory, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the tall windows. Sleep wasn’t coming. It hadn’t come in a while.

Your fingers, cold despite the warmth of your blankets, brushed over the edge of your nightgown. Barefoot, you swung your legs off the side of the bed, toes brushing the cool stone floor. The chill hit you like a breath of wind. You stood, the muscles in your legs stiff from lying still for too long, and tugged your cardigan tighter around your shoulders.

A quick glance around the room showed no one else awake. Of course, no one else would be—most of the Gryffindors could sleep through anything. But you weren’t like them. Not tonight.

You moved as quietly as possible, pulling your cardigan tighter, but your bare feet met the cold floor with every step, making you wince. You could feel the stone floor beneath your feet, rough and unforgiving, as if each step was a reminder of how disconnected you felt, how off-balance everything seemed lately. The distance between you and the others felt wider with each step you took. Even the castle seemed cold and distant.

Your thoughts circled back to him—Theodore. Even now, after all that had happened, he was still a presence in the back of your mind, unwanted and persistent, like the cold drafts you could never seem to escape. You weren’t ready for anything between you two, not yet, not with all the unsaid things and the space that had grown between you.

Your footsteps echoed softly through the empty halls as you navigated the winding corridors of the castle, your breath a faint mist in the cold air. The walk, though short, seemed to take forever. You had been making this journey for days now, finding solace in the familiar warmth of the kitchens, a place where time seemed to slow down and the usual chaos of Hogwarts didn’t quite reach you. It was just you, and the promise of something warm—something comforting that didn’t require explanation.

The flickering torchlight on the walls illuminated your path, but the shadows of the corridors seemed to stretch endlessly in front of you, like the miles of unspoken words and unfinished conversations between you and Theodore. The thought of him made your stomach churn in the quiet stillness of the castle, but still, you walked. You had to.

When you reached the kitchens, the door creaked as you nudged it open, the sound sharper in the silence of the night. The faint smell of baked goods lingered in the air, mixed with the faint scent of warm milk, a comfort that almost made you forget why you’d come. You stepped in, the door falling gently closed behind you, and your eyes immediately sought the familiar space—the cupboards lined with ingredients, the shelves stacked with cookbooks, the little stove in the corner that you’d grown to love over the years.

Then you froze.

There, standing over the counter, was Theodore.

At first, you thought you’d imagined him, the shadows playing tricks on your eyes, but no, there he was. Theodore, his hair slightly messy from sleep, his eyes bloodshot, and an array of failed attempts strewn across the counter in front of him. Empty mugs sat in a sad pile, some clearly broken, others just abandoned, alongside half-opened packets of hot chocolate powder and bits of chocolate bars that had already started to melt.

Your heart skipped a beat, a strange, sudden mixture of anger and confusion tightening in your chest. Of all places, here. You weren’t sure if you wanted to run or stay. Maybe both. Your feet felt rooted to the spot, cold stone against bare skin, the weight of the situation too much to bear.

You blinked, suddenly self-conscious of your bare feet, the cold air seeping through the thin fabric of your nightgown. Your mind was racing—what was he doing here? Why tonight, of all nights? And why this?

Theodore froze at the sound of your steps, his hands hovering over the mess. He stepped back, raising his hands in a motion you knew all too well. “I—I wasn’t trying to invade your personal space or anything,” he muttered quickly, glancing over at you with wide eyes. “I just... well, I know how much you like hot chocolate, and I thought I could... I mean, if you want, I can leave, but I wasn’t trying to—” He trailed off, looking flustered.

The words hit you like a cold wave, leaving a strange, hollow ache in their wake. His presence here, in this moment, felt like an intrusion. You hadn’t asked for this. You hadn’t asked for him to come and try to fix things when there were still so many pieces of the puzzle missing, so many things left unsaid.

Your heart thudded in your chest, your wariness a familiar weight in your stomach. You didn’t respond immediately, unsure how to handle his sudden presence—especially given the quiet, unresolved tension between you. You didn’t want to talk about it. Not now, not here. You weren’t sure if you were ready for any of it.

Theodore took another step back, as if to give you space, but his eyes flickered to the counter. “I—I didn’t mean to make a mess. It’s just, well... I’ve never made hot chocolate quite like this before, apparently.” His voice was almost sheepish, as if embarrassed by the sight of all the failed attempts. The mess on the counter felt like a metaphor for everything that had happened between you two—disastrous, messy, and something neither of you knew how to fix.

Your eyes fell on the spilled milk, the chocolate that was now a mess on the counter, the empty mugs—each a reminder of how much he was trying. For a moment, you were torn between the nagging frustration that you still felt for him and the sudden realization that this, this, was a side of him you hadn’t expected to see. And despite yourself, you felt a small crack in the wall you’d built around yourself.

Theodore sighed, rubbing a hand through his messy hair. “I’m not trying to make things weird. Really. I just... I wanted to make it right.” He glanced at you again, his voice softer now. “You’ve been having a lot of... sleepless nights, haven’t you? I thought you might like this.”

For a second, there was a pause. The words hung between you like a fragile thread, neither of you willing to break the silence. The warmth in his voice didn’t match the cold in your chest, but it did something to you—softened the edges just enough for you to acknowledge how much you missed this. Missed him. But you couldn’t let that show. Not yet.

And in that silence, it almost felt like you were both standing in a space that didn’t quite belong to either of you, a place full of warmth, but also memories that were still too fresh.

You stared at Theodore, uncertainty gnawing at you. The kitchen was quiet again, save for the small sounds of his failed attempts, the clink of mugs and the soft, almost imperceptible hiss of milk being heated for another round. The awkwardness of the moment threatened to swallow you, and yet, there was something in his eyes—something familiar—that made you hesitate before retreating.

Finally, you asked, your voice low but sharp. "What are you doing here?"

Theodore blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He looked up, almost embarrassed, and fumbled with the mess on the counter. "Making hot chocolate," he said with a little shrug, like the answer should be obvious.

You shook your head, stepping closer, arms crossed over your chest. You weren’t going to let this go. "Theodore, why are you here?"

For a moment, Theodore just stood there, staring at the ingredients strewn across the counter. He seemed to lose himself in the mess, eyes flicking to the various packets of powder, the chocolate bars, the spilled milk. And then, as though pulled from some deep place within him, his voice was quieter when he spoke again, but no less meaningful. "You used to call me Teo," he said, almost to himself, as if the words were a soft confession.

You felt your chest tighten at the sound of the nickname, the one that had always seemed to carry weight with it. Teo. It was the name you’d whispered to him in a thousand different contexts: while studying, while making coffee, while talking about anything and everything. It had always been a small, simple thing, but hearing it now, in the thick of all this silence, made your heart feel heavy.

"Used to," you said quietly, your voice betraying the fragility you were trying to hide. "But that was a long time ago. It doesn’t—" You stopped yourself, unsure of what you wanted to say. It didn’t matter, but it did. You didn’t know how to untangle your feelings.

Theodore was standing still now, and his gaze was steady, meeting yours. The apology hadn’t come yet, but the way he looked at you made it clear he knew he owed one.

“I thought... I thought I could fix it,” he continued, the words spilling out now like he couldn’t hold them in any longer. "You remember fifth year? When you’d make me hot chocolate while we were studying for hours? You always insisted on putting all that extra sugar in it—whipped cream, marshmallows, the whole thing. I hated how sweet it was, but it was just... the way you made it, you know?" He chuckled softly, but the sound was laced with a touch of bitterness. "And I never had the heart to tell you. I just—well, I’d drink it anyway because you were the one making it. It just... felt like something we did together. Even if it was stupid and small, it was... something."

His voice faltered for a moment, and you could see him struggling to collect his thoughts, the words piling up in his mind. He shook his head as if trying to make sense of the mess, but nothing came out right.

"I guess," he continued, his tone quieter now, more serious, "I thought if I could do something like that again—if I could make you hot chocolate—maybe it would mean something. Maybe it would be enough for you to understand that I... I didn’t mean to mess things up. I know I did. I know I did. But I thought, at least... this... this would be a way to show you that I’m sorry. I don’t know. I just... I couldn’t think of anything else."

The words hung in the air, thick with all the things he hadn’t said, all the things you both had buried under silence and time. His hands hovered over the spilled milk, and for a moment, he seemed lost, his expression tense. You could tell he was trying, but there was no easy way out of this. No easy apology.

“I never thought I’d end up like this,” he continued, his voice thickening. "I know this doesn’t make up for what happened. It doesn’t fix anything. But... I thought, if I could at least do this—if I could make the hot chocolate you always made for me—that maybe it would be enough. At least... at least it would show you that I care."

There was so much emotion in his words—so much regret, so much rawness—that it made you want to look away, but you couldn’t. Your chest tightened, and the lump in your throat grew, because you didn’t know what to feel anymore. You wanted to tell him it wasn’t enough. That it couldn’t be fixed with something so small. But you were frozen, unsure of how to say it without everything else falling apart.

Finally, you spoke, your voice shaky, betraying the turmoil inside. "It’s not enough," you whispered. "Hot chocolate... doesn’t fix everything, Theodore."

He nodded, his eyes flicking down to the counter, avoiding your gaze. "I know," he said quietly. "I know. I just... I wanted to try."

The silence stretched between you both, thick and heavy, but not entirely unpleasant. The words weren’t enough, not yet, but maybe there was a chance now. Maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something different.

The silence between you both felt different now. It wasn’t the oppressive silence of anger, but something quieter, more fragile. The air between you was thick, as though you could almost reach out and touch the distance that had always been there, but never this much. You could hear the soft hiss of milk heating on the stove, the clink of Theodore’s spoon stirring his latest attempt at hot chocolate—sounds that should have felt comforting, familiar, but instead, they only made the room feel colder.

You wanted to break the silence. You needed to. But the words felt stuck somewhere deep inside you, tangled in all the hurt and frustration you’d been carrying for so long. You had no idea how to untangle it all. It was easier to stay silent. Easier to keep your distance.

Your eyes stayed focused on the floor, avoiding his. Because if you looked at him, even for a second, you weren’t sure what you’d do. You could feel the anger still simmering beneath your skin, but there was something else, too. Something you couldn’t name. The ache in your chest grew heavier, but you couldn’t let yourself give in. Not yet.

For a moment, you just stood there, your arms still crossed, trying to gather the strength to speak. Finally, you let out a shaky breath. "I’m not saying it’s fine. It’s... it’s not. What you did... it really hurt, Theodore." The words felt like they came from someone else, but you knew they needed to be said. "I don’t forget things like that. It still hurts."

You could hear Theodore’s breath hitch in the quiet, and you knew he could feel every word in the depths of his gut. You didn’t want to hurt him, but the truth was, you were still hurting, too.

He stayed still, his eyes fixed on you, like he was afraid that if he moved or spoke, he’d make things worse. His mouth opened, then closed, like he couldn’t quite figure out what to say next. You didn’t give him a chance to respond. You couldn’t bear to hear another apology that felt empty.

You didn’t want to admit it, but the weight of everything you'd been holding back felt too much to ignore anymore. “I don’t forget things like that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but heavy with the truth of it. “I don’t forget how easily you pulled away, how much it hurt when you didn’t seem to care about me at all. I didn’t expect it to be so easy for you to just move on.” Your throat tightened with the bitterness you couldn’t quite swallow, and you hated how raw you sounded, but it was too late to take it back. “I didn’t think you would just... leave me like that."

"But, Theodore..."

The moment hung there, suspended in time, and you felt the rawness of everything you’d been holding inside finally bubble to the surface. You didn’t know if you could fully forgive him yet, but you weren’t sure you wanted to close the door on this... whatever it was.

You exhaled slowly, as if each breath took a little more of your resolve with it. "I don’t know what you expect me to say,” you murmured, your voice softer now, but still carrying the weight of everything you couldn’t say before. “It’s not just about the words you’ve said or the things you’ve done... it’s more than that. You can’t just make a grand gesture and think it’ll fix everything." You shifted your weight, suddenly unsure of how to make the rest of it come out right. "I... I need to see that this is something you actually care about. Not just in one moment, but over time. You’ve got to show me you can do more than apologize."

Your throat tightened as you struggled to keep yourself steady. "I don’t know if I’m ready to just... forget everything. Maybe I’ll get there, but not right now. I need to see if you really mean it... and I need more than just words."

You closed your eyes for a moment, your heart hammering in your chest, the silence wrapping around you like a second skin. It was terrifying. Letting yourself feel all this again. Letting him see the parts of you that you’d buried for so long. But you could see it in his eyes—he wasn’t just apologizing to make it easier. He was really trying.

"I’m willing to let you try," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. "But if you leave me down again..."

Theodore was still. His entire body was taut, like he was waiting for something—your rejection, maybe. But when he spoke, his voice was steady, even if his words were tinged with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. "I won’t," he said, his gaze locking with yours. "I won’t let you down again. I promise. I... I’ll show you, every day—I’m serious about this."

Your breath caught in your throat. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t enough yet. But there was something real in the way he spoke, a sincerity you hadn’t seen in him for so long. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe him, even just a little.

Theodore took a step toward you, but he hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to move closer. He opened his mouth to speak again, his voice low. "I’m guessing... you’re still not going to tell me how to make the hot chocolate, are you?"

It was the first time in hours that you let a smile slip through. It was small, but it was real—an actual smile, not one you’d forced. "You’ve got to figure that part out on your own, Teo."

He laughed softly, the sound filled with relief and something lighter than the tension that had been hanging between you both. And in that laugh, you could hear the promise. Not that everything would go back to the way it was, but that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something new. Something different.

You didn’t have all the answers, and neither did he. But for the first time in a long while, you felt like you didn’t have to do this alone. And that was enough to let you take the first step, even if you weren’t sure what would come next.

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surfeitstar · 18 hours ago

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reflections — iwaizumi x reader

ᯓ✦ ๋࣭ ⭑ social media au! (smau)

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

chapter 5 — familiar 🌀

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

written portion below! ⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃🎐 ⋆

you’re pissed off. you’ve been pissed off since practice had started.

iwaizumi’s been pushing you harder than usual. calling you out every time your stance falters, every time your footwork slips up. you know he’s just doing his job. but it’s him, and that makes all the difference.

“fix your form,” his voice cuts through the gym.

you bite the inside of your cheek and reset.

it doesn’t help. because when he steps closer, hands on your waist to guide you into position, your body betrays you, reacting like it’s familiar.

you hate that you still know exactly what his touch feels like. hate even more that he still knows exactly how to handle you. he’s so much closer, and you feel it before you can even see him. his hands on your waist, firm but careful, shifting you into position like muscle memory.

like he’s done it before.

you hate how familiar it is. how natural it feels. like your body remembers him better than your mind wants to.

“relax,” iwaizumi says, voice lower now.

your grip on your foil tightens. “don’t tell me what to do.”

a flicker of something passes over his face. you can’t decipher it, but you don’t want to anyway. hurt, maybe? annoyance? he doesn’t say anything, though. he merely sighs and steps back, complying to your request.

you push forward in the next round, a little too aggressively, frustration bubbling over—

your foot slips.

for a split second, you’re weightless. falling, bracing for impact—

but you never hit the ground, because iwaizumi catches you, just like he always has.

you cant help but remember another time, another place.

your sneakers scrape against the pavement as you lunge, but suddenly you’re tumbling. and before you can hit the ground, strong hands grab you. you blink up at iwaizumi, breathless.

“seriously?” he sighs, adjusting his grip on your wrist. “you trip over nothing more than anyone i’ve ever met.”

“not my fault i have bad balance,” you huff, pretending to be annoyed. you don’t pull away though. you never do.

iwaizumi rolls his eyes, but his grip lingers, warm and steady. he doesn’t let go right away. neither do you.

you’re so close you can hear his heartbeat. you’re pretty sure he can hear yours, too.

he lets out a laugh, nudging you forward. “come on, before tooru starts wondering where you went.”

you force yourself to ignore that memory, bringing yourself back to the present.

his grip on you is the same. firm, steady, like he remembers. but this time, you shove his hands off like they burn.

“don’t touch me.”

iwaizumi’s jaw tightens. “you almost injured yourself.”

“i don’t need you to save me.”

“fine. suit yourself,” iwaizumi exhales sharply and takes a step back.

but he looks at you for a second too long. like he’s about to say something else. like he wants to.

but instead, he just turns away. you pretend not to notice how your heart ached, just a little bit.

⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃🎐 ⋆

his touch is gone, but you still feel it. your body still remembers. you shake off the moment, force yourself to reset. it’s just muscle memory, nothing more. nothing deeper.

it still pisses you off.

even now, long after training has ended, you can feel him. you’re still thinking about it. a part of you doesn’t want it to just be muscle memory.

you still remember it. his hands correcting your stance, the warmth of his palm through the fabric of your shirt, the way he steadied you without a second thought.

like it was the most natural thing in the world.

like nothing had changed.

but everything had.

you dig your nails into your palm, trying to force the thought out of your head. it doesn’t work.

because for all the hatred you’ve convinced yourself you feel for iwaizumi hajime, your body betrays you in ways you can’t stand— reacting to him before you can stop it. remembering him when you don’t want it to.

you exhale sharply, shaking the thought away as you press your water bottle to your lips. you’re exhausted, you’re overthinking. that’s all this is.

still, as you glance back at the gym where he’s still cleaning up, you catch yourself hesitating.

and you hate that some part of you, however small, however buried, still knows him well enough to understand; he hesitated too.

but worst of all?

you still trust him to catch you.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

fun facts! ❀༉‧₊˚

mizu is your oldest sister, she’s the mother of takeru (i named her because she’s unnamed in the manga)

your parents got divorced in your final year of highschool. it was after tooru left for argentina and right before you were going to compete for the olympics

you chose to follow your mother to tokyo, mizu stayed with your dad in miyagi

you go down to miyagi to visit your dad, older sister and nephew every once in a while but your mom is strongly against it

your unresolved feelings towards iwaizumi are resurfacing, you feel conflicted because you’ve spent so much time convincing yourself that you hate him

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

taglist (open!) ❀༉‧₊˚

@wordsofelie , @loriiiroari , @bbning , @atlas-atlantic , @sexylexy12 , @evilari111 , @softtashoney , @rowensboat , @aldebrana , @zuhaeri , @jadeyaps , @mo072806 , @0rangej0e , @curlyhairkk , @iamflav , @forgottensniper , @hashxu , @karinaaanakamura , @tsukisangel , @kozu-chan , @juie13 , @wham-stars , @baggies-of-eggies , @yiooobb37 , @amterasuu , @oneanabillion

previous || m. list || next

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

thanks for reading! all characters belong to haikyuu, all writing belongs to surfeitstar, please do not repost without permission. reblogs are greatly appreciated:) — ©️ 2025

#haikyuu #haikyuu x you #hq smau #haikyuu x reader #smau #hq x reader #haikyuu smau #hq x you #iwaizumi x y/n #iwaizumi x you #hq iwaizumi #iwaizumi x reader #haikyuu iwaizumi #iwaizumi hajime #haikyuu x y/n #hq

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everyones-doormat · 2 days ago

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EMPTY EYES

kang sae-byeok x reader

synopsis: After days of radio silence, fear consumes you—until Sae-byeok appears at your door, battered, bleeding, and barely standing. She won’t say where she’s been or what happened, but the haunted look in her eyes says enough. As you patch her up, the fear lingers—the terrifying thought that she almost didn't make it back all.

warnings: mentions & descriptions of blood and wounds

It’s been five days.

Five days since Sae-byeok disappeared. Five days since she stopped answering your texts, your calls, as if she had been wiped off the face of the earth. Five days of you barely sleeping, barely eating, because something feels wrong—because Sae-byeok would never just leave without a word. You had searched everywhere—the small apartment she barely lived in, her usual corners of the city, even the rooftop where she once told you she liked to sit and finally take the time to breathe. But she was gone. Vanished without a word. You had almost convinced yourself she was never coming back. Then, on the sixth night, she knocked on your door. - The first thing you noticed was how thin she looked. Like she hadn’t eaten in days. Like she had been running from something far worse than anything she’s faced before. The second thing you noticed was the blood. It stained the edges of her hoodie, seeped into the fabric over her ribs. Her hand clutched her side, fingers trembling. She swayed, barely holding herself up. “Sae—” Her lips parted, but no words came out. Then,she collapsed. You barely managed to catch her before she hit the floor. Panic surged through you as you dragged her inside, kicking the door shut behind you.

“Sae-byeok, hey—stay with me,” you whispered, shaking her gently. She groaned, her body stiffening in pain. Her skin was freezing, which only increased the fear running through you. You pulled her onto the couch, dropping to your knees beside her. Your hands hovered over her, unsure of where to start, unsure of how badly she was hurt. Then, finally, she opened her eyes. And it nearly broke you. They weren’t the same. Those dark brown eyes—eyes that used to soften when she looked at you, that used to be filled with quiet determination—were now empty. She wasn’t okay.

You rush to grab the first aid kit, your body trembling, your mind racing. When you return, she hasn’t moved, her body stiff, her breathing shallow. You worked quickly, silently, pressing a cloth to her side, trying to stop the bleeding. She flinched, a sharp breath escaping through clenched teeth. Her jacket was soaked with blood. You hesitated, then carefully peeled the fabric back. And that’s when you saw it. A deep, jagged gash, stretching across her side. It wasn’t fresh, but it wasn’t healing properly either. It looked daysold, like she had been walking around with it untreated. Like she had been running. This was worse than you thought. “This is bad.” You took a deep breathe. “We need to go to a hospital—” “No.” The word is sharp. Immediate. Your stomach drops. “Sae—”

“No hospitals.” Her voice is firm, but her body is shaking. You debated arguing with her, try and convince her to change her mind. But you don’t want to waste anymore time. She needs help now. You focus on what you can do. Grabbing the antiseptic, soaking a cloth before pressing it against her wound.

The reality of the situation was starting to kick in. The emotions you’ve been trying to suppress are surfacing. Tears blur your vision. “Sae, what happened to you?” She didn’t answer. She didn’t even look at you. Her gaze was distant, unfocused, as if she was somewhere else. “Sae,” you tried again, pressing the cloth harder against the wound. “Where have you been?” A long pause. Then, barely above a whisper, she said— “Nowhere.” Your hands stilled. Nowhere. That was bullshitand you both knew it. But you didn’t push, now was not the time. Instead, you continue bandaging her up as gently as you could. All while trying to force your hands to steady. Every so often, she’d flinch, but she never complained. She just laid there, staring at the ceiling, not really here.

- You wrap her wounds in silence. Her breath is slow and uneven, her body tense beneath your hands. Once you’re done, you grab a blanket from the couch, pulling it over, and tucking it around her frame. You wipe at your eyes, swallowing down the lump in your throat trying to steady yourself. Then— You look at her. Really look at her. She’s lost weight. A lot. There are bruises on her arms, some faded, some fresh. There’s a healing cut on her cheek, a shadow in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Your mind races with possibilities. Her breathing was steady now, but her shoulders were still tense, her hands curled into fists. She hadn’t relaxed once. You swallowed hard. Tears started rolling down your face. “You’ve been gone for days, Sae. I thought—I thought you were—” Dead. You couldn’t say it. She didn’t react. Didn’t tell you not to worry. Didn’t tease you for overthinking. She just laid there; eyes still locked on the ceiling. Then— “I made it back,” she murmurs. Made it back.

You stare at her, heart pounding. What does that even mean? A long pause passes. Then, in a voice so fragile it almost breaks you, she whispers, “I didn’t think I was going to make it back.” Your heart shatters. She sounds tired. So, so tired. Tears flow down your cheeks. Your voice cracks. “Are you in trouble?” A pause. “…Not anymore.” You don’t believe her.

“I—” You took a breath. “I need to know you’re okay.” She blinked slowly, then turned her head to finally meet your gaze. And for the first time, you saw it. Not just the exhaustion. Not just the pain. The guilt. It sat heavy in her eyes, buried beneath layers of silence. She wasn’t okay. And she didn’t know how to tell you.

You wordlessly reach out, gripping her hand shakily. Your throat tightens. “Sae…” Your voice breaks. “You really scared me.” Her gaze falling to your intertwined fingers, “I know.” You close your eyes, leaning closer to her fragile frame. “Don’t do this again..Please l—." You hold back a sob. "—l need you here,” you whisper. She doesn’t say anything. But her hand tightens around yours.

#kang sae byeok x reader #sae byeok x reader #kang sae byeok #sae byeok #kang sae byeok squid game #kang saebyeok x reader #kang saebyeok #squid game #fanfic #squid game fanfic #player 067

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highvern · 2 days ago

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since I have more ideas than I have ability to write I present:

Circus AU with tightrope walker/aerialist reader x muscian/juggler Jeonghan for my dearest @miniseokminnies

Jeonghan joins the circus randomly, there’s no work in his town and he dreams of traveling so he plays the fiddle and juggles for guests. It’s not much but it’s enough to earn him a warm place to sleep

He’s so enamored with you on the high wire. During shows he forces himself to pay attention to what he’s supposed to be doing but on off days when you’re practicing he can’t help but watch as you dances across the thin cable spanning the tent without a net to catch you

You don’t really talk much to him. lost in your own world, thinking of new stunts or up in the air where you feel the most free. Jeonghan is on your radar only because he’s new and you doesn’t know much about him

One day, youre practicing a new skill on a lower wire (like barely a foot off the ground until you works out the mechanics) and jeonghan is there watching as always

You ignores him, loses yourself in your work until the wire shifts beneath your feet and you stumble to the ground.

You’re not even a foot up but you rarely fall and falling makes no sense because you arent doing anything crazy

Then you look up and sees Jeonghan, one foot on the rope and another on the platform it’s anchored to, smiling like the cat who ate the canary

Jeonghan hasn’t heard you talk but he hears you scream bloody murder for touch your rope

Literally he’s never been scolded like this even as a kid. Other performers are coming out of their tents and wagons to see what the noise is about as you drags him by his ear through camp

“Never, EVER, EVER TOUCH MY ROPES AGAIN!”

Jaws drop, people watch in horror bc you are pretty reserved with your head in the clouds but the guy whose been there less than a month has managed to piss you off in a way no one else has in the years you’ve been in the circus

Needless to say, Jeonghan is mortified

He avoids you, leaves the dining tent when you arrive, stops going to watch your practices, removes himself from you completely because yes he’s embarrassed but he also feels bad for making you fall

Meanwhile, you notice his absence more than you want to. It’s annoying that you can feel the lack of his gaze when you’re up on the high wire during a show, or sees him always leave some place when you arrives. What’s worse is it makes you feel bad for dragging him in front of everyone else when gou could have yelled at him in private

But you refuses to focus on it UNTIL you start stumbling more on your rope than usual, in ways you haven’t since you were a child. Somehow it’s Jeonghans fault.

A few weeks pass and things blow over. Everyone else has stopped holding their breath each time you and Jeonghan almost run into each other. You get your balance back (not that Jeonghan’s noticed), and he stops avoiding you (not that you care)

One day, you decide you want to juggle fire while crossing the rope. Sadly, only one person can help.

When you approach Jeonghan he thinks it’s to yell at him so he’s shocked when you asks for his help so easily.

“And if you think about it, you owe me for making me fall.”

“I didn’t know you would fall!!”

The partnership…. does not go well.

Jeonghan keeps acting like juggling is second nature and basically says “just do it” whenever you struggle.

You throw many apples at him during this while he ducks for cover

But soon enough you catch on and works up to juggling on the high wire during shows.

Since Jeonghan taught you, he decides he wants to learn to walk on the ropes

Same cycle of unhelpful advice except now Jeonghan just stares at you blankly ever time you tell him not to think about the height of the rope (he’s only a foot up but has 0 balance and goes flying like a leaf in the wind)

At one point, you’re on the ground next to Jeonghan as he walks the rope. He makes it halfway which is farther than he’s ever gone before!

And he’s so excited and you’re so excited that he trips which is fine, it’s like 8 inches to the ground.

Plus his landing is soft because he takes you down with him

Cliche nose to nose scene, Jeonghan on top of you, realizing how close you both are.

It’s winter where the circus is so his breath warms over your chin and he shivers bc your hands are cold even through his sweater

Jeonghan’s chin dips just slightly…

You roll out from under him and makes an excuse about having agreed to help animal tamer Hoshi with feeding and cleaning (you didn’t)

It’s so awkward

Even more awkward that when you yelled at him

Jeonghan who is naturally self assured isn’t sure what to think bc he swears you looked like you wanted him to kiss you, and every time he catches your eye you get flushed and flustered in a way he’s never seen from you before

It gets to the point that you stumble off the ropes one time when he’s watching you practice and the only thing that stops you from breaking your neck is the net left up from the last aerialist’s practice

Jeonghan’s heart stops

You’re fine

That’s what you tell everyone, it’s what you tell yourself, but you’re rattled

A fall that far would’ve been fatal if not for the net and you hate knowing how close your were to waiting for the net to be removed before practicing

The next few days you make excuses not to practice. It’s too cold, too windy. You’re sore, there’s so much to do around camp

One night, you’re standing at your low practice rope just trying to step up but you can’t. Your body refuses to do it.

A few hours pass and you’re ready to call it a night until Jeonghan shows up, and stands at the far platform the rope is anchored to.

“Mind if I practice?”

You can’t out lie a liar like him but you’ll try

“Go ahead. I just finished.”

“Don’t you have to get in the rope to count it as practice?”

Your fingers itch for one of those apples from when he taught you to juggle, it’d look great sailing for his forehead.

“Just walk to me”

“This is stupid”

“Then humor me”

“I’m not—“

“If you walk across the rope to me, I’ll give you something”

that gets your attention

But Jeonghan refuses to tell you what your prize is

“Come over here and find out for yourself.”

The first step is the hardest

You haven’t been on the wire since you fell, even this mini one that you mastered as soon as you could walk

But as you stand there, watching Jeonghan wait with baited breath, you take another step, and then another, and soon your right in front of him, toe to toe

And you kiss him

He stumbles but you following him down, unafraid because he’s ready to catch you.

The next show, you’re back on the high wire

You’ve practiced plenty, working back up to no net, sure footed as ever before. Even to the point you can’t juggle back and forth without fumbling for a second

Right before the show starts, Jeonghan is waiting by the edge of the tent with a few others, something hidden behind his back

After paying the toll (a kiss) he presents a brand new set of juggling clubs, your initials carved into the handles

They’re not just any clubs, they’re flammable ones

They’re what he actually planned to give you for getting back on the rope but after you kissed him there were better things to gift you, more interesting things for Jeonghan to learn from you that were more exhilarating than the first time he watched you sail through the air.

Tonight, like many other nights, he can’t take his eyes off you, doesn’t even try this time, while you juggle fire high in the sky without a single error

#Jeonghan fluff #svt fluff #kvanity #seventeen fluff #thediamondlifenetwork #seventeen fanfic #Jeonghan fanfic #jeonghan x reader #Jeonghan scenarios #🫡 highvern

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nellienews · 3 days ago

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Random Nellie behind-the-scenes post!

I was looking through some old files, and found some really old versions of Nellie. She's been through quite a few iterations!

This was the very very first Cirinel, before I'd even decided on her eye injury. I remember really liking the amber eyes. I wound up ditching them for yellow because, while all the elven eye colors have a half-blind version, the eye that's blind differs.

Amber had it on the right eye—and that's a problem, because the bandages cover the right on male characters, and the left on female.

So away they went in favor of yellow!

I did a lot to hide that she was half-blind. I wanted that to be a twist that people found out once they downloaded her, and that was back before I'd even touched the Creation Kit. So all her photos had her winking, or angled so you couldn't see her left eye.

This version of her had to go, though. I started looking into permissions for assets, and the mod I used to get that hair for her didn't give permission for people to reuse it.

So I switched it to KS Hair, fiddled around in the character creator for a bit, and made the second iteration of Nellie.

This is when I figured out I wanted her hair to be a bit more vivid, somewhere between red and brunette. Of course, I hadn't quite figured out color contrasts yet, so she looks a bit pale here. This is Awkward Teen Nellie.

I'd tried doing the same "sneakily avoiding showing the left eye" trick again, but I'd turned just a bit too far here:

You can just barely make out her blind eye there.

A mutual of mine, @azures-grace, caught on, and the ruse was up. Not that that was a bad thing; at that point, I was vibrating, looking for any excuse to talk about my daughter and her secrets, so the instant I had the chance, I spilled.

A lot went on between this iteration of Nellie and the modern day version. I started learning the actual ins-and-outs of the Creation Kit. I made my very first mod, just to give her an accessory. I wrote so much dialogue. At one point, I had a draft where she had seventeen siblings.

And then, the worst happened. My computer broke.

I'd just been sitting, watching a video, when the whole thing shrieked at me and the screen went dark. It wouldn't turn on after that.

It wasn't salvageable. I took it into the shop, and they basically tossed their hands up and had no idea what to do. So much of my work on her was gone, and I had to start over from rock bottom. That was a pretty rough year for her development. Nothing kills motivation for something like losing a ton of work. I'd try to pick her up, give up for awhile, then go back and add more. It was very, very slow going. But eventually, I caught my rhythm again.

This time around, I knew a little more of what I was doing.

Enter Beta Nellie. This is her from a few months ago. I'd gotten her new clothes, picked out her unique axe, and settled on her final colors. Her hair changed, too—instead of a crown braid, she now had a messy bunch with hanging strands in the front. I wanted to emphasize that she was trying to look dignified despite her situation, but a prisoner isn't going to escape Thalmor captivity with a perfect updo.

This version of her appearance took a lot of inspiration from Azure's fanart of Nellie here. Azure had taken Awkward Teen Nellie's colors and made them more vivid, and had emphasized the wispy little strands of hair that'd come loose from her crown braid. It really helped cement the kind of vibe I wanted for her.

Honestly, Beta Nellie probably would have been Final Nellie if things had gone to plan. I'd made her face in RaceMenu, saved it as a preset, and later decided to do a quick 3rd person playthrough to get used to seeing her on screen before I attached her model to the stuff I'd written.

I went to open my presets, though, and she was gone. Poof! No Nellie! (Plenty of attempts at making Link and Zelda, though. Curse my crossover rp heart...)

So it was back to the drawing board on her appearance. Except now, I had a reference to look at, and some things to fine-tune.

I took away her red eyeshadow, because I couldn't get it to look nice. I gave her a scar. I picked out a texture that looked like wild freckles. She got a nose that better matched her high elf features, some softer and slightly less angled eyes, a longer face, and (although you can't see them in this pic) ever-so-slightly rounder ears. I messed with the Breton sliders to give her just a little bit of a "not fully Altmer" look.

And with this shot specifically, I knew I had my daughter at last.

Since then, everything about her has been...well, not a breeze. Learning some quest things and how to make idles do what I wanted had me banging my head against the wall, and finding a way to change her outfit with a script had me making the code myself to solve a ten-year-old forum post. I'd messaged my friend @dynamite124 for debug help more times than I can count within a week.

But it had been achievable. For the first time since my computer broke, everything about her had been falling into place. And for the first time since her inception, I knew what I was doing.

The only roadblock left at that point was her voice. I'd decided a long time ago that I was going to try to voice her myself, but I gave it several honest tries, and I just didn't have the vocal range I imagined her speaking with. Being blunt, my voice is better suited to Aventus Aretino than to a High Rock noble. Once I came to terms with that, I put out a casting call for Nellie's voice.

Which brings me to an announcement.

Cirinel now officially has a voice actress!

We're 90% through recording dialogue for her introductory scene, and as soon as that's done, I'll be posting an official video showcasing her and introducing her VA!

I've been in such an Elder Scrolls mood since we got started that I went and shot a bunch of new reference pics with Nellie's final appearance. They're below here, and will be in a separate post immediately after this one goes live.

Enjoy!

#cirinel direnni #skyrim cvf #nellie news #long post #skyrim #tesv #cvf

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the-stove-is-divorced · 3 days ago

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It feels like such an insulting flop istg. This cannot be your big hype moment. Like for the sake of my sanity, it cannot. About to pretend this didn’t even happen. What episode 7?

No, seriously, if three whole fucking seasons, if years of set-up does not matter then none of it does! You wasted my time for YEARS. Plus, I desperately wish we had fun, inventive fight scenes! Thrilling ones! Especially for teams like TT that’s worked together for years! What special combos and moves do they do together! Rex and Eve were dating and you’re telling me they never pondered a combo move? Like, please get more staffing and funding so these can look fun!

Levy’s stupid robots ARE boring, why are we being less inventive with a mf who makes portals. I get their purpose, but it feels like a weird downgrade despite being an upgrade. Show me how he’s improved with these abilities, or mixing inventions WITH portals! A portal gun? Multiple portals at once? Portals opening without him gesturing? Mark dodging them successfully now is neat, yes, but maybe show me how if he closes it while you’re halfway in, you’ll be split in half from the get go!!! Raise the fucking stakes. Or even Levy AND Mark’s fighting against Mark! Try to throw a punch only to slam into another you aiming for the throat!

Heck, have Levy fight some of the disobeying Mark’s THEN versus our Mark (I think it’s intriguing if some linger with their own interests/goals)! But gimme that contrast! Our Mark, fueled by a personal vendetta, is faster and stronger. Like, the alt!Mark’s get in each other’s way, snapping and fighting each other, while Mark is focused in, and openly vicious by this point. They’re, like, mutually, going to kill each other.

Literally, the other!Mark’s should think he’s one of them. There is literally no reason why they shouldn’t when they all look different. I know Levy probably has footage/pics of our Mark, but it’s more interesting if they think he’s one of them, anyway! He takes off the mask and he blends in instantly, they’re all the same person! And boom! Interactions! Like, WHAT IS THE POINT of setting up dark mirror situations, which are built for explorations the depths of the character, especially for Mark, WHEN THEY DON’T INTERACT. It truly boggles the mind. You are trying to subvert the idea I thought you’d be a good episode? Like what are we doing!

Mark should realize how similar he is, because they’re literally the same person. He should realize, by interacting, that he’s never that far off to becoming like them. Single moments in parenting that changed him. Debbie leaving, being hands off, divorcing, leaving, etc, Nolan being more active as a parent, not even knowing Nolan’s his father, etc etc. Getting his powers later or earlier.

AND LITERALLY. DID THEY AVOID BEING INTERESTING ON PURPOSE? Mark being afraid to go out because then he’d have to see his family is dead, (especially if he realises that’s a catalyst for other, evil him’s), would be a wonderful character moment! It acknowledges the shit he’s gone through which the show seems allergic to doing. Shaving away what little of a personality’s Mark got just to be Boyfriend is killing me. Why is he less of a person? Not only do I loathe the ship, not only do I not believe he cares this much, not only do I hate this decision for him, it’s done in the least interesting and most frustrating way! It’s almost a skill at this point. Like I detest the ship so much more, now.

No, because, this episode should have been building off so many things, I’m also half tempted to restructure the entire goddamn plot this season ‘cause what the fuck. Firstly, trying to make this episode make sense, but the rewrite for that is already driving me crazy, I may need to actually plan a plot thoroughly for once. The fact the Mark/William shippers are partying off of one line is saying something. Like, yes shippers will use anything but damn. We are starved of character dynamics, aren’t we?

And honestly, I’ve thought about the same thing? Are there writers gone? Switched out? Something that explains this, honestly?

Being used to middle aged women being written poorly is sickening, but unfortunately real. I’m more so starved of media that actually, like, lets the events and actions a character goes through actually impact their psyche continuously. I wish Debbie was a person, anyway, like she’s already interesting, you could do so much with her character! Like we talked about her making friends with villains or selling houses to villains and supers alike! Like you can do so much fun world building and dynamics with her as well.

Rex’s death is soooo evil. And not even a fun, wound of tragedy, it’s just dumb to me. It’s truly for naught. Like, why not make him and Mark have a dynamic if it’s arguable Mark’s inaction lead to his very death? Where’s the fun guilt and strained Guardians dynamics? Where’s the consequences? Or, like, even if he stayed an asshole, how do you mourn an asshole? Not to say I don’t like it’s arc, but agreed it’s useless if he just dies. It’s so meaningless.

And you’re right, omg? There are no people? What the hell happened to emphasizing the people caught in the crossfire? It’s so strange? That’s exactly what the first season made a point to express, and now we’re regressing? Why is the world empty and flat? Why is there no one there? Where’s a child crushed by the rubble, a single arm or leg exposed, cut off screams and horrified, grief stricken wails? Heck, where’s alt!Mark’s threatening and killing people not just causing general, non-specific destruction? Like, have the Mark’s go after people our Mark knows istg! Debbie, Oliver, William, Eve, Amber, etc. Make it so all their lives are at risk for being close to him, so it’s a gamble of who might die if we gotta have the death risk. And I wish Rex came back anyway. He has a personality.

NO FR. EXPLAIN TO US THIS THINKING BECAUSE THIS MOMENT FALLS SO FLAT WITH THE CONTEXT GIVEN TO US. Like you are speaking the truth here, his morals should be set with Powerplex opening the season, and then being challenged every step of the goddamn way, until he snaps with Levy. Make it less of a moment of rage or desperation, and even more conscious, considering choice, even, Mark knowing he could let him go, and choosing not to. Have his morality actually take a solid hit to show growth, even if it’s a darker kind. Also it should give him paranoia. He should be worried about portals popping up and if anyone he knows is safe. He should be stressed outta his mind. Heck, if Levy lives, contrast s2 even further by having Mark make the technically unnecessary choice to kill him, and in spite of his wishes he lives! Have Mark wrestle with the fact he doesn’t need to, he wants to. He’s angry he couldn’t kill him, and he’s disturbed about that kind of violence existing within him, as it did the other Mark’s!

The way I forgot he was violent against the multi-Paul’s because that didn’t really matter either? Like nothing leaves an impact? We don’t see how he thinks about ANY of these despite all the pieces being RIGHT THERE? Like the centipede/underground monsters, Mark can attack a monster easily, but struggle to protect or prioritize protection. Then, Mark can struggle, or even improve, with keeping Rex safe against overwhelming force like Multi-Paul’s AND getting the declaration back. Does he get frustrated and nearly stop pulling his punches? Then get repulsed by himself, with Powerplex echoing in his mind? He defeated him without being violent! Why can’t this work? And the idea keeps being challenged!!!!

The way Mark doesn’t fucking think about anything at all is so great and fun and I’m definitely not bashing something into the wall about it. Like, it’s not even a purposeful avoidance! I would’ve loved if Mark suppressed it on purpose, if he’s avoiding it on purpose, aad not an outright sidestep to OUR PROGONIST’S OWN THINKING. He is one of the three most important characters!!!!

Him refusing to save people is downright diabolical OOC. I can’t get over it. This isn’t who he was in s1. He risked his LIFE to fight his Dad. Like the idea you’ve given actually makes sense! It’s interesting! It’s an exploration of the trauma he’s had! It fits with who he is and what he’s been through!

Mark agreeing to go hang out on a beach w Debbie instead of refusing and the beach is Beach City (am now officially thinking too much about this crossover lol)

The way I got caught up on our back and forth I almost forgot this, lol! AND OH MY GOODNESS, IMAGINE? I forget exactly what which point Debbie makes the beach offer, but I’d love when exactly in SU/SUF-timeline they’d go? There’s something so fucking funny to me about them going during the SUF-timeline and always narrowly missing the strange, Steven-shaped mental breakdowns in the back. I know those don’t occur in a single day, but it’s tickling me. How could they miss anything? I don’t know I just think it’s funny.

Though, post-SUF is interesting if Gems can see the similar “world on your shoulders”, Mark has going on! Steven can shunt the narrative in the Gems’ minds, which I think is neat, if I’m not misusing the phrase since the guy’s on the road far away. Or maybe it’s just before Steven goes and they stumble into each other. I’d kinda love Pearl and Debbie interacting, honestly, if they could talk about loving someone who hurt you, hide things from you, even when you thought you knew them so deeply, and they left you to raise a child. Pearl being in a well adjusted space, and Debbie still grieving.

Honestly, the gems could help train Mark, they’re got experience and similar-ish powers in strength, sturdiness, and they can jump/run fast enough for flying to be vaguely similar enough to lecture about, I think. Or Lapis Lazulis, haha! Peridot with her trash can lid! Garnet, I’d love to see if she told Mark anything about his future in vague, well meaning advice. Or even giving relationship advice considering Amber. Or, importantly, how to convince an entire reign to end their colonizing ways, lol. Is Mark perhaps willing to start a war, take advantage of being related to any leaders, or fake his own death to varying results?

In general, there’s something so fucking funny to me about Nolan, in the sake of comparison, being Pink Diamond coded. Like OH, did an important or well respected of the colonizing empire come to earth and learn the beauty of its people and nature, including faking/lying/omitting things about his identity and background to being in, only to feel conflicted when his responsibility still remained, and he tried to free himself from them? Yikes! We’ve been through that before! Like gimme Pink Diamond and Nolan outfit swap rn. This is tickling me so much oh my goodness.

#invincible chatter #NO FR #there’s SO MUCH POTENTIAL #BUT ZERO PAY OFF #It’s like maddening #In going insane #I’m puzzled on how to rewrite it even because there’s so many ways to go that they just don’t?????

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uncanny-tranny · 1 year ago

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You know... it's okay to trust your body. If you are separated from your body to such an extent you feel you cannot trust it, I truly from the bottom of my heart empathize and feel grief for you, but you can trust your body.

It's okay to listen to your body and to heed what it is telling you. I wish you (and your body) well wherever you go. You deserve the peace of mind to feel able to do what you want.

#positivity #mental health #mental health support #gentle reminders #this is something i struggle with myself so that's why i said i empathize (well... i guess as much as you CAN empathize)#(because even if you have gone through the same thing... it's not going to look the same as somebody else going through that)#(and while it can be valuable to express empathy it doesn't mean you truly 'get it' from the other person's point of view)#i struggle sometimes not to feel like my body is fucking with me because sometimes i expect it to function at bare minimum #or i just assume that when it is in debilitating pain that it's just... somehow to fuck with me and i am cognizant that this isn't true #i am cognitively aware that the body isn't Specifically Designed to have a Fuck With You mode even if it feels like it #but my experiences with disabilities and general unwellness made it easy for me to alienate myself from my body #in order to preserve myself i felt the need to separate myself from every flaw (or 'flaw') i have #so when people are confused about why you could mistrust your /own body/ it's stuff like this that can somewhat illustrate it #i think we don't really talk about this but i think it's more common than i would assume #(mostly based on the There Are Eight Billion People principle)#hm making this also makes me realize that abuse absolutely plays into how i mistrust my body. hm.#mistrust in your body feels like self-protection and self-preservation in this weird and almost twisted way (at least in my experience)#but then you start mistrusting *everything* and nothing feels... GOOD or NORMAL anymore #i'm going to play mahjong about this 🫡👍

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hanzajesthanza · 1 year ago

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you guys… we did it!!!

just wanted to thank you everyone for being a part of this blog… “big things to come soon”

#i am proud and happy about it because this blog came from my moving blogs in 2021 #and on my past blog i had about 1000 followers so it’s like i finally regained that reach #which i’m specifically excited by because this blog (contrary to my previous one) is ONLY about the witcher books with no n*tflix talk #like ik ohhh ‘you are a fandom blog you have no rights’ but it makes me happy that we’re all gathered here together for the same thing :)#i don’t think fandom has to be an inherently toxic or immature space i think it can be a meaningful place of discussion and participation #the elbow-high diaries #updates #it’s kind of an interesting thing the witcher books fandom in english in the 2020s i am really very curious where it goes from here #it’s interesting to me because it’s such a specific and unique situation of media spread #it’s not like the witcher is unpopular or indie—it’s extremely popular. a mass pop culture phenomenon #at the same time the english-speaking (and in my case specifically american) fandom is primarily built around tw3 and then now n*tflix #even if the books were read and successful in the english market i mean they did not have the same kind of cultural impact #so it’s particularly of interest to me to boost visibility and yes indeed—fandom—conversation around the witcher books #and for me i like thinking through what that looks like—#an english-speaking (including not limited to american) fandom without anglifying or americanizing it #or at the very least *trying* to not anglify or americanize it. because some amount of it is unintentional yet necessary (i.e. translation)#but even in translation for example. the kind of translation and how it’s gone about. there is potential for cultural learning and #the most faithful translations will not make total sense so as the readers you go and look for that context and learn something #all part of a larger discussion and i kind of got lost typing these tags but this is why this milestone is special to me #it shows that people are interested in what this blog posts about and that means we have a future to explore

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supercantaloupe · 2 years ago

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truly detest how pcos tags/forums/etc are absolutely crawling with terfs

#(okay to rb but stay in your lane)#maybe i just want to look and see if anyone else has experienced what i went through today without seeing someone going like #'you'll never be a REAL woman because you DON'T HAVE OVARIES #and will NEVER understand the TRUE WOMANLY EXPERIENCE of having A VERY DISRUPTIVE AND COMPLEX ENDOCRINE AND METABOLIC DISORDER'#like i think there are more important (read: actual) targets to direct our frustration at here than #[checks notes] getting mad at a trans woman for saying she relates to some of the problems caused/faced by having pcos #like. idk. the fucking medical system and lack of research/treatment options #(also. christ. reducing every person w pcos into the 'woman' category automatically bc 'ovary'.#even though it's literally an intersex condition. yikes.)#also i don't know about y'all but i don't wish this on anyone? regardless of gender??#i actually don't want trans women to have to experience this in order to be considered a True Woman #because i don't want ANYBODY to have to experience this. it sucks! it's not fucking fun!#i just wanted to try and see if other people have gone through the same thing i have. not expand my blocklist by half a mile tonight.#i wanna talk about me #even though i didn't exactly find what i was looking for (😔) and i had to play fucking whack-a-terf while searching #if there's any bright side to be found it's the number of posts/people affirming pcos as an intersex condition/identity #i saw someone say 'if you don't want the [intersex] umbrella for yourself you don't have to take it #but it's nice to have in the closet for a rainy day'#and. man. yeah.

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johannestevans · 1 day ago

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A Bite of Rope: Part II

CWs in this part for some references to sexual trauma and sensory overwhelm, death, violence, but nothing extensive. This is part II of III. New note I've been thinking of including - media I'm engaging with at the moment that have added to the themes and flavour of this short are Grantchester, Disco Elysium, and the_ragnarok's Person of Interest fanfiction, out of the darkness we reach.

Kuhn’s boarding house is an alright place. It’s clean and pretty well-kept, all-told – no mould, no damp, no rats or other vermin. It’s not a hoity-toity place by any means, but he knows it’s a lot better than a lot of places around the city, and it’s honestly not too expensive. It’s not like Kuhn spends much money – most of what he makes goes into his savings.

He bought a few nice suits when he took the job, went to the shop Doctor Lark recommended with the old man telling him which fabrics were appropriate to the office – not too formal, not plain black and navy suits like a lot of the real office workers wore, but still darker colours. Nice shoes as well. His knives.

He never used to wear a wristwatch – Doctor Lark had bought that for him as a new start gift, bought it for him second-hand at a pawnshop, and Kuhn had laughed because he liked the inscription on the back that said, For my Nanny. Whoever’s nan she’d been – or maybe an employed nanny, he doesn’t know – it wasn’t too feminine a thing, and he’d actually had to replace the strap with a smaller one so it wouldn’t slide down his hand.

After that…

He buys his own pints, doesn’t take part in rounds. He eats at the boarding house at meal times – Mrs G is a war widow, and she’s a lacklustre cook, but she’s a funny lady, and Kuhn never minds sitting at the table and watching her nip at and fight with half the lodgers.

She never butts heads with Kuhn, never bites at him in the same way. He looks like her son, he thinks – she didn’t even ask for his references when he first asked about the room, and he’d been moved in by the time he reminded her, and then she’d just waved him off. He’s not even dead, like her husband – just lost, disappeared, gone in a puff of smoke. No closure, for cases like that.

He reminds her to go to bed some nights when he comes into the building and she’s sitting in the kitchen staring out of the window, her eyes glassy, and sometimes she slips up and calls him Richie instead of Arthur, but that’s okay. He draws the line at letting her give him Richie’s old clothes or other stuff of his, tells her to keep them in a trunk just in case.

The ”just in case” he’s thinking of is for her daughter’s kids rather than in case he comes back – Doctor Lark’s idea, he’s better at this kind of shit than Kuhn is – but it had made her give a little smile, and seemed to give her a little peace.

“Going out tonight, Mrs G,” Kuhn says as he stacks up dry plates in the cupboard. He has to stand on the same stepladder she uses to reach the high shelves – doesn’t understand why the fuck she doesn’t just change what cupboards she uses – although at least he wouldn’t have to stand on a crate like she’s doing right now to reach the sink. “Might be out all night, not sure.”

“Just don’t get blood on that shirt,” Mrs G says idly. “It’s your last white one left, and those two you gave me have been right tough, scrubbing it out of the sleeves.”

Mr G had been the foreman in an abattoir before he’d been called up. It makes Mrs G surprisingly casual about the stains Kuhn comes home with in his line of work.

“It’s not for work, but I’ll do my best.”

Mrs G turns and looks at him over her shoulder, staying perched on top of the milk crate, her hands frozen on the pan she’s halfway through scrubbing. “A woman?” she asks suspiciously.

“No.”

Mrs G’s furrowed brow unfurrows, some of the lines smoothing out of her forehead, and she opens her mouth, closes it, opens her mouth again, closes it. “A… gentleman friend?” she hazards.

“He’s a man,” says Kuhn, intrigued by how outright she is about asking the question, almost no hesitation at all. “But it’s not like that. He’s a clown.”

“Beg pardon? As in, he’s foolish?”

“Real life clown. Used to be in the circus and everything.”

Mrs G frowns at him, the furrow returning to her forehead, and then she lets out a derisive noise and turns back to her scrubbing. “It’s not right to make fun of an old woman, Arthur.”

“You’re not old, and I’m not making fun,” says Kuhn. “He’s a real-life clown.”

“Mmm hmm,” Mrs G hums, unconvinced, and Kuhn doesn’t know why it bothers him that she doesn’t believe him, but if was her, he’s not sure he would believe him either, so he doesn’t bother trying to convince her.

He crosses back across the river, holding the piece of paper Kasovitz had written out for him earlier. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, exactly, but the address basically leads him to a bunch of allotments, and behind them is a bungalow before the park on the other side. He can see the lines and edges of the allotment block where the whole section of street probably used to be houses before they got bombed out during the Blitz – even the bungalow, it’s a funny shape and a pretty new build.

“Did they use the brick from the bombed-out houses to build this?” Kuhn asks when Kasovitz opens the door.

“I didn’t ask,” Kasovitz says, looking around the doorway he’s standing in, his eyebrows slightly raised. “Potentially. It was… affordable. Come in.”

Kuhn crosses the threshold, shrugging off his coat, and Kasovitz takes it from him, hanging it up on the wall. It’s a nice bungalow. The air isn’t so uncomfortably hot outside as it was the other night, and in here it’s comfortably warm, feels cosy. Kasovitz leads him past the kitchen, which has a serving hatch through to the living room, past the small bathroom, and to the bedroom, that takes up most of the house.

The heavy curtains are closed, almost entirely blocking out the light from the street outside – the nearest street lamp is on the far end of the block, on the other side of the allotment squares, so the light from it isn’t too bright up close. To one side of the room is a large double bed, and against the perpendicular wall is a long, narrow desk with bookshelves underneath and overtop, alongside the large window on each side. He has another typewriter here on the desk, some file boxes, some notebooks and diaries. He has quite a few books, many of them fiction in colourful dustjackets – romances, detective novels, science fiction – and then various other accoutrements on display – a stack of juggling balls, some stacked boxes of playing cards, a top hat, two wood-and-leather boxes. They look like the sort of boxes one has for chess or backgammon, but they’re on the smaller side, and they’re not jewellery boxes.

“My make-up,” Kasovitz supplies when Kuhn looks at him askance, and Kasovitz follows his gaze.

Mostly, on display are a great many photographs. The one he has on his desk at work is of his mother on the trapeze, lowdown in the high-top and tossing a ball back and forth with some of the clowns – Kasovitz is one of the clowns in the background, standing out because he’s so tall.

There are more photographs of his mother in dazzling dresses and suits, much of the time in the arms of a gargantuanly large, muscular strongman who Kuhn guesses is Kasovitz’ father. He has similar round features to him, the same big, round eyes, although he’s bald – Kasovitz’ curly hair is from his mother, Kuhn supposes. In the different photographs, he seems to have as many different styles of facial hair as Kasovitz’ mother has different outfits – a huge, walrus-like moustache; big mutton chops and a smaller beard; a puffy moustache with a triangular goatee; a huge beard with braids through it, like some sort of Viking.

There are other photographs of the circus – one of Kasovitz bending over nearly at the middle as he pulls a dove out of a top hat, and a group of children laughing, clapping, and looking up at him with wonder and delight; Kasovitz juggling and ducking amongst a half-dozen other clowns; Kasovitz standing up straight and looking casual as two dwarves stand on his shoulders and balance a tea set between them on his head, one pouring from the teapot as the other takes a delicate sip from her own cup; more clowns doing gymnastics with each other, tumbling and bowling through hoops; the same dwarf couple tending to and combing the fur of a huge, shaggy dog, or maybe some kind of wolf.

“None of these pictures has you tying people up,” Kuhn observes.

“We don’t usually do bondage tutorials in the big top,” Kasovitz says. “If you don’t mind me making a comment, I’ve noticed your attitude toward me has changed somewhat, since you met me the other night. You’ve calmed somewhat. What changed, in your perception of me, precisely? When did you cease to see me as, what, competition? Prey? And begin to see me as an authority?”

Kuhn is quiet, standing with his hands in front of his belly, and he stares into the middle distance before he tilts his head and looks up at Kasovitz’ face. He imagines it, the make-up that he has on in the photographs, superimposed over the man he’s looking at now – white paint over his face, the black triangles along the underside of each eye, red crescents emphasising his cheeks, blue lines over his eyebrows. He mostly wears similar tunics in most of the photographs, bejewelled, heavy in the chest, with puffy sleeves that make him look even bigger than he is, and a white ruff collar.

“I don’t know,” Kuhn says. “I’d never seen someone get tied up before.”

“Is that true?” Kasovitz asks.

Suddenly, a hundred images flicker in front of his eyes like someone’s actually shining a film projector into them – being a child on the playground, watching with polite interest as two of the girls wrap a skipping rope around and around Luc Hines’ chest and upper arms; being thirteen or fourteen, half-asleep in bed and watching Have and Wesley argue with one another as they practice knots on Silas Headley’s wrists, a Biggles book open as they try to figure out how someone was tied up; watching a magician once on a stage in London, chains wound around and around his body, padlocks, ropes, for him to escape out of; faceless bodies in Germany, in Poland, bound in chains or rope or barbed wire.

Kuhn says, “No.”

He doesn’t explain, doesn’t add details. He feels as though he should, wants to, but the words don’t come, and his tongue feels caged behind his teeth again. Kasovitz inclines his head, and then asks, “Would you like to sit down on the bed?”

Kuhn sits.

Kasovitz kneels on the floor, and Kuhn watches him, too stiff even to blink his eyes, as Kasovitz very slowly leans forward, hovering his hands over Kuhn’s feet as if waiting for him to say no, to protest, to kick Kasovitz hard in the nose or maybe the side of his throat.

Kuhn doesn’t do any of that.

He jolts slightly as Kasovitz’ big hands actually touch his foot, and Kasovitz freezes, but when Kuhn doesn’t tug away or twist free, he pulls on the tail of one of his shoelaces and undoes the knot, then eases the shoe from his heel, sets it aside, then reaches for the next shoe and takes the one off as well. He uses slow, gentle movements, setting Kuhn’s shoes aside.

“Have you ever had sex before, Kuhn?” Kasovitz asks.

“No,” says Kuhn.

“The concept frightens you? You mentioned a priest had attempted to touch you, when you were a boy – was that just once, or multiple times?”

“Just once, but I’d heard other boys talking about it. That it didn’t hurt, but that it was strange, that there were benefits – his favour, sweets, communion wine. It scared me, that they were comfortable with it, that they thought it was worth it when it seemed…” The words run out again, but Kasovitz doesn’t seem displeased.

He was never that good with words. When he was a boy, at school, alongside boys who were richer than him, more important than him, better bred than him, it was alright, that he was quiet, that he observed, that he went along with whatever the other boys chose. It was never nasty, never unkind – they generally understood that he didn’t like to be touched, and he wasn’t made a whipping boy or a chew toy. Have, Wesley, Silas, Luc – they were his friends, genuinely, invited him to parties or to sleep over, bought him gifts on his birthday, smiled when they saw him, told him jokes.

After school, he’d taken a job with Luc Hines’ father, who owned a publishing house, and the majority of his job had involved sorting post. Occasionally, he’d attend to other odd jobs around the office, sorting new inventory or moving and carrying boxes or stationery.

The war had broken out when he was walking along with Mr Hines out back of the building and some bloke had tried to mug them. Kuhn had acted automatically, had wrenched the guy, underweight, twitchy, in retrospect probably only attempting the robbery out of desperation, by his collar and smashed the front of his face into the wall of the delivery bay steps. His nose had made a sublime cracking sound, muffled only a little by the sudden gush of thick, dark blood, and the noise of pain that had come out of him was thin and bubbling, his knife clattering to the ground.

At first, Mr Hines had thanked him, but then he’d seen how calm Kuhn was, how unshaken he was.

“Have you done that before, Arthur?” he’d asked whilst driving him home. “Hurt a man like that?”

“No, sir,” Kuhn had answered, honestly.

Hines hadn’t believed him. He’d been able to see that, but hadn’t been able to do anything to change it. He hadn’t known how to explain, that it was just blood and cartilage – not even bone – that he’d grown up in a medical household, that it wasn’t violence for violence’s sake.

But it had affected his standing in the office. Changed how Mr Hines looked at him, talked to him, and then how everyone else looked at him, talked to him. People often found it quaint, that he was so quiet, and they stopped finding it quaint, started finding it threatening, unnerving. Stopped inviting him to things, stopped smiling at him.

It was actually almost a relief, when he got called up, and taken out of it. He’d been assigned to a medical unit, which was how he’d met Doctor Lark, and later… It all blurred together, now. He remembered being cornered, separated from his unit, two Krauts laughing at him, calling him verängstigtes Kaninchen – there was a gunshot, maybe two. There was the crack of the shorter one’s hyoid bone, the sound strangely loud, because Kuhn was hearing it break inside his own mouth, tasting blood, hearing them both screaming, screaming like children, like little girls.

“Where are you?” Kasovitz asks him, and Kuhn slowly looks back at his face.

“Don’t remember,” Kuhn says. “Behind enemy lines.”

“That happen to you a lot? You go there?”

“No.”

“When does it happen?”

“Night time, usually. When I’m about to go to sleep.”

“Feeling tired?”

“No.”

“How’s your heartbeat?”

“Even. Regular.”

“You’re breathing evenly too. Feeling calm?”

“I suppose.”

“Good,” says Kasovitz. “Take your jumper off for me. Do you want your trousers on or off?”

Kuhn doesn’t say anything.

“Let’s keep them on then,” says Kasovitz as Kuhn takes off his jumper and puts it aside. “How about your socks?”

Kasovitz is watching closely as Kuhn folds in the arms of his jumper, folds them in, creates a tight square, and puts the jumper on the desk, then puts his hand up to the buttons of his shirt, hesitates.

“The shirt then,” Kasovitz decides. “Belt too.” He watches as Kuhn removes his shirt, folds it, removes his belt, coils it and sets it on top of his shirt and jumper, stacked on top of one another.

Once Kuhn is in just his vest and socks and trousers, Kasovitz pulls out a drawer from under his wardrobe and pulls out three coils of black rope, holding two in his palm and holding out the other. When Kuhn just looks at it, he says, “Touch.”

Kuhn touches the rope, is surprised by how soft it is. It isn’t like sailor’s rope, has a less tightly coiled weave, he thinks, and is made of a much more even fibre, some sort of cotton, maybe, or even silk. He strokes his fingers over the weave before drawing his fingers back, and Kasovitz smiles at him.

“Do you want to fuck me?”

“Not tonight, certainly. I just want to tie you up.”

“Why?”

“You asked me to.”

“But why do you want to?”

“I think you’ll be good as I tie you,” Kasovitz answers simply, and Kuhn blinks at the sudden rush in his head, the way he feels his mouth go slack, his lips automatically shifting into a slight smile. “I think you’ll look good, when I have you tied – you look good already. Hands out, wrists together, palms up. Good man.”

Kuhn stares down as the rope is spread outward over Kasovitz’ big hands, and then is looped neatly around his wrists. Kasovitz had mentioned before that some people enjoy following the lines and cross over of the ropes, enjoying how the bondage is put together, and he vaguely thinks he might do that, but then he forgets.

It’s like the watch, pendulum swinging – it’s Kasovitz’ hands crossing one way and then the other, the right and then the left, the left and then the right; it’s the feel of the rope sliding against his bare arms, the slight tension against his skin, the cool fabric of the rope; it’s Kasovitz’ breathing, even, slow, in, out, in, out, in, out.

“You awake?” Kasovitz asks, and Kuhn realises he’s closed his eyes.

“Yeah,” says Kuhn, opening them. “Sorry. I—”

“You can close your eyes,” says Kasovitz. “You don’t need them open for this.”

And then Kasovitz pulls on the rope, pulling Kuhn’s arms flush together, and his eyes widen for a moment. He stares down at the rope cording his forearms together, shifting his hands slightly, tensing his muscles and feeling the slight resistance – and then he tries to pull his forearms apart, and they don’t move. His wrists are bound fast to one another, tightly harnessed, and he can’t get them free.

He feels like he’s floating.

“This loop here,” says Kasovitz. “I pull this loop here, and I can undo this, let you free, do you want me to—”

“Please don’t,” Kuhn breathes out. “Please, it’s… It’s nice.”

“Good,” says Kasovitz, and he smiles, and Kuhn likes the shape of his smile, likes the way his big eyes seem to change very slightly at their ankle, sees the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes where the skin folds together. “What next? Tie your legs together? Harness your chest?”

“Yeah…” Kuhn hears himself say, his eyes closing again, and Kasovitz softly laughs.

“Yes, I thought so,” he says. “Very good. Good man.”

It’s not as good through the fabric of his trousers, but it’s still good, when Kasovitz begins to tie his legs together. Kuhn feels the pressure of each line of rope against his ankles, his calves, his knees, his thighs. His eyes flutter open when Kasovitz asks him to raise his feet, and he does so, watches Kasovitz string one of the lines right down between his feet… and then tightens.

A noise comes out of him, unbidden and throaty, as the harness presses his thighs and calves together, his legs flush, the same way his forearms are. Kasovitz has been touching him to tie him up, but each touch has been businesslike – a little on the light side, but with the rope in addition to the movements and brushes of his fingers, it’s not overwhelming, itchy, burning, in the way a lot of light touches often are.

“You want me to harness your chest?” Kasovitz asks.

Kuhn slowly nods his head.

He keeps his eyes open as Kasovitz comes closer to him, passing the rope slowly around his body – in a casual banner, he keeps lifting up Kuhn’s tied forearms by one of the loops of the harness to move them out of his way, and Kuhn doesn’t look at the ropes as they’re crossed around his chest and belly, over and over one another, but instead up at Kasovitz’ face, at his neck.

Being such a big man, he’s got a fairly big head, and his neck is made to support it on his shoulders, thick and strong, corded with subtle muscle at its base and where it adjoins his jaw. As Kasovitz’ posture changes, leaning forward or back to accommodate the rope he’s passing around him, Kuhn can see the shift and movement of the tendons in his throat, the muscles up the shaft of it; he can see the minute movements of Kasovitz’ facial expression, the flicker of his eyes as he traces the position of the ropes, the slight shift in pupil dilation as he tilts his face one way or the other and more or less light enters his eyes, the slight press together of his lips as he concentrates on a knot.

“You smell sweet,” Kuhn hears himself say as Kasovitz leans over him to pull a line taut, making a four-pointed harness tighten around his chest. His nose is almost touching Kasovitz’ breast, and he can smell the scent of the man himself, sweat and faint musk, the scent of whatever soap he uses for his clothes, and the scent of ink that clings to his fingers, where there are small stains from where he must have changed a ribbon earlier.

“I put cologne on,” Kasovitz says.

“You didn’t have cologne on at work.”

“I don’t wear cologne at work. I wear it on special occasions.”

“You didn’t wear it on Friday.”

“Those nights are routine for me, they’re not too special. You’re special, though. A handsome man wants to spend time with me, trusts me to tie him like so? Be up close with him? I want to smell nice for him.”

“It does smell nice,” Kuhn says, and Kasovitz laughs again.

“May I kiss you?” he asks.

Kuhn doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what the right answer is. Girls have kissed him before, caught him by the cheeks and crushed their lips together, and he doesn’t know that he wants that. He nods anyway, because Kasovitz is looking at him, and he needs to give an answer, and he doesn’t want this to stop, doesn’t want any of this to stop.

Kasovitz leans in, and his lips brush against Kuhn’s cheek – they’re very warm, and he can feel the slight ghost of Kasovitz’ five o’clock shadow against Kuhn’s own clean-shaven skin. It’s nice pressure, not too light, but not too hard or too wet against his mouth either.

Kasovitz draws back, and Kuhn breathes in, missing the scent of him.

“How long can I stay like this?” Kuhn asks. “Seventeen minutes?”

“Seventeen minutes is a good place to start,” says Kasovitz, and checks his watch.

A Bite of Rope: Part I

Kink fiction. An ex-soldier who can’t sleep one night follows a coworker to somewhere unexpected.

Rated E. Cis M/M. Set in 1950s London.

An ex-soldier, Arthur “Kuhn” Conrad, now a debt collector of sorts for a corrupt company, can’t sleep one night, and as he’s walking the streets, sees a coworker — on a whim, he follows, and ends up in an underground club. The older man, Ignatius Kasovitz, likes to tie people up, it seems, and Kuhn finds he wants to try being tied up, if it’s Kasovitz doing the tying.

CWs for continuous references to World War II and the Shoah — Kuhn is a veteran, Kasovitz is Jewish; various homophobic & transphobic language, particularly from Kuhn; trauma; violence. This one will be kink-focused over sex itself, with Kuhn being somewhere on the ace spectrum.

This won't be a long serial, only two or three parts. Please remember to comment and let me know what you think!

Read on Patreon / / Read on Medium / / Read on Ao3.

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It’s a dry, hot night, and Kuhn can’t sleep. It’s past ten at night and there’s no work for him to be getting on with, and being as it’s a Friday, most of the quieter pubs around him are not so quiet tonight, so he walks. No one fucking bothers him – he’s recognised here and there, by the sort of scum who’d recognise like for like, but it’s mostly not recognition that keeps people from coming near him.

He's told he has a dangerous air, no matter that he’s on the small side. He’s not scrawny, after all, not anymore – he’s square, and he’s got hard angles, but at the shoulders and the jaw, not at the elbows or the show of bone – and he has a fierce, rapid pace when he moves.

Doctor Lark, who heads up the office, says that any man who knows dogs can often see from afar the sort of dog that will bite at the drop of a hat, the sort of dog that won’t stop short at a nick but will savage you deeply. Kuhn doesn’t know anything about dogs at all – he likes cats, personally – but Lark says you can see a dog that will rip your guts out based on how its eyes cast about, how it draws back its lips and shows its teeth, how it lunges, how it ducks or lifts its head as it runs toward you.

“You look like a feral fucking dog, Kuhn,” Lark had said, and patted him very hard on the back, sending a percussive thump through his ribcage. Kuhn doesn’t like to be touched much, but the way Lark does it has never bothered him, short and abortive as it is, and always very hard instead of feigning softness. “You look fucking rabid, from afar, and worse, up close. Too much white in your eyes.”

Kuhn turns a corner and stares straight forward, knowing his eyes look dead even before a few young women on a night out blanch at facing him and hurriedly cross the road. That fills him with no especial pleasure, but a pleased hum settles low in his gut when a minute later a big man in a duffle coat, drunk and a little unstable on his feet, does the exact same thing, albeit more subtly.

He's not walking anywhere in particular. He’s just walking – stalking, but stalking the way a man does it, moving forward all angry, not like an animal does it. He’s not hunting for anything…

Until he is.

Kuhn recognises Ignatius Kasovitz from damn near two streets away, even though he’s nothing more than a tall blur in the distance. Kuhn recognises his gait as much as he does his height, the smooth and long-legged stride that sets Kasovitz well-aside from all the girls in the secretarial pool, and all the other men, too.

He doesn’t like Kasovitz, but that’s what makes him an easy target to tail, Kuhn thinks. He’s not following the old man because he’s really interested in where he lives, because he wants to sit and talk with him, or even because he wants to use any information against him, blackmail him with where he’s been at night, or where he’s going.

It’s none of that. He just follows Kasovitz because he recognises him, and he’s someone that doesn’t matter.

He follows Kasovitz out of Soho proper, and he wonders at first if Kasovitz is going to go as far as one of the popular cottages, one of the greens where inverts like him pay a shilling or two to the ex-soldiers selling themselves as gigolos, but instead, Kasovitz trails down one street and then another, then descends a set of steps behind an iron railing.

Kuhn comes to the edge of the railing and looks down the steps, then trails in pursuit. Down here, out of the view of the main street, he can see people milling about – more queers like Kasowitz, queers and sapphics and that sort, different people done up for a night out, smoking cigarettes, laughing with each other. It’s just a bit too crowded for enough people to notice Kuhn and part around him, and he’s glad he’s wearing his hat – he blends in well enough with the shorter faggots and the littler dykes.

All these fucking freaks lined up in their dresses and suits and jewellery, trading cigarettes and compacts of coke – is this what they fought a fucking war for?

He can’t hear the music from inside whatever club this is from out here in this draughty corridor underneath the eaves of the shops upstairs, but the noise around him is still digging under his skin like splinters, like gritted sand in a hard wind, like sparks off the fire. Three mincing cunts done up like girls – two of them are in wigs, the other one, that might be his own fucking curls – are giggling and laughing with each other; he can hear the wet, messy sound of two women necking even though they’re in a shadow and he can’t actually see them; two men are playing a game of slapsies, and whenever one of them gets a hit in, the other one grabs at his arse or his thigh.

He’s irritable from not having slept yet, but at the same time, it’s the irritability that’s not letting him sleep. There’s a burn and prickle under his skin – it’s the dry heat of the night, he thinks, and how it’s making him sweat, how it feels uncomfortably light whilst still being nasty in its temperature. His skin, slicked with sweat, doesn’t feel as though it fits him. It hasn’t felt as if it fits him for a long, long time.

“You alright, love?” asks a skinny homo who must be eighty or ninety, walking past Kuhn with a stick. He’s wearing a silk scarf around his neck. “You want to get some water down you – you do look a bit peaked, if I do say so myself.”

“Yessir,” Kuhn mutters, because no matter that the man is decades too old to be hobbling out to some degenerate club like this, he had it beaten into him very young to respect his elders, and he can’t spit out any insult that comes to mind.

Kuhn is a criminal himself, no matter that he has a fucking office and a desk and a lot of bullshit paperwork to get on with in the course of the day. Doctor Lark is bent; the office is bent; all his coworkers are bent, and when Kuhn isn’t doing paperwork and bribes and occasionally being impressed at the new ways their engineers come up with to smuggle guns or blow or cash, he’s roughing up whoever doesn’t pay them.

He's not this sort of criminal, no, but—

Still.

Kuhn follows after the old man, trying to look around him into the club – the big door is closed, and a hulking bulldyke stands in front of it, her arms crossed over her big, square chest that her suit barely fucking contains. When she draws back a slightly hairy upper lip in a snarl, Kuhn doesn’t have it in him not to draw his own teeth back.

Bad dogs, both of them.

“Christine,” says Kasovitz suddenly a second later – the door is open, the old man is hobbling through where Kasovitz is holding the door open for him, and Kasovitz is standing at the big lesbian’s shoulder. She’s holding Kuhn half a foot off the fucking ground, pinned up against the wall, but at Kasovitz’ gentle scolding, she sets him down again. “Let him through, dear. I’ll vouch for him.”

“Behave,” Christine growls down at him, and Kuhn scoffs at her – she raises her hand as if to smack him one, but before she can land the blow, Kasovitz has tugged Kuhn forward by one of the open bits of his looser coat pockets, moved him whilst making barely any contact with him at all.

Kasovitz used to be a clown.

Kuhn doesn’t know how long he’d been a clerk at Croft & Co. before they merged with Werner & Associates, but he knows he was never a fucking soldier, not in the Great War or the one after, no matter that he’s fifty-six or something like it. The fuck sort of exemption is that, being a fucking clown? The fuck was he doing, when men like Kuhn were getting shot at, raked over wire, bombed to smithereens – juggling? Dancing on a wire, jumping off the trapeze, riding fucking elephants?

It’s an open secret, what he is, that he’s a pansy, an invert, at work. It’s illegal, sure, but that doesn’t mean anything at WC – and Hell, isn’t it fucking right, that a homo like him should work at a company now named after a fucking lavatory? – and that it’s disgusting doesn’t mean much more. It grates on Kuhn, that people at work joke about it and that the old prick takes it in his stride, laughs along, even makes his own jokes about being a Wilde type.

He’s not in one of the pastel suits he wears to work, with old-fashioned tailoring and uncomfortably modern cloth, and not in his circus get-up either – there’s pictures of him on his desk at work, of him with his family in the circus – but in a set of trousers, a jumper, a tie. He looks naked, in a way, dressed down. As big a man as he is, heavy in the chest and shoulders with long, loping legs, it feels to Kuhn for a moment that a jumper almost shouldn’t fit him.

As Kuhn follows after Kasovitz, he steels himself for the coming touch, for Kasovitz to touch him properly this time – his shoulder, the back of his neck, his waist, get ready to lunge back at him, no matter that he’s a big, heavy prick. The touch doesn’t come.

Coiled energy prickles under Kuhn’s skin, built up with nowhere to go, awaiting the provocation of Kasovitz perving on him.

“Gonna ask me to buy you a drink, are you, pansy?” Kuhn asks in a sharp undertone, provoking the provocation so that he doesn’t have to have it swinging over his head.

“I don’t drink,” Kasovitz says. “But cheers for the offer.”

Kuhn blinks, and he realises in the moment that he isn’t talking the way he does at the office, that he sounds a lot less like Kuhn himself, all of a sudden – he doesn’t sound like a Londoner at all, but a Manc, a Scouser, maybe.

Before Kuhn can snap that it wasn’t an offer, he doesn’t swing that way and even if he did, he’s pretty sure he could get a younger, prettier model than a fucking has-been cunt in his fifties – respect for one’s elders does not extend to clowns – Kasovitz has picked up a length of coiled rope from a nearby table and stepped away from him.

This speakeasy used to be a public bomb shelter, Kuhn thinks – it’s a sort of tunnel, long and windowless, with rounded walls, but it makes a more than decent basement establishment. There’s a long bar, tables and booths about, small stages throughout. The music travels well here inside the place, but there’s no live band – it’s just a battered old gramophone in the corner, some antique thing instead of a newer record player.

Kuhn suddenly finds himself rooted to the spot as if he’s stepped in tar, his shoes sticking to the word boards beneath him as he follows Kasovitz with his eyes up onto the small stage, and his breath gets stuck somewhere inside him too. Ascending two steps up onto the platform, Kasovitz has gone from uncoiling the rope to trussing up a pretty girl.

No.

No, not a girl – she’s Kuhn’s age or a bit younger, forty, at the eldest. She’s got her eyes closed and her lips are faintly smiling, and she’s stripped down to just a slip and her stockings, her dress and cardigan folded on the edge of the stage, as she leans forward and into Kasovitz’ hands. His long fingers make the rope move fast, make it look alive, serpentine, as it coils around her body. She’s the same height as Kuhn, maybe even taller than he is in her little kitten heels, and Kasovitz is like a giant in front of her, leaning forward to press the rope between her little tits.

Kuhn still isn’t breathing. His chest is aching a bit, distantly, from his lungs not inflating or letting out – he’s held his breath in the bath before, tempted himself with oblivion, but this pain isn’t quite like that. It has softer edges, somehow, and a sweeter taste.

“Lean back,” Kasovitz instructs.

Kuhn was hypnotised once, before the war, before anything. He was fourteen and at a birthday party – Haverford Grey’s, he’s dead, now, was gutted and left hanging from a tree by a grey and dismal battlefield, and Kuhn can still hear the wind whistling and the branch creaking as he swings one way and the other – was a hypnotist.

Harmless stuff.

Keep an eye on the watch, watch it swing, watch the pendulum go one way and then the other, and then he was sweet and easy and standing on a cloud, and all his friends were laughing because apparently he’d done a good ballerina’s twirl, and he’d laughed too, because he’d just felt so relaxed. He hasn’t thought of that birthday party since he saw Have’s corpse swinging and thought of the pendulum swing of the hypnotist’s watch – he hasn’t thought of the calm and the sweet buzz and ease he’d felt for much, much longer. He feels a ghost of that calm down, his head tipping back slightly. Kuhn’s chin raises, his centre of gravity easing a few degrees backwards in response to an order that isn’t meant for him – he’s starting to feel the slightest bit dizzy, but luckily, Kasovitz tells his girl, “Breathe in,” and Kuhn does at the same time she does, feels blessed relief.

He stares, mystified, in a waking dream, as Kasovitz supports his trussed-up girl under her belly and lifts her up like he might his fucking briefcase, tied up like a handbag, her arms and legs behind her, above her, and she’s swinging too. She looks so… peaceful.

She laughs softly as Kasovitz pulls the rope through another one of the rings of a sort of hangman’s frame over the stage, one Kuhn hadn’t noticed a moment ago, and Kuhn watches as she’s eased out of his hold – and fucking Hell, he was holding her in one hand, balancing her in one hand – and made to purely suspend from the frame. Her legs are back, ankles and wrists together, but she’s not hanging from the coiled rope around those.

Kasovitz has made a sort of harness for her, around her chest, her waist and belly, and her weight rests in the cradle of it, and Kuhn wonders when the last time was that he ever, ever felt as strangely relaxed as he does right now, watching this woman tied up in a degenerate hub like this one – he’s tipping slightly forward on his feet, rocking in rhythm with her swinging in the suspension.

Kuhn realises, all at once, that it’s happening all around him.

A fat man with a balding head is leaning back in a chair and two girls – and these are girls, if they’re not boys in dresses, might be at the end of their teens if not their early twenties – are tying him tighter and tighter. Between binding him to the legs and arms of the chair, they’re laughing at him, pinching his cheeks, slapping parts of his flesh, kissing him on the cheeks and the top of his head. Another woman is in suspension at the far end of the hall, hanging from the frame with her legs down and her arms straight out, a mirror of Christ. An older woman has a younger one over her knee and is smacking her across her arse, making the pale cheeks of her flat arse wobble with each blow, and they’re aglow with the heat and redness of it.

“You can have fifteen minutes,” Kasovitz says, checking his pocket watch and gently touching the young woman’s cheek. “And then I’ll bring you down.”

“Can it be twenty?” she asks, her voice husky, but it doesn’t sound seductive, not that Kuhn’s any real judge or expert – it just sounds sleepy to him.

“Seventeen.”

“Eighteen.”

“Seventeen and a half,” says Kasovitz, with a stern movement of one index finger, and when the woman laughs, she gently sways in her bonds, and Kuhn follows after Kasovitz as he goes toward the bar. “Two barley waters, please,” he says, and Kuhn stands there, his hands at his sides, as he watches the young man behind the bar pour from a jug.

He's incredibly grateful, all of a sudden, to hear the clink of ice against the glass – it’s warm outside, and it’s even hotter here inside, and more humid, too. When the glass is pushed toward him, he drinks from it greedily.

“You live in Battersea, don’t you?” Kasovitz asks. “Did you walk all the way here?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” says Kuhn. “Never been one for counting sheep. Came here to count fairies instead.”

Kasovitz’ lips twitch, and he takes a sip from his own drink, gesturing for the man behind the bar to replenish Kuhn’s glass, which he does. It occurs to him to complain, to ask why the fuck he’s drinking barley water instead of beer or ale, whether Kasovitz drinks or not, but he doesn’t want to drink anyway, not tonight. Kuhn hops up onto the stool – Kasovitz doesn’t have to do that, just leans back into the one beside him, and Kuhn slowly scans the hall up and down, at the play these people are all having with each other.

“There once was a queer from Khartoum…” says Kasovitz in an undertone, narrating the view for him, and Kuhn’s lips twitch despite himself, and he looks up at the older man’s face. He has round features – big, round eyes with heavy lids, a crescent to his lips, an oval-shaped face. He has thick, dark hair, and he usually has it pomaded at work – he has it washed of pomade, neatly parted, and now they’re not flattened down, the usual waves are made up of bouncing curls instead.

“I saw you walking,” says Kuhn. He doesn’t know why he says it, doesn’t know why it occurs to him to share it – why the fuck should he? But he does. He still feels a bit tense under his clothes, but Kasovitz isn’t touching him, isn’t reaching for him, and Kuhn isn’t entirely relaxed – he doesn’t know if he’s been entirely relaxed in the last twenty fucking years – but he trusts, somehow, that Kasovitz isn’t going to reach and touch him. “I’ve been walking around for an hour or two, and I saw you, recognised you. Thought you’d be out on one of the greens or playing house at this time of night, not coming into a fucking place like this.”

“Playing house?” Kasovitz repeats, raising his thick eyebrows. “What were you hoping, young man, that you’d find me in a cottage waiting for you?”

“Not my thing,” Kuhn mutters.

The old man, the one that spoke to him on the way in, has another older man on his knee – he’s plump, has a sort of prettiness despite his age and his weight, has long eyelashes and very pink lips. The one with the cane is slowly winding ribbon around him with quavering, frail fingers, tying bows about his neck, around his belly, making a sort of harness of the violet silk, laying it down flat against Lippett’s smooth, hairless skin.

“Mr Salford, he’s a haberdasher,” Kasovitz supplies. “Always brings his own ribbons, has more of a care for those than rope. Mr Lippett was a painter’s model as a young man – he still enjoys to be made into something fancy, into something pretty.”

“They’re both so fucking old,” Kuhn says.

“Yes, well,” Kasovitz murmurs, taking another little sip of his drink, “We’re all getting fucking old, at the end of the day.”

Kuhn watches as Salford ties little bows through the rings piercing Lippett’s plump tits – they’re bigger than the ones on the woman Kasovitz has set to dangle, look plush and soft. They wobble a bit when Salford tickles Lippett’s side, making him laugh.

“I didn’t know you were a Scouser,” Kuhn says. “Why’d you do that accent at work?”

“You know what you Londoners are like,” Kasovitz retorts, shrugging his shoulders. “People are liable to think I can’t read and write at all, realising I learned my English in Liverpool. I do the posher accent in the office, and it keeps people on task. Don’t think I don’t know you don’t go a little Cockney now and then, when you think it will have more of an impact.”

“Learned your English?” Kuhn repeats. “Thought you might be a Kraut, with a name like Kasovitz.”

“My family left our troupe to join another when attitudes toward Jews in Germany, in the rest of Europe, became more dangerous, and then we came to England to perform here. Circuses are made for outcasts – Gypsies, Jews, cripples, dwarves, freaks and untouchables of all kinds.” Kasovitz’ voice is quiet and even – he has a nice voice, and Kuhn finds he actually finds his Scouser’s lilt more appealing than the more neutral, posher voice he’s heard here and there from him. “That’s always been true, and always will be. But it was harder here in England, as an invert, a homosexual – and apart from that, the magic was lost for me, I think. I stayed in Liverpool as the circus moved on, enrolled in a secretarial course – I’d learned to do our books, had managed our travelling papers, different ownership papers, contracts. People are always accusing circuses of thievery, so one learns to keep these things in good order.”

“So you’re not actually a Scouser, then,” is what Kuhn takes from this.

“I was born outside of Szeged, actually.”

“Where’s that?”

“Hungary.”

“And you all just… travelled around? The circus you were in, it was all Jews?”

“Not all, no, but a few of us.”

“You all survived?”

Kasovitz’ expression doesn’t change, but he gazes at Kuhn’s face, looks across at him unblinkingly for a few moments. “Most of us,” he says quietly. “My family, for the most part, except for an aunt and uncle I had who were entertainers in Berlin – they were brought to a camp. My uncle died there – my aunt was kept alive, made to perform for the guards, you see. She was a broken woman, after. My mother went to look after her for a little while, but she died not long after the end of the war – typhoid fever. There was another Jewish family with us, half of them went to America, the other half evaded capture for a while, and then two of them, fellow clowns…” He trails off, slowly shaking his head, and exhales. “The rest did survive, they’re in Israel now. All told, those in my closest circle were far luckier than most Jews. Traveling life gave us means of egress, ways to hide, that others didn’t have – and in the circus, we look after our own. We weren’t disposable or undesirable for our Jewishness, as we were and would be elsewhere.”

“I didn’t really know many Jews, before the war,” Kuhn says. He doesn’t know why he says this, either. He doesn’t talk to anybody, really – he has pints with the lads after a job sometimes, but mostly he doesn’t talk, just listens, laughs at a good joke, though there’s never many of those. “My family had some refugees as servants, and then we were deployed, I did meet some Jews – in Stalags, mostly. Some Poles helped us out, once, Polish Jews, that was in France.”

“What are your family, Catholic?”

“C of E.”

“You’re not religious?”

“No, never.”

“Nor am I.”

“You use to be?”

“Before the Shoah? No, not really. I used to think as a young man I’d have time and interest in religion when I was old, that I’d get more interested in spending time with God. And then He let that happen. And I thought… fuck Him. Let Him burn for all I care.”

“One of our priests was the touchy-feely type,” Kuhn says. “He slid his hand down my back once when I was in the church library, and I ripped his dog collar off, knocked my head into his nose. Didn’t break it, just bloodied his lip.”

Kasovitz looks at him with what seems to Kuhn to be a very keen interest, resting his rounded chin on the palm of one of his big, strong, long-fingered hands. In deliberate tones, he asks – sort of snidely – “And a priest stroking your back, young man, you think that’s roughly equivalent to my seeing millions of my people slaughtered?”

“No,” says Kuhn plainly. “But I headbutted a priest. Thought you’d like the point against God. ‘Scuse me for breathing.”

Kasovitz laughs. It seems to take him by surprise – he covers his mouth with his hand, his eyes very wide and almost watering, and it’s a good laugh, very loud. It’s not like the politer, snider thing he keeps in the office, all superior and quiet – this is a clown’s laugh, Kuhn thinks. He likes it.

“I suppose you’re right,” he says, a bit breathlessly, when the laugh passes. “Thank you for that, Mr Conrad. I appreciate the effort.”

“Kuhn,” says Kuhn.

Kasovitz blinks his big brown eyes. “Beg pardon?”

“That’s what they called me, the POWs. They said Conrad was too grand for a little fella like me, and when I told them my name was Arthur, they said that was too English. So, Kuhn.”

Kasovitz sips from his drink, and then asks, “Is that what you did in the war, liberate camps? Doctor Lark, he mentioned to me once that you weren’t in the trenches, seemed to imply that was why you were so…”

“Fucked up?”

“Brittle.”

“Brittle,” Kuhn repeats, and he laughs a bit, although it comes out kind of staccato and scattershot, like gunfire, and his ribs feel like they’re rattling, his chest aching. There’s a kind of acrid taste in the back of his throat, the threat of vomiting – he gets that threat a lot, but he doesn’t actually throw up much these days. It’s composure, except that composure’s not all it is.

Better out than in, his nanny used to say. You’re meant to vomit when you’re ill. It’s getting the poison out, throwing it up. The poison that’s in him now is in too deep to throw it up. Vomiting doesn’t make any difference.

“I didn’t really liberate anything,” Kuhn says. “I was little, and fast, and nasty. I just went and killed a lot of people – Krauts, mostly, officers and soldiers. Like a fox or a weasel, I went into the coop sometimes alone, more times with the squad I was with, never more than six of us. Poisoned beer, or food. Slit throats. Sometimes it wasn’t them, sometimes it was collaborators – never liked that word. Too much choice in it.”

“Not much choice in that war, was there?”

“No.”

Kasovitz is looking at him. Kuhn can feel it before he looks up and observes it, feels the way that Kasovitz’ gaze is flickering over Kuhn’s face, down the length of his nose, into the shadows of his eye sockets, down his jaw, up to his ears, to his hair, then down his neck, down to his chest, the clothes he’s wearing – just a vest under a battered, very light summer jersey.

“What?” Kuhn asks, finally.

“The other men in that squad you mentioned,” Kasovitz murmurs. “Were they— men like you?”

“Men like me?”

“Men born so close to Clapham Common. Or Battersea, for that matter.”

“Not really,” Kuhn mutters. “Doctor Lark made the same guess you did. A lot of them were burglars, criminals. A few intelligence officers, sometimes, but we weren’t intelligence, we weren’t spies.”

They were attack dogs. Hunting dogs, a pack of them, sniffing out whatever, whoever they could find, tearing them to shreds. He’s never told anybody he knows at work any of this. Doctor Lark knows, of course, but he knows everything, Doctor Lark. He doesn’t know why he’s telling Kasovitz now.

“Friends of yours, the MI6 men?”

It grates on him, that question, but why? Because Kasovitz isn’t doing his fake accent any longer, because it makes Kuhn seem like he’s posher than he is – makes it seem like he’s posher than Kasovitz?

Because Kasovitz thinks his accent roughs up because he’s putting it on, and not just him picking up the rhythm of other Londoners he’s with, other Londoners he’s been with all his life, no matter what school he went to, whose parties he was invited to?

Because Kasovitz might think Kuhn thinks he’s better than him?

“I’m not that posh, you know. I was friends with some of the posher lads, but it was because my dad was a doctor at the maternity hospital in Clapham, and my mother was a nurse. He was the first person in my family to go to university, my dad. Got a special grant for his board.”

He used to think he was better than him, maybe. Half an hour ago. Not knowing he was a clown. Not knowing he was a Scouser. Not knowing that Kasovitz could sit across from a man like Kuhn at a bar like this, feed him barley water and read everything he was from his face and his posture and make him talk without asking barely anything at all?

He itches to go on, but the words won’t come. He stares down at his hands, at his fingernails which have dirt and rust and a bit of blood underneath where he didn’t go hard enough with the nailbrush once he was home earlier. There are some bruises on the backs of his knuckles.

“Did you like him?”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

This is a very strange conversation. A lot of conversations feel strange to Kuhn – he’s not a natural talker – but there doesn’t seem to be a point to this conversation, doesn’t seem to be a clear direction. It makes him feel strange, unsteady, but at the same time, strangely calm, not able to guess where Kasovitz is taking it yet.

“My dad?” Kuhn asks.

“Your father, yes,” Kasovitz says. “Did you like him?”

No one’s ever asked him if he likes his father before. Not even Doctor Lark. “No,” Kuhn says.

“Fair enough,” says Kasovitz, instead of asking why. Kuhn feels faintly dizzy, and when Kasovitz gets up, he automatically moves in his chest, but Kasovitz raises his palms and gestures for him to stay put, and Kuhn automatically obeys without knowing why. “Excuse me, I have to go let Leigh down. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Kuhn sinks back down onto the stool and watches Kasovitz walk away, feeling powerless, and he watches him move across the room, watches his hands on the woman’s ropes as he carefully eases her down. He drinks his barley water, and feels a kind of burning heat under his skin, suddenly embarrassed for reasons he can’t quite put together, feels looked at, even though no one in this place is looking at him.

He gets to his feet, nudging back the stool and pushing the glass toward the bar, now empty but for the two bits of ice clinking in it.

“Nice to meet you, dear! Do drop in again!” says Mr Salford as Kuhn slips past – he waves one of his trembling, liver-spotted hands in farewell. His voice is just slightly muffled by the cushion of Mr Lippett’s full tits, which are perked up by the ribbon harnessing them. Mr Lippett waves at him too, and Kuhn’s hand twitches at his side, but he doesn’t actually wave back.

Christine blocks his path when he tries to leave, and Kuhn automatically tries to grab at her arm to shove it off him, but she twists free and then pushes them so hard against the wall it knocks the wind out of his lungs.

“Just wanted to say you should come back, if it feels like the place for you,” she spits at him. “It’s safe here.”

“You keep it safe, do you?”

Christine has more teeth in her head than a wolf, and her eyes are wide and too white. They stare at one another, dog to dog, and then she lowers her arm from where it’s blocking off the entrance to the club, and he stands there for a second.

He gives her a silent nod before he steps out into the drainway, and then ascends the stairs to street level again. His feet hurt from walking, but when he waves down a late-night cab, the driver slows down, gets a good look at his face, and then speeds away instead of risking a stop.

Kuhn can hardly blame him. He’s only carrying his knives, and doesn’t have the fare on him anyway.

* * *

That Monday, Kuhn is sitting on the desk in his office and throwing knives at the dartboard in his office. He hates this fucking office. He hates how fancy-dancy the building is, hates how central it is, hates all the fucking windows and how much light comes in.

It’s one thing for the rest of the business, especially now they’re a bigger company, another thing for the other men who move papers about and more than that, actually move stock, do imports and exports and accountancy, and whatever else makes legitimate businesses go around.

Kuhn’s “office” used to be a fucking stockroom at the back of a warehouse, cold and dank and with sawdust on the floor, and the butcher’s hooks still hanging from the ceiling so that he could string people up, when he needed.

The fuck is he meant to do with this fucking room, with its four fucking windows, up here in the fucking sky? The sort of people he goes shaking down for money aren’t exactly going to show up to a fucking appointment. He does the basic bollocks they pass over his desk to make his salary stand up if someone in authority asks what exactly his role is in this fucking company, and then he sits here on top of his desk and throws his knives at his dartboard, and he waits for five o’clock.

Kasovitz snatches the last of his knives right out of the air, as quick as blinking, and Kuhn looks at him impassively from where he sits on his desk, his feet swinging idly underneath him.

“Your problem, it seems to me,” Kasovitz says pleasantly, holding the knife by the very tip of its blade and by the end of its handle, balancing it between his index fingers, “is that emotion rather gets the best of you.”

Kuhn doesn’t say anything.

“Why seven?” Kasovitz asks as he turns away and begins to pluck the blades from the board, holding them all in the cradle of one big palm like a steel bouquet.

“Seven sisters,” says Kuhn.

“What, the Pleiades?”

“Or the Hyades,” says Kuhn. “Doesn’t matter, really. I just like the sibilance. Can you juggle them?”

“Of course,” says Kasovitz, and then with nothing else but a quick glance toward the ceiling, estimating the height of it, he does. Kuhn stares, taken aback, as Kasovitz just starts flicking the blades up and into the air like it’s nothing, each of them rotating, turning over and over in motion – one, two, three, four, and then he’s catching those and tossing them up again, one, two, three, four, five, tossing them other one another, passing them between his hands, each of them performing perfect arcs, one, two, three, four, five, six, the arcs crossing over one another but the knives not touching, one, two, three, four, five, six, se—

“Oop,” says Kasovitz, stepping back, and after letting the fallen blade dig into the carpet, he catches each of the others, one, two, three, four, five, six. “Sorry about that.” He tugs up the last by the loop – Kuhn can slip his fingers through those loops, can swing and twirl the blades around his fingers. Even Kasovitz’ pinky wouldn’t fit.

“You have to tell Doctor Lark it was you did that to the carpet,” says Kuhn.

“Of course,” Kasovitz agrees immediately. “Where did you go last night?”

“Home.”

“Too much for you, was it?”

“You’re old enough to be my father,” says Kuhn, and Kasovitz laughs.

“If I started at fifteen, maybe,” he says, seeming surprised as he lays Kuhn’s blades on the desk beside him, and Kuhn waits for the touch, but it doesn’t come. Kasovitz keeps his big hands to himself. “I didn’t, I’m afraid – the first man I took a tumble with, I was nearly thirty, in a Berlin club. You might guess why England was so difficult for me, the sort of man I am, when Berlin was my contrast.”

“Not really,” says Kuhn.

“You don’t consider yourself a queer, I take it.”

Kuhn shrugs.

“Do you think of yourself as the obverse?”

“Obverse?”

“The opposite.”

“I know what it means.”

Kasovitz is standing very close to him. Closer than Christine was stood to him the other night – he’s standing right in front of Kuhn, so close that he’s almost slightly between Kuhn’s knees, which are spread to let him keep his balance on the edge of the desk. Kasovitz still isn’t touching him.

“Are you going to touch me?” Kuhn asks.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Kasovitz asks.

Kuhn’s tongue feels like it’s caged behind his teeth, like there’s a spike stuck through it.

“Tell me about it,” he manages to say through a mouth of sand. “That place. Those people.”

“The rope?”

“You tied her up. That woman – she a dyke as well?”

“I believe Leigh likes anybody in a suit, really,” Kasovitz says. “The equipment is less important to her than the clothes and a sufficiently short haircut, I think. In any case, it’s not really about that, for her. She likes the feeling of being suspended, likes the swing – likes to feel weightless, as though she’s on air.”

“And Mr Lippett likes to feel pretty.”

“Yes.”

“And Mr Salford?”

“Likes to advertise his product,” says Kasovitz. When Kuhn doesn’t laugh, he says, more gently, “He likes to dote on a man. Make him pretty, yes. Put complementary fabrics or ribbons or buttons against his skin, his hair, assist the tailor in his work, but more than that, to treat him. Feed him fine food and drink, comb his hair, touch him sweetly, gently, kiss him from top to tail.”

“And the spankings. There were— I saw canes, whips. A hard paddle. One of the trannies had a glove with spikes on it…”

“Mary, her name is,” Kasovitz says. “She makes them herself, uses thumb tacks.”

Kuhn doesn’t know what to say to this. “There were a lot of spikes on it, that glove.”

“Yes.”

“They hard to make?”

“Complicated, certainly, and time consuming. Why, do you think you’d like one?”

Kuhn shakes his head.

“And rope?”

Kuhn is quiet.

He’d been irritated, earlier, frustrated, feeling like a dog in a too-small garden, trapped in a pen – wen Kasovitz had crossed the threshold, that energy had dissipated somewhat. He doesn’t feel relaxed, no, but he doesn’t feel like he’s pacing any longer, inside his own head.

“What’s it like?” he asks.

“Being tied up?”

“Yeah.”

“You were never tied up during the war? Never got captured?”

“No,” Kuhn says. He doesn’t mean to say it the way he does, like it’s a stupid fucking question, like it’s a question he should be indignant that Kasovitz asked, but that’s how it comes out, and Kasovitz softly laughs, but it’s a nice laugh. It’s not his big clown’s laugh, but it’s not the snide, superior office laugh, either – he’s using his own accent, here in Kuhn’s office, and not the one he uses in the rest of the building.

“I personally don’t particularly enjoy it,” Kasovitz says. “I don’t hate it, by any means – I stand in and offer myself up as someone to be practised on, when someone’s interested in learning, teach them as they go, but I don’t particularly relish the sensation of it. I feel neutral about rope, as a man to be bound. Some people like the bite of it, the rope on their skin, or the smoothness of ribbon, the tension, the coil, the sense of being contained, the pressure. Some like it to hurt, or to strain – others, like Leigh, they like it to support them, to let them swing or suspend. Some like the process of it, find it meditative, hypnotising, the knots, the patterns. Others just like to be in another’s control. Like that if they’re tied up, it means they can’t be held accountable for what happens – means they have to trust whoever’s bound them, let them make the decisions.”

Kuhn nods his head.

“Yes,” he says.

“Yes?” Kasovitz repeats.

“I want it.”

“Next Friday, if you come back, I’ll—”

“No, not there,” says Kuhn. “Just you. Only you.”

Kasovitz looks down at him with his big, round face, his big, round eyes. Kuhn waits for him to say no, to say that even a man who likes tying men up doesn’t go about trying to collar dogs that like to bite.

(He doesn’t know what he’ll do, if Kasovitz touches him. He’ll try not to bite.)

“Alright,” says Kasovitz, and taking up a notepad from Kuhn’s desk, he writes down an address.

#musings #original fiction

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