#will come on. you can’t leave it’s raining

[hoseoksluna]

STRATEGY | jjk

pairing: yandere!jungkook x female!oc (feat. police officer!taehyung)

genre: smut; angst

rating: 18+

summary: due to his reasons, jungkook can't get close to you—but when you show your tits to him through your window, he might just teach you a lesson.

word count: 6.0k

warnings: dark content not to be romanticized — stalking, manipulation, slight gaslighting; mental states of — anger, anxiety, depression, dissociation, daddy issues. sexual content — mentions of male masturbation, dd/lg, dom/sub dynamics, discipline, the threat of punishment, use of belt, making out. other — insecurities, smoking, mentions of drugs, of parental neglect, inner child in the form of an animal.

FORMAL WARNING: jeon jungkook written in this work is a figment of my imagination and does not reflect the living person and his family.

luna's note: the first chapter of this year's first series is here. you're all gonna scream. oh my god. i worked so hard on this, i need my babies to know that. as much as i struggled with writing, this was a wild ride that i enjoyed. i'd like to give my thanks to my ruru, @tkslovechild, who fixed my mind well enough and inspired me to open the last doc of many. if it weren't for her, this fic wouldn't be alive. this chapter is a taste of what's to come. you can expect a whole lot of smut in the next one. i hope you enjoy. sending lots of kisses MWAH.

𓂃 ౨ৎ

taglist | join here: @jjk7k, @tkslovechild, @euphoricmyth, @cinmmongirl, @ririkookiemonster, 

@perfectiondazesworld, @https-mei, @bangtansonyeondanue, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, 

@hoseokkie-caeks, @kam9404, @fr0ggieth1nk, @parkinglot-nights, @sadgirlroo

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Jungkook’s cigarette is wet.

The paper, encased around it, is nearly translucent enough to expose the leaves of the tobacco inside, the very tethered parts of his burning soul. The rain pelts down on him hard, brisk and icy like bullets, but its droplets soften and grow warm once they seep inside the thick, thumping vein along the column of his throat. His hair is soaked, a few of his freshly cut strands rounding over his forehead clouding his vision. Normally, he’d get one long and thorough look at you, finish his cigarette in but a few sucks and return to his car, but tonight he can’t. Neither can he afford to get sick, not when he’s studying exhausting hours deep into the night just to secure your financial well-being and freedom, but right now, despite the risk, he can’t take his eyes off of you. 

You’re playing a dangerous game. As a matter of fact, you’ve always been with your flirtiness and your delicious perversion, but the boss-defeating level he finds himself to be in is not something he can handle so easily. It’s blanketed in a light layer of the possibility of his life permanently changing, and he can’t run from it. Not when he’s frozen in this speed of time while his wobbly, jelly limbs long to be in your proximity.

In any textbook image example of his romantic relationship with you suggests the very opposite of this sketch he’s being drawn into by your hand. Before all else, the charcoal pencil should’ve been in his tattooed fingers. The big bad boss should’ve been him, and you should’ve been the brave princess with her sword, small before him, but more powerful with her spirit and fearlessness, getting impaled on his dick time and time again before you conquer him, at last. 

In this ashy, starless scene, you’re the boss and he’s the princess. 

You’re flashing your tits at him through the window of your bedroom and he’s sporting a boner so astronomical that he couldn’t sit down inside his car even if you, yourself, asked him to. Made puppy eyes, put your palms together and rubbed them in a childish gesture, pleading him with the pout that he knows you’re very capable of doing. The pout that started this habit of his—driving up to your street, despite the fact he lives an hour away, just to ensure your safety, just to be certain that you’re well and not staining your pillow with black mascara tears. 

There’s enough blackness in your heart from the wrongness and unfairness that life feeds you, and he’s decided to take the spoon and fill it with something sweet. Like attention, like protection,  like your dreams and wishes fulfilled. Because he saw you as a small kitten, underfed and yet loaded with such a large burden of ill-luck that every morsel of his being just couldn’t stand to see it anymore. 

He met you in a strange place at a strange time.

Jungkook wasn’t supposed to be in Gangnam that day, but one of his soon-to-be pawns in the city of Seoul unintentionally let him in on one of the underground crimes that have been going on in that district. His plan for the night was supposed to be filled with driving around Hongdae just to make sure all the girls were safe. It was Friday, the most sinful day of the week; 9:30 pm, the start of all depraved entertainment, brought out from the depths of all the dark souls of empty people. The girls needed him, but when Jungkook heard from Taehyung that the little bitches called men have been dealing drugs in the bathroom of Starfield Library, the girls had to be good and they had to wait. 

The heart inside his inner child ached at the thought that the place, where he used to spend his happy days before they were gone, was getting stained by something so horrendously evil as drugs. Taehyung was putting on his police uniform as the information slipped past his lips and while Jungkook’s heart stopped, it became burdened by his secret, not so secret in reality, dream even more heavily than ever before. He no longer saw him as a pawn—truth be told, he wanted to become a police officer ever since he saw Kiki’s Delivery Service as a young boy before things got bad and having him as his best friend and a neighbor at the same time just offered a crevice of open space for his dream to come true. But Taehyung stalled… until he didn’t. 

Upon seeing the look on his face, he tipped his head low, sighed, and told him to come with him. And together they drove to Gangnam up to the COEX Mall. All the while Jungkook bounced his knee and sensed a dreadful feeling slithering down his sternum for a reason he couldn’t simply figure out. 

He couldn’t shake off his nervousness even as they got out and he lit up his cigarette. Taehyung told him off, reminded him that the library closes soon, and, nodding, Jungkook took two more puffs before he let the instrument of sweet death plummet to the ground. His better-knowing murmured to him that he should’ve left his heart behind, too, but being loyal to the wretched flesh, Jungkook never learned the language of his logic. 

He saw you long before you saw him, going up the white keys of stairs beside Taehyung, taking two at the time. Your short limbs were reaching a shelf above your head, trembling in tension, your form elevated by the way you were standing on your tippy toes. The higher he went, the clearer his glimpse was of your thighs, embellished by a black cotton to keep them warm in the cool spring. The band digging into the flesh entranced him, trapped him to you as if by ropes of mercifulness because that was the most beautiful sight he was graced to witness. He had seen many pretty girls during his late night drives of heroism, but none of them possessed such a pure, alluring kind of beauty that made his heart tighten in his chest. 

And the flesh was outright asphyxiated by the following cognizance of your full outfit. 

Lifting his foot over the last step, Jungkook perceived that your thigh-high socks were held up by thin slits of garters, uncovered by the riding up of the skirt of your dress. There was no air in his lungs, no command in his brain to keep on walking after Taehyung. There was an absolute silence between the synapses as he stood there, unbreathing, his eyes skimming over the smooth skin of the back of your thighs, the well-fittedness of your short dress, which had an open back beneath the waterfall of your long hair. But it wasn’t bare, not by any chance. As if the thickness of your strands wasn’t enough, you filled the gap with a white shirt, and Jungkook was stunned. 

The spell was disrupted when the books, one by one, began to fall over your head, despite the fact you succeeded in getting the one you wanted. Disrupted and not broken because while he knew Taehyung was inching closer to the crime scene, his instinct won over his stupefaction and gave the order to his legs to rush over to you. It felt natural to him, the act of grabbing your arms and pulling you flush to him, to a place of safety, although he was a stranger, a guy and he had no right to touch you like that. Anyone in his shoes would just shout at you to move away, but the spell didn’t allow his logic to filter through his actions. You gasped, nearly tumbled down to the ground along with him, but Jungkook was stronger. Jungkook didn’t let you plummet to the ground like his cigarettes—he held you steady to him, balancing you on your feet, and his heart began to ache, like it did when he heard of the drug-dealing, and age when you lifted a palm and placed it over your forehead, mewling a pained noise through your pouting mouth. 

He wasn’t fast enough. An overgrown bush of overprotective roots took form in his black lungs, tangled in the long strands of your hair as you softly trembled like a kitten in his arms. He was no longer a boy, delirious with his need to color the streets with justice and safety; he was a man of fatherly compulsions, organic instincts to never let you disappear from his secure hand again. It happened that quickly—it happened that devastatingly that he himself was dumbfounded by it all. 

Dumbfounded and… much to his surprise: pleased.

Jungkook didn’t cleave to love. While his heart hungered to envelop its love around that special person it wished for, he simply couldn’t conform. Couldn’t open the chambers of his heart and let out the horrors—the fights, the violence, the blood, the silent screams and the ungratified needs, left abandoned by those closest. He was afraid to allow himself to be loved; and he was afraid of being only capable of sharing the darkness in return, not his love—the small, wounded bunny hiding somewhere in him, every day concealing itself deeper and deeper. That was why he never even looked twice at the girls he saved, let alone touched them, let alone allowed them to bathe him in feelings that were pleasant.

Strange, the moment that was uncoiling. His actions and their unfolding, and his lack of carefulness and detachment. 

The toppling misfortune finished its course, the dull sound of the books hitting the floor halted, and within this abrupt silence, Jungkook felt the hammering of your heart, kicking against his upper abdomen, softening him. And in spite of everything, he turned you around to examine your reddened forehead as if he weren’t Jungkook at all, but someone else. Someone healthy and full of light within his mind, heart and soul, who doesn’t create boundaries and doesn’t hiss and thump his legs back when someone crosses them. This new person eyed the pebble-sized bump poking through the skin, which wrinkled through the furrow of your brows. His lips downturned in pity for you, but he knew pressing the injury with a packet of frozen veggies would fix it by the morning. You were lost in the pushing acuteness of the pain, perhaps not even realizing that you were saved. Your set of wispy eyelashes were quivering like the rest of you and while this new person was desperate for you to look at him, it wasn’t until Taehyung called his name that you did.

But it was too late, the moment was too brief, and the old Jungkook settled over him like a layer of dust. 

However, the mutual meeting of eyes kickstarted his dead heart, bringing forth life through the chambers and the vessels like a petal drifting upon the smooth surface of a river. Jungkook fought it with his old weapons, but as the seconds ticked, he became smaller and smaller, the power of the connection looming over him, scaring him and soothing him soon after by the way your eyes widened in surprise and melted right after. As if into his; as if into him. 

The old and the new Jungkook began to coexist within him, closing over the bunny. 

He didn’t realize he was gone and no longer holding you until Taehyung grabbed a hold of his shoulder, stopping him from colliding his fist into the small-postured drug dealer’s face, who was momentarily stuffing a plastic bag of evil into the toilet tank. It was rage that simmered between the halves of his two personas fading into each other, a yin and yang, not because the abomination was caught as is usually the cause, but because the light and the dark merged within him, bringing him out of his comfort zone into a zone he blanched in panic in. 

He didn’t know that you watched the entire time. That you watched him curse at the boy, take the drug from him and nearly flush it down the toilet, if Taehyung hadn’t stopped him. He didn’t know that you’d stick around just to talk to him, had the library not closed. 

And he didn’t know that he would meet you again. 

And again. 

At dangerous places, where you didn’t belong—like his mind when he was ceaselessly fist-fucking his cock before dawn. At safe places, where you painted the walls with your gentleness and simultaneous misfortune, your own yin and yang. 

He didn’t expect you to make the first move each time, gazing up at him with a soft smile, making small talk that was more flirty than it was polite. It was hard for him to handle as the strange, fatherly and tender feelings he carried for you, belonging to the new half of him, brewed in him like loose pomegranate tea leaves. Each question you threw his way was that leaf, and the intonation you used, the curiosity, the roundness of your eyes and their constant melting was the fragrance of that fruit, cutting through him until he was nothing but a fragment of a boy in love.

He couldn’t leave. The yang of his split persona wouldn’t give the blessing to him in order for him to do that. And what’s more, he dreamed revolting dreams about shattering your heart with his fluid absence and presence, the black and white easing into one another, and it helped him stay put. He feared sleeping, he feared hurting you, and so he just abused his cock, releasing the endorphins that his body needed in order to sustain this whole newness. 

And therefore like the boy he was chiseled into, he took your first moves once the time was right and undisturbed. Took them higher. Took you out for ice cream, where your flirtiness shifted both of you to this point of your love story. All because of the way you licked the sweet delight. 

You swirled your tongue along its dissolving perimeter. Ivory in color, its drops dribbled down the cone, resembling the essence of his everlastingly drooling manhood that he had wasted many times prior this date, trying not to picture you in his mind. He cursed the ice cream shop as much as he blessed it for having a vanilla flavor so well-made that it rolled your eyes back during the conversation you spurred about his dreams that shone a dimmed light in his heart. He was hard, unable to speak in a steady flow, pausing between words, watching you, always watching you, enjoy your dessert while not having his own. Watching you half listen to him, half making love to the milky substance with your eyes, your focus diverting back and forth—silently gushing your gusto, silently apologizing to him with the bat of your eyelashes for not adequately paying attention. It made you adorable enough for him to fight the crawling inkling to take this an inch higher, bending you over any nearby surface away from people—because he loved the way you constantly spoke your innermost thoughts, your flirtiness especially, through the different expressions of your eyes. They spoke more profoundly than the vocabulary of your mutual mother tongue could ever achieve. 

But he couldn’t follow through with his desire. His sixth sense muttered over his arousal, reminding him there was always a danger close by. By its own sinister will, it interrupted, in an excruciating staccato rhythm, the sensation of heat, pressure and energy he felt, putting it on the back burner. A place he liked to linger because it made him feel alive—the unyielding push and pull of temptation, the fight, the guilt because the fatherliness always won. But his sixth sense was right. Jungkook caught a vulgar string of words about you from the table behind him in a short moment of quietness within his brain. He turned his head to the side, listening, and when the meaning of the words multiplied with the description of you, he banged his fists and impulsively acted out, getting up to his feet. 

He flipped the table. Grabbed the collar of the boy who stole his guilty pleasure and made it his own. Seethed in his sweaty face; threw words at him that made him tremble in fear until he begged to be let go. Jungkook saw a vibrant red—he didn’t see how he startled you, how all the people in the sitting area stopped whatever conversations they were having just to stare, how all the employees gulped behind the counter, but didn’t dare to step in. That was the face of his wildness, molded by all he went through, shown to you ahead of time—or perhaps at the right time. He wouldn’t know, and he was too reluctant to contemplate it. 

He didn’t calm down until he made the boy apologize to you. Then, he fixed the table and put it to its original spot. Then, he made you feel better by brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear, grazing his fingers down your arm until he found your hand, murmuring a soft sorry for scaring you. Then, he went to the petrified employees and apologized to them, too, for the commotion. 

You also wanted to make him feel better. 

Inside his car, you caressed the tense muscles of his thigh. Just once—a slow, downward motion of your palm that made him twitch. He noted the milky flakes of the dessert you had discarded dried on your lips and he hoped your eyes hadn’t strayed to his private parts—that you didn’t notice the agonized twitch of his cock that regretfully longed for you. 

In this area of your relation with him, the yin won. 

He put your safety above his own arousal and need, minimizing it. Grabbed the hand that had the candy-coated intention to make him feel better and kissed it in polite thankfulness, knowing your soundness that he had taken care of did the job already.

You pouted at his declination, and his heart crumbled into pomegranate seeds. 

Had he known this would start off your irresistible perversion, he would’ve somehow make it so he could let you do whatever it was that you wanted to do with your hand. Because the fatherliness, which he tried with all his might to preserve in utmost purity, darkened the more you wanted him. 

Darkened the more you teased him. 

With your garters and your knee socks. With your short skirts that exposed the lines of your bubble butt, which he tugged down many times, his heart racing, afraid any of the horny fucks with wrong intentions walking by would see. With your innocent smiles, mischievous eyes and light touches on the places of his body that he discovered were of utter sensitivity—the crook of his elbow, into which you liked to dig your nails, the left side of his ribs, where you somehow detected his mole, his nipple that you enjoyed teasing just to watch him convulse, and his thigh, the straight pathway to his arousal. Sometimes you went higher, sometimes you went lower—and it tested his patience every single time. 

All broke loose once you conveyed, with your words, how much you wanted him after some time passed. 

You let him know you were hungry. It was the warmest spring evening you had in months and Jungkook was on his patrol. Seeing the text, he turned the car around and drove up to your street. Picked you up, asked you what you were craving and beside the Subway sandwich, you mentioned that you were craving him, too. As if it were the most ordinary, casual thing in the world. 

He stomped on the break so hard that the vehicle behind him honked at him. 

Scolded you in a fatherly way that coaxed an endearing giggle out of you. You can’t say things like that, he said, shooting you a glare that made you clench your thighs—and Jungkook wished that he hadn’t noticed. 

That he hadn’t noticed being bad turned you on even more. 

Then the touches were prolonged. The eye contact was intensified, the interlude of silence between you and him was boiling to such a hot temperature that he sweltered beneath his clothes in your presence, sporting a stony hard-on, which was difficult to get rid of. 

And then the confessions began. 

The more detailed confessions of your desire, of your liking in terms of his countenance. Of what your fingers were doing in the middle of the night because of your sentiments. 

Jungkook didn’t respond. Not at first. He fought so hard to stay pure, stand behind the boundary of purity, unwilling to stain you with his own desire. He was a boy, marred by the times, with a caretaker’s heart, aged by many years, with a soul that brings death. He was afraid of what would be created, if his death mingled with your misfortune. If the bunny of his love had a glimpse of your melting eyes. If his own desire collided with yours. If he cut the ropes of his restraint and broke himself loose along with the trajectory of his untitled relationship with you. 

Hell would envelop you. Hell would embrace you so tight that you’d start to despise him. 

Because he wasn’t a good person. All the evil he had witnessed clung to him like second skin, peeling off of him like scales, like dirt. The evil he had  consumed while living with his family; the evil he had stepped into in order to bring goodness. Jungkook would feed spoonfuls of it to you because every morsel of his being embodied it. 

He said this to you, in less harmful words, upon an ordinary car drive through the night when you were starting to get jittery. It would be better if I just took care of you without touching you. He never added the fatherliness he felt towards you into the stream of his speech—he was too shy to do so. He was already flushed in the face; he worried confessing it would trouble his composure. And he needed to be a strong wall for you. 

But you were a smart girl. 

Devouring his words, you lifted the hem of your skirt. Your legs were still, no hint of jitteriness to them at that abrupt cusp of unraveling desire, when you parted them on the passenger seat and showed him the circle of your arousal on the center of your white panties. This is what you do to me when you talk about treating me like a father. 

His blood flow halted. His heart leaped to his throat, the aroma of pomegranate filling his mouth. He edged to the border of his restraint and thought about, briefly, how he would edge you for your smartness. How he would drink the sweetness of your seashell when he would finally let you come; how it would refresh the tobacco of his soul, make him a better person, a better partner. He imagined how the smell of your arousal would linger in the car for days—how it would be a reminder that there’s goodness for him in this world while he would go on doing his job of saving it. 

The black and white conclusively coalesced, creating a shade of gray that densely clouded his reasons and his morals. 

And because this notion occupied his stomach with hundreds of butterflies, the decision was made. Hasty, and probably catastrophic, but he no longer cared. He fell in love with the idea of him being saved, even if it meant decorating your pretty thighs with scars. Give me some time, he said eventually. I’ll rub your scars with a healing oil, he didn’t promise.

And the detachment, which he was so inquisitive about all those months ago, nestled between you and him. The conversations, which used to be so abundant with passion and liveliness, echoed with the low tones of the trees, of the soft songs of the birds and the ringing of his mind as he completely descended into an abyss of dejection. He didn’t know why he entered this state; it just happened on its own. He no longer had the energy to save the girls of Seoul, nor did he have the strength to face you and be a man. The little life he had left—he used it to fulfill his obligations: he drove to your place after he had done his daily dose of studying and homework. Picked himself up just to make sure you were all right. And if your room lacked any light, it would motivate him enough to go into the streets and look for you. 

He’d find you each time, envious and disheartened that you weren’t spending time with him. Go home and cry his colorless tears. 

And now he’s here, standing underneath the foreboding downpour, in the present time after a month of idleness, in the middle of the night. His car is parked behind him, the headlights filtering through the thick shafts of rain, illuminating him. His pallid hands are bearing two things in each. A wet cigarette, a spoon that has been washed off the original poison of his life and that is now overspilling with everything nourishing. All because of your pressed-up tits against the window, the fast-paced rivulets of rain blurring the view. 

You’ve yanked the time by its throat. You’re the boss and you’ve decided that all waiting is over. 

He’s not sure what he’s feeling right now. If it’s absolute fury that is invigorating his system or if it’s distilled passion that is constricting his muscles so much that it’s causing him to quiver. There’s some kind of need in the heart of it all, which smudges all of his attempts at analyzing until they get swept away with the current of the rain. In this very second, there’s no ticking of danger, no deafening silence of dejection, no promise of evil. There’s only one singular thing.

The ropes are torn: he has to have you. 

You did this. You cut them instead of him, and that’s all that is pulsating in his mind as he takes the last drag of his sodden cigarette and lets it plummet, lets it burn away to nothingness. His steps are heavy and his steps are furious—and you seem to know because you unpeel yourself from the coolness of the window and skip away beyond his sight. He trusts that your smartness leads you to open the main door for him, and he’s not disappointed when he reaches it and hears its ringing song, inviting him inside. 

The song of fate. 

You’re waiting for him between the panels of your door on the third floor, dressed in a short nightwear dress of ivory and lilac, lace and bows. Entering your presence, Jungkook is made pliable by the strong cognizance that he’s missed you. Your hair cascades in waves down your bare shoulders, the barest he’s ever seen them, nuzzling into your cleavage that advances his softness and his concurring arousal. You’re pristine and fragrant while he drips in sweat and petrichor laced with cigarette smoke, but he wants you and he wants to punish you for putting him in this position so audaciously. 

And for not wearing your thigh-high socks when he wishes you were. 

The furrow of his brows deepens, knitting in the middle, and once your eyes flick to it, you breathlessly gasp, those pretty thighs of yours crossing to make friction for your little pussy. It feels as though you were all naked and he’s overwhelmed, he’s furious, he’s frustrated and—

His hand presses against the middle of your clavicles and draws you inside, kicking the door shut. 

He’s tender, however, despite his impulses. He’s tender as he pushes you down onto your couch, his fingers latching onto the lacy neckline. The feeling of a warm home he never had sticks to his fingertips from your skin—and it’s clearer to him now than it ever has been before: you’ve become a four-walled home for him through all the time he spent with you on innocent dates and car drives, protecting you and consoling you from the impact of your engraved misfortune. The sensation on the pads of his fingers jumps to the other ones and tingles as they wrap around the buckle of his belt, capturing the interest of your eyes that widen and very quickly and very quintessentially melt. 

You see how hard he is for you. 

Good. 

Now you can. Now it's yours. 

He swiftly tugs his belt out of the loops with one hand, bending the leather in half. Your smile rises at that, and while you rake your hand through your hair at the crown of your head and arch your cold chest into his other hand, Jungkook watches you part your legs for him. And time stops when he expects there to be a cloth of any pastel color covering your pussy and finds there to be none.

None at all. 

Mustering all of his strength, he rips his gaze away. Points the belt in your face. He can’t see your little pussy, not just yet. He has to punish you first for stealing his first move for the second time around, for triggering his flight or fight response because he wasn’t ready for this—he wasn’t ready to have his control taken, for his detachment and restraint to be broken so promptly. He should’ve laid it down at your feet, having cut it himself. Then, it would've been pure; it would’ve been right.

Nothing about this is of those attributes. 

This is dark, this is sinful, and you’re gonna pay for it.

“Repeat back to me what I told you the last time I saw you,” he orders, bringing your eyes back up to him as he towers over you, stinging your lips with the coolness of the wet leather, seemingly coaxing out your words. Your breath shivers at the contact, changing the temperature, mouth parting like your legs as he moves it down to your chin. You run your tongue along its bottom pillow as soon as he drags the belt down the upper of your sternum, the very place he touched with his own hand. He stops at the swell of breast right next to his fist bunching up your nightdress, the accessory lifting and falling with your short intakes of air. 

The rain pelts harder against the window. You evidently mull over your answer, blinking slowly at him, dazy from it all—and it’s funny to him. He hasn’t even started, and he’s way too far away from being finished with you. 

“You mean what you said to me a month ago? How am I supposed to remember?” you question, the words oozing with every particle of provocation that exists within this irredeemable world. Jungkook knows more than he knows himself that you’re bluffing and he sucks in a breath, his frustration piling up on top of his clenched muscles. His hand longs to lift and spank your visibly stiffened nipple for your smart mouth, but he holds himself back—the time isn’t right yet. He wonders if your pointed beads are still cold from the window or if he needs to suck them into his mouth to warm them up. 

His cock flits. Jungkook struggles to contain his noises, growling hushedly under his breath. One corner of your mouth tugs to the side when they encompass you, producing your satisfaction, and it pisses him off even more. 

His fist unclenches, letting go of your neckline. The fabric is wrinkled and stretched, ruined until the next wash, and that fact likens him to you, cooking the ingredients of satisfaction for him. Power seizes him, and therefore he stoops to your level, bending at the waist to look you straight in the face. The belt follows suit, stopping at your flushed cheek. 

It wasn’t that long ago when you were mewling in pain, the same redness spreading across your forehead. Where is that meekness of yours, your girlishness, your softness? Where has his detachment gone again and why does your malleability madden him so tremendously? 

His fatherliness unfurls in full glory, his need to discipline you consumes him alive. 

“Watch your mouth,” he spits in undertone, patting your cheek with the belt just once. Light flashes in your eyes, a candle swished by the wind. “I know you remember well, you can’t trick me, so again I tell you. Repeat back to me my last words to you.”  

And you do the most unimaginable thing, setting him on fire. Word for word, you repeat back the sentence he uttered but a half minute ago. A serious delivery, with a static contortion, camouflaging your mischief, and he becomes the image he saw in your eyes. 

A tall candle, melting. 

His fury and frustration should continue on. Should grip the belt hard and paint welts on the flesh of your thighs and bum. But the more your perversion radiates him, the more he loses. The bunny of his love gazes back at you from its hiding place, casting its first glimpse at you, and makes the first move to slightly exit the deep darkness. 

First move; first step. Curiosity eclipses the white fur of the bunny, the white dot across the blackness of the yin half. Its wide, almond eyes are unblinking, captivated by you, by your forcefulness, stubbornness and your immaculate beauty. By the way you breathe evenly, by how unafraid you are. So full of everything adventurous, like the books you read, which fill every space of your apartment. 

The animal is smitten with you. Jungkook stands outside of his own body, wondering if there’s any line at all between the grayness that has been created. If there’s any backing away from the blatantly obvious fact that he loves you. 

That he can’t stay mad at you. 

That his need to discipline you truly stems from his profound love for you. 

“You think you’re the Daddy?” he mutters, at last, the correction of dynamics coming naturally out of him. He silences you with his question, creasing your features, and his satisfaction is a finished meal. The first bite you’ll ever have; the first spoonful. “I’ll show you who’s Daddy.” 

And then he grips your throat and forces your lips to collide with his. Breathing in your skin is the first intake of fresh air he’s ever had. This is his first kiss, his first life—and when you reciprocate his kiss and submit to his feverish rhythm, it is the first warm, home-cooked meal he’s ever devoured. The sky falls and is born again, and he, too, is born anew. 

You lean back, relinquished, and Jungkook straddles you, his knees making dents on either side of you upon the plush of your couch. The belt falls, his walls fall, and he has to touch you. His fingers crawl up from your ears into the garden of your hair, gripping the roots, moaning into your mouth and you respond just the same. Opening your mouth, you give him access to your tongue and your spit—and he drinks, he drinks as if it were the angelic fountain that had the expertise to cleanse him of his old life. And he lets it. 

Clenches and unclenches his fingers, tangled in your hair, the symbol of his green light because he’s safe with you. 

He’s safe with you. 

Your hands blindly find your favorite spots on his body. They knead his thighs as he sucks on your pout, his abstained dream come true. They ascend to his clothed ribs under his jacket, lingering there, ostensibly seeking the bunny, not knowing that the animal has begun to look for the way out. Your moans gain volume and sensitivity, and Jungkook knows you can’t take it anymore. 

Neither can he. He’s hard to the point of bursting. 

And when he latches his mouth onto the side of your neck and your moans lighten to little mewls akin to those he missed, he doesn’t allow you to sink your nails into the last place you love on him. He pushes you face down onto the couch and grabs his discarded belt. 

He’s going to make that little girl stay. 

© 2025 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved

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[snoopychris]

phone calls

warnings: slight mommy kink, edging if you squint, misuse of technology, lowkey inspired by this post

12:04 

chris

chris

baby

12:05

hello?

it’s cold

and raining

12:06

can you just come let me in

12:07 

dude the gym closes at 1:30 so that they can do a midday clean btw.

12:08

hello???

????

omfg 

you piss me off

12:09

HELLO?!?!?!?

are you fucking kidding me

you’re unbelievable 

12:10

whatever i’m going home 

text me if u want.

you spun swiftly on your heels, the light jacket you were wearing wrapped tightly around your frame. it was never normal for chris to not answer his texts, especially when he got so many of them. especially when they were from you. when you were halfway down the stairs, the door behind you swung open. the heavy breathing that was coming from chris quickly got your attention. your immediate reaction was that he was having some sort of asthma attack. 

your worry subsided when you noticed the small wet spot that was on the front of his sweats. he swallows in embarrassment, licking his lips as he looks down at the floor in shame. no words are spoken, but his expression says everything it needs you. he moves away from the door, leaving enough room for you to walk inside. when he sits down on the couch, he still hasn’t made eye contact with you. he’s too embarrassed to even acknowledge your presence. 

“what happened here?” you tease, sitting besides him on the couch. his boner is still clearly pressed up against the material. chris shrugs as he mindlessly turns the tv on, purposely ignoring you and your question. maybe if he stays silent you’ll ignore both the tent in his pants and the wet spot that seemed to be growing. “chris.”

“nothing. nothing happened. my phone was just dead.” he whispers, crossing his legs in attempts to cover himself up. your eyes furrow in confusion. had you mentioned his phone? 

“chris…” you pry, tossing the pillow off his lap. he whines in frustration, throwing his head back. he could try to lie his way out of the situation, but he knows there’s no use. 

“well! it’s just… you took way longer than you said you would and i was just getting so frustrated and i haven’t seen you in a week so i started looking at our pictures while i was jerking off and then when you started texting me… it felt good. and i was reading all your text i was! and then i was getting so close and you said you were leaving and i didn’t want you to go so i just… and now… im just. i was so close to cumming and i didn’t okay?!” chris doesn’t even realize how much information he just gave you or what you can do with it. not until he sees the wide smirk on your face. there’s so many different things running through his mind. the most prominent is how incredibly hard he is and how he can’t do anything to fix it right now.

another whine escapes from the depths of his throat when you tug his pants down swiftly, his lack of underwear doing him no favors at all. he wants to tell you to stop– not because he actually wants you to stop but because hes embarrassed by the situation at hand. he squirms at your touch, thrusting his dick against your hand. his tip is embarrassingly red from his unintentional edging earlier, and its covered in so much precum and spit that it seems like he had been at it for hours. when you let him go, his cock slaps against his hoodie covered stomach. no matter how desperately he wants to touch himself and bring himself to the orgasm hes been so desperately craving for what felt like ages, he knew you held the power right now. 

“please… please baby please help me.” chris mumbles, letting out a gasp when you begin to giggle. you were being so cruel to him right now. how was he supposed to act normal and stay quiet when you were just laughing at him and not even helping?

“wheres your phone?” you ask, searching around the couch. chris scrambles to reach into his pocket, handing you the phone with shaky hands. you grab it carefully, holding it up against his length. he was a bit bigger than his phone, but he wasn’t paying much attention to your actions. all he was trying to do was reach the feeling he had been yearning for. chris only starts to pay attention when you grab your own phone and begin to dial a number. he wants to ask who you’re possibly calling in this moment, but he quickly pieces it together when his phone begins to buzz while pressed against his tip. 

there’s a groan that leaves his lips that’s a lot louder than he wants it to be. he doesn’t care right now. right now he just cares about the fact that your call got sent to voicemail and the buzzing halted. “no no nooo!” he whimpers, reaching for your wrist to move it for you. you tsk and shake your head, handing him your phone. “go ahead. call me again. you want it so bad you can work for it.” tears of frustration form in his eyes at your words. fine.

with shaky hands, chris picks up your phone, pressing the call back button. with each ring on your side, the vibrations seem to be getting stronger on his. he knows it’s not possible, but it feels like which each buzz the feeling is getting more and more intense. he lets out a small cry after the fifth or sixth phone call, his cock beginning to twitch between your hand and his phone. 

it’s pathetic, almost, given that it’s only been about two minutes of constant weak vibrations. you almost want to show him sympathy. he must’ve been a lot more desperate than you had expected if he was cumming this soon. “please… fuck mama please let me cum.” he whispers, his hips thrusting up to meet the vibrations all the way through. “y’gonna cum for me? you gonna make a mess all over your phone? imagine what people would think if they knew you used your phone as a sex toy… how would that make you feel? like a desperate little slut?” you reply, clicking his contact on your phone once more. the vibrations start up again as chris moans, nodding his head rapidly. “please! fuck please please.” he whines, biting his lip. his orgasm hits him faster than he expects, because within seconds of his last plea, white spurts of his cum are coating his phone case. it’s a sight you wish you could’ve recorded but both of your phones were occupied. 

it takes chris a second to catch his breath. it takes you a second to comprehend the situation that just went down. you shrug it off— it’s not the weirdest thing you’ve ever done. as you gather your thoughts next to him, you lay your head down on your boyfriends shoulder. “so like… are we still going to the gym or are we gonna go to best buy and get one of those waterproof cases?”

a/n: please nobody talk to me after this one. thanks and apologies in advance.

dividers by @13hoax and @bernardsbendystraws

tags: @mattybsgroupie @whore4mattsturniolo @sosasturns (for the 1 mili party) @darksturnz @surprisecurlyfriesbackup @ribbonlovergirl @ifwdominicfike @frankoceanfanpage @mattssslutbby @sophand4n4 @matthewsturnsgf @izzylovesmatt @m11rx @chris-hallelujah @sturniolotoast @mattsbratt333 @wastelandzella @le4hsblog @mattsd0llfac3 @st7rnioioss @isabellewhatt @sturnslutz @ayesha-eroticaa @bluessturniolo @courta13 @sturns-mermaid @ivysturnss @slutformatt17 @emely9274 @princessesgarden @marrykisskilled @cykss

[alba1221141]

Mary Janes

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵

10

(T.W sexual content)

Jinx

She tasted like berries.

Sweet, but not in a fake, sugary way—real, ripe, and just a little tart. Like she’d bitten into something moments before and I was just catching the aftertaste.

It’s been hours, but I swear I can still feel the ghost of her lips on mine, still hear that little hitch in her breath when I pressed closer.

Fuck.

I flop back onto my bed, arm draped over my eyes, trying to will away the ridiculous grin stretching across my face.

It’s stupid.

I’m being stupid.

But my brain keeps looping it—her fingers in my hair, the way she shivered when I kissed down her neck, the way she didn’t pull away.

I run my tongue over my lips absentmindedly, half-expecting to taste her again.

I don’t, obviously.

But damn, do I want to.

I roll over onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow, but I can’t seem to shake the feeling. That kiss—it keeps coming back, like a song stuck on repeat.

It’s like the air’s different now, charged in a way it wasn’t before. It’s heavier, thick with something I can’t name yet.

My mind spins with thoughts of her—Y/N, all quiet and measured and impossibly soft—yet when we kissed, she wasn’t like that at all.

She was there, fully present, her breath hot against my skin, her hands steady as they tugged at my hair.

I let out a frustrated sigh and punch the pillow beneath me. This isn’t helping. It’s just making me more wound up.

But the thought won’t leave me, won’t stop scratching at the back of my mind: What if she wants more? What if I want more?

I sit up and swing my legs off the bed, pacing back and forth. Fuck. What am I even supposed to do with this?

I know I’m a mess. I’m always a mess. But with her? I can’t stop thinking about how good it felt to have her close, to kiss her. It wasn’t just about the kiss itself, but everything around it—how she reacted, how her body moved, how I felt with her.

The problem is, I’m not sure if she feels the same.

I need to know.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵

Y/N

It's pouring down. The sky is an endless wash of gray, with rain slashing against the windows like a thousand tiny blades.

The world outside feels muffled, like the storm’s swallowing everything whole, and inside, it’s just me, wrapped in the quiet of my room.

I’ve been staring at the books on my shelf, picking up one, setting it down, picking up another, but none of them seem to hold my attention. Not when my mind keeps drifting back to her.

To Jinx.

The way her lips felt, soft yet sure against mine. How everything inside me seemed to catch fire for just a second. I’ve been trying to tell myself it was nothing, just a moment, but it wasn’t just a moment. Not to me.

The sound of something scraping against my window shatters the silence, and my heart skips a beat. I stand up, instinctively moving toward the sound. When I reach the window and pull it open, I nearly stumble back in shock.

Jinx’s face peeks through the rain-soaked window, her eyes gleaming with that same wild energy I can never quite place.

Her lips curl into a mischievous grin, and without missing a beat, she launches into a dramatic, over-the-top quote. “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. And none but fools do wear it, cast it off. It is my lady, O, it is my love!”

I blink, momentarily thrown off by her theatrical entrance. My pulse quickens, not just from the surprise but the way she’s looking at me, the intensity of her gaze almost too much to bear. “What… what are you doing?” I ask, trying to regain some semblance of composure, even as my heart hammers in my chest.

She just grins, that wide, almost-dangerous grin of hers, and without any hesitation, she climbs in through the window, her drenched clothes sticking to her like a second skin.

Water drips off her, splashing onto my floor, but she doesn’t seem to care.

"Jinx," I start, my voice tinged with concern, "You're going to freeze."

"Well, warm me up," she says, her voice playful, daring, and that's all it takes. Her lips are on mine again, sudden, hot, and desperate in a way that makes my breath catch.

It’s different this time—more urgent, more consuming. I don’t have time to think before her hands are pulling me closer, pushing me to match the intensity she’s giving. Her body presses against mine, the cold of the rain outside clashing with the heat building between us. The wetness of her hair still clings to her skin, but it’s all forgotten, lost in the wave of sensation that crashes through me.

I’m lost in the kiss, her taste, the way her lips mold to mine like we’ve done this a hundred times before, even though we haven’t. My pulse quickens, the tension in my chest tightening as her hand trails up to cup my face, her thumb grazing my cheekbone.

I want more.

My hands slowly trail underneath the sopping clothes that cover her skin.

"You need the take these off, you'll catch hypothermia," I try to make it sound informative, I really do, but she knows, and I know, I just want her clothes gone.

A grin splits across her face, "You trying to get me naked toots?"

I feel the blood rush to my cheeks, "And what if I was?"

"We'll then i'd say tit for tat,"

"Pardon?"

"I'll get naked if you do," Her cheeks dimple in the corner when she says that.

Oh.

Oh.

I normally would be hesitant. I've never been bare before someone before, but it's her and like she said, tit for tat.

My hands abandon her t-shirt and go to the hem of my nightie instead. And she's watching me, eyes almost lidded. A heat spreads over my skin when my shirt falls to the ground.

"Tit for tat," I murmur waiting for her to follow suit.

And she does, slowly peeling the damp clothes from her body, discarding them on my carpet, there was inevitably going to be a stain later.

My eyes follow her movements intently, almost greedily, until she rids herself of every obstructing item. Apart from her underwear, pink with blue stripes, they remain, clinging to her hips, molded to her body like they're painted on.

I let out a breath.

She tilts her head to the side, a Cheshire cat like grin resting on her lips, "You good toots?"

I manage a nod, which makes her giggle and walk closer.

"Y/N-"

I avoid her gaze completely, eyes focused on my feet, the floor, anywhere but her.

Her hips, her thighs, her waist, her breasts—

"Y/N," she repeats, more instant this time. My head snaps up, just in time to see her grab at my waist and smash her lips to mine once again.

I know what to do now, with the kissing.

I part my lips, just a bit, and her tongue delves in immediately, a sound, I'm not sure whether mine or hers, echoes between us.

It's different living a situation like this, rather than reading this, I've read many erotic stories before, but never would I have thought it would be this—good.

My fingertips trail down her line of her spine, following it down until it flares into the curves of her hips, and then further, until somehow my hands end up splayed over her ass.

All that cockiness she had fades the second she whimpers against my mouth. I swallow the sound greedily tugging her closer.

I part to breathe but—god the need for oxygen seemed trivial in comparison to her lips.

Jinx seems to grow tired at being the object of desire, and mimics what my hands did to her, simultaneously shoving me back slightly.

The backs of my knees collide with my bed and it sends us toppling onto my sheets. She lands on top of me in a very compromising position and I can't help the laugh that leaves my lips, light and practically joyous.

The sound gets kissed away.

Our lips are more feverish against eachothers now, she just keeps kissing me, as if my lips hold the answers to all her impossible questions.

Perhaps they do.

When I break away only to gather air, I notice that the deep mauve shade of lipstick that normally stains her lips has smudged, leaving a messy, almost reckless trace across her mouth, as if the kiss had drawn out every last bit of control from both of us.

My breath hitches when she finds another spot to target with her lips. My neck.

"Oh, oh Jinx—"

I can hardly recognise the sounds leaving my lips now, obscene and completely lewd as Jinx litters my neck with kisses, she seems determined almost trying to find that spot, the one that would draw the nicest sounds from m—

She found it.

A sound—practically pornographic���comes from deep in my throat and I know she hears it because her kisses halt and she lifts her head from the crook of my neck, peering down at me.

A grin spreads across her face, and she looks so insanely smug that I don't know whether to roll my eyes or kiss her again.

I settle for the latter.

She snickers against my lips, and the sound reverberates through my chest, a warm and fuzzy thing.

"Y/N," She murmurs between kisses and its so soft, so tender, so completely uncharacteristic for her, but the tone, it makes me melt.

"Jinx," I try to mimic her tone, trying to make myself sound sultry, but I fear it was painfully obvious that I had no experience.

My sexual knowledge consisted of tales of regency scandals, love found in prosperity, but not this, me, me and another girl, almost nude in my bed.

But she doesn't seem to mind, just smiling at me again before resuming those neck kisses, and my god, they're just so good.

My hands fall from her body, instead gripping the sheets, as she continues her assault on the skin of my neck.

She's biting, and sucking, and everything in-between, and I can practically feel the welts, the bruises forming. And I don't think I mind.

Her kisses travel down, down my stomach, then my naval, but when she gets to the spot between my thighs, she pauses, falters.

I would've assumed Jinx had gone down on girls before, but her reaction seems to be telling me the opposite.

"Jinx—" The word comes out breathy and needy, she knows what I'm asking for.

And so slowly, her fingers, still painted in that alternating blue and pink, hook into the sides of my underwear, making an attempt to pull them down.

I giggle, lifting my hips to assist her, I know it's going to be a vulnerability that I've never allowed myself before...but it's Jinx, its Powder.

My Powder.

When the dampened fabric has been tossed aside, she hooks her arms around my thighs, tugging me just a little closer.

She breathes and it's shaky, she's nervous too. But nerves become the second thought when that warm puff of air brushes over my pussy making me shudder.

I want to watch what she does, but my head lolls back onto the pillow. One of my hands leaves the sheet, twisting into her damp blue strands.

The flicks of her tongue are mere caresses at first, like an exploration, but then something snaps, she locates my clit, swirling her tongue around it, before sucking, hard, enough to make me yelp.

That noise only spurs her on, her nails making crescent moon shapes in the skin of my thighs as she tries to devour me whole.

It's working.

She tugs me impossibly closer to her face and her mouth envelopes me fully, making my back arch of the bed and more obscene sounds leave my lips.

"Oh! Fuck, Jinx!"

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿

Jinx

She tastes fucking fantastic.

It's that sweet tart taste all over again. And holy shit is at addictive.

I pull her closer running my tongue over clit, just teasingly, just to see what she'll do.

She likes it.

Y/N's back arches and her hips buck against my mouth, certain choice words leaving her lips.

God she'd scold herself if she heard the foul language she's using.

My tongue slips further down, towards her entrance, and she's damn dripping.

"Fuck," I breathe against her and my voice must've done something because her thighs twitch again.

My eyes flicker up to hers and I hold eye contact as I slowly slip my tongue inside of her.

"Jinx, holy shit!" Her voice is breathy, almost pathetically needy as I slowly start to swirl my tongue around.

She tries to maintain eye contact as my lips and mouth move in tandem to give her what I know she needs, but she's not successful, head lolling back onto her pillow, mouth parting in an O shape.

My hands leave her thighs, two fingers sneaking down to her clit, rubbing slow circles as my tongue continues those relentlessness movements that she seems to like.

She's whining and squirming and trying to muffle herself in her pillow and it might just be the hottest thing I've experienced.

Well until...

My name—or variations of it on her lips when she cums.

"Jinx, fuck! Pow, Powder!"

Her back arches off the bed, hands clawing so hard at her sheets I'm sure they'll tear.

I don't let up, licking up all her sweet liquid like it's some sort of aphrodisiac. Maybe my new favourite one.

She does eventually cease my incessant licking, trying to tug me up to her level.

I go to pout, but seeing the look on her face, all soft and wanting, I resign, instead shifting next to her, lacing our fingers together.

"You okay toots?" I tilt my head waiting for a response, but due to her brain cells currently not functioning I have to repeat myself.

"Toots? Earth to Y/N," I wave my hand in-front of her face. She regains her senses with a giggle before nodding, still slightly cross eyed.

"I've never been better." She murmurs still all soft and sweet, before pulling me a tiny bit closer and placing a kiss on my lips.

And fuck, I just wanna stay like this forever.

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

authors note: they finally got 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂, hope you liked it ;)

please like and reblog <3

[midnight-bay-if]

hiii, hope the flu’s gone away even if somewhat, bug my ask is a spin on this ask;

https://www.tumblr.com/midnight-bay-if/768586461085908992/hmhmhm-if-youre-up-for-it-mc-tackling-their-ro

but uh-oh! they CAN’T get up because they’ve been wounded/too damaged TO get up, how would the RO’s react then?

(sorry if i already asked this in some form, i think last time i did was like 4am and much less coherent)

(I wrote these as if the ROs are already in a relationship, but also, I had to make sure the MC showed a sign of life at the end because my emotions have been yo-yo-ing recently, and I don't think I can bring myself to go full pain, haha. I can direct you to this ask for that :) Sorry this took so long!)

S: Initially, It isn't apparent what - or who - hit them. One moment, they were deflecting blows from a particularly pertinent foe; the next, they were on their side, the gravel of the ground cutting into their skin. The burn is enough to distract them initially, but the dead weight on top of them eventually demands an audience. They regret their hesitation almost immediately. "MC!"

They carefully manoeuvre themselves out from beneath you and lay you flat on your back. You are bleeding heavily, and your eyes aren't open. They have already jostled you too much to escape, so they will not try to move you further. "Time to wake up now," they say aloud, ignoring the crack in their voice as they appraise your injuries. "Rain! Call an ambulance!" They trust that their voice carries because they cannot bear to look away from you for even a moment.

They tear at the pieces of their clothing that are thin enough to tear and create tourniquets for the deep cuts on your limbs. It's not enough, but it is all they can do to stem the bleeding. "I'm so sorry, darling," they whisper, reaching down to take your hand, holding it against their chest, ignoring how limp it feels. "I'm sorry I was not quick enough; it should be me... it should be me..."

It is almost too good to be true when they feel the lightest squeeze of your hand against theirs.

Rain: They know it is you almost instinctively. You have always been so brave; of course, you wouldn't think twice about knocking them out of danger. It's who you are. It's one of the reasons they fell in love with you in the first place. But... this?

They see you limp, motionless, and it feels like their heart has been ripped out through their throat. Or maybe that's the feeling of a scream being shredding their throat. "No, no, no, no," they whimper, over and over, as they frantically search for signs of life. It is lucky Selby is beside them because Rain is no longer in control of themselves. The urge to maim, to kill, to seek vengeance is something they learned to push down some time ago, but it all comes back in a rush.

The words "they are still breathing" are all that stops them. Selby rises to get help, leaving Rain alone by your side. Knowing you are still breathing, Rain presses their forehead against yours so they can feel your breath hitting their cheek. "I am here, and I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

It may have been their imagination, but they are sure they see your lips twitch a smile.

Taj: "Watch it, you lump," Taj gibes, thinking you had mistakenly fallen into them. It's only when you both fall down, and you do not get back up that they realise the severity. You should be arguing with them, telling them it's their fault for not paying attention, or shouting that you are okay. Anything. "MC, get your ass up."

You don't even flinch.

Taj sees red. The person responsible has their throat ripped out before they can take their next breath. "Taj, leave it! Focus on MC!" Selby gives the order, but they do not know if they can. How can they bear to see? What if you are not breathing? What if you have just died protecting them because they were too damn slow?!

It feels as if their heart is being crushed in their chest, but they force themselves to their knees beside you. "MC, wake the fuck up! I'm not kidding!" They shout, slapping your face enough to sting without bruising. When that doesn't work, Taj grabs your hand and holds two fingers against your pulse point. They feel it.

"Keep fighting, koel; I owe you a kick in the ass for doing something so stupid."

N: It all happened so quickly. They had been taunting their latest prey, enjoying watching them squirm beneath their fingers, when suddenly, a scream - your scream - rings inside their head, and they are hurtling across the floor. The pain is nothing compared to the silence that follows.

They twist their head around and see you there, lying still; now it is they who scream. "I forbid it," they whisper, crawling to you with all the will they have left, ready to give it to you - in their blood if they must. When their hand reaches your shoulder, they cup your cheek with the other, your blood soaking their hand. They are about to choke on their grief when they see your chest rising. "You're alive," they whisper, aghast. "Now you stay alive, you hear? I would be awfully put out if you died, my dear. I came a long way to find you; you wouldn't let that be for nothing, right?"

They will wait to hear your answer for however long it takes.

Umbra: They let down their guard. How dare they?! HOW DARE THEY?! Umbra's entire world turns black. For a moment, they return to their natural state: the creature who knows no will of their own, an echo, a weapon... and then they open their eyes. They stand in a puddle of blood of their own making, surrounded by those who dared.

Then, they rush to you with blood-soaked hands, but dare not touch you. Tears in their eyes, they rub their hands against their clothes, but the blood merely smudges, the metallic tang making them gag. "I-- I can't, I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

Umbra doesn't know what they meant to say. They only wish to make it stop. To make it all stop. This wasn't supposed to happen. You were not supposed to do this. This is for them. Not you. Not this. "I am scared."

Death is easy; loss is unconscionable.

Then, they see it; your chest rises with a breath. "Yes! Breathe!" They laugh hysterically, finally grabbing your hands in theirs. "I- I do not know how to make it go away, so I will get help. You are going to be okay; I promise."

(P.S. It is very difficult to write when a cat is adamant that your seat is theirs.)

[darbonime]

problems in paradise

contains: angst, arguing, difficult relationships, bit of fluff i suppose.

word count: 2.8k

Your eyes follow him leaving the house to have a smoke again, his white undershirt is crumpled, body stiff, making muscles more prominent, the golden chain glistens faintly and hair is slicked back but doesn’t seem to have the first freshness. Today is amazingly gloomy day, previous few days were sunny, and when you woke up, you caught by surprise with cloudy sky, and weather forecast woman said there is rain possible in the second half of the day. Not that you minded, you have no mood anyway.

It was only morning and before breakfast was ready, he already swallowed three cigarettes in himself, passing back and forth between the living room and the porch. He feels off and you never were good with making a first move, usually you keep silent while your soul eaten alive – unhealthy habit of yours. Alex no better, he prefers to be silent as a grave and suffer away from anyone.

You play with the last piece of scrambled egg on your plate, scraping plate with fork, irksome sound mixes with news channel on the TV, coffee was cold long ago. Overthinking is contagion, you try to get rid of, you are doing good until it’s him. With him you always care too much. With him every argument feels like it’s the end. Always waiting you are, it’s around the corner you believe. You look on the door through which he left few minutes ago, you see him outside in the window – he is smoking hollowly staring ahead of him.

The silent treatment, sudden and not expected, as usual, appeared three days ago. He got snappy and avoidant, avoidant not in his Alex’s way, when he tried to keep everything with a train of mystery, but in a way of stopping looking into your eyes and in way of going to bed much later than you, what already made you lose quite hours of sleep.

The problem is that you instantly start to think that you did something wrong, and if you did, you should fix it, but he is speechless as a fish. Making him talk is like making a corpse talk, especially if it is about something that bothers him. That sudden silence started happening often, too often for your own liking. Countless times, you told him to speak with you, but you can’t make a person trust you until the person itself starts want to trust you, can you?

Exhausting it is, with all love you have for him, you involuntarily started to think of the talk. The breakup talk. There’s always buts and stops. You are stuck in a dead point of uncertainty and hesitancy.

Thickly sighing, you pick up the last piece of food, shoving it in the mouth, not truly wanting to eat it. When you get up to pour out cold coffee, that lost any alluring taste to you, in the sink, he comes back, bringing all familiar bitter smell of cigarette smoke and palpable tension. You search on his face, for distant answers that his face could possibly give you, on all the questions you have. Alex plumps down on a chair that creaks under his weight unpleasingly, with blunt gaze looking at the screen of working television.

“You’re alright?” Gather up with courage you. Your voice is soaked with tremble, no matter how you try to hide it every time you mess it up.

“What d’ you mean?” His voice is rough; accent is tangible but in a bad way, not in the way when he is almost asleep, not in the way he’s drunk and all pent up with want for you, not in the way when he’s lazy and cuddly.

You inhale sharply.

“You are all silent. Smoke a lot.” Composed, but boiling and anxious at the same time inside. Lump blocks proper breathing, only short phrases born from your mouth, you don’t want to stumble upon the words. He knows himself nothing is smooth, you even made first step to him, he should meet you halfway, that’s how relationship works. Normal ones work that way, you are pretty damn sure.

His fingers running through his tousled hair with a heavy sigh, as if you aren’t his girlfriend but an annoying puppy jumping around him. Your patience running thin, his detached behavior makes you on edge, more than you’d like to admit.

“Jus’ no mood.” With a dull, he says.

That’s what he always says. A disguised reason. He tells you anything but not what actually feels. Never vulnerable or never vulnerable with you?

Crack.

“Alex, are you fucking serious?” You slam a cup on the counter, your voice, angry, mad and offended, like thunder crossing the sky, rings along kitchen, finally making him shoot his eyes at you, with sharp pure confusion.

Being too sensitive emotionally always brings problems in your life. You cry too much over romantic comedies, and flare with rage with a snap of fingers over any little and not little thing.

“I worry! You don’t speak, and I’m here just wondering what happened to you. Again!”

Deep down you know.

He is frightened to accept it, you are frightened to accept it even more, but two years of relationships were not from big love.

You love him and he patches up a hole inside of him by you, a band-aid, and a band-aid always gets thrown away eventually. There was nothing real. Never. Not for him. It got too far, that’s what happens when you decide to date your friend solely to have someone warm in your bed. The constant buzzing thought that he must love you because you cherish him leaves his mind for no second, haunts him constantly but ghostly. He likes to be loved by you, it’s a raw truth. The cost of loving and being loved. He should leave, but won’t, not by his choice. Your love is the forbidden fruit he shouldn’t have reached for, but it looked too appealing not to reach.

“What the hell ‘s this ‘bout?” His voice now raised too, furrowed brows still show fake turmoil and clear defensive mindset, fists clenched under the table, hiding there to keep himself calm with you as long as possible. It’s a rare sight for him to yell or raise voice even for a bit. Alex is bad with arguments, like a bird in a cage, he can’t escape, and he hates to have no choice, that’s how every argument feels with you, “Can’t I be jus’ silent?” Just silent. You let out a hysterical laugh, loud and humorless.

“Do you think I’m a fool, Alex? We both feel something is up!” Never his short nickname in the arguments. You scoff, shake your head, you attempt to regain control, but it only gets worse. “Why can’t you just speak? Use words for once!”

“Maybe, I jus’ need some bloody time alone, and there’s too much of ya, huh, babe?” He spits the last word more distinctly. Your eyes widen slightly in quick wave of shock, you can clearly feel your heart leaps down into toes with hurt and disappointment, “Leave me alone, for god’s sake, and mind your own business.” With a cold snap, he gets up sharply, nearly dropping the poor chair, that in a rough atmosphere has strange fragility to it. You can clearly hear him mumbling “bloody woman” as he strides to the living room trying to deal with fury tremble in a whole body, escaping the escalating heat of the argument.

Choking feeling envelops you from what he just said. Tears seem to find way in your eyes, stinging with pain and wrath, urging you to blink them away. Never he said things to you like that. Your stomach turns with an urge to break and shout, an urge to answer him with the same coin he did.

Alex tries to build a concrete wall between you too, push you away, hurt you that much, that you didn’t even want to get close to him. Push you away that much, hear curses from your mouth, make you hate him, make you leave yourself. If he wants to spit harsh words at you, both can play that game.

Curling with the wind, leaves on the trees tossing chaotically, as trunks bend with force of flow. Sky got even darker and somber than before. The rain is about to start pattering, the door to the porch forced to slam with gust, but neither of you winces because of it. The atmosphere thickened, rooms in the house acquired the bleak view of them. The world seems to fade away and lose color, blending into a mix of grey tones and the colorful filter replaced with noir one.

“Leave you alone?” You follow him immediately after with a ready to fight face, almost no trace of tears, only redness in eyes, “Last time I known you barely can exist on your own without someone else!” You hit right in the sour spot with sarcastic cruelty. His back is facing you, but that doesn’t stop you from feeling the anger flowing from him as steam emerges from the pot, his arms on his sides, hard and strained. Attractive, even now that thought rests in your mind.

“Alex, you push away everyone when people try to help you, but the only ways you deal with your own concerns— “ Words are punctured and straight, inexcusable.

“Don’t—” He grits through the teeth. He hates to hear how messed up his ways of solving problems are. No need to remind what he’s gotten himself into.

You don’t halt, crossing his words. “The only ways you deal with your own goddamn concerns are drinking to the full oblivion or smoking it all away!” You yell, raspiness scratches your throat, pointing your finger at him accusingly, trying to bruise him hard as possible.

Contention comes to a stop as he turns to face you, but briefly, only casts you an irritated defeated gaze and falls with a heaviness of stone on the couch. Now both of you pissed off and wounded. The pair of you did a great job, silence stuck between you two, and both your breaths aviating in the dense air.

His hand runs down his furrowed enraged face. Alex is aware that you are right, the instant you’d left, he would end up not in the best state of mind and soul. Even not loving you, by being near you calm him, keep him sane, don’t let him ruin himself completely.

He’s obsessed with the surface, he creates an image to follow, gets caught in his own trap, which makes him feel once again like a fool. Most of his life he tries to appear the person he is not, ending up feeling worse than before, hilarious clown in his own eyes. You are not an exception, to your unfortunate, even with you he tries to prove something indistinguishable. Something he isn’t quite sure of himself.

One day he came to a conclusion, that there’s nothing to maintain, everything inside of him got rotten to the extent when even the image he created, the one he needs he assures himself, ceased to look perfect.

You wait for him to say at least anything, just anything. But he keeps soundless. The argument made no sense in the very beginning, you understand that both of you are merely worn out to be connected to each other, but none of you risks quitting whatever you and him have gotten into. Tears get harder to hold back, air seems to stop finding way in the lungs and breathing becomes too hard to be an essential thing. It grips your throat to the ache, as you try to keep the tears to yourself, ears preventing any sound leaving only suffocating drone in them. You sit down near him, but yet far away, exhausted and given up.

He looks down at his own hands, to acknowledge that he is indeed here, to catch a breath for a second. Guilt crawls from behind over his back spiderly, straight to the mind together with realization, the words he said to you minutes ago, were not words you have common life with him for, not the words he supposed to tell as a loving partner. He knows it, he knew it even then, but let them slip anyway.

Alex looks up and catches a trace of your eyes glistening, getting glassy, his own eyes get foggy with full awareness. Ace in your sleeve, every argument is won by you when you start crying. He crumbles, feeling the immediate desire to hold you, to actually give you something real out of all his fake facade.

“No, c’mon, darlin’…” He sorrowfully gulps, “Come ‘ere. Come ‘ere. Jus’ don’t cry, you know I hate it.” Guilt and remorse, replacing his snake-like rude voice from before, he beckons you with his hand, straightening on the couch.

You break into quiet sniffs that grow into sobs as you climb on his lap like a beaten cat. He wraps his arms around you tightly, his clothes familiarly smoked, and embrace is warm. Sobs pierce right through his heart, pained and hopeless, breath catches in your throat, and you seem to lose it gasping for it, your cheeks red and stained with salt tropes. Alex hands brushing over your silky hair, soothing you, almost loving you. He mumbles quiet reassurances in your ear. Your head against his chest, hearing his heart beating so fast, is proof to you, the most evident one, the loudest one, that whatever it is he has for you, is here. He might hide himself till the end of the day, but heart always will tell the truth. You want to believe that.

Thump-Thump-Thump. Fast and worried.Knocking against the ribs.

Your sobs get quieter but still there, another minute there won’t be any of them. He doesn’t watch you, caresses your head, gives you time. His caresses apologizing for him as Ales keeps his eyes lifted and empty, he knows you hate to be watched when you are crying, but simply he feels ashamed. Ashamed of being the cause of your misery.

“Me a dickhead, yeah?” He whispers in your ear, feathering tiny kiss on the lobe of it, urging you to chuckle quietly through the tears, smile tugs the corner of his lips, “See? Ya laugh already… Wha’ a sunshine you are.” He pokes your tear-stained cheek. Gentleness is a bitter aftertaste in mouth.

Alex genuinely thinks that way. You are a ray of sunshine for him. The one he doesn’t really deserve.

Years ago, you couldn’t understand how a person could forgive rude words in the heat of the moment. Adamant and revolutionary, you refused to accept any apology. Love for him changed it entirely. Changed you. From rough on the edges to pliable. You would forgive him in a second after apology, would forgive him if he committed a crime, would forgive him even when he confesses that you are nothing but temporary replacement. He has that look in his eyes that speaks with shame and embarrassment, repentance and despondency. His eyes are showing a lot, that’s why he’s wearing shades practically all the time, you learned it in these two years.

Life with him wasn’t bad. Not minding, lack of feelings from him, he tried his best to appear the best man for you. Didn’t seem to cheat, at least you don’t know about it, and you avoided any thoughts about it, it would crash you. He kissed you, hugged you, fucked you. Suspicions that he doesn’t seem to love you were from the beginning, but he assured you and himself in different. You could see how he tries to find attraction for you. Kindness and beauty are you; Alex knows it, Alex loves it but not you.

You wipe tears, breath is still shuddering, his palm is warm and balmy, touch is soft and lulls you to sleep. You wouldn’t refuse a nap with him after that little scandal. That is what you both are going to do probably. Leave it for the next time. Outside it starts to pour, drops drumming against the windows demandingly, and you wait for him to tell a stupid joke of his. Most of them are so lame, but you find yourself laughing like a fool with your full heart.

“Oi, our arguments shake the weather, ya see?” He turns your face to the window, his fingers hold chin carefully, and you chuckle stupidly as you always do.

Lying your head back on his chest you close your eyes, odd intimacy leaks into the moment. His heart slows down, but you still feel his teeth clamped together and lips in a thin line. Your fingers hesitantly reach his chain, fidgeting with it, counting every link in it to yourself, trying to bring peacefulness through it, getting distracted by doing random thing. Alex sighs. Loudly and tiredly. His hands find your head again, stroking it, as if saying “It will end soon. Just wait.” You wait for the end, but it seems to come slower than you expected.

a/n: can't say i like this one very much, and can't say it has the ripping-heart-of-chest atmosphere, but i tried my best. it supposed to be an argument with a fluffy fluff in the end, and then idea of fake love came to my mind and couldnt leave it.

[sorceresssundries]

Three of Swords

So excited to finally be able to share my contributions to the @bg3tarotdeck!!

First up, my story for Abdirak!

Project Kickstarter info here!

Warnings: grief, pain, self-harm.

He was nothing. He was no one. A carved-out hole where a heart once beat.

He waited. Gods, how he waited - counting each minute, each hour, each endless day, willing it to end. Hoping that one day, the edges of his suffering would pull together, that the relentless stream of torment would clot, that the rawness would dull into a throb and, eventually, fade into nothing more than a scar. But it never did. It never stopped. It beat on and on and on and on a crashing tide that filled his lungs and spat salt into repeatedly ripped-open wounds. 

His family was dead, and his grief was a rot that would not allow the pain of it to heal.

He envied them. They were at peace, and he was not. And the pain was all he had left of them.

Abdirak had been found, grief-wrecked and alone, at the side of a flooded road by a wandering priestess of Loviatar. He was a ghost in a hollowed-out body, the pain had stripped everything else from him.

"I was drawn to you, broken one," she had murmured, clad in leather and chain.

He didn’t care.

“Get up,” her voice lashed with the rain.

But he could not move. His losses were too heavy, his will too shattered.

"I can’t."

The priestess stepped closer, the mud sucking at her boots, and leaned down to him. Her eyes softened, just barely, as if she understood him.

“You will,” she said, her voice a low, intimate promise. "This pain is not your end - it is your beginning."

She had taken him with her to the Undermountain beneath the City of Splendours. To the House of Pain.

Here, in the bleak and sparse temple, Abdirak knelt before a great stone altar. Tonight, in the dim and flickering torchlight, he would face his suffering in the most literal sense. He had come to this dark place in an act of absolute surrender.

He had come to take part in the Rite of Pain and Purity.

The priestess who found him had given him the title of "kneeling one," a novice at the very bottom of the goddess’s hierarchy. The others had taken him in, recognising the weight of his sorrow. He had witnessed their devotion, their reverence for agony, and at first, he had thought them mad. But something in their eyes spoke to him. He yearned for their clarity, their purpose - anything to replace the all-consuming void inside him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the woman who had found him.

"Abdirak," she said softly, "It is time. Your pain awaits.”

The Rite was sacred among the followers of Loviatar - a test of one’s devotion, where the body was broken to reveal the strength of the soul. It was whispered that, on rare occasions, the goddess herself manifested during the ritual, her presence heralded by a red ring of radiance.

Abdirak rose to his feet, his legs shaking as he followed the priests deeper into the heart of the temple. The corridor was lined with statues of Loviatar, her cold stone faces twisted in expressions of ecstasy and agony. As they reached the chamber of the rite, he saw the other initiates, kneeling ones like himself, gathered around a pit filled with shattered glass.

The priests, garbed in blood-red robes, stood in a circle, their eyes trained on him.

"The time has come for you to confront your pain," The voice of the high priestess echoed around the chamber. "Not to flee from it, not to bury it. Only through suffering may you be purified."

"Pain is what welcomes us into this world and holds us as we leave it. It is the great inevitable. Loviatar’s gift. And it is our duty to master it, to share it, to spread it to those who are yet to learn its lesson. We are the chosen. We will share this gift, split the skin of the unworthy, and let her red light fill them. We will draw screams from them as sacred prayers, and offer absolution. We will create beauty from pain, and joy from suffering. Let our mistress revel in the ecstasy we grant her. Step forth, and let Loviatar hear you.”

The weight of her words hung in the air as the priests guided Abdirak to the centre of the room. He stared down at the glass beneath his feet, sharp and glistening in the dim light. His heart raced, his mind flashing with memories of his lost family, of the grief that had nearly consumed him. How many times had he tried to push that pain away, believing it made him weak? Too many to count.

Loviatar demanded something else. She demanded that he feel every shard of it, that he let it pierce him completely.

"Begin," the high priestess commanded.

Abdirak closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped forward. The first shard bit into the flesh of his foot, sending a shock of pain up his leg. He winced but did not stop. He began to chant the sacred words they had taught him - the prayer to Loviatar that would guide him through the ritual.

I pledge myself to you, Loviatar.

His voice was shaky at first, barely above a whisper, but as he continued, the words began to take hold.

May your cold embrace guide me

Each step, each cut, each throb of pain brought him closer to something previously unreachable, unattainable.

Your searing touch transform me

The others watched as Abdirak moved across the glass, his feet bleeding, the agony coursing through him. He could feel it now - the connection between his physical suffering and the emotional wounds he had carried for so long.

For in pain, I find your purpose

With each step, the pain intensified, but so did his clarity. It was as though the shards of glass were cutting away the layers of grief, exposing the raw truth beneath: he was still alive. His pain had not destroyed him; it had simply become a part of him. And now, he would reclaim it.

And in your purpose, I find my path.

As the chant rose in his throat, the glass beneath him began to glow faintly. His steps quickened, his movements more fluid as he embraced the rhythm of the dance, each shard piercing deeper into his flesh. He was no longer afraid.

Loviatar, I am yours.

He had become one with his suffering.

The climax of the ritual came when the three senior priests stepped forward, each wielding a leather whip adorned with metal spikes. Abdirak screamed to the heavens as the first lash struck his back.

He repeated the words of Loviatar, over and over.

Pain exploded through him, and he leaned into it and against it. Clinging to it and letting it hold him up. The second lash followed, deeper this time, cutting through flesh and drawing blood. He cried out and let his screams entwine with his prayer. A song where agony met ecstasy and it was all the same sound.

The chant grew louder, more fervent. 

By the time the third strike fell, he felt as though he had crossed a threshold - and he somehow summoned a miracle. 

A ring of red light blazed above them, and the priests fell to their knees, their heads bowed. Abdirak, too, felt an overwhelming urge to kneel, but something held him upright. The light filled him, and with it, a voice - powerful, feminine, and commanding.

"You have called, and I have answered," the voice of Loviatar resonated, vibrating through every bone in his body. "Through suffering, you have found the truth. Through pain, you are made whole."

Abdirak felt the weight of his grief lift. Not gone, never gone, but transformed. His pain was not a weakness. It was a reminder that he had survived, that he had endured, and that he would continue to endure.

“Hear the word of Loviatar.” The voice was biting. “Obey me now. Praise the Absolute.”

The crimson light pulsed like blood from a freshly carved heart, and then - it died.

Abdirak stood in the centre of the chamber, bleeding but unbroken. For the first time since the tragedy, he felt a sense of purpose, of clarity. He was no longer the man who had been shattered by loss.

He had received Loviatar’s blessing.

He would spread her word to the masses, go where he was commanded. He would be the lash against the unworthy, wielding the blades of pain, grief, and torment to slice away the mould and decay that poisoned the weak as it had once poisoned him. His chosen subjects would feel the sting of pain and heal, or die. Either fate would be a mercy, a gift.

And as he walked his path - bare feet upon gritted, stony roads - he would let the lash of his whip crack against the skin of his back, the wounds felt but never seen. His blood would forever leave a trail of worship behind him.

Praise the Mistress of torture. Praise the Absolute.

He was Abdirak, blessed by Loviatar, master of his pain.

[cheerysmores]

Here's the story! (AO3)

Freedom. 

The word tastes of some long-forgotten language on Asatrion’s tongue, as rotted away as the memories of his face. It was something he prayed for once. He’d roll over as his siblings slept, murmuring near-silent words to every God he could remember seeing venerated in the city. And as the nights drew on, those whispers became more honeyed, his offerings desperate. His body, his blood, his unlife, he’d leave it all at those perfectly polished statues if it meant something could hear him.

“Why me?”

He’d gotten his answer the day he'd been fool enough to let that question slip between the palace walls. He’d woken face down in the kennel, it easier to count which parts of him weren’t broken or missing. A snap came from somewhere, then a voice, maybe his own, screaming in the darkness.

Cazador’s words had come much later, cold as chains through Godey’s twisted jaw bone:

“Is that clear enough for you?”

That was the night he learned that those statues were nothing but stone.

Freedom. He turns the word over again. After centuries of silently screaming for it, banging at the bars clamped around his mind and his body, it’s almost strange to have it. He’d pictured it loud and triumphant as he boiled Cazador’s corpse and kept his skull for a chalice. Instead it’s… quiet. The night is still, the cemetery’s path deserted. He rests naked and sweaty against his own gravestone with the only person he’s ever cared for dozing against his shoulder. 

He feels the epitaph pressing into his back: ‘In loving memory.’ It’s almost comical how shit of a choice that was, most likely picked by some random official who’d forgotten his name the second it left their desk. He’d stopped considering who might have come to his funeral long ago. Those faces, the choices that left him bleeding on the street that night– it’s all rotting underneath him now.

He touches the grooves of his name, rain-slicked and old. That he still has. But what else? He’s no longer a slave, not the prettiest lamb trotted out for slaughter, only hurt in the places he can’t use to lure back prey for his master.

He flinches as visions of his bloody fingers scrabbling at cold tomb walls swim unbidden into his mind.

No. Not his master, not anymore. He’d stabbed Cazaodor again and again and again until his hands were soaked with death. And then… nothing, just the familiar thud of a body hitting the floor. After all that monster had done, the all-powerful Cazador Szarr is just another corpse left in their wake. There was no fanfare or cheering or lights igniting inside him. Even the stars as they’d left the palace were no brighter. 

He remembers counting them through the bedroom window whenever he was forced to go through the tired play of his seduction. Sometimes his mind would leave his flesh completely, wishing he could flit amongst those very stars and spit on the Gods while he was there.

“Are you alright?” Tav’s lips suddenly move against his shoulder. 

He brushes a damp strand of hair from their forehead, his smile back in place. “After that? I was hoping you wouldn’t need to ask.”

They jab his side. “You know, you’re not as good a liar as you believe. And you’re thinking so loudly I can hear it from here.” They shift onto his lap, gently moving his chin until he’s looking at them properly. Their eyes are soft but he can feel them looking right through to the silent stone of his heart. Even so cold, he’s sure their hands could almost make it beat again, cracks and all.

Ah. Love. That’s what’s left. The thought is so saccharine he isn’t sure if he wants to have them again right now or throw himself in the river.

“Now, are you alright?” they say, quieter this time.

Gods, what a question. He’s had 200 years of enslavement, a few tendays of parasite-fuelled chaos, what tomorrow might bring he has no bloody idea. He lifts their hand, presses his lips to each knuckle, then the delicate web of veins at their wrist. It thrums with life, of something they can share together when they survive this— if they survive this, he supposes.

He brushes the fresh bite at their neck. It’s still flushed, still so much smaller than his own. 

“For once, I’d say that I actually feel like me.”

***

He’s burning.

He saved the world, reduced the Netherbrain to the wreckage in front of them and he’s burning. The caress of the sunset turns to fire against his skin. It slices with a malice he’d almost forgotten, his arms, his hands, his face– all smouldering like lit parchment.

He staggers back, hissing in pain.

The parasite really is dead, and it dragged his life in the sun into the abyss with it.

Something grabs his shoulder, Tav he realises. Their body shakes with coughs as the stench of copper and smoke engulfs them both.

“Astarion–”

Disgust breaks in their eyes as his skin crumbles under their fingers. It falls to dust between them, a cruel reminder of exactly what he still is. He shoves them away with all the strength he has left. 

“I have to go. Now.” They can’t see him like this, no one can.

He runs from the pier, from the sun, from them, away away away until he’s gasping and alone under a tarp. He wants to break something, hurt someone the way he hurts now. What was the point of all those disgustingly good deeds, of giving up the power to keep himself safe if he was still fated to flee like a rat once the game was over.

He crawls further underneath the cover and back into the old embrace of the shadows. 

Midnight has come and gone by the time he walks back to the pier. It’s empty now, the brain nothing but an ugly lump on the oil-black surface of the Chionthar. A handful of stars shine from the horizon and to the spot where his reflection should be, yet another reminder that he cannot simply wash away his past like the blood still dried to his fingers. 

He kicks some debris into the water and watches them ripple. They’re the same stars as 200 years ago. Still cold. Still silent. The pattern of Jassa's Dagger glints in front of him, pointing west and out of the city. His foot pauses between kicks. There’s nothing to stop him following that path now. He could go anywhere, turn around and do– Gods what would he do? There are the other spawn waiting red-eyed and ravenous in the underdark. He supposes could help them…. or he could never think of them again. He could simply take his blade, pilfer some poor soul’s purse and see where the night takes him. 

He contemplates throwing himself in the water and just letting the current wash him away. It can’t flow back to its beginning and neither can he, maybe it will spit him out somewhere nice. He grimaces as he touches the surface, still thick with illithid slime. 

Alright, maybe not that particular plan. Forward it is then. 

There’s just one person to pick up first.

He finds Tav in what remains of the Elfsong. They’re curled asleep, their clothes still on and a candle burned down to nothing beside the bed. They turn in the darkness the moment he sits on the mattress. 

“You’re a bastard.”

He pulls off his boots, chuckling softly. “Good evening to you too, darling.”

“Do you know how long I spent searching for you? That we all did?” Concern cuts through their tired rasp. He avoids their gaze, busying himself with the ties of his armour. 

“Did you really think I wouldn’t come back for you? I’m hurt.”

He narrowly dodges the pillow that flies at his head.

“I wanted to help, you idiot.”

The tiniest thread of guilt twinges through him. Someone wanting to give rather than rip pieces out of him is still a strange concept, no matter how many times they’ve proven it. 

He sighs as they slowly brush their fingers through his hair. 

“That version of me is not something you wanted to see– some creature fleeing into the dark. A ghoul, a shadow–” He grunts when the tie to his pauldron snags. “Whatever I am now.”

They touch his forearm, halting his movements. “How about hero?”

The word curdles inside him. He’d seen plenty drowning in their cups at Sharess’ Caress, blind or ignorant to the walls of the Szarr palace. Night after night he’d sat with the other shiny toys on display, waiting for one to notice the flicker behind such a clearly painted smile. 

Maybe he can be better. Maybe worse. They do seem to be paid very well…

“That would have positively disgusted me once,” he whispers as they take over, pulling until his armour falls to the mattress with a soft thud. 

“Whether you like it or not we fit the description now. There are already half a dozen drinking songs carrying our names. And since you missed those drinks–” They pull down their collar, throat bared in clear invitation. He buries his face into that familiar curve, inhaling deeply. He can almost smell the sun still on them, golden and warm.

“Perhaps it’s not so terrible when you call me that,” he whispers, biting into the apple of their skin.

“How about if we do it together?” 

Blood drips from his mouth as he pulls back, peppering their shirt with rosy spots of gore. “Well that depends. Is this really what you want?” Am I, is what he doesn’t say. He’s not afraid of his own darkness, not anymore, but if it takes away his one last slice of sunshine in this world…

There’s no hesitation as Tav brushes the blood from his chin, ruining their shirt further. “I love you, every version that might come to pass. And whatever the future holds, I want to be there.”

Their mouth is on his before he can answer, whispering away the taste of that ridiculous question for good.

Whatever the future holds. He can almost picture it, some boundless path stretching on into a thousand-thousand years of possibilities, Tav’s hand in his and a blade in the other. With everything that’s been taken from him, maybe it’s finally time to start rebuilding himself, piece by jagged piece.

He collapses on the bed with them, pulling away for only a second to murmur against their lips. “Then we are going to have an awful lot of fun, my love.”

***

Make sure to check out the other pieces from @bg3tarotdeck

✨ THE STAR | HOPE, HEALING, RENEWAL

My piece for the @bg3tarotdeck. What a pleasure it's been!

Big thanks to the project’s organisers, its incredible creatives, and especially to @cheerysmores for being such a wonderful partner and writing a stunning accompaniment to this piece.

[chirpsythismorning]

I’m just gonna come out and say it… Byler’s best scene has gotta be the rain fight. It just is. It’s arguably Finn and Noah’s best performance for their characters’ dynamic. It has everything. Repression. Instant regret. Groveling. Heartbreak. Devastation.

Me, rewatching the rain fight to feel something that is akin to every single feeling one experiences after watching a masterful feature length romance, only in this case it’s all happening in one single scene:

[crossbackpoke-check]

Looks like that video is about a month & a half after The Trade and trevors broken ankle 😣

re: this video… anon 😭 i had suspicions but it is so much worse to have them confirmed that really was like. trevor’s first Public Appearance without jamie AND post-broken ankle which is traumatic in and of itself no wonder every beat reporter was like ‘oh yeah trevor’s just devastated’

wouldn’t you be miserable too if your best friend just got traded and your body betrayed you and what if it was maybe all your fault!!!

[honey-tongued-devil]

[Arcane preference]reacting to their s/o calling them husband/wife for the first time

I’ve finished the first chapter of the long fic about Universe 7 (Anytime it rains). As soon as my second beta reader gives me the okay, I’ll post it. While I wait, I’ve written the first headcanon (out of three I’m definitely planning to write and post in the next few days) and picked up the drawing of Steb I’d left unfinished. I’m slow, as usual, but English isn’t my first language, and I’m juggling a lot of things at once. Enjoy!

socials: | INPRNT | | Tip Jar | | X | | BlueSky | | Ao3 | poster: | Jayce poster | | Silco poster | |Silco +self insert poster 1| | Steb poster | if you want to read the fluff longfic with vander and his happy family + Silco x reader you can find it here! ↠ Masterlist

Jayce:

-This man is planning to put a ring on your finger as soon as possible, okay? -Between the academy, public appearances, and both theoretical and practical studies, there isn’t a single moment when he’s really in the right mindset to bring up the topic -The worst part is that, deep down, he’s terrified of putting pressure on you -That’s why, the first time he hears you refer to him as “my husband” during a gala with noble families, he almost chokes -He has to gather all his strength not to grab the interlocutor by the shoulders and ask if they also heard you say that word -He’ll try to keep his composure, maybe responding to your remark with, “Yes, exactly. Her husband really did say/do/design that.”

Viktor:

-It’s not a thought he’s ever really entertained; it never crossed his mind -Part of it is that science is his priority, and part of it is that marriage doesn’t seem like something meant for people like him, -The first time you call him “your husband”, that thought suddenly becomes real in his head, and he can’t help but lean against a wall and wait for the other person to leave -“So, I’m your husband now, huh? Mmm… I don’t mind, a bit pretentious, though…” he jokes, making you roll your eyes -Now, more than ever, he has no idea what to do. He’ll give you a bronze ring from a machine he’s building -“Until I can get one worthy of you.”

Ekko:

-Yes -That’s it -The end -Okay, seriously. The idea of being certain that something will last forever is probably his greatest wish -The first time you call him your husband, he doesn’t see it coming -“Wait, you’re married?” -“I was talking about you, Ekko.” -The moment you say it, he points to his chest, you see his lip tremble slightly, and his eyes grow shinier -He won’t stop talking about it for a week, and at least once a day, he’ll ask if you still want to marry him, if you’re sure, if you love him -No rings before S2; the promise is made by drawing something for each other on your masks and clothes -After S2, he still can’t afford a ring, but now that life is more stable, he can start thinking about a more traditional gift, like a piece of jewelry

Vander:

-This man is ravenous for any family role you might offer him—fiancé, father, husband. Anything goes -The first time you call him “husband”, he plays it cool but will seize the first opportunity to return the favor by telling a customer you’re married -As soon as he can, he’ll squeeze your hand, even under the counter -The idea of being married and having a complete family is everything he’s ever wanted -He won’t stop calling you “my beautiful wife/husband” from that moment on.

-You said it first; you can’t take it back. Now you have to get married

Silco (old man):

-This man’s only sin is loving too much, but I’ll save that reflection for another post -Having no ties other than his illegitimate daughter doesn’t make him someone who’s particularly keen on formalities -The first time you call him “your husband” is in front of Sevika, and he slowly turns to look at you, while she slowly turns to look at him -“Did I... miss something?” Sevika asks, but he doesn’t reply, still perplexed, before glancing at her and saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” -He’s relieved but doesn’t show it. He can’t afford to just yet -As soon as he confirms you were serious, your name will be flamboyantly forgotten—he’ll constantly refer to you as “my wife/husband”

Silco (young):

-The man who survives on love -The first time you call him your husband is in front of Vander, and while Vander bursts out laughing, Silco chokes on his drink -“Are you serious?” He’s so happy that his pale iris are completely swallowed by his dilated pupils -He grabs a pen and draws a ring around your finger -To his credit, he works in a mine, so it’s hard to do better than that, but it becomes the goal that keeps him going -Completely focused on family, the future, and anything that sees the two of you together and happy

Steb:

-The first time you call him your husband is at a dinner among enforcer families, and being mute doesn’t stop him from stealing the spotlight -He whips around, blinking slowly with only his third eyelid in a gesture of confusion -When he’s 100% sure he understood what you said, his eyes widen, the small membranes under his eyes flutter madly, and even the barely visible gills near his jaw gasp for a moment -Someone says, “I didn’t know you were married,” and he immediately nods enthusiastically, not giving you time to take it back -Within 48 hours, he’ll have the ring ready

Jinx:

-The first time you call her “your wife”, she freezes -“What did you just call me?” -She’s used to being a little sister, a big sister, a daughter—she’d never thought she could be a wife. Family ties aren’t chosen, but the idea that someone would want her in their life so much they’d marry her feels incredible -“You want to marry me? Really? Why?” -She bursts into tears, and it’ll take at least 24 hours of cuddling in bed to calm her down -After that, she’ll run to her father to announce that she’s now a married woman

Vi:

-She might not be Silco and/or Vander’s blood daughter, but she’s inherited their deep desire for family -From her family’s tragic fate to Vander’s, she’s always seen family as the ultimate aspiration -When you call her “your wife” for the first time, she doesn’t notice right away, but a full minute later, she whirls around to look at you, as if to ask for confirmation -“Say it again.” -“...You need to buy bread?” -“No, all of it.” -“My wife needs to go buy bread.” -“Again.”

-"My... wife?"

-"Again"

Caitlyn:

-Has she thought about it? Yes -Was she planning to act on it? Not exactly -Caitlyn struggles with emotions and feelings, which is why she hesitates and takes her time -But when you first call her “your wife”, her brain completely shuts off—she just stares at you, unable to hear a single word being said -If you or someone else asks her a question, she’ll snap out of it and respond, -“My wife/husband said everything.” Even if it makes no sense as an answer, making you laugh and leaving the other person baffled

Mel:

-Not a single flicker of surprise—the first time you call her “your wife”, she remains completely composed -“So, I’m your wife?” she asks as soon as you’re in private, approaching you like a feline. You can almost hear the purr in her voice -She’s amused but also intrigued by whatever game you’re playing -The idea of marriage is complicated for her—on one hand, it feels like it would limit her freedom to act, while on the other, unresolved family issues seem to devour her at the mere thought of starting a new cycle -She’ll tell you to go ahead, to get married, but she’ll also ask for time -In the meantime, though, she’ll start using the term “husband/wife” with you—she likes the way it rolls off her tongue

Sevika:

-Between the work she does, the environment she lives in, and all the interesting circumstances of her life, marriage has never been on her radar -Not to mention that in Zaun, it’s not exactly a common practice—people just move in together and build families when they can, without much fuss over formalities or bureaucracy -The first time it happens, she’s playing cards with the other goons, and you casually ask if “your wife is winning” -Her first reaction isn’t even hers—it’s the others’. Dustin, the blond goon with the lazy eye, almost starts crying, embarrassing her -Don’t worry, she’ll make you pay for it at home -She won’t ask to formalize anything, but in true Zaunite fashion, she’ll consider you married, plain and simple

[rafey-baby]

older!rafe loves to put his fingers in sensitive!reader’s mouth & her favorite place in the world is his lap...

c/w: rafe being mean & making her choke on his fingers, heavily suggestive, size kink, use of daddy & dad, 18+ mdni!

wc: 1.6k

in love w this man so more of him on the way xx

this is an additional part to this & u can read more here

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Rafe has had a bad day.   

She notices it immediately by the way he greets her with only a brief peck on her cheek; carelessly throwing his jacket on the couch before slumping down against the cushions and letting out a washed-out exhale.   

For the entirety of the week, gloomy clouds have painted over the dusty, colorless horizon and wet water puddles have saturated the socks of passing pedestrians and dog walkers alike. However, Rafe is not someone who particularly minds rainy days, which is why she assumes that the reason for his disgruntled mood has something to do with business, as it more often than not does.    

He scratches at the buzzed hair still slightly damp from the rain while she simply stands there and blinks; unsure whether he wishes to be alone or not.    

“What are you doin’? C’mere,” he suddenly orders in a somewhat of a stern tone and she has no choice but to pad over to his sprawled-out legs, lowering to sit on top of him and letting him paw at her waist as his beefy arms pull her closer. And she can't really complain when the heat of his body seeps into her flesh in such a comforting way; makes her insides feel all fluffy and featherlight.   

In the same way that Rafe seems to enjoy her needing him to take care of her when everything feels like too much, she loves being there for him; likes to feel useful, needed. 

“Do you wanna...talk about it?” the muted melody of her vocal cords reaches his ears as vivid raindrops pitter patter against the glass of the windows and he groans in exhaustion at how perfect she is for him.    

“Not really,” he dismisses her with a shake of his head. “How was your day, hm?”   

“It was uh, okay. I don’t know, the usual. Had some boring lectures, almost fell asleep…questioned every decision I’ve ever made,” she huffs out and settles her palms on his strong biceps.  

“Mm,” he’s only half listening; beginning to mindlessly twirl a strand of her hair around his index finger.    

And she takes that as her cue to continue blabbering out complete nonsense as she begins to grow slightly restless being this close to him. Truth be told, she’s pathetically been missing him the whole day; the only thing granting her the motivation to go about her routines being the thought of seeing him at the end of it all. And now that he’s here, he seems frustrated; mind entirely elsewhere and she doesn’t know what to do except ramble on and on about her dull day.    

Then, completely out of the blue, he’s grabbing her jaw into his massive hand and hushing her.   

“Shut up for one second, yeah?” he mutters out before he’s tucking a thumb past her lips; a surprised squeak leaving the back of her throat at the sudden intrusion because he was the one who asked for her to talk in the first place.    

However, she can’t exactly say that it’s unexpected. He often gets a tad bit meaner whenever he’s had a dreary workday and takes it out on her in some form or another. And regardless of how unhealthy all of it might seem, there’s a crooked part of her brain that yearns for it; wants him to come to her whenever he’s upset. If she’s utterly honest, the thought of him searching for solace in anyone else makes nausea creep up her bones.   

For some reason, the firm pad of his thumb making her tongue feel heavy in her mouth placates her; turns her brain into a needy, dingy muddle in a way that only Rafe is capable of.   

“Shit, just needed somethin’ to suck on, huh?” he pushes down on her tongue, making her swallow around the digit with a whimper.    

“So fuckin’ pathetic sometimes, you know? Just take anythin’ daddy gives you,” a low-pitched chuckle thunders from his chest, seemingly amused by the ease in which she gives into him.    

However, there’s also something gooey, syrupy beginning to whirl in the pit of her tummy. It reminds her of the countless times she was perched on the park swing as a little girl during the balmy summers of her childhood; thinking she could reach the fluffy clouds with the tips of her sneakers if only she could fly a little higher.    

“Feels nice to have somethin’ in your mouth, doesn’t it?” he ogles her, mesmerized with intrigue twinkling in the Carolina blue that has always made her think of the sky.    

She lets out a faint moan when he drags the digit out and then back in, making her gag around it; her hips involuntarily rutting against the growing bulge straining against the zipper of his pants, desperate for some sort of friction if even through the soft material of her sweatpants.    

“Didn’t give you permission to move, did I?” he feigns confusion with a furrow of his brows that gets her to reluctantly halt her shifting.    

“Daddy, need your...” her words are cushioned against the obstacle he’s planted between her teeth.  

“Can’t really hear you, baby,” he mocks before he’s pulling the thumb out of her mouth altogether.    

However, the next thing she knows, he’s stuffing in his index and middle finger both at the same time. They reach far deeper; a muffled sound of gagging following his actions as he seems to discover a perverted sense of satisfaction from her struggle.   

"What did you say?" his lips twist into a cruel smirk when she whimpers pitifully and tries to draw away from him in order to catch her breath but his other hand only grips her jaw tighter, keeping her exactly where he wants as she’s forced to breathe through her nose.    

“I think you can take it for a bit longer, yeah?” his teeth sink into his bottom lip as he simply stares, seemingly absorbed into the obscene scene before him.    

And she should feel embarrassed, demeaned even. And she does! However, the humiliation of letting him do whatever he wants as if she’s nothing but a cheap toy for his entertainment blurs over the lines when her cunt throbs in response to his degrading attention. She flutters uselessly around nothing; powerlessly begging for some sort of alleviation with a whine that merely earns her a tut of his tongue.    

Therefore, the only thing she can do is sit there like an obedient animal because he’s already scolded her once. She hasn’t turned entirely dumb just yet; knows firsthand how ‘daddy doesn’t like to repeat himself’ and that the next time she misbehaves will result in a punishment her poor cunt probably wouldn’t be able to handle in this helpless state of hers.   

“Don't think you could take dad’s cock even halfway in this pretty mouth,” he mindlessly croons, thumb smoothing over the skin of her throat as she swallows the spit beginning to dribble down her chin.    

The thought manages to pique her curiosity because his cock has been at the forefront of her mind for a couple of weeks now, due to him constantly teasing her with the notion of letting her suck him off properly. He keeps murmuring about training her throat and fucking it raw but never actually doing it; merely allowing for her to drool and mouth over the tip because apparently, she's 'not ready yet'.    

She’s beginning to turn into something desperate because whenever she tries to take more of him into her mouth, he stops her with a click of his tongue and big hands lifting her head off him. “Don’t be greedy now, sweetheart,” he’d scold her but she's certain she’s going to die if she doesn’t get to feel his cock nudge at the back of her throat soon.    

“Ray…” she tries to fruitlessly speak but he’s not exactly making it easy as he keeps stroking against her tongue. However, she doesn’t need to say anything. He knows what she wants.  

“I mean, can barely fit into this tight cunt, don’t know why you keep whinin’ about wantin’ me in this mouth so bad. Don’t think you’d even enjoy it that much. It’s a lot, you know?” there’s something almost patronizing in the way he’s speaking to her as if he’s not the one who brought the idea up in the first place.   

It’s like he’s trying to talk her out of it yet his fingertips keep prodding past her gag reflex every few minutes, almost as if testing the waters before plunging in and it’s making her head spin.    

She whines and tries to defend herself but the digits fussing with the inside of her slobbery mouth don’t allow for her to form anything audible as she begins to grow troubled.   

“What was that?” the line of his mouth curls when he pokes deeper once more, causing her to moan with watery eyes pleading him for anything at this point.    

“Such a dirty girl. Bet you’d like choking on my cock, huh?” he grunts and she hums in response; nodding fervently before he’s finally withdrawing his hand and smearing the spit-stained fingers against her pouty lips.   

They’re both panting heavily as he gently swipes at her under-eyes in order to catch the teardrops ready to trickle down before petting at the apples of her cheeks with a tenderness reserved only for her.  

“Shit, always know how to make me feel better, don’t ya?” he rumbles fondly against her mouth; following his saccharine words with a messy kiss soon after. Maybe he’ll finally allow her to have what she so badly craves. 

[classyrbf]

MAKE THAT PU$$Y RAIN! — TOJI FUSHIGURO

SYNOPSIS...pornstar!toji makes you squirt for the first time on camera

INFO...pornstar!toji x fem!reader, full nelson position, squirting, recording, fingering, overstim, praise, degradation, pussy slaps, messy, dacryphilia, creampie, not proofread

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

“Oh my god!” You squealed, pussy squelching as Toji fucked you ruthlessly, his fat tip hitting your swollen g-spot over and over again. “Fuck, fuck! You’re so fucking deep!” You cry out, biting down on your bottom limp as you whimpered, tears pooling in your eyes from how good you felt, pleasure coursing through your entire body, making you feel like you were on fire.

His muscular arms held your legs back, locking his hands behind your head, leaving you in no position to run from the dicking down he was giving you. A filthy mess formed between where you two met, your juices coating length, dripping down his heavy balls. “Put that pretty on full view for the camera—nngh fuck!” He grunted, letting out a dark chuckle that sent a shiver down your spine.

“So fucking good—hah! Ah! Yes, yes, yes! Right here!” Your toes pointed as you eyes rolled into the back of your head, your brain going completely stupid, feeling your hungry pussy clench down on his cock. “Nngh!” You managed to open your eyes, jaw going slack as you stared into the lens, hazy eyes fixated upon the camera.

Your body rocked with each thrust, lewd moans echoing off the walls as your body went completely weak, mind blank. “Hah, Toji! Toji, I feel like I’m gonna squirt! Stop!” You begged. “Toji!” You mewled, clenching your eyes shut, toes curling.

“Let it out for me, wanna see you make a mess on my dick,” he growled, somehow managing to fuck you harder and faster, bullying his thick cock into your poor, swollen pussy. “Come on, baby. Fucking squirt for me! Show everyone how messy this pussy can get!” His thrusts are greedy, forceful, looking to drive your orgasm out of you no matter what.

“I’m cumming! Oh my—fuck! Nnngh! Hah!” Your pussy gushes clear liquid, soaking your thighs and Toji’s, some even getting on the camera in front of you. “Oh my god!” You cry out, tears streaming down your face. “Shit, shit, shit, so fucking good!” Your body is twitching in his hold, his thick length still stretching you out so deliciously it makes your eyes roll back once more. He was fucking you stupid at this point. That was the first time you’ve ever squirted and you can’t believe it was caught on camera for thousands—millions of people to see.

“That’s a good fucking girl,” he chuckles loudly. “Good job, baby. Pussy loves my cock, doesn’t it?” He breathed heavily, something primal awakening in him, wanting to make you squirt once more. “Give me one more, I know this pussy wants it,” he gruffly says.

“Nngh! Nngh! Gonna…cuuu—fuccckk!” Your jaw falls slack, eyes squeezing shut as you squirt for a second time, your body shaking violently. Toji pulled out of you, a clear stream shooting from your cunt. He let out a laugh, reaching a rough hand down between your legs to rub your puffy clit. “Ah!” You yelp, eyes shooting open to watch as he rubs your clit, getting every last drop out of you. “Tojiii!” You pout, reaching his hand because the overstimulation is driving you absolutely crazy. Your legs close shut, still slightly shaking.

Two of his thick digits slide into your cunt with ease, pushing up on your g-spot in a fast motion as he uses his one arm to hold your legs in the air. Without warning your squirting again, your back colliding with his chest as you fall back, so lost in pleasure you don’t care about a thing any more. “Atta girl, look at you,” he coos in your ear. His large hand comes down to spank your soaked pussy, making you twitch with each hit.

“More, more, please,” you murmur, biting at your bottom lip, batting your teary eyes up at him.

“More? Yeah? You turn into such slut when getting fucked stupid, don’t you baby?” He slides his fingers back into your greedy hole, your cunt squelching as he quickly moves his fingers against your g-spot.

“Yessssuuuhh!” Your nails dig into the skin of his forearm, toes curling again when you feel that familiar feeling in your lower abdomen build up. “Cumming! Hah!” Toji quickly slips his fingers out your cunt as you began to squirt, the pads of his fingers rubbing your clit in circles again, your juices spraying everywhere.

He unexpectedly lifts your hips up, a long down out groan escaping his throat when your warm cunt sinks back down around his cock. “Fuck, baby, pussy is so tight!” He moans, hips vigorously thrusting into you, wrapping his arms around your legs again to leave you in a helpless position.

“Nngh…Toji…ah.” You’re barely able to speak, your brain completely mush. You were addicted to the way he was making you feel, addicted to how he worked your body to do what he wanted. His hips slammed into your eyes, balls slapping against your clit as he chased his orgasm.

“Ah, you’re clenching, baby. That pussy gonna squirt again, huh?” He gritted his teeth, feeling his orgasm approaching as he moans grew louder and mixed in with yours. “Cum with me, cum with me—nngh, shit! Shit! Yes, keep squeezing me!” Thick spurts of his cum paint your walls, filling you up and making you warm inside. His cum trails down his length while he fucks it back into you. “Fuckkkk!” He groans.

Your squirt mixes with his cum, your cunt clenching around his length, sucking him back in. “Oh my goddd!” You’re screaming, tears streaming down your face. Toji pulls out of you, leaving you a panting, soaked mess, cum leaking from your hole. “Mmmp!” You whimper.

“Show the camera, sweetheart.” He spreads your legs wide enough so that a glob of his cum leaks out of you, slipping down to your ass. “Good girl.” He plants a kiss on your lips, walking off the bed to grab the camera, focusing it on you and the bed below. “Look at the mess you made,” he laughs, zooming in on the soaked sheets and puddles on the floor. “You even got it on fucking camera,” he chuckles.

“I’m sorry,” you giggle, still trying to catch your breath as you roll over in the bed, lying on your stomach. He swats your ass a few times, groping it before spreading it to get another view of your messy cunt. “Made squirt for the first time on camera, you know?” You lazily smile.

“Really?” He asked, surprised. “I know what I’m gonna title this video then.”

[fictionstudent]

How to pull off descriptions

New authors always describe the scene and place every object on the stage before they press the play button of their novels. And I feel that it happens because we live in a world filled with visual media like comics and films, which heavily influence our prose.

In visual media, it’s really easy to set the scene—you just show where every object is, doesn’t matter if they’re a part of the action about to come or not. But prose is quite different from comics and films. You can’t just set the scene and expect the reader to wait for you to start action of the novel. You just begin the scene with action, making sure your reader is glued to the page.

And now that begs the question—if not at the beginning, where do you describe the scene? Am I saying you should not use descriptions and details at all? Hell naw! I’m just saying the way you’re doing it is wrong—there’s a smarter way to pull off descriptions. And I’m here to teach that to you.

***

#01 - What are descriptions?

Let’s start with the basics—what are descriptions? How do you define descriptions? Or details, for that matter? And what do the words include?

Descriptions refer to… descriptions. It’s that part of your prose where you’re not describing something—the appearance of an object, perhaps. Mostly, we mean scene-descriptions when we use the term, but descriptions are more than just scene-descriptions.

Descriptions include appearances of characters too. Let’s call that character-descriptions.

Both scene-descriptions and character-descriptions are forms of descriptions that we regularly use in our prose. We mostly use them at the beginning of the scene—just out of habit.

Authors, especially the newer ones, feel that they need to describe each and every nook and cranny of the place or character so they can be visualized clearly by their readers, right as the authors themselves visualized them. And they do that at the start of the scene because how can you visualize a scene when you don’t know how the scene looks first.

And that’s why your prose is filled with how the clouds look or what lights are on the room before you even start with the dialogues and action. But the first paragraph doesn’t need to be a simple scene-description—it makes your prose formulaic and predictable. And boring. Let me help you with this.

***

#02 - Get in your narrator’s head

The prose may have many MCs, but a piece of prose only has a single narrator. And these days, that’s mostly one of the characters of your story. Who uses third-person omniscient narrator these days anyway? If that’s you, change your habits.

Anyway, know your narrator. Flesh out their character. And then internalize them—their speech and stuff like that. Internalize your narrator to such an extent that you can write prose from their point-of-view.

Now, I don’t mean to say that only your narrator should be at the center of the scene—far from it. What I mean is you should get into your narrator’s head.

You do not describe a scene from the eyes of the author—you—but from the eyes of the narrator. You see from their eyes, and understand what they’re noticing. And then you write that.

Start your scene with what the narrator is looking at.

For example,

The dark clouds had covered the sky that day. The whole classroom was in shades of gray—quite unusual for someone like Sara who was used to the sun. She felt the gloom the day had brought with it—the gloom that no one else in her class knew of.

She never had happy times under the clouds like that. Rain made her sad. Rain made her yearn for something she couldn’t put into words. What was it that she was living for? Money? Happiness?

As she stared at the sky through the window, she was lost in her own quiet little corner. Both money and happiness—and even everything else—were temporary. All of it would leave her one day, then come back, then leave, then come back, like the waves of an ocean far away from any human civilization in sight.

All of it would come and go—like rain, it’d fall on her, like rain, it’d evaporate without proof.

And suddenly, drops of water began hitting the window.

You know it was a cloudy day, where it could rain anytime soon. You know that for other students, it didn’t really matter, but Sara felt really depressed because of the weather that day. You know Sara was at the corner, dealing with her emotions alone.

It’s far better than this,

The dark clouds covered the sky that day. It could rain anytime soon.

From her seat at the corner of the room, Sara stared at the sky that made everything gray that day. She…

The main reason it doesn’t work is that you describe the scene in the first paragraph, but it’s devoid of any emotions. Of any flavor. It’s like a factual weather report of the day. That’s what you don’t want to do—write descriptions in a factual tone.

If you want to pull off the prior one, get to your narrator’s head. See from their eyes, think from their brain. Understand what they’re experiencing, and then write that experience from their POV.

Sara didn’t care what everyone was wearing—they were all probably in their school uniforms, obviously, so I didn’t describe that. Sara didn’t focus on how big the classroom was, or how filled, or what everybody was doing. Sara was just looking at the clouds and the clouds alone, hearing everybody just living their normal days, so I mentioned just those things.

As the author, you need to understand that only you, the author are the know-it-all about the scene, not your narrator. And that you’re different from your narrator.

Write as a narrator, not as an author.

***

#03 - Filler Words

This brings me to filler words. Now, hearing my advice, you might start writing something like this,

Sarah noticed the dark clouds through the window. She saw that they’d saturated the place gray.

Fillers words like “see”, “notice”, “stare”, “hear” should be ignored. But many authors who begin writing from the POV of the characters start using these verbs to describe what the character is experiencing.

But remember, the character is not cognizant of the fact that they’re seeing a dark cloud, just that it’s a dark cloud. You don’t need these filler words—straight up describe what the character is seeing, instead of describing that the character is seeing.

Just write,

There were dark clouds on the other end of the window, which saturated the place gray.

Sarah is still seeing the clouds, yeah. But we’re looking from her eyes, and her eyes ain’t noticing that she’s noticing the clouds.

It’s kinda confusing, but it’s an important mistake to avoid. Filler words can really make your writing sound more amateurish than before and take away the experience of the reader, because the reader wants to see through the narrator’s eyes, not that the narrator is seeing.

***

#04 - Characters

Character-descriptions are a lot harder to pull off than scene-descriptions. Because it’s really confusing to know when to describe them, their clothing, their appearances, and what to tell and what not to.

For characters, you can give a full description of their looks. Keep it concise and clear, so that your readers can get a pretty good idea of the character with so few words that they don’t notice you’ve stopped action for a while.

Or can show your narrator scanning the character, and what they noticed about them.

Both these two tricks only work when a character is shown first time to the readers. After that, you don’t really talk about their clothing or face anymore.

Until there’s something out of the ordinary about your character.

What do I mean by that? See, you’ve described the face and clothes of the character, and the next time they appear, the reader is gonna imagine the character in a similar set of clothes, with the same face and appearance that they had the first time. Therefore, any time other than the first, you don’t go into detail about the character again. But, if something about your character is out of ordinary—there are bruises on their face, scars, or a change in the way they dress—describe it to the reader. That’s because your narrator may notice these little changes.

***

#05 - Clothing

Clothing is a special case. Some new authors describe the clothes of the characters when they’re describing the character every time the reader sees them. So, I wanna help you with this.

Clothing can be a way to show something about your character—a character with a well-ironed business suit is gonna be different from a character with tight jeans and baggy t-shirt. Therefore, only use clothing to tell something unique about the character.

Refrain from describing the clothing of characters that dress like most others. Like, in a school, it’s obvious that all characters are wearing school uniforms. Also, a normal teenage boy may wear t-shirts and denim jeans. If your character is this, no need to describe their clothing—anything the reader would be imagining is fine.

Refrain from describing the clothing of one-dimensional side-characters—there’s a high chance you’ve not really created them well enough that they have clothing that differs from the expectations of the readers. We all know what waiters wear, or what a college guy who was just passing by in the scene would be wearing.

You may describe the clothing of the important character in the story, but only in the first appearance. After that, describe their clothes only if the clothes seem really, really different from the first time. And stop describing their clothes if you’ve set your character well enough in the story that your readers know what to expect from them in normal circumstances—then, describe clothes only when they’re really, really different from their usual forms of clothing.

***

#06 - Conclusion

I think there was so much I had to say in this article, but I didn’t do a good job. However, I said all that I wanted to say. I hope you guys liked the article and it helps you in one way or the other.

And please subscribe if you want more articles like this straight in your inbox!

[plutotheplum]

Blush Wine

zayne x fem!reader

summary: a pressing personal issue has you turning to zayne in desperation. he is a doctor, after all.

cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, smut, fluff, kissing, masturbation, finger-sucking, vaginal fingering, oral sex, p in v, praise kink, confessions

wc: 5.5k

a/n: just a cutesy little idea i had ^^

also on ao3!

“There’s something wrong with me.”

Your words leave you in an exasperated sigh, head tipping back as you stare at the ceiling of Zayne’s office, feeling utterly exhausted.

Zayne hums and the creak of his chair has you looking over at him, brows furrowing when you see he’s already begun to stand, the eartips of his stethoscope in place as he moves towards you.

“Zayne?” you say, huffing out a breath when he presses the stethoscope to your chest, “Zayne, no- not like that.”

“A cold?” Zayne murmurs, gazing down at you scrutinizingly, “I told you to be careful in the rain.”

“What?” you sputter, shaking your head, “no. No, it’s nothing like that.” You squirm a little in your chair, cheeks flushing lightly with embarrassment. “It’s- It’s more personal .”

Zayne stares down at you blankly, draping his stethoscope around the back of his neck. Your fingers tap against the edge of his desk agitatedly and Zayne catches the nervous tic, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Personal?” he echoes, raising his brows.

You nod, biting your lip nervously as you sneak a glance up at him. Zayne stares back at you sternly, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I was going to see a gynecologist,” you blurt out, cheeks flushing further, “but- but you seemed like a better option.”

He tilts his head, leaning back against the edge of his desk.

“What exactly is the problem?”

“It’s embarrassing,” you mutter, casting your eyes downwards.

Zayne lets out a sigh, his finger coming out to tap against your forehead gently. “Tell me,” he coaxes, fingers brushing through your hair for a brief moment before pulling back. “It’s the only way I can help you.”

“I can’t-” you begin, nails digging into your palms. Your voice is a soft hiss when you speak again. “I can’t cum !”

Zayne’s grip on the edge of his desk falters when he hears your words, a choked sound masked as a cough leaving him. You peek up at him shyly when he clears his throat only to find that Zayne’s usual facade of cool indifference has returned.

“I see.”

The only sound for the next several minutes is the tick of the clock in Zayne’s office. You play with your fingers, already regretting your decision to come here.

“Is that it?” you ask finally, “you see ?”

“I’m thinking,” Zayne replies, his hand scrubbing over his face. “Why did I seem like the better option?”

“Because we’ve known each other for years, Zayne!” you say frustratedly, “I figured- figured you might have some valuable input, you know, as a doctor and- and a friend.”

“I see.”

You glare at him when he says those two words again.

“Have you tried clitoral stimulation?” 

You nearly choke on your spit when Zayne says that. He sounds so methodical, so disinterested that it almost annoys you again, but when Zayne stares at you expectantly you realize he’s only trying to help.

“Yes,” you mumble, picking at the loose strand of your sweater, “doesn’t work. I tried my fingers too, but I can never cum.”

Zayne hums thoughtfully, his gaze dragging over you before glancing off towards the clock.

“This Friday, I’m off.”

Your brows furrow, unsure what he meant by that.

“I don’t have work on Friday,” Zayne repeats, “neither do you. I’ll come over, examine you and see what I can do.”

“ What ?” you blurt out, “what do you mean examine me?”

“I have to see what’s wrong,” Zayne replies bluntly, shifting on his feet, “I can refer you to a gynecologist if you’d prefer that instead.”

Truthfully, you’d prefer neither. It doesn’t help that your mind conjures up the image of Zayne spreading your thighs apart, his focused gaze trained on you enough to send a rush of heat coursing through your body.

“It’s fine,” you say finally, standing up, “you can come over. I’ll- I’ll let you get back to work.”

Zayne nods, opening the door for you to leave. “Drive safe.”

You’re long gone when Zayne lets out a shaky exhale in the privacy of his office. He scrubs his hand over his face, his cheeks flushing as he remembers the way you had blurted out your problem . 

Zayne tugs at the knot of his tie, loosening it in an attempt to try and quell the sinful thoughts that were flooding his mind at that very moment.

You were going to be the death of him.

- 

You don’t know what to do with yourself when Friday rolls around.

It’s too hard to sit still, each of your actions jerky and agitated as your mind runs through the potential implications of this entire situation.

Zayne drops in around midday, the ring of your doorbell making you hesitate as your fingers curl around the doorknob. Maybe it wouldn’t be too late to lie and tell Zayne that everything was fine.

The doorbell rings again and you open the door tentatively, peering up at Zayne.

“This isn’t really necessary,” you begin but Zayne shakes his head, stepping inside your apartment before locking the door behind him.

Silence passes over you both and Zayne stares at you for a moment longer, his gaze dipping over you.

“You’ll need to show me,” he murmurs, his fingers loosening the tie around his neck.

“Show- show you?” you echo, cheeks beginning to flush with embarrassment, “Zayne, you can’t be serious.”

He hums, moving to sit down on your couch, his thighs spreading slightly as he gets comfortable. You look away, biting the inside of your cheek to prevent an indecent noise from spilling out when you see how good he looks.

“Are you going to stand there all day?” he asks bluntly.

“You’re being inconsiderate,” you retort, but his words seem to do the trick, making you move towards him.

You turn to sit down next to him, but Zayne’s fingers are curling around your hips, pulling you down onto his lap instead. A surprised squeak escapes you, body squirming as you try to move off of his lap. Zayne holds you in place, his chest pressing against your back, arms wrapping around your waist.

“Z- Zayne?” you yelp, voice pitching up.

“Show me.”

You turn your head incredulously to find that Zayne’s gaze has darkened, his eyes boring into yours intensely. 

“Do you do this with everyone?” you murmur, shaky fingers reaching down to pull your shorts down, leaving you only in a shirt and panties on Zayne’s lap.

“No,” he replies, his chin resting on your shoulder. “Only you.”

You spread your legs, your fingers slipping past the waistband of your panties to circle your clit.

“I- I feel as though you want this,” you whisper, tilting your head.

“I do,” Zayne confesses. “I have, for-” he lets out a long breath, watching the way your fingers move in your panties, “for years now.”

“Oh.” You let out a stuttery, little breath, heart soaring at his words. “So have I.”

Zayne hums, his lips brushing across your cheek fleetingly. His hand reaches out, stopping your movements, pulling your hand free from your panties.

“You should’ve said something sooner,” he says quietly, the pads of his fingers pressing against the fabric of your panties, rubbing gently. “Let me.”

You suck in a sharp breath, fingers digging into his forearm as he rubs a little more, his svelte fingers flexing against your clothed cunt. Zayne taps your hip after a moment and you lift your hips for him, letting him pull your panties down.

“You’re wet,” he murmurs, fingers gliding through your folds, “that’s good.”

“Stop talking like that,” you complain, hips tilting up into his touch.

“I’m simply examining you,” Zayne replies, but you can hear the hint of a smile in his voice, the playful brush of his nose against your cheek.

A soft gasp leaves you when his lithe fingers find your clit, circling the swollen bud.

“Good girl,” he whispers, his other hand creeping up your shirt to find your breasts, your nipples already hardened, “relax for me.”

You do as Zayne says, letting his fingers work against you, your eyes fluttering shut as he rubs your clit for you. Slick has begun to leak from you rapidly, a dull ache settling in your cunt as Zayne quickens his circling, his lips pressing against your neck.

“Inside,” you whisper needily, fingers wrapping around his wrist, “Zayne, I need your fingers inside .”

“No,” Zayne says sternly, squeezing at your breast as he strokes his fingers over your clit, petting the swollen bud, making your thighs twitch. “You’ll cum like this first and then you’ll cum on my fingers.”

You let out a frustrated whine, but the kiss Zayne lands to your cheek soothes your annoyance. He manages to pull more noises free from your lips with the way he rubs your clit, the press of his fingers growing harder when he sees your mouth drop open, head falling back against his shoulder.

“That’s it,” Zayne encourages, the fingers of his other hand pinching and rolling your nipple. “Just like that, love. Fall apart for me.”

A few more strokes over your clit is all it takes, a sharp gasp sounding as your orgasm rips through you, body shuddering on top of Zayne’s lap.

“Good girl,” he praises, fingers not letting up as he rubs your clit through the twitches racking through your body, “did so well, baby.”

You slump against his chest, panting softly, head lolling to the side to blink up at him dazedly.

“You fixed me,” you mumble, nose nudging against his when he lowers his head.

“Seemed a little too easy,” Zayne murmurs.

You roll your eyes and Zayne smiles, his hand turning your head to the side. His head dips and your eyes flutter shut when his lips press against yours for the first time. He kisses you softly, his fingers stroking through your folds again.

Zayne groans into your mouth, deepening the kiss, his tongue licking into your mouth. You whimper, hips rocking into his fingers, feeling the press of them against your aching cunt. He pulls back to press his lips to your jaw, trailing soft kisses along your skin, his breath hot.

He presses one finger inside of you, drawing a moan out of you. Another finger joins soon after and you’re mewling desperately, pressing his hand against your pussy, wanting to feel his fingers deeper.

“Pretty pussy’s tight, love,” Zayne whispers, pushing your shirt up to finally get a good look at your breasts. “ Fuck ,” he breathes out, groping at one your breasts greedily, “you’re beautiful.”

“Zayne,” you hiccup out his name, biting your lip when you feel how hard he is against your ass, “feels s’good.”

Your hips rock back, grinding against his clothed cock. Zayne grunts, his forehead pressing into your shoulder at the feel of you against his bulge.

You writhe when he fucks his fingers into you rapidly, back arching as you moan loudly, feeling the curl of his fingers inside of you.

“I like you,” he rasps, nosing into your cheek, unable to help himself from laying firm, hot kisses all over your cheek and jaw, nipping at your neck gently.

You open your mouth to respond, but Zayne feeds you his fingers instead, keeping you full. A drunken slur sounds from you and Zayne huffs out a low laugh, his thumb adding to the mix when he circles your clit as he thrusts his fingers in and out of your leaking cunt.

You suckle on his fingers, tongue swirling around them mindlessly, eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

“Needy,” Zayne says, slowing the pace of his fingers, drawing out the moment.

You squirm on his lap, hips rocking and rolling, trying to grind against his cock and hump his hand, desperate to cum. Zayne lets out a low moan when he feels the brush of your ass, his hand slipping from your mouth to grip your hip in an attempt to stop you.

“Please,” you gasp, “please, Zayne, wanna- ah - wanna cum!”

“Go ahead, love,” he murmurs, resuming his pace, his fingers fucking in and out of your sloppy pussy. “Cum on my fingers.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, teeth sinking into your lower lip. The tight coil in your stomach snaps when he curls his fingers inside of you again, his lips pressing against your ear in a low groan.

Zayne captures your lips in a kiss when you cum, his hand smoothing up and down your side soothingly as you shudder again, your soft cries muffled by his lips on yours.

“That’s it,” he whispers, kissing you gently, “good girl. Came so good, baby.”

You give him a hazy smile, turning on his lap, straddling him instead. Your arms wrap around his neck and Zayne sinks into the kiss, moaning into your mouth when you roll your hips, grinding your wet cunt all over his trousers.

Zayne moves you off of his lap before long, standing up, his hand pressing against his hard, clothed cock.

“Can I watch?” you breathe out, voice airy.

Zayne flushes, his cheeks and the tips of his ears covered in a pretty pink. You lick your lips when he rubs his hand over his bulge, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

“Please, Zayne?” you continue, voice softening further, “it’s- it’s only fair, right? You got to touch me and- and I just want to watch.”

“You’re infuriating,” he grits out, his eyes narrowing into a half-hearted glare.

You smile up at him when he steps closer, eyes dropping down to watch his lithe fingers undo the buckle of his belt. It falls to the floor, along with his pants and boxers and you swallow harshly when you see how hard his cock is.

It’s nice, like all the parts of Zayne, the black hair at the base of his cock trimmed neatly. You bite your lip, hands grasping at the armrest of the couch when you see how thick his cock is, the tip of it flushed a few shades darker than his cheeks.

“Is that what you want?” Zayne rasps, his hand wrapping around his cock, pumping it slowly, “hm? I didn’t think you were so filthy .”

“‘s not filthy,” you mumble, inching a little closer to his cock.

Your lips part, tongue lolling out, trying to taste the glob of pre-cum beading at the tip of Zayne’s cock. He grunts when he sees what you’re trying to do, shaking his head as the tips of his fingers press into your forehead, pushing your head away.

“No,” he says breathily, “you wanted to watch, so watch .”

A soft, frustrated whimper leaves you, a pout settling on your lips. It’s impossible to sit still with the dull ache of emptiness settling in your cunt again, thighs rubbing together needily as Zayne squeezes the head of his cock, more pre-cum leaking from the tip.

“Z- Zayne,” you whine, eyes half-lidded as you watch him stroke his cock, “Zayne, you’re so big.”

Zayne groans, his head tipping back in pleasure. You take your chance, reaching out to grab at his shirt, pushing it up a little to watch the flex of the muscles in his abdomen. It’s making you wet again, the feeling almost uncomfortable as slick drips from between your thighs.

You lean forward, landing a soft kiss to his hip. Zayne’s eyes flutter open, his gaze hazy as he stares down at you. You smile up at him sweetly and Zayne huffs out a breathy laugh, hardly able to believe the sight in front of him.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, his thumb reaching out to brush over your lower lip, “you’re so pretty.”

You hum, mouth opening for his thumb when he presses it in further, tongue swirling around the digit. He groans and your eyelids droop a little further, gaze dipping to find that his grip on his cock has tightened.

“Is this how you get off when you’re alone?” you whisper, words slurring around his thumb as he strokes it over the surface of your tongue.

Zayne nods, pumping his cock faster, his thighs twitching minutely.

“Do you think about me?” you whisper again, biting the tip of his thumb gently.

“Yes,” he groans, “ fuck- yes, all the time. You’re- hah- you’re all I can think about.” Zayne leans down and you rise up on your knees to meet him, lips pressing against his in a slow kiss. “It’s always you , love.”

Your heart stutters in your chest at his words, eyes lighting up at the little confession you’ve managed to draw out from the usually stoic man. 

His brows knit together as he strokes his cock, his lips finding yours again as he kisses you desperately, his hand cupping the back of your head to hold you in place.

“I- hah- I’m close,” Zayne grits out, his hips stuttering.

“Wanna watch you cum, Zayne,” you whisper, nipping his lower lip playfully.

He groans, body hunching over as he fucks his cock into his fist, letting out rasping pants.

“Open your mouth,” he murmurs, fingers stroking across your cheek, “wanted a taste, didn’t you?”

You nod eagerly and Zayne lets out a low moan, his hips jerking as he cums. You hold your tongue out, eyes shutting when you feel his cum splatter over your cheeks and tongue, a soft mewl slipping out of you at the heady taste.

You lick your lips, leaning forward to lap at the tip of his cock. A smile spreads across your face when Zayne shudders, his fingers spreading out across your scalp as he holds you in place, letting you suckle at his spent cock. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, thumb stroking across your cheek, “cleaning me up so well, baby.”

You hum, kissing the tip of his cock, mouth opening for his thumb when he feeds you a stray drop of cum. 

Zayne dips his head soon after, kissing you feverishly. He cups your cheeks, pulling you closer. You sigh into his mouth, arms wrapping around his neck, feeling his softening cock against your stomach.

“I like you,” you whisper against his lips, pecking them gently.

“I know,” Zayne murmurs, his hands petting at your sides, “I like you too.”

Your eyes flutter shut when he kisses your forehead, a contented hum leaving you when he kisses your cheek after. Zayne wraps his arms around your waist and you laugh when he hoists you up, legs wrapping around his waist.

“Bedroom?” you ask, fingers playing with the soft strands of his hair.

Zayne nods, one of his hands squeezing at your ass. You don’t make it very far when his pager sounds.

You pout when Zayne sets you down onto your feet, peeking over at his pager as he reads it.

“Urgent?”

“Seems like it,” Zayne murmurs, his brows furrowing slightly, “I have to go.”

Despite the urge to protest, the urge to make Zayne stay with you for longer, you can’t find it in yourself to voice your thoughts when you see the serious look on his face. Instead, you let him get dressed, helping him redo his tie. 

Zayne lowers his head, his fingers gripping your chin to tilt your head up so he can kiss you again. You melt into it, arms wrapping around his neck, lips working against his lazily.

“Thank you,” you say, kissing his cheek when his hands drop away from your waist, “for helping me out.”

Zayne’s eyes glimmer with mirth, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a half-smile.

“You’re welcome,” he says, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek, “just don’t go to anyone else if you have that problem again, okay?”

You pretend to consider his words, even though you know no one could ever replace the spot Zayne’s carved out in your heart.

“I mean it,” Zayne murmurs when you don’t respond. His body draws near, his thumb smoothing over your cheek. “I want you to only need me.”

His words curl around your heart, squeezing tight. Your mouth opens to respond, but your breath gets caught in your throat and Zayne lets out a soft chuckle when he sees how flustered he’s made you.

“You- you can’t just say that ,” you grumble, face pressing into his chest.

“Why not?” Zayne asks, his hand stroking your hair gently.

“Because!” you say exasperatedly, peering up at him, “you just can’t.”

Zayne smiles down at you, his lips pressing against your forehead. “Well, I did. Let me take care of you, hm? I’ve been doing it until now.”

You nod your assent, kissing his cheek before pushing him towards the door.

“Bye, Doctor Zayne.”

“Bye,” Zayne replies, his eyes roving over you, committing the image of you bare and dazed to mind. “Remember to rest. Eat when you can and drink plenty of wat-”

“Zayne!” you interrupt, pointing at his flashing pager again, “I know .”

Zayne sighs, stepping through the doorway to leave. He stares at you one more time, his voice creeping through the narrowing gap as he closes the door. “I’ll send you a text.”

-

So, Zayne solved your problem. 

But he had given you another problem in return. You couldn’t stop thinking about him or his fingers. Worst of all, the simple thought of it left you hazy, your mind fogging over whenever you remembered the feel of his fingers inside your cunt. 

The following week, you’d missed at least three good shots at the training facility leading to Jenna shooting you a strange look when she saw how off-target your shots were. A wane smile had graced your lips and you’d gone home in a daze.

It’s how you’ve ended up like this, squirming around in bed, hand shoved down into your sleep shorts, brows furrowed. All you could think about was Zayne and how much you missed him. 

A soft hiccup escapes you when you feel your impending orgasm fade, a frustrated noise leaving you. You grasp blindly for your phone, pressing it to your ear after calling him.

“Hello?” 

“Zayne,” you whine, fingers stroking over your clit, “Zayne, I need you.”

You can hear Zayne sucking in a sharp breath when he hears your whine, and the sound of his chair moving.

“I’ll be there.”

-

You’re opening the door when you hear the doorbell ring and Zayne stumbles back as you practically throw yourself at him, yanking him down by his tie to kiss him. 

It doesn’t take long for him to reciprocate, his hands sliding to the backs of your thighs as he picks you up. Zayne shuts the door with his foot, his lips working against yours eagerly.

“Again?” he asks, carrying you into your bedroom before setting you down gently.

You nod, pulling him down for another kiss, fingers working at his tie and the buttons of his shirt. “Doesn’t work if it’s not you.”

Zayne hums, pushing at your shoulders slightly to get you to lay down. You bite your lip when he sinks down onto his knees, arms pulling you towards the edge of the bed, your legs over his shoulders.

“I’ll take care of you,” Zayne affirms, pulling your shorts off.

He groans at the sight of your bare pussy, thumbs spreading apart your puffy folds. Your arousal clings to his fingers and the first brush of Zayne’s thumb against your clit has you seeing stars.

“Please,” you gasp out, moaning softly when Zayne’s hot breath hits your pussy, “want your mouth, Zayne.”

“You have it, love.”

Zayne squeezes your hand, his tongue licking a stripe up your slick folds. You whine, thighs twitching at the sensation, your other hand sinking into his soft hair. He lets out a low noise at the taste, his face pressing between your thighs.

Your toes press into shoulders, hips bucking as Zayne’s tongue swirls through your folds. He makes a few measured sounds as he laves over your clit, sucking the swollen bud into his mouth every so often.

“Taste good, baby,” Zayne murmurs, pulling back to press wet, sloppy kisses onto your inner thighs. “Such a pretty pussy,” he breathes, his cheek resting against your thigh as he stares at the pitiful clench of your cunt around nothing.

“Stop- stop teasing me,” you whimper, back arching and fingers fisting Zayne’s hair when he lands a few kisses to your clit.

Zayne grants your request, his mouth returning to your puffy pussy, lips suctioning around your clit. You mewl, eyes squeezing shut as you feel the press of his fingers inside of you, filling you up.

“Yes,” you begin to chant when he curls his fingers and begins to fuck them out of you, “ oh- yes, yes, please nghh- ”

Zayne slurps at your cunt, the lewd noise filling the air coupled with the sounds of his fingers thrusting in and out of your dripping pussy. You can hardly think straight, the pleasure so mind-numbing that your toes are curling and you’re tugging at Zayne’s hair roughly.

“W- wait,” you mumble dazedly, “Zayne- Zayne, want your cock.”

He peers up at you, his eyes never leaving yours as he laps at your pussy, drawing back before spitting on it.

“Thought you wanted my mouth?” he says, fingers still working in and out of you.

“Need you to fill me up,” you demand, trying to pull him up, “I want you inside of me.”

Zayne is stubborn like you, if not more, denying you as he buries his face back into your cunt, sucking and licking, drinking down your wetness like he’s been starved. 

“You’ve already cum on my fingers,” Zayne rasps, kissing your clit, “cum on my tongue, then you can have my cock, love.”

You glare down at him, not appreciating the subtle edging. Zayne smiles up at you, his mouth opening wider to lap at your cunt before sucking at your folds messily, his tongue swirling around your clit, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh briefly. 

A squeal leaves you when Zayne suddenly holds you in place as he roughly sucks at your clit, mouth suctioning relentlessly. Your body jerks, legs kicking out at the feeling, his fingers grazing the sensitive spot deep inside of you.

“Cum,” Zayne orders sternly, moving his fingers faster, “cum on my tongue like a good girl.”

That’s all it takes, your thighs squeezing tight around his head, back arching as you cum, shuddering gasps leaving you. Zayne hums into your cunt when your thighs loosen, licking over your sensitive cunt gently, his lips pressing against your clit in an affectionate kiss.

You lay there, limbs heavy, staring up at the ceiling hazily. The clink of Zayne’s belt draws you out of the trace post-orgasm, arms wrapping around his neck when he crawls over you, kissing you softly.

“Still want my cock?” he asks, brushing your hair away from your face.

“Mhm,” you nod, and it’s you pushing at his shoulders this time, making him lay down as you crawl up onto his lap, straddling his hips.

There’s pre-cum smeared across Zayne’s abdomen when you look down, his cock hard and thick, the tip flushed dark.

“All yours,” Zayne whispers, his thumb stroking over your lips and jaw when you begin to drag your cunt over his cock. “I’m all yours, baby.”

You smile down at him, nuzzling into his palm before turning your head to kiss his wrist.

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Zayne replies, his hands grasping at your hips.

You lift them for him, rising up onto your knees. Zayne grasps the base of his cock, holding it for you, guiding you to sink down on him. Your mouth drops open in a silent moan when his cock presses into you, head falling forward when you feel how thick he is.

“Take what you want, love,” Zayne murmurs, “use me.”

A soft whine spills out of you, hands landing flat against his chest, your hips rolling. Zayne’s hand drifts, grabbing at the fat of your ass, moving you up and down on his cock.

You’re crying out his name desperately and Zayne groans, propping himself up on an elbow to pull you down, mouthing at your tits. He wraps his arms around your waist and you cup the back of his head, holding his head to your chest.

Zayne’s tongue swirls around your hardened nipple, the sensation of his teeth grazing and biting gently enough to send little twitches through your body.

“You’re- you’re so good,” you mewl, eyes fluttering shut while your nails dig into his broad shoulders. “I- fuck- I like you so much! Zayne- oh- hah- like you!”

Zayne moans in response, tongue flicking against your nipple until you tug at his head back using his hair, your lips crashing down onto his. It’s feverish and unrestrained, Zayne’s hands grasping at your waist, your hips and ass as though you might suddenly disappear.

“Ride me,” he urges, his breath fanning across your lips. “Ride me, my love.”

You nod, unable to stop yourself from kissing him again, widening the distance between your knees, setting a firmer base before you begin to rise and fall on his cock.

“ Shit- ” Zayne gasps, his head tipping back when he feels the clench of your pussy as you drag it up and down his cock.

The sounds of skin against skin fill your bedroom, both of you panting into each other’s mouths, Zayne’s brows knitting together as he stares up at you, his fingers flexing against your waist as though trying to hold back.

“I- I can’t- forgive me.”

Confusion flits across your face when you hear him. “Zayne?”

Zayne doesn’t respond, flipping you over onto your back; drawing a surprised squeak from you. You whimper when he kisses you roughly, his cock slipping out of you for a moment before Zayne pushes it back into you, his hips settling between your thighs.

Your arms wrap around his neck, Zayne’s face pressing into the crook of your neck as he ruts his hips into you with abandon. He tilts your hips up, driving his cock in with deep, rough thrusts, ripping every possible needy noise from your throat.

His back is covered in red welts with how you’ve been clawing down his skin, body writhing under his with every thrust he delivers. His balls are slapping against your ass, the sound making your cheeks flush, but you hold him closer, fingers tangled in his hair.

“Z- Zayne!” you hiccup, hardly able to form words, mouth hanging open with how he’s mouthing at your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. “Zayne, ‘m gonna cum!”

“You’re mine,” he hisses, shifting to peer down into your eyes, his hand coming to cup your jaw. “Only mine,” Zayne repeats, stealing a kiss from you, “all fucking mine.”

You nod rapidly in agreement, your thumb brushing over his lips before pushing into his mouth. A soft mewl leaves you when Zayne sucks, his tongue swirling around your thumb, his teeth biting gently.

“Cum,” Zayne slurs, his hips beginning to move unevenly, “cum for me, my love. Give it to me. Give everything to me.”

You seize under him, cunt clenching around Zayne’s cock and he moans deeply, trying to bury his cock as deep as possible inside of you. His cock twitches as he cums, thick ropes of his hot cum spilling into you, your cunt clenching around his cock weakly.

Zayne nuzzles into the crook of your neck and you let out a content hum, hands smoothing down over his broad back when he slumps over you.

“I can’t feel my legs,” you mumble.

Zayne lets out a hoarse laugh, kissing your cheek before moving off of you, laying down beside you instead.

He tugs you into his side, his warm palm moving down the side of your waist, caressing your hip soothingly as he kisses your temple. You sigh, moving closer to him, pressing into his side, eyes slipping shut as he squeezes your thighs slowly, relieving the dull ache that’s settled into your muscles.

“You’re beautiful,” Zayne whispers, cupping your cheek, tilting your head to look into your eyes when they blink open. 

A light flush covers your cheeks, a shy smile spreading across your face as you lean in, pecking his lips sweetly.

“You’re wonderful, Zayne.”

“Such high praise,” he murmurs, nose nuzzling against yours affectionately, “am I really so deserving?”

You roll your eyes, poking his chest in response before sitting up.

“Where are you going?” Zayne grumbles, his arms wrapping around your waist and tugging you back into his chest.

“I have to clean up,” you whine, eyes slipping shut when Zayne squeezes your breast.

You bare your neck to him a little more when he begins to plant soft kisses here and there, his hands petting over your spent body. A quiet moan spills from you when he kisses the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin when he speaks.

“Not so fast, love. We have to make up for lost time.”

[kaiijo]

ROMANCE TROPES — [HAIKYUU]

characters: hinata shoyo, miya atsumu, bokuto koutarou, sakusa kiyoomi content: gn! reader, the msby four, rich sakusa (i am a rich sakusa truther until the end), bokuto picks you up, sakusa is implied to be taller than you notes: omg i lowkey want to do a fuller version of sakusa’s part 

hinata shoyo ✶ love at first sight

slouched in a plastic airport seat, hinata’s leg bounces anxiously as he awaits his flight. rain beats down the side of the windows and he prays to whatever universal force there is that the flight leaves at the right time. he couldn’t fly with everyone else earlier since he celebrated his grandmother’s birthday with family but it put him on a late night flight that lined up with an incoming storm. 

he scrolls mindlessly through his social media feed, double-tapping a photo of oikawa’s reunion with his high school team and tanaka’s anniversary post for kiyoko. 

the speaker system crackles to life. “attention, passengers of flight 7644 to sapporo, due to inclement weather conditions, the flight has been delayed an estimated two hours. we apologize for the inconvenience and thank you for your patience.”

hinata curses under his breath, already on his way to pulling up the black jackals’s group chat to tell them. he pulls his cap off, running a hand through his hair with a long sigh. his phone begins to buzz with texts, no doubt from his coach telling him to keep them updated. 

he rests his forearms on his knees, slumping forward and skimming through the messages. then, he feels a cautious tap on his shoulder and a soft voice asks, “excuse me, do you have a charger i could use?”

when he looks up, hinata thinks the greater powers that be answered a different prayer of his. because holy shit he has never seen anyone as beautiful as you. you’re in a comfy-looking pullover and sweatpants and hinata only realizes he’s just been staring silently for a few seconds when your expression turns apologetic. “i’m sorry to bother you, i’ll ask someone else!”

“no, no, i’m sorry,” he says, words tumbling out of his mouth. he scrambles to unzip his backpack, rummaging through until he triumphantly pulls out his charger. he hands it to you and you thank him. before you can leave, he blurts out, “i’m hinata.”

“oh!” you stick your hand out and tell him your name with a small smile and when you do, hinata knows that he’s gone. 

miya atsumu ✶ brother’s best friend

osamu’s not sure how atsumu managed to weasel his way into his plans. it was a bit of a blur, atsumu practically crashing through the door of onigiri miya as osamu closed up shop to go get drinks with you, begging to be included. he supposes to reason was pity and atsumu’s pleading look as well as the fact that you work far away that had him agreeing to his brother tagging along. 

it was in your last year of high school that osamu figured out his brother had a big, fat crush on you. honestly, it should have been more obvious, especially with the way atsumu flaunted himself and often paraded around the house shirtless when he knew you were coming over. it bothered him at first, thinking bitterly that ‘tsumu couldn’t let him just have one thing to himself? but over time, the annoyance faded as he saw atsumu prove that this wasn’t just a flight-of-fancy, and osamu has already made peace with the very real possibility that you could be his in-law someday. that is, is atsumu could even tell you in the first place.

it’s a little disturbing, osamu thinks, watching the way atsumu flirts with you and wondering if he too makes the same googly-eyes at someone he’s crushing on or if that’s the way he sounds. you giggle when atsumu tries to take a sip of your margarita, telling him, “order your own then, ‘tsumu!”

“nah, yours tastes way better.”

“can’t take this scrub anywhere,” osamu says, earning a laugh from you and a glare from his twin.

you pat atsumu’s shoulder and osamu can’t believe you don’t feel how atsumu melts into your touch. “i’m actually glad both of you are here,” you say, “because i wanted to tell you guys that i’m moving back to tokyo! my boss promoted me so i’m back at main headquarters! isn’t that great?”

“that’s awesome,” osamu says, speaking for both himself and atsumu, who looks like he just won the lottery. 

bokuto koutarou ✶ opposites attract

whenever akaashi introduces you and bokuto as a couple to new people, he always gets pulled over to the side and asked in a whisper, “how did those two get together? he’s so… and they’re less…” 

akaashi can’t say that he wasn’t surprised when you and bokuto started dating back in high school, given that they two of you were on very different trajectories. obviously, bokuto was the captain of fukurodani’s volleyball team while you were student council president and vice-president of chess club. bokuto’s grade sat at the lower end of the spectrum while you were always within the top five students in your class. bokuto liked loud, screaming parties while you preferred a quiet night with a few friends. 

so when bokuto grabbed him by the shoulders one day and shook him, saying that he needed to tell you how he felt, akaashi was taken off-guarded. he didn’t even know you knew each other beyond having a mutual friend, him. 

maybe back then, akaashi would have agreed with the person asking him but now, he just tells them to observe the two of you. because when akaashi does, everything falls into place. like right now, as he and bokuto sit in the stands, watching your final chess match. if you win, you’ll hold onto your spot as a national champion and go on to compete internationally. 

out of the corner of his eyes, akaashi watches as bokuto sits at the very edge of his seat, chewing on his bottom lip. it’s clearly killing him not to cheer and it’s a testament to both his devotion to you. your hand hovers above the bishop before you switch quickly to the queen and move the piece with confidence, setting it down and announcing, “checkmate.”

the crowds erupts into the cheers and you’ve only barely finished shaking your opponent’s hand when bokuto flies out of his seat and barrels towards you. he sweeps you off your feet, spinning you once and setting you down before planting a big kiss on your cheek. you’re beaming as you’re handing your trophy, and bokuto steps back to let you soak up your spotlight. akaashi can’t help but notice that bokuto is beaming too and clapping the loudest. 

as the crowd starts to disperse, akaashi and bokuto join you again, ready to take you to your planned dinner. before you leave, bokuto says, “i was going to do this later but i can’t hold it in anymore, babe.” and he gets down on one knee with a ring box akaashi is all-too familiar with. 

sakusa kiyoomi ✶ reunited childhood sweethearts 

“try not to look so dour, sweetheart,” sakusa’s mother tells him as she fixes his tie. sakusa wants to grumble some choice words but he knows better than to complain to her. besides, he’s only partially paying attention, eyes darting about the crowd and back towards the venue’s entrance. 

he settles on adjusting his mask with a barely audible sigh and mumbles a quiet thanks as she flits to fuss over his older siblings. he glances again, disappointed as a different group of people waltzes in. he knows his older sister wouldn’t be so cruel as to lie to him that your family will be in attendance but the anxiety is making his antsy.

the two of you were inseparable as children with you being one of his only friends growing up.  you spent you days squirreled away in some nook reading or outside playing volleyball. your mothers always cooed that you two would get together one day, and as he got older and learned what that really meant, sakusa found himself hoping too. but then your parents took you and your siblings abroad, leaving him alone and heartbroken. he cut you off, hoping the distances and time would make your departure hurt less, but it didn’t.

sakusa doesn’t recognize the voice that calls his name but his head snaps towards the doorway. you’re standing in between your older sister and younger brother, waving at him. his heart skips a beat. your social media postings don’t do you enough justice; you’re even more attractive that the pixels he’s spent hours staring at. 

you still have that ever-present smile on your face and you quickly break-off from your family to bound over to him. without even thinking, his arms close around you as you embrace him tightly. you feel so familiar and he doesn’t want to let you go as you part. evidently, you don’t either as you keep him close still, only leaning away to look at him. “you’re so tall,” you laugh, more shyly you add, “and very handsome.”

this time, sakusa thinks his heart stops. 

[luveline]

𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭

part one | chapter list 

You find yourself drawn into Remus’ life after an awful night you can’t remember. He does his best to hold onto you. [10k]

cw: heavy themes, implied sexual assault of the reader [with no graphic scenes but it’s a continuous theme, so please be careful when reading], pregnancy, eventual friends to lovers, friendships, hurt/comfort, james makes a lot of soup, found family

𖦹

The pharmacy on Wilmand Street is always deathly quiet. The boy behind the counter reads and occasionally picks up the phone to put it back down, his hair in his eyes, a waxiness to his pale skin that never fails to perturb. 

Your shoes creak over the hardwood floor. He’s noticed your entry, signalled by a golden bell above the door and your muffled panting, but he hasn’t looked up. 

Your eyes slide past pads, nighttime, ultra-long panty liners, searching with a poorly restrained desperation for something in particular. 

The phone rings —dark-haired boy picks it up and puts it back down again as you recalled, silencing the ring. You watch him from over your shoulder and he looks up from his book to stare. 

“Pregnancy tests?” you ask.

His expression doesn’t change as he pulls a drawer open behind the desk with a metallic clink. “What kind?” 

“The most reliable. Please.” 

He gives a nod, black curl bobbing under his chin. He grabs a blue card box and places it on the counter. “Sixteen fifty.” 

You open your purse before you’ve reached him, extracting the change exactly and tipping it next to his book. “Thank you.” 

“Are you alright?” 

Your heart squeezes in your chest like a tightening fist. “Why?” 

“I have to ask. I’m a mandated reporter.” 

“I’m not a child.” 

He levels your look with his own. “You don’t have to answer. I’m only asking because you look upset. Are you alright?” 

You don’t think you’ve ever heard him say more than three words at a time. His voice is reminiscent of someone else’s, half-remembered. You want to ask him, then. The questions you’ve had since it happened. Why does it hurt so badly, still? But the boy, while seemingly well-intentioned, isn’t one you trust to care nor keep it to himself. 

“Fine,” you reply, pressing the blue-boxed test into your pocket, pulling the hood of your coat up to brace against the December rain. You’re fine. 

The door opens before you can get to it, another lovely dark-haired boy letting himself inside. His stare is blank as the one at the desk’s is, but you smile on instinct and he smiles back warmly after a moment, holding the door for you to leave. 

“Okay, Reg?” you hear him ask as you pass.

“Close the door,” Reg says. “You’re letting in the cold.” 

—

It’s even colder the next time you go. You throw on another hoodie and wrap a scarf tightly around your neck, face ducked, nose tickled by flyaway fibres. The walk to Wilmand Street takes seventeen long minutes where your hands hurt, then shake, chapped by hateful winds. 

The pharmacy’s newspapered window comes into view. A poster for the local pub leaks ink on the outside, wet by the rain, its font blooming like fungus across purple paper. Live music event: December 31st. 

The dark-haired boy —Reg?— is behind the counter again. The first one. Are you alright? boy. He looks twenty so or near that, but there’s something wilfully young about the skin under his eyes, despite a more haggard pinch to his brow. You were hoping it would be the second one, or the sandy-haired boy who mans the till in the very early mornings. He has a more natural smile than the other two. Perhaps not more authentic, but quicker to perk up when you slink in for whatever before work, Mondays and Fridays if he’s there. 

Reg doesn’t lift his head. You push yourself toward the back of the pharmacy. It’s a small shop slotted between two others, one wall touched from the next in thirty seconds should you walk it. It makes pretending you’re there for other things useless and embarrassing, but you do it anyway. Another test won’t change what you wanted the test to say, but you can’t take one single test and trust it was right. 

“Reliable?” Reg asks when you finally approach. 

“Yeah. And the five strip box, too, if you have it.” 

Reg takes them from the drawer and adds their prices seemingly in his head. “Eighteen eighty-nine.” 

You pass him a twenty pound note and wait for your change, not bothered that he counts it slowly, or that he puts it down flat on the counter away from your outstretched hand. “Thanks,” you murmur. 

He noticeably bites his tongue. 

“I want to be sure, is all,” you say. 

“If you go to the doctor’s, they do it for free. And it has a ninety nine percent rate of accuracy.” 

You hold the tests to your stomach. “I’m not… really sure what I’d want them to tell me, right now.” 

“They’d tell you the truth, at least.” Reg seems to decide this line of conversation isn’t one he wants to continue, and he lets his mouth flatten into a thin, white line. You get the sense though that he isn’t done talking, and are rewarded for your patience with an inkling of an almost-smile. “Please know that I’m bound by duty of care while I work here, so if you are concerned about something, I can listen and offer advice. And if you don’t want to tell me private information, my uncle is the acting pharmacist, and he is more strictly bound by patient confidentiality law.” He looks you in the eye. “You’re only as alone as you allow yourself to be.” 

“Who says that?” you ask, poked by the way he lays it out. 

Reg doesn’t like your question and doesn’t answer. He picks up his book, murmuring, “I hope they give you the result you want.” 

A different dark-haired boy is standing outside of the pharmacy when you leave. With a nice nose, eyes like a puppy, he’s handsome but hidden behind black frames. He stands from his car where he’d been leaning when the door swings out, sits back again when he realises you’re not who he’s looking for. “Sorry, lovely,” he says, pulling at a loosely-knotted tie. “I thought you were someone else.” 

“Sorry,” you say back, holding the tests to your chest. 

Your hand covers the boxes. His eyes flicker down to them regardless. You wait for disdain or embarrassment but see neither. Really, the only thing this new boy wears is pleasantness. 

“Don’t stay out too long, will you?” he asks, smiling genially, “You’ll freeze.” 

“I’m–” You clear your throat, caught off guard to have a stranger care about you so openly. No reluctance to his well wishes, and no strings. “Sorry– I’m going home now. I won’t stay out.” 

“Good, shortcake. Have a good night.” 

You should say you too. The wind chases you back to your flat, where you head for the bathroom, and, despite living alone, lock the door. 

—

You take your pregnancy test and sit on the floor, too weak-legged to stand at the sink, waiting for two pink lines. 

Sure enough. Control, result. One solid pink line, and one much lighter. It doesn’t matter —a positive is a positive, no matter how weak. The strip tests say the same thing. 

In TV and movies, people always paint the test as the ultimate moment. As though the result is the result, and that everything after is fixed, but the result now is only a signifier for another decision to be made: will you keep your baby, or foetus? Do you feel as though it is a baby, or a foetus, or both? Is it welcome, or a foreign object? There is no right or wrong answer, only how you feel. 

The migraine you get then is debilitating. Like toothache in every tooth, pain behind your eyes half-psychosomatic, half physiological stress. You’re not sure how long you’re in the bathroom holding your forehead, but it’s dark when you manage to stand again, and the tests have only gotten more obviously positive. You throw them all in the bin. 

—

The third day you go back to Wilmand Street pharmacy, the desk is manned by your unfamiliar, smiling boy. He looks up when the door opens, his eyes browned honey set in a face that recently saw the sun, but not too much of it. Kissed by it. His cheeks are pinked. He must be the first person who’s worked here to bother turning on the heating. 

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” you say back. Voice croaky, you remember to be polite. “You okay?” 

“I’m great, lovely, thank you. How are you?” He gives a nod toward the street. “It’s so cold out, are you gonna be warm enough in your jumper?” 

You find yourself struck as you were the day before, so startled by genuine kindness that you can hardly work your mouth. “I’m okay. I’m going right back home after this.” 

“Aw, good.” 

You nod. What are you here for today? Not another test. You aren’t stupid enough to believe a third round will give you a different verdict, but you‘d felt an urgent need to move. 

You grab a rounded basket from near the door and make your way to the haircare. There’s a handful of shampoos to choose from. You take the usual. Beneath them are baby shampoos and soaps. On a whim you pick one up, the words Tear and fragrance free stuck like a bad swallow at the back of your throat. 

Babies need so many things. At the supermarket they have these great walls of baby food and it’s expensive enough to take your eye out every time. A quarter of an hours wage for every organic, soft meal, and sure, they don’t need organic, vegetables are organic intrinsically, whatever, but if you don’t buy organic pre-made meals you have to make the baby food yourself, how long does that take? You put the baby shampoo down and turn to the conditioners. 

Unhappy, you scour them for nothing and turn on the spot. Why is Dr. Black never here? How are you supposed to ask him your questions if he doesn’t show up to work? 

You’ll have to ask the brown-haired boy. Nice eyes, nice smile. He probably won’t judge you, at least not out loud. 

He stands up from his rickety chair, soft leather seat worn and creaking as he pushes it away. “Yeah?” he asks. 

“Do you have to do that patient-confidentiality thing?” 

He smiles rather gently. “I do. A condition of my employment is to protect patient information. Legally, I can’t share private or sensitive information about you to anyone else in the world, unless I believe you’re in proper danger.” He holds his hands behind his back. “Is there something you wanted to ask me?” 

Wind roars outside. Your eyes start to the door. 

“There’s a private room in the back,” he adds. 

“I don’t want to waste your time.” 

“It’s not wasted. Even if I weren’t legally obligated to keep whatever secrets you may have, I’m worried you look a bit poorly.”

He speaks oddly. Or not odd, but different to any of the other men you’ve met. It’s friendly, and yet somehow he’s quiet, too. His interest feels real, so you cross the room to the desk and put your basket on your shoes. 

You try to find a way to say it. “I know you’re not a doctor.” 

“No, I’m an apprentice pharmacist.” 

“Right. I know I should go to the doctor, and not you.” 

“That depends. We’re here to help. Doesn’t matter if you should go somewhere, you can ask me first.” 

You struggle. He waits. His hands lay steady on the edge of the desk, his face nearly blank besides a hint of warmth.  

“Is it alright if it’s a question about, um, sex?” 

He nods emphatically. “Of course that’s alright. I can’t promise I’ll know the answer, but you’re welcome to ask me anything and I can always get back to you if you’re not willing to ask someone else.” His smile turns wry. “I know it’s uncomfortable, but it’s only sex. I don’t mind.” 

“I just…” You hold your hands together. “I wanted to know, if pain after… if it’s supposed to hurt so much after.” 

His wry smile is quickly subdued, though he remains friendly looking. “It depends,” he says, measured, “on a few things. You probably know that the first time you have sex can be painful because of the initial perforation of the hymen, but usually sex isn’t supposed to be painful at all.” 

“At all.” 

“No. If sex hurts, it’s likely from a lack of preparation, bruising of the cervix, or it could be a condition called vaginismus. That’s where your muscles tighten suddenly when you attempt penetration. Having sex with vaginismus can be extremely painful.” 

Something on his chest catches the light. A name tag. 

He follows your gaze. “Oh,” he says. “I’m Remus. Sorry, it might’ve been nicer for you to know that before I started talking.” 

Remus… You shake your head at him. “Um… Remus… Well, I’m not really sure what happened.” 

“Right.” 

“I wasn’t–” Your heart jumps before you can confess, horrible secret stuck to the roof of your mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “are you sure you don’t want to go sit down in the quiet room with me? I can make you a cup of tea.” 

“I can’t have caffeine.” 

“I have night time tea. Is that alright?” 

“The shop?” 

“It’s okay, I’ll ask Sirius to come down. You really aren’t doing anything wrong.” 

“I feel like I shouldn't ask you.” 

“That’s a consequence of our great British society,” he says, lightly teasing as he lifts the counter to come from behind it and presses a small red button on an intercom box by the inside door. It’s an attempt to make you feel better, and it nearly works. “You feel embarrassed about something you have no reason to feel embarrassed of. Everybody has sex, and everybody has bad sex, sometimes, and needs advice.” 

The intercom crackles before you can speak. “Moony?” a voice asks. 

“Sirius, I have someone who needs to talk to me. You’ll have to come on the till for a bit.” 

“Kay. Down now.” 

Remus smiles. “That’s about as obliging as he gets.” 

“Sirius, is he the– is he the one who reads?” 

“Not often. You’re thinking of Regulus, his brother.” 

Regulus, of course. “They look so similar.” 

“They do.” He gestures for you to stand beside him as the inside door swings open, unveiling one of those dark-haired brother’s, the taller of the two. 

“Oh, hi,” Sirius says, wet hair on his shoulders, his t-shirt sodden at the front like he’d swept it back, “okay? There’s biscuits in the left cupboard, Moons.” 

Remus, Moons, Moony, holds the door back and lets you inside. 

The walk to the quiet room is strange. Sitting down at the table with him as he passes you a box of biscuits, kettle boiling, he doesn’t put you on ends, but it doesn’t feel good. You slip your hand under your t-shirt where he can’t see and feel the hot stretch of your stomach for something that isn’t there. 

“So,” he says, grimacing, “I’m going to ask you some precursory questions. You don’t have to answer any of them if you don’t want to.” 

“Okay.” 

“Are you in any active danger?” 

You shake your head slowly. “None.” 

“Is someone close to you hurting you?” 

“No.” 

“Are you alright?” 

You twist your hands together tightly. “I don’t think so.” 

“No?” He slips his chair closer to your own. “Are you hurt now?” 

You look down at your lap. This is awful. This is why you didn’t want to go to see your doctor. “I don’t know. I’m not hurt, but it does hurt. I move and it feels like something sharp is digging into me.” 

“I see.” He frowns. “This can happen sometimes with penetration. It’s like I said before, if your body isn’t, you know, prepared? If you aren’t using lubrication, if you aren’t relaxed, it can be as simple as friction having hurt you, but it’s possible you’ve got cervical bruising, or an issue with your pelvic floor. It could be that you have a UTI. If we go through a couple of questions together I might be able to suggest a solution, but I have to tell you to see your doctor if you can. Alright? Pain after sex can be normal, but it doesn’t have to be. When we go back out, I’ll give you some paracetamol as well.” 

He looks as though he might have something else to say, but he stops when you open your mouth. “I don’t know what happened.” 

Remus frowns again. “Right.” 

The cellophane on the biscuits is shining under the light. 

“I don’t really know what to do.” 

“It’s a stabbing pain?” His frown gets impossibly deeper. “I have some ibuprofen. Off the record, you can have some of that with your tea. Here.” He procures a blister pack from his pocket and hands it to you, jumping up for the kettle, carrying it back to your mugs to set with the pint of milk. “It will probably go away soon, lovely, I would try not to worry, but it’s good to keep an eye on it too, and to book with the doctors if it gets worse. There are so many things that can go wrong in the body, but we’re also such good self-healers, it’s hard to know what to do.” 

“It’s… something else, too.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I was wondering if the pain is maybe because I…” 

Your face goes hot as coal embers, a furious sweat on the back of your neck. Remus doesn’t prod. He pours water into your mug until it’s a little over half full, the tea bag at the bottom staining it sepia. 

“I think I’m pregnant,” you say, not sure why it hurts to say so much. 

“Right.”

“Do you think it hurts because of that?” 

Remus bites his lip as he pours his own mug of tea. He’s looking at you as he puts the kettle down. “No, I wouldn’t think so, but it’s not an impossibility. How pregnant were you thinking?” 

“It was two weeks ago, so… so however long it takes to get pregnant.”

He looks alarmed, then. “Lovely, that was the last time you had sex?” 

“Yeah.”

“And it still hurts now?” 

“Only sometimes,” you say nervously. 

He ignores his steaming tea. “Right. Well, I think I need to advise you to make an emergency appointment today. I can make it with you. You shouldn’t still be hurting after two weeks, pregnant or not. Ectopic pregnancies don’t tend to hurt until further along, so…” Remus slows, looking at you with that too-kind frown, brown eyes darker back here behind the fog curls of his tea.

You feel caught on something. 

“I wasn’t awake,” you say quietly. “Just woke up hurting. I guessed what happened, ‘n now I’m pregnant. It could only have been...” You shrug it off, even as heat blooms behind your eyes, nose already hot and sniffly. 

“You were assaulted.” 

“Yeah, I guess so.” 

Remus seems to freeze up. “I’m sorry.” He takes a few seconds, and then he meets your eyes. “I can’t imagine how scary that must have been, and how scary it still is.” 

Your eyes line with tears. “I mean, it’s less scary now.” First tear tips forward as your voice falls to pieces. “I just don’t know what to do. Every day I’ve come here this week I’ve tried to ask about it, because I saw that poster, if I’m hurt then I can– then I can come to the pharmacy, but I’m not hurt, I’m fine now.” 

“Oh,” he says gently, pushing his chair over a little to bring himself closer, his hand coming to rest on your hunched shoulder, “even if you weren’t in any pain at all, you’re more than welcome to come here and speak to us, to me. This residual pain, I imagine you must’ve been quite injured when it happened. You didn’t have any help at all?” 

“I didn’t think there’s anything they could do.” 

“That’s okay, it’s not your fault,” he says, rubbing your shoulder kindly. “I just want to know as much of the details as you feel alright giving me, so we can move forward in the best way possible.” His hand slides across your back, nearly hugging. “I’m sorry. Really. And I’m sorry for talking so much about ‘bad sex’, I didn’t realise what you were telling me.” 

“I’m sorry for telling you.” 

“What?” he asks, a soft incredulity to him, “You have nothing to be sorry for. You can tell as many or as few people as you like, but I’m extremely glad to be told, because no one should ever have to face this sort of thing alone, should they?” He rubs your back when you nod, again when you sniffle. “Alright. It’s alright. You’re okay.” 

You don’t cry as much as you worry you might under a soft touch. The memory of waking up paralyses you for a bit, that confusion, the pain, the bruise across your neck. All of it makes you feel sick, but Remus shushes you under his breath, not to really shush you, but to calm you down. 

“I’m okay,” you say, shamed. 

“Try and drink some of this tea. Can I leave you alone for a minute?” 

“Oh, uh– yeah, of course. I’m fine.” 

His hand lingers between your shoulders. “Just for a minute, I’m going to find some bits for you–”

“I don’t need anything–”

“No, no, it’s okay, it’s just stuff I have to give you, and some things you might need.” Remus’ hand traces carefully to the front of your shoulder. He meets your eyes, nothing but compassion in the line of his mouth. “Okay?”

You say okay. Remus uses the door you came in through to head back out onto the pharmacy’s shop floor, letting it shut quietly behind him. You press your hand to your teeth. 

—

To Remus’ credit, he apologises for both pamphlets. Abortion Explained. What to expect when you’re expecting. “For you to know your options,” he’d said. “Whatever you decide, it’s your decision.” 

He can’t know you’ll spend a week pouring over them all, that you’ll worry at the corner of the STD clinic card, or that you’ll shove the RapeCrisis one down the side of your bed, desperate to throw it out, but terrified you’ll need it, too. 

And some of the stuff he gives you. You don’t even know what to do with it. Painkillers, lavender oil, discreet pads for incontinence. You’d tried to pay and he’d touched the back of your hand without explanation. “No, it’s okay,” he’d said. Nothing else. 

You spend days again wrapped in your own nausea, until Thursday evening, when you make your way to Community Support. 

You honestly weren’t considering it when Remus first gave you the card, but he said his friend worked there, “My best friend, James,” he corrected, ”and his wife, Lily, too. She talks to people about all kinds of things. I just wonder if you might feel happier talking about it with a woman.” 

Which was a nice sentiment, and possibly true, though Remus had been the first person you told. To be met with his sympathy in such a boundless capacity made it easier. Made you think, Maybe I’m not stupid for hating that it happened. 

“I’m here every Monday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday,” he‘d said when you made up a lie about needing to leave, scared of overstaying, “seven ‘til three, but you can ask for me if you ever want to. Sirius usually knows where I am.” 

And you had wanted to, but you knew you couldn’t. Being so desperately alone that you craved the comfort of a stranger’s hand is fine, but it didn’t feel okay to hold him hostage like that. Of course he feels sorry for you, of course he wants to make you feel better, how heartless would he look otherwise?

You’d chide yourself for thinking cynically about someone who’d only ever been nice if it would make a difference. Lonely, wrecked, you end up at the Community Support Group at the local leisure centre, wavering behind the swing doors. 

A face appears on the other side of the door. Deep skin, eyes like cherry pits and lips painted a cheery red, a woman smiles at you and pulls it open. 

“Hi! Are you here for the support group?” 

“Uh– Yeh–” You swallow roughly. “Yes. Is that here?” 

“That’s here.” She puts a thumb through the belt loop on her jeans. “Why don’t you come inside?” 

You take a tentative step.

“I’m Mary,” she says. 

“I don’t have to sign anything, right?” you ask. 

Mary leads you into the room without stopping. “This is off the books only. Do you want some tea or coffee?” 

“I can’t have caffeine.” 

“Decaf?” 

“Can I have water?” 

Mary has a good smile. Like she knows you, like you’re already friends. She cups your shoulder and guides you to the refreshment table, an impressive splendor of coffee, tea, individually wrapped biscuits, and sandwiches. There’s a box of protein bars with a handwritten red felt note that says: Take me home if you want to! 

“Aren’t hungry are you?” Mary asks. 

“Not really.” 

She ducks down at the table and pushes aside tablecloth to grab a crate of water from underneath.

“You haven’t been here before, then?” Mary asks as she stands. “I remember most faces, I don’t think I’ve seen you here.” 

“No, I’ve never… um, someone at the pharmacy told me I can come,” you say tightly. 

“Oh, you can! Of course you can. I wondered if you were new, that’s all.” She presses a bottle of water into your hands. You look down at her fingers, confused at their odd texture, your neck snapping up once you realise what you’re doing.

Mary has scars all over her hands, her wrists, and you’d been gawking at them by mistake. “Sorry,” you mumble. 

“For what? Do you want me to stay? Or would you rather be by yourself?” 

“We don’t sit in a circle, do we?” 

Mary laughs lightly. “No, no circle yet, you can leave if you don’t wanna stay for the group talking therapy. For the first hour people just say hello to one another. There are a ton of counsellors here, okay? I’m just gonna wander, but if you want to talk to me, come and find me, yeah?” 

“Okay, thanks. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome, hun.” She smiles at you, a little softer than before. “You can sit down if it makes you feel less awkward, but be warned, the sofas are James’ territory. He loves to talk.” 

Don’t wanna get stuck with James, you think. Though really, you’re here to talk. Or to turn around and go home with a pocket full of protein bars. 

The community room is an emptied dance hall that’s been made nice. There are big boards of fliers, of last year’s trampolining club, and another of the Community Support Christmas club, whatever that had been. It looked busier then than it does tonight —there are a ton of sunny looking counsellors dotted around the room and talking in triangles, half as many people like you. 

Someone random catches your eyes and you fluster, making your way to the terracotta sofas in the corner of the room on impulse. A man sits with an arm across his eyes, glasses on his chest, looking so sorrily tired for a second that you forget you’d come looking for help of your own. 

“Are you okay?” you ask, stilted. James’ territory, and you’d walked straight in. 

The man sits up starkly. He looks right at you, but you don’t recognise him until he puts on his glasses. It’s one of those pharmacy men. 

No, it’s not, you’d just seen him outside. 

“Hello,” he says, sliding his glasses up a strong-bridged nose. “I’m okay, I’m just resting my eyes,” —he laughs— “you alright?” You nod. “Yeah? Here for the support club? Or the sandwiches?” 

“I–” Will you stammer every time someone asks you about it? “One of the– the pharmacy, one of the pharmacists told me to come.” 

“That’s good,” he says earnestly. “I like those guys. Did you want a sandwich or something? I must’ve made a hundred. My hand still aches from the butter knife.” 

“I’m okay.” 

“Okay. Well, did you want to sit down? I promise I won’t hold you hostage or anything.” 

What am I doing? you think miserably, taking a seat in the sofa adjacent to his. 

He crosses one leg over the other. “Please don’t look so upset. I swear I genuinely won’t make you talk. I’m just here for the biscuits and lovely Lily, I promise. And lovelier Remus–” He laughs to himself. 

“You’re James?” you ask. 

“The last time I checked.”

“Remus– he mentioned you’d be here. I forgot.” 

James only smiles. “He’s brilliant, isn’t he?” he asks, wriggling in his seat to procure one of those biscuit packets from his back pocket. 

“He said that I might like talking to Lily.” 

It feels weird calling her by her first name without knowing her, but James agrees, “I’ll introduce you when she gets here, if that’s what you want.” 

“I just… I don’t know.” 

“She’s just as nice as Remus is. Remus was nice to you, wasn’t he?” 

You nod and look down at your clenched hands. “Yeah. He was nice to me.” 

“That’s good.” 

A tepid silence pervades for a moment. 

“Do you want a biscuit or something? Or we have noodles and soup and stuff in the storage room, I’m happy to make you something warm if you want that.” 

“You guys are like a restaurant,” you say, still not willing to look at him. 

“It’s nice to have options.” 

You nod hurriedly, sick to your stomach all over again. Options. Decisions. 

Somewhere in the room, they turn on a radio. Shoes squeak on the waxed floor, a boy laughs like he’s being tickled. It was a mistake to come tonight. You desperately want someone to hug you and you know it’s too much to ask for, staggering to your feet with a headrush to be blinked back. 

“You okay?” James asks.

“Yeah. Um, where’s the toilet?” 

“Back out of the double doors, they’re right in front of you, okay? Straight in front and then to the left, you can’t miss them.” 

“Okay.”

“Wait, Y/N?” he says. 

You shoot him a look that betrays your surprise. 

“Sorry, Remus told me to keep a look out for you. I just wanted to say, I know this is different, and it’s weird, I get that, and I have no idea why you’re here tonight, but I promised Remus I wouldn’t upset you, and I think I already have.”

“He didn’t tell you why I’m here?” 

“Of course not.” James blows a breath that makes his hair fly away from his face in a wave. “It’s none of my business why you’re here. My job is to make sandwiches. I mean, some people come here just for the sandwiches or the warm room, and that’s fine.” 

“The sandwiches are that good?” you ask. 

“They’re great. We don’t fuck around, I use the real salted butter in the foil wrappings and the thick bread and everything. Proper ham, not the wafer thin stuff. And there’s veggie bacon too, if you don’t eat meat. I don’t know, could you please just let me feed you something? Remus won’t forgive me if you came here and you didn’t even eat.” 

“I think you’re using Remus as a ploy,” you say quietly. 

“I am! So let’s go have a sandwich or a biscuit or something.” He waves his biscuits at you. “They’re Border’s. Butterscotch Border’s, you literally can’t ask for better.” 

Just try. Be brave for a bit. “I like the uh– the lemon ones.” 

James shoots up onto his feet, grinning. “Amazing taste. Let’s go find you some.” 

—

James takes you to the refreshment table. He finds you lemon drizzle biscuits, two packets, and he pushes two more into your hands with the command to take them home. He offers to make you dinner again when Lily arrives in a tizzy, with a chubby baby on her hip. 

Harry, she says. Just turned three. Scandalised everyone at home, Lily’s sister kicked her out, disaster. Harry, though, is beautiful. James and Lily are beautiful, and happy. James takes Harry into his arms the moment he sees him murmuring about his boy, and the sensation of guilt under your skin grows worse than ever. 

How are you liking group? Lily asks. Would you come back next week? That’s great! I’m so glad to hear it. 

—

You’re walking through Wilmand Street to the corner shop a few days later when you see him. Brown hair wet with snow, ashing a cigarette into the brick wall by the library. Remus cringes as he does it, blowing smoke from the side of his mouth in a call, “Y/N!” he says, “Hey, lovely, how are you? Sorry about the smoke,” he adds. “I was hoping I’d see you this week.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I wondered how you were doing.” 

“Well, don’t worry about me, I’m okay. I…” You cringe, pulling a hand down your sore chest. “I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for the other day, for dumping that stuff on you, you don’t even know me and I told you such a horrible thing and made you worry, and your friends were so nice to me at the community group and I just didn’t say thanks or anything. I’m genuinely ashamed of myself.” You smile a weird smile, clunky, attempting to brush everything away like it didn’t mean anything, silly little you. “All the time.” 

Remus’ expression goes odd, a wall you can’t read, left searching his winter jacket for clues as to how he’s feeling. “I don’t think you have anything to be ashamed of,” he says, finally and simply. 

“It was rude of me.” 

“I have some experience with feeling ashamed for the things other people have done,” he says, flakes of snow kissing his shoulders, a white dot coming to rest and melt on his cheek. “I understand why you’re feeling this way, and it’s expected, but… How do I put this?” 

You watch his eyes. Remus struggles to say anything more. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen a flicker of insecurity on him. He always seems calmly settled, as though he’s thought about the world and found what it is he was looking for in it a long time ago. 

“Just because we think something doesn’t make it true,” he says, hiding his hands in his coat pockets. “You might feel like it was wrong to tell me, but it wasn’t, and you might think you were rude to my friends, but you weren’t. They didn’t have a single bad word to say about you. Not that either of them tend to say anything disparaging about anyone,” he adds as an afterthought. 

“I wish I didn’t tell you, is all.” 

“I’m sorry. I can go on as though you didn’t, if that’s what you want, whatever you want.” 

You look down at your chest, nodding. “Okay.” 

Which isn’t a yes or no to his suggestion, but he doesn’t pull you up on it. “Okay. Are you going to the pharmacy?” 

“I– no. But I did hope to ask you something.” He nods, as if to say, Go on. “It’s about the sex clinic.” 

“What about it?” 

“I don’t really know what it is.” 

Remus looks around the street and then up and down your arms. The jumper you’re wearing is thin, your teeth aching to chatter, and he’s noticed it already. “Do you want to have this conversation over tea, lovely?” he asks. 

“Decaf?” 

“Yes, and biscuits, if you’re interested.” 

You follow Remus up the marginally steep hill that makes up Wilmand Street and enter the pharmacy behind him. It’s wooden front and newspaper clippings give way to the starker insides, where you find Sirius sitting at the front desk. Or rather, sitting on it, corded telephone held between his ear and his shoulder. “Oh, he’s just come in, but he has company. Yeah, he said.” Sirius presses the phone to his shoulder to give you both a small but earnest smile. “Hey, you’ve been snowed on. Turn the heating up before you catch your death.” 

“It’s been caught,” Remus says with a wave. “We’re going to sit in the kitchen. Tell Reg not to interrupt us.” 

Your mouth falls open, but Sirius only salutes his —friend? coworker? “James says he’s giving the phone a sloppy one for you.” 

“Lovely.” Remus laughs brightly, his hand slipping behind your shoulder. “Alright?” he asks. 

You give a nod and continue following him past the inside door to the kitchen you’d sat in before. Remus flicks the kettle on and sits down, forcing you to take his cue and sit opposite of him. 

“Much warmer in here,” he mumbles, stripping out of his coat. “Alright. What did you want to ask me about the sex clinic?” 

“Um… I don’t know. How do I go there?” 

“We’ll make an appointment. It’s not far from the leisure centre, so you can walk, or I can book you a taxi, give you a lift. We'll work something out.”

“And they… won’t mind that I– that I don’t really know what I’m doing?” 

You almost miss the dissatisfied noise he makes over the rising sound of the kettle. “They won’t mind.” 

“Do I have to tell them what happened?” 

“No. I mean, I assume it’s better if they have a clearer picture of the circumstances, but then again, you’re entitled to your privacy. You could just say you’re concerned about your intimate health.” 

“But they’ll ask questions.” 

“Yeah, they will. I know you don’t want to answer them, and that’s okay. You don’t have to answer them. Doctor’s, pharmacists, we just ask about stuff because we have to, but there’s no law that says you have to answer.” 

Now you’ve had time to think about things beyond the aching and the angry horror, a new fear has curdled. “What if he gave me something?” you say under your breath. 

“Then we can get you whatever medicine it is that you need and we can work toward you feeling better again.” His head tips as the kettle clicks. “Did you still want tea?” 

“Yes, please.” 

Remus makes you each a cup of decaf tea, bringing sugar and milk to the table for you to add yourself. 

“We can go now, if you want to.” 

“To the clinic?” you ask. 

Remus nods slowly. “Mm-hm. It’s an emergency.” 

“You’d come with me?” you ask, not breathless, but almost. 

“If you’re okay with it and you want me to, I’ll come with you. It might not be so scary. Or I can ask Lily to take you.” 

It’s not Remus’ fault that the person who assaulted you was a man like he is, but it does sound less intimidating to go with a girl. You’re not sure why. It’s not like he hasn’t been kind since the minute you asked him about confidentiality or that he deserves your distrust, but even sitting in this room with him now talking about the clinic has made you uncomfortable again. “Would she mind?” 

“Lily would love to take you. I know that sounds strange. She wouldn’t love that you need to go, but she wouldn’t want you to go alone if you’re worried about it.” 

“And she’ll go now?” 

Remus pushes your mug toward you. “You have some tea and I'll go and ask James if she’s around.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You’re not,” he says. “There’s biscuits in the cupboard, lovely. If you want some, you can help yourself.” 

Things don’t pass that day in much detail after that. When Remus returns ten minutes later, you’ve finished your tea, and Lily is with him. She was on her way here already. She’d be happy to take you to the clinic. 

So you go, and you get checked out, and you submit to their tests and their invasive, well-intentioned questions. Lily takes you to a cafe afterward and buys you a pastry you can’t do more than poke. She takes you home. You feel guilty for not saying thank you in the car, but you can barely speak. A few days later you get a phone call with your results. You take a course of medications. You cry yourself to sleep three days in a row, because, as they’d tested for STDs, they tested for something else, and they’d told you what you‘d already known. 

You’re as pregnant as your home tests said you are. Despite everything, you feel an emotion you hate, and you push it down again. 

—

The door to your flat shakes with a sharp knock. 

You startle and stand, not sure what you’d been thinking, a hole burned into the floor at your feet. You’re in no state to answer the door, wet hair dripping a river down your back and your pajamas old. There’s nothing for it. 

You take the handle into your hand and squeeze. 

Dark-haired Regulus is standing in the hallway. You let the door close just an inch between you. 

“Regulus,” you say, unsure if surprise will help or hinder you. 

“Hello.” 

“How can I…” 

“Remus asked me to check in on you.” 

You’re not sure you like what he’s saying. “How do you know where I live?” 

“Remus didn’t ask me to come to your flat, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“No, it’s not. I’m confused that you know where I live when I didn’t tell you.” 

He holds a deft hand up in surrender. “I live across the street, I’ve seen you come into the building, and your last name is on the postbox downstairs. I’m not doing anything illegal.” 

Just weird, then. 

“Remus asked me to keep an eye out for you,” he says, “but you haven’t been to the pharmacy, naturally.”

“So your solution was to come to my house?” 

“I don’t think there’s any need to get twitchy.” 

But there is. There is. He might not know what it is, and you might find thinking about it feels like a serrated blade end squeezed in your fist, but there is a need. You don’t want him to be here. It doesn’t matter that he’s small and skinny and has a sweet nose. This is your place to be by yourself, and to have nobody know where you are. This is the locked door. 

He has the sense to soften his bravado. “Sorry. I’ve made you uncomfortable.” 

You try to relax your shoulders. Your ribs ache with the tension. “Please,” you say gently, “tell Remus that I’m alright. Thank you for worrying about me.”

Regulus looks to the stairwell leading to the foyer. “He’s going to Community Support tonight if you want to tell him yourself. I am, too.” He doesn’t look at you again. “See you later,” he says to the stairs. 

 —

You go to Community Support despite yourself.

“Can you forgive me for not flirting with you?” 

You surprise the urge to flinch hard, turning to the voice with a half-smile. Sirius is standing beside you suddenly, your faces reflected in the plexiglass covered notice board just outside of the community hall. “What?” you ask. 

“I don’t mean to be offensive. I haven’t flirted because I thought Remus might have his eye on you, and I don’t want you to think it’s because you’re not beautiful.” 

You have to turn to see him to realise he’s teasing you now to be friendly. “I’d be offended if you did flirt with me,” you say. 

“Marvellous, then I won’t.”

“Remus doesn’t have his eye on me, though. He’s just been giving me pharmaceutical advice, I suppose.” 

“Oh, I see. I thought maybe you’d… Well, never mind. Forget I said anything.”

He’s handsome enough that you’d be shocked if he actually did flirt with you, clear-skinned as his brother, but with a warmer smile, almost mischievous, like he knows something you don’t know and he’ll tell you for the right price. His shoulders are slim, his biceps particularly solid as he crosses his arms over his chest. He notices you noticing and gives a flex, to your laughter. “Like what you see?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

“We’re on the rugby team, you know.”

“You and Remus?” 

“As if, Remus doesn’t like sports. He’s more of a walker. James and I are the sportsmen.” 

Sirius didn’t strike you as somebody who plays anything either, but it’s not polite to say. 

“Well, aren’t you coming inside?” he asks. “We could use a face like yours in there tonight. Beautiful girls are great for overall morale.” 

You shake your head. “Don’t think so.” 

“You came all the way here. You could at least come in for a bit of cake or something.” 

“Community support or community kitchen?” you mumble. 

“Everybody gets hungry. The best part of being in a community is making sure nobody goes hungry for long, right?” 

You give him a sideways look. Somehow, someway, you’ve become acquainted with a circle of philanthropists. Normal people aren’t so generous. You’re too tired to be this kind. 

“What kind do you have?” 

“Carrot, red velvet, Victoria sponge, and plain chocolate, I think. Maybe a bit of walnut sponge if Marlene hasn’t mauled the whole thing.” 

You’re not sure you can stomach it, just he’s looking at you so nicely that you want to go in with him. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah.” 

Sirius slips a hand behind your back, letting it hover an inch from your skin as he shepherds you through the double doors and into the main hall. It’s far more crowded than it had been on your first visit, a small circle of people already in chairs talking a ways from the crowded food table, pilfered, more sandwiches in hands than hands to hold them, and enough brewed coffee to scent the air. James is immediately noticeable crouching at the table, having pulled a crate of juice boxes from beneath it, laughing about something someone is saying to him —something Remus is saying, the tallest man in the room and somehow completely non-imposing, his voice more colour than sound as he talks. 

It must just be because Remus is attentive. Must be the memory of his nice hand on your shoulder, squeezing, that makes you pay special attention to his shaking. “Is he laughing?” you ask. 

Sirius tunes in quickly. “Yeah. He’s done that since we were kids. He can laugh like normal, but when something really has him it’s like he can’t get the sound out.” He chuckles himself. “Idiots. Come on, let’s get you your slice of cake.” 

You can’t help staring at Remus as Sirius takes you over to him and James. James is so happy to see you he almost loses his glasses. 

“You’re back! I thought my shitty impersonation of a counsellor might’ve scared you off. Don’t want some soup, do you?” 

“Don’t say yes out of pity,” Sirius says. “Nobody ever wants James to make them soup.” 

“You like my soup.” 

“I like Effie’s soup. She makes the best bowl of lemon chicken I’ve ever tasted, and you make a mediocre imitation of her recipe, which is as good as it gets while I’m away.” 

“Effie’s my mother,” James explains, clambering to his feet with the crate of small bottles of juice held to his chest. “Euphemia. And she does make the best lemon chicken soup, but mines just fine! And anyways, tonight I made winter vegetable because all the Christmas veg was 8p and I have a fuckton. It’s delicious. I cut the swede up so thin it melts in your mouth, I got fresh thyme from the garden, little bit of spinach, all of it cooked in a metric ton of butter.” 

Remus snorts softly. He meets your eyes, which has you smiling on automatic. “James is a bit of a soup addict.” 

”I–” You feel hungry for the first time in weeks. “I’d quite like to, uh, try some. If you really don’t mind.” 

James glows, shoving the case of juice onto the refreshment table next to the hot water towers. “Yes. How about toasties, lovely, d’you want a cheese toastie with it? You’ll love it.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Anyone else while I’m warming it?” 

Remus meets your eyes again, like you’re sharing a secret. “I’ll have a bowl, Jamie.” 

“Yes.” 

“Alright,” Sirius acquiesces, “and me. And Reg will, too, wherever he’s gone off too. But he won’t have cheese–”

“Just toast, I know.” 

James gets a look on him like he’s found the secrets of the universe. “I’ll make a garlic butter cheese toastie for all of you. Mm?” 

Sirius waves him away. 

Sirius grabs you a slice of cake even as you mumble about the soup and how it’s dessert before dinner. Doesn’t matter, he murmurs back, not worried about why you’ve gone shy, I promised you a slice.

You take an apple juice and follow him to a table. Remus comes with you. He looks sunnier today than the last time you saw him despite ever-cloudy weather. Maybe he’s just a bit golden. Steady, he sits at the table across from you with Sirius taking a seat perpendicular, the three of you three sides to a square, nothing to look at besides your hand squeezed around the handle of a plastic fork. 

“I’m sorry about Regulus,” Remus says. “I didn’t mean for him to visit you at home. He told me you weren’t thrilled about it, and I can’t blame you.” 

“I’m sorry too,” Sirius says, wrinkling his nose. “I have no clue why he did that.” 

“And Regulus would be sorry, he just has a hard time realising when he’s overstepped.”

You nod at the table. “It’s okay. I mean, it did make me uncomfortable, and I– wasn’t super polite to him. I just wasn’t expecting him to be at the door, that’s all. And he said sorry, actually. So it’s forgiven.” 

“Oh.” Sirius perches his hand in his head. “That’s unlike him. He doesn’t tend to be sorry.” 

“Neither do you,” Remus says. 

“It’s a family trait.” 

“Can I save this for after soup?” you ask, shuffling your plate to the side. It’ll be easier to eat your cake when everyone else is eating as well. 

“Course you can,” Sirius says, leaning back in his seat. “But if you don’t eat it, I’ll assume you don’t like me. I’m sensitive like that.” 

Remus rolls his eyes, again gifting you with a great feeling, as though you’re in on a secret with him. He’s wearing an aviator jacket that looks incredibly soft, worn but not tattered, sherpa insides flattened but clean. The sleeves warp as he crosses his arms in front of him on the table and leans forward, conspirator. 

“So, how was your morning? Besides Regulus’ unwelcome intrusion,” he says, almost drawling as Sirius does when he gets that playful look in his eye. 

You’re not sure how to handle these boys. But you want to try. You’re sick of having nobody, of being nobody, even if it’s a little discomfiting sometimes to be with them. “My morning was fine. Tries to get through all my washing but it’s a mountain, so I left it and had a long shower instead.”

“How long is long?” Remus asks. 

“Too long.” 

“Like Remus’, then. I’m a one and done man, wash and go.” Sirius peels forward, “And Remus takes hours. Uses all the hot water.” 

“You live together?” you ask. 

“We did for a bit, didn’t we?” Sirius says. 

“Six very long years,” Remus says. “But I have a flat, and Sirius lives on Wilmand Street now, thank god.” 

“Thank god indeed,” Sirius says, “now I can actually wash my hair on a semi-regular basis.” 

“Can you?” Remus asks. 

“What are you implying?” 

“Only that your hair seems distinctly unwashed lately, don’t worry.” 

“He’s showing off ‘cos you’re here,” Sirius says, smiling despite the accusation as he takes a hand through his hair and pushes it back from his face. “I wash plenty.” 

“Do you? I was almost hoping you’d stopped. Maybe that would explain the weird thing you have going on right here.” Remus scratches his upper lip. 

“Fuck off, you just don’t like a scratchy kiss–”

Remus laughs suddenly. After a moment, it tapers into silence, though his shoulders still shake, and you can hear his laughter in his voice when he says, “That charming thatch of stubble would be the last of my worries if I wanted to kiss you, Sirius.” 

“What’s top of the list then?” 

“The smell, obviously. I’m getting top notes of wet dog and a headier dampness–”

“You sick bastard,” Sirius says, sounding absolutely delighted at his friend's insult. 

“You just need a good wash, is all.” 

You don’t mean to, but you laugh. Giggle, really, entertained by them and shocked a little by the way they snip and snap at each other. You pitch forward, face angled down, eyes tempted to shut completely. Sick bastard, you think, laughing still. 

It only makes you laugh more when Sirius nudges you. “Hey, thought we were getting somewhere,” he murmurs. 

You giggle some more. “Sorry,” you squeeze out eventually. 

“Don’t be. He can take a hit. Even if he’s sensitive,” Remus says.

Sirius sniffs. “I’m not that sensitive. Can’t make a joke anymore without being entirely misrepresented.” 

— 

James’ soup becomes a staple for you over the next couple of days. Community Support is a daily occurrence, though some nights are more popular than others. The weekends are busiest, Friday and Saturday night, but Wednesdays have an uptick you aren’t expecting, sitting at one of the plastic tables with another cup or winter veg soup and a garlic buttered toastie. You blow on melty cheese as James brings the hot plate out to the refreshment table, making it easier to serve the many who want it. He’s gleeful, promising that they’re gonna love it, and then tacking on an amendment that anyone who doesn’t like it is more than welcome to something else from the kitchen. 

With payday for most at midnight Friday, or some time after, it’s the hump of the week that hits hardest. You don’t come for the soup, but some people do, and they can’t be blamed for it; stretching money out isn’t easy. 

Your stomach clenches. Your spoon wobbles in your hand. 

From across the room, Remus sends you a warm smile, a kid in his arms and another at his thigh, chattering away as their mam takes a well-deserved breather by the terracotta sofas. 

The next day is the same. James makes soup and ham sandwiches, ham off the bone, made it himself, and you pick at the crusts at a plastic table. Sirius keeps you company for a bit, and then Remus rags on him until he leaves. They’re both too smiley to believe any animosity. 

On Friday, James isn’t there. 

“Harry’s poorly.” 

“I thought he might’ve had a day off.” 

“He and Lily like the group too much for days off.” Remus scratches a hand through his hair. It’s the most boyish thing he’s ever done in front of you. “Are you liking it here? You haven’t missed a day all week.” 

“James makes a good soup.” 

“He left plenty, if you want it.” 

You’re not sure you can stomach it. You give a small shake of your head. “Will Harry be okay?” 

“Fine. He gets ear infections, James used to get them too, even when we were teenagers. He’s on antibiotics already, it’s just the crying that’s the worst. Makes him sick.” Remus smiles sympathetically. “Makes James sick, too. But they’ll be okay.” 

“That’s good. It’s too quiet here when James isn’t around.” 

The hall is practically silent. There are a few people milling around on the sofas and another handful drinking tea by the refreshment table. Mary is patting a crying woman with pink hair on the back. A two year old sits at her feet, staring up at her sullenly. 

“I could go turn on the radio.” 

You perch your chin in your palm, elbow on the table. Tired today. “That’s okay. It’s nice.” Quiet, but not lonely. 

“You feeling okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah.” You fight the urge to let your eyes shutter closed. “I’m okay. You okay?” 

“I’m great. I’m really glad you’ve been coming. I know you don’t stay for group therapy, and you don’t have to, but… I don’t know, I think it’s just good to be around people.” 

You feel like he meant to say a particular but dodged it at the last second. He hesitated. 

He said he wouldn’t bring it up if you didn’t want him to, but maybe you do, just so you know it was real, and bad. It was awful, wasn’t it? 

“I don’t like being alone,” you confess, scratching the back of your neck. “For a while…” You scratch scratch scratch, sounds of your nails over skin, then let your hand drop with a thump against your thigh. “I wanted to be alone. But now when I’m home by myself I feel awful.” 

“It’s normal to want company.” 

“Even after what happened?” 

“Especially after what happened. I think the stereotype is that people… experience something bad, and that they retreat into themselves, and that’s based on a real process of emotions,” —he talks quietly but surely, without a lick of condescension— “and a real sort of phenomena. Everybody needs time to lick their wounds, to put it heavily. But it makes sense that you’d seek out company when you’ve just had a really, really horrible thing happen.” 

You did retreat into yourself at first. Wasting days away in bed without an appetite, crying yourself sick and to sleep, hating yourself and the world and him, because it hurt so badly. But then you didn’t get your period when you were expecting it and it was like holding the times of a fork to a plug socket, a nasty shock flaring through your entire body from the tips of your fingers. And now you have decisions to make and a life to live after, it’s happening now, quickly. You aren’t feeling any better than you were that morning when you first woke up and realised you’d been attacked without fully knowing, but time is moving forward regardless. You don’t know why you crave other people, but you do. You like seeing Remus every night, even if he only talks to you once or twice. You like eating James’ home cooked food, like watching Sirius and Regulus bicker as they lean against one another, and you like seeing Lily press her nose to her baby’s. You wonder what that feels like. How soft is a small nose? What does it feel like to hold the person you made out of love and a little bit of every part of you in two hands? 

You’re still so lonely it’s palpable. There are moments throughout the day where you can’t face it head on, but the support group is genuinely helping, if it’s just to spend an hour outside of your head. 

Lonely, and with nobody to confide in. 

Remus watches you think for a while. He’s waiting patiently for you to speak again. 

“Can I tell you something stupid?” you ask softly. 

“Sure.” 

“Don’t laugh at me.” 

“I doubt I could.” 

You let out a deep sigh. He’s all browns tonight in his old jacket. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown jacket. “I was thinking about keeping the baby. I don’t know if you’d consider it a baby right now,” you murmur, staring at the corner of his mouth, “but I think I want it to be one. And I can’t stop thinking that it’s a bad idea.” 

“It’s your decision,” Remus says. When you sigh, he looks chastened, and you hadn’t wanted it to be a chastening. He clears his throat. “You already know that, don’t you?” Not expecting an answer, he leans back in his chair and levels you with a smile more friendly than you deserve. “Keep your baby if you want to, lovely. The point of– Well, of having the choice, is being allowed to choose yes, to choose to keep your baby, even if it’s a bad idea. Or looks like one.”

“I know, but…” 

But it’s a bad idea. But it happened because somebody hurt you. But you’re completely alone.

“I’m not upsetting you, am I?” he asks. 

“No, you’re not. You’ve been really nice to me,” you mumble, letting your aching eyes close as you lean into your hand. “It’s not you.” 

Remus settles for a few seconds. “Can I put my arm around you?” he asks finally. 

“Okay.” 

So he does. His voice drops to match your own, his elbow right between your ribs as his thumb skirts across the top of your shoulder, “I’m sorry I can’t fix it for you, I wish I could tell you what to do that’s going to make you the happiest. I can’t, though.”

“I know.” 

He rubs your shoulder. “I know you know.” 

There’s a lot to think about. You aren’t pregnant by a miracle. Something bad happened to you, and the choice is yours now to take, and no one would blame you for wanting to forget the whole thing. At least, nobody here at the support group would. It’s not like you haven’t thought about it; lately, it’s the only thing on your mind. But the guilt of wanting it won’t go away. 

“Sorry you have to do this again,” you mumble. 

“What, give you a hug?” Remus’ voice turns softer. It feels less like the kind words of a stranger and more like a friend. “I don’t mind it.” 

You try to stop feeling guilty. The most you can be right now is looked after, at least for a while, for as long as Remus will hold your shoulders. 

“It’s not your fault,” Remus says. “You know that, too, I’m guessing. What happened to you wasn’t your fault.” 

You’re not so sure. It’s a different guilt to look at in whatever light finds you when it happens. “I know,” you say, half a lie. 

“And I know you have no reason to trust us with something so huge, but we’re here for you. That’s the whole point of the group.” 

You sigh heavily. “I know,” you say under your breath. You’re just not sure it’s going to be enough.

𖦹

hi thanks for reading the first part! this is a heavy one but it’s also a fic I’ve wanted to write for a long time, or rewrite <\3 some of you may have read my first go at this years ago and I’m hoping to tie in some of the old stuff but it’s also its own story hopefully, it’s shaping up well! 

https://rapecrisis.org.uk rape crisis UK — they have a support line! and many many articles

information about rape crisis https://247sexualabusesupport.org.uk/faqs/