The concept of alto surebrec being the one to twist tamsy’s sense of love
I have a feeling the guy isn’t dead, he’s a surebrec after all there has to be a way he’s still alive
I used to believe regto being the angel in amo’s memory, but the thought of it possibly being alto has my mind thinking. Tamsy being under the wing of rudo’s actual father would be TWISTED. Regto I can still see it kinda??? But he would have to be moving from the sphere to the ground while still having to watch rudo which holds the theory back, at least for me…
If the theory of tamsy being apart of sileia holds true, I can see alto coming across tamsy at his lowest state and taking him in. Since it’s stated that the sileia were destroyed about 6-7 years ago, then that’d mean tamsy was a late teen. It doesn’t exactly state when alto was dropped into the pit, not even rudo knows, but it was most likely years ago and I can see the timing lining up.
Having tamsy kill regto for you is a big yikes, alto….
hello! You’ve mentioned having a vocab list a fee times now, could you please let us take a perk at it? Your language use is gorgeous, and I’d love to learn from you.
AH YES... my language pokédex!! i can't remember exactly when i started it, i believe it may have been around 2021 or so...? anyway, since i read a lot of older literature, i often encounter words i've never seen before. before i knew it, the list had expanded a lot. it's interesting to look back on since the first few words that i added all those years ago have become common in my vocabulary 😭
without further ado, here's the list (beneath the cut since it's like 400 words or so):
Physiognomy: the face or countenance, especially when considered as an index to the character: a fierce physiognomy.
Aver: To assert or affirm with confidence; declare in a positive or peremptory manner.
Jubilee: the celebration of any of certain anniversaries, as the twenty-fifth (silver jubilee), fiftieth (golden jubilee ), or sixtieth or seventy-fifth (diamond jubilee ).
Elysium: Paradise.
Nosology: a classification or list of diseases.
Reprobate: an unprincipled or depraved person.
Caprice: A sudden desire.
Laconic: Brief and to the point.
Malignity: Quality of having intense evil.
Misanthropist: Someone who dislikes others.
Despondency: Feeling downcast.
Expedient: (of an action) convenient and practical although possibly improper or immoral.
Paroxysm: A sudden uncontrollable attack.
Antipathy: Intense dislike.
Cogitation: A carefully considering thought about something.
Obdurate: Stubbornly persist in wrongdoings.
Undulation: A wavelike motion to and fro in a fluid or elastic medium propagated continuously among its particles but with little or no permanent translation of the particles in the direction of the propagation.
Abeyance: Abeyance means "a state of temporary inactivity." The word itself is commonly preceded by the preposition in.
Gibbous: Marked by convexity or swelling.
Noisome: Offensive to the senses and especially to the sense of smell
Ennui: A feeling of listlessness and dissatisfaction arising from a lack of occupation or excitement.
Halcyon: denoting a period of time in the past that was idyllically happy and peaceful.
Akimbo: with hands on the hips and elbows turned outward.
Translunary: located beyond the moon.
Piquancy: the quality of being pleasantly stimulating or exciting.
Avarice: extreme greed for wealth or material gain.
Vestige: a trace of something that is disappearing or no longer exists.
Proprietorial: behaving as if one owned a particular thing or person; possessive.
Wafture: the act of waving or a wavelike motion.
Nascent: (especially of a process or organization) just coming into existence and beginning to display signs of future potential.
Carouse: drink plentiful amounts of alcohol and enjoy oneself with others in a noisy, lively way.
Welkin: Sky or heaven.
Vivific: imparting spirit or vivacity.
Profligacy: reckless extravagance or wastefulness in the use of resources
Paracosm: A paracosm is a detailed imaginary world. Paracosms are thought generally to originate in childhood and to have one or numerous creators. The creator of a paracosm has a complex and deeply felt relationship with this subjective universe, which may incorporate real-world or imaginary characters and conventions.
Foible: a minor weakness or eccentricity in someone's character.
Acrimony: a rough and bitter manner.
Dilettante: an amateur engaging in an activity without serious intention.
Elan: enthusiastic and assured vigor and liveliness.
Ephemeral: lasting a very short time.
Equanimity: steadiness of mind under stress.
Facetious: cleverly amusing in tone.
Hedonist: someone motivated by desires for sensual pleasures.
Malinger: avoid responsibilities and duties, often by faking illness.
Non sequitur: a reply that has no relevance to what preceded it.
Panacea: hypothetical remedy for all ills or diseases.
Perfunctory: hasty and without attention to detail; not thorough.
Propriety: correct behavior.
Red herring: something intended to distract attention from the main issue.
Scintillating: having brief brilliant points or flashes of light.
Supercilious: having or showing arrogant superiority.
Sycophant: a person who tries to please someone to gain an advantage.
Paradisiacal: (of a place or state) ideal or idyllic; heavenly.
Nuptial: Relating to marriage or weddings.
Propitiate: win or regain the favor of (a god, spirit, or person) by doing something that pleases them.
Immemorial: originating in the distant past; very old.
Eidolon: an idealized person or thing.
Ataraxia: a state of serene calmness.
Menagerie: a collection of wild animals kept in captivity for exhibition.
Quixotic: extravagantly chivalrous or romantic; visionary, impractical, or impracticable.
Cavort: to prance or caper about.
Fubar: out of working order; seriously, perhaps irreparably, damaged.
Portent: a sign or warning that something, especially something momentous or calamitous, is likely to happen.
Subterfuge: deceit used in order to achieve one's goal.
Perspicacity: keenness of mental perception and understanding; discernment; penetration.
Curmudgeon: a bad-tempered, difficult, cantankerous person.
Peccadillo: a very minor or slight sin or offense; a trifling fault.
Supernal: being in or belonging to the heaven of divine beings; heavenly, celestial, or divine.
Loquacious: tending to talk a great deal; talkative.
Effulgent: (of a person or their expression) emanating joy or goodness.
Miscreant: a person who behaves badly or in a way that breaks the law.
Enantiodromia: the tendency of things to change into their opposites, especially as a supposed governing principle of natural cycles and of psychological development.
Univocal: (of a word or term) having only one possible meaning; unambiguous.
Exculpation: the act of freeing from guilt or blame.
Casuistry: the use of clever but unsound reasoning, especially in relation to moral questions; sophistry.
Punctilious: showing great attention to detail or correct behavior.
Polemic: a speech or piece of writing expressing a strongly critical attack on or controversial opinion about someone or something.
Punitive: inflicting or intended as punishment.
Expiation: the act of making amends or reparation for guilt or wrongdoing; atonement.
Apocryphal: (of a story or statement) of doubtful authenticity, although widely circulated as being true.
Despotism: the exercise of absolute power, especially in a cruel and oppressive way.
Insuperable: (of a difficulty or obstacle) impossible to overcome.
Panoply: a complete or impressive collection of things.
Elision: the omission of a sound or syllable when speaking (as in I'm, let's, e ' en ).
Centrifugal: moving or tending to move away from a center.
Heterogeneity: the quality or state of being diverse in character or content.
Sagacious: having or showing keen mental discernment and good judgment; shrewd.
Dyad: something that consists of two elements or parts.
Locus: a particular position, point, or place.
Recidivist: a convicted criminal who reoffends, especially repeatedly.
Prolix: (of speech or writing) using or containing too many words; tediously lengthy.
Anodyne: not likely to provoke dissent or offense; inoffensive, often deliberately so.
Edifice: a building, especially a large, imposing one.
Sepulcher: a small room or monument, cut in rock or built of stone, in which a dead person is laid or buried.
Milieu: a person's social environment.
Seditious: inciting or causing people to rebel against the authority of a state or monarch.
Neophyte: a person who is new to a subject, skill, or belief.
Precocity: exceptionally early or premature development (as of mental powers or sexual characteristics)
Indigent: poor; needy.
Interstices: an intervening space, especially a very small one.
Aperture: an opening, hole, or gap.
Inculcate: instill (an attitude, idea, or habit) by persistent instruction.
Ceilidh: a party, gathering, or the like, at which dancing, singing, and storytelling are the usual forms of entertainment.
Esplanade: a long, open, level area, typically beside the sea, along which people may walk for pleasure.
Tocsin: an alarm bell or signal.
Necropolis: a cemetery, especially a large one belonging to an ancient city.
Stolid: (of a person) calm, dependable, and showing little emotion or animation.
Cogency: the quality of being clear, logical, and convincing; lucidity.
Torpor: a state of physical or mental inactivity; lethargy.
Puerile: childishly silly and trivial.
Diatribe: a forceful and bitter verbal attack against someone or something.
Debutante: an upper-class young woman making her first appearance in fashionable society.
Ersatz: not real or genuine.
Alacrity: brisk and cheerful readiness.
Askance: with an attitude or look of suspicion or disapproval.
Palatial: resembling a palace in being spacious and splendid.
Expatiate: speak or write at length or in detail.
Calumny: the making of false and defamatory statements about someone in order to damage their reputation; slander.
Oneiric: relating to dreams or dreaming.
Appassionato: impassioned; with passion or strong feeling.
Threnody: a lament.
Idée fixe: an idea or desire that dominates the mind; an obsession.
Quondam: that once was; former.
Raison d'être: the most important reason or purpose for someone or something's existence.
Meritorious: deserving reward or praise.
Infirmity: physical or mental weakness.
Eclectic: deriving ideas, style, or taste from a broad and diverse range of sources.
Baleful: threatening harm; menacing.
Gracile: (of a person) slender or thin, especially in a charming or attractive way.
Exigency: an urgent need or demand.
Pathos: a quality that evokes pity or sadness.
Acumen: the ability to make good judgments and quick decisions, typically in a particular domain.
Apologue: a moral fable, especially one with animals as characters.
Imprecations: a spoken curse.
Antinomy: a contradiction between two beliefs or conclusions that are in themselves reasonable; a paradox.
Omphalos: the center or hub of something.
Exigency: an urgent need or demand.
Vertiginous: causing vertigo, especially by being extremely high or steep.
Mendacious: not telling the truth; lying.
Efficacy: the ability to produce a desired or intended result.
Indelible: (of ink or a pen) making marks that cannot be removed.
Pedagogical: relating to teaching.
Irascible: having or showing a tendency to be easily angered.
Effrontery: insolent or impertinent behavior.
Aphorism: a pithy observation that contains a general truth, such as, “if it ain't broke, don't fix it.”
Pithy: (of language or style) concise and forcefully expressive.
Divest: deprive (someone) of power, rights, or possessions.
Bight: a curve or recess in a coastline, river, or other geographical feature.
Swale: a low or hollow place, especially a marshy depression between ridges.
Anchorite: a religious recluse.
Truculent: eager or quick to argue or fight; aggressively defiant.
Proselytes: a person who has converted from one opinion, religion, or party to another.
Ignis fatuus: a will-o'-the-wisp / something deceptive or deluding.
Escarpment: a long, steep slope, especially one at the edge of a plateau or separating areas of land at different heights.
Euchred: (in the card game euchre) gain the advantage over (another player) by preventing them from taking three tricks.
Egress: the action of going out of or leaving a place.
Spancel: a rope for fettering or hobbling cattle, etc.
Antecedent: a thing or event that existed before or logically precedes another.
Lucent: glowing or giving off light.
Enfilade: a volley of gunfire directed along a line from end to end.
Phantasmagoria: a sequence of real or imaginary images like those seen in a dream.
Desiccate: : to dry up.
Putrescent: undergoing the process of decay; rotting.
Lugubrious: looking or sounding sad and dismal.
Crenelated: (of a wall or building) having battlements.
Nomenclature: the devising or choosing of names for things, especially in a science or other discipline.
Somnolent: sleepy; drowsy.
Empyreal: : of or relating to the empyrean : CELESTIAL
Suzerain: a sovereign or state having some control over another state that is internally autonomous.
Vestibules: an antechamber, hall, or lobby next to the outer door of a building.
Chancel: the part of a church near the altar, reserved for the clergy and choir, and typically separated from the nave by steps or a screen.
Emulous: seeking to emulate or imitate someone or something.
Gaiety: the state or quality of being lighthearted or cheerful.
Iniquity: immoral or grossly unfair behavior.
Insensate: lacking physical sensation / lacking sympathy or compassion; unfeeling.
Pall: a cloth spread over a coffin, hearse, or tomb.
Slatternly: dirty and untidy (typically used of a woman or her appearance).
Odious: extremely unpleasant; repulsive.
Eddy: a current of air or water running back, or in an opposite direction to the main current.
Diaphanous: (especially of fabric) light, delicate, and translucent.
Sedulous: (of a person or action) showing dedication and diligence.
Farrago: a confused mixture.
Ebullition: the action of bubbling or boiling.
Pecuniary: relating to or consisting of money.
Bellicose: demonstrating aggression and willingness to fight.
Nugatory: of no value or importance.
Rapacious: aggressively greedy or grasping.
Polymath: a person of wide-ranging knowledge or learning.
Autarkic: specifically : national economic self-sufficiency and independence
Anathema: something or someone that one vehemently dislikes.
Polyphonic: the style of simultaneously combining a number of parts, each forming an individual melody and harmonizing with each other.
Cerise: a bright or deep red color.
Affectation: behavior, speech, or writing that is artificial and designed to impress.
Dissimulation: concealment of one's thoughts, feelings, or character; pretense.
Sinecure: a position requiring little or no work but giving the holder status or financial benefit.
Querulous: complaining in a petulant or whining manner.
Solicitude: care or concern fo r someone or something.
Valence: the combining power of an element, especially as measured by the number of hydrogen atoms it can displace or combine with.
Je ne sais quoi: a quality that cannot be described or named easily.
Perdition: (in Christian theology) a state of eternal punishment and damnation into which a sinful and unpenitent person passes after death.
Compeer: the equal or peer of someone else; a close companion or associate.
Ignominy: public shame or disgrace.
Descry: catch sight of.
Portentous: : of, relating to, or constituting a portent
Sonorous: (of a person's voice or other sound) imposingly deep and full.
Mimesis: representation or imitation of the real world in art and literature.
Heuristics: the study and use of heuristic techniques.
Demarcation: the action of fixing the boundary or limits of something.
Poultice: a soft, moist mass of material, typically of plant material or flour, applied to the body to relieve soreness and inflammation and kept in place with a cloth / apply a poultice to.
Inimitable: so good or unusual as to be impossible to copy; unique.
Granules: Granule is a small compact particle of a substance.
Manacles: a metal band, chain, or shackle for fastening someone's hands or ankles.
Aureate: denoting, made of, or having the color of gold / (of language) highly ornamented or elaborate.
Coruscating: flashing; sparkling.
Euphonic: having a pleasant sound.
Concertina: extend, compress, or collapse in folds like those of a concertina.
Ligature: a thing used for tying or binding something tightly.
Philippic: a bitter attack or denunciation, especially a verbal one.
Gelid: icy; extremely cold.
Insouciance: casual lack of concern; indifference.
Conflagration: an extensive fire which destroys a great deal of land or property.
Eidetic: relating to or denoting mental images having unusual vividness and detail, as if actually visible.
Couloir: a steep, narrow gully on a mountainside.
Contiguous: sharing a common border; touching.
Vorpal: resulting in or capable of causing death.
Garroting: kill (someone) by strangulation, typically with an iron collar or a length of wire or cord.
Harangue: a lengthy and aggressive speech.
Diapason: a grand swelling burst of harmony.
Foment: instigate or stir up (an undesirable or violent sentiment or course of action).
Marcescent: (of leaves or fronds) withering but remaining attached to the stem.
Volant: (of an animal) able to fly or glide.
Clement: (of a person or a person's actions) merciful.
Perennially: in a way that continues for a long or apparently infinite time; permanently.
Ungues: a nail, claw, or fang.
Indefatigable: (of a person or their efforts) persisting tirelessly.
Juste milieu: the happy medium; judicious moderation.
Sequelae: a condition which is the consequence of a previous disease or injury.
Lambent: (of light or fire) glowing, gleaming, or flickering with a soft radiance.
Stalagmite: : a deposit of calcium carbonate like an inverted stalactite formed on the floor of a cave by the drip of calcareous water
Crepuscular: of, relating to, or resembling twilight; dim; indistinct.
Parlance: a particular way of speaking or using words, especially a way common to those with a particular job or interest.
Edification: the instruction or improvement of a person morally or intellectually.
Trenchant: vigorous or incisive in expression or style.
Otiose: serving no practical purpose or result.
Scunner: feel disgust or strong dislike.
Insouciant: showing a casual lack of concern; indifferent.
Puissance: great power, influence, or prowess.
Cupidity: greed for money or possessions.
Ribald: referring to sexual matters in an amusingly coarse or irreverent way.
Wroth: angry.
Concupiscence: strong sexual desire; lust.
Pestiferous: harboring infection and disease / constituting a pest or nuisance; annoying.
Ingénue: an innocent or unsophisticated young woman, especially in a play or film.
Canticle: a hymn or chant, typically with a biblical text, forming a regular part of a church service.
Lothario: a man who behaves selfishly and irresponsibly in his sexual relationships with women.
Dais: a low platform for a lectern, seats of honor, or a throne.
Defenestrate: throw (someone) out of a window.
Reveille: a signal sounded especially on a bugle or drum to wake personnel in the armed forces.
Punctilious: showing great attention to detail or correct behavior.
Carping: continually complaining or finding fault about trivial matters; difficult to please.
Pendulous: hanging down loosely.
Gregarious: (of a person) fond of company; sociable.
Usurer: a person who lends money at unreasonably high rates of interest.
Apropos: with reference to; concerning.
Torpor: a state of physical or mental inactivity; lethargy.
Mephitic: (especially of a gas or vapor) foul-smelling; noxious.
Nostrum: a medicine, especially one that is not considered effective, prepared by an unqualified person / a pet project or favorite remedy, especially one for bringing about some social or political reform or improvement.
Narcosis: : a state of stupor, unconsciousness, or arrested activity produced by the influence of narcotics or other chemicals or physical agents see nitrogen narcosis.
Diptych: a painting, especially an altarpiece, on two hinged wooden panels which may be closed like a book.
Tabula rasa: Tabula rasa is the idea of individuals being born empty of any built-in mental content, so that all knowledge comes from later perceptions or sensory experiences. This idea is the central view posited in the theory of knowledge known as empiricism.
Ineluctable: unable to be resisted or avoided; inescapable.
Coterie: A circle of people who associate with one another for a common purpose.
Furore: an outbreak of public anger or excitement.
Assiduously: with great care and perseverance.
Paucity: smallness of number
Facsimile: an exact copy, especially of written or printed material.
Quash: reject or void, especially by legal procedure.
Virulent: (of a disease or poison) extremely severe or harmful in its effects / bitterly hostile.
Pathogenicity: Pathogenicity refers to the ability of an organism to cause disease.
Expropriation: the action by the state or an authority of taking property from its owner for public use or benefit.
Circumspect: careful to consider all circumstances and possible consequences.
Embryonic: (of a system, idea, or organization) in a rudimentary stage with potential for further development.
Proselytism: is the policy of attempting to convert people's religious or political beliefs.
Corollary: a direct or natural consequence or result.
Terra nullius: is a term that refers to a “territory without a master.” It is a term used in public international law to describe a space that can be inhabited but that does not belong to a state, meaning the land is not owned by anyone.
Lachrymose: tearful or given to weeping.
Penury: extreme poverty; destitution.
Exactions: a sum of money demanded for a payment or service.
Entente: a friendly understanding or informal alliance between states or factions.
Parsimonious: unwilling to spend money or use resources; stingy or frugal.
Inchoate: just begun and so not fully formed or developed; rudimentary.
Aegis: the protection, backing, or support of a particular person or organization.
Execrable: extremely bad or unpleasant.
Prescient: in a way that suggests correctly what will happen in the future:
Obviate: remove (a need or difficulty).
Anathema: something or someone that one vehemently dislikes / a formal curse by a pope or a council of the Church, excommunicating a person or denouncing a doctrine.
Bifurcated: : divided into two branches or parts
Nous: common sense; practical intelligence / the mind or intellect.
Eschaton: the final event in the divine plan; the end of the world.
Aplomb: complete and confident composure or self-assurance.
Adulation: obsequious flattery; excessive admiration or praise.
Nostrum: a medicine, especially one that is not considered effective, prepared by an unqualified person / a pet project or favorite remedy, especially one for bringing about some social or political reform or improvement.
Corpuscle: a minute particle regarded as the basic constituent of matter or light.
Atavistic: happening because of a very old habit from a long time ago in human history, not because of a conscious decision or because it is necessary now
Truncate: shorten the duration or extent of / (of a leaf, feather, or other part) ending abruptly as if cut off across the base or tip.
Prefigure: be an early indication or version of (something).
Epiphenomenon: : a secondary phenomenon accompanying another and caused by it.
Dictum: a formal pronouncement from an authoritative source.
Hegemony: leadership or dominance, especially by one country or social group over others.
Gemeinschaft: social relations between individuals, based on close personal and family ties; community.
Moribund: (of a person) at the point of death / (of a thing) in terminal decline; lacking vitality or vigor.
Nouveau riche: people who have recently acquired wealth, typically those perceived as ostentatious or lacking in good taste.
Credo: a statement of the beliefs or aims which guide someone's actions.
Verboten; forbidden, especially by an authority.
Auri sacra fames: accursed hunger for gold
Pièce de résistance: an outstanding item or event.
Recalcitrant: having an obstinately uncooperative attitude toward authority or discipline.
Acerbic: (especially of a comment or style of speaking) sharp and forthright.
Vestures: clothing; dress.
Sillage: the degree to which a perfume's fragrance lingers in the air when worn.
Jingoistic: characterized by extreme patriotism, especially in the form of aggressive or warlike foreign policy.
Lightsome: free from care : lighthearted: airy, nimble
Apoplexy: incapacity or speechlessness caused by extreme anger.
Inimical: tending to obstruct or harm.
Plaintive: sounding sad and mournful.
Preponderant: predominant in influence, number, or importance.
Incontrovertible: not able to be denied or disputed.
Tautology: the saying of the same thing twice in different words, generally considered to be a fault of style (e.g., they arrived one after the other in succession ).
Aggrandisement: the act of increasing the wealth or prestige or power or scope of something.
Conciliation: the action of stopping someone from being angry; placation.
Rentier: a person living on income from property or investments.
Vicissitudes: a change of circumstances or fortune, typically one that is unwelcome or unpleasant.
Antipode: : the exact opposite or contrary
Philistinism: Philistinism is the attitude or quality of not caring about, understanding, or liking good art, music, or literature.
Rapacious: aggressively greedy or grasping.
Panegyric: a public speech or published text in praise of someone or something.
Espied/espy: catch sight of.
Flanderization: Flanderization is the process through which a fictional character's essential traits are oversimplified to the point where they constitute their entire personality, or at least exaggerated while other traits remain, over the course of a serial work.
Atavistic: relating to or characterized by reversion to something ancient or ancestral.
Obelus: a symbol (†) used as a reference mark in printed matter, or to indicate that a person is deceased.
Anathema: something or someone that one vehemently dislikes.
Chimera: : an illusion or fabrication of the mind
Obloquy: strong public criticism or verbal abuse.
Anomie: lack of the usual social or ethical standards in an individual or group.
Lacuna: an unfilled space or interval; a gap.
Encomium: a speech or piece of writing that praises someone or something highly.
Penumbra: : a space of partial illumination (as in an eclipse) between the perfect shadow on all sides and the full light.
Campanulate: (of a flower) bell-shaped, as in a campanula.
Delectation: pleasure and delight.
Hermetic: (of a seal or closure) complete and airtight / relating to an ancient occult tradition encompassing alchemy, astrology, and theosophy.
Remonstrance: a forcefully reproachful protest.
Bromide: a trite and unoriginal idea or remark, typically intended to soothe or placate.
Seraphic: characteristic of or resembling a seraph or seraphim.
Lugubrious: looking or sounding sad and dismal.
Beldam: a malicious and ugly woman, especially an old one; a witch.
Hale: (of a person, especially an elderly one) strong and healthy.
Ablation: the surgical removal of body tissue / the removal of snow and ice by melting or evaporation, typically from a glacier or iceberg.
Hecatomb: (in ancient Greece or Rome) a great public sacrifice, originally of a hundred oxen.
Endogenous: growing or originating from within an organism.
Plaint: a complaint; a lamentation.
Repatriate: send (someone) back to their own country.
Ablution: a ceremonial act of washing parts of the body or sacred containers.
Mercurial: (of a person) subject to sudden or unpredictable changes of mood or mind.
Presage: (of an event) be a sign or warning that (something, typically something bad) will happen.
Dappled: marked with spots or rounded patches.
Garrulous: excessively talkative, especially on trivial matters.
Adamantine: unbreakable.
Helter-skelter: involving disorderly haste or confusion.
Dyspeptic: ill humor.
Prima facie: based on the first impression; accepted as correct until proved otherwise.
Legato: in a smooth flowing manner, without breaks between notes.
Grouse: complain pettily; grumble
Proisoden: : an ancient Greek processional hymn sung by a chorus approaching the temple or altar of a god
Hyporchema: : an ancient Greek choral song and dance usually in honor of Apollo or Dionysus
Paean: a song of praise or triumph.
Denigrate: criticize unfairly; disparage.
Moiety: each of two parts into which a thing is or can be divided.
Palmy: (especially of a previous period of time) flourishing or successful.
Jocund: cheerful and lighthearted.
Bruit: spread (a report or rumor) widely.
Calumnious: (of a statement) false and defamatory; slanderous.
Blastments: A sudden strike or injury; a pernicious thing.
Appurtenances: an accessory or other item associated with a particular activity or style of living.
Carbunucle: a severe abscess or multiple boil in the skin, typically infected with staphylococcus bacteria / something, especially a building, that is unsightly or visually intrusive.
Mobled: : being wrapped or muffled in or as if in a hood
Inoculate: immunize (someone) against a disease by introducing infective material, microorganisms, or vaccine into the body.
Unction: the action of anointing someone with oil or ointment as a religious rite or as a symbol of investiture as a monarch.
Heterodox: not conforming with accepted or orthodox standards or beliefs.
Stochastic: randomly determined; having a random probability distribution or pattern that may be analyzed statistically but may not be predicted precisely.
Schadenfreude: pleasure derived by someone from another person's misfortune.
Oblique: neither parallel nor at a right angle to a specified or implied line; slanting.
Parquet: flooring composed of wooden blocks arranged in a geometric pattern.
Archly: in an amused way that suggests you know more about something than someone else does.
Chthonic: concerning, belonging to, or inhabiting the underworld.
Repartee: conversation or speech characterized by quick, witty comments or replies.
Chiaroscuro: the treatment of light and shade in drawing and painting.
Surcease: cessation.
Mea culpa: an acknowledgment of one's fault or error.
Peripatetic: traveling from place to place, in particular working or based in various places for relatively short periods.
Chrysopoeia: In alchemy, the term chrysopoeia (from Ancient Greek χρυσοποιία (khrusopoiía) 'gold-making') refers to the artificial production of gold, most commonly by the alleged transmutation of base metals such as lead.
Rebarbative: unattractive and objectionable.
Antiphony: antiphonal singing, playing, or chanting.
Psychical: another term for psychic (sense 1 of the adjective).
Anachronism: a thing belonging or appropriate to a period other than that in which it exists, especially a thing that is conspicuously old-fashioned.
Abstruse: difficult to understand; obscure.
Patina: an appearance or aura that is derived from association, habit, or established character / a superficial covering or exterior
Apotropaic: supposedly having the power to avert evil influences or bad luck.
Adumbrate: report or represent in outline / foreshadow or symbolize.
Bathos: (especially in a work of literature) an effect of anticlimax created by an unintentional lapse in mood from the sublime to the trivial or ridiculous.
Baroque: of, relating to, or having the characteristics of a style of artistic expression prevalent especially in the 17th century that is marked generally by use of complex forms, bold ornamentation, and the juxtaposition of contrasting elements often conveying a sense of drama, movement, and tension.
Exegesis: critical explanation or interpretation of a text, especially of scripture.
Concentric: of or denoting circles, arcs, or other shapes which share the same center, the larger often completely surrounding the smaller.
Inconcinnity: : lack of suitability or congruity : inelegance
Solicitude: care or concern for someone or something.
Stop, about the Mimi being protective of pregnant reader....I imagine it carried out even when the baby was born...like when rhe baby is in bed giggling and Mimi circles around them then growl when jy wants to see his baby..I also think mimi would take the baby w her and JY and reader was STRESSED when their baby is gone only to find their baby fell asleep in the warmth of Mimi🥹
You’re so right 100%
Jing Yuan is often busy so your company mostly consists of Mimi for most of the time and the few regular faces you’ll see at the estate. And now that you’re pregnant, Jing Yuan takes extra precaution appointing several of his most entrusted contacts to keep you safe when he isn’t by your side.
cw | pregnancy, suggestive
Who would have known that Mimi, the majestic white lion, who was at first mostly indifferent to you is now suddenly glued to your side like a needy lap cat. And you could only pinpoint this shift in behavior with the progression of your pregnancy.
You started noticing the small shifts two months into your pregnancy. Mimi would follow you from room to room when Jing Yuan wasn’t around. Its icy blue eyes would bore into those who came to speak with you, a little guarded. But Mimi was intelligent—Jing Yuan had expressed this himself to you on many occasions since knowing him. It would not harm anyone that wasn’t a true threat.
When someone asks to feel your belly, Mimi will make a low rumbling sound as a threat. Still, early on it’s no problem and it’s a little situation you easily dispel with comforting assurances and scratches behind Mimi’s ear.
It only becomes a bigger issue when you’re about five months into the pregnancy. Jing Yuan has just come back from a rather long expedition for official business—forty-six days to be exact. And his heart is light with the notion that he finally gets to hold his lovely wife, so wonderful and pregnant, for the first time in weeks.
“My love, it’s good to see you back safe and sound,” you greet, hobbling over from where you were resting on the couch with Mimi obediently at your feet. You look positively radiant like this, your tummy rounded with his child and your body soft and glowing.
Strange, Jing Yuan thinks as he removes some of his armor and regalia. It isn’t lost on him how Mimi follows closely by your side, almost supporting you as you walk to make sure your balance is ensured.
“Ive counted the days until I could see you again,” he grins, hand settling on your hip.
As he leans in to properly greet you with a kiss, Jing Yuan is nudged away. Rather forcibly, he might add. Mimi huffs as it wedges itself between yourself and the general.
“Snow Lion,” he commands with a look.
Mimi looks away with an annoyed flick of its tail, unmoving and nudging your hand to pet its mane. Usually Mimi is well-behaving and certainly well-trained. You can’t help but laugh and bend down to place a smooch to the top of the lion’s mane.
“Husband, I do believe little Mimi is a tad upset you left me alone for so long.”
“This hasn’t been a problem before, so it should not pose an issue now,” he ponders, a little bewildered.
After a few affections and sweet words from you all is well and Jing Yuan is able to properly dote on you like the starved man he is. Well…not without Mimi in the same vicinity as you both catch up over dinner and a stroll through the gardens.
That same night poses another issue. With your soft body under his rough hands, Jing Yuan is eager to please you tonight to make up for lost time while he was away. He’s barely gotten you worked up with desperate kisses and heated touches when he hears it.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
At first, he pays it no mind. Eager to see you fall apart and taste you on his tongue again. It’s you who halts his advances as you break a kiss with a chuckle upon hearing the scratching again and a few low rumbles.
“Love, I think Mimi wants to come into the room,” you mutter against his lips. Jing Yuan sighs, burying his face in your shoulder.
Though he’s painfully hard and just wants to ravage his pregnant wife, he relents and throws on a robe to open the chamber door. The white lion wastes no time walking over and onto the bed, curling up next to you.
“My bed and wife taken over by my own lion,” he sighs, crossing his arms as he watches the lion purr contently against you.
It becomes a regular habit that you unfortunately spoil Mimi with. Your baby is quite fond of Mimi’s purring after all and likewise Mimi is fond of feeling the baby’s kicks.
Jing Yuan is still luckily spared the ability to love you how he wants when time allows but not without your coaxing Mimi that everything is ok and to stand guard at the door instead. At the very least, you have one more form of protection. He has to convince himself of this at least when he sees you fast asleep against Mimi when he returns late some nights. He’s nonetheless fascinated that such an intelligent creature has found instinct in protecting someone who is expecting. Perhaps luck truly favors the bold.
In the months that follow, your baby is born without issue and Mimi is still just as overprotective if not more of the newborn. Surely it understands that your daughter is a frail cub that cannot be left to the elements. And perhaps it’s due to Mimi’s constant purring against you during your pregnancy, but whenever your daughter begins to whine or cry Mimi will diligently lay near her and purr gently to soothe the baby.
And it works. Every time.
You’re almost a little shocked.
And of course, when Jing Yuan goes to check up on your daughter Mimi will growl defensively. It will never act on it, no. He isn’t a threat.
It’s more of a warning. Ensure this cub’s safety or else.
“Snow Lion, she needs to be fed. These worries are not good for your heart,” he scolds without much bite to his words as he rocks the infant gently, formula bottle in hand.
(I do like to think that since Jing Yuan canonically now refers to Mimi as Snow Lion upon discovering it’s a lion, you will prefer to use Mimi because you think it’s cuter. The lion definitely shows more biased response to you using Mimi because of your coos and affections.)
It’s all well and good until the day your daughter goes missing (for like a solid five minutes in the estate). She’s missing from her crib in the few minutes it took for you to grab a new change of clothes for her as you got ready to give her a bath. You immediately call for Jing Yuan since she’s nowhere to be found in the nursery or your room. She’s disappeared along with the blanket she was in.
And somehow Jing Yuan gets the immediate suspicion the lion is somehow involved when he notices Mimi’s absence from your side. He remains calm.
“What time is it, my dear wife.”
“Wh- it’s a quarter past noon. What–”
Jing Yuan takes your hand with a reassuring smile and leads you across the estate to one of the main sun rooms overlooking the garden. It’s where the afternoon sun filters just right through the large glass windows and thin curtains—Mimi’s favorite sunbathing spot.
And no doubt, the lion is there, curled up against the sun’s rays as they filter warmly into the room. Your daughter is bundled up and gently laid upon a little nest pile of blankets within the warmth of the afternoon sun. She sleeps soundly, small hand clutched tightly around a lock of Mimi’s mane.
You both sigh in relief. It certainly isn’t a conventional babysitter, but Mimi is nothing if not intelligent and loyal.
tags: smut, teasing, guided masturbation, fingering, first time (kinda), pwp
word count: 9.3K what the fuck
synopsis: Between being in the midst of your medical residency and being an up-and-coming author, it’s safe to say your personal life has been placed on stand-still. That is, until your editor decided that your next novel needed explicit smut scenes. That is, until your mentor and boss, Dr. Zayne, ends up striking a deal for you to help with “inspiration” for said novel. That is, until you fuck Zayne four times and your life changes forever.
original ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57209872/chapters/145519015
art credit: @/kaito_aii
You’re screwed. Fucked. Utterly damned.
Groaning into your desk, you slam your head down upon piles of patient records and old case files.
You’re only halfway done with your medical residency and somewhere along the way turned your lifelong passion for writing into a successful side gig. So successful in fact, that it was single-handedly providing you with enough money to get by and complete residency.
After anonymously posting online for a decade, you signed with a publisher three years ago, on the exact same day you matched with your first choice cardiothoracic residency program here at Akso Hospital.
Needless to say, you haven't felt that magnitude of happiness in years.
You doubt you ever will again.
In the midst of your wallowing, your phone lights up: Michaela. It’s a follow-up to her previous messages, all with the same damn request.
Michaela - Boss Man
checking in on my star, how’s that manuscript going?
talked to the director again to try and plead your case but she didn’t budge :(
she said w current book trends the fans will go crazy for a few explicit spicy scenes
pluuuus she believes in your writing enough to know you’ll make it big! come on, star, you know I’m here if you need any extra help
You - Little Star
Hey Micheala
You cringe for a moment at how formal you sound, but honestly, you’re too burnt out from writer’s block to match your editor’s energy and too tired from today’s shift to push back any further.
You - Little Star
No I get it, thanks for trying though
I’m almost done with the novel, it's just those scenes that are taking a little more time
And by a “little more time,” you mean you’ve tried writing and rewriting them over a dozen times just to cringe, delete, and scream into your keyboard. Over. And over again.
It’s not that you’re clueless, you’ve read your fair share of erotica for inspiration and pleasure equally. But actually writing them yourself? That was a whole different story. Pacing, banter, and even making the right word choices without sounding like a repetitive pervert or absolute lunatic were all so much harder to do than you previously gave authors credit for.
Not to mention, you haven’t actually experienced a lot first-hand.
Beyond a few situationships in high school and undergraduate flings between pre-med classes and internships absolutely kicking your ass, you’re probably half as sexually experienced as most adults your age. And you had absolutely no intention of re-entering the dating scene with residency, until now.
With Michaela breathing down your neck about how these explicit smut scenes were a marketing goldmine and the combined stress from your jobs, it seems like you’ve been fighting a losing battle. This time, however, your main income was on the line.
You groan as another ping lights up your phone, going to silence it when you realize it’s from the hospital Slack and not your editor.
residency-CS-alerts
Dr. Zayne: Second look needed for a CMR scan. Nonurgent.
Jumping to your feet, you sprint from the office wing to get to the MRI’s before another resident can take your spot. It’s not that your program lacked opportunities- far from it as you attend the top program– but rather that this particular opportunity was rare indeed.
Doctor Zayne. Akso Hospital's respected chief cardiac surgeon, who has made groundbreaking advances to the treatment of congenital heart abnormalities in neonates. At only twenty-seven he is the youngest recipient of the Starcatcher Award. His dedication to his craft is unparalleled, as he tirelessly devotes more time to surgeries than any other doctor you know, cementing his reputation as an unwavering force in the field.
He’s also impossibly tall, extremely well built for a man who seems to spend most of his time in the hospital, and has a face sculpted like a Roman deity in marble. And gods, his voice.
Safe to say, you admire him just a little.
You’ve bumped into him a handful of times during your first two years here, but the doctor was so engrossed in his work that the occurrence was rare enough. But a chance to perform with him? To consult alongside him on a cardiovascular case?
You began to fear for your own heart’s safety as you felt it skip in your throat.
Finally reaching the MRIs, you knock once before sliding the door to the control room open with a bow. And when you stand straight again, Dr. Zayne’s steel-set eyes only glance at you before he points to the readings displayed on the computer.
“Tell me what you see.”
Your mouth is still hanging open from what was going to be a very enthusiastic self-introduction, but you cut yourself off with a cough and stumble over to the monitor. Dr. Zayne’s eyes follow you with a precision that makes your hands tremble, and you bend over slightly to scan the patient’s readings.
You’re about ready to make a diagnosis when you realize you haven’t gotten much background on the patient.
“What’s the patient’s briefing?” You look down, flinching as you see Dr. Zayne already staring at you. “If I can hear it, sir?”
He nods once. “An adolescent female with complaints of shortness of breath and coughing. She had no specific medical history, but grew up in the countryside unable to visit a proper clinic for several years while this issue persisted.”
Countryside… that could mean this was an undiagnosed issue that festered.
Clearing your throat, you begin to point to the different scans. “Firstly, there’s clearly an enlarged cardiac silhouette.” Squinting, you point at two denser mounds in CMR scans. “Here and here. There are two large cysts along the lateral and inferior walls of the LV pushing and invading the myocardial walls.”
Gods, the cysts were huge. Even if surgery was performed on her now, would she survive?
Dr. Zayne’s low voice pulls you back into the control room. “Then what is your final diagnosis?”
“I–” you stutter, shaking your head. “I would recommend surgery immediately.”
“More detail than that, please.”
A sharp inhale and you scan the readings again. “Maybe a cannulation? The cysts might be causing an SVC compression, which would explain her shortness of breath.” You dare ask. “Will she survive?”
Dr. Zayne stands up this time. “You did well. She was my patient, and underwent surgery over a week ago.” He gently pats you on the shoulder, touch warm. “Our job as surgeons is to act decisively, to learn, and to try. Not to be heroes.”
You can’t manage to say anything back as Dr. Zayne leaves the room, the door sliding shut behind him.
_______
Surprisingly, you’ve been seeing more and more of Dr. Zayne since that day.
And if that wasn’t enough, the doctor has also been actively acknowledging you, exchanging greetings and simple conversation when you pass in the halls, cafeteria, or shared cardiovascular wing of the hospital.
Not that you haven’t been putting in the effort either.
Dr. Zayne’s current apprentice is graduating from residency this year, and you have every intention of becoming their successor. Between picking up extra shifts, answering every pager call, and of course paying special attention in case Dr. Zayne specifically requests a second pair of hands, you’ve been climbing up the ranks amongst your peers.
Luckily, it seems those efforts have not been in vain.
You’ve been doing so well apparently, that Dr. Zayne wants to meet with you in the hospital’s cafe today. Interviews before officially announcing mentor-mentee pairs was not unusual, but the thought of being one-on-one with Dr. Zayne after your last case together still has your mind reeling.
Will he pull out old case files? Will he bring you to a patient and test you in real time? You have half a mind that he might pull out a custom-made test and timer. It seems on-brand enough to be a possibility.
Yet when you arrive, the cafe is completely empty, save for the staff and a familiar man in a white lab coat.
Dr. Zayne stands as soon as he sees you and beckons for you to sit, pulling the chair across from him out in the same movement. He clears his throat, a barely-there smile gracing his lips as he watches you settle down. “How have you been, doctor?”
“Good! Good.” The words rush out from you and you flinch, forcing yourself to slow down. Was the cafe always this small? “Discharged a patient today, so all good news.” Holy striped cows, if you say the word good one more time you might lose your mind.
“Well,” Dr. Zayne nods, taking a sip of something that looks like a far-too-sweet cup of coffee practically drenched in whipped cream. “That’s certainly good to hear.”
You die a little inside.
“I’ll keep things rather brief since I’ve already made my mind up.”
Was this it? Did you ruin your chance at having Linkon’s top doctor as your mentor because of your damn mouth?
Dr. Zayne reaches inside his jacket, and you swear your heart is going to beat itself out of your throat. He pulls out a simple white envelope with your name scrawled across the front, the paper crisp as he slides it across the table.
His fingers linger on the edges before he speaks. "I wanted to formally offer you the position to shadow me as my apprentice."
"I accept!"
The words fly out before you can stop them and Dr. Zayne looks stunned for a moment before laughing, a smooth and deep sound you didn't expect from him. He looked good when he smiled. Softer, content.
The ghost of the smile stays, even when Zayne speaks again. "It's not a timed offer, you don't have to agree so quickly."
You flush down to your neck, looking down at the envelope. "Right. Only, it would be an honor to learn from you, sir. I really don’t know anyone in our field who wouldn’t accept it."
Zayne hums, but his brows furrow. “You don’t have to call me sir either. Doctor Zayne is fine while we are at the hospital. Zayne is more than acceptable elsewhere, we’re not that far apart in age and I don’t wish for this to be an overly formal relationship.”
You curse your heart for fluttering, reminding yourself that he only means this in a conductive, professional way.
After a beat of silence, Zayne looks at the clock and stands, taking his sugar-filled drink with him. You never pegged him to have such a massive sweet tooth.
"I have a consultation now, but I would like to talk to you more about your residency. We should set up weekly meetings outside of work, check your calendar, and organize it later.”
You nod and thank him as he walks away, leaving you alone to open the envelope. Inside is a simple handwritten note, signed and stamped with Dr. Zayne's official signature alongside Akso Hospital’s.
A reminder that this was, in fact, not a dream.
_______
It’s barely been a month since you’ve begun officially shadowing Zayne, yet you swear it feels as though a part of you has known him forever.
Aside from his virtually frozen demeanor and tendency to make snarky quips at your habit of running your mouth, he’s been nothing but a patient mentor. Brief, direct, unrelenting, but attentive to your work and growth.
If that were all, then everything would be perfect.
If that were all, then you would be sticking perfectly to your ten-year plan: graduating early, completing residency under the top doctor in the top program, and then overtaking him as the top cardiovascular surgeon with a breakthrough of your own.
But of course, the plot has to thicken.
Sure, the first few weeks have been strictly business, but since then, your conversations with Zayne—Dr. Zayne—have morphed into more casual, more playful meetings. Your weekly check-ins have moved from the hospital cafeteria to a cozy family-run cafe in town that Zayne introduced to you. And the way you’ve begun to think of him was the most damning part of it all.
But you don’t have the time nor capacity to deal with whatever this was becoming.
Not when your novel’s deadline was in three weeks, and you still had absolutely nothing to show for it. Without this new novel’s money, you wouldn’t be able to pay for rent or food or transport, and residency sure as hell wasn’t giving you enough to survive off of alone.
This past week, you’ve gone from stressed to a thundering cloud of misery. Snapping at interns, drinking dangerously over the FDA-recommended caffeine intake, and ignoring the maelstrom your face has become.
And of course, today happens to be your weekly check-in with Zayne.
Dragging yourself to your usual booth, you watch him order at the counter and bring his drink to the table alongside a signature pair of macaroons, a slice of chocolate cake, and an eclair. He sets it all down with a huff and sits, looking over at you with an iron-cold gaze. You can smell the incoming lecture.
"You're late."
You dip your head, but your patience is running on reserve, and your reply has more bite than you’d dare use otherwise. "I'm sorry, it looks like I’ve lost track of time."
"You're never late." Zayne doesn't sound any angrier at your attitude, but it still doesn't settle the guilt bubbling in your stomach.
"I've just been really stressed. You know," you wave your hand, "wrapping up residency."
"Is that so." Zayne's gaze is sharp as he fights to maintain eye contact. It's not a question. "I've noticed. You've been distracted and irritated recently, and I can't help but wonder why. Is it really the hospital? Am I demanding too much aside from your typical resident duties?”
You shake your head, and the guilt is back. "No, of course not."
"Then I have to assume it's something else, is it not?"
"It's..." How on earth are you supposed to explain that the reason why you're a mess is because your editor is pressuring you to write a smut scene that you have no interest in, let alone sufficient experience with? And to someone you admire, your mentor, Linkon’s top surgeon, and apparently now someone your heart is deciding to blackmail you with. "I'm sorry, Dr. Zayne. It's nothing work-related, it's not your problem to fix."
Zayne raises his eyebrow, leaning back in the booth and crossing his arms. “That’s the first time you addressed me as doctor outside of hospital property in over a month. ”
You really, really, can’t do this right now, or else you might start spewing some things you’ll regret. “Really? That’s fascinating, sir.” You watch him scowl at the title you know he hates. “Still does not entitle you to my personal issues.”
“As your mentor, it becomes entitled to me when your personal issues begin affecting your performance.” He says.
You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing your anger down. "It's really not something I can talk about here, nor to you. Can we just have a regular check-in?"
"We are."
“You know what?" You stand, chair falling back with a screech. “I think I need a rain check today, sir. You know. Stress.”
"You’re not leaving until you tell me what is bothering you."
You're about to grab your bag and walk away when you're suddenly reminded of how tall Zayne is when he stands. Practically towering over you, he leans across the table, grabbing you firm enough to prevent you from slipping away, yet never harsh enough to harm you. “Please, we’re making a scene.”
You sit. Zayne follows.
Seeing just how reactive you’re being, he softens, genuine concern in his tone as he reaches an arm out. “Is it a family issue? Are you alright?”
“No. Yes.” You inhale deeply through your nose, but your mind is still reeling at a mile a minute. “No, it’s not a family issue.”
“So if it’s not about the hospital and not family, then what could possibly be causing you this much stress.” Zayne’s eyes narrow and you see his jaw tick. “Don’t tell me this foolishness is over a boy.”
“No! God,” you want to push yourself off a building. Or him. “No, it’s this fucking–” You’re rambling. You’re rambling, losing control, and you’re going to blurt it out and regret it. “It’s this smut scene!”
You’ve really outdone yourself this time.
Zayne chokes on his drink and slams the cup down, coughing as liquid comes out his nose. You flounder in panic, trying to help but he holds a hand up and turns, still coughing into his arm. You can only manage to pull out a few napkins, handing them over in a pathetic bundle.
“A…” Zayne almost seems to buffer, clearing his throat before looking back at you. “An erotica scene?”
Your face is burning. You can practically feel the heat radiating off of it in waves, and you have to remind yourself that writing is your job. A respectable, decent-paying, well-appreciated job that you do for the sake of womankind everywhere.
“I write for extra income alongside residency, and recently my editor got it into her head that we’ll sell even more with some extra spice.” You scoff, “But it’s been months of looking at a blank doc. Now the deadline is approaching and I still have nothing to show for it.”
Zayne doesn't say anything for a moment, and you have to check if he's breathing, or if the shock has killed him. Finally, he shifts back in his seat, adjusting his tie.
"That sounds like a difficult position to be in, doctor."
You look up, and Zayne has his arms crossed. It's an expression you're familiar with, one that means he's actually thinking about what you've said, but the way he says "doctor" now feels strange, almost as if the term has no place here.
"It's fine, I'll figure it out." This is also why you didn't want to tell him, as if Zayne has any place worrying about this on your behalf. “Besides, I’m as much a writer as a doctor, this is my job after all. I have to figure it out.”
“Of course. I’d expect no less." Zayne nods a little to himself, slightly dazed, and you scramble to find a way to change the subject back into something even remotely work-appropriate.
"Anyway, I've been keeping up with my rounds, and I think I've been able to handle more cases on my own recently, too."
"You have."
Zayne is quiet for a beat too long and you frown, tapping the table.
"Are you alright? I know this is a lot, I shouldn't have burdened you with it."
When Zayne faces you again, you watch as his brows furrow. "But if this is such a pressing issue…” He clears his throat, looking at a spot directly above your head. “Then, what if I helped you?”
You swear your head is spinning, his words ringing over and over and over in your mind. The only thing remotely in focus was Zayne’s face, far too close for comfort now, even across the table. Oh gods, you’re having this conversation in public, too.
"What do you mean by help, exactly?"
"If you’re in need of experience," Zayne's voice is low, but he still manages to keep eye contact, the intensity of it making you smile nervously. "Then I could offer my assistance. Better coming from someone you know and trust, yes?"
There’s no way you heard that right. Your mind blanks, but apparently your smartass mouth hasn’t.
"Are you offering to be my fuck buddy? Sex consultant? My smut guide, if you will?"
A deadpan, “I would prefer the term sexual partner.”
Even the way Zayne says it makes it sound more like a business proposal than an actual proposition, and it throws you off guard. He leans back, trying to act nonchalant. "You did mention lack of inspiration was your main issue, correct?”
“Well, yes.” That, and your lack of any novel-worthy sexual experiences.
“And you have had—“ There it is again. Not quite embarrassment, and if you weren’t so tuned in to Zayne’s resting expression, you may not have noticed it, but there is a deeper furrow between his brows as his eyes evade yours, and the slightest tint of pink on the tips of his ears. “You have been with partners before, yes?”
The stoic, pragmatic, level-headed Doctor Zayne is embarrassed asking you whether or not you’ve had sex before.
You nearly laugh.
“Yes,” an amused giggle escapes you at the absurdity of this entire conversation. “I’ve been with partners,” you mimic, slightly mocking his word choice, “but it has been a while, and I haven’t really…”
Zayne moves to take another sip of coffee. “You haven’t?”
“I’ve never come. Orgasmed.”
And he chokes. Again.
“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry!” You jump from your seat to hand him yet another pile of napkins, but this time Zayne stops you halfway there, grabbing your wrist as his coughs subside.
Neither of you speaks as he drinks water and coughs once more, his grip still iron and far colder than you imagined it would feel against your bare skin.
“My apologies,” Zayne releases you immediately, going back to staring at his coffee as his hand flexes once. Twice. “Continue.”
You can only watch him in fascination, sitting back down in your chair. The entire time he avoided eye contact, and he was definitely blushing. You almost wanted to push further, to poke and tease and test his reactions, but you knew that would end with you losing your head. Or worse, you muse, heart fluttering against your chest.
“Ah, I mean, I’ve felt pleasure before. It’s not that my previous partners were unwilling to do stuff for me, I’ve just never gotten over that little plateau.” It’s not resentment that washes over you, and not quite embarrassment either. Just a little bit of dull apathy towards the subject. And yourself. “Biologically speaking of course I know it’s possible, but there are also plenty of women who simply don’t climax during sex. I’m probably just one of them.”
Zayne, who seems to have returned to his usual stoicism, frowns at that, mouth drawn taut as though he wanted to say something.
"And if we were to engage in sexual acts," He's so clinical, even as he says something that could send anyone else running. “Perhaps that is what you need to start writing again. It would make sense. To write a compelling,” he stumbles over the word, “erotica, you’d have to experience pleasure."
The gears in your mind turn, and slowly, it begins to make a twisted sort of sense. You'd have to feel it for yourself, to be able to describe the sensation, the passion, the tension with conviction. Perhaps it really would get you closer to finishing this damn book.
But then you remember who you're talking to. Doctor Zayne. Your coworker. Worse than that, your mentor and direct superior in your field, and someone you happen to admire very much. So then why would he…?
"What do you gain from this, Zayne?"
Zayne stiffens. “I’m a doctor, it’s my duty to help my patients.”
A sly smile cracks against your lips, and you prop your chin against your palm. “I didn’t realize I was your patient now, doctor?”
His eyes snap back to yours and he straightens, his demeanor slipping back to his typical formality. "You have a bright future in front of you. This is an investment in you, and I believe this will help us both. I will draw up a contract tomorrow for us to discuss, you can meet me in my office after your shift.”
“Rather formal,” you say, but Zayne doesn’t take the bait this time.
He simply takes another sip from his coffee, and you swear you catch him smiling behind the porcelain rim. “Then perhaps I could also get a signed copy of your next book?"
You scoff, waving him off as you slouch back in your chair. "Of course, I'll throw one in the mail the day it's out."
"It's a deal then.”
He’s about to push in his chair when you lunge from yours, grabbing his sleeve as his eyes widen slightly, looking down at where your hands meet. "Thank you,” a smile. ”Zayne."
His gaze softens and he smiles a bit, nodding. "Of course, doctor."
And with a wave, he's gone.
_______
You don’t know what you expected.
Zayne seemed like the type to take his girl out to dinner first, probably somewhere obscenely expensive. He’d show up with a single rose or another simple but romantic gift so seemingly contradictory to his outward appearance. Afterward, maybe he’d take her to a show or somewhere with fancy sweets, knowing his taste. Then, after all that, he’d invite her back to his apartment or allow her to whisk him away to her place.
You’d imagine it would go something like that. But then again, the terms of your relationship are quite different then the one he’d have with this imaginary woman. So when he texts you after your shift that Tuesday asking if you’re free tonight, you’re only moderately panicked.
To make matters worse, he’s at your house five minutes early.
Two knocks, and you scramble to open the door, Zayne nearly dwarfing the door frame as he lingers outside the hallway. His trenchcoat only adds to his natural tendency to command attention, and you feel more vulnerable than usual in your sleep clothes.
“Fancy seeing you here, stranger.”
Zayne adjusts his collar. “Do you mind if I come in?”
You tap your chin, pretending to mull it over in your mind, relishing in the slight nervousness your silence instills in Zayne. “It would be rather bothersome to fuck in the hallway, I suppose…”
Zayne shakes his head at the remark, but you can see amusement dancing in his eyes. With that, you step aside, and he ducks under the doorframe to slip inside. It’s as though something irreversible- something inevitable- shifts as you watch him cross the threshold, and it doesn't get better when you close the door and lock it behind him.
You'd say he makes himself at home, but his stance is still too stiff, too awkward, even as he’s hanging his coat and slipping out of his shoes. It almost feels domestic.
"Would you like something to drink?"
Zayne shakes his head, "Not this time."
He says it so casually, and yet the notion of a next time has you dizzy. Of course there’s a next time, you’ll need more than one night to get inspiration. It was only a natural assumption, you reason with yourself.
"You seem tense," he says, and then your back is against the wall.
Zayne leans down, hovering above you as his hand comes up to your waist. A tentative touch, and you give a small nod, feeling his arm relax, palm sliding further into the plush of your hips. He looks so good like this, in a work button-down with a thin sheen of sweat on his brow and his lips parted. Gods, and he’s not even trying- there’s genuine concern written in the way he scans your body with a deep crease between his brows. You hope he doesn’t notice how you squeeze your thighs tighter.
"It's the deadline, is all," you say, trying to brush off the question.
"Ah, of course. How inconsiderate of me. I’m supposed to be helping you and here I am making it worse.”
Zayne's voice is low and smooth. The cadence in his words, the slight drawl, is a sound that makes your heart skip a beat. It's a shame it's so easy to hide your arousal when you're this nervous.
“Well,” You smile, and his gaze flickers down to your mouth. “I suppose I can forgive you if you uphold your end of the deal.”
His stare is heavy, and it feels like the room is closing in. But you understand the man well enough to know that he wouldn’t dare move first, not until you asked for it, not when you have yet to set a precedent. So you loop your arms around his neck, forcing Zayne closer as his forearm slams against the wall to hold himself up against you.
You nip at the lobe of his ear, smiling to yourself as he shivers with each warm exhale. Zayne’s hand has yet to leave your side while he lets you grind against him, guiding your movements as you groan against his neck.
But Zayne feels you rush through the movements, a messy sort of impatience less from desire and more from routine. As though you wanted this done. As though you wanted him gone.
You feel a familiar flutter against your core as Zayne’s knee comes up against your core, but when you move to grind against his thigh, the hand at your waist stops you.
“I want to do this properly. You deserve—” he cuts himself off. Starts over. “Where would you like to do this?”
You’re about to tell him that right here is fine, not wanting Zayne to feel as though you needed any more special attention, when you realize just how serious he is. “Bedroom," you say.
Zayne hums, and the rumble reverberates throughout his chest. He offers a hand, and you take it.
And with that, you lead him to your room.
Somewhere between the span of your hallway and bed, Zayne seems to have decided how tonight will go. Despite your desperate touches, teasing up his body and luring him closer, Zayne slows his own pace, leaving burning trails traced with agonizing slowness over the curves of your body. Despite your fumbling to strip off your shirt, Zayne grabs your wrist, forcing it behind your back as his other hand teases the exposed skin of your ribs in a way that has you shivering. Despite your hushed complaints for him to just hurry up Zayne merely smiles in amusement, refusing to give you anything more as he scolds you with a click of his tongue.
Zayne refuses to rush this. He wants to savor every moment, to etch the sight of you into his mind and commit it to memory, to relive it in this life and the next.
He continues walking forward, each one forcing you to take a step back until your knees hit your bed, buckling as his form looms over you.
“The largest mistake in any relationship- sexual or not- is lack of communication.” He loosens his tie, “So if we are to do this, you have to talk to me. Tell me what you like, what you don’t.”
As he speaks, Zayne continues undressing, unbuttoning the top few buttons on his shirt before rolling up the cuffs so every glorious inch of his forearms is exposed. Your breath catches with each trailing vein, shadowed in the dim lighting up until they disappear under his sleeves.
Maybe you should write a Victorian-era piece next. Clearly, you had a thing for small swaths of exposed skin.
As if hearing your thoughts, Zayne undoes another button before his hands venture south. With a slow, deliberate motion, he unbuckles his expensive leather belt and allows it to slide through the loops of his pants. It drops to the floor, joining all the other articles of clothing as he takes a seat on the mattress, resting his hand on your bare thigh, inching closer and closer to where your sleep shorts have ridden up.
"Tell me what you like and don't like." Zayne repeats, eyes focused on yours, "And remember, you say no, and this stops."
Zayne moves painfully slow, his hands fluttering down your shoulders, breasts, hips, until he plants them behind you, caging you between his broad chest and the mattress. His hand slips under your shirt’s fabric once more, and you feel yourself tense.
You aren’t wearing anything fancy. After all, you were simply writing in bed, nearly falling off when you suddenly got Zayne’s text. Only a pair of shorts and a cami, but gods, when Zayne’s hands begin trailing up your stomach, dragging the thin fabric up with him, you really wished you put something sexier on.
He doesn't stop until his fingertips brush against the underwire of your bra, thick fingers slipping under the band as he practically tugs you toward him. "Can you take this off for me?"
"Don't know how to do it yourself?" You tease.
Before you even finish taunting him, Zayne's hand has already snuck around your back, undoing the clasp and forcing you onto your back. You can feel the heat radiating off of him.
"Now, now, we'll be here all night if we start fighting." He chastises you, tone far too smug. Zayne tugs the undone bra up, his fingers tracing the red marks it left against your skin. You tremble under his touch. "Didn't realize how sensitive you are."
His tone is even, but you can see the slight curl at the corner of his lips.
"Your hands are cold," you say, voice wavering as Zayne begins taking your shirt off as well. You try not to fidget, knowing that the way your arms are held up only emphasizes the size difference, Zayne being able to completely lift your chest against him as the other binds your wrists. You're not tiny. But next to him? It barely mattered.
"I apologize." But it feels half hearted at best, especially with the way he’s staring at your bare chest, not even bothering to take your shirt all the way off. It almost feels more embarrassing like this, cotton bunched against your collarbones under his palms.
“I’m going to touch you now, okay?”
The way he says it causes a rush of blood to your face. “I’m not some virgin that might break.” You grumble under your breath, but Zayne is as stupidly attentive as always and frowns.
“Do not mistake my care for pity.”
Something ugly aches in your chest when he looks at you like that.
Zayne’s hand comes up, large enough to encircle the entirety of your cheek as you’re enveloped in the chill of his touch. His body is nearly atop yours, each word breathed into your mouth. “Then, if you have no more snarky remarks, allow me to begin."
Zayne’s gaze drops to where he thumbs at your lips, leaning in as you watch his pupils dilate, flickering with something before he flinches away, kissing the corner of your mouth instead.
His other hand cups the curve of your breast, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You gasp, the sensation heightened by the feeling of his teeth against your collarbone, nipping marks into your skin.
It takes a moment for all his featherlight touches to register, your eyes fluttering closed as his thumb rubs your chin. You try to ignore the way he avoids your lips, refusing to get too close.
All for the better, you remind yourself.
He kisses lower, down between the valley between your breasts, hot breath the only warning you get before his tongue meets your nipple while his fingers deliver a sharp flick to the other. The contrast of the heat from his mouth to the cold of his fingertips sends you reeling as you muffle your cries into your palm.
Zayne doesn’t like that. He forces your hand from your mouth, biting your nipple as if in vengeance as you moan, the sound broken and desperate as you claw at his forearm.
Satisfied, his tongue smooths over the bright pink bite mark and swollen bud, the unpredictable pressure fogging up your every thought before he retreats with a wet pop.
Finally, Zayne moves to fully remove your shirt, but pauses when you flinch.
“Would it make you more comfortable if I undressed as well?” Zayne begins to take off his own shirt, but you lunge for him, stopping his hands as your voice escapes in a whoosh.
“No.”
His collared shirt was utterly ruined, unbuttoned just enough so you could see his flushed chest when he bent over. And now when he sat up straight the bottom rose up just a bit, exposing a stretch of his lean torso, a peak of his abs, and a dark happy trail that dipped into his tailored pants. Every once in a while, you could see his muscles flex and it sent a shameful throbbing down your core.
“You can keep it like that, it’s hot.”
Zayne doesn’t respond, but when he averts his eyes you swear you watch his lips curl into a smirk. It’s gone by the time he looks at you. Not that you have any time to dwell on it, not when Zayne closes the remaining space between you, guiding you against the pillows.
You try not to focus on how out of place he seems in your apartment, mere presence dwarfing everything else as he makes his way between you, forcing your knees apart.
Zayne leans back, his fingers trailing up your leg, edging up the fabric of your shorts up with his touch, but never daring to slip past the self-imposed barrier of the cotton. He coaxes your hips up, and you kick the shorts off in a clumsy movement, Zayne's eyes now focused between your thighs before you snap them shut as best you can around his waist.
“Let me see.”
You gape at him. “I– Doctor–”
“Relax. I can’t guide you if you don’t let me, now open.”
It’s not an order. Not quite. Zayne’s voice is effortlessly assertive, but it falls just short of being a command. You could call this off, he’s told you that much directly, and knowing Zayne if you did so everything would go right back to how it was before. A mentor and student. Coworkers. Strangers.
You force the tremors in your thighs to relax, knees dropping from Zayne’s hips to the sheets below as you move your left leg just enough to feel the inner band of your underwear stretch.
It’s a bearable amount of embarrassment and vulnerability, until you look up at Zayne again, and akin to a deer in headlights, you freeze. He watches with enough intensity for it to be clinical, a vicious sort of attentiveness that sees every twitch, every strain your body responds with, as if committing it all to memory. As if he were to devour you alive.
You think you’d let him.
Zayne reaches over, and his thick finger trails a line up your inner thigh, immediately followed by goosebumps, knuckles ghosting the inner seam of your panties.
Your body reacts before you do. Before you can even breathe, the air catches in your throat, and your legs squeeze together in a pathetic attempt to hide yourself.
Zayne pins them down immediately, gaze snapping up to you. You expect a reprimand. Maybe a warning or a punishment, and the anticipation makes your stomach twist.
Instead, his brows draw in, as if lost in thought. “You said you never came from touching yourself either?”
You can barely manage a nod.
“Hm. Then you weren’t doing it right.” He says, so bluntly that you can only blink at him. “Show me how you do it.”
Zayne sits back between your thighs, one hand still absent-mindedly caressing your knee, waiting expectantly.
And you feel the flush burn all the way up your ears and down your chest.
Oh, that was not what you expected him to say. You were prepared for him to touch you, or to guide you, but instead he asks for the complete opposite.
And, well, you could only ever try your best for him— ever the people pleaser.
It's humiliating how easily your fingers slip under the elastic band. Even more so when the pads of your fingers run down your folds, and you feel yourself clench at the mere contact, already slick and wanting. You move to tug your underwear off, but Zayne stops you, grabbing at your wrist.
"Wait," He's panting, eyes blown as he continues to stare at you, at the wet patch accumulating in the center of those damned panties. "Keep them on."
His tone is so serious a part of you wants to laugh. You're about to make a quip when he pulls your hand up, bringing your fingers to his lips and wrapping his tongue around them. The way he teases from the pad of your finger to your knuckle, sucking as he goes, has you lightheaded. Your hips stutter upwards, a pitiful sound escaping from your throat as you try to keep yourself together.
He doesn't stop. Not until your fingers are clean and your thighs have grown unbearably sticky, neglected and throbbing.
When he finally lets go, you're a gasping mess, and Zayne looks downright smug. "Now, you can continue."
The bastard.
You don't know how you manage to move, let alone bring your fingers to your entrance.
Pushing aside the cotton, your first touch is tentative, and you flush at how much easier it is with Zayne’s spit covering them. Your breath catches both from the initial stretch and the way Zayne leans in closer to see, even though the thin elastic prevents him from watching the way your cunt flutters around the new intrusion.
You shift, but your need has grown nearly uncomfortable, hips beginning to buck up as one finger quickly becomes too little, and you whine as you attempt to push in another, to push in a little deeper.
"Slower. You're going too fast."
You can't help the scowl, your tone sharper than intended. “How would you know?"
Zayne’s face is a cool mask, the corners of his lips twitching with amusement. "You did ask me for advice, did you not?" Then his voice takes on a sharper edge, demanding again. "Slow down, then you may continue."
As if you needed his permission to continue. But you do as he says, rocking your fingers in and out, pace painfully slow, mere friction sending jolts of heat throughout you.
Usually, this was the best part, the delicious and tortuous build-up that would ultimately lead to nothing. Not nearly long enough, your fingers hit just below your sweet spot, and you could feel tears of frustration prick against your eyes. Writhing, you tried to plunge further, choking out a moan again and again at the barest brushing against your sweet spot, mindlessly grinding your hips up to meet each cruel thrust of your fingers.
You cry when you finally hit that spot inside you, head falling against the pillows as you tense, about to move again when something stops your hand, ripping it away from your desperate chase.
“You–“ Zayne shakes his head, breath ragged as some combination of a frustrated exhale and moan rumbles through his chest, the sound going straight to your cunt. “You’re too impatient. Too rough.”
You try to swallow, try to hide how the sound of his moan and the rough cadence of his voice makes the muscles of your belly and thighs spasm, but Zayne doesn't miss a thing. He doesn't release your hand, not fully, but rather guides both of your digits to trace around your clit instead.
"Again," he says, “This time slower. How does it feel?”
You close your eyes, taking a deep breath as you feel his hand continue to guide yours, entire body jolting when he catches against the hood of your oversensitive clit, tapping as he lets you circle it on your own.
“Good. It feels really good.”
Zayne hums, but he already knows that. He feels it through the drenched bottoms of your panties, rubbing your poor swollen clit through them, watching as you gush again, the slick coating his palm and dripping down his wrist in sticky strands.
It takes everything within him not to withdraw his hand and lick it all. Or even better, take his mouth to you directly. Not yet. Not yet, he reminds himself. Next time.
You have to bite your lip as you feel Zayne’s hand take over your own, almost greedily pushing and pinching your clothed cunt, the fabric both a delicious friction and a damn barrier you wish was gone so you could finally feel his bare fingers on you, in you. It’s torture, every nerve on fire as Zayne continues to focus on your clit while your fingers return against your folds, teasing your entrance with a light touch before pressing in.
But it's still not enough. It's not what you need.
You look to Zayne for direction, but his expression is unreadable in the darkness. "Deeper. Keep going."
The angle isn't quite right, but you do as he says, trying and failing to muffle your sounds as you fuck yourself on your fingers, desperately chasing the feeling building up once more.
“Again. Deeper.”
It hurts. Your wrist is beginning to ache, and you’re really not sure how much longer you can keep going, crying out again when Zayne forces his hand flat against your clothed core, shoving your own fingers deeper and causing the wet fabric to rub deliciously against your clit.
You don't even have time to react before he's pulling away, his own hand rubbing the wetness on his fingers together as he watches the strands break and drip down his hand.
His tone is so nonchalant despite the way he keeps his gaze trained between your legs. As if the sight of you, flushed and gasping, with your cunt pathetically leaking and yet still demanding more, wasn't the hottest thing he'd ever seen.
“Ask,” Zayne demands, his voice deep enough that you swear you can feel it rumbling through your bones. “Ask for it.”
“Need your help, please, Zayne” you manage, voice airy and heart still racing from unintentionally edging yourself over and over again. “I want your fingers.”
It’s probably impossible to miss the way your eyes have been drawn to his hands all evening, big and corded with veins and muscle and scar tissue. Hands gentle enough to care for patients, steady enough to perform surgeries, cruel enough to tease you this mercilessly, and yet you can’t help but imagine what they’re going to feel like when he starts touching you properly.
You’ve probably thought about his hands more times than you’d like to admit.
At the hospital, at the cafe, at night in your apartment. Every inch of his body seems to haunt you like a forgotten memory your body had already grown addicted to.
The moan that rumbles out of Zayne’s chest is low and addicting. He sits back for only a moment before your hips are dragged down the bed, a yelp leaving your lips from the sheer force.
Zayne practically knocks your leg over his shoulder, and when you arch off balance, you press against something that has you inhaling sharply through your nose. Fuck, Zayne’s hard.
He shudders violently at the contact, falling onto his forearms as you roll against him once more, watching his face twist from the painful pleasure you know all too well. You feel his control slipping, both in the way his fingers tighten at your hips and the throbbing heat you feel twitch against your thigh.
And just realizing how much you’ve affected him is enough to send your eyes rolling back into your skull with a violent tremor.
You attempt to grind up against him again when Zayne roughly pins you back down. You writhe helplessly, hips pinned to the mattress as Zayne curses, adjusting himself in his slacks with a rough squeeze. “No.” A command to both himself and you, “You asked for my fingers, so that’s what you will get.”
You’re about to open your mouth to make another demand, but Zayne is one step ahead of you yet again. “That’s all you’re getting.” As if to quell your anger, he begins to thumb at your clit again, moving to take off your last remaining piece of clothing. “Next time.”
A promise he has every intention to keep.
Ironically, Zayne is handling you far more gently than you usually touch yourself, and you find yourself flexing your hips in an attempt to get him to touch you with more pressure. He ignores your endeavors, keeping his pace implacably steady and slow. But you’ve been worked up far too long, and as soon as Zayne begins fucking you with two of his much thicker fingers, you already feel the familiar tension building.
“Do you want to tell me what you’re feeling?”
“Not really,” you manage through clenched teeth.
You feel Zayne pull away and thrust your hips up into nothingness, only making yourself more sensitive when he roughly thumbs at your clit. He slams your hips back down, a cruel pinch to the oversensitive nub forcing you to arch into him as your jaw falls slack.
“That was not a question.” Zayne is still hovering above you, watching as his fingers slip against your cunt, slick with your arousal. “Use your words.”
His voice takes a dark edge every time he commands you now, and you bite your lip to not whimper at the tremor his voice sends down your skin. It’s not fair, the effect something so simple has on you. But while his demand is still ringing in your ears, Zayne curls his fingers further upwards, rubbing directly against that sweet spot inside you with frustrating ease, and you sob.
"Please,” you can’t even remember to beg. Zayne nearly abuses the spot, curling into it over and over again until you’re certain you’re drooling all over the silk of your pillow, writhing. "Please, I'm– I need more, and, ah—“
Zayne hums. "More? You're going to have to be more specific if you actually want to orgasm."
You whine, shaking your head as his eyes narrow. He’s only halfway through scolding you when his finger smacks against your clit, the sharp twinge of pain enough to make you cry. "Don't be a child. Words. Tell me what's giving you pleasure so I can help you."
"It's," a huff of air leaves you and you can barely manage to form a coherent sentence, your mind fogging over completely as Zayne continues to talk. "Hah, your voice helps.”
“My voice?”
Your eyes nearly roll back at the sound of Zayne’s chuckle. A deep, cruel thing that you now think may be all you need to come as your eyes screwed shut. “Well, if that’s the case, then I suppose I should just keep talking. Keep your eyes open.”
You obey, and Zayne simultaneously pulls your jaw towards him, forcing you face-to-face with him. “Look at me.”
You do. You do and really wish you hadn’t because the smug smile pulling at the corner of his lips and the freckles of light green you now see in his softened gray eyes might really be all you need to send yourself over the edge.
And, as if listening, Zayne forces his fingers deeper inside, the tips of his digits hitting the same spot that has your mind fogging over, vision blurring with a disorienting mix of hazy and dizzy. You can barely hold on, fingers twitching against the sheets as suddenly it becomes too much, your hands shooting up as you press desperately against Zayne’s chest.
“Wait–” You’re dizzy. The pressure is consuming you, and you’re losing control. “Please, Zayne.”
He stops immediately, pliant under your touch as he lets you push him away. Even so, his free hand comes up to meet yours, coaxing your fingers against his as he holds it up to his chest, letting you ground yourself with his heartbeat.
The rhythm is comforting.
Zayne isn’t speaking anymore, just looking, waiting for you to give him a sign. He doesn’t dare move, letting his fingers sit still, buried inside of you. You don't know if it's the dizziness lingering in your head or the fact that his fingers are insistently rubbing against a spot inside of you that sends sparks up your spine, but either way, you might be going insane.
“Keep your breathing steady, even when you’re close. Deep breaths.” In, out. In, out. Your chest rises as Zayne’s does, bare skin brushing his. “Good.”
Even as your vision clears, Zayne refuses to let go of your hand, this time pinning it beside your head as he begins to move his other hand too, thumb circling your clit as the others curl against your walls.
When you begin to shake again, his lips ghost by your neck, dangerously soft and hesitant as he kisses down from your jaw, following each whimper and moan you give to him with loyal intent, sucking gently at a spot near your jugular and collarbone.
"Ah, Zayne. I think–" your breathing hitches as Zayne presses another soft kiss against your skin.
"Are you okay?" The softness of his tone nearly breaks you, and you force yourself to ignore it. Focus on the sensations; focus on what you can use for the novel. Nothing more.
You nod.
"What else, darling? Are you close?"
Your breath hitches. The sudden pet name has you reeling, and you feel Zayne keep his steady rhythm, even through your trembling and whining, his thumb mercilessly circling against your clit in ways you swear never feel the same when you’ve done it.
"Call me that again," you cry, nearly begging.
"Come. Come for me, darling."
And you do.
Your vision blurs as you come around Zayne’s fingers, a silent scream catching in your throat. All you can manage is a broken moan as you arch into him, gripping his forearm and holding it in place. Your thighs quiver around his arm, and Zayne holds you still, coaxing you through it as wave after wave of pleasure wash over you.
The sensation is overwhelming. You're not even sure how long it lasts, the only thing grounding you is the weight of Zayne's hand laced against your own.
Slowly, he begins to withdraw his fingers, kissing your knuckles softly.
"How are you feeling?"
The room is quiet, and it feels like all the sound has been sucked out of it. Your head is fuzzy and your whole body is tingling, and all you can focus on is Zayne's soft breathing.
Good, you want to tell him. More than that, your body is still shaking from pleasure and desire, and you can’t stop looking at Zayne’s lips or remembering how hot and needy he felt grinding against your thigh. You can’t stop thinking about him, so instead you say, “Fine.”
Zayne stiffens. “Good.”
He sits up, still scanning your face for something as you watch the fabric of his shirt pull taut across his chest and stomach, and once again you are overwhelmed by the desire to run your hands down his body, to feel his skin against yours. To see more of him.
“I’m going to get you water and a towel.” He says, not moving just yet. “Do you need anything else?”
You shake your head no. Zayne nods, leaning in as his hand goes to your jaw before he pauses halfway and steps out of bed, making his way to your bathroom.
You don’t really remember how much of the night goes by after that, a blur of Zayne attentively guiding you through proper aftercare and you throwing in a few quips here and there at his ceaseless worrying. Before long, he’s saying farewell, and you’re back at your computer screen, empty doc staring right back at you.
But the words never form. Not when your head is still spinning, replaying everything that happened tonight in vivid flashbacks as an overwhelming rush of mortification and desire runs down your spine.
You can’t help but feel that perhaps you just made an irreversible mistake.
𝓼𝔂𝓷𝓸𝓹𝓼𝓲𝓼: Barou seems to have enough of your godawful dating life. What he doesn’t know is that you’ve reached your breaking point, too.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚: explicit content ﾉ 18+ ﾉ fem!afab!reader ﾉ friends to lovers ﾉ idiots in love ﾉ roommates AU ﾉ barou centric ﾉ soft love making bc he's a CLB duh ﾉ narration heavy ﾉ kinda mean to reader but it all means well ﾉ first time/virginity loss ﾉ dry humping ﾉ fingering ﾉ missionary ﾉ no beta we die like men wc: 8.5k (longest smut fic i've written thus far whew)
a/n: hello friends i am back hehe trying out a new format :3 and also a standalone barou fic because wow i've always paired this guy w nagi sjakhdkajdfh pls give me more hair down barou im begging on my fuckin knees
“Promise me that you won’t get mad,” you peek around the door frame, head poking into Barou’s room.
“The hell did you do this time,” Barou tries to keep his voice casual, red eyes flickering from his computer monitor to your face, then back again. Frankly, he has no idea what you’re possibly referring to, but whenever you’re vague like this, it’s usually not a good thing.
Your brows knit together and you clench the sides of the door. “You gotta promise me, Shouei.”
It has to be something bad, at least in his mind, because you’re trying really hard to look convincing. He can make out the small fidgeting motions by just how hard your knuckles are gripping against the door frame. Barou exhales and pauses, and it’s for a long, rare moment. He’s always the type of guy to say whatever comes to mind, and it’s usually a whole bunch of unfiltered harsh truths and things that others don't want to hear. It’s rare that Barou is actually picking his words carefully and, of course, that catches your attention even more.
“Shouei…”
After a few seconds, Barou manages to narrow the possibilities down to three.
The first answer being the obvious choice: you’re planning to invite a bunch of your friends over for a last minute party. Your friends are loud, messy, and a bit too friendly towards him despite the numerous times he’s yelled at them. Whatever, he’s used to this by now. Afterall, he’s been living with you at this apartment for well over a year now—four years if he counts the amount of times you’ve crashed at his dorm during his time in high school and university.
The second outcome might be directly related to the second half: you’re moving out. Could it be a new job opportunity with better pay? Hell, he’s seen you hunched over and obsessively scrolling through multiple job posting sites these past few months that he’s had a feeling that the day will come sooner or later. But it wouldn’t be something that Barou could see himself getting frustrated over.
Which only leads to the third option: you’ve somehow brought home a stray animal and expect him to be okay with it—
“Okay, dude, you’re seriously starting to freak me out.”
Barou snorts and rolls his eyes. “Can’t promise if I don’t know what it is,” and motions at the empty space by the edge of his bed. “Whatever you brought back home, though, it’s a no. You know I have a cat allergy.”
“I wouldn’t bring an animal home without telling you! Plus, that’s such a lie because you had a cat growing up,” you flush brightly and glower. Needless to say, you end up shuffling past the door frame, into full view, and Barou quickly realizes what you’re referring to, and why you’re acting so agitated.
Breath quickly catches in Barou’s lungs. He averts his gaze, looks back, and clenches his jaw—all in a matter of seconds.
“You’re… dressed up,” he’s pretty sure his face is all contorted, because you’re suddenly acting meek again.
“Don’t give me that look,” your hands fly up and do a poor job covering your chest and exposed thighs.
A form fitting dress is the last thing he’d ever imagined you in, then again, you were never the type to actively show off your feminine outfits in front of him—lounging around in nothing but sweats and an oversized tee is a sight he’s more used to—until now.
“I don’t normally see you wearing stuff like this,” he tries to make the words casual and dismissive, though he’s very aware that he’s just admitted that he pays close attention to you. And, for whatever reason, he has the burning urge to tear himself away, before the tiny voice in his head starts taunting him to go even lower. “Why are you even showing me?”
“Y’know, I had an explanation to give you, but now you sound borderline pissed,” you begin to tip toe back behind the door frame, slowly.
“I always sound borderline pissed,” Barou adds. He’s paused his task at the desk, computer monitor on mute, and the room is exceptionally quiet, except for the low, hesitant creaks from the floor panels. After another moment of studying your face, he exhales and shakes his head. “Let me guess… a date?”
“Oh,” you look momentarily surprised, or maybe that’s just his imagination. You revert back almost immediately though. “How’d you figure it out so quickly?”
If it weren’t for those damn career boosting sites, the second most used apps would be those stupid dating ones.
Both of your parents work all the time, business partners even, so it’s been mainly the two of you left to your own devices at a young age. Barou didn’t have many friends growing up, outside of you and his sisters, if he can even count them.
You’re generally introverted by nature, but somehow you seem to attract people who seem to lack common boundaries and have a strange affinity to soccer. Of course, that includes him, your friends, and all the dates you try and bring back—Barou never lets them go past the shoe rack and, thankfully, your dates always seemed too afraid to object.
Your parents think that it’s a blessing of some sort. That he’s your personal guardian or a shitty guard dog to keep out unwanted men. Something about keeping you safe, another comment about being a good future son-in-law. Conversations with your relatives always tend to steer from topics of career goals, the amount of savings you have, to relationship status, and—ultimately—hey, Shouei’s available, right? Of course, you two don’t have that type of relationship.
Barou is observant, despite what others might think. Observant enough to know that you get uncomfortable when the idea of the two of you being together comes up. You tend to go quiet, then flustered, all before storming off to your own room. Maybe that’s why you spend all your energy into those dating apps—a weird rebellion phase of sorts.
He wants to chastise you, hoping it’ll lead towards you finding another pastime that consists of less unimpressive dicks. Perhaps picking up more books would be well suited for you. Though, upon recent apartment cleanings, he’s stumbled upon plenty of your obscured romance novels. The type of novels that the covers consist of half naked men in cowboy attire with the classic damsel in distress in his arms—Barou doesn’t understand why anyone reads that stuff—piled up all on the living room coffee table.
Scolding you is definitely on top of his to-do list right about now, second to decluttering the fridge. Advising that you can’t blindly trust men on these shitty platforms because god knows what they lie about to get a person’s attention. But he has a feeling that you’ll brush him off, spouting an all too familiar speech that you’ve given him plenty of times before about not being a kid. It’s probably a dumb idea, and he knows that.
So, instead, he shrugs and ignores the anxious buzzing tugging at the back of his mind. “An educated guess.”
“Oh, hm,” you go quiet at that and he isn’t entirely sure why that makes him nervous. “Do I look weird?”
“What?”
You tilt your head. “You’re staring. Like deep in thought.”
So much for keeping his expression neutral.
“Hmph,” Barou snaps his gaze back to his monitor, observing you from its reflection.
His awareness of your dress comes in levels of recognition. First is material: even from the distance he’s sitting, he can tell with a quick eye that it’s from some sort of designer brand. The silk fabric clings to your figure as if it was made for you, worshiping every curve and kissing your features perfectly. Second is how you chose to style it: the adjustments made to your chest is purposeful, making your cleavage the centerpiece while your neckline draws attention to it. Third is his own reaction to it: his mind races to the thought of how unfair everything suddenly feels.
“It’s nothing. It’s just—it’s different from the usual, that’s all.” An awkward beat and, “You don’t look weird.”
You lean back on your heels, body now coming back into view, and there’s a small grin. Looking closer, he sees that you’ve got your makeup and nails done, too.
“What? You’re coming at me for relationship advice now?” Barou asks, after a moment. “I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Your big mouth always has something to say,” you look at him with quirked brows.
He sighs airily. “Who cares, it’s not like you’ll listen,” then rolls his eyes. It’s a bit of an exaggeration, of course, but you’re quite literally one of the most stubborn people he’s ever come across.
Barou’s familiar with your on and off dating sprees before, and in the beginning he did loosely hand out some advice—even though most of the information came from all those dumb teen magazines he found in his sisters’ rooms. It’s almost like a damn script by how it plays out: obsess over a mediocre guy, go on a date or two, and be extremely disappointed when they don’t live up to your expectations.
It’s been about three months since your last date, and Barou doesn’t understand how this one might end up any different.
As if you’ve read his mind, you begin to explain, “We’ve been texting for a few days now. He seems super nice over video call, likes to cook, has a stable job—”
“Hate to break it to you, but that’s the bare minimum.”
“Shouei,” you grumble, “be nice.”
He feels his eyes narrow, lips pressing thin. “You planning to bring him back or something?” Barou can’t seem to mask the edge in his voice.
“If everything goes well, then yeah,” you look relatively proud of yourself. “Which is why I’m asking you to not scare him away—you’re capable of doing that, right?”
“It’s not gonna happen regardless,” the words roll out almost too naturally for both of your comfort, “something always goes wrong, anyways.”
Your lips press thin, weight shifting subtly between your feet. “Don’t be such a dick. I’m bringing a guy back this time.”
Barou doesn’t know what to say. What the fuck can he say? All he knows is that this is making him feel more annoyed than usual. You’ve got to be aware of that, right?
You two have fought before, of course. Nothing ever goes well when it deals with two stubborn individuals. Thankfully, none of the arguments have never escalated past mild inconveniences. Barou can’t seem to remember when’s the last time you’ve actually gotten angry, though. He imagines it being similar to his mom, or sisters, and it’s terrifying because you’re giving him that look—one where you’re a comment away from swatting everything off his desk.
His brows draw together for a moment, eyes squinting, before regaining his ground. He bites back his tongue. “Do what you want.”
“So, I take it that you’re not…?”
Barou scoffs, drumming his fingers against the desk. “Why would I be mad? I’m not in charge of you.”
It’s over a late dinner when Barou finally checks his messages. He sees a few notifications under your name, and he pauses. He doesn’t know why he’s hesitating, there’s a strange churning feeling in his stomach and suddenly he’s lost his appetite. Barou flips his phone down at the table before discarding his utensils, and the look Isagi gives him is a weird one.
“Everything alright there?”
“I’m not mad.”
Across from him, Isagi leans against the kitchen counter and laughs. “Didn’t say you were,” he picks at his dinner plate with a tilted head. “So, erm, why did you call me over here again? Something about a problem…? You still haven’t gotten to that part.”
“Everything’s fine. I’m fine. Not a damn problem around in this shithole. Fucking perfect around here,” he’s suddenly hot with anger.
Isagi replies to this with a vague handwave. “If I had to guess, someone’s out on a date, again, and you haven’t done much about it.”
Barou shoots him a scathing glare. Thinks of denying for a moment. Doesn’t. “Why bother asking if you already knew?”
Like him, Isagi is oddly extremely aware of everything and everyone. On and off the playing field. Which probably explains why he’s both the coach and fan favorite of the bunch. And more of a reason why Barou is stuck third in line for most sponsorships, right behind Itoshi Rin. Well, whatever, he was never a people’s pleaser to begin with. Though, it is nice having him around to vent to—if you count offering to cook dinner in tense silence while going over sporting logistics—because Isagi Yoichi doesn’t judge. Unless your name is Kaiser, then that’s a whole different story.
A shrug. “Wanted to hear it from you, though that might’ve taken all night.” It’s not a tease.
No matter how rough and rugged Barou looks, he can’t wipe the knowing smile off of Isagi’s features.
“So,” Isagi continues, “how long before you miss out on your chance? A few months? Days? Right now?”
He lowers the volume on the TV and shoves another bite in. “Most likely never. If anything goes down south, that’ll be on me.”
“You’re thinking about this carefully,” Isagi observes, earning him another annoyed look. “It’s a good thing—you’re usually, uh, headstrong and tenacious most of the time.” It’s kinda a compliment, Barou thinks.
“We live together,” he emphasizes, “that’s different.”
“For how long, though? At this point it feels like you’re doing this to yourself.” The corners of Isagi’s lip raise, just a little. “Have you tried seeing if she likes you back?”
Barou scowls and absently fiddles with his hair, still a bit damp from the shower earlier. “What’s with that question? If I knew then I wouldn’t be inviting you over here, dumbass.”
A beat or two. He stares at the wall for a moment and cracks.
“If she liked me back then I doubt she’d be out right now with some random guy,” Barou hates how whiny his voice sounds. He’s not the type to openly complain, especially not with his feelings like this. With Isagi, however, it seems like he brings that side out of everyone. What a weirdo.
The younger male simply smiles. “Maybe look into her dating history, you might be able to figure out some patterns.”
“Like I’m some sort of masochist.”
“Well, you’re currently spending your Saturday evening watching football highlights with me, and I think that’s telling by itself.”
Barou doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t bother to say anything to that. He just shoves a spoonful of rice in his mouth and half-distractedly finishes watching a previous games’ highlight on the TV. A quarter way through, and he feels himself starting to drift off.
Isagi’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and that’s a surprising relief to Barou. The younger male lets out a small noise, sets his empty plate in the sink, letting water and soap soak it up for a bit, and fishes his phone out. A few seconds and he starts making his way towards the door, gym bag in hand.
“Rin’s asking to see me for something,” he mindlessly explains while slipping on his shoes. “Guess I’m gonna have to pass on keeping you company tonight, bud.” Isagi says this with a bit of playfulness, but he shoots him a look of sympathy when his hand reaches the knob.
It makes Barou flinch, badly. “Go home, dumbass.”
Once Isagi leaves the premises, he goes back to his own devices. Watching sporting highlights soon went stale, so he opted to watch a drama that you’ve been raving about a while back.
It has an interesting start. The main lead somehow paraglides her way into a foreign country and the tall, handsome, and stoic—your words, not his—military officer has to take care of her.
He remembers, when you first discovered the drama, the main actor was all you could talk about. Sure, he’s your typical standard silent, tough guy trope, but you were especially smitten over him.
“The way he looks after her, the yearning and the need, it’s just—” you would wave your body back and forth, at a loss for words.
The ending credits snaps him out of the small lull and, out of curiosity, Barou browses through his social apps and thumbs your handle into the search bar. You guys are mutual friends, so this shouldn’t feel weird. Though, if he’s being honest with himself, he really, really doesn’t care much for what other people do in their spare time. Looking at his own account, there’s only two posts and both of them are cringey gym mirror selfies from several years ago.
So Barou doesn’t really know what to expect when he looks through your recent story highlights.
There’s a picture of a fancy looking latte with an equally fancy looking cheese foam design on top. The guy’s out of the frame, but he can make out an arm with a decked out watch in the corner. Another picture and this time it features a set of flaky chocolate pastries on a square plate with red sauce paired on the side. The third picture makes Barou pause, because it’s a selfie of you and some guy. From appearance alone, the guy is conventionally attractive, but he also has an extremely punchable face. White collared button up shirt, except for the plain fact that it’s wild open and his damn chest hairs are poking out. He’s got his hands around your waist, his stubbled chin pressed extremely close to yours, looking into the camera as if you belonged to him.
He feels his head throbbing, almost full of cotton, and he shuts his phone off, tossing it onto the far end of the couch. Barou doesn’t bother to clean the dishes, at least not yet. He sets his dirty plate aside, letting it soak in the sink alongside with the other bowls. It’s not until after another hot, long shower that Barou starts stress cleaning the apartment.
And, yeah, vacuuming the living room and running the loud dishwasher at nearly midnight is pretty outrageous and, frankly, dramatic—even for someone like him. By the time he’s done destressing, the air wafts with lemon essential oils and a hint of antiseptic scent. Eventually, after everything, he crawls under the blankets and lies still for a long time before the hint of sleep catches up.
It’s one in the morning when he hears you coming home; heels wobbling against the wooden panels, faint mumbling with a drawl, and sounds of keys hitting the small trinket bowl by the front door. He thinks maybe he should go see you, but stops himself halfway. Barou doesn’t know what he’ll do, how he’ll react, if you come back with smeared lipstick stains on your face, or if you smell like musk— like some stupid, rich casanova’s cologne.
Barou’s just about to pull the covers back over his head when a noise from the living room jolts him wide awake. A loud clatter, body hitting a surface, and he snaps his attention away. And, luckily for him, you just smelled like straight alcohol.
“I should’ve never gone out, I should’ve just…” A beat, followed by a series of painful groans.
You’re definitely tipsy from whatever drink that’s in your system. From what Barou can tell, it was strong.
“Did you take anything else?” It’s a rhetorical question but he keeps his voice quiet, low, and observes you from the couch.
You’re half slumped over, limbs hanging all over the place and your trench coat is doing an awful job at covering up your promiscuous dress. Tired exhaustion plagues all over. Barou quickly covers you with a spare throw blanket on the side.
He tries to get you off the couch, as carefully as he can, and you nearly jump out of your skin from the proximity. Your eyes are glazed, mouth slightly dry and slack, and some of your makeup has smudged—whether it’s from the date or the excessive tossing and turning, Barou doesn’t really want to know. What he does know is that you’re close, now actively leaning into his touch, and your eyes meet, and he’s yet again faced with that strange fire rushing through him.
He swears under his breath, lifting you into his arms.
There’s a million things he wants to say, majority of them being half-ass insults and I told you so, but none of that seems appropriate. His face is only inches away from yours. Barou quickly realizes that his mouth has gone dry and his tongue feels heavy. His recent reactions towards you have been… confusing, to say the least.
You stir, hand shooting up to hold your head. “Is he gone?”
“Your shitty date?”
“Mhm,” your head droops to the side. “That asshole…”
He scoffs, and makes a mental note to personally beat up the guy who left you while you’re like this. “He’s not here.”
“Fuck, thank god,” your eyes hover on his neck. It catches him off-guard. You swallow, and a strange expression flicks across your face, a bit unreadable and different from your usual wasted self. “You were right, sorry.”
For a moment, he thinks he’s in a dream; that he’s still in university, still checking up on you in-between his classes and labs—out of courtesy from your family, and being on the receiving end whenever you get your hopes up.
He shuts his eyes and opens them.
“Let’s get you to bed.”
Barou hears every heavy thump that his heart makes as he carries you to your room. His eyes keep shifting all over your body, whether he means to or not. Most of it is out of concern, your face looks terribly dazed and you’re warm all over, even if you keep insisting that it was just one drink. You’ve never been a heavy drinker, no matter how many times you tried to train your lack of alcohol tolerance. He wonders if he should let you sleep in what you’re currently wearing but, after quick consideration, you’d probably feel extremely uncomfortable the next day.
You press into the warmth of his shoulder, against his neck, then exhale. “I’m a pretty shitty friend, aren’t I?”
“What?” Barou’s eyes flick down the hall, then back to you.
“Ugh,” you make a face. “You know what I mean. How I’m always so tunnel vision when it comes to shit like this…”
“Then just stop,” he feels his face tightening ever so slightly, the unfiltered words unclogging. “Everytime this happens. Why bother going through with it?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” You laugh a little, and it’s half bitterness, half joy—something a little broken and somehow Barou immediately understands.
He watches, almost morbidly, the way your eyes subtly linger on parts of his body for a moment, before sighing. A hesitant, unspoken conversation stuck in your throat, and all at once, Barou wants to scream.
But he doesn’t.
He feels flames crawling up the back of his neck when you snuggle closer into his arms. Thankfully, before he can further combust, he’s pushing his way into your dimmed bedroom.
Barou takes a careful glance around in the dark, noting the familiar scent of you, the numerous prints that hang from the eggshell colored walls, and the small pile of clothes on your desk chair. He’s only been in your room once before, but that was just to help you settle in, so he’s never really paid attention to your surroundings. Now, though, as he lays you on top of the mattress, he notices everything in this room just screams who you are, and he realizes that maybe he should’ve said his piece earlier to avoid all of this together.
The idea fizzles out when Barou feels you tugging loosely on his wrist before letting it fall against the mattress.
“Shouei,” you call out, reaching for his hand again.
He absolutely hates the way he instantly stops and holds you, cherishing the warmth of your skin. Your fingers shakily curl around his, and Barou can’t help but squeeze back. His heart is thundering against his chest, and he’s making it painfully obvious that his breathing is erratic.
After a moment, he clears his throat. “What are you doing?”
His blood has rushed so high to his head that it’s the only thing he can hear, clogging up in his veins and leaving him feeling like he has to cling onto you for dear life. Barou isn’t quite sure what’s happening here, still disbelieving at the way you’re batting your eyes at him, eyes brimming with tears and lips puckered.
“Stay with me, please,” you mumble.
Barou lets out an airy breath, and hears himself saying your name. He’s so confused by all the fucking emotions hitting him right now, and it doesn’t help the fact that his voice gets so soft and tender when he calls out for you. His hand twitches against yours.
This isn’t fair, this isn’t fair, this isn’t—
“You’re drunk,” he finally manages to respond.
His crimson eyes trace your face in the dark, and makes out the shine of wetness on your lips when they part. You lift your eyes, and they instantly hook him in. He resists the urge to lean forward. And, just as instantly, he wants to kneel down, close his eyes, and exist anywhere but this moment.
“I’m not,” you continue and tug him closer, forcing him to sit on the mattress. Your words come out more as hot breath. He definitely smells it but, if he’s being honest with himself, you’re usually not this desperate.
Needless to say, it’s still a concerning fact. “You’re not yourself.”
You squeeze harder, brows furrowed. “I know what I’m doing and what I want.”
Barou tears away from your mouth and glances back into your eyes, studying them closely. You’re still clamped onto his hand, and he knows you’re burning on edge, too. Undoubtedly, he’s half-mast in his pants, and he’s very aware of that, as you slowly rise up, eyeing him with an expression that can only be described as hunger.
“We’ll talk in the morning, idiot.”
“What’s your deal?”
I should be the one asking that.
Barou stares at you for a long moment, The silence is heavy, suffocating. The bed shifts, and in that second, that quiet desperate hope, becomes even more evident. His grip tightens, just a little, and there’s that building headache pulsing through his temple. He really shouldn’t be here, entertaining whatever this is. What he should be doing is sleeping, it’s midnight and, fuck, he has to go to practice tomorrow, but you…
“Are you even listening to me?”
“I am,” his voice is rough when he answers, words dripping with heavy caution. “Even if you aren’t wasted, you’re acting like a real piece of work, right now. None of this shit is funny.”
“I’m not trying to be—I’m being serious,” you reply, but your lips are trembling.
Barou’s stomach lurches and he swallows back a groan, not the pleasure kind. “What do you want me to do?”
Suddenly, you shift restlessly, as if taken aback. “Stay by my side.”
“I know that,” he breathes in, and out. “I asked if there’s anything you want me to do?”
The moonlight creeps past your curtains and coats you in various shades of silver. It’s then, Barou realizes, that he's afraid of what your answer might be. He’s taken care of you hundreds of times before, it’s become second nature for him to look after you, but now this feels foreign—almost daunting when you’re looking just as scared.
But, scared as you are, you lean forward, steadying your palms onto his broad shoulders. It burns his skin at contact, but he steels himself, watching your lips part slowly. Focusing—absolutely fucking focusing—on the way that they move and the damn syllables that come right after.
He feels like dying when the words finally register.
“Kiss me.”
Barou stills, pressing a palm against the mattress and clenches his jaw, running his tongue hard against his teeth. He opens his mouth to reply—and immediately snaps it shut. It’s when you make a small dip in the bed that he recovers, gears running over a hundred miles an hour in his mind. “You want that?”
“Don’t make me repeat it,” your eyes wander all over his face and the intensity almost burns his skin. “It’s embarrassing enough that I’m doing it like this…”
Barou stares in awe. His throat feels tight and his chest clenches uncomfortably. “Doing what?”
A frown erupts on your face and you’re visibly frustrated, more flustered. “Why are you choosing tonight to be a dense prick? Do you need me to spell it out for you? I’m confessing to you. I like you—god, this is so fucking stupid—I’ve liked you since grade school, throughout college, and now! The dates, the guys, none of them work out because they’re not you. Do you know how many times a guy is saying some shit and I’m sitting there thinking ‘Shouei wouldn’t say that’ or when I’m trying to find a guy that looks kinda like you, and even that’s fucking impossible—that’s how much you’re on my mind!”
Your confession—honesty—hangs in the air and Barou nearly chokes on it. You make a low, undignified sound, and press your back against the headboard, looking absolutely anywhere but him. Barou, on the other hand, hears nothing but pounding in his eardrums. He’s not sure if that’s his heartbeat, or yours. There’s a feeling of tight strings tugging at his chest again, a painful ache being left behind. After a moment, the bed creaks.
“Okay,” he breathes, and swallows around that awful lump in his throat.
“Okay?” your voice cracks embarrassingly. “I pour out my feelings and all you say is ‘okay’? This is worse than a rejection. Yoichi said the worst thing you could say is ‘no’ and—”
“Wait, that idiot knows about this?”
“That’s what you’re focused on? Ugh, forget it, I’ve said too much already!”
“Stop,” Barou’s face contorts into a heavy scowl, taking slight offense. “God, sometimes you ramble on so much that it’s hard to take everything at face value.”
He hesitantly presses a palm to your cheek and holds it there, watching your sudden stiff reaction. He shudders, slowly, before dusting the palm across your cheek, ears, hair, and settles it against the back of your head. He’s aware of his breathing, shaky and full of nerves. Barou moves closer until he can feel your breath fanning over his lips.
Before he can say anything else, you lean up and press your lips softly against his. They’re surprisingly soft, he realizes. There’s no heat to it, just a plush press of warmth, a little bit of pressure, and you’re silently swearing under your breath when you pull back.
“Oh god, was that dumb? Am I being stupid right now or what?” Your hands fly up, cradling your face. A muffled scream, then a groan. “I’m sorry—I don’t know what I was thinking! You—me, we were—argh!” Your body retracts back, knee pressing up against your chest as you begin to lean away from him, almost in disgust with yourself.
Barou begins to feel a strange surge in his stomach and gnaws the insides of his cheek. The unusual warmth comes back and, this time, it settles between his legs, but there’s more to that. It was a small, soft kiss—barely long enough to be classified as one. He watches you fidget more before snapping.
“Do you know how to fucking relax?” Barou adjusts his grip behind your head, tangles his fingers in your hair, and drags you back in for another.
This time, it’s lasting, a more proper kiss, and he feels you getting lost in it. Your hands fumble their way back onto his body, finding ground on his thighs and leaning forward into the heat. Barou makes sure that his grip in your hair isn’t too tight, but warm and full of affection, and it makes you moan quietly, mouth parting and allowing his tongue to swipe over your lips.
Hardly any words are exchanged while he kisses you, slowly becoming more frenzied, drowning in the wet heat, tongues curling and hands roaming. There’s a steady, painful throbbing eagerness between Barou’s legs, and he’s positive that you can feel it.
It’s overwhelmingly awkward and stupid, how worked up you both are from just a bit of kissing; from taking turns ghosting each other’s jaws and necks, to hands blindly groping and snaking under clothing to get a squeeze at bare skin. You lean up again, lips tracing the contours of his jaw, and shift a hand down, curling your fingers through his sweats and around his length. A light, breathy noise slips out of him and he feels you pulling away, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen from the heavy makeout session.
“I, um, take it that you like me back…?” You ask quietly, tugging Barou out of his trance.
He blinks, feeling the tips of his ears flushing with warmth. “You really know how to ruin the mood, don’t you?”
“I-I just need confirmation, stupid!”
“Maybe,” Barou confesses, his voice wavers just a little as he speaks. His body shifts with you in his arms, palms cupping both sides of your face. When you refuse to meet his eyes, he huffs. “Look at me. I wouldn’t do this to just anyone if I didn’t like them.”
You make a low, unpleasant noise. “So, you’ve done this with others? I don’t want to think about that.”
Barou’s chest tangles over itself again and, for a moment, being with you feels just a little less daunting. His posture stiffens, then goes lax in a quick second. He could honestly ask you the same thing, whether or not some of the men you’ve matched with have showered you in affection like this but, given your behavior, it seems like you’ve been hesitant and selective. If Barou’s being honest, he’s glad it’s that way.
“Then we don’t have to,” he surges forward, forcing his head down to catch your gaze before capturing your lips in surprise once more.
Eventually, he ends up hovering over you. You’re lying on the mattress, head semi-propped up against the pillows with half of his body weight on top of you—not too heavy, but not too comfortable. Barou’s vaguely aware of what this might lead to, with the look you’re giving him—with the look he’s giving you. He should really go to bed, or else he’s going to wake up with a migraine and a sore neck. But your cheek is nuzzled against his palm, he’s got his other hand running through your hair, soft and lazy, and he’s finding himself grinding against your lower half almost pathetically.
It’s impossible to put his thoughts into coherent sounds when your fingers work at his pants and manage to free his erection, springing it heavily against his stomach. Barou’s mind short-circuits, body jerking in reaction, with the slow, experimental pump of your fist around his aching cock. The look you’re currently giving him is mesmerizing, and it makes him feel as if he’s the most powerful person in the world.
He’s not sure how far you’re willing to go, especially since this feels like your first for everything. You adjust your hand around his length and let it run for a few more strokes. It feels foreign and electric at the same time, softer than his own hands that’s for sure. After you brush your thumb over his tip, smearing the pre, Barou immediately tries shielding himself from you, face buried in his shoulder, and swallows back a rumbling moan.
You pause, hand loosely wrapped around his base, frowning. “Is it bad? I’ll stop if…”
“No,” Barou clasps a hand over yours, squeezes, and sets a slow, firm pace. He shudders again when you adjust your position, hot breath fanning over his tip. “You don’t have to go down—”
“I want to,” you look at him with pleading eyes. “I want to make you feel good, Shouei.”
His mind goes through a whirlwind of possibilities, debating the urge to either run or dominate. Barou closes his eyes, breathing deeply in order to steady himself before he fully loses it. His cock twitches and your hand is clinging around him like a mold.
“Please,” you moan, a plea that’s both an invitation and a surrender, and it’s that damn voice that cuts through his brain fog.
You make a small noise of confusion when he pulls you back, and settles you flat against the mattress. Disappointment flicks across your face but disappears as quickly as it came when his palms make contact with your legs. He carefully watches you squirm, thighs pressing together, when he starts hiking up the dress past your waist and eventually off your body.
Barou sucks in his teeth, eyes drinking in your shy figure underneath him as he stares at your heaving chest, stomach, and plump thighs. He swears under his breath, hesitating for just a moment, before slipping a hand lower, past the barrier of your panties.
A strangled moan catches in his throat as he discovers the slick heat from your arousal, thick fingers pressing gently at the entrance. Your face casts a wild, bewildered look and you throw your head back, hand covering the lower half of your face.
“D-Don’t tease me…”
Barou clicks against his teeth. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
Almost entranced, he stares at your slick center, folds glistensing and your clit practically pulsing with need. His fingers tremble, exploring with hesitance born from innocence. The warmth between your thighs is new, intoxicating, and downright terrifying. With each careful, slow, tentative touch, the sound of his name spilling from your lips is like a sacred plea and it ignites a spark within him.
He can’t wait any longer.
Barou groans as he rubs his padded fingers in between your dewy folds and slides in, a tight and perfect fit that draws a gasp from both parties. Your walls flutter around him almost instantaneously, paired by high pitched mews rolling off your tongue. He watches your knuckles fist the sheets as he starts his slow, stretching movements.
Your body squirms under his onslaught, thighs threatening to press closer from the sensitivity but he settles a firm grip on one of them. The sight of you under him, vulnerable and consuming, with hot tears springing out of the corners of your eyes, drives him over the edge. His fingers pick up speed inside, soon turning relentless, scissoring your gummy walls at a pace that you struggle to keep your volume low. Barou watches you throw a hand over your mouth when his thumb starts rolling over your clit in slow but purposeful circles. The scent of sex drenches him, listening to you mew and beg, his heavy cock leaking all over your thigh when you begin to raise your hips.
“Shouei,” you moan out, skin glistening and wet, flushed from the heat. Your fingers grasp sloppily against his biceps, sending shivers down his arms. “I want to take care of you, too.”
He spreads your legs even further out, applying more pressure to your core. Seeing the sight of you buckling your hips, grinding so shamelessly down on his fingers, brings him more pleasure than it should. Hearing the sighs and whines you babble out tells him everything he needs to know.
Barou raises his lips to your temple as he picks up the pace, groaning from the lewd sounds below. “Finish for me first, I don’t like owing favors,” he starts kissing your throat, tongue tracing over your sweet spots as your walls start fluttering around his digits.
Your hands land on his biceps, clutching his body as close to yours as possible while you calm down from the rush, unable to stop the way you're wailing his name right into his ear. It isn’t until Barou releases his fingers that he realizes that his sweats are now soaked from your orgasm.
“I'm sorry...” You sharply turn your head away, pleasure quickly replaced by embarrassment.
Barou carefully brushes the hair out of your eyes and captures your lips in a sweet and tentative kiss. “Was gonna get rid of them anyway.”
"Oh," you breathe out, unable to form a more suitable response.
He gets up from the mattress and manages to free himself from the remainder of his clothes. Normally, he would toss them in a hamper, but tonight he’s kicking them to the side. Mild anxiousness and anticipation claws at his throat when he formally settles between your legs and, this time, your hands are back to poorly covering up your bare, flushed out body.
Barou furrows his brows and gently pulls them aside, already reading your thoughts. “Stop, you don’t look weird.”
“But—”
He bends down, hands kneading on the flesh of your breasts while his mouth latches onto the side of your neck. You struggle to keep your voice down and squirm under his touch, again. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “Don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise.”
It’s like he can almost see all the blood rushing towards your head when he pulls back. You’re nodding, shaking and quivering, and he can practically hear your heartbeat over his own.
“Let me know if I’m hurting you,” Barou’s amazed that he’s able to keep it together, that his voice is even, because your fingers are slowly guiding his cock towards your entrance.
He’s had a girlfriend in the past, though the intimacy has never gone past making out. He has a faint idea of how it should feel and what he should do, but all that thought gets thrown out when his tip presses softly against your wet folds. Everything starts to feel unbearingly hot and tight.
“I trust you,” you sharply inhale when the first few inches slide into the soft, heated space, and spread your legs wider. You shift against the mattress, a hand splaying on his chest while the other is fisting the sheets. “I trust you more than I trust myself, Shouei.”
He hisses in response to that, adjusting his length, and cranes his head back so he can avoid releasing everything right then and there. You bite back a loud moan as soon as he bottoms you out, your nails digging and leaving half crescent marks into his chest at the stretch.
“Shit—you’re so warm,” he steadies his breathing, and reaches out a hand, caressing your flushed cheeks. He carefully dives in to kiss your lips and then your throat, biting until he nearly breaks skin.
You shudder beneath him, responding with a noise that’s in between a moan and a laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re going to cum already?”
Barou ignores your taunting and scrapes his teeth along the ridge of your throat until he finds your earlobe, basking in the way you’re squeezing around him. “How you do want me to fuck you?”
Silence takes over as your answer, eyes widening at his response. A small thrust and he watches you wince from the stretch. Barou slows down his movements, pulling all the way out before sliding back into the hilt. Shocks of pleasure surges through his veins, and his throat rumbles with every tight pulse your velvety walls offer him, holding your hips steady as he builds up the rhythm.
Your moans and gasps send shivers down his whole body, arching your back as he finds the furthest point. Your grip on his chest tightens, fingers grasping, nails breaking the skin. Though, the pain is nothing compared to the binding pleasure Barou feels being buried deep around your enveloping, addicting warmth. His brain melts into a puddle, every nerve in his system heightens to a new level as you’re tightening around him.
You raise your hips higher, opening yourself and deepening the angle that he can thrust his way through. Barou’s browline pools in a thin veil of sweat as he works his way through it all, staring down at you in a silent, consumed gaze. He presses his hips forward and manages to find the spot that makes you violent and wild. The sound of his name shatters the air and you throw your head back, bliss screeching through both of your veins.
"Shouei, it’s too much," you cry out.
Barou sucks in his teeth, fingers pressing hard into your flesh. “Just breathe, you’re okay.”
He watches your eyes widen with a shaky nod. Your chest rises and falls, eyes frantically darting from the area between your legs up to his face in an attempt to calm yourself.
“I-I know, I know,” you respond, choked out and breathless.
Any consideration for neighboring guests in the complexes are abandoned as Barou pumps into you, his core tightening as every thrust brings him closer. Your walls and arousal coat around his cock with eagerness, as if afraid to let him go.
At the sight of you, teary-eyed and a babbling mess, Barou leans down and his mouth captures yours in another searing kiss that mutes your sounds. Your fingers shoot up, tangling in the mess of his long, black locks, pulling him closer until there’s no space left—until he feels nothing but wet skin and sheer desperation.
He buries his face in your neck, his hot breaths and pants tickling your skin as he senses the incoming orgasm. Barou shuts his eyes and lets his concentration break, mind fully focusing on the feeling of you swallowing him as he works his cock deep inside of you as he could go. All he can think about is how warm and tight everything feels, the sounds you’re making, how much he loves hearing you, and how long he’s been waiting for this moment. Now, with your cries of passion filling the room, back arched in a way he can't even fully describe, it’s more than he can handle, more than he can believe.
Your walls clench violently around him, one hand flying up and tugging at his hair so hard that it stings. But he’ll take it, Barou will endure all the pain and hunger from you knowing you’re cumming hard on his cock. He lets the pain ebb away, turning into waves of ecstasy. Your name falls from his lips and fills the dark room.
Barou bites back a moan and chews his lower lip, head nuzzled deep into your shoulder blade and hips stuttering as his vision goes blurry. Pleasure overtakes him, both immense pressure and the immediate release of it exploding in his skull, and he ends up gasping for air, legs jerking and body trembling as he releases inside of you.
He holds you tightly, rocking your body and panting against your warm skin as both of you try to catch your individual breaths as the aftershocks settle through. Everything stills, all that’s left are the low hums of the air conditioner and your frantic heartbeats. Barou isn’t sure how much time has passed when he finally feels his length go limp. Gently, he slips out and catches the way you moan in disapproval at the feeling of sudden emptiness.
He raises his head and meets your eyes, finding yours wet and half-lidded, completely fucked over. Lifting a thumb to wipe away the threatening tear, he rolls off and settles upright by the edge of the bed. The darkness strains his eyes, but he manages to find what he’s looking for. A few moments later and he hands you a few tissues from the bedside table and cranes his body.
“Are you okay?” Barou’s cautious of the volume of his voice, as if raising it an octave higher would break you even further.
Your breath hitches, wincing and moving meticulously to avoid spilling out all the contents on the sheets. “I think I am?”
“You sound unsure.”
“Well,” you prop up next to him, body curling tight together like a coil, head nudging against his bare shoulder. “We just had sex.”
The word almost slaps him in the face, making him sit up even straighter.
“We… did,” he said, slowly, and now feeling a certain way that he isn’t sure how to describe. Comfortable isn’t the right word, but it’s not exactly uneasy either. But that’s another step to think about, one that he probably won’t take today. He pauses for a moment, tongue heavy in his mouth, but pushes through and ignores the fretting in the back of his mind. “Do… Do you regret it?”
“No,” and you’re quick with it, despite avoiding eye contact. Instead, you curl your fingers around his bicep and squeeze hard. After a pregnant pause, you throw back the question. “How ‘bout you?”
“I don’t,” Barou finds himself equally as responsive, and he’s sure about a lot of things.
He’s sure he’s going to wake up tired and sore, but definitely is still going to out perform his other teammates tomorrow. He’s sure that one day he’ll surpass Isagi. And he’s sure that he wants to be here, with you. You two are best friends and… what, girlfriend and boyfriend now? It’s a crazy thought, but it has his heart fluttering like some dumb teenage romcom.
You simply nod, humming in deep thought, before reaching over and pulling him in for another kiss, and this time, it’s soft and delicate. Fragile, slow, and it has Barou clenching around the edge of the mattress. You’re both making quiet sounds, and he wants to keep going, but he can’t quite subdue that little bubbling jolt of fear in his head. And, because you’re stupidly observant at the strangest times, you pull back.
“We should… probably talk about this, right?”
“We should,” he agrees but, as soon as he glances at the time, exhaustion hits him like a freight train. Barou shudders and he allows gravity to take over, collapsing back onto the cold, wet mattress.
“Hey,” you shake him, enough to rouse some of the tiredness away. “Don’t crash here tonight, everything’s covered in sweat.”
He scoffs and turns over, relishing in the mild comfort. “You’re starting to sound exactly like me.”
“C’mon, Shouei,” he can’t exactly see you from this angle, but he imagines a big pout plastered over your face. “I mean it, let’s sleep in your room. This is like a sex bed…”
“Don’t call it that,” Barou cringes.
“I mean, technically it is. Y’know, couples get twin beds in hotel rooms all the time for that purpose and—”
“If we move to my room, will you promise me that you’ll be quiet and get some sleep?” Barou can slowly feel bags forming under his eyes.
Your weight shifts above him and you make a small noise of approval. “Sure, but no promises.”
Reality is already being dominated by male species, let us woman have the fan fiction community. I hate when writer is like 'Fem DNI' like?? I get that it's preference, but fuck off honestly.
Let women enjoy their things without dragging male into it. They're already annoying in rl, i don't want to hear them whining on the internet.
"Oh there's just too much fem!mc in this fandom."
It's a free story. Just be grateful that the writer are even allowing you to read it in the first place.
Writers don't owe you shit.
Stop whining about how writers need to be inclusive for the audience. Sure it'll be great and awesome if they do, but don't fucking force them.
Some are more comfortable writing a specific gender or specific sexuality or specific race. Some writer are most comfortable with writing reader as an extension of themselves. Like a self insert of self indulge fic.
Some might even feel comfortable with writing reader as oc. And that's fine. You didn't pay for it. The writer didn't ask for your money in exchange for that fic. IT'S FREE.
You can ask them to tag their fic properly but to demand them to change the fic? It's bonkers.
You guys are way too comfortable on the internet. You're acting like the rich. Ew.
I saw someone spreading hates on a writer blog's inbox and got mad in their place lol. Also, commission are obviously not included in this rant. Those are different.
i wonder if arlecchino returned childe's vision to him in person...
childe was used without his knowing in a scheme for a gnosis by yet another colleague haha, i wonder how he feels about it. and there's ONLY ONE gnosis left... if he wants to bring one to the tsaritsa himself he's only got one shot left. will he ever be a part of the gnosis club 💔
Aventurine doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you.
(Or: You are the only person in the universe who understands Aventurine in his mother tongue. He often regrets teaching it to you.)
5k words. gender neutral reader, established relationship, angst, non-graphic sex (reader bottoms, anatomy neutral), themes of cultural loss, references to slavery, aventurine’s canonically implied desire to die. MDNI.
Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.
Deception does not come easily to him in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak—and too kind. The universe was a different place in the days when his life was coloured by the warble of Avgin dialect. It felt simpler, partly because he was a child and partly because Sigonia was yet untouched by outsiders. There were no corporations, no casinos, no commodity codes. His entire world was sand, desert, mother, sister, father (or more often—ghost), goddess, tent, wagon, luck, sin, rain, blessing, Avgin.
Katican.
Aventurine is sure that he knew more than just those words. He was fluent as a child. He had conversations with his sister that were complex enough to make his heart hurt, though perhaps his heart was just constantly aching anyway. But the rest of his early words escapes him. He could maybe dredge them up if he thinks long enough, but he also isn't sure if his tongue and lips could form the shape of them anymore. Sometimes he still counts in Avgin, memorises phone numbers in it, but he doesn’t remember the last time he actually strung together a full sentence in the language.
When Aventurine was first stolen into slavery (a word that he had not known as a child, and still doesn't know in Avgin), he wasn’t given a Synesthesia Beacon. He had to rely on his ears and his wits, deciphering the harsh edges of the Katican dialect and then the strange garble of Interastral Standard Language. By the time he had a Beacon installed, it was already translating all speech into Standard—his dominant language.
Sometimes he feels a little aggrieved by it, but at least it wasn't Katican. He'd have blown out his brains if it were.
But it is easy to console himself: Avgin is not a useful language anyway. Dead languages have no value, and the Avgin dialect was killed along with its people. You can’t perform commerce in a dead language, can't negotiate contracts, can't enter a gambling den and use your silver tongue to rob people blind. You can't use a dead language to fell governments and extract resources; you can't use a dead language to bring an entire planet to its knees. You can’t use a dead language to gamble your life; you can't use it to save yourself from the gallows.
You cannot deceive people in a language that is defined by sand, sister, goddess, ghost.
Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin. His command of it is too weak, and there is no one left to which he can lie, anyway.
When you ask Aventurine to teach you his first language, he gives you an amused look.
“Why Avgin?” he asks. “No one speaks it anymore. I can teach you Common Sigonian if you’d like. Or we could learn Xianzhounese together. Maybe Intellitron code? I know a little.”
“You speak Avgin,” you argue.
“Not often,” he says. “And badly when I do.”
“But it's still your language. And I want to understand you.”
Aventurine has to stop himself from laughing. Understand him? He hates being understood. When people understand him, it makes him predictable. And unlikeable. Hardly a position from which he can manipulate people in.
You understand him well enough to know that.
“You'll have to give me a better reason than that,” he says neatly. “Make it worth my while. Reward me.”
You look at him as you ponder, your eyes lingering on his. Perhaps trying to read him, though he prefers to think you're just enjoying the sight of them.
“I’ll teach you my language as well?”
“You mean—you'll reward my hard labour with more work?” he says, lighthearted.
You frown at him despite the joke. “You don't want to understand me better than what a Synesthesia Beacon would allow?” He blinks, pausing. “It’ll be convenient too. We can talk shit about other people in public and no one will understand us.”
Aventurine considers you. He doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you.
He also likes the idea of talking shit in public.
“I'm listening,” he says, voice lilting. You lean in, smiling. Sweet. It makes his heart feel something he isn't used to. Something addictive. Something disgusting. He scrambles to cover it with one of the usual tools: humour or distraction or maybe just plain old lying—his most reliable weapon.
“I'll throw in a kiss?” you try.
He hums. “Just one?”
“One per day.”
“Three.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“Well, I am a businessman.”
You snort, but he knows you're endeared. You have very noticeable tells when you’re flustered.
“Okay,” you say. “Three kisses on days you teach me.”
“Deal.”
Aventurine remembers more Avgin than he thought he would.
It comes to him slowly, painstakingly. You aren't interested in structured lessons, and he wouldn't be able to provide them anyway. He has a nonexistent grasp of grammar aside from this sounds right and that sounds strange, and Avgin dialect is both so niche and so dead that no textbooks are available. The scholars have abandoned the language as much as the politicians abandoned its people. Aventurine only has you, his fragmented memory, and whatever questions come to mind as you live out your days with him.
Mostly, you ask him about basic vocabulary. Sometimes you ask him to repeat sentences from your conversations in Avgin, like he’s some kind of multilingual parrot. Each prompt forces him to wade through the fog in his mind, the one that’s been shrouding his childhood memories until now. He's startled at how naturally the old words roll off his tongue: One, two, three, four. Good morning. Good evening. Good night. Sweet dreams. Five, six, seven, eight. You're lying to me. Why do you always lie to me? I don't know what you're talking about. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Welcome home. Have you eaten? Have some bread. I made you stew. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. That was dangerous. I thought you wouldn't make it back to me. Sometimes I think you want to die. One hundred, one thousand, one million, one billion. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.
When you say, How do I ask you to let me hold you, he answers easily. He'd heard the words so often as a child: Let me hold you, Kakavasha. Let Mama hold you. His mouth forms the sounds without conscious thought.
He regrets it almost immediately.
When Aventurine hears it from you—stilted, halting, but no less gentle—he stops breathing. Let me hold you. You say it all the time in Standard, but it feels different in Avgin. More painful. A strange sense of panic closes in on him when he's wrapped up in you, thinking in Avgin, thinking sand, sister, goddess, ghost. He holds you tightly, like the rags cut from his father’s shirt, or his mother’s locket won back from the shell-slashers, or a bag of poker chips beneath a card table, clutched within his trembling grip.
“Aventurine, is something wrong?” you ask in Avgin, and he replies in Standard with his usual smile.
“Hm? No. What could be wrong if I have you here?”
Lying is one of his greatest tools. Sex is another one. So he says, “I think I'd like my reward now,” and he runs his lips along your jaw, your pulse, the spot over your heart (there's a word for that in Avgin but not Standard, he tells you), until you're laughing. I thought you wanted three kisses, you tease, and he replies, Who said I wanted to kiss you on the mouth?
But he coaxes open your thighs, and once he's inside you, he collects his payment properly. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and you swallow his lies whole.
There are some things that Aventurine doesn't teach you. Mostly, they’re things that he can’t teach you.
There are countless gaps in his Avgin. His speech is painfully childish—probably more childish than it was when he actually stopped speaking it. He doesn't know how to swear (something that disappoints you) and he doesn't know how to flirt (something that devastates you). He doesn’t know any words that would be useful for work either: commercialization, governance, stakes, winnings, profit. When you ask him what his job title is in Avgin (“Was senior management even a thing in Avgin society?”), he laughs and gives you the word for gambler.
Then there are the words that he remembers—has remembered his whole life—but never says. Not to you, and not to himself. He doesn't teach you any prayers. He doesn't teach you any blessings. He doesn't teach you about Mama Fenge, or the Kakava Festival, or how the rain fell when he was born. When you ask him, What holidays did you celebrate when you were little? he shrugs and says, We didn't have any. Sigonia’s too bleak to do any partying.
Then you ask him one day, while your bodies are spent in the afterglow of sex, sticky with sweat and sweetness, how to say I love you. And he goes quiet.
Love is a cheap word in Interastral Standard. In the language of globalisation and trade, love has been commercialised, commodified, capitalised for power. You say it to him in many contexts: I love this, I love that, I love you. He hardly ever reacts, and he's never said it back. It would feel unnecessary and also cruel if he did: Aventurine has only ever said the words himself as either a joke or a manipulation.
But love feels different in Avgin than in Interastral Standard, doesn't sound like a thing that can be traded or bought. Kakavasha only ever said the word love to his mother, to his sister, to his father's grave. Love in his mother tongue feels priceless.
When Aventurine thinks about you saying it—I love you, Kakavasha, in clumsy, earnest Avgin—something so painful swells in his throat that he can hardly breathe.
“There is no word for love in my language,” he tells you.
You blink. “Okay, then what's an idiom for it?”
“There is none. There’s no word or phrase expressing love.”
You raise a brow. “That’s hard to believe.”
“Is it?” He smiles. “There’s no Avgin in the known universe who cares about love. Only scheming, thieving, and treachery—and you can't do those things when love is involved.”
You look at him in alarm. “Why are you saying that?” You're practically squirming in your discomfort. “I don't know why you think I'd believe such a racist stereotype.”
“It’s not a stereotype,” he says. “I'm not talking about the Avgin culture. I'm talking about myself.”
After all, he is the only Avgin left.
It is an unfair thing to say. A cruel thing to say. After all the laughing and kissing and crying and fucking, after all the tender eyes and gentle words from you—it is probably the worst pain imaginable: I don't give a shit about you. He waits for you to cry.
But you only stare at him calmly, studying him. You brush the hair out of his eyes, seeing them clearly.
“If you lie to me all the time,” you say in Avgin, “eventually I'll stop believing anything you say.”
Aventurine is speechless. His heart does that addictive, disgusting thing again. He thinks about leaving, but then you say, Let me hold you, and he can't do anything other than obey.
Avgin dialect was once included in the Synesthesia Beacon list of functions. The Intelligentsia Guild added it before the Second Katica-Avgin Extinction Event, when the IPC was trying to get a political foothold on Sigonia via the Avgin people. The language was alive then, with enough value to be included into the Synesthesia LLM by the linguists.
But since the Extinction Event—since Kakavasha ran away from home—the Synesthesia data on Avgin has been stagnant, a fossil. Aventurine knows because he's subscribed to software updates for certain languages (Avgin Sigonian, Common Sigonian, Interastral Standard, and now your mother tongue). He gets pinged every time there's a new addition for slang, for neologisms—but there hasn't been a ping for the Avgin dialect since he had the Beacon installed. The live translation function hasn't even been available since the previous Amber Era. When he checks its page on his Synesthesia app, it's very clear why—
SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT
SPEAKERS: 0
STATUS: Extinct
END OF SERVICE: 2156 AE
The complete death of the language has led to an irritating dilemma for you and Aventurine. You keep running into words that he doesn't know—this time not because of his childlike speech, but because they never existed in his language to begin with. Ocean, tropical, rainforest. Starskiff, accelerator, space fleet. Stock market, shortselling, mutual funds. Black hole, event horizon, spaghettification. All things that never came up for Kakavasha, but now come up for Aventurine, and the language has not evolved to include it.
He always wants to switch to Standard to discuss these things, but you're insistent on speaking in Avgin as much as possible. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't mind humouring you—partly because he likes to indulge you, and partly because he’s grown used to hearing the honeyed timbre of Avgin dialect in your household. The place would feel strange without it.
So you start filling the gaps with other languages, filtering them through the lyricism of Avgin. Loanwords, he thinks they’re called. You take ocean, tropical, rainforest from Amazian; starskiff, accelerator, space fleet from Xianzhounese; stock market, shortselling, mutual funds from Interastral Standard. For the astrophysics terms, you try directly translating them—with limited success.
“Can't I literally just say ‘black hole’?” you ask in Avgin, and he nearly spits out his coffee.
“Please don't. That's a dirty word.” He can't bring himself to say what it means, but from the way you’re laughing, you can clearly guess.
“I thought you said you didn't know how to swear.”
“You've just reminded me how.”
“You're welcome.” You look on the verge of cackling. Aventurine finishes his coffee and wonders when you're going to surprise him with your newfound vulgarity.
“Let's just do the space terms based on Standard,” he says. Begs.
“No, that's so boring.”
“Then let's do your language.”
You open your mouth. Close it. Give him a blank look.
“You don't know how to say those words in your mother tongue either, do you,” he intuits.
“Well, ‘spaghettification’ doesn't really come up in everyday conversation, does it?”
“Then maybe we don't need it.” He smiles, senses an opportunity. Smells blood. “How about ‘love’? I'd much rather know how you say that. I bet it sounds beautiful.”
You give him a long look. Your eyes are vulnerable when you share it: Love. I love you. He’s fascinated by the sound of it. Your voice is never that fragile when you say it in Standard. It's never so earnest. He repeats it, staring at you, and your gaze falls to the ground. His mouth curls.
“I like it,” he says. “Let's use that. It'll sound nice in Avgin.”
You try to recover. “Sure. That works. But back to ‘black hole’—”
And the two of you continue like that for days, weeks, months. It feels like a complete bastardization of his mother tongue on some days, in some conversations. Almost unrecognisable. But it doesn't feel bad. It’s all he has, it's all you have, and when he walks into your home, he starts speaking it without thinking: your bastard, patchwork language. The Avgin dialect that exists only in your house. A tongue that can only be understood by a liar.
And then, one lazy Sunday morning, he gets a familiar ping. He expects it to be Interastral Standard, as usual. The language balloons with each planet that the IPC colonises.
But instead, he opens his screen and freezes.
SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT
SPEAKERS: 2
STATUS: Endangered.
SERVICE RESUMED: 2157 AE
NEW UPDATES: 103 loanwords and 5 neologisms added.
He can't stop looking at the status. Endangered. Endangered, which means dying, but alive. The Avgin dialect is alive again. The Intelligentsia Guild determined it, so it must be true. But Aventurine can't agree: there are no Avgin speakers in the known universe other than the two of you, and what you speak isn't real Avgin. The Avgin spoken by his mother and father and sister is dead; the Avgin spoken by Kakavasha is dead. The festivals are gone; the deserts have been terraformed. There are no wagons; there are no dances; there are no prayers. There are no blessings, and he has no home—
As long as you are alive, the blood of the Avgin will never run dry.
His throat locks up.
“Aventurine?” you ask. Your voice is drowsy, but concerned. “Is something wrong?”
He looks at you from his phone, a polished smile on his face.
“No.” His syllables are plain and efficient in the noise of Interastral Standard: “Just looking at details for a new assignment. It’ll be a long one.”
“Oh.” You frown. “Will you be away from home for a long time, then?”
He stops himself from swallowing. “Yes, I'll be away from the house. For several months, probably.”
“Okay.” Your voice is small. “Take care of yourself, okay? I'll miss you.”
Each word you speak resonates with heartbreak. It always does in these conversations, even in Standard—but the sorrow is amplified in Avgin. His mother tongue has an inherently sad quality to it, he's noticed. His people have lost so much over their history—their language is one of loss. It's his language of loss. Kakavasha did all his grieving in Avgin; Aventurine has never felt sorrow in Standard. When the language died, so did Kakavasha—and all his regrets with it.
“You'll come home to me, right?” you ask. It's a beautiful sentence in Avgin. A heartrending one. He feels something that he hasn't known since he was a child.
It's a feeling he has to kill.
“Yes,” he says in Standard. “Of course I'll come back.”
This is not the first time that Aventurine has been mistaken for dead, but this is the longest time.
The latest world to join the IPC network was a tough acquisition. It had been ruled by a despot who wreaked havoc on both the people and the planet, and who was too stupid and reckless to resolve conflicts with his trade partners. He probably would have blown up the whole star system had he been left to his own devices. Aventurine had no qualms about bringing him to ruin, nor did he have qualms about nearly dying in the process.
If things had gone his way, he'd either be dead or missing. This would have been the perfect opportunity to do the latter, actually—to be freed from the IPC. Free to drift alone, speaking with strangers in strange, unfamiliar tongues. No connection to his past, to the cruel history of his luck, to his commodity code. No tether to his inherently unjust destiny. But instead he's back in your house, pockets heavy with his borrowed wealth, speaking to you in his bastardised, childish Avgin. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.
Your Avgin is—shockingly fluent. He doesn't know how. He can't think about it right now. All he can process is the wounded animal noise of your speech as you yell at him, as you cry. Like an injured songbird, or a weeping child. Why did you leave, why did you lie, why do you always lie to me, why don't you give a shit about me, you spit. Why do you want to die, why do you want to die, why do you want to die, you keep saying. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost, he keeps hearing. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost. Don't leave me, big sister. People will die. Why do you have to go?
“I’m sorry,” he tries again, this time in your language. “I'm so sorry. Come here. Let me hold you.”
You collapse into your mother tongue. Aventurine is both relieved and horrified. Relieved that he doesn't need to hear the language of his grief—horrified that he needs to hear yours. He's never heard you cry like this. He's never heard you break like this. These must have been the words you used when the soldiers found you hiding in your closet, when they dragged you out of your home. You were just a child.
Aventurine doesn't know the words you are using—you've never taught them—but he still understands them.
You're very malleable when you’re sad; even more so when you're hysterical. Aventurine understands this about you, and he understands how to calm you—this time in your native tongue—and he understands how to kiss you. He understands that you need to feel close to him. He understands that there are ways to accomplish this other than sex. A normal person would talk it out, have an honest conversation, come to a mutual understanding, and maybe even stop trying to kill himself. They wouldn't fuck you into the mattress while your face is still wet with tears.
But Aventurine is not a normal person. He doesn't know how to have an honest conversation, and he doesn't want to be understood. Lying is his greatest weapon, and sex is a close second. So he kisses you until you’re too breathless to cry, fucks you until you can't think, and makes you come so hard that you’re in too much bliss to grieve. And maybe it's horrible of him, but he enjoys it. He enjoys the way your body takes him in so easily, the way your nails dig into his back, the way you tighten around him when you climax, so wet and needy for him. The way you beg for him in your language for liars as he spends himself inside you: I love you, Aventurine, I love you, I love you, I love you—
Only because it feels good. This is all only because he enjoys fucking you. This is all only because you enjoy fucking him. This is all it'll ever be, and it'll be this way until he gets to meet his end.
(Some months ago, Aventurine started dreaming in Avgin.
It surprised him when he first noticed it. The last time he remembers having a dream in his native tongue, he was twelve years old and still in chains. And even then, it had become a sporadic, strange thing. Awful to wake up from. One minute he was with his mother and sister on a cool, rainy day, speaking fluently in Avgin as he laughed and played—and the next minute, he was being shaken awake in his cage, hearing the cruel lash of Katican.
But ever since he's started speaking Avgin with you, he's been dreaming in it. Vividly. Sometimes he's a child in these dreams, and sometimes he's grown. He's always back in the Sigonian desert, among the tents and the campfires and his family wagons. His mother and sister are alive. Sometimes his father is too. The skies roar with thunder and the stellar winds are always harsh, but they always keep him cocooned up in their arms. He's always warm.
Sometimes Aventurine dreams of nicer days. Clear skies, warm sun, cool breeze—all blessings from the Mother Goddess. On these days, he tends to be an adult, and you tend to be there with him. Your Avgin is fluent but strange, filled with funny loanwords and peculiar slang. His father likes the neologisms and starts using them—but only in wrong ways. His sister finds it embarrassing and keeps apologising to you.
His mother loves you. She loves you so much it hurts. This is how I know you're blessed, Kakavasha, she says, glowing. You’re so lucky to have found such a kind person.
Kakavasha knows this. He knows he's lucky, and in his dreams, that isn't a bad thing. In his dreams, his luck means that his home is not violently excised from his heart: his father never dies; his mother never dies; his sister never dies. The tents are not burned; the wagons are not destroyed. He is never forced to forget his people's dishes, their songs, their language, their joy. And in his dreams, his luck means that he meets you anyway, without all the loss and the chains and the lying.
In his dreams, he is able to bring you to the desert. He is able to teach you the Avgin he spoke as a child, to cook all the meals his mother used to make, to share with you their coffee and their tea. He teaches you prayers. He teaches you blessings. He tells you about Mama Fenge, about how the rain fell when he was born. He takes you to the Kakava Festival, shows you how to dance, sings to you all the Avgin songs until you're singing back. He presses his palm to yours in prayer; he kisses you in devotion, not avoidance.
Sometimes the two of you still fight, the same fights that you have in real life, but he handles them with honesty. He listens to you. He apologises to you. He tells you that he’ll change, and he means it—because this world is a kind one, and he has no need to be so cruel to you.
In this kind world, when you lay in bed with his arms tight around you, you smile at him and say, I love you, Kakavasha. You say it in Avgin—real Avgin, not the dialect born from genocide and deceit—and when he responds, there's not even a little bit of insincerity in his voice. Because Kakavasha never became Aventurine in these dreams, so he has no Interastral Standard in which he can lie to you, no silver tongue with which he can manipulate you, no commodity code that inspires his fear of being controlled by you. Kakavasha only knows Avgin, and he only has his sand, his family, his goddess, his home.
And he has you. Finally, he has you.
He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and then he tells you the truth.)
.
.
.
Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.
You noticed this very early on: whenever he lies to you, he always switches to Interastral Standard. Probably he wouldn't be able to do it in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak, and the words he knows are all too kind. He speaks with the innocence of a child, and children cannot deceive people in the way that adults can. Children cannot perform commerce or negotiate contracts. They cannot use a silver tongue to rob people blind. They cannot save themselves from the gallows.
So Aventurine’s Avgin is defenceless. Vulnerable. So vulnerable it hurts. You are not so vulnerable in your first language because your captors spoke it on occasion, and you learned to lie in it to gain their pity. You told Aventurine that knowing it would help him understand you, but this was a deception. Aventurine’s mother tongue was a language of trust, but yours is a dialect of abuse.
The Avgin language died before Aventurine could be gutted by it; this is why it disarms him so completely. This is why he’s so indulgent and so warm when you use it with him, why he yields to all your requests. Not requests for money or gifts—you’re certain those are meaningless to him—but for affection. Let me hold you. Let me touch you. Let me kiss you. He can never say no.
This is also why he loves hearing you speak his mother tongue, you think—it makes him feel at home, it makes him feel safe. Maybe it even makes him feel loved. He never seems so at peace speaking any other language, so you try to use Avgin as much as possible. You like seeing him happy. You like it even if it means you need to teach him your own native language in exchange, even when it means you need to hear him say all the things your captors used to say. You don't mind it if it's him. You never mind the harm he inflicts on you, especially not when it brings you closer to him.
It is convenient that he cannot lie in Avgin. You only wanted to learn it in the first place because he talks in his sleep—mostly in Standard, but sometimes in his native tongue. And now that you know he cannot lie in Avgin, you also know he's always being honest in his dreams. Honest when he throws his arms around you in his sleep. Honest when he grabs you so tightly that you bruise. Honest when he buries his face into your neck and whispers prayers into your skin.
Most of the words he says are common ones, the earliest vocabulary that he taught you. But there are some things he's withheld from you—and to learn those things, you had to track down linguists from the Intelligentsia Guild, bribe them with your dirty money, have them give you all their deprecated, extinct data. It felt two-faced, and it was violating, but it was the only way. You already know that Aventurine would rather die than translate his feelings for you, would never want this part of himself understood.
Ironically, I think Shidou is a pretty chill dude.
I mean, yeah he has performed battery and got a badmouth, but ignoring that, he is chill. He has no feeling of jealousy or pride in him. He just wants to play soccer. Good soccer—not his fault that his standards are high.
Like, he is such a hype man:
Have you ever seen anybody else in Blue Lock hyping someone like this, huh?
He is just a silly guy.
Be in his good side and he'll probably fight a meteor with his bare hands for you.
