#*cracks a safe sensually* | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vibelladonna · 22 days ago

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𝓉𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽 𝓂𝑒 𝜗𝜚 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝒿𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝓍 𝒻𝑒𝓂! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You are a medical student at the top of your class—brilliant, disciplined, and utterly numb. Burnout has hollowed you out, leaving behind a ghost in a white coat who moves through life on autopilot.

The worst part? You can't feel anything anymore. Not joy, not pain, and certainly not pleasure. Your body is a locked door, and you've long since lost the key. Then you meet him.

A mysterious practitioner operating out of a butcher-shop backroom, known only as Jack. His methods are unorthodox, his hands unsettlingly precise, and his eyes—black as a starless night—seem to see straight through the cracks in your composure.

He offers a solution: sensate therapy.

But the deeper you sink into his treatments, the more you realize—Jack isn’t just fixing you. He’s rewiring you. And the thing that stirs under his touch isn’t just arousal.

It’s hunger.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

Also, huge shoutout to @noctiva—your art genuinely inspired me and gave me the push I needed to return to my roots. Thank you for reigniting that spark.

𝓌𝒸: 16.1k

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: soft dom!eyeless jack x fem!reader, doctor/patient dynamic, touch-starved Reader, possessive but gentle, gothic erotica, slow burn, sensual horror, atmospheric and haunting, sensation play, sensory deprivation/overload, medical kink (clinical but intimate), consent and safe words, body worship and arousal through fear, touch-starved to overstimulated.

Teach me how to scream.

That’s all you think about.

Not in the way a normal person might—in some moment of panic or ecstasy, laughter or fear—no, you think about it clinically, with the same cold curiosity you apply to everything else in your life. You wonder what it takes to break a person.

To tear down the wall of composure and discipline and professionalism until all that’s left is something raw and visceral—a sound dragged from the deepest part of the chest. Screaming seems... liberating.

You’ve forgotten what it feels like.

Your apartment is a minimalist tomb, quiet and sterile. The walls are a tired white, barely catching any of the moonlight that slips between the blinds like skeletal fingers.

Textbooks line your desk in tall, uneven stacks, some with cracked spines from overuse, others still pristine, untouched. Highlighters bleed neon colors into pages already carved with notes in your tight, mechanical handwriting.

It smells like tea and ink and the exhaustion of someone who doesn’t even know they’re lonely anymore.

You’re a medical student. Top of your class. On a full scholarship, too—the kind of golden ticket people envy you for.

Smart, capable, diligent.

You’ve heard all the praise, the admiration. But it doesn’t change the fact that your nights are hollow, your days are repetitive, and your sense of wonder—that spark that once made you dream of saving lives—has slowly been reduced to a clinical grind.

Autopilot. Wake, study, eat something microwaved, maybe sleep. Repeat.

Everyone thinks you have it easy because you’re not drowning in debt. However, you are drowning—just in a quieter way. No one sees it. No one asks. You’re the kind of person people assume will be fine. Always fine.

You’ve become a ghost in your own life, watching your twenties dissolve beneath the harsh fluorescence of hospital lights and the dry rustle of textbook pages.

You are a phantom that drifts from lecture hall to lab, stethoscope in hand, caffeine in veins, and nothing behind the eyes but tired calculation. It’s a life of purpose on paper—of accolades, scholarships, and prestige—but beneath it all, you are starving.

Hollow. And you know it.

The worst part?

It killed your sex drive.

Not just dulled it. Not just reduced it to some manageable inconvenience like a missed meal or a skipped nap. It erased it—surgically, completely, like a tumor you didn’t realize had been excised until you tried to reach for it and found only scar tissue.

There’s even a phrase your over-medicalized brain can’t help but conjure: lateralized sexual arousal suppression—a clinical concept you read once in a study, the theory that arousal, that raw hormonal ache, can be selectively deadened by stress or imbalance, sometimes even felt more intensely on one side of the body than the other.

You chuckled at the time, because God, that’s such a pathetic thing to be academic about—your own inability to get off.

You were reading some obscure psych journal at 3 a.m., probably during a breakdown disguised as “studying,” and there it was: an article on how chronic stress can suppress arousal, kill libido, even change how your brain registers pleasure. Real clinical stuff.

They called it “situational anorgasmia” and “arousal fatigue”—fancy words for why you, a perfectly functional adult with a pulse, haven’t been able to cum since your first anatomy midterm.

You’ve tried. Of course, you’ve tried.

You brought toys—not just the cheap, pastel-colored ones from those random Amazon hauls, either. No, you went full send. Bought the ones your roommate back in undergrad swore by.

She was the type who talked about orgasms like she had a PhD in them—complete with charts, reviews, and the occasional TED Talk. If anyone knew how to chase the Big O in times of crisis, it was her. You thought maybe she'd unlocked the secret.

Maybe it was you who was broken.

Well… Turns out it was you.

Because even the expensive, silicone-coated sorcery with six vibration settings and a glowing LED couldn’t do it. Nothing worked. It was like flipping switches in an abandoned building—the power was out, the lights were dead, and everything inside was covered in a spiritual layer of dust and depression.

Your hands don’t even feel like yours anymore. Just more tools. Instruments. Like forceps. No pleasure, no spark, no warm shiver of release. Just... effort. Awkward, humiliating, mechanical effort.

You used to call it self-care. Now it just feels like CPR on a corpse.

So you gave up.

You told yourself you didn’t want it anyway. What’s the point of craving something you can’t feel? You’ve got a million flashcards to memorize, patients to shadow, vitals to record, and whatever grim flavor of instant noodles waiting for you in your pantry. Sexual frustration doesn’t even rank on the priority list anymore.

It’s been outpaced by exhaustion, caffeine withdrawal, and your mysterious recurring knee pain. You are one bad week away from becoming a cryptid.

But the silence? The silence is getting heavier.

It presses into you at night like a second set of lungs, breathing damp and slow against your ribs. There’s something waking up inside you—an ache, not sexual exactly, not yet, but primal. Hungry. Cold.

You try to outwork it.

You pile on more studying, more mock exams, more hospital shifts. But it’s still there. Whispering under the fluorescent lights. Nestled beneath your white coat and pressed dress shirts, buried under clinical detachment and years of overachievement.

And lately, that whisper has evolved into a gnawing.

You don’t know when it started. Just that it has. It lingers in the corners of your thoughts like a rotting tooth. It’s no longer about pleasure, about getting off, about orgasms or release. It’s deeper than that. Darker. It’s about being provoked. Violated. Broken open.

Something inside you is begging for rupture—not affection, not safety, but something raw. Violent. Real.

You want to be dismantled. Undone. Taken apart in ways that anatomy textbooks don’t cover. Not by gentle hands. By something sharp. Something relentless. You need to be reminded that you’re not just flesh wrapped around ambition. That your blood still runs hot. That you are more than a breathing corpse in scrubs.

You need to get off. Badly.

Again, not in the playful, flirty, "teehee I need a good dicking" kind of way—no. You were about three nights of sleep deprivation away from putting "Unable to orgasm due to academic rigor" on your medical records.

If only you trusted your university’s counseling office not to slap it on your permanent file next to “burnout risk” and “excessive caffeine consumption.”

So you did something you hadn’t done in... what, months? You left your apartment. Took the train across town with a tote bag and the grim, resigned energy of someone preparing for emotional exposure.

You went go see Z—your old roommate from undergrad.

The one person you could talk to about this without getting put on some kind of watchlist.

Her apartment hadn’t changed—not even a little. It was still giving teenage dirtbag chic, as if Z had stolen the entire emotional atmosphere of a 2007 Tumblr blog and made it livable.

A lovechild between Hot Topic clearance racks and thrifted furniture from someone's cool aunt’s garage sale. You were greeted by the scent of jasmine incense, old vinyl, and something vaguely burnt—maybe toast??

The walls were still a shrine to Z’s unapologetic chaos—plastered in band posters that had definitely survived multiple apartment moves and at least one questionable phase involving safety pins and eyeliner as a personality trait.

A twisted line of mismatched fairy lights looped across the ceiling, dangling lazily like drunk neurons on their last spark of function, simply blinking intermittently in faint hues of dying neon green, casting soft, ghostly shapes that danced along the cluttered walls.

The blinds were obnoxiously open—wide, tauntingly so. Sunlight poured in with a kind of aggression, spilling across the hardwood floors and highlighting every fleck of dust, every stray sock, every single reminder that someone actually lived here.

You squinted at it like it had personally insulted you.

Honestly, you couldn’t remember the last time you saw real daylight that wasn’t filtered through hospital-tinted windows or the flicker of your laptop at 3 a.m. Your body recoiled from it instinctively, as if your med school-induced vampirism couldn’t withstand such unfiltered natural cheer.

Your tea—which Z handed you with that smug little curve of her lips —tasted faintly of lemon and betrayal. Warm, sharp, slightly too sweet. You suspected she put honey in it just to mock your bitterness.

She sipped her own casually, lounging in what could only be described as her throne of chaos: a nest of cushions, blankets, and plushies that looked. Her legs were draped dramatically over the armrest, her socks were chicken legs?

You, by contrast, sat rigidly on the couch like it might bite you if you leaned too far back. Your shoulders were hunched slightly, as if trying to fold into yourself, to shrink down and disappear into the muted fabric.

Z raised an eyebrow, already halfway to a grin, her lips twitching like the punchline was burning a hole in her mouth. You could almost hear it loading—the way her brain clicked into gear when she had a roast lined up and ready to go.

You didn’t need to see her eyes to know she was aiming.

And God, you already regretted bringing it up.

“You actually came,” she started with a shit-eating grin. “You? Miss White Coat? Miss I-Diagnose-Myself-With-Insomnia-Not-Feelings? This is serious.”

You glared. “Z, for the love of God, stop laughing. You know this is an ongoing issue.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think it would get worse.” She snorted, barely containing her laughter. “Girl, you probably need medical help.”

“I am medical help.”

She cackled, clutching her chest. “Oh my God, you’re a walking irony.”

You sank further into the couch, drawing your knees up like a sulking cat. “Do you know how embarrassing it is for a med student to need a clinical intervention because she can’t orgasm? It’s humiliating. I'm supposed to be helping people, not... lying awake at 2 a.m. wondering if I died inside during second-year pathology.”

“Honestly?” she leaned forward, stirring her tea lazily. “Maybe you did. Maybe med school killed your libido and buried it under a pile of medical flashcards.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I’m a disgrace to the human reproductive system.”

Z sipped her tea, watching you with that predator’s smirk she always wore when she knew something you didn’t. “Or maybe...” she said slowly, “what you really need... is for something else to do it for you.”

You paused. Lowered your hands. Narrowed your eyes at her like a suspicious cat. “Well, obviously not you.”

“Please.” She scoffed. “I’m flattered but not deranged.”

“Right,” you muttered, sipping your tea just to avoid eye contact. “Totally. Of course.”

The conversation fizzled into one of those awkwardly familiar silences — not the comfortable kind where two people just exist, but the kind where something unspoken hangs in the air, unacknowledged but dense.

Z picked up her phone and started scrolling absently, her fingers flicking across the screen with the kind of speed that said she was pretending to be disinterested.

You followed suit, sipping your tea like it didn’t feel like your skin was trying to crawl off your bones. The clink of your spoon against the inside of your cup was the only sound besides the occasional buzz of her phone.

Her eyes kept drifting back to you, though. Subtle, but you noticed. A glance too long. A flicker of something behind her lashes—amusement, maybe, or curiosity. Or something sharper.

You glanced up, caught her staring. “What?”

Z didn’t answer right away. She leaned back into the pillow throne like a queen about to issue a decree, her phone now forgotten on the coffee table. The soft lights above flickered green, briefly bathing her in something eerie, ethereal.

Then she said, too casually, like she wasn’t about to ruin your whole evening: “There are things out there, you know. Stuff that could probably wake you up.”

You raised a brow, deadpan. “What, like... therapy?”

She grinned over the rim of her mug like the devil sipping tea. “Possibly, babe. If it's been this long, it might be time to admit you need more than a bubble bath and a vibrator with a college degree.”

You snorted. “Wow. Thank you for that incredibly professional medical insight, Dr. Z.”

“Anytime,” she said sweetly, already scrolling on her phone like she hadn’t just diagnosed you with ‘clinical dicklessness.’ “But for real. I found this ad a while back. Weird little flyer. Some guy left it on the bathroom sink at the club—”

You blinked. “Wait. You still go to ‘the club’?” You added dramatic finger quotes like you were talking about some ancient cryptid.

Z didn’t even flinch. Gave you a flat look, her eyes wide with mock betrayal. “Uh, yes? What do you think I do for stress relief? Knit?”

You groaned and collapsed further into the couch cushions. “God, you are still the same chaotic goblin I met in college.”

She grinned, smug as sin. “And yet here you are, begging the goblin for help because you can’t even get your engine to rev. Who’s the tragic one now?”

You look away and took another sip of your lemon-betrayal tea and muttered, “Me. It’s me. I’m the tragic one.”

“That’s right.” She sighed, “Anyway. This flyer. It was handwritten, almost cryptic. Said something about off-the-record consultations. No names. No appointments. Just... results. Kind of urban legend-y, honestly. But people talk. Especially at clubs. And from what I’ve heard, this... doctor... isn’t your typical back-alley quack.”

You stared at her. “Z. Did you seriously consider going to some random off-the-grid sex doctor?”

Z shrugged, grinning wickedly. “I considered it. Haven’t done it yet. Thought I’d let you be the brave one, since, y’know... you’re the actual med student.”

You scoffed, pulling the most odd-looking facial expression, setting your mug down a little too loudly on the table. “Why me? What made you think of me when you saw some creep’s sex clinic ad?”

Her smirk faltered just a little. “Because I know you. And I know when you’ve gone full medical-grade emotionally constipated. Babe, it’s like watching a Roomba try to find joy. You need something that’ll slap the soul back into you.”

You went quiet. Embarrassed. Maybe a little pissed.

You weren’t used to people seeing through the cracks—not the ones you spent so much time spackling over with caffeine and credentials. But she wasn’t wrong.

“And no,” she added quickly, “I’d never throw you into something shady without at least vetting it first. You know that. I’m not an idiot.”

You looked down at your lap. Your fingers toyed with the hem of your sleeve. “It’s just... weird, you know? I’m a med student. I should be able to fix myself. Not—go off seeking weird underground therapy from club bathroom flyers like I’m in a Netflix special.”

Z snorted, nearly choking on her tea. “Yeah, well. Sometimes it takes weird to fix weird. And unless you’re ready to walk into your clinical psych rotation and say, ‘Hey, I can’t cum and I think my soul’s in a coma,’ this might be your last option that doesn’t come with a straightjacket and a mandatory 72-hour hold.”

You made a face, but… yeah. She had a point.

A mortifying, scarily accurate point.

You didn’t like the idea—some strange, off-market “doctor” discovered via bathroom flyer in a club known for bad decisions and worse lighting. But God help you, you were actually considering it. Really considering it.

Because the thought of another week—hell, another month—of being this empty husk of a human, this walking flesh-printer spewing out diagnoses and memorizing mortality rates with all the excitement of a houseplant?

No. You couldn’t keep doing this.

So you made the appointment.

After classes—after trudging through another mind-numbing lecture on autoimmune disorders and scribbling down notes with a highlighter you’d long since stopped seeing color in—you sat down and filled out the form.

The website had looked… normal.?? Professional, even.

A minimalist black/dark blue-and-white layout, vague clinical language, and a discreet little logo that looked almost like a mask. You didn’t think much of it at the time.

The questionnaire started like every other patient intake form—name, birthdate, gender. But then there was something else. A line that didn’t make sense. Not in this context.

“Do you fear what watches you when you sleep?”

You paused, eyes narrowing slightly. Weird question. Probably one of those psych-eval icebreakers. You ticked off another box and kept going, ignoring the pressure that had begun to build in your throat. This was probably nothing. Some edgy branding tactic. Experimental therapy, maybe. Trauma work in a spooky coat of paint.

That’s all it was.

You submitted the form.

Ten minutes later, your phone buzzed with a confirmation and a location that didn’t show up on Google Maps.

Of course it didn’t.

That night, sleep came reluctantly, like a reluctant houseguest knocking on your door well past midnight, and you only let it in because you had nothing better to do.

After a fresh shower, you dress in t-shit with shorts, collapse onto your bed with all the grace of a corpse being dropped into its grave. The air in your apartment felt stagnant—thick and unmoving—like it hadn’t been touched by breath or sound in days. Maybe weeks.

The only light was the faint, glitched glow of your laptop in sleep mode, pulsing like a dying heartbeat. Your limbs felt heavy. Weighted. Your thoughts, even heavier. Again, you’d submitted the form hours ago.

And now you can’t stop thinking about that line.

“Fear? What watches me when I sleep?”

You swallowed and rolled onto your side, burying your face into the pillow that still smelled vaguely of antiseptic hand cream and stress. For a while, nothing came. No dreams. No darkness. Just silence. But eventually, slowly, the world began to slip sideways.

At first, it felt like floating—like your bones had been scooped out of you and replaced with warm fog. The room was no longer your room. Not quite. The shadows were wrong—longer than they should be, bending around corners that didn’t exist. Your bed felt deeper, like a divot in the earth, and the air was… comforting.

Invasive, somehow, but soft. Almost maternal.

You couldn’t move. You didn’t want to move.

And then came the touch.

It wasn’t hands. Not really. Not at first. More like heat. Pressure. A sensation that ghosted over your skin, just enough to make you shiver.

Something brushed your ankle. Light. Curious. Your breath hitched.

Another drifted along the curve of your calf. Up. Higher. Not aggressive. Not rough. Just… deliberate. As though the air itself had grown fingers and was now reading you like braille. Like it knew you. Had always known you.

Your hips twitched, and you felt it—just beneath the surface of your skin—a dull, yawning ache that had been locked away for too long. That absence. That void. You hadn’t even realized how deeply you’d buried your hunger. Your need.

The touch glided higher, a whisper along the meat of your thigh, a reverent sweep that left goosebumps in its wake. It wasn’t sexual. Not entirely. Not yet. But it was intimate. Intrusive in a way that felt oddly safe, like the firm hand of something old guiding you through a ritual you’d forgotten the words to.

You should have been terrified.

But you weren’t.

Your breath came shallower. Your heart picked up. And for the first time in months—years—you felt something: warmth. Thrum. Longing.

The phantom touch curved under the hem of your hoodie, feathering up your stomach. It pressed gently against the cage of your ribs like it was searching for a way inside. You arched instinctively, needing more.

Needing anything.

There was a whisper. A sound. You couldn’t tell if it was in your ear or your bones. Soft, smooth—masculine, maybe—but in that ageless, unsettling way that made it impossible to pin down.

“Let me ruin you.”

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The words dripped like honey laced with venom—intimate, feral, promising. They bypassed your ears and curled straight into your gut, igniting something molten at your core. Your thighs pressed together on instinct. Your fingers curled into the sheets like you could anchor yourself against a flood.

It wasn’t a question. It was an invitation. A threat. A vow.

Your body bucked as heat flashed through you like a short-circuit, static and dizzying and almost holy. It wasn't released. Not yet. But it was the promise of it. The threat. And something inside you whispered back—without words, without thought—yes.

You gasped.

And then—you woke up.

Heart pounding like a war drum in your chest. Skin slick with sweat, sticking to your sheets in places you didn’t even know could sweat. Your thighs were clenched like you’d just braced through an earthquake—or maybe something far more intimate. The sheets coiled around your legs, your waist, one arm — as if you’d been grasping in your sleep. Or writhing.

You lay there, dazed. Breathing shallow. Eyes wide as the fragmented edges of some half-dream shimmered just out of reach, teasing your thoughts with phantom touches and shapes you couldn’t quite pin down. But your body remembered.

Oh, it remembered.

The morning light creeping in through the blinds was soft and gray, casting everything in shades of faded silver. It wasn’t warm. It was the kind of light that followed unsettling dreams — like the lingering taste of ash and honey on your tongue.

You sat up slowly. Each movement felt like an echo.

Something had changed.

A circuit, somewhere inside you, had quietly reconnected. A wire long-burnt out had sparked again. You didn’t know how, or why, but your whole body pulsed with a strange awareness. Your skin buzzed. The air felt too sharp, like the molecules themselves were brushing too close against you. You ran your palm along your own arm—it felt like someone else’s skin.

Someone new. Something not quite… human.

You weren’t sure whether to be thrilled or terrified.

A sharp laugh escaped you—short, stunned, breathless. You wiped a shaky hand down your face, your skin still tingling like it had been touched by something you couldn’t name. "What the hell…" you muttered to no one, voice hushed in the muted blue-gray light filtering through the blinds.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, your body wasn’t numb.

It ached. It buzzed.

You were horny. And maybe—just maybe—haunted.

Not the jump-scare, crawling-out-of-your-TV kind. No. This was subtler. Seductive. Like something ghostlike had struck a match down your spine and whispered promises to your bones.

You sighed, rubbing your temples.

Then your eyes flicked to your phone screen. Shit.

You jolted upright, the weight of time slamming into your chest. Adrenaline took the wheel. The sheets slipped off your legs as you stumbled toward your dresser, still half-lost in the fog of sleep—or whatever strange thing had wrapped itself around your dreams.

You moved on instinct, grabbing whatever felt softest, lightest, least constraining. You slipped into an asymmetric maxi skirt that flowed around your legs like smoke, streaked in midnight blue and obsidian black. It cinched at your waist with a simple circle leather belt, the buckle cool against your stomach. A cropped top followed—loose, gauzy, a whisper of fabric more than a shirt. Air moved through it easily, kissing your skin.

You looked… casual? A little lost, maybe.

The kind of outfit that felt like something you could disappear in without a sound. Your fingers fumbling, you pushed your hair back, unlocked your phone, and typed with sharp, quick taps:

You: Location shared. Dropped off at that creepy butcher shop you told me about. If I’m not out in an hour, call the cops. Seriously.

The reply came almost instantly:

Z: "Roger that, orgasm-crisis queen 💋"

“Bitch,” you muttered, rolling your eyes with a reluctant smirk. You didn’t text back. You didn’t need to.

You were quick to reach the building was everything your gut told you to avoid. Normal. Painfully, strategically normal. It sat like a tumor on the edge of the block—red-brick exterior faded from years of sun and smog, windows that reflected nothing, and a crooked sign over the door that read “Balkan Meats & Cold Cuts” in peeling paint.

A rusted awning flapped listlessly in the breeze, and somewhere inside, the thick metallic scent of iron and brine curled into your sinuses. It smelled like blood that had soaked too deep into tile.

You didn’t see a sign for a clinic. You didn’t expect one.

Your eyes scanned the side of the building until you spotted the narrow stairwell half-hidden beside a dumpster. You hesitated only once before climbing, hand gliding over the sticky, warm metal of the rail. Above, a flickering bulb buzzed like a trapped wasp, casting shadows that moved just a little too much.

When you reached the landing, everything went quiet.

Unnaturally quiet.

The hallway was narrow and sterile—painted beige so aggressively dull it made your teeth itch. No music. No voices. Just the electric hum of fluorescent lighting and your own pulse, thudding loud in your ears.

You found the door at the end. Plain metal. No placard. No name. Just a tarnished silver handle. You stared at it for a moment, fingers hovering near the knob, chest tight. Every inch of your rational brain screamed to leave. But you were tired of being rational. Rational hadn’t helped.

So you opened the door.

The room inside was quiet. Still. Too still.

There were three mismatched chairs—one metal, one wood, one soft and threadbare like it came from someone’s grandmother’s house. A water dispenser stood lonely in the corner, full but with no cups, like a trick. A desk stood at the far wall—paper neatly stacked, everything aligned with almost religious care—but there was no monitor, no receptionist, no phone.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was waiting.

You took a cautious step inside. Your shoes made the faintest sound against the polished floor. You moved around the desk, squinting for some kind of bell, clipboard, sign of life.

And that’s when you felt it.

The breath, soft and warm against the nape of your neck. The presence, solid and sudden behind you—too close. A chest. Firm. Immovable. Pressed just a whisper from your back.

You froze. Every muscle in your body pulled taut.

“You have appointment?”

The voice was low, deep, and smooth, and somehow casually clinical. But what rattled you most was how he’d arrived—soundless, like he’d stepped out of the air itself. You spun around, heart in your throat.

And there he was.

Moving toward you with the kind of quiet purpose that didn’t demand attention—it consumed it.

Dressed in layered blacks so matte they seemed to drink in the light, he walked like the air parted for him out of habit, each step slow, deliberate, respectful in a way that somehow felt more unsettling than if he’d stormed in. His presence didn’t crash—it settled, like dusk creeping in unnoticed.

He was tall. Towering, almost. But not in a way that screamed dominance—it was more architectural. Like he belonged in old cathedrals or under moonlight, not in this oddly quiet waiting room above a butcher shop. His build was lean but sharp-edged, tailored by something too precise to be simply "fit."

His hair was a mess of deep brown waves, slightly tousled like he’d forgotten he had it. Strands fell across the top edge of his black surgical mask, softening the austere lines of his outfit.

And then—his eyes. His. eyes.

No whites. No pupils. No clear edges or irises. Just obsidian pools so deep they looked like if you stared too long, they’d start staring back. They weren’t dead or hollow—they shimmered faintly in the overhead fluorescents, alive with something too exact, too alert. It was like he wasn’t looking at you, he was measuring you.

Then the ears. It took a second glance to really process them—subtly pointed, the kind of detail your mind initially dismissed as a trick of the light. Delicate but wrong in the way that made fairy tales dangerous. Piercings traced their way up the cartilage, tiny silver hoops and bars arranged not for fashion, but like some strange celestial map.

His skin was smooth, cool-toned—grayish, yes, but in a way that reminded you of marble, not illness. Preserved. Not decayed. A color that made your brain second-guess itself.

He stopped a careful distance from you, his height folding slightly as he inclined his head. Not deferential, not patronizing—just polite. Attuned. Like a creature who’d spent centuries perfecting human etiquette without ever being human himself.

Instinct made you step back. Your breath caught.

“Holy shit,” you blurted. “Do you have… Argyria?”

He tilted his head, a frown ghosting across his face like he was trying to compute the question. “No,” he said after a moment, voice low, textured. Almost soothing. “I do not.”

Then his eyes roamed you—slow, thoughtful, clinical. Not with desire, not with threat—like he was unpacking a file only he could read. His gaze wasn’t the kind that undressed you. It unspooled you.

He made a soft sound in the back of his throat. “You’re a medical student, yes?”

You froze. “How do you—?”

He walked past you, each step soft and unnervingly quiet, rounding the desk with a smooth turn of his shoulder. His fingers brushed the desk surface like he was orienting himself with muscle memory.

“You carry yourself like someone who’s trained their exhaustion into structure,” he said, more to the desk than to you. “Your posture is clinical. Your eyes never stop scanning. Slight tremor in the left hand suggests chronic overextension. Pair that with the guarded breathing, the subtle shift in weight when approached from behind—textbook hypervigilance.”

He turned back to face you. His eyes locked with yours again.

“Your libido is comatose, yes?”

You blinked. “What—”

“And you smell faintly of herbs,” he added, softly, “something floral beneath the surface. Artificial, like a cheap perfume meant to disguise the real scent. Something sweet, desperate. Useful.”

You stood, stunned into silence.

Every nerve in your body was ringing like it had been plucked. What the actual hell had you just walked into? And why, despite all logic, did it feel like... exactly where you were supposed to be?

The man moved without a word, extending one long arm past the threshold to open a nondescript door tucked into the hallway’s end. The hinges didn’t creak—they glided, soundlessly. The room inside was dimly lit but strangely warm, nothing like the cold sterility of the corridor.

At first glance, it looked like a therapist’s office—or some vague approximation of one. Two chairs sat opposite each other: high-backed, dark fabric, a bit too clean, a bit too deliberate in their placement.

Potted plants softened the corners—large-leafed, thriving, well-watered. The air held a faint scent of petrichor and sage. It was subtle, like the room had been exhaling while no one was there. The walls held a few certificates, two diplomas, and a clock.

You noticed that immediately.

Again, everything was too clean. Not clinical—but manicured. Controlled. As though someone had designed this space not for comfort, but for ease of disarmament. You stepped closer, the doorway framing you. But your feet hesitated. Something primal, buried, and clawed screamed softly inside your chest. A warning. That if you stepped into that room, if your foot crossed that threshold… it wouldn’t be just your body walking in.

You swallowed. Hard.

The man leaned against the doorframe now, arms crossed, his presence still and observant. Watching, not pushing. He didn’t coax you. Didn’t rush you. His voice came soft, measured:

“It’s professional. I assure you.”

You met his gaze—those endless black eyes—and didn’t see a lie. But you didn’t see the truth either. Just… depth. He glanced away, absently brushing a loose curl from his temple. “When did you find my card?”

Your lips twitched. “Friend gave it to me,” you said, fingers quoting air. “Claim they found it at the ‘club’ they frequent.”

That’s when his eyes widened slightly, his face lifting in something that looked like genuine amusement. He let out a low, rich chuckle, the sound curling through the quiet like smoke.

“Ah. That place.”

“You go there often?” you asked, curiosity sharpening to a point.

He straightened slowly, still smiling. “Now and then. Good for getting the word out. Not many people in your situation ask for help in… traditional places.”

You tilted your head, one brow raising. “And what exactly do you do?”

He seemed to pause—not for hesitation, but for precision. Like he was combing through a thousand possible answers and measuring which one wouldn’t make you walk away. Finally, he said: “I work with... bodily systems. Unblock pathways. Redirect energy. Reset patterns. Most of it is touch-based. Topical. Very specific. Not mainstream. But it’s effective.”

You frowned. That was vague enough to mean anything from chiropractic therapy to illicit back-alley sorcery.

“You’re a medical student too?” you asked, more defensively than intended.

He hummed. “Was. For a time.” A pause. “Now I work to pay off the debts.”

Then he gave a slow tilt of his head. “And before we begin, I should mention—my sessions aren’t exactly cheap.”

His eyes glinted faintly.

“Still willing to go through with this?”

You stood, heart somewhere between your throat and your spine. Your body still thrummed from the dream, from the walk, from him. This wasn’t sane. This wasn’t rational. But then again, neither was what was happening to you.

You sighed—the long, tired kind of sigh that sounded like it had aged a decade on its way out. Truth be told, you really didn’t want to leave without getting something resolved. Not after dragging yourself through the iron-scented meat shop, past the flickering stairwell light, and into this strange little time vacuum of a room.

“If I come out dead, I come out dead,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, as you finally stepped forward. “It’s not like I’m missing brunch with a life coach.”

This was, in some weird, macabre way, the most interesting thing to happen to you in months. Hell, maybe years. If you were going to spiral, might as well do it with a little flair and mystery. You squared your shoulders, glanced back at the man, and with the enthusiasm of someone marching into a mild haunting, said: “Alright.”

He hummed—soft, approving, almost like a cat that had just seen you pick up its favorite toy—and stepped aside to let you pass. As you entered, the smell of the room shifted again, warmer now, like bergamot and dry cedar, grounded and oddly calming.

The door clicked shut behind you. A little too gently.

He gestured toward one of the chairs. “Have a seat.”

You chose the one that didn’t face the door—a risk, but also felt like a test—and he slid into the opposite chair with ease. Just fluid motion, like gravity, took him differently than it took everyone else. From a side drawer built into the table, he pulled out a clipboard and a pen. The scratch of it echoed a little too loudly in the stillness.

He looked up at you, eyes glittering darkly. “Before we begin, let’s do a quick intake.”

You blinked. “Didn’t I already fill that out online?”

“Yes,” he replied without looking up. “But this is more for me. A… recap.”

You raised a brow. “So you’re giving me a pop quiz on my own trauma?”

“I find it helps to speak it aloud,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Clarifies intent. Filters out exaggeration. Or embellishment.”

You exhaled slowly. “Alright then.” You tapped your fingers against your knee, pausing before letting the words tumble out. “My issue is… weird.”

He didn’t blink. Just nodded, as if “weird” was his mother tongue.

You hesitated again. “Like, I don’t know if it’s physical or psychological. But I wake up… not exactly aroused, but like my body thinks it is. Except there’s no—” You made a vague, circular gesture. “No stimulation. No dreams I can recall. Just this… residue. Like my nervous system got love-bombed by a ghost.”

He blinked once. Still quiet.

“And I can’t concentrate. Nor get off as I want to for stress relief. Everything’s wired wrong. I feel like a haunted, but emotionally detached.”

The corner of his eye twitched.

You swore—swore—that might’ve been a smirk.

He scribbled something down. “Interesting.”

You exhaled through your nose, slowly, one eyebrow arching with muted skepticism. Of course. Still, you weren’t here to play games. Not too many, at least. “So?” you said, his name careful on your tongue. You looked away for a second, then met his eyes again, sharper this time. “How do I fix my issue? What is it exactly? What do you think’s going on?”

He nodded once, slow and deliberate, and set the clipboard aside with a soft clatter against the side table. “Anorgasmia,” The man said, as if the word wasn’t something that could make you want to melt into the floor.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, hands folded—long fingers, clean nails, veins just barely visible under that unnervingly smooth, pale skin. “Specifically, it sounds like you’re experiencing Female Orgasmic Disorder. Acquired, generalized. Based on what you put in your intake and your… reaction, I’d guess it’s been ongoing for more than six months, right?”

You blinked, hard, then nodded. That clinical delivery should’ve felt sterile, cold. It didn’t. His voice was low, textured. Intimate without trying to be. And God help you, it was kind of hot. You couldn’t tell if it was his confidence or his complete lack of awkwardness when talking about something that made you want to crawl out of your skin—but it worked.

You were listening, hanging off each word.

Your eyes narrowed slightly, involuntarily tracing the line of his throat to where his collar rested—loose black, matte fabric, something tactical and breathable. His posture was perfect: relaxed but with intention. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t blink too often. There was a heaviness to him, a quiet focus that made you feel pinned, studied… and not in a way that made you want to leave. Damn it.

“So basically,” you said dryly, forcing your gaze back up to his face, “my vagina’s in a coma.”

He cracked a brief, silent laugh through his nose—lips curling just slightly beneath the mask. “That’s one way to put it.”

“And you’re telling me the solution is…” You hesitated, bracing. “To build sensations back up?”

“Yes.” He said it simply, without any waver.

“That’s the starting point, at least. If you were hoping for a prescription or an easy out, I’m afraid there isn’t one. There’s no single medication that resolves this. At best, there are supplements that might help increase blood flow or sensitivity, but they’re not proven. What you need is guided stimulation therapy—Sensate Focus, gradual reintroduction of arousal, maybe eventually partnered techniques—”

You cut him off, “You sound like you’re assigning more homework than I already have to deal with on a daily basis,” you muttered, cheeks heating. “Just with more nudity.”

That earned another small smirk. “Only if you’re an overachiever.”

Oof. You groaned into your hands. “Oh my god.”

He continued, not unkindly. “You’re not broken. This is more common than most people think. Stress, medical trauma, interpersonal issues… and in your case, high-functioning academic burnout. You’ve been so focused on achieving, suppressing, managing everything, that your nervous system no longer registers pleasure as safe or worth prioritizing.”

You blinked, stunned. “I—I didn’t even say—how do you—”

The man tilted his head slightly. “Again, you carry exhaustion like armor. And guilt. You intellectualize your body instead of inhabiting it.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your throat felt tight.

“And…” he added, tone dipping lower as his eyes flicked over your face, “you haven’t had the time. Or the space. Or the kind of partner who asks you to stay in the moment.”

You swallowed thickly. “…So what now?”

“Now?” he said, gently. “We start small. Sessions like this. Focused touch. Retraining your response system. Making your body feel safe again.”

You felt your fingers twitch in your lap, not sure whether to bolt or laugh or just melt into the chair. Then, because you needed to feel like you had some control, you leaned back, folded your arms, and asked, “And before we go further… are you gonna tell me your name? Or am I just supposed to keep calling you Tall, Dark, and Mildly Threatening?”

That finally cracked something. His smirk deepened, the smallest glint of teeth visible behind the mask.

“You can call me Jack.”

You raised a brow. “…Just Jack?”

He tilted his head, eyes glittering like obsidian in the low light. “For now.”

“…So, Jack,” you said, dragging his name out with a hint of sarcasm, “you do this often? Therapize poor souls out of their orgasmless despair?”

Jack leaned forward, just slightly. “Only the .” He said as he stood smoothly, setting the clipboard aside with practiced ease, and gestured for you to follow him.

You did—hesitantly at first—rising from the stiff chair and trailing after him as he crossed the hall and unlocked another door with a soft click. When he pushed it open, the first thing to hit you was the warmth.

The lighting was low and amber, diffused through soft bulbs hidden behind velvet-draped sconces. The space smelled faintly of cedarwood and something sweet you couldn’t quite place—almost like jasmine.

It was… not what you expected. At all. You’d prepared yourself for a clinical space, something sterile or weirdly kinky, but this room?

It was intimate. Luxurious, almost.

Rich textures blanketed every surface: soft velvets, high-thread count cotton, brushed suede. The walls were painted a deep, dusky blue that made the shadows look heavier, closer.

A plush bed with dark sheets dominated one side of the room, framed by heavy curtains and stacked pillows in earthy tones. There were other touches too—soft rugs layered beneath your feet, a tray of water and mints, tissues neatly folded. A single mirror, gold-framed and slightly fogged, leaned in the corner.

And then there was the chair.

It looked like something halfway between a modern art sculpture and a spaceship seat—sleek, curved, contoured like it had been made to cradle someone. It was upholstered in black leather with subtle seams and built-in supports. Strange as it was, it didn’t feel perverse. Not cheesy or tacky.

It was… functional. Designed. Like everything else in this room.

Jack gestured toward it casually, like it wasn’t anything to raise an eyebrow over. “That,” he said, “is a sensual lounge chair. Enhanced positioning. For alignment, breath regulation, deeper physical feedback.”

Your stomach flipped again. Christ.

He turned toward a cabinet and pulled out another clipboard, this one thicker than the first, and handed it to you. “Before we go further,” he said, “you’ll need to sign this waiver. Standard practice. And—” he paused, meeting your eyes with that intense calm—“we’ll need a safe word.”

You blinked. “A safe word?”

Jack nodded, leaning back against the counter, hands folded loosely in front of him. “Yes. My sessions—whatever form they take—require that the patient always feels in control. If, at any moment, you feel unsafe or overwhelmed, you use it. No questions asked. Everything stops.”

That… wasn’t what you expected. For someone who looked like the personification of a Victorian ghost with resting murder face, he was oddly considerate. Thorough.

“And,” he continued, “you should also indicate if there are any areas of your body you don’t want touched—or if touch in general is an issue.”

You hesitated. Jack watched your silence carefully.

“I’m… not exactly comfortable being touched,” you admitted, voice lower now, unsure. “Not really.”

He tilted his head, brow faintly furrowed. “As in, discomfort from trauma or—?”

You shook your head. “I’ve never… been touched. At least by someone that’s not me. I’ve tried. It just—never worked. Nothing felt… real. Or good. I don’t think I’ve ever had an actual orgasm. And it’s not like I even want sex, really. I just—” You exhaled, rubbing your temple. “—use it to sleep. For stress relief. However there’s never been feeling.”

Jack didn’t speak right away. His gaze didn’t shift, but it softened—just slightly. He stepped forward, retrieving the clipboard gently from your hands and flipping through your answers with quiet focus.

“I see,” he murmured eventually. “That’s… unusual. Not unheard of, but rare. You’re likely dealing with a variant of the Disorder. Possibly psychogenic anorgasmia, possibly neurochemical. But your phrasing—never felt real, never wanted—it’s more complex.”

You nodded, arms crossed tightly. You felt vaguely ridiculous standing in a velvet sex room, discussing the void that lived between your thighs with someone who looked like a cursed Renaissance painting. But oddly enough… you didn’t feel judged.

Jack reached for a pen, jotting something down. Then, after a moment of consideration, he looked up. “I’m registering you as a special case,” he said simply. “Again, we’ll go slow. No expectations. No pressure. Just sensation. Understanding. Rebuilding the pathway.”

Your breath caught. Despite yourself, your eyes drifted over him again—his posture, the quiet precision of his movements, the way his sleeves had pushed up just slightly at the forearms.

Even the way he held the pen. God, even that was hot.

You cleared your throat. “And you’re… trained for this?”

That smirk again—barely there, but you caught it. “Let’s just say I’m highly practiced.”

You looked at the waiver. Then at him. Then, slowly, you picked up the pen.

“…What’s the safe word?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Your choice.”

You glanced around the room, then muttered, “Velvet.”

Jack nodded once, like it was sacred. “Velvet it is.”

Jack's hand lingered at the back of the chair, fingers grazing the leather as he gestured for you to sit. “Go ahead,” he said, his voice deep but even, “relax back, let it support you. It’s built for comfort.”

You eyed the chair, skeptical but curious. The leather was cool against the backs of your thighs as you slowly settled into it. Jack crouched beside you without a word and gently slid your bag from your shoulder, placing it neatly beside the chair like it deserved a designated resting place of its own.

He looked at you with quiet concentration, one hand resting on the edge of the seat. “May I touch you?” he asked.

There was something respectful in the way he said it—not hesitant, but patient. You gave a small nod, and he murmured, “Say it.”

“Yes,” you said, just above a whisper. “You can.”

He nodded in return, then reached up… and touched your ears? Your expression must have said ‘what the hell are you doing’, because Jack actually gave a soft huff of amusement under his breath. “There are over a dozen zones in the female body that can stimulate a neurological arousal response,” he said smoothly, his thumbs brushing gently around the outer edge of your ears. “Ears are one of the most overlooked.”

You blinked at him. There was no reaction. Nothing flared in your stomach or between your legs. You weren’t even sure it tickled. You just stared at him, flatly. Jack pulled his hands back, nodding to himself like he was taking mental notes.

“Alright. Not the ears.”

Next, he moved to your scalp, his fingers spreading through your hair with practiced ease. You expected it to feel awkward, maybe even clinical, but instead it was… gentle. Thoughtful. His fingertips pressed down just enough to release tension, circling at the base of your skull, following invisible patterns across your scalp.

Your eyes softened. Your breath evened. It didn’t arouse you—not in the way you feared or expected—but it felt good. Normal. Like something you hadn’t realized you’d needed.

Jack noticed, clearly. “Noted,” he murmured, withdrawing again. “Some feedback, not enough to trigger arousal. Good to know.”

He stepped around the chair, “The neck, then.”

When his fingers touched the back of your neck, it was subtle—almost like he was testing the current in a live wire. He barely pressed at all, and yet your entire body tensed beneath the surface like a ripple across still water. Your breath hitched.

Jack froze.

“…Interesting,” he muttered. “Odd tingle, but not necessarily pleasant?”

“It’s—” you started, but hesitated. “It’s something. I don’t know what.”

He gave a faint frown, filing that away. “Alright. Moving down.”

Then his fingers gently circled your inner wrists. You watched him as he focused—his brows slightly drawn, touch featherlight, like he was reading braille in your skin. “These are usually extremely responsive,” he said quietly. “Especially in individuals with dulled primary zones. The nerves are close to the surface here.”

You just stared at him. Nothing.

He looked up at you and raised an eyebrow. “Still nothing?” he asked.

You blinked. “Nothing.”

He gave a quiet exhale through his nose, but not out of frustration. Just… reassessment. “Okay,” he said. “Lower back next. The muscular network there is directly tied to your abdomen and pelvic floor. Sometimes, tension here bottlenecks sensation.”

His hand slid to your waist, firm but not invasive, and pressed into your lower back. The motion was a slow knead, thumbs working just beside your spine. A small breath escaped you—not from pleasure, exactly, but from release. It felt like something began to melt from your muscles. Like heat unfurling.

Jack stilled again.

“Better,” he said. “Still not there. But… warming.”

You let out a low sound of agreement, your body leaning back more deeply into the curve of the chair. Your muscles weren’t buzzing, but they weren’t frozen either.

Jack stood upright, arms crossed loosely as he studied your posture, your breathing, every inch of your subdued response. “Shit… definitely a complex case,” he said, half to himself. “You have all the parts—just not the ignition.”

You quirked a brow up at him. “Are you calling me broken?”

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No,” he said. “I’m calling you… locked. That’s different.”

You watched him. Even his frown was attractive—concentrated, thoughtful, not overdramatic. He wasn’t rattled. He was just… intrigued. Motivated. Somehow, that made the heat in the room just a little thicker.

Jack didn’t say anything right away.

He watched you for a moment, his expression unreadable but not unkind. There was something unsettling in his stillness—something restrained. Like he was holding back more than just words. You sat on the edge of the chair, shoulders tense, knuckles pale as you clutched the armrests like they might anchor you in reality.

He crouched in front of you slowly, making sure not to invade your space too suddenly. Then, in that same low voice he always used when speaking seriously, he asked, “Would you feel safer if I guided you through the rest? Or would you prefer to take the lead?”

Your throat was dry, your thoughts in knots. “I don’t know what to do,” you admitted softly, hating the vulnerability in your voice.

He nodded, taking your words without judgment. “That’s alright. I’ll take care of the pacing,” he said. Then he stood and gently reached out a hand.

“May I?”

The question hung between you, soft as a pulse. You glanced down at his outstretched hand—palm upturned, fingers slightly curled—then back to his face. His expression was unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes held yours with a quiet intensity. Not hunger, not impatience. Just waiting.

You swallowed, then placed your hand in his.

His grip was warm. Not the dry, clinical touch of a doctor, but something living—calluses you hadn’t noticed before brushed against your knuckles, subtle proof of hands that worked, that knew their own strength.

He guided you up carefully, his other hand lifting the clipboard from your lap with a precision that bordered on reverence. Every movement was deliberate, unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world.

"Would you be comfortable sitting on my lap?"

His voice was low, barely more than breath against your ear. The question shouldn’t have felt so intimate—not here, not like this—but something about the way he asked it, the way his thumb traced a slow arc over your wrist as he waited for your answer, made your stomach tighten.

You hesitated.

Not from fear, but from the sheer strangeness of it.

When was the last time someone had held you? Not for sex, not for comfort, but just—held you? The thought was almost embarrassing in its simplicity.

Yet you nodded.

Jack stepped back, settling onto the chair first. His posture was relaxed but controlled, thighs slightly parted to make space for you. He didn’t pull you down, didn’t rush. Just lifted his chin, watching you with those endless black eyes, and let you come to him.

You lowered yourself slowly, every nerve alight. The first brush of your back against his chest was electric—not from arousal, but from the sheer warmth of him. He was solid, real in a way that made your breath stutter. His arms came around your waist, not trapping, not demanding, just there.

A steady weight. An anchor.

And then—his breath.

You hadn’t expected that. The slow, even rise and fall of his chest against your spine, the heat of his exhale skimming the nape of your neck. It was too much. Too close. Your own breathing was shallow, uneven, a frantic counterpoint to his calm.

"You’re safe."

His voice rumbled through you, deeper now that you were pressed against him. One hand rested lightly above your ribs, his palm a brand even through the fabric of your shirt. The other stayed at your side, thumb tracing idle circles over your hip. Not teasing. Not yet. Just… measuring.

"We’re going slow. All you have to do is exist here."

The words sank into your skin like a balm. Your shoulders dropped, your lungs expanding fully for what felt like the first time in months.

The room came into focus around you—the faint scent of lavender and something darker, earthier, clinging to his clothes. The muted hum of a ceiling fan you hadn’t noticed before. The plush give of velvet beneath your fingertips where you’d gripped the armrest. And beneath it all, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back.

You closed your eyes.

For the first time in too long, you felt something.

"Just follow my hands."

His voice was a murmur, barely louder than the brush of his thumbs along the slope of your neck. You shivered—not from the cold, but from the sheer attention of it. His hands were warm, palms broad enough to cradle the base of your skull as he worked slow circles into the tense cords of muscle there.

"Breathe," he reminded you, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath.

His touch trailed downward, following the curve of your spine, pausing at the dip between your shoulder blades. There was no hesitation in his movements, no fumbling—just the smooth, deliberate drag of skin against skin. When his fingers reached the hem of your shirt, he didn’t push. Didn’t assume. Just splayed his hands over your ribs and waited.

“You okay, there?”

You nodded, your "yes" escaping as a shaky exhale.

His palms slid beneath the fabric, warm against the bare skin of your stomach. You tensed instinctively, but his grip tightened—not restraining, just steadying. "Easy," he soothed. "This isn’t about getting you off. It’s about learning how you react."

His thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts, so light it was almost teasing. You bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut as he traced the outer curves, mapping you with a patience that bordered on maddening.

Then—his fingers curled, lifting the fabric higher. Cool air kissed your skin as your shirt rucked up beneath your arms. You glanced down, watching as his hands dwarfed you, his fingers spanning the width of your ribcage.

"Jack—"

He stilled. "What’s wrong?"

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you grabbed his wrists, guiding his palms back to your chest. His breath hitched, but he didn’t resist. Let you press his hands flush against the soft swell of your breasts through your lace black bra, your nipples pebbling under the rough heat of his touch.

Your voice was thin, frayed at the edges. "Pinch them. Like I do when I—when I try to hurry."

A few seconds of silence. Then—

Jack laughed.

Not mocking, not cruel. A soft, breathless sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. "That’s your problem, sweetheart," he murmured, his thumbs already circling your nipples with agonizing slowness. "You’re always in a rush."

You whined, hips shifting restlessly.

He ignored it. Just kept his touch featherlight, maddeningly gentle, even as you squirmed. "You don’t need to chase it," he chided, his voice dipping into something darker. "Let it come to you."

Then—finally—he gave you what you asked for.

His fingers tightened, just shy of pain, and your back arched off his chest with a gasp. "There," he murmured, satisfied. "Now you’re listening." He simply grinned.

“Also, you came prepared."

His voice was low, amused, as his thumbs brushed the hem of your maxi skirt—dark fabric pooling around your hips where you sat straddling his lap. You stiffened slightly at the words, fingers twitching against his hands.

"What do you mean?" you asked, though the heat creeping up your neck already betrayed your understanding.

Jack didn’t answer right away. His hands slid up your sides, tracing the notches of your ribs through your thin top before his thumbs found the peaks of your nipples. He pinched—just so—not harsh, but enough to make your breath hitch. A slow, circular rub followed, the friction deliberate, studying the way your body tensed and released beneath his touch.

“Black lace bra, matching black lace panties,” he observed, voice rough with something that wasn’t quite approval. "Skirt easy to remove. You knew what this session would require."

You opened your mouth to protest, but his hands were already moving down, palms skating over the flare of your hips, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your skirt.

The leather belt came undone with a quiet snick, the circle buckle cool where it grazed your stomach before he set it aside. His knuckles brushed your navel as he pushed the fabric down, letting it slide to the floor in a whisper of fabric.

His hands settled on your bare thighs now, just shy of the lace edge of your underwear. You could feel your own dampness—faint, but there—and the realization sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

Jack noticed. Of course he did.

"Show me," he said, fingers flexing against your skin.

"How you usually touch yourself."

Your pulse thudded in your ears. For a moment, you just stared at him—his gaze unwavering, those black eyes absorbing every twitch of your expression. Then, hesitantly, you crossed your legs, pressing your thighs together in a slow, practiced grind.

Jack’s brows lifted. "What are you doing?"

"I don’t… use my fingers," you admitted, voice barely audible. "They don’t— It doesn’t feel like enough."

A few seconds of silence. Then, a low, incredulous laugh rumbled in his chest. "You get off like this?" His grip tightened slightly on your thighs, as if to emphasize the absurdity. "No wonder you’ve numbed yourself. This much pressure—crossing your legs would dull anyone’s nerves."

You flinched, but his hands gentled instantly, one sliding up to cradle your jaw. "I’m not mocking you," he murmured. "But if you’ll let me—" His thumb brushed your lower lip. "—I’d like to teach you how to do it properly."

Your mouth went dry. "Okay," you whispered.

Jack’s smile was sharp. "Good."

Then his hands were on your hips, lifting you effortlessly to reposition you—knees bracketing his thighs, lace-clad cunt hovering just above the hard line of his own arousal. You hadn’t even noticed it before, but now it was impossible to ignore: the heat of him, the way his breath shallowed when your inner thighs brushed against him.

"First lesson," he said, fingers tracing the soaked seam of your underwear. "You don’t need to crush the sensation to feel it. You need to tease it."

And then—slow, torturous—he dragged the lace aside.

"You’re wet."

His voice was low, matter-of-fact, as his thumb brushed over the soft, puffy lips of your cunt. Not probing, not demanding—just noticing. The contact was featherlight, barely there, but it sent a jolt through you anyway. Your hips twitched, a reflexive flinch, but his other hand anchored your thigh, keeping you still.

"Probably from me touching your breasts earlier," he mused, more to himself than to you. His fingers retreated, glistening faintly in the dim light. He studied them for a moment, then met your eyes. "You don’t even realize it, do you? Your body reacts before your mind catches up."

You swallowed. You hadn’t realized. The slow, methodical way he’d palmed your breasts—thumbs circling your nipples through the fabric of the lace bra, his breath hot on your neck—had felt clinical at the time. Like an assessment. But now, with his fingers hovering just above your clit, the evidence was undeniable.

Jack tilted his head. "One last chance," he murmured. "Is there anywhere—anywhere at all—that makes you feel good? Even just a little?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Your mind was blank, your nerves alight but directionless. You’d spent so long numb that the mere possibility of pleasure felt like a foreign language.

He sighed. Not frustrated. Resigned.

"Then I need you wetter."

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping firmly. "Stand up."

The command was quiet but absolute. You obeyed on shaky legs, and you rose. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, pausing just long enough for you to tense—

Slap.

The sound was sharp, sudden. His palm connected with the curve of your ass, not hard enough to sting, but enough to make you gasp. Your muscles clenched, a startled noise catching in your throat, but he was already lifting you, effortlessly, like you weighed nothing. Your underwear peeled away, the fabric dragging against your thighs before pooling at your ankles.

"Step out."

You did. The air was cool against your bare skin, a contrast to the heat building low in your stomach. When you turned to face him, Jack was still seated, his gaze dark and unwavering. He held your discarded underwear between two fingers, studying the damp spot with detached interest before setting them aside.

"Good," he said, as if you’d passed some unspoken test. His hands returned to your hips, guiding you forward until you stood between his spread knees.

"Now. Let’s try something simple."

One broad palm settled on the inside of your thigh, pressing in—not teasing, not stroking, just pressure. The heel of his hand ground against your muscles, slow and firm, and your breath hitched.

"There it is," he murmured, watching your face. "You don’t need finesse. You just need to be felt." His other hand mirrored the motion on your opposite thigh, fingers digging into the tense flesh. You swayed, your knees threatening to buckle, but his grip held you upright.

"Breathe," he reminded you, his thumbs creeping higher. "Just breathe. I want to test something."

Jack’s voice was low, a rumble against your spine. You felt his hands shift on your hips, his grip firm but not demanding—just enough to steer. His thumb brushed the jut of your hipbone, a silent question.

You tilted your head, frowning. His thigh?

Before you could voice the confusion, he was already moving you. His palms pressed into the softness above your waist, guiding you forward until your bare cunt settled against the hard muscle of his thigh. The fabric of his pants was rough against your sensitive skin, a stark contrast to the heat building beneath.

"Slowly," he murmured, his breath warm on your shoulder.

His hands moved you first, a deliberate rock of your hips against him, letting you feel the drag of friction. It was clinical at first—an experiment, an assessment—but then your body reacted. A spark, faint but undeniable, flickered low in your stomach.

Your breath hitched.

Jack stilled, his fingers flexing against your hips. "You felt that." It wasn’t a question.

You nodded, your throat tight.

"Good." His voice was dark with satisfaction. "Now, do it yourself."

He released you, his palms sliding away until only the ghost of his touch remained. For a moment, you hesitated, hovering above him, your thighs trembling with the effort of holding yourself up. Then, tentatively, you rolled your hips.

The sensation was sharper this time—less controlled, more yours. A quiet sound escaped you, barely more than a sigh. Jack’s exhale was ragged against your neck, his own restraint fraying at the edges as he watched you.

"Again."

You obeyed, rocking forward with more confidence this time. The pressure was perfect—just enough to tease, not enough to overwhelm. Your fingers dug into his knees for balance as you moved, your pace quickening without thought.

"Look at you," Jack murmured, his voice thick. "Finally feeling something." His hands returned, not to guide you, but to feel you—his thumbs pressing into the dip of your waist, his fingers spanning the curve of your ass, tracing the way your body moved against him. Every touch was possessive, reverent. Like he was memorizing the way you came undone.

Your breath came faster, your hips grinding down in desperate little circles now. The coil in your stomach tightened, your nerves alight with something raw and new. You weren’t just touching yourself—you were using him, his strength, his stillness, the unyielding muscle of his thigh giving you exactly what you needed.

"Slow down." His voice was a blade wrapped in velvet—smooth, but with an edge that made your breath hitch. His fingers curled around your wrist, halting the frantic rhythm of your own touch. You hadn’t even realized you’d started moving against him, hips stuttering with restless need. His grip tightened just enough to emphasize the point, his thumb pressing into your pulse like he was counting every erratic beat.

“Be careful, don’t rush your lesson now.”

Before you could protest, his hands were on your hips, turning you in his lap until you were straddling him backward—your spine pressed flush to his chest, his thighs bracketing yours. The shift was effortless, his strength unsettling in its ease. One arm banded around your waist, holding you in place. The other—

Slap.

A sharp, stinging bite against your bare cunt, just hard enough to make you gasp. The sound echoed in the quiet room, followed by the slick, obscene proof of how wet you were.

"Look at that," Jack murmured, his voice a dark hum against your ear. His fingers glided through your folds with clinical precision, spreading you open like a specimen he couldn’t wait to study.

"Dripping. And we’ve barely started."

His touch was cold. Not unpleasantly so, but enough to make you flinch—a stark contrast to the heat between your legs. You hadn’t noticed before, too lost in the haze of his control, but now it was all you could focus on. The chill of his skin as he dragged a single finger up your slit, circling your clit with agonizing slowness.

"Good girl," he praised, lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Look how far you’ve gotten. All tense and desperate, just for me."

You could hear the smirk in his voice. Could feel it in the way his fingers worked you—teasing, taunting, never giving you enough. Just slow, maddening circles that had your thighs trembling. His other hand splayed across your stomach, holding you steady as your hips jerked, seeking more friction.

"Ah-ah." A warning nip at your earlobe. "I decide when you come. Not you."

His sharp smile pressed against your throat as you whined, fingers clawing at his thighs. "Patience. There you go," Jack murmured, his voice a dark velvet rasp against your ear. "Just like that."

You didn’t remember when you’d gotten fully naked.

One moment, you were perched on his lap, his hands mapping the tension in your hips—the next, your clothes were gone, discarded somewhere in the hazy periphery of your awareness. Jack’s cool skin was against your bare skin, but your body was warm, more like a furnace against him.

His fingers trailed up your inner thigh, slow and methodical, pausing just shy of where you ached. "Tell me what you feel," he said, his breath hot on your shoulder.

"I—" Your voice cracked.

You were wet. So fucking wet it almost embarrassed you—a slick, shameful heat that had no business pooling this fast under the touch of a man who spoke like a surgeon and held you like a sacrament.

Jack hummed, low and approving. "Good. That’s exactly how you should be." His free hand slid up your stomach, palming your breast with a possessiveness that made your back arch. "Look at you," he murmured, thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, deliberate circles. "So responsive. So eager to learn."

You whimpered.

His chuckle was a dark, honeyed thing. "Ah, there’s the sound I’ve been waiting for." He pinched your nipple just so—not enough to hurt, just enough to make your hips jerk—and you gasped, your thighs trembling around his.

"You’re perfect like this," he continued, his voice dipping into something rougher. "All soft curves and pretty, desperate noises. I adore the ones with meat on their bones—something to hold, to savor." His teeth grazed your shoulder, blunt and teasing.

"You’re exactly my type."

Your breath came in shallow pants.

It was too much. Not enough. His words coiled hot in your belly, his touch everywhere—one hand still working your nipple, the other now dragging through your slick folds with agonizing patience. "Jack—"

"Shh." He pressed a kiss to the hinge of your jaw. "Let me teach you." His fingers parted you gently, his middle finger circling your clit with just the barest pressure. "This is where you start," he murmured. "Slow. Gentle. Let the ache build."

You bit your lip, hips twitching.

"No, no—look." He caught your wrist, guiding your hand down between your legs, his fingers overlaying yours. "Feel that? The way your body pulses when you touch here?" His voice was a sinful whisper, his breath damp against your neck. "That’s your hunger. Don’t rush it. Feed it."

You shuddered, his words searing into your skin. His fingers moved yours in slow, slick strokes—showing you the rhythm, the pressure, the filthy, perfect angle that made your vision blur.

"You’re so quiet."

Jack’s voice was a low murmur against your ear, his breath warm where his lips nearly brushed your skin. His fingers, still curled gently around your waist, flexed once—a silent prompt.

You hadn’t realized how little sound you’d made until he pointed it out. No moans, no hitched breaths. Just the soft, steady rhythm of your lungs fighting to stay even.

His head tilted, those black eyes scanning your face, again like a surgeon assessing an incision. "Not even a sigh," he mused. "Care to explain?"

You swallowed. "There’s no point," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack went very still behind you. Then, slowly, his hand slid up your torso, his palm skimming the curve of your ribs before settling just beneath your breast. His thumb pressed there, not quite teasing, not quite cruel—just present.

"Are you sure?"

The question hung in the air for half a heartbeat before his other hand dipped between your thighs.

You gasped.

His fingers were bigger than yours—wider, rougher in a way that shouldn’t have been as intoxicating as it was. A single digit pressed inside without warning, stretching you in a single, smooth motion.

Your back arched instinctively, your nails digging into the arm still wrapped around your waist. "Breathe," Jack reminded you, his voice dark with amusement. "And explain."

You tried. God, you tried. But your thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm as he began to move—slow, deliberate drags in and out, his knuckles brushing sensitive flesh with every retreat.

Your hips jerked, chasing the sensation, but his grip on your waist held firm, keeping you pinned against his chest. "I—" You choked on the word as his thumb circled your clit, feather-light. "I never—needed—to moan."

Jack tsked, his free hand sliding up to squeeze your breast, fingers plucking at your nipple just hard enough to make you jolt. "Try again."

"It was just—quick," you panted, your thighs trembling around his wrist. "Just to—to relax. Never—ah!—never like this."

He hummed, considering. His finger curled inside you, pressing up in a way that made your vision blur. "Can you handle another?"

You nodded frantically.

Jack’s grip on your breast tightened in warning. "Words, sweetheart."

"Y-yes—"

The second finger breached you before you could finish, stretching you impossibly wider. Your legs spasmed, a broken sound tearing from your throat as your body clenched around him. It was too much—the stretch, the heat, the way your own slick coated his fingers with every thrust. You could hear it, wet and obscene, and the sound alone sent a fresh wave of heat flooding between your thighs.

Jack’s lips grazed your shoulder. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with something like pride. "Dripping all over my fingers and you’ve barely made a sound."

You sighed softly, your hips rocking helplessly against his hand.

Then Jack stops.

You don’t realize he’s moved until his hands leave your waist, the sudden absence of his touch like a cold draft against your skin. You start to turn your head, confused—

And then he lifts you.

Effortlessly. As if your weight is nothing. One arm hooks under your knees, the other cradles your back, and in a single motion, he stands, taking you with him. Your breath hitches, fingers scrambling for purchase against his shoulders as the world tilts.

"Wha—?"

No warning. No explanation. Just the dizzying shift of gravity as he carries you the few steps to the bed and drops you—softly, deliberately—into the nest of pillows. Your head sinks into the downy embrace, hair fanning out around you.

And then he’s over you.

Knees bracketing your hips, palms planted on either side of your head, his shadow swallowing you whole.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Up close, the sheer size of him is startling. You knew he was tall, but like this—his torso blocking the light, his thighs pressing yours wider—he’s overwhelming. Lean, yes, but corded with a strength that makes your stomach flip. His shirt stretches tight across his shoulders, the fabric straining with the faintest shift of muscle as he leans down.

"I’m offering you an experience," he murmurs, voice like gravel wrapped in silk. "A real one."

Your pulse stutters. "W-why?"

His lips curl—just slightly. "Because I’ve touched you everywhere. Played with your breasts. Slapped your pretty cunt. Even fingered you." A pause, deliberate. "And you didn’t come. Not once."

The words shouldn’t burn. Not when he says them like he’s reciting lab results. But they do. Your face flames, thighs pressing together instinctively—only for his knee to nudge them back apart. "You got wet," he continues, thumb brushing your lower lip. "But wetness isn’t your goal. You want you to come. Hard. And I’m willing to make that happen."

Your breath is coming too fast now. "H-how?"

Jack’s smile is all teeth. "By eating you out."

Your entire body locks up. Eating you out. The phrase rattles in your skull like a stone in a tin can. You’ve never—no one’s ever—God, you don’t even know what it’s supposed to feel like. Just the thought of his mouth there, his tongue—

No. No no no.

You jerk your head to the side, one hand slapping over your eyes like a child hiding from a nightmare. It’s ridiculous. You’re a grown woman. A medical student, for Christ’s sake. But the heat in your cheeks is volcanic, your chest so tight it aches.

A chuckle—amused—vibrates through the mattress. "Tiny thing," Jack muses, "and yet so scared." Then his fingers wrap around your wrist, prying your hand away from your face. "Look at me."

You don’t want to. You do.

And—oh.

The face mask is gone.

His face is—Handsome isn’t the right word. It’s too… non-human, too soft. Jack is all edges: sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, lips just a shade too red against the cool gray of his skin. His brown hair is a mess of waves, half-tamed, like he’s been running his hands through it. And his ears—those damn pointed ears—twitch faintly as he studies your reaction.

But—with his full face, his eyes that steal your breath.

Pitch black. No whites, no pupils, just endless depth—like staring into a well at midnight. And beneath them, those faint, inky tear lines, as if he’s been crying shadows.

You should be terrified. This isn’t a man. This is something other. Something that shouldn’t exist outside of folklore or fever dreams.

But he’s also hot. Professionally, clinically hot.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the fascinating one.

Your throat bobs. "I—"

Jack doesn’t let you finish. He lifts your captured hand to his mouth—and bites your palm. Not hard. Not enough to break skin. Just a slow, deliberate press of teeth, his tongue flicking against the fleshy base of your thumb. A shiver rockets down your spine.

"It’s okay to be scared," he murmurs against your skin. "I’ll be gentle." A pause. "Unless you want me to be rough."

The option hangs between you, ripe as fruit. You groan, rolling your eyes like you’re not already arching into him. "Just—just fucking do it, Jack."

His grin is wicked. "Good girl." His lips pressed against yours without warning, but not without permission—the kind you’d given with your breath hitching, with your fingers curling into the sheets of the bed. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was claiming, a hot, deliberate slide of his mouth over yours, his teeth catching your lower lip just hard enough to make you gasp.

"Open," he murmured against you, voice dark as spilled ink.

You hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before parting your lips.

He didn’t wait. His tongue swept in, hot and relentless, tangling with yours in a way that felt less like an invitation and more like a taking. Your mouth felt full, overwhelmed, every flick and twist of his tongue dragging a muffled sound from your throat. He kissed you like he was mapping you, like he could taste the years of numbness on your tongue and was determined to burn it away.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were wet, swollen. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, catching a thread of saliva, and his eyes locked onto yours. "Good," he said, low and rough.

"So good for me already."

Then he was moving down.

He didn’t rush. Every inch of you was a ritual. His lips traced the line of your jaw, the flutter of your pulse, the hollow of your throat—each touch a brand. His hands followed, sliding down your sides, fingertips pressing just hard enough to make you arch.

When he reached your breasts, he paused. His breath was hot against your skin as he looked up at you, those black eyes glinting. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he said—but it wasn’t a question. It was a reminder. That you were still in control. That he wouldn’t take what you didn’t give.

You didn’t tell him to stop.

His mouth closed over one nipple, tongue circling slow and wet before his teeth grazed the peak. Your back bowed off the chair, a broken noise tearing from your lips. He hummed, pleased, his free hand cupping your other breast, thumb rolling over the neglected nipple until it ached.

"Jack—" you gasped.

He pulled back just enough to smirk. "You sound pretty when you say my name." Then he switched sides, lavishing the same torment on your other breast, his fingers pinching the first just enough to make your thighs jerk together.

He didn’t let you. His knee slid between yours, forcing them apart. "None of that," he chided, voice dripping with amusement. "I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet."

His lips trailed lower—over the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, the trembling plane of your stomach. Every kiss was a brand, every nip of his teeth a spark, then glancing up at you. "Last chance to say no."

You didn’t.

His hands slid up your bare legs, fingertips pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, spreading you wider. The first breath he took against your cunt was audible—a slow, deliberate inhale. His groan vibrated through you. "Fuck. You smell perfect."

You shuddered, hips lifting instinctively, but his grip tightened, holding you down. "Ah-ah. I’ll take care of you. Just let me." His hands slid beneath you, palms broad and warm against the curve of your ass, lifting you just enough to adjust your weight.

The grip was firm—not demanding, but certain, like he knew exactly how to hold you without letting you strain. Your thighs fell open wider, almost embarrassingly so, the cool air of the room brushing against skin that had never felt so exposed.

Then his mouth.

Cold at first—a shock of contrast where you were already throbbing—his lips pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. Not where you wanted him, not yet. He was savoring this, tracing the delicate crease where leg met hip with the tip of his nose, inhaling like you were something sacred. Your fingers twitched against the sheets, then found his face, cupping his jaw as if to steady yourself. His stubble scraped lightly against your palm, rough and real.

When his tongue finally dragged a long, flat stroke up your center, your back arched off the chair. A gasp tore from your throat, your hand fisting in his hair before you could think to stop yourself. Brown strands wrapped around your fingers, silky and thick, and you pulled—just enough to hear him groan against you.

The vibration rolled through your nerves like a shockwave.

"Fuck—" you choked out, hips jerking.

Jack’s breath hitched, his nose bumping your clit as he glanced up. "Sorry," he murmured, voice already wrecked. But you didn’t let him retreat.

Your thighs clamped around his head, heels digging into his back, holding him in place with a desperation that should’ve embarrassed you.

"Don’t you dare stop."

A huff of laughter warmed your skin before he obeyed, diving back in with a focus that made your toes curl. His tongue was relentless now—flicking, circling, then pressing inside with a twist that had you seeing stars. One of his hands slid up your body, palming your breast through your shirt, thumb brushing your nipple in time with every lick.

You whimpered, the dual sensation short-circuiting your thoughts.

And the sounds—your moans pitched higher, breathier, tumbling from your lips like prayers. His ears twitched at each one, the pointed tips flicking forward as if to catch every broken sigh. You could feel how much it pleased him, the way his fingers flexed against your ribs, the way his hips shifted restlessly between your legs like he was holding himself back from grinding into the chair.

Then his free hand gripped your thigh, pushing it wider, deeper, as he sucked your clit between his lips.

Your vision whited out.

"Jack—" you sobbed, thighs trembling around him.

He hummed in response, the sound vibrating straight through your core, and you ground against his face, chasing the pleasure like you’d die without it. His fingers pinched your nipple just shy of pain, and you came with a cry so loud it echoed off the velvet walls.

Jack didn’t let up. Not until you were squirming, oversensitive, your hands fluttering weakly against his shoulders in protest. Only then did he lean back, lips glistening, chin damp, his breathing as ragged as yours.

"Good?" he asked, though the smirk in his voice said he already knew.

You could only stare at him, dazed, your chest heaving.

Slowly, deliberately, he licked his lips.

"Let’s try that again."

Your breath hitched. Again? You’d already come once—shaking, gasping, your thighs clamped around his head like a vice. But Jack wasn’t satisfied. No, the way his fingers dug into your hips, the way his lips glistened with you as he pulled back to smirk up at you—he wanted more.

"You didn’t scream," he murmured, dragging his tongue—tongues?—slowly up your inner thigh. "You didn’t even beg. And from the way your body locked up just now?" A chuckle, dark and knowing.

"You wanted to come hard."

Damn him. Damn him for reading you like a medical chart, for seeing the truth in the way your back arched, the way your fingers twisted in the sheets. You had wanted it rough. Needed it. Months of numbness, of dull, mechanical friction, and here he was—ruining you with just his mouth.

And then—

His lips sealed over you again, and this time, there was no teasing.

One thick, slick stroke of his tongue from entrance to clit, and your back bowed off the chair. A whimper tore from your throat as he flicked—sharp, merciless—against your oversensitive bundle of nerves. The noise you made was pathetic, broken, and Jack growled against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core.

"There it is," he murmured, pulling back just enough to watch your face as his tongues—what the fuck—pressed against your entrance. "That little gasp. That’s the sound of you feeling something."

Then he pushed in.

One out of his three tongues. Your vision whited out.

The middle one was thick, ridged, fucking into you with slow, deliberate thrusts while the other two coiled around your clit, lapping and squeezing in tandem. It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

Your hips jerked, desperate, but Jack’s grip on your thighs was iron, holding you open, forcing you to take it. "You wanna take a closer look?" he teased, pulling back just enough to let you see.

Your stomach dropped.

Three tongues. Long, sinuous, glistening with your arousal. The middle one tapered to a wicked point, the other two slightly shorter but no less skilled, curling lazily in the air like they were tasting you already.

"Wha—" you choked out, but Jack just grinned, all sharp teeth and dark amusement.

"Special case, special treatment," he purred, lowering his mouth again. "And you, sweet thing? You’re very special."

The middle tongue speared into you, deeper this time, fucking in and out with a rhythm that had your toes curling. The other two twisted around your clit, one applying steady pressure while the other flicked rapidly, brutally, over the swollen bud.

You sobbed. "Jack—fuck—!"

He hummed, the sound vibrating through your entire body. "That’s it. Let go." You couldn’t. You were too busy unraveling, your orgasm crashing into you like a tidal wave, your thighs trembling, your nails clawing in his brown hair beneath you. It was too much, the overstimulation bordering on pain, but Jack didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. Just kept working you, dragging out every last shudder, every broken gasp.

And then—

"Teach me how to scream," you begged, voice raw.

Jack’s eyes gleamed. "Gladly." He quickly stops.

The shift is sudden, but not rushed. One moment, you’re cradled against the bed, lulled by the rhythm of his tongue was just deep inside you; the next, his hands are guiding you up, turning you with a quiet certainty that leaves no room for hesitation.

He leans back onto the bed, creaking softly. His movements are fluid, almost predatory in their precision—stretching out like a shadow given form, his head propped against the pillows, those black eyes fixed on you with a hunger that makes your pulse stutter.

“Come here.”

His voice is rougher now, the clinical detachment fraying at the edges. A command, not a request.

You hesitate, knees sinking into the mattress beside his hips. The air between you is thick with the scent of your own arousal, the slick heat between your thighs impossible to ignore. Jack’s nostrils flare, his tongue darting out to wet his lips—too sharp, too pointed—and suddenly, the reality of what he’s asking crashes over you.

Sit on his face.

Your breath hitches. “I—I don’t know if I can—”

“You can.” His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your knees. “And I can take it.” There’s a dark promise in his words, a dare.

“I want you to scream my name like it’s going out of style.”

You move.

Clumsy with want, you straddle his chest, one hand braced against the headboard for balance. Jack doesn’t rush you. He watches, eyes swallowing whatever faint light exists in the room, as you lower yourself—inch by trembling inch—until your thighs frame his face, until the heat of your cunt hovers just above his mouth.

His breath ghosts over you, hot and deliberate.

Then contact.

The first lick is slow, almost reverent. A flat, wet stroke from entrance to clit that has your back arching, your fingers tangling in his hair. Jack groans, the vibration against your sensitive flesh drawing a broken sound from your throat.

“Fuck—!”

He doesn’t let you recover. His tongue flicks, teasing your clit before plunging deeper, fucking into you with a rhythm that’s too perfect, too practiced. You gasp, hips jerking forward, but his hands clamp down on your thighs, holding you in place.

“Stay.” The word is muffled against your skin, but the order is clear.

You whimper, nails scraping his scalp as his tongue curls inside you, fucking in and out with obscene precision. It’s too much. It’s not enough. Your thighs shake, your breath coming in ragged pants, but Jack doesn’t relent.

Then—a sudden second pressure, another tongue—thicker, rougher—joins the first, lapping at your entrance before pushing in alongside it. Your eyes fly open, a strangled moan tearing from your lips. What the hell—?!

Jack’s grip on your thighs tightens, his breaths coming faster now, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks, dragging both tongues over that sweet, spongy spot inside you. Your vision goes whites out.

“J-Jack—!”

He growls, the sound vibrating through your core. His mouth is still on you when you feel it—something wrong. A slow, slick pressure, thinner than his tongue, curling against your inner thigh like a living thing. Your breath hitches, muscles locking, but Jack doesn’t let you pull away. His hands tighten on your hips, pinning you in place as that third tongue—fuck, it’s a third tongue—slithers up through the mess he’s already made of you.

It flicks once, twice, against your clit, teasing the swollen bud before pushing in alongside the others.

You scream.

It’s too much—the stretch, the fullness, the way he spears into you with a hunger that borders on violence. His teeth graze your thigh, his nails carving half-moons into your skin as he fucks into you with that unnatural muscle, coiling and twisting inside you like he’s trying to carve his name into your walls.

Jack’s eyes roll back, his hips jerking beneath you as if he’s the one being ruined. His face is glazed with your slick, lips swollen and shining, breath coming in ragged, animal pants. He doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. Not when you sob his name like a prayer, not when your nails tear bloody furrows through his hair, not when your thighs shake and your vision whites out—

—because then you’re coming, hard enough to choke on it, your orgasm ripping through you like a live wire.

He drinks it down. Every spasm, every pulse, his tongues working you through it until you’re wrung dry, until your screams dissolve into broken whimpers. Only then does he let you collapse, your body limp, your mind wiped blank.

Jack exhales, slow and satisfied, his fingers tracing idle, possessive circles on your trembling thighs.

You just came hard enough to black out—vision tunneling, muscles seizing, a silent scream locked behind your teeth—but he catches you before you fall. His arms wrap around you, cradling your limp form against his chest with an unsettling gentleness. His lips brush your forehead in a mockery of tenderness, the gesture sweet enough to make your stomach twist.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he drags his teeth over your collarbone, biting down just hard enough to bruise.

You gasp, jerking in his hold, but he doesn’t let you pull away. His grip tightens, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your waist like he’s memorizing the give of it.

"Shhhhh…"

His voice is a dark purr, thick with something that isn’t quite human. You feel it vibrate through your ribs, deep and resonant, like the hum of a predator after a good meal. His breath is warm against your skin, but his mouth—when he licks a slow stripe up your throat—is cold.

Too cold.

You try to twist away, but his free hand slides up to cover your mouth before you can scream. His thumb presses against your bottom lip, forcing your jaw open just slightly, and he leans in, inhaling like he’s savoring the scent of your panic.

"Shhhh... There’s no need to scream now," he murmurs, voice dripping with false reassurance.

That’s when you see it.

The black.

Not just his eyes—no, those have always been voids, endless and depthless—but the slick, tar-like substance now trickling from the corners of his sockets, slow and syrupy, dripping down his cheekbones like tears. It doesn’t fall. It clings, viscous and shimmering, before vanishing into the sharp line of his jaw.

You freeze.

Jack notices. Of course he does.

His lips curve into a smile—too wide, too knowing—and he leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. "Perfect," he whispers, and this time, when his tongue drags over your pulse point, you taste it—copper and salt and something sweet, something rotting, something that shouldn’t be inside you—

You whimper.

He hums, pleased, and nips at your earlobe. "You did so perfect for me."

His hands slide down your body, mapping the tremors still wracking your limbs, the damp heat between your thighs. He lingers there, pressing two fingers against your clit with a slow, rhythmic pressure that makes your hips jerk despite yourself.

"But I’m not done with you yet."

Because the taste of you—fuck, the taste of you—is better than anything he’s ever had. Better than blood, better than flesh, better than every desperate, writhing thing that’s ever begged beneath his hands.

And he will have more.

He’ll take it slow this time. He’ll let you catch your breath, let your heartbeat settle, let your body remember how to want before he ruins you all over again.

After all, you’re a med student.

You’ll understand the importance of thoroughness. And Jack?

Jack always finishes what he starts.

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soluversworld · 2 months ago

Text

Caught him in 4k! Oh wait, Both of you are...ones! - Solivan Brugmansia x Yan! G.N Reader (Smut)-(Rewriting due to mistakes)

Genre: smut, (I got a heads up. I have added female pronouns some points, I'm really sorry

Summary: —REQUEST COPIED

Reader is the same from the Sol series!

I apologize for this late, I hate this smut. I hate my writing, self doubt era came again..If you're Edgar poe allan's fan You might...enjoy a little.

I HATE THIS, THIS IS SUCH A BAD AND OLD DRAFT PLEASE, DON'T COME AFTER ME. sol is kinda top in this

( Reader is a g.n!)

words : 13k (WHY)

Content & Trigger Warnings (TWs/CWs):

Sexual Content / Heavy Suggestiveness

Sensual Touching / Physical Intimacy

Mutual Exploration / Inexperience

Strong Language / Dirty Talk (implied or actual)

Blushing / Flustered Behavior

Piercing Play (mentioned/suggested)

Power Dynamic Shifts (playful, consensual)

Mentions of Arousal (non-explicit but direct)

Emotional Vulnerability & Clinginess

Faint D/S Tension (soft dom/sub dynamics – non-explicit)

Heavy Romantic Tension / Love Confessions (implied)

Fade to Black or Cut-off Scene (depending on how you end it)

Did not proof read/Rushed.

“Take care of Sol for me, okay?”

And just like that, he walked away.

You slipped into your apartment, shutting the door behind you. The darkness wrapped around you like a second skin. You groaned, fingertips brushing the wall as you searched for the switch.

The silence buzzed in your ears.

You flicked on the lights and were greeted, as always, by the warm, flickering glow of a single bulb that probably hadn’t been changed since the dawn of time. Your apartment—your god-awful apartment—looked just as miserable as you left it.

Peeling wallpaper curled like dead skin off the corners of the ceiling. The floor creaked with every step you took, protesting your presence like the building wanted you out just as badly as your landlord did.

The place. Your apartment.

Handpicked by Mr. Z himself—how generous, right? A second-floor rat hole near the park, not far from your school. A commute on rainy days, a walk on sunny ones, like you lived some idyllic city-life dream.

It didn’t allow pets. Something about "past complaints"—as if the neighbor’s roaches weren’t already squatting rent-free in the walls. The broken window in your room? Still unfixed. And if the landlord caught wind of that, he’d chew your neck like a starving mutt.

But it wasn’t just a crappy apartment. It was yours.

Or... it was supposed to be.

The land.

The land your father entrusted to you. The land Mr. Z came to take, that smug little bastard with his crisp suits and crocodile grin, calling himself a “nice guy” while casually tossing people off metaphorical—and sometimes literal—ledges.

You had no idea why he was so willing to shoulder your rent, your food, your tuition, your entire fucking life. But deep down, you knew the truth. It was never kindness. Never charity.

It was a game.

A trade.

Your land... or your head.

You stood in the middle of your shitty apartment and tried not to shiver. Not from cold—but from how close you were to snapping. You clutched at the thought like a lifeline. That land. That land was everything. It was the one thing still tying you to your past, to your family, to your sense of self. And losing it?

You would break.

Your hands trembled. Your mind spiraled. A sharp twist of pressure built in your chest, scraping against your ribs like rusted wire. You could feel the insanity curl up your spine like vines—

—until you remembered Sol.

The pressure cracked.

You remembered how Sol tilted his head, how his voice curled around your name like a secret. You remembered his laugh. His eyes. How safe and dangerous he made you feel all at once.

And just like that—you started laughing.

You pressed both palms to your cheeks, barely able to hold your face together, tears streaking down in hot, erratic lines. Your mouth opened in a soundless gasp before it broke into messy, shaking laughter.

“FUCK...” You wheezed, half-sobbing. “Fuck, Sol...”

You dropped to your knees, the cracked tile biting into your skin. Your body rocked with hysterical laughter, voice raw.

“Heheheh—ahhh!!” You screamed. “FUCK—HAHAHA—FUCK!!”

You scrambled to your desk like a lunatic possessed, yanking out your sketchpad, markers spilling like blood across the surface. You started to draw him.

Your fingers didn’t stop moving, even as your breath hitched and stuttered, even as you cried harder and harder, smile widening until it hurt.

“Sol,” you whispered between gasps and giggles. “I saw you. I got you. I have you...”

And maybe that was the scariest part.

You weren’t scared anymore.

You were thriving.

You held your thumb, biting down on it like it could muffle the whimpers bubbling up in your throat. One hand clutching the bandages he'd left behind, still faintly smelling like him—like sweat, like warmth, like danger. You crushed them to your chest like a lifeline.

Ah... ahh... It was too much. It wasn’t enough. You wanted more. More of him. More touches. More of that soft, sinful voice that wrapped around you like silk and chains.

Your body rocked forward, a small, broken sigh slipping through clenched teeth as you leaned over your sketchpad. The lines on the paper blurred, not from poor technique—but because your eyes were swimming.

Your hand kept moving. Drawing him. Like your fingers were puppets and his memory was the puppeteer.

"A-ah..." you choked out again, lip trembling but pulled into a wide, cracked smile. Your cheeks ached. Your chest hurt. Your lungs burned. But you didn’t care.

He made you smile. He made you smile.

And that was terrifying. And that was beautiful. And that was real.

You huffed, then giggled—this sharp little exhale that turned into a manic sound that could've been a sob or a laugh or both.

Your face dropped into the crumpled bandages as you whispered,

"Why the fuck do you do this to me..."

And all you could do was draw him again. And again. And again.

You clutched the bandages to your chest, the fabric warm against your trembling skin—soaked with the scent of him, like fire, like ash. There was no relief, no escape from the madness that churned inside your bones, for you had been marked, bound in an invisible thread by a presence both suffocating and sweet.

Your thumb, trembling and pale, bit into your own flesh, the taste of salt and blood a poor attempt to smother the ache rising from within. Each movement was a silent plea, a frantic whisper to make it stop—or to make it drown you completely. Ah… ahh… It was not enough. The hunger within you, the hunger for more—more of him, more of this maddening, intoxicating thing—grew unbearable.

Ah, the drawing! The lines on the paper blurred like forgotten dreams, impossibly distorted through the heat of your fevered mind. You could feel your hand shaking as it moved, guided not by reason, but by a wretched longing to capture something of him that you could not possess. His form, his smile, his scent—how desperately you sought him in this crude reflection.

“Ah…” A sound, a whimper that escaped your lips, twisted between a sob and a laugh, hollow and broken. The act of drawing—was it an attempt at salvation or a cruel ritual that tethered you to your torment? Your chest heaved, and the corners of your lips pulled, stretched into a grin that was not your own. A grin that he had planted deep within you, like a seed of poison that bloomed with every passing thought of him.

The ache in your cheeks, the weariness in your body, could not quench the fevered delight that surged within you. He had made you smile. He had brought you this strange, sickly joy—this thing that cracked your soul wide open and spilled it for the world to see, for the world to consume.

And yet, in the depth of your torment, there was no true horror, no bitter revulsion. Only the strange sweetness that clung to you, like a drug that tasted of ruin. Your heart raced. The laughter spilled from you like a madman's confession, sharp and jagged, the weight of it bearing down on you like a thousand unseen hands. Why? Why did he do this to you?

The question, like all the others, hung in the air, unanswered, abandoned in the void where reason had long ceased to reside.

You wanted to laugh. Ah—ah!!

The sound ripped through your throat like a gasp turned inside out, manic and breathless, dancing the razor-thin line between agony and ecstasy. Your shoulders shook. Your jaw ached. The kind of laugh that bubbles up when you're far too gone to cry. The kind that doesn't ask for permission—it erupts, uninvited, like wildfire through a paper house.

Your fingers twitched, still dragging that pencil over paper like a ritual knife carving holy symbols. His eyes. His mouth. That stupid smirk that made you want to scream and kiss and bleed all at once.

"Ah—ahAHA—!" Your head tipped back. Your knees hit the floor. You clutched your sketchbook like it was a holy relic, like it was the only thing anchoring you to a body you weren’t even sure was yours anymore.

He was there. Not really— But in the lines, the scent, the burn in your lungs as you whispered, “Sol… Sol, you bastard…” A shaky breath. A grin. “What did you do to me?”

You laughed again. You had to.

Because the truth was dripping from your lips like honey-laced venom:

You liked it. You liked this. You liked him.

And that… That was the funniest part of all.

You decided to skip dinner. Again. Your stomach growled like a feral animal, but you ignored it—because food meant risk. Food meant trust. And trust was a noose you weren’t ready to slip around your neck.

You hadn’t even touched the second batch he left you. The first might’ve been drugged. Might’ve been poisoned. Might’ve been laced with something that tasted like care and went down like control.

And Sol... your dear Sol... he’d smile through it all, wouldn’t he? He’d say something sweet with those devil-dipped lips, tilt his head in that soft, curious way, like,

“Don’t you trust me?”

And you’d say yes—even if every fiber of you screamed no. Because the worst part wasn’t the fear. It was the want.

So you didn’t eat. You wrapped yourself in your blankets like armor and pretended to sleep.

Not for rest. Not for peace. But to watch him.

You kept your breathing steady, shallow, perfect. The way your body stilled, the way your lashes fluttered—convincing enough for someone who wanted to believe you were asleep.

You listened. You watched. The way he moved. The way he stood over you, like a god admiring his creation. The way the shadows kissed the curve of his jaw, how he looked down at you with something terrifying and holy in his eyes.

And in that moment, you kissed his bandages. Pressed them to your lips like a prayer, like a confession. They were still faintly warm, carrying the echo of him—his presence, his pain, his claim.

You tucked them away. With your secret stash of photos. The ones you took when he wasn’t looking.

Then, finally, you slid under the covers. Curled up in the dark.

And went to bed.

Still pretending. Still smiling. Still his.

You closed your eyes, but sleep never came. It never could, not with the way your mind thrummed, electric, on edge—waiting. Hoping. Terrified.

And then—the sound.

Clink. The window. Your window. Slight, deliberate. Like the whisper of a knife slipping between ribs.

Your breath caught. Not out of fear—no, that wasn’t it. Not really. It was him.

He’s here.

Your fingers clenched around the pillow like a lifeline, knuckles whitening. You kept your body still, perfectly still, except for the frantic hammering of your heart. Maybe if you focused on pretending, you could convince even your own nerves.

"Hm...? Still broken, huh?" That voice—his voice—low and smug and impossibly soft. It slithered around the room like smoke. "You should be careful, pumpkin..."

You almost bit your tongue holding back the laugh. Fucker. Smug, smug, smug.

You teased him in your heart, biting the inside of your cheek to stay quiet. He thinks you’re asleep. Let him. Let him play his role. He’s more dangerous when he thinks he’s the only actor on the stage. He’s more honest. More him.

You swore you could hear the grin behind that mask of his.

Clad in black from throat to toe, with a mask of matching shade obscuring his face—except those eyes. God, those eyes. Red like a dying sun. Like the first blush of spilled blood. And they were glowing.

Glowing with love. Twisted, possessive, pure.

He moved closer, each step slow, reverent. Like he didn’t want to wake you—like he wanted to devour you whole.

And then—his touch. A single finger, tracing down your cheek.

Gentle. Precise. Claiming.

Your skin tingled. Your breath nearly hitched—but you kept it steady. You had to. Your heart? That traitor was doing backflips in your ribs.

He hovered there, beside you. Watching. Worshiping.

Sol: "Look at my sleepy sweetheart..."

The voice—his voice—slithered through the chamber like a dying hymn, each syllable weighted with a reverence so profound, so profane, it might have been uttered by a mourner at a lover’s grave. His tone was not one of cheer, nor of mirth—it was the tone of a man who beheld divinity in ruin, of a soul cradling its own damnation and whispering sweet nothings to the flame.

You lay still, a corpse feigning sleep, breath shallow, lashes shuttered over trembling pupils. The air hung heavy, cloying, perfumed with rot and roses. You could feel him before you heard him—felt the heat of him as though your body were naught but tinder awaiting the match. And oh, he was fire. A slow, crawling blaze. Not the kind to light a room—but the kind that swallowed it whole.

He stepped closer, and the night moved with him. Clad in black, cloaked in silence, his mask was the color of the abyss, hiding a face carved from longing and lunacy. But his eyes—ah, his eyes—were exposed. Red as a wound. Fever-bright. As if every heartbeat carved poems into his chest, and each stanza bore your name.

Sol: "Makes me wonder who supplies Hyugo those sleeping pills."

He scoffed, low, amused, the sound curling like a grin pressed against your ear. You wanted to scream with laughter—those shitty pills don’t work, Sol, not on me, not when I’m like this. But your mouth was sealed, your jaw locked in some twisted covenant of silence. You could only pretend, could only endure—and ache.

He reached for you. Not as a man reaches for a woman—but as a moth reaches flame. Slow, reverent, inevitable.

The mask fell away.

And then his face—that face—lowered, descending like a ghost of your most debased desires. He leaned in and breathed, breathed, burying his face into the tender hollow of your shoulder. A kiss fell there, light and damning, and the shiver that racked his body was not from cold.

It was need.

He inhaled. A deep, trembling, hungry inhale. And then he shook.

Like a man who had just tasted opium and couldn’t tell whether he was floating or buried alive. You felt it—the quake of his form, the tightening of his fingers, the stuttering hum against your skin. He drew you into his lungs like the scent of rain before the flood. His drug. His madness. His.

Your body burned—your fingers clenching in your pillow, the only tether between you and the scream coiled in your throat. You wanted to moan, to shudder, to call his name with all the madness he inspired in you—but instead, you lay there in martyrdom, in silence, in delirium.

Sol: “Fuck… you smell so good…”

The words were broken glass dipped in honey.

Sol: “Pardon me.”

His lips brushed your cheek, and your soul left your body in a quiet, choking cry that never reached air. Your pulse thundered like cathedral bells during a storm, and still you held on—fingers white-knuckled in fabric, breath held like a secret between two graves.

You were not asleep.

But God, you were dreaming.

And Sol—your blessed, ruined Sol—was the dream that would gut you from the inside out.

Ah—ah! The cry lodged itself inside your throat, thick and trembling, like a hymn unsung, trapped in the cathedral of your body. The ache curled tighter in your chest, wrapping around your ribs like thorns as he leaned closer, ever closer. His shadow loomed over you like a stormcloud starved for lightning. You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t dare.

His hand—warm, calloused, trembling—slipped into yours. So slowly. So gently. A reverent act. A prayer disguised as a touch.

And oh, you wanted to squeeze back. To lace your fingers through his and hold him like he held your very breath in his palms. But you couldn’t—you mustn’t. This charade, this silent theatre of sleep, was your only sanctuary. If he knew—if he knew—the spell would shatter, and you would be lost, devoured whole by the flame you've been kissing in secret.

And then, he kissed your neck.

Soft. Tender. Possessive. The contact stole the breath from your lungs. A lightning bolt made of lips and heat. He lingered there, buried in your skin like a whisper that left bruises. And you—helpless, trembling beneath the weight of his love and your own starvation—nearly broke.

Your face. Oh God, your face. You didn’t know what expression had spilled across it, only that it must have betrayed you. Must have shown too much—too alive, too consumed, too awake. Did he see?

He paused.

Sol (in a murmur, sweet and broken): “Look at you… even in sleep, you ache for me.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to throw your arms around him, to weep into his chest and tell him, yes, yes, I do, I ache, I burn, I’m drowning in you. But your fingers only curled harder into your pillow, bones aching from restraint. He kissed your hand next—tenderly, worshipfully—as if you were porcelain and he was a priest.

Sol: “F-Fuck... you’re so sweet. It’s not fair.”

He laughed then. A low, breathless thing. Not cruel. Not amused. It was the sound of a man who had found heaven in the shape of a sleeping person—and didn’t knowthey were burning alive in their silence.

You could feel your thighs trembling. Your spine was ice and flame. And still you played your part, the sleeping beloved, untouched by the tempest that pressed its lips to your skin and called it mercy.

But in your mind? In your chest? You were already ruined.

And somewhere beneath that blanket, your fingers twitched with the ache to touch, to hold, to moan. But you didn’t.

Not yet.

Sol: “Quite ticklish, aren’t you…”

The words fell from his mouth like sin dipped in honey—gentle, taunting, worshipful. And still, he pressed forward, a man drunk on the sacred altar of your skin.

His mouth returned to that spot—that spot, right where your shoulder met your neck, the very place where your breath hitched like a dying prayer. He kissed, then licked, and kissed again—slowly, deliberately, until the tender flesh bloomed with a feverish red. A mark. A wound. A brand. His.

Sol (low, bitter): “Those filthy scums think they could touch you…”

The softness was gone. In its place—rage, veiled in grief. The sheets beneath his hands crumpled like paper under flame as his fingers curled, trembling. His breathing turned ragged, heavy with possessive anguish.

Sol: “You’re mine. No one else. No one else.”

Each word was a vow.

—each syllable trembled like a blade held to the throat of fate itself.

Sol (a whisper, venom-soft): “You belong to me…”

His voice was not loud. Oh, no. It was a hush—a murmur that crawled beneath your skin and wrapped itself around your spine like a silken garrote. The kind of whisper that could undo kingdoms. The kind that could kill.

His fury did not burn; it smoldered. A low, steady ember in the pit of his chest, threatening to rise, to consume. But not you. Never you. You were the altar at which he knelt—bloodied knees and all.

Sol: “If I ever see those bastards again…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

His hand—gentle now—rose like the tremble of a dreamer in the throes of fever. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your cheek, movements reverent, as if you might shatter under anything less than worship. Then he pressed his lips to your forehead, a kiss so delicate it felt like a prayer.

And then—oh gods, and then—his mouth grazed the corner of your lips. Just there. A ghost of a kiss. A promise. A brand.

A shiver tore through him like a tremor through the bones of the earth. His breath hitched, caught between hunger and reverence.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream. You wanted to tear the sky in half and pull him inside your chest and never let him go.

Your fingers curled deeper into the pillow, the only tether you had left to the lie of sleep.

You wanted to hold him—oh, how you wanted to hold him.

But still you lay there, silent and still, skin alight, nerves screaming, as his breath ghosted over your neck again.

Sol (softer now): “You’re everything…”

He buried his face there again, at the cradle of your throat, where your pulse fluttered like a secret bird beneath your skin.

He kissed it once more. Slow. Possessive.

And you nearly broke.

Your thighs clenched beneath the sheets, your chest ached, and your throat pulsed with the weight of a scream you dared not let out.

Ah—ahhh…

Your heart beat like the wings of a trapped moth—wild, doomed, and so, so in love.

After sometime, he began to put on his mask.

WHAT

NO?

WHY!?

Your body moved before your mind could catch up.

One hand darted out, fingers closing around his wrist. The other pressed against his chest—his heartbeat kicked hard under your palm, like he’d been caught mid-sin.

He froze.

Not like a man caught in the act. Like a ghost realizing it had been seen.

And then—your lips brushed his neck.

Not gentle. Not asking. A brand. A spark struck to dry leaves.

His breath hitched. Sharp. Audible. His whole body trembled above yours like the strings of a violin pulled tight—too tight.

You felt the heat rise off him in waves.

A heartbeat passed. Then another.

He whispered your name like it hurt.

Like a confession, a prayer, a curse.

His eyes—those impossible eyes, red and gold and glassy with disbelief—met yours. Wide. Unmasked. Wounded. Worshipful.

You saw it hit him all at once: you were awake. You had heard him. You had kissed him.

And you weren’t running.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, dragging him down, mouth ghosting his jawline now, hot breath against flushed skin. You wanted to drown in the scent of him, the weight of him, the ache in his touch.

He was shaking.

You’d never seen Sol shake.

He opened his mouth—maybe to speak, maybe to apologize—but all that came out was a choked sound. His hands hovered uselessly at your sides, like he didn’t know whether to hold you or fall apart.

Your forehead pressed to his. Skin to skin. No more lies.

And he whispered, barely a sound:

“…don’t leave me.”

You pulled him closer.

Not a word was spoken after that. There didn’t need to be.

That final thread snapped somewhere behind his eyes, the horror and the hunger crashing together in a kaleidoscope of realization. You didn’t forgive him.

You matched him.

“You’re not scared,” he whispered, almost reverently. “You’re not running.”

You laughed softly, cupping his face again like he was something sacred—fragile porcelain wrapped around dynamite. “Scared? Oh, Sol, I ran toward you.”

And he broke.

Right there. That beautiful, quiet little fracture. The air between you both was trembling now—charged like lightning trapped in a jar. You saw his pupils dilate fully, swallowing the gold in his irises like ink in water. His throat bobbed with a shallow swallow, and then—

“You...” he said again, like if he repeated it, maybe you’d finally flinch.

But you just smiled wider. Like a saint. Or a devil.

“I'm not dumb, Darlin!" you whispered, brushing your thumb over his lower lip. “You didn’t notice, did you? That I was baiting you just as much?”

His breath hitched. “You wanted me to—?”

“I wanted to see how far you’d go,” you cut him off, your voice featherlight, yet sharpened to a blade’s edge. “And darling, you exceeded expectations.”

He stared at you, that smug little mask he always wore peeling away at the corners. For the first time, maybe ever, Sol looked like he didn’t know what came next.

But you did.

“You asked me why I don’t hate you,” you said slowly, your lips ghosting just over his again, barely a breath apart. “The truth is…”

You leaned in, pressing your body just close enough that he could feel your heartbeat crashing against his chest like a war drum.

“Actually fuck that! I just love you! So tell me, Sol,” you purred, your voice dipped in sugar and venom, “What the hell are we gonna do with each other?”

He finally moved—only a twitch—but it was everything. His fingers clenched in your shirt, his mouth opened like he was about to confess or damn himself, but you didn’t give him the chance.

You licked the corner of his mouth, slow and deliberate. Just enough to make him freeze.

“Oh, you poor thing,” you. , brushing hair back for like a lover, like a goddamn maniac. “You thought you were the monster in this story.”

He choked on a breath.

“But I think I just proved,” you whispered, nose brushing his cheek, “that we’re both wearing the same mask, darling.”

Then, you pulled back just slightly—just enough to meet his eyes. Both of you locked there, staring into something so horrifically perfect, it almost felt holy.

“So…” you said, your voice breathless, trembling with affection and madness, “why don’t we seal it?”

He blinked. “With what…?”

You grinned like the end of the world. “A promise. A kiss. Blood whatever! I don’t really care. Just make it hurt a little, Sol—so I know it’s real.”

You couldn’t help it—you were losing your mind for him. The way Sol looked at you with those eyes—soft, adoring, like he didn’t see the frenzy boiling under your skin. Like he didn’t realize you would ruin everything just to keep him close. Just to have him like this.

And yet.

You leaned in slow, your lips brushing the corners of his mouth again and again—taunting, torturing, giving him nothing but scraps. Little kisses like broken promises. You were so cruel.

He shivered each time, chasing after your mouth like he needed it to breathe. His hands wandered desperately over your back, trying to pull you closer, closer, like he didn’t understand that you’d already crawled inside him—mentally, emotionally, obsessively.

“Hah,” you giggled, that sharp little laugh you gave only when your heart was spiraling. Your voice dipped into something unstable. Sweet. Possessive. “Do you even understand how much it hurt when you kissed everywhere but my lips?” Your breath hitched. Your eyes glistened, wide and glassy. “The corners,” you whispered, like the word itself made you tremble. “You kissed the corners, Sol. Did you know what that did to me?”

You thought he’d be scared. You thought he’d flinch. But instead—

He looked beautiful.

So beautiful you wanted to crush him. Preserve him. Pin him open like a butterfly and say “mine.”

And then, finally—finally, your lips crashed against his. No teasing. No space. Just the kind of kiss that says you belong to me and I’ll break you before I ever let go. You held it, mouths locked together like you could pour your love down his throat.

Only when oxygen clawed at your lungs did you break away, panting.

Sol gasped—so pretty when he gasps—then surged back in. His tongue traced your lower lip, trembling, gentle, desperate. It shocked a breathy sound from your throat, high and too sweet. But your body didn’t hesitate—of course it didn’t.

He tugged you down by the back of your head, pulling you deeper, swallowing every sound you made. You were still on top of him, legs bracketing his hips, his mouth warm and wet and starved for you—just like you were for him.

Tongues tangled. Spit shared. You kissed him like you wanted to carve the memory into your bones. Like your heart would stop if you didn’t.

You shifted your weight to one arm, just enough to free your hand—because you needed to touch him. Not wanted. Needed. Craved it like air. Your fingers ghosted down the front of his shirt, the rough weave scratching delicately against your skin like it was daring you to go further.

But the way he wore it—tucked in all proper, all teasingly inaccessible—almost made you laugh. Was he trying to make you work for it? You didn’t mind. You liked peeling him apart.

Pinching the hem, you tugged the fabric free from his waistband, deliberately slow. Watching him. Waiting to see if he’d stop you. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

Your hand slid beneath the shirt, palm pressing flat against the heat of his stomach. His skin twitched under your touch. His breath stuttered—oh, he was trying to hold it in. Cute. That only made you push higher.

Sol let out a shuddering gasp and leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath—hot and uneven—brushed against your lips, your cheeks. You drank it in like it was sacred.

Your hand moved higher, fingertips skimming up until they found the firm curve of his pecs. You let your palm settle there, then squeezed—not gently. You wanted to feel him tremble. You wanted him to know it was you who made him weak.

And he did. His fist found your nightwear, fingers curling tight in the fabric, pulling at it like he couldn’t stand the tension building in his chest. His lips parted—but whatever he said was lost in a breathy, strangled sound. Mumbled. Meaningless.

Didn’t matter.

You translated for him. The whimper in his throat. The way his body leaned into your touch, even as it shuddered. You knew exactly what it meant.

He liked it. He liked you.

Your fingers roamed again, tracing every muscle, every dip and ridge like you were memorizing it for the last time. Sometimes you squeezed, just hard enough to watch him flinch—just hard enough to remind him he was yours. Entirely, irrevocably yours.

And he was so good for you. So beautiful, shaking under your touch like that.

God, you loved him.

You’d carve his name into your soul if it meant never losing this feeling.

Sol pulled you in like he couldn’t bear a single molecule of distance. His arms locked tight across your back and waist, holding you as if he was afraid you might vanish, might dissolve in the heat of the moment if he didn’t anchor you.

When his lips met yours, it was anything but gentle. The pressure—his mouth, his arms, his presence—closed around you like a vise. His legs shifted against yours, slotting into place along your sides, and for one brief moment, you thought: He’s letting me drown in him.

And then—without warning—he moved.

Your stomach flipped as Sol rolled you both over in one fluid motion, suddenly slamming you against the mattress with a low thud. You gasped, the breath ripped from your lungs not just by the motion but by the sheer force of him—the way he hovered over you now, the air thick with heat and tension, and something desperate clawing at both your chests.

The kiss had broken—but barely. A thread still tied you together, breath mingling, lips centimeters apart. His eyes remained closed like he was savoring the memory of the kiss… or afraid that if he looked, he’d see regret on your face.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Not when he was above you like this. Not when your body screamed finally, finally, finally.

When he finally let his eyelids flutter open, heavy-lidded and glassy with emotion, he blinked down at you.

And something shifted.

Because that’s when he realized. Realized what he’d done. The position. The weight. The pinning. The overwhelming closeness. And how you weren’t pulling away.

How you were staring up at him like he’d just handed you the entire world.

How your fingers gripped his biceps like they belonged there.

How you wanted more.

“Ehh, Sol,” you muttered, breath still hot and heavy against his lips, “you can actually top.”

He froze. Blinked. You felt the tension ripple through his whole body like a wave crashing—and then retracting.

His face went red.

The kind of blush that climbed from his neck all the way up to his ears, like his body was trying to reboot but the wires got crossed somewhere in his brain. His grip faltered just a bit. His mouth opened—no words.

Oh no.

You ruined it. You ruined the moment.

…Except—you didn’t think so. You thought he was adorable.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, suddenly hit by an overwhelming urge. “You’re so cute I’m gonna die.”

Before he could react, you reached up and squished his cheeks together with both hands, making him pout involuntarily.

“Jesus Christ, look at you! You’re blushing! Over me!”

“Y-Y/N—!”

You giggled. Cackled, actually. Then you leaned up and kissed the tip of his nose like you were branding it, your lips lingering obnoxiously long just to watch his brain implode in real time.

He went stiff. Completely red. Entire systems down. Emotion.exe stopped responding.

Sol.exe has stopped working.

“…You’re not normal,” he mumbled, stunned. But his hands were still on you. And his eyes were soft. And his heart was sprinting.

“And yet you’re still on top of me,” you whispered, eyes gleaming, voice soft but dangerous. “Who’s the real weirdo here, Sol?”

He didn’t answer.

Sol’s breath hitched like he’d just been shot—by you, no less, loaded gun of a smile and that kiss to his forehead still echoing in his bones. He clutched at your sides like you were vanishing fog, blinking too fast, lips trembling around syllables that never made it out alive.

“You.. I… you r-really mean—” kiss Another one. Right to his temple this time. Gentle. Grounding. And ruining him.

His face flushed all the way to his ears, blotchy and blooming like a fever dream. Pupils blown wide, chest rising like he was preparing to confess to something unforgivable—or to worship.

And then your eyes dipped down. Your grin twisted. That deranged little sparkle lit behind your lashes.

“Oh... Sol,” you purred like you’d caught a secret. “You’re really…”

He looked mortified. Not from shame—no, shame couldn’t shake a boy like this—it was desperation. He was trying not to die. Trying not to implode right here in front of you.

Your laugh—God, that laugh—shattered the moment like a mirror.

“You’re hard already?” You cooed. “That forehead kiss really did you in, huh?” His hands were trembling now, clutching fabric like he could anchor himself through sheer will.

“I– I didn’t mean— it’s not— you kissed me and I just—!”

“Shhh,” you cut him off, thumb stroking over his cheek. “Even though I wanna take the lead…” Your voice dipped lower, silk wrapping around a blade. “I wanna see what you can do.”

You felt him twitch.

“I’ll have my turn later,” you whispered, almost reverent, almost cruel. “But tonight? Tonight we’re gonna help ourselves to everything. Slowly.” You leaned in close, nose brushing his too..

He exhaled like he’d been gut-punched by God.

His voice was barely there, breathy and wrecked already, like the mere idea of asking might ruin him:

“Can I… can I kiss you?”

God, as if he had to ask.

You leaned in, voice low and honey-slick, almost cruel with how soft it was: “You don’t have to ask.”

And then your hand—slow, deliberate—dragged up the inside of his thigh. You felt the jolt run through him, like a shiver made flesh, hips twitching the tiniest bit under your touch. His breath caught like he’d been holding it all night just for this moment.

He kissed you.

But not shy. Not sweet.

Starved.

It started slow, lips brushing like he was scared you might vanish mid-breath, but then he melted—tongue tracing yours, cautious at first, then bolder, desperate. His hands found your waist, fingers splayed wide, clutching like he needed you to stay real beneath him. You tasted the heat off him, tasted the tension and want and the way he kept breathing your name in pieces between kisses.

Your fingers gripped tighter on his thigh, and he gasped into your mouth, swallowing it back with another kiss, deeper this time, wetter, messier. His tongue moved with a purpose now—slow licks, teasing flicks, a rhythm he built between stolen gasps and muffled whimpers.

He kissed like he’d been dreaming of it for months. Like you were the only god he’d ever pray to again. Like every second without your mouth was a curse undone only by this.

And when you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, your lips swollen and his pupils devouring you whole—

You whispered against his mouth, “Sol… you kiss like you’re gonna die without it.”

He just moaned softly, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and shook.

Your hand threaded through that wild mane—black with streaks of radioactive green, warm from the heat pooling between you. His hair was soft despite the chaos, falling like ink between your fingers, that middle bang brushing your nose as you tilted his head just right.

You murmured, "Let me see you," and he did—eyes fluttering open, and fuck, they glowed. That twisted sunburst of color: burnt orange at the core, ringed in blood-red. Like staring into the last seconds before a supernova.

Then, oh… oh, you got greedy.

You kissed the spider bites on his lip first—just a soft nip, enough to make him shiver, then soothe it with your tongue. He whimpered, voice cracking like a prayer slipping into sin. Next? That long upside-down cross earring. You took the chain between your teeth and tugged it. A small sound escaped him—half gasp, half please—as your fingers trailed down his neck to his choker.

You nipped that buckle too. Clink. Your teeth caught the edge, and he twitched beneath you, body tense, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan.

"Fuck," he whispered, his voice barely hanging on. “You’re—ah—cruel—”

“Oh!!!" you purred, kissing up the line of his jaw, “we’re not even halfway.”

And then came the piercings.

You kissed each of them. Every little stud, hoop, and ring you could get your mouth on. You nipped, licked, and grazed teeth along every piece like they were your own personal playground. You even whispered to each one like they were separate lovers.

Left ear first—lobe stud, then the helix. Your tongue flicked over the metal, and he arched. Right ear next—double helix, slow kisses between them, then one quick bite that made his hips jerk. Then? The necklace—that key. You bit down on it and dragged your mouth up the chain like you were unlocking every inch of him.

And gods, when you finally tugged up his shirt and saw those nipple piercings—

You moaned like you’d found treasure.

“Awh, Sol… these? These are mine now.”

You nipped one with your teeth, and he cried out, thighs clenching, head thrown back so fast it nearly knocked you off-balance.

He was shaking. Writhing. You hadn’t even touched the hard part of him again yet.

And that was the plan.

"You're gonna beg, sweetheart," you whispered, lips brushing the metal again. "One piercing at a time."

You kissed them—slow and savoring. Each nipple ring cool against your lips at first, but that changed fast, your breath warming the metal, your tongue flicking against it just to hear him gasp. The piercings twitched with every flick, every soft suck.

His hands fisted the sheets, hips lifting without permission, a helpless grind into nothing. "Fuck—" he hissed, voice strangled, barely hanging on.

Your tongue circled one of the hoops, slow as sin, before you sucked—deep and filthy, like your mouth had every right to claim it. He whimpered, and the sound was wrecked. Like he was unraveling beneath you.

“Sensitive?” you teased, dragging your teeth along the ring before biting down just enough to make his back arch. “Thought you could handle a little attention.”

You switched sides, letting your mouth trail across his chest, kissing the space between—slow, possessive, like you were mapping him out. When you reached the other piercing, you didn’t wait. You closed your mouth around it and sucked hard, lips tugging until he moaned so pretty for you, like he'd forgotten how to breathe.

One hand stayed on his chest, keeping him steady. The other slid down—slow, slow—to rest just above his waistband. Not touching yet. Not giving—just threatening. Teasing.

"You’re falling apart and I’ve barely even started," you whispered, breath ghosting hot across his chest. "Gonna let me ruin you, Sol?"

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His mouth was open, pupils blown wide, chest heaving under your lips.

So you kissed the ring again—gentler this time, a silent good boy—and smiled against his skin.

"Don’t worry," you murmured, "I’ll take my time."

Your palm hovered just above the heat between you, barely grazing, and still—you felt it. Throbbing. Desperate. So hard it almost ached to look at. Sol’s breath hitched the second your fingers brushed over him, even through the layers. His hips twitched up, chasing the contact like he couldn't help himself anymore.

“I wanna help you,” you breathed, voice thick, trembling. “I wanna make you feel good, Sol…”

His name tasted like devotion and danger on your tongue. Your eyes, glossy and glassy, locked with his—and God, the way he looked back at you, pupils drowned in red and gold, lips parted, flushed and shining from where you'd kissed him raw… He looked like he’d break if you stopped. Like you were the only thing keeping him together.

"Please," he whispered, broken and breathless. “I… I need you…”

You pressed your forehead to his, panting together, your breaths hitching and stuttering in tandem. Two heartbeats pounding in sync, two souls tangled in fever. Your free hand came up to cradle his jaw as your lips ghosted over his—kissing without kissing.

Then you said it. Sweet and deranged, like a promise only you could deliver:

“This night’s for us. We’re gonna do everything, Sol… every slow, messy, perfect thing…”

And your hand slid lower, down, down—ready to show him exactly how much love you had to give.

Your breath hitched—not from the crushing hug (though god, Sol really didn’t know his strength), but from the heat radiating off him. That sound… the unmistakable, slow click of a belt being unbuckled. You froze, blinking up at him as he pulled you even closer, burying his face into your neck, like he was trying to hide the sheer intensity blazing across his flushed skin.

“Y-you don’t have to know everything…” he whispered, voice low, strained, shaky with nerves and want. “I’ll… I’ll teach you. If you’ll let me.”

Then you peeked under the covers—and there it was.

Throbbing.

Your cheeks flushed so fast it felt like a fever. You couldn’t look away. His cock twitched, hard and leaking, resting against the slope of his thigh, flushed so dark it almost looked angry. You swallowed hard, lips parting on a shaky breath as your eyes darted back to his face.

Sol wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t teasing. He looked completely wrecked just from being seen.

“You’re so beautiful like this…” you said before you could even think to be embarrassed.

His arms tightened around you like he was afraid you’d vanish.

Your hand wrapped around him again—this time softer, a trembling curiosity guiding your touch. Sol gasped, his whole body jolting like you'd struck a nerve, forehead pressing hard against yours as he choked back another moan. His lips hovered just above yours, parted, hungry, desperate.

“D-don’t hold so tight,” he whispered, the breath of it fanning across your cheek, voice raw and pleading. “J-just… yeah. Like that…”

You adjusted instinctively, sliding your palm down the length of him with slow, reverent strokes. The way he reacted—hips twitching, lips falling open with another helpless sound—made your stomach clench with molten need. God, he was beautiful like this. Ruined just by your hands. Yours.

He groaned your name like it was the only word left in his vocabulary, each syllable dripping with devotion. His head tipped back, throat exposed, sweat-slicked skin gleaming in the low light. You couldn’t stop yourself—your lips found the curve of his jaw, then his throat, tasting the salt of his skin as he shuddered under your touch.

Your pace quickened. He was getting louder. So were you.

And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t careful. It was consuming. Teeth, tongue, heat. A clash of need and reverence, of wanting to devour and worship at once. You moaned into his mouth..

He cried out your name like it was a prayer and a curse in one—shattered against your hand, clinging to your body like a lifeline, hips stuttering as he finally, finally let go.

Warmth spilled across your clothes, thick and hot, soaking the front of your nightwear..

Both of you froze.

Sol’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and dazed, then dropped to the ruined fabric between you. His entire face flushed crimson.

“...Oh f-fuck,” he whispered hoarsely, voice still broken from the high. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

You stared at the mess, then back up at him. Your smile was slow and wicked.

“Well, someone owes me laundry,” you murmured, leaning in to steal a kiss from his swollen lips. He melted into it immediately, pliant and eager, still twitching from the aftershocks.

Then you pulled back just enough to whisper, breath hot against his mouth:

“How are you gonna make it up to me, Sol?”

His eyes widened—then darkened. Hands trembling, he cupped your cheeks, like you were something holy. Something he’d ruin again and again just to worship better the next time.

"I'll....!"

His breath hitched as you tilted your head, offering your neck like an invitation, like a challenge. And Sol? He was never one to back down from a dare—especially not when it tasted like your skin and sounded like your voice moaning his name like sin.

“You sure?” he whispered, voice hoarse and reverent. His fingers ghosted down your sides, just shy of where you really wanted them. “You know what happens when you tell me I can start…”

You didn’t answer with words—just arched your hips, smug and wicked, watching his pupils blow wide. That was answer enough.

Sol’s hands moved with a hunger he could barely hide anymore, sliding under your wear to trace the slope of your waist, then curling possessively around your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“You tease me like that,” he muttered against your collarbone, lips brushing the heat of your pulse, “and expect me to behave?”

He bit down gently, enough to make you gasp—then soothed the sting with his tongue. Marking you, loving you. He trailed kisses down the side of your neck, slow and messy, until he reached the hollow between your shoulder and throat. He sucked a deep bruise there, then pulled back just to admire his work.

“Mine,” he whispered. “Mine.”

His hands slipped lower—one grounding you by your hip, the other sliding down between your thighs, teasing the waistband like he wanted permission even now. But you’d already handed him the reins. And the rope. And maybe the whole damn chariot.

You gasped when his fingers dipped in—just one at first, slow and gentle, testing. You clenched around him immediately, and his breath caught.

“Oh my god,” he moaned softly, forehead pressing to your shoulder. “You’re already—fuck, you feel so good.”

He didn’t even give you time to catch your breath before the second joined in. His rhythm was deliberate—patient, almost reverent—but the way he curled them? Filthy. Perfect. Designed to make you sing for him.

And sing you did.

Every whimper you gave, every gasp and curse and half-begged Sol, had his cock twitching against your thigh again. But he didn’t rush. Not yet. He was watching you—fixated, obsessed, cataloging every flutter of your lashes, every hitch of your breath, like you were a song he was learning by heart.

“God, you’re so beautiful when you get like this,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “All smug and cocky one second, then falling apart for me the next…”

He kissed your cheek, then your temple, then buried his face against your neck, fingers picking up speed as your hips rocked into his hand.

“I wanna ruin you slow,” he murmured. “I want to. Make you cry out so sweet no one’ll ever look at you again without knowing you’re mine.”

You moaned his name—raw, needy—and that was it. His pace faltered, then grew firmer. Deeper. Devoted.

You could feel the heat coiling tighter in your belly, dragging you under with every curl of his fingers, every dark promise against your skin.

His fingers hovered over your chest, tracing the lines of your body with a slow, deliberate touch. It was almost torturous, the way he teased—lingering, never quite touching where you needed it, like he was savoring the way your body reacted to each brush of his fingertips.

"You feel so good," Sol murmured, eyes dark with desire as they dropped to your chest, his breath hot against your skin. His lips followed the trail his fingers had just left, trailing kisses down the curve of your neck and then across your collarbone, moving lower with each slow exhale.

The pressure on your chest was light at first—barely there, like he was testing the waters—but you knew better than to mistake it for innocence. His touch was possessive, controlled, a slow burn that had you gasping, heart racing.

He grazed over the soft fabric of your shirt, fingertips just brushing your skin, making you crave more. "You like this, don’t you?" he asked, his voice low and teasing, like he was enjoying the power he had over you, the way you melted under his touch.

Without waiting for an answer, Sol's hand slid beneath your shirt, cupping your chest with a possessive pressure. The heat from his palm spread through your body like wildfire. He didn’t hold back, kneading and massaging gently, just enough to make you shiver, to make you ache for more.

He loved the way you responded—so responsive, so eager to give him what he wanted. His thumb brushed over your nipple, once, twice—deliberate, circling, drawing out a whimper from your lips. He smiled at that sound, pressing his chest to yours, the weight of his body only adding to the intensity.

"I won't let an- Not him....Especially him....," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. His other hand slid to your thigh, squeezing, giving a subtle push to coax you closer to him.

"Y/n.."

You gasped, your chest rising sharply with each breath as his touch became more insistent, more demanding. Each stroke sent a shiver down your spine, and you could feel your body responding, tightening, yearning for more of his hands, his touch.

Sol’s mouth found yours again, messy and desperate, and he groaned into your lips as his hands kept working you over, feeling every inch of you like he couldn't get enough. His fingers were all over you now, pulling at your shirt, tugging it off with impatient desperation.

Sol’s hands roamed over your body, the facade you’d been holding onto—your smug control—started to slip, thread by thread. His touch was unrelenting, driving you closer to the edge, pulling out the needy parts of you that you usually kept buried beneath layers of deflection.

Your breath hitched as his fingers slid down to the sensitive spot on your inner thigh, the heat radiating from his touch setting your skin ablaze. You tried to hold it together, tried to keep your usual cool, but it was becoming harder and harder with each passing second. His teasing was pushing you past the point of control.

“Sol...” Your voice came out breathless, softer than you meant it to be, a desperate plea slipping from your lips before you could catch it.

He paused, just for a moment, his fingers hovering on your skin as he looked up at you, his dark eyes locking onto yours. The corner of his mouth lifted, but it wasn’t that cocky smirk you were used to—it was softer, almost knowing. Like he could finally see through you, see that all that smugness you’d been holding onto was just a shell.

“Are you finally gonna let go?” he whispered, his voice laced with something far more tender than you expected, despite the hunger in his eyes. “You need me, don’t you?”

You tried to bite back a moan, tried to hold onto the last shreds of your defiance, but it was impossible. The need was there—aching, overwhelming, raw—and you couldn’t hide it anymore. You gave him a look that was no longer playful or mocking. It was pleading, exposed, a silent surrender.

“I do,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly. “I need you.”

Sol’s breath caught, the realization dawning on him as he saw the shift in you—how you were no longer in control, no longer the one who was teasing and taking what you wanted. Now, you were the one needing, the one falling apart in his hands. His eyes softened, and for the first time, you saw the raw intensity of his desire match yours.

“I need you, too,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, filled with something deeper than lust—something possessive, something real. His hand moved again, more urgently now, as if he couldn’t wait any longer.

The shift in the air was palpable now, the balance of power changing in the space between you. He was no longer just teasing you—he was giving you what you craved, just as you had given him everything he wanted. Your walls were gone, shattered by the intensity of his touch, and now all that was left was the raw need you both shared.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear with a sinful sort of gentleness. “I said I was gonna go in,” Sol murmured, voice thick with promise—and before you could even gasp out a “Wait—”

—his fingers pushed in.

The sudden stretch made you jolt, hips instinctively jerking forward into his hand. The gasp that left your throat was half surprise, half moan, and your fingers clenched tight around the fabric of his shirt.

He didn’t stop—no, he curled them slow, deliberate, like he was already memorizing the shape of you, the way you reacted, every twitch and breath and tremble. You bit your lip, but that smug composure you wore so well? Gone. Utterly demolished.

Sol noticed. Oh, he noticed. And he looked so smug about it.

"Thought you were the one teasing me," he whispered, kissing your jaw, his fingers moving with aching patience. "But you're already falling apart on me, Pumpkin."

You tried to glare. You really did. But all that came out was a whimper as he added a second finger, your body tightening around him, breath coming in short, shaky bursts.

“You're...!” he murmured, dragging his lips down your neck, tongue teasing the skin before he bit down just hard enough to leave a mark. “I'm making you feel like this. No one will ever...!”

Your head tipped back against the pillow, overwhelmed—by the heat, the stretch, him. Your legs fell open just a little more without thinking, hips starting to rock in slow, desperate rhythm against his hand.

"You're clenching so tight, Pumpkin." he muttered, mouth brushing your ear again, "Like you don’t wanna let me go. Like your body knows it’s mine.”

You let out something between a curse and a plea, and Sol—bless his sinful heart—just chuckled low in his throat, fingers working deeper, stroking just right.

His cock pressed against your sex, hot and heavy, his other hand still between your thighs—fingers slick with everything you gave him. His breath stuttered, voice low and wrecked as he leaned in, lips ghosting over yours.

“You’re ready, aren’t you?” he murmured. “So damn warm around my fingers… can only imagine how good you’ll feel around this.”

Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, nails leaving faint trails as your body trembled under the weight of him. You barely had a second to respond before—

He pushed in.

Slow, relentless, deep—filling you with every inch, drawing a strangled sound from your throat as your forehead dropped to his shoulder. The stretch had your whole body clenching, trying to breathe through the overwhelming fullness, the way every nerve lit up under his touch.

“F-fuck,” Sol hissed into your neck, voice thick with awe. “You take me so well… like you were made for me.”

That did something to you. Your whole body reacted—pulling him in closer, tighter—and he groaned, caught between control and desperation. One hand slid up your chest, teasing and playing with every sensitive spot he could find, making your hips rock helplessly into his.

He started to move. Slow at first—deliberate, dragging each thrust out to feel every inch of you shudder around him. You couldn’t pretend anymore. The smug mask you wore had shattered, replaced by whimpers and gasps and the way your nails bit into his skin.

And he was drinking it all in. Obsessed. Devoted.

He kissed you again—hot and hungry, his tongue slipping against yours, coaxing more of those beautiful sounds from your lips. He needed them. Needed you.

“Too much—ah! S-Sol…!” you choked out, barely holding onto words as your body arched into him, trembling and raw with every overwhelming sensation.

His rhythm faltered, just for a breath, and his gaze flicked up to meet yours—concern and lust tangled in those deep, dark eyes.

“Wanna be on top this time?” he rasped, voice soft but hoarse with need. “You can set the pace... take what you need.”

You tried to nod, but the moment you moved, your limbs faltered. You were boneless, wrecked, trembling from the aftershocks still rolling through your nerves. “I… I-I—” you tried, but the words melted against your tongue, leaving you breathless and aching.

He kissed you. Slow and reverent. A kiss that tasted like yes.

You shifted, trying to reposition yourself with what little strength you had left—but your body shivered from the stretch, the heat, the sheer intensity of him still buried inside you.

“Hey, hey…” Sol whispered, arms catching you gently. “Let me help you, pumpkin.”

He guided your hips with a care that almost made you cry—like you were something precious, like he could fall apart just watching you fall apart. The moment you finally sank down on him again, your back bowed, a sharp cry slipping from your lips as your hand flew to your mouth—biting into your thumb and nail just to ground yourself.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, watching your reaction like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “You feel incredible... Look at you.”

Your breath stuttered. His hands cradled your waist, steadying you, but you could feel his restraint unraveling with every passing second.

“You’re doing so good,” he breathed. “You’re perfect like this. Want me to move with you? Or… just let you take what you want?”

You swallowed hard, still biting your thumb, unable to answer—so you just rocked your hips experimentally, and shuddered when the sensation ripped through you like lightning.

Your moan came out shattered.

And Sol?

He looked like he’d die happily just to hear that sound again.

Your forehead pressed to the crook of his neck, lips brushing over the sensitive skin there as you tried—tried—to move.

He held you close, arms wrapped tight around your back like he could fuse you to him, breathing heavy and ragged against your shoulder. “You okay?” he murmured, his voice low and trembling.

You nodded against his neck. “Y-Yeah, I just—” You shifted your hips, slow and shaky, but even that made your breath hitch and your legs quiver. The overstimulation hit like a wave, rolling up your spine and curling your toes.

Then again. Just one more push. Just one more move.

Your thighs shook. You bit your lip. Everything felt too good, too much, and it made your muscles jelly.

“Shit,” you hissed, nails digging into his back. “What’s… wrong with me?” You half-laughed, half-whimpered, breath catching in your throat. “Why am I so—why are you so damn deep?”

Sol’s arms tightened around you instantly, and you felt it—the way his breath stuttered, the way his heart slammed in his chest right against yours. That wicked, warm chuckle rumbled through him.

“Guess I just fit you too well,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “Or maybe you’re just that gone for me, huh?”

You whimpered, biting your knuckle again. He tilted your head back gently, nose brushing yours, voice thick with a mix of awe and filth.

“You’re not broken,” he said, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “You’re just so full of me you don’t know what to do. Let me help.”

And before you could protest—he rolled his hips up into you.

Slow. Smooth. Deep.

“Guess I’ll have to help a little,” Sol murmured against your ear, voice honey-slick and low.

His hands moved to steady your hips, fingers splayed wide as he guided you slowly—gently—down again. Your breath hitched hard, every nerve flaring as you sank into the heat of him. He was already shaking, just from watching you fall apart above him.

“You’re really trembling inside,” he groaned, awe and reverence tangled in his voice. “Pumpkin… I never thought we’d be doing this. Not like this. Not so—” His voice cracked as he looked up at you. “So close.”

You tried to say something back, but all you could do was whimper, your voice lost somewhere between need and disbelief. Your face was burning, your whole body flushed from the inside out.

And Sol saw it—every flicker of emotion, every twitch of your lips, every clench of your fingers in his hair.

His thumb brushed your cheekbone. “Your face right now…” He looked wrecked. Adoring. “I wanna satisfy you more. Make you fall apart again. And again. Until that smug little mask drops for good.”

You leaned down to kiss him, slow and deep, your fingers curling in the sheets. Sol met you halfway, hands still guiding you, breath syncing with yours as the rhythm built between you like a secret language only your bodies could speak.

n Sol’s eyes—something darker, more needy than you’d seen before. His hands were still guiding you, but they were trembling now, almost desperately, as if he was afraid you might slip away from him. His chest rose and fell with each strained breath, and his gaze never left your face, burning with intensity.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice rougher than before. “I can feel every inch of you. Your heart, your breath, your body... I can’t get enough of it.”

His lips brushed against your throat, hot and possessive, as if marking you, claiming you with each kiss. It was almost as if he couldn’t stop himself, like he was driven by something more than lust—need. You could feel it in the way his hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer, urging you deeper. His lips trailed along your jaw, desperate but gentle, like he was savoring every second of this.

“Don’t... don’t pull away,” Sol gasped, his voice low, strained. “I need you... I need you with me. Don’t go anywhere. Not now, not ever.”

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you tighter against him, the heat of his body radiating like a furnace. He kissed you again, his touch becoming more urgent, more possessive, until you could feel the weight of his emotions crashing into you—raw, unfiltered, as if he were willing to burn everything just to keep you here.

And in that moment, you realized: it wasn’t just his body that he was offering—it was his soul, his vulnerability, his fear of losing you.

His words were barely a whisper against your skin: “You’re mine, right? You’re not going anywhere...”

"Sol... shit, I—" Your voice cracked on the edge of a gasp, spine arching helplessly into his touch. "I’ve never been so—so greedy... I need more..."

Your words were barely coherent, trembling out of you like confessions in the dark. You clung to him, breath hitching with every aching movement. Your whole body felt too hot, too sensitive, too full—like one more touch would shatter you completely.

And Sol, sweet Sol, was smiling down at you with a look so tender it hurt. His fingers were still working you open, slowly, lovingly, obsessively—his other hand cradling your cheek as if you might break. You looked up and—fuck—you were gone.

“Hey, Y/N,” he whispered, voice syrup-sweet, eyes glittering with something deranged and soft all at once. “Look at me.”

You did—and instantly regretted it, because those eyes—those spiraling, impossible eyes—locked you in place. That inner ring of burning orange, surrounded by crimson-red, swallowed you whole. Your breath caught. You couldn't look away if you tried.

“Swear to me,” he murmured, his voice suddenly trembling at the edges. “Swear you’ll stay with me. Always. I need to hear you say it.”

“I—I’ll stay,” you gasped, lips brushing against his. “I’ll stay w-with you, Sol—Sol!! AHHH—!”

Your words broke off in a cry as another wave hit, tearing through your body. His name was the only thing left on your tongue. Your thoughts dissolved completely, leaving behind only raw need and that voice—his voice—telling you how good you were, how much he wanted you, how much he needed you to stay.

Sol kissed your cheek, then your neck, then your lips again, all while whispering like a man possessed: “That’s right. Mine. You’re mine, pumpkin... forever.”

His arms wrapped tighter around you, and you could feel his heartbeat hammering against yours—wild, unhinged, terrified in its own way.

No one had ever held you like that. No one had ever wanted you like that.

Sol started to move—slow at first, like he was savoring the moment, savoring you. Every shift of his hips sent another shock of heat through your already overwhelmed body, and you couldn’t stop the gasps that tumbled from your lips, couldn’t hold back the broken whimpers as the pleasure spiraled way past what you thought you could take.

You were barely conscious of your own voice—just helpless, dazed sounds between half-finished words, desperate declarations tumbling from your mouth like confessions in a fever dream.

“C-can’t... can’t think—ah, Sol—! I wanna stay—I belong to you—!”

Those words snapped something inside him.

He froze for half a second—just one—but his breath hitched, his grip on you tightening as if he was anchoring himself in your heat, your need, your truth

His eyes were wide, glassy with something raw—something shattering. And then he moved again, with more force, more need, like your words had sunk straight into the core of him and detonated.

"Say it again," Sol gasped, voice cracking like his heart was too full, too fragile. "Say you belong to me—"

You couldn’t even speak. Your body was trembling, helpless in his arms, your face pressed to the crook of his neck as he held you like he’d never let go. All you could manage was a choked, breathless whimper of his name, and that was enough. Too much.

He kissed the side of your face like he was praying. Like you were sacred. Like he'd break if he ever lost you.

"You’re mine," he whispered hoarsely, a promise and a plea. “You’re mine and I’m yours and—gods, I don’t care if this world burns, just stay with me.”

You tried to nod—tried to respond—but the waves crashing through your body stole everything. Your breath. Your thoughts. Even your strength. You could only cling, nails digging into the fabric on his back as your body arched into his, as he moved faster, deeper into whatever bond had fused your souls together.

Sol was unraveling. You could feel it—every sound he made, every tremble in his voice, every desperate grind of his hips said the same thing:

"I love you. I need you. I can’t lose you."

And just when it felt like your world would collapse from the inside out—

He buried his face against your neck, gasping raggedly. "Y/N—!!" His voice cracked as he reached his peak, breath hitching, movements slowing into deep, shaking pulses. You felt him fall apart around you, within you, every bit of that obsessive love spilling out in every broken whisper and trembling kiss.

And even in the aftermath—panting, sweaty, and trembling in his arms—you knew:

This wasn’t just need.

It was devotion. It was possession. It was love—sharp-edged, overwhelming, maybe even dangerous.

You didn’t even know when it shifted—when your legs were pushed back, when his weight settled over you like a storm you couldn’t escape, didn’t want to. Sol’s hands gripped under your knees, spreading you open with a reverence that burned. His gaze locked to yours, wild and worshipping, like he could see straight into your marrow and wanted to carve his name into every inch of it.

"Look at me," he panted, voice low and ragged. "I need you to feel how much I want you—how much I need you. Like this. Always like this."

Then he sank back in.

Deep. Full. Unyielding.

You cried out, fingers scrambling at his shoulders, overwhelmed by the sheer stretch, the impossible closeness. His body caged yours, chest pressed flush to yours, his mouth kissing your tears away even as he wrecked you with every thrust—slow at first, almost reverent.

But it didn’t stay slow.

He snapped his hips forward, hard, fast—desperate.

The sound of skin on skin echoed, lewd and dizzying, your broken moans swallowed by his kiss. His arms trembled with restraint, but his pace never stopped, hips grinding in deep with every stroke like he was trying to brand himself into your bones.

“I can feel you,” he gasped against your mouth. “Clenching around me like you were made for me—like you belong to me.”

Your body gave no answer, only a choked sob of pleasure that made his pupils blow wide, made his control unravel at the seams. He hooked your thighs tighter around his waist, angling himself just right until stars exploded behind your eyes.

And when you cried out his name again, broken and raw and holy, Sol lost it.

He slammed into you with a grunt, forehead pressed to yours, hands trembling as he moved faster, harder, chasing something that felt more like a fall than a climax. “That’s it—take it, take all of me—”

You were shaking, overstimulated and breathless, but he wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t. His rhythm turned erratic, deeper, needier, like every thrust was a vow:

Mine. Mine. Mine.

And then he shattered.

With a strangled cry, he drove in to the hilt and came undone—his entire body trembling, hips twitching with every pulse of release, his face buried in your neck as he chanted your name like a lifeline.

“Y/N… Y/N—fuck, I love you—I love you so much I can’t—can’t breathe without you—”

You held him as tightly as you could, every part of you aching, humming, complete. He stayed buried deep inside you, wrapped around you like he couldn’t bear to let go, like pulling out would unravel everything.

And maybe it would.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was him giving you everything.

His obsession. His madness. His love.

And in that dazed, dizzied haze, as your body trembled in the aftermath and his heart thundered against yours, one thing was clear:

You were never getting out of this.

And gods help you…

You didn’t want to.

You didn’t even get a moment to breathe.

Sol was still inside you, still trembling from his high, but his mouth was already moving again—soft kisses, scattered like devotion across your jaw, your cheek, your lips. And then, without a word, he rolled his hips.

Slow. Deep. Heavy.

Your body jolted. A strangled sound caught in your throat, half-moan, half-beg, but it never made it past your lips—because he kissed you.

Hard. Messy. Desperate.

Tongue claiming, teeth grazing, swallowing every ruined sound you tried to make. You couldn’t even gasp. You couldn’t breathe. All you could do was feel—his hips grinding into yours again, filling you to the hilt, his body somehow more feverish, more hungry than before.

“You can take it,” he breathed between kisses, voice dark and reverent, wrecked by love and lust and something far too raw to name. “You’re perfect—gods, you feel so perfect like this. So full of me.”

Your nails dragged down his back, helpless, overstimulated, trembling from how much you needed him, even as your body screamed from the intensity. He moved deeper, slower this time but with that same unbearable pressure—like he wanted to melt into you, fuse your bodies until there was no more him or you, just us.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, even as his hips rocked into you again. “I can’t stop. I should—but I can’t. Not when you’re like this. Not when you feel like—like home.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, reverent, lips dragging over yours like he could taste your soul on your tongue. You whimpered against him, tried to speak, to moan—but the pleasure was too much, the fullness too overwhelming. All you could do was sob softly into his mouth as he started to move faster, desperate for another high, another chance to lose himself in you.

“You’re mine,” he breathed against your lips, fucking you through the aftershocks, through the haze, through the surrender. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

“Sh-shit—Sol—wait—!” you choked, but your voice cracked on a sob as his hips pounded into yours again, no room to think, no room to breathe, just the sound of slick, obscene rhythm and your own whimpers catching in your throat.

You tried to push at his chest, not really meaning it, just needing something to hold onto—but he only groaned, low and wrecked, and leaned down to kiss you—soft, almost sweet, completely at odds with the way he was driving into you like a man possessed.

“Just a little more,” he panted into your mouth. “Just a little more,Pumpkin—come on, stay with me.”

You couldn’t. Your back arched, legs trembling, pleasure shattering through you again so fast it knocked the breath from your lungs. You moaned something—his name, maybe? A plea?—but it was swallowed by the way he bit down gently on your neck, groaning against your skin like he was trying not to lose himself too fast.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he gasped, still thrusting, still holding you so sweetly, like you were precious even as he ruined you. “We’re gonna be together, okay? From now on. Just us.”

He licked over the bite he left, kissed your cheek, and kept going—slower, now, but so deep, like he was trying to carve himself inside you permanently.

“We’ll eat good food. We’ll be happy. You won’t need anyone else, Y/N,” he murmured, voice shaking with something more than lust. “You’re mine. I’m yours. No one—no one will love you like I do.”

You stared up at him, dazed, lips parted to respond but all that came out was a soft, broken cry as your body clenched around him again.

He smiled, so soft, eyes wide and in love and unhinged.

“And you won’t love anyone like you love me. Right?” he whispered.

You tried to say yes—tried to breathe it, to nod, anything—but your body betrayed you, trembling and writhing beneath him, lost in the feeling of him pushing in, pulling out, fucking that question into you like he needed the answer etched into your bones.

And he took it as a yes.

He kissed your temple, lips brushing the sweat-slick skin like a promise.

“That’s right,” he whispered. “No one else. Just us.”

His name tore from your lips in a gasp, and with one last, deep thrust, he came—hard, pulsing inside you, shaking as if he'd just been brought to the edge of some abyss.

His body tensed, fingers digging into your skin as he gripped you close, holding you like his very existence depended on you being there—on being his. He buried his face against your neck, leaving soft, ragged kisses as his breath hitched in the aftermath, his body trembling with exhaustion and still needing more.

You could feel him inside you, warm and spent, but there was no relief—not really. You weren’t sure where he ended and you began, the line blurred by the way your bodies intertwined, by the way he held you so tight, so desperate, as if there was nothing left for him to hold onto except you.

He whispered your name, broken and raw, so tender despite everything.

“You... you’re mine. I’ll keep you safe. Keep you close. Never let you go,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and shaky.

Your mind was a haze, thoughts swimming as you struggled to gather yourself, but he kept you there, pressed against him, unable to move, unable to break free from the pull he had on you.

“I love you. I need you,” he said softly, his voice cracking on the last word.

And then, as if the intensity of what had just happened wasn’t enough to bring him to his breaking point, he pulled you even closer, his lips brushing your ear.

Sol’s grin was like a damn sunbeam, glowing with something that was all devotion and satisfaction, his chest still rising and falling quickly as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, like he couldn’t get close enough to you. The moment was everything to him—the sweet aftermath, where the world felt soft, and all he could do was hold you and drown in how good you made him feel.

You were too dazed to speak, too lost in the warmth of his body against yours, the softness of his breath on your skin.

His lips were gentle as they pressed against the sensitive spots of your neck, leaving kisses so soft, so loving, it almost felt like worship. He pulled you in closer, not letting you go, even though you couldn’t form a coherent thought at the moment.

“You did so good, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice still thick with need but now touched with tenderness. “So, so good. I’m so proud of you.”

He said it like it was a sacred truth. His words melted into your skin, every word a claim, a reminder that you were his—and he wasn’t letting you forget it.

His arms wrapped around you again, pulling you tighter, his grip firm but with an underlying softness that only spoke to how deeply he cared. He tucked you against his chest, his heart still beating hard against you, as if it couldn’t slow down just yet.

“I’ll always take care of you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice muffled and full of warmth. “You don’t have to worry about a thing, Y/N. I’ve got you.”

You felt like you might melt into him, his warmth spreading through you, his kisses and soft reassurances so grounding you couldn’t help but sink into the safety of his embrace. There was a sweetness to him now—clingy but in the most affectionate, secure way—as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

He wasn’t letting go. Not now, not ever. And you couldn’t deny how right it felt to be so completely his.

You could barely keep your eyes open, the world spinning and your body so spent from the intensity of everything that had just happened—but something inside you snapped.

The laughter bubbled up, low and deranged, escaping your lips before you could even think twice about it. It was manic, almost delirious, but it was real. You were feeling it—feeling him, feeling that wild, crazy need to take control now, to flip the script just a little.

Sol, his face still buried in the crook of your neck, froze for a moment. His breath hitched as he pulled back slightly, eyes wide and glowing with that possessive hunger, that unshakable devotion.

“What… what are you—?” he started, but you silenced him with your eyes.

You could barely keep yourself together, but there was fire in your chest. You were done being so lost in him, done just lying there while he took the reins. No, this time, you were going to show him.

“I wanna take control too,” you muttered, voice raw, the grin pulling at your lips almost feral. “This isn’t over yet, Sol. Night’s ours. Let’s love each other too much, okay?”

His eyes widened, pupils dilated, the grin curling on his lips as he tilted his head slightly. He was shocked—and yet, the way his hand slid over your side, the way his thumb brushed against your skin, made it clear: he loved it.

“Fuck, Y/N… you think you can handle me?” His voice was low, teasing, but that gleam in his eyes said something else entirely—something darker, something like he was ready for you to burn everything down with him.

His arms were still tight around you, but now, it was almost like he was daring you. Daring you to take the reins and lead him somewhere new, somewhere he was all in for.

You woke up, your body still humming with the aftershocks of last night. But something was... different. You looked around, confusion clouding your mind for a moment—until your gaze fell on the pretty man beside you. The one who had stolen your breath away with his wild, captivating energy.

Sol.

His hair—black with those electric green streaks—looked even more striking in the soft light of morning. It cascaded in a half-up-half-down style, those bangs framing his face in a way that made his eyes even more arresting. His irises—oh, gods—those hues of orange and crimson, like they could see right through you, like they were made to entrap you.

You couldn't look away. Even as he lay there, peaceful, so effortlessly beautiful in his sleep, you found yourself staring, not even caring if it was a little unsettling. He was yours now. You couldn’t stop the way your heart raced at the thought.

You reached out and gently patted his head, your fingers grazing the strands of his hair, feeling the soft texture. It was almost too much, too perfect, too real. And just like that, those vivid eyes blinked open, meeting yours with that sleepy confusion, before they sharpened and narrowed, those mesmerizing eyes locking onto yours.

"Good morning, Sol..." you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips as your pulse quickened. You had to explain. You had to claim him.

"We need to take a bath... Y’know?" Your voice was light, teasing even, but underneath was something darker, a promise of what was to come.

For a moment, Sol stayed silent, his gaze steady, those eyes studying you. There was something about the way he looked at you now—it was almost like he was waiting for you to confirm what this was, what you were. But you didn’t give him the chance.

You held him gently by the face, your fingers brushing against his skin, before pulling him closer, locking eyes with him as if you were both trapped in this moment. This love.

“This isn’t a dream,” you murmured, voice turning darker, more twisted. “We’re together now, Sol. You’re mine, and I’m yours. Forever.”

Your smile, deranged, yandere-like, spread across your face as you whispered it again, your hands gripping his face more firmly now.

“I love you. I love you so much, Sol,” you confessed, the words leaving your lips like a vow. Your voice was almost manic, desperate. "No one else could ever love you like I do. No one can have you but me. You're mine—body, soul, everything. And I'll never let you go."

You could feel the heat of his skin against yours, his breath mingling with yours, and you wanted to savor every second of it. The world outside—irrelevant. All that mattered was that Sol was here with you. And you were never letting him leave.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead against his, your breath shaky, heart thudding in your chest.

"You're mine, Sol. Always. Forever. And there's no way out, is there?"

You managed to hobble to the bathroom with Sol’s help, giggling the whole way like you weren’t on the verge of collapsing. He bathed you both gently, sweetly, as if you were glass he’d cracked with his love last night and was now trying to piece back together. His touches were reverent, every kiss to your shoulder like a whispered apology and a promise.

And then—he said it.

“Let’s skip university today.”

You blinked at him.

"Together?"

He grinned, still wet from the bath, towel hanging low on his hips, eyes sparkling like he’d won the damn lottery. “Yeah. Let’s just... be us. Just for today.”

You could’ve cried. But instead you nodded and muttered something like, “Okay... only if you make curry.”

That made him laugh. A full, warm laugh, like you hadn’t completely shattered him the night before with how much you loved him.

Later, he was at the stove, humming while the smell of spicy, warm curry filled the air. You tried to help. Really, you did. But when you tried to stand—

“Ah—!” you winced, collapsing right back onto the futon, legs still jelly.

“Hey—hey, hey!” Sol rushed over, panic rising. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said, grinning way too wide. “Can’t walk because you... you know.”

His face flushed a deep crimson, but he didn’t deny it.

Then, as he was stirring the curry, his voice came soft. Too soft.

"...Did you look after me too?..I mean"

Your grin widened—slow, almost foxlike.

You raised your hand and pointed to the cupboard in the corner. Sol tilted his head in confusion, then padded over.

When he opened it...

Silence.

He stared.

There, in a neat but deeply unhinged box, were dozens of photos of him. Drawings—some accurate, some bordering on manic. His used bandages. Pieces of fabric from his worn clothes. The one with a heart drawn around his face in red marker. Oh. And the other side?

Your notes.

Obsessive, stalker-style notes. Favorite foods, times he left campus, places he sat when he was sad, one particular napkin , Multiple drawings of him "Y/N + Sol 4ever" scrawled beneath.

His hands trembled as he picked up a drawing of himself you did from memory—wildly off-proportion, but filled with adoration. The kind of adoration that could turn a person feral.

You tilted your head and asked sweetly, “Why’re you red, Sol?”

He didn’t answer.

He collapsed.

Like, full-on faceplant.

“SOL?!” You scrambled (as best you could) over to him, panic blooming. “SOL ARE YOU OKAY?! BREATHE, BREATHE—OH GODS I BROKE YOU—”

You pulled him into your lap, frantically patting his cheeks as his body shuddered, somewhere between laughter and a panic attack. His face buried in your chest as you whispered urgently, “You’re mine, Sol. Don’t break. I can’t fix you if you break—!”

But Sol just let out a breathy, dazed laugh.

“I—I was the-” he muttered, staring blankly at your shrine box. “I thought I was the insane one. I thought I was obsessed. But you—you—”

You grinned, cradling his face, nose touching his. “You love me, right?”

He blinked at you, dazed. “Yes—of course—”

“Good.” You kissed his forehead. “Because You loved me first. I’ll love you forever. And if you ever leave me, I’ll carve your name into my skin and haunt you!”

He just stared. Still red. Still broken.

Still so yours.

And somewhere in the kitchen, the curry began to burn. But neither of you cared.

#tkatb #the kid at the back vn #tkatb x reader #the kid at the back sol #tkatb vn #tkatb sol #the kid at the back x reader #solivan brugmanisa x reader #solivan brugmansia #solivan x reader #the kid at the back #sol x reader #sol brugmansia #tkatb smut #solivan brugmansia x reader smut #the kid at the back smut #tkatb sol x reader #tkatb sol smut

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tjwritesfanfics · 8 months ago

Text

Stupid (Spencer Reid)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: You wanted his attention. Now you had it.

Rating: Mature 18+ only

Warnings: Public sexiness, Reid is a meanie and uses a bullet vibrator, oral (m receiving), degrading, public sex, unprotected sex (guys plz be safe), Reid curses (it is a warning so don't even)

Words: 1.2k

Main Masterlist | Criminal Minds Masterlist

AN: This story is mainly for @reidgif I hope you like it!

The buzzing sounds was satisfying to Spencer’s ears. Though not as much as your whimpers and quiet moans.

His fingers play with the feel of the remote of the bullet vibrator in his hand, eyes glued to the case file that he was reviewing.

“Spencer…”

“I am not moving. I told you earlier when you decided to so desperately get my attention and be a brat in front of the others, that you were going to be punished.” His dark eyes flicked from the report to where you were standing by the suspect board. “Now you need to keep working or we will never get to go back to the hotel.”

You let out a sob but turned back to the white board and lifted your hand to shakily write something on it. You knew that when you dragged Spencer on a “lunch break” only to want to eat him.

“Oh fuck,” Spencer moaned, his hands gripping your hair as he guided your head up and down his cock, “you are going to be in so much trouble later, you fucking inpatient slut.”

All you could do was moan around him, not caring at the moment what was coming later. All you wanted was him. To feel him. The taste of him on your tongue.

Your eyes met his, teary and cheeks hollowing out, propelling him towards his climax until he came in your mouth, giving you the “lunch” you wanted.

Now here you were, in a (thankfully) empty precinct, underwear sitting on the table and a bullet vibrator inside you going at a slow steady pace.

There would be times you would get used to the slow vibration, thinking you could work peacefully, but Spencer was attuned to you and would crank the dial higher, dropping you to your knees in a moaning mess, the pulsing pushing your close and closer to a high you so desperately wanted, one you had been denied for an hour now, only for him to quickly turn it back to the dull buzz.

“I think he is specifically targeting women with blonde hair.” You were able to squeak out something, surprised with yourself that you were able to make it through the sentence without losing yourself.

Spencer let out a low chuckle, the sound sending a shiver up your spine since he was much closer then he was before. When did he get up?

“I can’t believe this has rendered you this stupid,” His finger bumps up the vibration once, a whimper escaping your throat, “since that was something we already knew. Anyone with eyes could tell that they are all blondes.”

“B but-”

“Don’t you even finish that sentence.” Spencer rolled his eyes, stepping back from you and started moving some of the papers from the conference table. “I don’t want to hear it from a crybaby like you. You are so lucky you are so cute because if I had known how stupid you were, I would have just done this myself.”

You knew he didn’t mean the words he was saying, but right now you almost did believe him. You were so horny and wet that it didn’t matter about the case, as horrible as that may seem.

“I might as well get something out of being here with you. Get over here and bend over.”

If you were in your right mind, you would have been embarrassed with how fast you complied with his order. The coolness of the conference table feels amazing against the flush of your skin.

Spencer let out a cruel laugh at your eagerness, but didn’t say anything. No, instead he cracked the bullet up as far as it could go.

A scream ripped from you, the feeling a blessing and a curse, driving you physically up the conference table and sensually closer to your end. Your legs shaking and the only thing holding you up was Spencer’s hand on your lower back, his gentle touch contrasting with the harshness of his actions and words.

“God look at you. Crying from how good that feels huh? Isn’t this what you wanted? My attention? Well guess what you fucking slut,” He leaned in close, his weight pressing you into the table, his sent filling your head, “You have it.”

Whines and cries fill the room, the best thing Spencer has ever heard as you finally are forced to let go of the tension coiling in your gut. Curses flying past your lips as well as his name.

If anyone just so happened to come into the precinct now, they would know exactly what was happening and who was making you feel this good.

Spencer pulled the bullet out of your cunt by the string, throwing it behind him and not even bothering to turn it off. Slumping against the table, bliss completely deafening you to the sound of Spencer undoing his belt.

Next thing you knew your leg was being lifted up to rest on the table and the blunt head of his cock was pressing into you, one swift thrust filling you to the brim.

“Oh shit!” You cry, fresh tears streaking down your cheeks.

Spencer groaned, his lips coming to kiss the back of your neck and up to your ear, his facial hair lightly tickling you. “You are so wet. Feels so good.”

That was the nicest thing he has said to you all day.

Drawing back just enough for his tip to be the only thing inside, you could feel his smirk and knew that the one kind word was the only thing you were getting out of him tonight. He snapped his hips, driving completely into you again.

He repeated this over and over, harsher with each thrust he drove into you. It was so good that all you could do was moan and drool against the table.

His laugh filled the room alongside the other sounds. “Look at you! So cockstupid that you would let me do absolutely anything I wanted. Who’s pussy is this?”

When you didn’t, couldn’t, answer him, Spencer gripped your hair, tugging you back to him and the new angle had him hitting that spot that made you see spots.

“Answer me. Come on. I know you can do it. Who’s. Pussy. Is this?” He accentuated every word with a deep thrust into you.

“Yours! Spencer, all yours!”

“Good girl.”

His thrusts continued assaulting you, pressing and pushing you into the table and into him. All you could feel was Spencer. All you could care about at the moment was Spencer.

“Oh shit.” He cursed, his blunt nails digging into your hips as he cums, painting your walls white.

Spencer stilled for a moment. You whimper and wiggle your hips for him, silently begging him to continue since you were so close. But you should have seen this next part coming. Didn’t make it any less horrible when he pulled out of you and stuffed himself back into his pants.

“No!” You cry. “Please please Spencer!”

“I’m tired and going back to the hotel. You coming?”

He smirked and you glowered at his double entendre. “Yes I am.”

“Not without me, my stupid girl.”

With that Spencer grabbed your panties, showing you that he was not even going to let you put them back on, and strode out of the conference room.

“Brats don’t get to cum. Maybe you will learn.”

(Banners by cafekitsune)

#spencer reid #mgg #criminal minds #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x reader smut #mgg smut #matthew gray gubler #criminal minds smut

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harmoonix · 1 year ago

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☯ Natal/Sidereal Birth Chart Observations ☯

✅ The next following observations can apply to both tropical or sidereal ✅

☯ Mars in Scorpio or Mars at 8°, 20° degrees, these natives are very dedicated to what they are doing, is like they do everything with passion and love

☯ Mars in Aries/ at 1°, 13°, 25° degrees may love to practice sports, especially those who consume a lot of energy

☯ Mars square/conjunct/opposite Saturn, their personality can be very powerful and bold but they may struggle when it comes to self - expression and with keeping a routine for their hobbies

☯ Planets in the same house at different degrees matter a lot, even if they are at far degrees from eachother. They still hold a powerful energy

☯ Pay attention if Chiron moves the houses from your tropical to sidereal chart because you may have to focus on more things to heal yourself

☯ Mars in Libra or at 7°. 19° Can have a mix of chaotic - peace energy in their lives, but they somehow need to create a balance between those two

☯ Capricorn Rising in your solar return chart can indicate working on yourself a lot in that year

☯ Mercury in the 5H or Gemini/Virgo in the 5H may love to surround themselves with lots of art/music/fun/

☯ Ascendant aspecting Sun ☀️, The native personality can be easily liked by others, and they can often be very social/popular

☯ Mars or Venus in the 8H can find themselves being very attach to people with a powerful personality/aura

☯ Uranus in the 8H is a very unique placement.. if you have it, this placement gives the chance to explore your sexual energy in different ways

☯ Fire Risings have an unique excitement, a wild fire/sparkle in their eyes when they're happy. You can easily tell when they're in a good mood

☯ 8°, 20°, 10°, 22° degrees on the ascendant can give intimidating vibes, someone very powerful

☯ Aries and Capricorn Placements can often be very stubborn especially in big 3!! They like to do things in their own ways

☯ Having Jupiter as your dominant planet in the birth chart makes you extremely spiritual/kind and you may have a powerful desire to grow and to discover

☯ Capricorn Mercury or Mercury in the 10H or 10° 22° on Mercury natives can have a deeper voice than others but in a very mesmerizing way

☯ Venus in the 4H or Venus at 4°, 16° or 28° degrees can find themselves being the home and safe space for others, your way of sharing love is amazing

☯ Mars in Gemini/3rd house or Mars at 3°, 15°,27° degrees can have a very bold way of talking, their humour style is the best and sometimes they can have cracked jokes

☯ Lilith in the 11H or Lilith in Aquarius can find themselves being in groups with people who have experienced different traumas/bad things and can share those things between them!

☯ Lilith in Leo Degrees 5°. 17°, 29° can have a feline typo of appearance/personality even beauty like their face can easily be associated with a lion/feline

☯ Pluto in the 3rd house can make the native to be very curious about the taboo/dark/horror things, like they're so deep into the lore

☯ Cancer Degrees on ascendant 4°, 16°, 28° degrees can be more soft/sensible than others since young/since childhood. They're just more chill and calm than most people

☯ Natives with heavy Capricorn or Saturn placements can have strong legs/ and very beautiful ones

☯ Taurus Mercury/Mars or at Taurus Degrees 2°, 14°, 26° can be highly sensual in the room, also if they get excited

☯ Varuna (2000) conjunct/trine/sextile Lilith can be pretty known for their sensual nature, mesmerizing aura

☯ Mercury Dominant natives are truly the best ones who have around you! They're communicative/open minded, have a good sense of humor and they're also extremely supportive

☯ Pallas Asteroid (2) or 7H in Libra natives can inspire others to seek for their guidance, they often judge fairly and won't pick a side

☯ Pallas Asteroid (2) in Sagittarius or 9H can make the native to always seek for higher knowledge, this placement gives the high priestess in tarot cards vibes

☯ Pallas Asteroid (2) in Pisces or 12H natives are connected with the universe/source/God in a way that, they can feel its presence around

☯ Pallas Asteroid (2) in Leo or 5H can combine philosophy with fun/creativity, they can be really talented and share lots of good vibes

☯ Since the 9H is also related with school/education Mars/Saturn/Pluto and even Lilith in this house can have it quite hard/challenging in those topics, sometimes even getting in fights with the teachers as well

☯ Something natives with Lilith in the 10H or in Capricorn fight with is that most people in their lives try to be dominant and to overtake them and control their lives which is extremely wrong! Never let anyone do that

☯ How Venus - Pluto aspects/Venus in Scorpio/Venus in the 8H always fall for the people who have a bad reputation like?? Is like you are attracted to the villain of a fairytale/story

☯ Sun opposite or square Saturn can bring a difficult relationship with their dad, or they could've grow up in a strict household

☯ Lilith/Chiron in the 2H natives can have problems with their self esteem or self worth, sometimes even ED aka eating disorders

☯ Leo & Capricorn combos in your chart can make you very intelligent and likable

☯ I feel natives with Mars/Saturn/Pluto in the 4H or 5H may like to stay alone more than being 24/7 with people, like to have their own space

☯ Saturn or Capricorn in the 6H can be quite draining to have, it's practical but exhausting in the same time

☯ Having all your big 3 in the same element is quite unusual but powerful in the same time

☯ Jupiter in Aquarius or Aquarius Degrees/11H/11°, 23°. Their spouse can be extremely social and friendly,kind, humanitarian, helping, supportive. Is so hubby material

☯ Juno in the 1H natives can get into relationships since young ages as a lesson to learn and to explore an specific side of relationships, so that they learn to be more mature in their next relationships

☯ Virgo Risings have their 7H in Pisces which makes them to be dependent of their partner at times, like very attached and clingy

☯ Lilith at 0° degrees in the chart can indicate breaking the norms and bringing something new with them

☯ Lilith Asteroid (1181) opposite/square/conjunct Neptune or Venus, they have a catchy appearance and approach to people

☯ Moon in Aquarius can be known as that person of the family who is just born different, but in a good way like that cool sibling/cousin/friend etc..

☯ Aquarius Placements combined with Gemini and Virgo placements can be really into gaming since they have a very analytical mind

☯ While if you have Aries Placements and if you are into gaming you can be quite competitive in your games

☯ Pisces/Cancer and Libra Moons natives are the easiest to catch in love, is just their energy being in love 24/7, they can aslo switch up very fast if the person they like is not like they thought

☯ Lilith in Gemini/3rd house or aspecting Mercury can find themselves surrounding with people who gossip a lot, at some point people can gossip about them as well so take care who you spend your time with

☯ Lilith in Taurus/2H or at Taurus Degrees can be afraid of being rejected, as like an anxiety thing, you deserve a lot better if you have people in your life who may try to reject you

☯ Moon aspecting Pluto natives can often find themselves with people who may try to manipulate them into making bad decisions, don't always let yourself that easy to people

☯ Lilith square Moon/Venus can make women specifically hate you for no reason. Like creating this hate energy for nothing, protect yours at least

🦋🫶🏼 A new week is a new astro post🥰🫶🏼

Hope you all have it good 🤍🤍🤍

🤍 [H a r m o o n i x ] 🤍

#astrology #astro observations #birth chart #astro notes #astrology observations #placements #astro community #horoscope #ascendant #sidereal chart #tropical chart #venus #vedic chart #vedic #astroblog #astro seek #astro combo #astronote #sidereal astrology

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rowie264 · 6 months ago

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Jinx NSFW Alphabet

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) Cuddles, cuddles, cuddles. A lot of cuddles.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) Jinx's favorite body part of hers is her hair. She refuses to cut it, even if it's ridiculously long and sometimes even uncomfortable to live with (washing and brushing takes forever). But she loves her hair and she likes when you touch it. Her favorite body part of yours is your neck. It's her safe place and she likes to nuzzle your neck to inhale your scent. She also likes to leave her marks to show everyone who you belong to.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) Be prepared for a mess because she is a squirter. Also her cum is slightly pinkish because of the shimmer (just like her tears).

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) Sometimes she stalks you. "To protect you" she convinces herself.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) Jinx wasn't interested in relationship before she met you. She is a virgin. But you can't grow up in Zaun without picking up some of 'adults talks' so she knows how sex works and even knows about few spicy things.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) If she is receiving then her favorite will be one that allows her to hug you. She is very clingy not only during sex but in general. If she is giving then it can be any pose as long as she can see your face. She likes to watch how good she can make you feel.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) Can crack jokes, giggle and tease you even when she is submissive. But can get quite serious if she feels dominant and jealous.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) Not blue as you thought it would be! She starts shaving after few intimate nights, because now she "has a reason".

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) Always says that she loves you at some point.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) Jinx doesn't masturbate just because her body needs to release some tension. She will masturbate only if she'll get aroused after thinking of you and only if she can't reach you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) Praise kink. Absolutelly loves being called good girl and being encouraged.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do) Her bed which she adjusted especially for the two of you (it's like a love nest now with bunch of stolen pillows)

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) Besides praises she can get really turned on if you'll bite her and leave a mark. She is possessive herself and if you'll show the same possessiveness over her she'll ask you to take her right then and there.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) Don't even think about threesome or any kind of polyamorous relationship. You belong solemnly to her.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) Jinx learns fast enough how you like it. Expect her eyes being locked with yours while she eats you out. If you are the one giving she'll look at you too because she likes it when your eyes turn the same color as hers because of her shimmer cum.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) Usually she prefers slow and sensual. It really helps her insecure mind when you take your time to make her feel loved and appreciated. But sometimes she can act like a total brat on purpose to rile you up and get punished for it.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) Prefers long sessions rather than quickies.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.) If you want to try something new - she is up for it. The more ways to give each other pleasure the better. Will not take risks if it can really hurt you.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?) With shimmer running in her veins she has a lot of stamina. You gotta try really hard to get her exhausted.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?) Bought a few to try them out with you but then threw them away because she could create better ones - just perfect for you and for herself.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) Ocassionally can tease you for fun, like in a little game. Will 100% tease you mercilessly if she feels dominant.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) Jinx isn't shy about being loud. She'll whimper, moan and scream for you because why would she hide her reactions from you? You make her feel good and you deserve to know how much.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character) She is like 70% submissive and 30% dominant. She loves playing with your breasts, especially to lick and suck your nipples. Likes to hear her name on your lips.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) Jinx's clothes exposes enough skin already but once she is completely naked you can fully see her tattoes which always makes you pause and admire it.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) Chaotic. One week can be full of cuddles and chaste kisses, when on other you'll be making love every day.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) At first, Jinx couldn't fall asleep before you (she hadn't slept well for years). But after some time spent with you, she began to get more sleep and could even fall asleep in your arms before you.

#arcane #jinx #jinx arcane #jinx x reader #jinx x fem!reader #jinx x y/n #jinx x you #arcane x reader

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glamourscat · 6 months ago

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heyy, would you possibly do dick and / or jason nsfw alphabets??👀

JASON TODD NSFW ALPHABET

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Aftercare with Jason is perhaps even more intense than sex. It’s quiet at the start, his hand is reaching for you. Gently caressing your hip, then your belly and your stomach. Soaking in the quietness of the moment as you calm down from the adrenaline of the moment. His caresses would turn into soft kisses and mutual praises, perhaps a warm bubble bath too.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

I would say for his thighs. Despite having a complicated relationship with and what his body has turned into, I think, he would truly enjoy his thighs. Especially seeing you riding them.

On his partner, everything. No, I am not exaggerating. He is the type to lose absolutely all. I do believe he has an aesthetic attraction more prone towards muscular and plus size individuals. Belly, thighs, boobs you name it. He is on it lol

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

I truly believe he has a breeding kink and i have nothing else to add

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

…. Hear me out… pegging. LISTEN, I feel when he truly has found his partner all barriers come down. There's nothing more he wants than to be in love and to share his love equally back. He wants to feel safe and once he is secure enough rest assured he won't be shy with his needs and wants. PLS his pretty noises while his eyes roll back? Praising him? Damn it

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Not very experienced but is an eager and fast learner

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Good old missionary but especially a fan of cowgirl and doggy

G = Goofy (are they more serious at the moment? Are they humorous? etc.)

Not at first. The first few times, and a while after that, he will be pretty serious. Maybe even intense for how emotional the moment is. But as time goes by he would soften up, not to crack jokes, but a few giggles and laughs would for sure come through

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

I would say he has some hair. I hc that after the pit his hair grows faster than normal ish, or at least, faster than they used to. He has a happy trail and moderate hair down there that he keeps cut but not completely shaved off

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Struggles with intense emotions but when he manages to work with them, rather than against them, his hopeless romantic side comes out. Expect deep yet soft thrusts, moans that make your shine tingle, kisses that leave you breathless and at least 4 mind blowing orgasms

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

I don’t see him as the type to need it constantly. I feel it would be more or so a “hmm i haven't done it in a while and now thinking about it made me horny lets do it”

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Like i have said pegging, also praise– heavy on this one– biting, breeding kink, edging and not sure if there's a name for it, but i think he would be into being obnoxiously loud with the intent of being heard especially if he is feeling extra spicy

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Bed or shower/bath

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You. just you. But i feel he would also get off when you two are having friendly back and forth banter/challenges

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything that can hurt the both of you and restrain on him

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He is a giver, he will literally eat you out like a starved man. But, there’s also something he can’t deny, about you, on your knees giving the most sloppy bj he has ever received it keeps him going

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

A mix. Mostly slow and deep, with a few hard thrusts. Extremely sensual on other occasions. Mostly, he will keep a pace stable enough to make you moan his name so many times your throat will be sore after

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Not a fan

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? etc.)

Nope, i can’t see him being a big risk taker. Sure, he likes to keep things interesting as he runs on adrenaline– but that's in his vigilante life. In his private life he wants nothing but comfort

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Yeah, a few lol. There would be breaks in between, a snack or two. You two talking, and in a way it almost feels like an aftercare in itself

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He wouldn’t necessarily own some but if you do, then once you move in together they become of the both of you. Especially vibrators or dildos, I feel he would be a fan of watching you taking care of yourself before he starts… or, hear me out, gifting you a dildo that resembles his dick in shape, size and girth.. Custom made? Maybe…

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

A TEASE. It’s funny yeah, until you do it back and all of the sudden he is turned into the most whiny, moaning mess you have ever seen

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Not very loud, at start. A few grunts, maybe some moans will escape here and there. As the relationship progresses though, he will grow bolder. Unashamed of his moans as he keeps thrusts in you. Praising you mixed with some filthy words in between

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

After the first time you two had sex he cried, in fact, he cried while he came. It just happened. Maybe it was the wave of emotions, maybe it was how intense everything felt. But he did. He hid his face in your neck, pampering it with kisses as he tried to hide his teary eyes. But when you eventually noticed, he couldn't help but cry a bit more. Now, you two laugh about it, even though it’s something that still embarasses him to this day

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

When erected it can reach 7 inches solid. Veiny, thick. Have I mentioned the happy trail already?

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Not astronomical. He will feel the need every so often, but he won’t be on you 24/7. In fact I can see him going for weeks without it.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Not fast. After aftercare and making sure you’re fine, talking, a snack and waiting for you to fall asleep; he will stay awake a while longer. Allowing himself to soak in this feeling of contentment, safety and peace. His eyes linger on your naked, sleepy form beside him and with a last kiss to your head he will fall asleep hugging you tightly against his body.

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angel-z-xdx · 5 months ago

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Simon "Ghost" Riley NSFW Alphabet

A - Aftercare: Ghost might surprise you with his tenderness after intimacy. Though he’s stoic and reserved, he ensures you’re comfortable, offering a soft touch or a quiet reassurance. He’s not overly verbal, but his actions speak volumes—a warm towel, water, or holding you close in his arms.

B - Body: Simon’s body is a canvas of scars, each telling a story of battles fought and survived. He’s strong and imposing, yet he’s self-conscious about his scars. Hearing you admire or cherish his physique helps him see himself through your eyes.

C - Confidence: Ghost is confident but not cocky. He knows his strengths and brings an unshakable calm to intimacy. His quiet assurance can make anyone feel safe and desired, though he’s more focused on his partner’s pleasure than his own.

D - Dom/Sub: Simon’s natural dominance is evident, but it’s never overbearing. He thrives on being in control, but he’s attuned to his partner’s needs, ensuring mutual satisfaction. If he trusts you deeply, he’s open to letting go occasionally.

E - Experience: Years in the military haven’t left him much time for relationships, but his maturity and attention to detail make him an attentive lover. He’s learned to read people well and adapts effortlessly to what his partner wants.

F - Favorite Position: Ghost prefers positions that allow for intimacy and connection, like missionary or spooning, where he can see or feel you close. He’s also a fan of standing positions—a practical choice for his strong physique and intense moments.

G - Goofy: Simon has a dry sense of humor, and while he’s serious in most aspects, he might throw in a sly quip to lighten the mood. He values the comfort of his partner, even if it means cracking a rare joke.

H - Hair: His short, regulation haircut is practical, but his facial hair is another story. He’s aware of its appeal and might let you tug on it playfully during heated moments. He secretly loves the attention.

I - Intimacy: Intimacy with Ghost is layered. He struggles to open up emotionally but craves a deep connection. When he lets his guard down, he’s intensely devoted, treating every moment as significant and meaningful.

J - Jealousy: Simon is not outwardly jealous but fiercely protective. He’ll observe from the shadows, ensuring no one crosses boundaries with you. His quiet possessiveness manifests in subtle gestures, like keeping a hand on your lower back in public.

K - Kinks: Ghost’s kinks lean toward dominance and control. He enjoys restraint, whether it’s physical or situational, and takes pleasure in heightening his partner’s anticipation. He’s also partial to praise and enjoys hearing his partner’s appreciation.

L - Location: Simon prefers privacy and safety, valuing control over the environment. A quiet bedroom or secluded space is his comfort zone, though he’s adaptable if the moment calls for spontaneity.

M - Mood: Ghost’s mood during intimacy is intense and focused. He’s not one for casual flings; when he’s with someone, it’s deliberate and passionate. His energy can shift from tender to commanding, depending on the dynamic.

N - Noise: Simon is relatively quiet, but his low grunts and occasional whispers are intoxicating. When he speaks during intimacy, it’s deliberate and laced with an irresistible edge.

O - Oral: Ghost is thorough and meticulous. When he’s giving, he’s entirely focused on his partner’s pleasure, taking time to learn what makes you tick. Receiving is less important to him, but he’ll let you take the lead if it pleases you.

P - Pace: Simon’s pace is controlled and intentional. He’s not one to rush, preferring to savor every moment. He can adjust depending on the situation, from slow and sensual to fervent and intense.

Q - Quickies: While he prefers meaningful encounters, Simon understands the demands of time and circumstance. He’s efficient and attentive during quickies, ensuring you’re as satisfied as possible.

R - Risk: Ghost is cautious and values safety above all else, but he’s not averse to calculated risks. If it strengthens your bond or adds excitement, he’ll consider stepping out of his comfort zone.

S - Stamina: Years of training and discipline have given Ghost impressive stamina. He can go for extended periods, ensuring his partner’s satisfaction before considering his own. He’s in it for the long haul.

T - Toys: Simon isn’t opposed to incorporating toys but prefers to rely on his skills first. If his partner expresses interest, he’s open-minded and eager to explore together.

U - Unpredictable: Ghost’s reserved nature makes his rare spontaneous moments thrilling. Whether it’s an unexpected kiss or a sudden shift in intensity, he keeps you on your toes.

V - Vulnerability: Opening up is a challenge for Simon, but with the right partner, he’ll let his walls down. His vulnerability is most evident in quiet moments, where his actions convey the emotions he struggles to put into words.

W - Wildcard: Despite his stoic demeanor, Simon has a surprising romantic streak. He’ll plan intimate moments, like lighting candles or bringing you small, thoughtful gifts to show his affection.

X - X-Ray (Physical): Simon’s body is as strong as his presence, with broad shoulders, a muscular build, and scars that tell a story of resilience. He’s well aware of his physical appeal but values connection over appearance.

Y - Yearning: Ghost’s yearning runs deep. He’s a man who’s lived through loss and pain, making him crave genuine connection. When he finds someone he trusts, his passion is unwavering.

Z - Zest: Though his life is defined by discipline and danger, Simon brings an unexpected zest to intimacy. His dedication to his partner’s pleasure and his rare moments of levity make every encounter unforgettable.

#cod #cod mw2 #ghost x reader #cod smut #call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon riley smut #ghost cod #ghost smut

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demie90s · 6 days ago

Text

CONTROL YOURSELF

Diana Taurasi x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:Diana Taurasi isn’t just a legend—she’s your undoing. When Diana walks into the room, you unravel. She turns you quiet.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 2.5k

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ:Emotional tension, slow burn, sensual power imbalance, psychological unraveling

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Sensual tension, emotional restraint, dominant energy, physical reactions (shaky hands, clenching, breathlessness), soft obsession

Oh, she makes it hard to keep it together. Not just a little hard. I mean shaky hands, deep breath, thighs clenched like I’m trying to hold the ocean in type hard.

Diana Taurasi walks into the room and suddenly I’m not me anymore. Not the talkative, bold, always-got-something-smart-to-say version everyone else gets. No. Around her, I’m soft-spoken. Careful. Shy in a way I didn’t even know I had the capacity to be.

She’s got this presence, man. This thing. It’s not just the way she looks—though God knows that’s enough. That tall, fine, smooth-walkin’, no-fucks-given look she wears like custom armor. No, it’s deeper. It’s the energy. The way the air shifts when she steps in. The way her eyes find yours and stay there.

She doesn’t glance. She locks in. And when it’s me she’s locking onto. I forget what day it is. What planet we’re on. If my heart is still supposed to be inside my body or beating out of my damn mouth.

It’s humiliating, how fast she strips me of everything I thought I knew about myself. Usually, I talk too much. Run my mouth ‘til people laugh or blush or roll their eyes. I’ve got charm, okay? I know how to work a room.

But Diana. She is the room.

When she walks in, my voice packs up and evacuates. My usual wit starts buffering. It’s embarrassing. One time she brushed past me to grab her water bottle and I froze so hard I almost dropped mine. Literally had to talk myself into walking away like a normal person.

She doesn’t even know. She has no idea what she’s doing to me. None.

She’ll ask me simple shit—where’s the file, did you see that article, how many points did I drop in that game—and I can answer. But I never just answer. I overthink. I look everywhere but at her. I speak slower, like my mouth is trying to figure out if it’s safe.

And if she steps closer. Oh, I’m done. Done. Like today.

She was trying to find something—an email or link or video or something she’d asked for. I had it. I always have it. I’m quick like that.

But instead of just showing her like a normal person, I tried to explain it. Roundabout, convoluted, damn near cryptic—because if I leaned in, if I touched her phone, if I got too close, I’d forget how to breathe. Again.

She finally groaned, impatient. “Oh my g—Just show me.”

My heart damn near stopped. My fingers twitched. My lips parted. But nothing came out. I just stood there.

She looked at me, exasperated and gorgeous. “You good?”

“…Yeah.”

Lie number thirty-four of the week. I am not good.

I am wet for absolutely no reason. Unnecessarily. Irrationally. Just standing there, fully clothed and dying. From what? Her voice? Her vibe? Her scent?

Yes. Yes I am bitch.

I don’t know how someone makes their presence sexy. But she does. Diana stands like she owns whatever’s beneath her feet. She speaks like she already knows what you’re thinking. She listens like she’s taking notes for later—like maybe she plans to undress your thoughts before your body.

I’m not saying she’s trying to ruin me. I’m saying if she did? I wouldn’t stop her.

I know I’m lucky my skin is dark because if I was lighter, she’d see it. All of it. The heat. The red. The God-help-me-she’s-talking-to-me glow. I play it cool, sit quiet, sip my water, blink slow—but inside I’m burning up. I’m clenching air. I’m whispering prayers to a God I don’t talk to unless it’s about her.

She doesn’t know what she does to me. But she will. One day I’m gonna crack. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow.

But one day, Diana’s gonna say just show me again—and I’m gonna grab her hand, pull her somewhere private, and say:

“You asked.” And then I’ll let her see just how bad I’ve been holding it together.

It starts with eye contact. That’s it. That’s all. She looked at me. And I blinked for thirty whole seconds like my brain just hit the kill switch.

Diana fucking Taurasi. Six feet of God-did-something-dangerous, with a stare like a trigger and a mouth that moves like every word is an invitation. I was just trying to exist, just sitting there—probably on my phone, probably scrolling nothing—and then she looked at me. Not glanced. Looked. Made eye contact.

I folded internally. Like it was a damn natural disaster.

Horny. By accident. Like it wasn’t even a choice. A force of nature, plain and simple. Like catching a fever when the wind blows or crying in church for no reason. Just boom—there it was. Warm in my gut, hot in my thighs, my pulse skipping like it’s tryna warn me. I had to get up and walk. Couldn’t even fake it. Couldn’t stay seated and pretend I wasn’t suddenly soaked through my underwear from a look.

And here’s the kicker.

She saw me go.

I didn’t think she did. I was smooth, or so I thought. Kept my face still. Walked off like I needed air or a charger or whatever. Didn’t speak. Just dipped. But she noticed. And now she’s following me.

I feel her before I see her. That voice low and calm behind me. “You good?”

My hand hits the wall first. I’m in the hallway now, nowhere special. Just leaned against it like I’m catching my breath—which I am. But I don’t look at her. I can’t.

I just nod once.

“Mhm.”

She steps closer.

I swear… if she touches me, it’s over. If her hand so much as grazes my wrist, I’m liable to slide down this wall in front of her and embarrass my entire bloodline. Because the effect she has on me?

It’s not normal.

It’s chemical. Like smoke in the lungs or lightning through copper. My chest’s tight, and my thighs are tighter, and I can’t get my eyes off her mouth.

She’s talking. I don’t even know about what. But I’m watching her lips like they’re speaking directly to my clit. Every now and then I huff in response, just to let her think I’m listening—but my eyes are dazed. Half-lidded. Focused on the curve of her mouth, the flick of her tongue when she pauses.

Still, she doesn’t stop talking. She thinks I’m quiet. Thinks I’m being shy or rude or cold or tired. But I’m none of that.

I’m suffering.

Because I can feel this. Deep in my body. The ache. The slow throb of want that’s turned more into need. My heart’s not beating—it’s growling. There’s a tension just under my skin that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with wanting her teeth in me. Her tongue. Her hands. Something. Anything. My jaw’s clenched so hard, I could probably snap a pencil between my teeth.

And still… she’s talking. Still watching me. Still not touching me. I’m trying—trying—to stay upright. To be normal. To hold whatever shred of dignity I’ve got left.

But then she leans in a little.

Not even dramatically. Just slightly closer. Her hand lifts like she’s gonna gesture or fix her hair or something completely innocent—but the second her face gets near mine, I hum.

A soft sound. Barely a breath. “Mm…”

I drop my head like I’m praying. Like I’m trying to hold the devil back.

My back still against the wall, but my knees weaken. I slide down an inch. Just an inch. Just enough for her to notice. Mid-sentence, she pauses. I feel her watching.

My hands are on my thighs now, gripping hard, and my face is doing its usual thing—expression blank, eyes low, lips slightly pursed like I don’t give a fuck. But I do. I so do. I’m dying here.

I know—oh, I know—she can feel it too.

She has to. Either she feels it just as much or not at all. That’s almost worse. That means I’m suffering in silence, flushed and throbbing while she stands there, perfectly calm.

I’m melting against this wall like a bitch in heat, blinking slow, heart pounding like it’s trying to crawl out through my teeth.

If she kisses me, I’ll cum. (Yall im freaked out ion even care)

That’s the truth. She wouldn’t even have to do much. Just lean in and whisper something hot, something soft, and I’d fall to my knees, smiling through it. Shake all the way down. That’s how deep she’s got me. That’s how badly my body wants her.

She has no idea. Or maybe… maybe she does. Because when she tilts her head, lets those eyes drop to my mouth the way I’ve been staring at hers, I feel it.

She’s like a walking and talking hazard . And I’m ready to be destroyed.

Let me be real. I’m no better than a man right now.

Because she’s still talking—full sentences, gestures, probably saying something useful—but I don’t hear a damn word. Not one.

All I see is her mouth. Her lips. The way they move, stretch, curve, lick. God. The way her tongue presses into the corner when she pauses. Like that mouth wasn’t made for interviews or strategy. Like it wasn’t wasted on words.

No. That mouth. That mouth could be so much more useful.

On parts of my body that are literally screaming. Minus the ‘s.’ One scream. One sharp, high-pitched, echoing-in-my-spine wail that hasn’t left my chest since she looked at me.

I’m tryna be civil. I swear to God. Trying to be a good teammate. A good listener. A functioning human being. Hands folded. Back straight. Face blank.

Trying so hard not to look like I’m mentally straddling her. But my thighs are pressed together like they know what’s at stake and my breathing’s shallow, like I’m on the verge of doing something I can’t take back.

Because I want to ride her face. Plain and simple. No deep metaphor. No long, dramatic simile. Just raw, hot, face-riding desire that’s sat on my chest like a demon since I first caught sight of her smirk. What’s doja cat say?

Would I be embarrassed? Absolutely.

Would I finally get Diana? Also yes.

In this hallway that feels like it’s shrinking.

Like the walls are moving in. Like there’s too much air and not enough. Like my body’s overheating and there’s nowhere to put all this want.

I shift my weight against the wall like it’ll help. Like adjusting will make the tension less heavy, like pressing harder into this sheetrock will cool me off. It won’t.

It doesn’t. My thighs are burning, my jaw’s tight, and her voice keeps hitting my nerves like drumsticks.

Maybe she’s testing me. Seeing how long I can stand there, nodding every few seconds, while the fantasy plays behind my eyes on a loop. My hands in her hair. My hips rolling. My breath catching on her cheekbone.

The way she’d grab me if I tried to move too fast. The way I’d beg if she slowed down.

She’s just…talking. Still.

While I’m trapped here. Slick. Unwell. Fantasizing in high definition with my head cocked like, mhm, totally understand, when all I want to say is:

“Get on your knees or let me use your face. Either way, I’m not walking out this hallway dry.”

But I don’t say it. I bite my lip. Breathe slow. And hum again when she leans just a little closer.

The hallway feels smaller now. Like it’s closing in on me. Or maybe I’m expanding—swelling with heat and frustration and the kind of need that makes it hard to breathe through your nose.

Still standing in front of me, voice low and steady like always. I swear I’m trying to be normal. To nod when appropriate. To keep my face in that neutral, unimpressed shape I’ve mastered so well. But she’s not making it easy.

That soft curve of her upper lip, the way she licks the bottom one when she pauses. The slight tug at the corner when she smirks like she knows she’s said something slick.

The throbbing between my thighs is not figurative. It’s a full-blown, undeniable ache. I’m uncomfortable in my pants. Like, shifting-my-weight-awkwardly, don’t-look-too-close, “maybe I should go pray” kind of uncomfortable.

And still, she stands too close. And still, I try to act like a good teammate.

In my head I am riding her face.

Not slowly. Not romantically. I mean grinding down on it like I lost my mind somewhere near her collarbone. My thighs locked tight around her ears, my hand in her hair, my eyes rolled so far back I might see God—or whoever made her.

I’d probably cry later. Call myself names. Lock myself in my room and swear I’ll never be horny again.

She shifts, and I flinch. Not visibly—just a flicker of breath, a blink. But she reaches out, wraps her fingers gently around my wrist, and I almost die. Because that touch? It’s not even sexual. It’s not rough or teasing. It’s soft. Just a light hold.

Like she’s grounding me. Or guiding me. Or maybe I’m just moving on my own and she’s the gravity I’m giving into.

Either way—my body leans. I stand quickly, like I can outrun the feeling. Like if I move fast enough, I’ll be okay. But I’m not. Not even close. Because she doesn’t let go. She holds my wrist, and I move straight into her.

My forehead hits her chest. Soft. Warm. I melt. Fully.

My knees don’t buckle, but they want to. My eyes squeeze shut. My other hand curls at my side like it’s begging for permission to hold onto something—anything.

And then I whisper it.

“…Please stop touching me.”

It’s barely a breath. I don’t even say it with meaning. Not like I want her to stop.

It’s more like a cry for help. A weak protest from whatever part of me still has sense. Because I’m unraveling in real time. In her arms. In the middle of a damn hallway. With nothing between us but her shirt and the thin thread of self-control I’m holding onto by the grace of God.

I’m not a dom. I don’t have it in me. Not with her. Not with Diana, who’s steady and calm and so much older than me in a way that makes her dangerous.

She’s not new to this game. She knows.

That’s the part that scares me. She probably knows exactly what she’s doing. The subtle touches. The way she always gets close when she talks. The eye contact. The voice.

She’s built for control. She’s holding me up like she owns me.

Like she’s letting me pretend I still have a say in anything. I’m letting her. Because fuck… She’s so hot. And I am so, so gone.

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264

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neuvistar · 1 year ago

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❝ MISSING YOU. ❞ signed. jiyan . wc . 721.

— featuring ┊jiyan x fem!reader

— warnings / content warnings ┊all consensual! vaginal fingering, mild titplay, he’s so soft it hurts, use of nicknames (love, wife, etc), jiyan n his fingers.. no comment. | 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

— a/n ┊fell in love w jiyan i lowk think i have a type ✊😇 i got so many writings sitting in the booty cracks of my drafts i’m acc so serious :,) i finished most of them tho! i jus need time 2 figure out when i’ll post them! ++ this is one of the times where i DIDNT post at 1am!! (it’s 8am i’m going back 2 sleep after)

“i missed you, my love.”

jiyan’s heart swells with a fierce protectiveness as he holds you close on his lap after your shared shower with him. you sulked and huffed at him, and he knew why. he hadn’t been home for these past few weeks, busy with his usual activities as a general. he wanted to make it up to you, try and be all sweet.. yet the sight of you, so damp and vulnerable in his arms was enough to drive him absolutely insane.

“i’m sorry i wasn’t able to write back, you sent me quite a few letters.” the general’s fingers trace gentle circles against your cunt, a soothing gesture meant to bring comfort, to remind you that you are safe— providing you with as much ease as possible. “you’re safe now that i’m here.” he murmurs, his voice a warm rumble against your head. jiyan’s thumb flicks gently against your clit, the teasing touches a tender balm to your wounded spirit. “i promise i’ll try to visit you more often, no matter how busy i can get,” he promises, his voice thick with emotion. "but for now, let me take care of you. let me be your safe haven." his fingers slip inside you, a slow, sensual invasion meant to calm your nerves. your husband rubs gently, his eyes locked on your pretty face he loved so dear, gauging your reactions—searching for some sign of solace in his touch. "does that feel good?" he whispers, his fingers moving in a languid rhythm designed to soothe the storm raging within you. “jiyan.. n—need you so bad..”

“i know you do baby, i know you do.” your beloved husband’s heart skips a beat at your voice.. the voice he longed to hear, your involuntary response igniting a fire in his loins. he bit his lip, his free hand trailing up your body to cup your breast, his thumb teasing your nipple. "you’ve missed me, haven’t you?" he murmured, his voice husky and thick with desire.. slowly trailing kisses and nibbles against your neck— teeth grazing your sensitive skin. "tell me what you need, and i’ll give it to you.” he promises, his fingers never faltering in their slow, rhythmic dance.

“m—more.. i want more.” your response to his touch is both gratifying and arousing, a surge of desire flickering through his veins. he feels your cunt clenching around his fingers, your body arching into his touch as a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "then let go for me.” your body shuddered in his hold, the tension in your core building— you were close already.. his hot breath ghosting over your ear, “let me hear you, my love. let me hear how much you’ve been missing me," he commands, his voice a low, gravelly purr. the pace of his fingers quicken, the slickness coating his digits a testament to his own arousal. jiyan could feel it.. he could feel his cock straining against his pants, aching for release, but he won't give in to his own desires until he's brought his pretty wife to the brink.

the fast flicks of his fingers were driving you to the edge, “mm.. more, right?" jiyan’s other hand slid up your body, fingers teasing and tweaking your delicate nipples, adding another layer of desire. "anything for you.” he murmurs, every touch, every flick, a promise of pleasure and protection. jiyan knew what you needed in this moment, and he's more than willing to give it to you. he wants to overwhelm you with the intensity of their connection, to drown your worries in the tidal wave of your shared pleasure with him. “you’re going to come for me, right?" he purrs, his pace escalating. jiyan’s fingers curl inside you, the change in sensation designed to push you closer and closer to the edge. "say my name when you come for me." he demanded shyly, his thumb moving faster, more insistent. "i want to hear my name come out of your mouth..” the dark room is thick with the scent of sex and the sound of your whines and whimpers, with a desperate whine—your body tightened around his fingers, the sensation of his fingers sending a surge of joy through you.

damn. his fingers.. have they always felt this good?

#ᖭི༏ᖫྀ maryse’s diary ૮꒰˶˃̵ ^ ˂̵˵꒱ა #jiyan <33 #jiyan the dangerous man you are……#jiyan is literally my type idk abt u guys 😋🌹🙏#wuthering waves #wuwa smut #wuwa jiyan #wuwa x reader #wuwa x you #jiyan x reader #jiyan smut #jiyan x you #jiyan wuthering waves

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spitefulsatanfics · 27 days ago

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💥 The Boys’ Kinks & Aftercare: What Makes Them Melt 💥 (Dean, Sam & Castiel x She/Her Reader)

🖋️ Written by: Little Devil ✨ Tones: Flirty, cozy, teasing, sensual, tender afterglow vibes

🌙🌿 Whispers in the dark, warmth in the silence — this is how they love you. 🌿🌙

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

✴️ Dean Winchester ✴️

What He Likes & How to Please Him: Dean’s that unapologetic classic alpha—but beneath the rugged veneer is a man who thrives on feeling deeply wanted and respected. He craves the electric tension of power play, but it’s all wrapped in trust and silent understanding. He loves when you take control, teasing him with boldness that catches him off guard. His kink? Dominance mixed with worship—he’s utterly addicted to hearing how good he makes you feel, especially when you’re gasping his name like a prayer, raw and unfiltered.

Favourite Position: Missionary—simple, direct, and utterly intimate. His hands clutch you close, eyes locked on yours, the unspoken connection pulsing between you. It’s a quiet storm, grounding and fierce all at once. But when the night calls for something wilder, Reverse Cowgirl steals the show, giving him a front-row seat to your confident rhythm and the way you own the moment.

Aftercare: Dean’s aftercare is a cosy fortress of quiet devotion. Soft fingertips brush your hair, low murmurs weaving comfort into your skin. He’ll wrap you in his worn leather jacket, even if it means melting in summer heat, because it’s about feeling safe in his arms. A beer might be cracked open, classic rock humming low as he holds you close, heartbeat syncing to yours until the world fades. A massage? If you ask, you’re officially his favourite person—no debate.

Drabble: His fingers glide slow and deliberate down your spine, each touch a promise. His eyes, dark with need and tenderness, never leave your face. When you breathe out his name, barely more than a whisper, a fire ignites in his chest—something fierce and protective. After, he pulls you closer, rubbing gentle circles on your back as his voice softens, “You good, baby? You okay?” Your nod brings a rare, full smile, and he presses a tender kiss to your forehead. “You’re mine. Always.” The words hang in the air like a vow, and you believe every one of them.

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

✴️ Sam Winchester ✴️

What He Likes & How to Please Him: Sam’s a gentle giant whose every touch is loaded with care. His pleasure blooms slowly—he savours the build-up, every breath, every shiver, every stolen moan. His kink? Tender restraint—silk scarves that whisper against your skin, the soft command to “stay” said with a voice thick with desire. He’s also a sucker for understated dirty talk—words that hang in the air between you, meaning layered beneath every syllable.

Favourite Position: Spooning, nestled so close you feel the warmth radiating off him. His hands explore every curve with reverence, every breath shared like a secret. It’s his sanctuary, safe and unshakeable. But for those deeper, soulful connections, missionary with slow, lingering eye contact is his ultimate—body and soul laid bare in perfect vulnerability.

Aftercare: Sam’s aftercare wraps you in a cocoon of emotional warmth. Soft words drip like honey as you melt under heavy blankets, the quiet punctuated only by shared breaths and the turning of pages if he’s reading aloud. He might bring you tea, fingers trailing lazy patterns over your skin as sleep steals over you. When anxiety claws, he’s the steady anchor holding you down, reminding you that here, now, you’re safe.

Drabble: Afterward, his hands cup your face with such reverence it steals your breath. His eyes, wide and luminous with tenderness, hold you like you’re the most fragile thing in existence. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, voice low and sure, a balm for every doubt. Pulling you close, he wraps his arms like a fortress, his heartbeat steady against yours. “No rush. Just us.” In that moment, your world stills, and you drown in the safety only Sam can give.

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

✴️ Castiel ✴️

What He Likes & How to Please Him: Cas approaches love like a sacred ritual—no games, no noise, just pure presence. His kink? Worship—not only of your body but your soul, your scars, your power and fragility. He revels in the holiness of surrender, when you let him cradle you like a fragile light, when your control slips and he becomes guardian of your pleasure. Ritualistic slow touches, long, lingering kisses—they’re his prayers, his devotion made manifest.

Favorite Position: Face-to-face, hands intertwined, foreheads touching—a sanctuary where the world dissolves. Breaths mingle in perfect harmony; eyes lock in silent worship. Another favorite is when you sit on his lap, slow and deliberate, the electric stillness between you pulsing with unspoken devotion.

Aftercare: Cas’s aftercare feels like a benediction. Soft prayers whispered into your hair, hands glowing faintly with celestial grace as he soothes every ache, every lingering tension. Wrapped in his trench coat, he murmurs affirmations of love and strength, a promise bound in quiet faith. Sometimes, a lullaby drifts from his lips—a celestial song that lulls you toward peace, cradled in eternal warmth.

Drabble: His fingertip traces a gentle path over your cheek, eyes luminous pools of tenderness and awe. “You are a miracle,” he says, voice steady but brimming with reverence, “in your softness and your scars.” His hands glow with gentle warmth, seeping into your skin, unraveling every knot of pain. Held close in his arms, you close your eyes, surrendering to the quiet light. “I will stay with you,” he promises, voice low and unwavering. “Always.”

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

🌙🌿 The night folds you in, and these are the ways they show love—through touch, through presence, through the sacred quiet after the storm. 🌿🌙

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buttercupblu · 11 months ago

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Satoru's Psyche|Surfacing

"Power dynamics, they're fluid."

Session 1 of 10|Next Session

🗂️Patient Chart Update: Routine patient visit and care performed. Patient is stable, mostly corporative, and only mildly rowdy today. Vitals are clear, appetite is normal, nothing of interest to report other than slightly abnormal behavior resulting in the [REDACTED] incident, pending Nurse deliberation on how to proceed with patient disciplinary action. 📋 Length of Session (w.c): 5.2k out of "we will cross that bridge when we get to it 🤠" 💊Intake Chart (tags): this is a full-blown AU with a slowww build-up, yandere-ish behavior, pet names, angst, compulsive flirter Gojo (he literally cannot help it), mentally unstable Gojo, Nurse!Reader ✏️doctor's angel’s note: there’s something very, very special about how this story was born. extended author’s note at the end of this chapter if you’re curious|kk I'm done talking - enjoy Satoru’s Psyche. 🎼 Waiting room music: Child's Play|SZA

They all worshipped the strongest.

But no one saw the man; no one noticed the cracks until it was too late.

The first appeared after the Star Plasma Vessel mission—Gojo's near-death experience and first awakening.

Then, it was his best friend, Suguru Geto. His betrayal, death. Murder.

The blood on Gojo's hands left such a deep mark.

Devastation. Irreparable damage.

No matter what Gojo did after that, death followed him like a loyal dog.

And when the final crack happened in the Prison Realm, with no distraction from his own thoughts and burdens and painstakingly harsh reality, Satoru Gojo bent..then snapped.

He can't remember what happened after being unsealed.

All he knew was the blood that came afterward.

Apparently, he went on a rampage, but in his psyche, it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered.

And he didn't feel guilt—not in the slightest.

They must have gotten what they deserved, right?

The thoughts were deafening.

But Gojo’s natural tendency to play the hero was even louder and got the best of him. The realization of what he’d done was haunting—plaguing and persuading him like a Devil in his ear until he turned himself in to shut the voices the fuck up.

Once again, good ruled over evil and the world was safe.

In Gojo's own sick and twisted way, he had once more saved the day.

And as a thank you? He's here, in a fucking straitjacket, seals all around to make his cursed energy dormant. At least, that's what those old fools believe…

Gojo can't help but scoff, recalling all their nonsense.

“You're unstable. The mind needs to be healed.”

Blah fucking blah. What a load of bullshit.

However, society never took too kindly to a little mass murder, so fine.

Gojo will play nice... for now.

And for the most unexpected reason why.

His grin only deepens, a borderline predatory look as he hears those familiar footsteps.

Ah...how wonderful.

“There you are.”

The man waits by the door, shoulder framing your entrance and leaning on the wall. Welcoming, warm and expectantly, before the locks can disengage.

Like many times before, your eyes meet through the window pane. A dull blue under snowy white lashes, heavy and following yours, but barely piercing the plastic—small and artificial—only a thin layer of careful separation, but you both see right through it. Neutrality on your face but wavering sharpness in your eyes. And a glint in his as the familiar buzz! ushers you into his world.

“How’s my favorite nurse?” he asks like a broken record. All casual-like, as if his arms aren’t meticulously tucked into tight restraints that work hard against his muscled frame. “Missed your favorite psychopath?”

He couldn’t sound more arrogant, but still has to smirk watching you brush past him—expecting nothing less—but feels a different air.

There’s a pep in your step, carrying you into the stark white room and making it impossible to miss the subtle sway of your hips and dangling supply bag on your arm. Naturally fluid as if you’re oblivious to its sensual nature.

Gojo rarely saw you wear any emotion on your sleeve, let alone what he thought was hints of joy, but something was slipping through the cracks.

And what’s that? A slight grin on your face?

What exactly do we have here?

This attitude is foreign. Better than the blank slate or frequent exhaustion you usually walk in with, but this was a side of you that was unfamiliar.

What’s got you in such a mood, he wonders? And what else could it be, if not him?

It’s all because today is an “okay day”. And in places like your ward, “okay” is as good as gold.

Rounds have been fairly simple in the usually chaotic hospital—a small win if you put things in perspective, but it’s enough for you to feel good about it.

Hell, with the way things usually go around here, it feels like Christmas came early and you got just what you wanted.

A big, whopping present called “all of your co-workers showing up to work”. The standard for most workplaces but here, such miracles only exist in your daydreams to get through your usually fucked schedule.

But not today. Today, the angels personally visited your ward to carry your burdens and lighten your load. For the first time in months, you didn’t groan the second you saw your patient roster for the day and instead had to do a doubletake because the list was surprisingly short. Only your regulars sat on it and that could only happen if the ward was fully-staffed.

You thought it was a mistake when you checked the schedule this morning, but no, everyone’s name sat prettily on the sign-in sheet at the front desk—a sight you hadn’t seen since orientation and was confirmed with every familiar and slightly foreign face you passed in the halls.

There were no call-outs, no extra work, and the best part, no unexpected shift changes.

Overtime would not get its hands on you today and the thought alone made you feel lighter because enough time is spent in these melancholy walls as is.

With thoughts on the week’s end, you found yourself drifting through the day on autopilot. Wondering if you should make plans—doubtful you’ll see them through—and time seemed to be flying by with your thoughts. Following the rarely-seen routine you know like the back of your hand helped you blaze through the morning and grow closer to sweet rest for your already aching feet.

Miracles were coming in left and right, proof that today just might be your day. It’s still early, but no one had broken out of their room or flung any property around yet. Guards sit comfy and reclined at their posts, lounging around more than they’re being called, and you haven’t even had to run off to the lockers to change your scrubs that are usually ruined by now. Luck is keeping you high and dry—free from accidents or patient tantrums, both of which are all too common. And always seem to have your name on them.

But the cherry on top, second to none, pièce de résistance.

Is a possibility.

Just the teeniest, tiniest, sliver of a chance…to walk out of these doors early.

Be still your beating heart.

Early release?? Unheard of. You almost skipped through the halls thinking about it. Dreaming of the reclaimed time—the deliciously healthy heap of rest.

With no signs of trouble, aside from forcing yourself to chug a wildly unhealthy energy drink to fight off tendrils of sleep, you just may be in the clear.

Things seem steady in the sleepy ward today. So sure, you’re in a relatively good mood.

But is it good enough to deal with Gojo?

It puzzles you, how he always knows you’re coming before he sees you. How he sort of announces your presence before you get the chance. Like the honor belongs to him.

The psychopath.

Your head tilts at the diagnosis, hearing it come from his lips for the first time. Even if unseriously.

He’s self-aware, at least. Not that the confession makes your visits any easier.

Over time, after working so closely with a personality like Gojo’s, you’ve learned to take everything he says with a grain of salt. Especially when it comes from such shameless lips.

Answering his question with an eye-roll, you set your supplies down to pull out your clipboard and check his vitals. Something that once upon a time made your palms sweat and throat dry, but never showed on your face. You knew what the role required, what it would need for you to survive—intimidation and cowardice were not a part of it—and eventually, after you banged that into your head enough, even if you had to fake it til you made it, you became used to the routine.

As has Gojo, complying with each step on the checklist like it was second nature. Walking over to his favorite spot to be taken care of, the bed. Lifting his tongue to take his temperature. Offering his arm to check his blood pressure. Noting that his eyes aren’t bad today—not needing to wear his blindfold due to the security system. Doing it all without needing you to say a word. All within his control.

But the one thing he can’t get a grip on is how his heart begins to beat. Every time like clockwork the moment you lay a hand on his back to listen to it. Racing in his chest—thumping through your stethoscope—while he wears the calmest face.

Curiosity called you after noticing it a few times once you determined it wasn’t a condition. Guaranteed to start up with the gentlest touch that he was surely used to.

So, what exactly goes on in his mind in these moments? Despite hiding it so well?

What could possibly be making Tokyo’s most unhinged, mass-murderer, so flustered?

You never have much time to think about it because it won’t matter in the next few seconds anyway. Sitting still enough to get through vitals was as serious as Gojo gets, making the quickest part of your visits with him the easiest.

Everything that follows the second you put your kit away is pure…surprise.

“So…are you gonna undo the straps this time, sweet nurse? My arms are sore.”

He pouts. Sweetly. So devilishly charming. As he did so often with a flash of those cerulean, blue eyes that could make and break hearts.

You sigh. One could almost forget that by society’s standards, he’s a “dangerously unstable individual.”

Something you’re acutely aware of. And trained for. Which is why you don’t mind the coquettish jabs he throws your way—and why he keeps on throwing them.

You aren’t aware but these hourly visits, along with his agreement to stay put, are the only reasons why he’s still here despite being Satoru fucking Gojo and simply walking out. It’s not like anyone could stop him if they really wanted to, and he knew that.

Truth is—it pissed Gojo off, being stuck here. Cooperative. It was fucking irritating, to say the least.

He’d rather be tortured than bored and might’ve second-guessed his decision to surrender if he knew the punishment would be…this.

But lo and behold, here you are. Relief in the flesh while he bides his time. One that he wasn’t expecting.

“You sure are possessive today.” You hide a smirk, draping the stethoscope around your neck, his heartbeat returning to normal after losing your touch. “Am I really your favorite?” The leather straps hug his pale skin a bit tightly, but his mobility is good enough to ignore his request to loosen them. That would be suicide.

He tsks, eyes sparkling at your words—a warning glimmer hidden beneath the icy gaze.

Chilling. But the least bit surprising.

Gojo and cattiness go together like love and war—and he wears it with his whole chest.

Even when unprovoked, he’s known for being….testy. Trying his hand again and again until he gets some kind of reaction. Waiting to see what makes someone bite.

But there was something disingenuous about this petty quirk. The repetition and how it seemed to lack a goal. How he seemed almost…desperate for interaction—attention—any attention.

Eventually, once you sat in his face long enough to learn how to disassociate with a straight face, you figured out that he just loves to hear himself talk. Like that one kid in class who’s always inserted themselves into every conversation and made it about them.

He rarely gives you a hard time though—less than most of your other patients in fact—and usually sends more kisses than cuts. Occasionally, when you find them…okay, or tolerable enough, you indulge him and this charade between you two—like the high school crush it resembled. Strict. But harmless.

And you’re only entertaining him now because he’s one of your last patients for the day. A fact not lost on him, but disregarded nonetheless. Even if you were just playing along, he knew there had to be more depth. All the masks in the world couldn’t hide that smile on your face.

His laugh breaks the tension. “I'm a yapper, not a liar...Am I yours?” He raises a brow. “You didn’t answer me earlier.”

His low tone carries an unspoken weight. Cryptic. Eerie. Needy. Almost calling you like a possession more frequently than ever.

It isn’t lost on you that his affections have blossomed as you’ve spent more time together. Visits are supposed to be 10, 15 minutes tops—collect vitals, serve meals, give meds, and avoid accidents. But Gojo? He drinks up your time. Going on 30, sometimes 45 minutes of routine maintenance and “extra care”. This wasn’t standard practice, but they didn’t tell you that, among other things when you accepted the position.

Every time you cross Gojo’s threshold, you’re reminded that you’re not actually supposed to be here. You’re just a nurse after all, not a therapist, and lacked the credentials to even begin to handle a patient like Gojo. But in the end, qualifications don’t matter when his staff has a famous history of running away.

A fate shared by his previous nurse and therapist. Both fell victim to Gojo’s whimsical and relentless personality and suffered a mental breakdown from hell before quitting the ward. Capacity for hospitality completely shot, they nailed the coffin shut by ditching the healthcare industry altogether.

And that was after only a few hours.

In the beginning, you had absolutely no faith in yourself. Swore it was a sick joke as you couldn’t begin to fathom why they would even consider you for the job.

You??

Gojo the Psycho’s nurse? It would’ve been easier to turn in your resignation right then to avoid living in hell.

You wondered how your life would change as you got to know the world’s most hated man.

How long you would last—if he would let you.

Anxiety and nausea gnawed at the back of your throat as time grew closer to meeting him. But eventually, after running the scenario in your head a million times over and trying to come up with some sort of plan or plea for your life, the day came, and you stood before the unpredictable man who looked like he saw right through you.

Just the idea of being in Gojo’s presence is enough to let you know it’ll be unnerving.

But the moment was…odd.

Naturally, you wanted rely on book smarts and previous patient experiences to get you through what you knew would be a short and traumatic failed attempt at connection. But then you took a second to really look at Gojo, not study, but a kind of look that catches something…a conflict in his eyes—and instantly knew he was no ordinary patient.

He was something you’d never met before, and any attempts to use a cookie-cutter facade would quickly be chewed up and spat out.

So, you went with your gut—hoping to escape with some remnants of your sanity at least.

Who knew you’d end up surprising not only yourself but also the Director and all the other staff in the ward who watched with held breaths?

Gojo practically welcomed you with open arms. Flashing his pearly whites and dimples in a closed-eyed smile. You could hear a pin drop.

He didn’t bark, he didn’t bite. Only teased, feeding you sultry words with cunning lips until your face visibly flushed with blush. They didn’t warn you about charm. Debatibly the “worst” part about working with the blue-eyed lady-killer. Or that his devilishly handsome face would make you second-guess his sanity and guilt.

But you knew what this was. Or at least what it wasn’t and quickly put on blinders to every distraction he threw. Holding your breath the whole way through and surprising yourself every time you walked out his room. After your trial period had run for a few days with no mishaps—the opposite, really— you were promoted. And given a big, fat new check (certainly not for collateral).

You didn’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or concern.

Congratulations! You were now in charge of Gojo’s physical AND mental health.

Which meant longer, more thorough visits.

The idea was nerve-racking for weeks, to say the least. And because he has the nerve to be a karate-chopping ‘sorcerer’ or whatever it is that makes the man so dangerous, he needs careful safeguarding. Which means having his very own wing and accommodations in the ward. The only barriers between Gojo and doing whatever the hell he wants is one guard stationed near the entrance and some type of security system they can’t disclose to you. It’s supposed to suppress his abilities or something, you don’t quite understand itself yourself, but most importantly, it keeps him tame.

Still, choosing to grace his space almost daily always feels like tempting a snake.

But somebody has to do it.

And in a way, by his own means, offering a satisfied grin and all, Gojo had chosen you.

Even in the confines of a cell, with seemingly nothing left to live for and no room for emotions, you, this wonder, have managed to catch his eye. In a way that made him want to sink his teeth in and soak up your attention. For reasons you couldn’t be more unsure of.

“It would break my heart if it weren’t true,” he continues, sitting in the only chair in the room, “You’re my entertainment, you know? My doll to play with.”

You scoff, arms folding. The word doll echos in your ear like a chamber. That was a new one.

“You sure talk a lot of game for someone in your situation.”

“I love games.” He leans, eyes drinking in his favorite powdery blue scrubs that hug your frame in an all too professional manner. “Play with me, Nurse.”

Time belonged to Gojo, and he chooses to bide it with a little fun until release—or escape. His ever-changing mind hasn’t decided yet but it was far from a concern. Because the truth of this truce was painfully obvious. He knew he wouldn’t be here forever. And is quick to mention that he’d love to take you with him.

“If you can handle me.” He licks his lip. “Unless I’m too much for you.”

And there it is. That cool smile that sends shivers down spines. Irresistibly stirring your core every time he parts his lips.

You hated it—no one could deny his charm or his intimidating presence. Even in chains, shackled and restrained, he maintains some kind of control: crumbling walls with his charisma, waving around his amorous, overassertive reputation like a big red flag.

But you’ve already proven to not be like the rest, easily swayed or reduced to puddles. Your wall is firm. Solid. He baits you time and time again—a smile here, a sinful gaze there—only to be met with dismissive yawns. Rousing something inside of him that deemed you a challenge. Something worth exploring. You were…difficult.

You’re the one who laughed this time, shaking your head and tucking a hair behind your ear. He oozes confidence from every fiber of his being—and bores you.

“Are you going to tell me what you’d like to lunch today or just keep bothering me?”

And goddammit he has the audacity to grin. To tuck his lip under his teeth slow enough to make you catch it.

Your insolence is adorable, yet maddening; a cocktail he drinks with delight before realizing how much he loves the taste.

You were becoming really good at it, beating up his ego and turning a blind eye to his silly little flirts, but interest never faded from his gaze no matter how careless you seemed. Or were trying to.

He tsks. “C’mon, Nurse. If I can’t have fun here, where can I? Besides,” Sunlight streams in from his barred window as if on cue. “You’re the only thing here worth talking about.”

Butterflies? Knots? Maybe both fill your stomach.

Neither can be good for you in a situation like this.

The dreamy words whisper sweet nothings into your ear, and stroke your ego with a delicate thumb. Soft and gentle—and from a shell of a man.

A good turned evil.

And you don’t have to look too far to remember how he got here—to remember why the enchanting man before you is dressed in heavy white restraints and public enemy number one.

Guilt tugs at you for even joking around with him sometimes. You picture his victims. The lives forever changed. And how he didn’t seem sorry for it.

Besides, even if Gojo wasn’t a basket-case, it’s hard to look past how childish he is anyway—something you heard has always been a part of him. Something you couldn’t imagine dealing with for too long, even casually. It certainly wasn’t your taste, and under different circumstances, you’d no sooner fall for him outside of these walls than you would now.

But above all of the boundaries, restrictions, and pep-talks you give yourself, is the simple fact that you aren’t the day-one nurse he once knew. Now, you have a backbone and don’t hesitate to remind him.

“You’re such a flirt, Patient Gojo.” You make sure to catch his eye when you say it, “But compliments only get you so far.”

Patient.

It hangs in the air. Brisk and stale. A bit sour on the tip of your tongue. And acid in his ears.

With that, Gojo sits back, resting his cheek on a propped-up arm, gaze long and longing. Breathing slow as he thinks and nerves buzz between you two. Then his request comes, simple and direct.

“How about sushi? Raw and fresh.” And a psych ward delicacy.

He’s the only patient in the entire facility with such privilege—envy-worthy and used to his heart’s content. With full-scale unlimited access to all the gourmet treats and fine dining he could ever want, his meals are often better than the ones you bring to work. Gojo is above common hospital dishes, of course, and his indulgent appetite would accept nothing less.

But it wasn’t just about the food, no, negotiating that was too easy and barely worth mentioning.

This is a conveniently constant reminder that he is still capable of influencing things and making decisions with ease, from those he’s allowed to have access to him, down to his choice of meal.

It intrigues you. How he subdues himself to the masses but finds meaning in smaller wins. What he finds significant.

But none of that mattered right now, you’d finally been given an order and another win, even if it felt like pulling teeth. For now, it’s time to feed him and let him believe whatever he wants.

You pick up his tray from this morning, scanning the room to make sure no cutlery or dishes are missing. “Sushi it is,” you wink and call to be let out.

None of his staff are allowed the room key as a preventative measure to keep his chances of escaping to a minimum. As if a door would stop him but a key does exist and you’ve only seen it on the day the Director introduced you two, and it looked nothing like the keys used for other rooms.

When you come back with lunch, Gojo grows curious. Noticing how your body has relaxed over time, getting used to his presence every time you come in. Little nuisances like how you breathe a little easier in his space and sometimes smile with your eyes when he tells a stupid joke. The air is…changing. He wonders just how comfortable have you gotten?

“Finally back? I started to miss you.” It’s light but he can’t possibly resist testing the waters. “Would you like to eat with me, pet?” And it takes everything in you to suppress a visceral reaction.

He’s on a roll with the names today and you wonder what his affections might have been like in his life before. Sure, he’s a talker and a flirt, that much is obvious, but you wonder what his actual love was like? How did he show it if he ever got to? And if so, if he ever left anybody behind?

“You know the procedure, Gojo.” You wait with the tray in hand, brushing the thoughts away. Though the temptation savor what you knew would be premium cuisine begs you to do it, you know better than to start breaking boundaries now.

He deflates, brows furrowing. “Is it…really so necessary?” He knows the answer, of course.

You gesture for him to turn around but he holds your gaze, having a little stare down like he enjoys the silent confrontation. You raise an annoyed brow. “The food’s getting cold,” and tap the tray.

“It’s sushi.”

You huff.

He smirks before finally facing the wall, stilling his body in the tight jacket. When you’re sure he won't move, you set his food to the side and slowly approach to attach him to the latch on the wall.

Skilled fingers reach across his waist and you have to crouch a little to glide the heavy chain towards the loop at his hip. His skin flushes at your warmth, your proximity, as he can’t help but enjoy the intimacy of the routine power shift. Even if it was a sham, it was still one he reluctantly agreed to. To play nice. To be weak.

But this exchange, giving himself over to your authority, was oddly invigorating—like placing himself in his victim’s shoes to get a minuscule taste of his own medicine.

“Well, don’t look so happy about it,” he chuckles. Relief finds your face as you gently tug on the chain to make sure it’s secure, amusing the man towering over you.

The thoroughness is cute, all a part of a job well done and strict boundaries that drive a heavy wedge between you two. But it doesn’t bother Gojo. Because he’s certain, he knows, that your guarded walls will crumble sooner than later. All it takes is patience.

“Remember, Nurse,” he doesn’t turn around, “Power dynamics….they’re fluid.”

And you can almost hear the wink—the implied warning living on his slick tongue that pokes and prods with every interaction and sends heat to your rosy cheeks.

“You have a way with words, Gojo.” Again your eyes roll as you reach for the key to his restraints. The shackles fall to the ground, shrilling in the mostly empty room to allow him to feed himself.

A mix of groans and relief escapes his lips as he relishes the freedom from the stiff leather. He sighs, “Thank you, Nurse.” and rubs his tender wrists before abruptly filling your space. Nearly knocking you off your feet, but stopping just shy of your face. The monstrous chains strain against the wall, playing tug of war with the beast of a man and the florescent lights cast a spotlight on the sudden distance between you two.

You had never been this close.

“But don’t forget, I can turn these roles around. Anytime.”

Twinkles play in his eyes, dazzling you with a shine so bright you can see your reflection. But you also see the unhinged nature behind them just as easily as he sees the quiver of your lip feeling his breath graze the curve of your neck and raise goosebumps on your skin.

This isn’t just idle banter. It’s a stark reminder of Gojo’s capabilities that you had grown comfortable enough to forget. That you thought maybe you had become the exception to.

As he steps back and leans against the wall he could’ve torn down, there’s an unmistakable silence filling with tension. Hot and sharp like pins and needles. But instead of pushing you to run for the hills, to quit while you’re ahead and savor what’s left of the life you know, for once, your unrelenting mind dares to wonder where this twisted ballet will go.

It kills you to admit that their is something interesting about cat-and-mouse game he thinks you’re playing. Just as his affections have grown, your thoughts push you to imagine what could happen if you were actually…caught..

It’s idiotic, you know. You don’t need a sign telling you not to play with your life.

This is Satoru fucking Gojo, for Godsake. The murderer. The villain. A literal stain on the face of humanity.

Forget about what he may have been before. You never saw that Gojo, and he’ll never be seen again.

Your motto has always been that everyone is redeemable—but these types, Gojo’s type, are so beyond saving that it feels more like babysitting than redeeming a mentally unstable murderous toddler who could destroy a city in seconds.

Even for a man who speaks so carelessly, but teases a sugary-sweet tongue, it’s easy to see how and why he ended up here. Life had made him an example.

Proving that too much of a good thing will always spoil.

And as you watch him turn a wink and begin to casually snack on his meal, completely unconcerned with you or your reaction or response, it’s plain to see that his “affections” spare no one. Not even you.

You clear your throat and steady a breath. With the lightest voice you can muster, you remind him, “Empty threats are the best you can do, patient.” And turn to leave.

“I’ll be back later for your bath. Or maybe send someone else. Since you’re so excitable today.”

He pauses. “Oh?”

Is that a challenge?

His laugh echoes around the room like something out of a cartoon, fading away just as quickly as it came. He leans back, hair blending into the wall as he licks bits of rice off his thumbs—gaze sharp despite the jest.

Because the stakes are clear and you’re both aware.

But in case you don’t know the consequences he asks, “Do I seem threatened to you?”

You shift your weight. If Gojo is anything, he’s always playful. The man does not have a serious bone in his body, which makes him damn near intolerable sometimes, but it’s something you’re used to it. But not this tone. This tone has rocks in it, hard and heavy as he calls your bluff.

“Because my threats—,” he continues eating, “—are never empty.” He pops the last roll into his mouth. “You sure you wanna do this?”

There’s no denying the chill running up your spine at those words—playing out like casual banter over lunch instead of the battle royale it was.

As if the question were rhetorical, he adds, “Okay but like,” and coughs up another laugh, as if finding the entire idea ridiculous. “Who’d be dumb enough to replace you?”

To feed or not to feed? Now was a chance to bail out.

“Don’t worry about that.” And you don’t as you call to the guard, hoping to catch your break on time. “Just behave yourself.” Gojo would keep you here playing 20 questions all day if he could.

A bemused smile settles on his face and he shakes his head at your antics.

You were becoming increasingly enjoyable to interact with. And steadily digging yourself into a hole. You’ve been sitting front-row to the darkness within him enough times to be sure it is, in fact, very real, but still it’s impossible to ignore that there’s something driving you to pick up the shovel.

It isn’t just his pretty face and boyish charm. No.

It’s like he wants to get under your skin. In the best way.

Yeahhhh, this death wish is turning you every way but loose.

It’s silly, so stupid to even think about. Giving Gojo a smidge of an inch just because you feel there may be something more. Like there’s depth to his pretty words and clashing ways. Who's to say any of it is “real” anyway? He is insane after all.

Your mind and the door shut behind you, and you turn to peer at him through the small window. A mischievous yet bored look rests on his face.

You think you actually will send someone else. Just to show him what happens when he crosses the line. To reinforce business and boundaries.

You could also use a break yourself—Gojo is starting to feel… claustrophobic these days and if you aren’t careful who knows what could happen.

“Choose wisely,” came his voice from within the room,. “Every move you make counts. And cheating has consequences.” Footsteps approach the door. “You may think tagging out is all it takes to avoid our game, but let me tell you something…” He stops. “...you underestimate how quickly I can escape confinement before I’m noticed.”

And suddenly, this isn’t just a game anymore. And Gojo isn’t just some harmless tease.

Your throat is too tight to swallow and you fidget with your lanyard as if responding to his words.

Of course, he’s capable of breaking free. That’s not what’s worrying. But if it was because of you poking the bear, you trying to get on even ground with him and have the upper hand, would you be responsible if he did?

“No matter where they send you or who they send instead—” And Gojo’s comment makes it crystal clear.

“—I promise you, you’ll end up right back here.”

extended angel's note: first and foremost, just to give credit where credit is due, this is a chatbot i turned into a short story🧍🏾‍♀️. it was actually my first time dicking around with janitor a.i. back in like...april? and i came across this gojo bot with a suuuuper interesting prompt. [all of the prompt idea and calibration credit goes to the original creator.] i didn’t decide to actually get serious and start creating a story until around the end of part 2 - i realized i was having too much fun and was in too deep 🙇🏾‍♀️. SO after my decision to indulge madness, i didn't want to run up 10000 messages on janitor a.i. and decided to create the rest of the story on my own from there. everything after the prompt are my own words and i've had to weave every last bit of part 1 and 2 into a coherent story but everything afterwards is all me.

you can find the chatbot and play around with it yourself here but i strongly recomment doing so after finishing this short - think of it as a choose your own adventure afterwards in case you want my head on a stick after the ending 🤠.

tags list p.1: @reddiamondjazz @blkkizzat @kiwismoother @rune1920 @suguwife

@xerroe @enthyn @gloomuri671 @startatdawn @heijihatsutori

@inluvkai @ixqiix @strawnanamilk @rosso-seta @05-simply-06-simping

@sims-4lifers @bratidol @hyunsuks-beanie @luna-v-roiya @neteyamsluvr111

@supsiii @natadecoco30 @chiyokoemilia @ririoutspoken @kyoxko

@strawberrymilkshakes-posts @nen-nyy @cinnamorochiroll @kazeniya @maybe7tommorow

#bluuharem #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk imagines #jjk smut #jjk x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #gojou satoru x reader #gojo smut #jjk gojo #satoru x reader #satoru x you #satoru x y/n #Satoru Psyche

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