#full stack for creators

[dunbackmeadow]

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Dunback Meadow is your full-stack creator toolbox. 🌿

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[thisisgraeme]

The AI-Powered Creative Workflow: How the Creative TechnoStack is Shaping the Future of Creativity

Discover how an AI-Powered Creative Workflow is transforming the way creators work! Learn how the Creative TechnoStack blends AI and traditional tools to shape the future of creativity. Ready to unlock your full potential? Dive in now!

Unlocking the AI-Powered Creative Workflow: The Rise of the Creative Technomancer Creativity is entering a bold new era—one where human ingenuity is supercharged by artificial intelligence, and the boundaries between artistic disciplines blur into seamless, multimedia experiences. Just as software developers pioneered the concept of full-stack to describe those who could manage both front-end…

[vibelladonna]

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.

[dollhog]

My feeder has been stuffing me with fast food for two days straight, every meal is an onslaught of greasy options. So many Dairy Queen milkshakes, he’s counted 14 shakes so far, I’ve lost count completely. We’ve made a few orders of 4 shakes at a time, so it makes sense. I’ve been in a daze, feeling my belly starting to make it difficult to stand again like when I’m at my most extreme points in my gain. My lower back takes the weight of the belly hang with, the full stomach and tits stacked on top. Making my back ache after a few minutes standing in the kitchen. Plus standing pulls the skin taut on my stomach, making movement just generally uncomfortable and unnecessary

Full 8 minute video on Patreon~

https://www.patreon.com/DOLLHOG

[notjustjavierpena]

Inés just broke something in the house, what does hubby and wife say????

Mess (Drabble)

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Such a fun writing project, tysm. I missed them terribly! 

Summary: Inés breaks a lamp. Javier has the scare of his life.

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: Family dynamics, Javier POV, fluff, hurt/comfort, i write to fix my own trauma 

Word count: 1.8k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52937182/chapters/137384134

Mess

The stack of folded clothes is growing taller whilst the laundry basket on the double bed is emptying out. Javier is enjoying a weekend with time to get housework done before midterms begin at the local college. He is nervous about guiding his students through the exams for the first time since starting his job as a teacher, feeling like he has only just begun his life as an educator and the responsibilities are overwhelming. You’ve sweetly encouraged him each time he’s voiced his concerns to you, told him that his class is lucky to have him whenever he has mumbled about nerves over dishes or during goodnight kisses. 

With your support, he has found that prepping for the exams is best done accompanied by mindless work and he has gone through several tasks on the list saved in his head; groceries have been bought, gutters have been cleaned, and two full baskets of children’s clothes have been washed and dried. He doesn’t want to admit to you that he thinks about the theories behind criminal behavior while folding Sebastian’s tiny socks. 

You are outside with the boys, enjoying the last months of your pregnancy with a book in your lap, laying in the hammock under the large trees. He checks on the three of you often, spotting that you have put down the book as you sway gently to substitute it with watching your children with a hand on your rounded belly. Lucas smiles brightly as he has Sebastian waddling hurriedly after him on the newly mowed grass. The soles of their feet will be green when they come inside later, marking the floorboards that he has just vacuumed but he doesn’t mind. It is evidence of fun, of love and joy. Messes equals life.

Inés is the only one who refuses to go outside. Her giggles and chatter floated up the stairs not too long again, blending with her little feet making the floorboards creak as she paced around with her hobby horse. It offers a rare kind of comfort to be able to hear her having fun while he packs clothes away into dressers and drawers. 

Until he doesn’t hear it anymore. Instead, it is a sudden crash that comes from downstairs and makes Javier tense up. He freezes to listen for her voice calling for him but only silence follows the loud noise. 

“Inés?” He calls. No answer. The t-shirt that he is in the middle of folding falls to the bed and his heartbeat quickens. 

He walks to the open door of the bedroom, grabs the doorframe, and leans out of it to listen again. He calls her name a second time, this time a little louder and more insistently, but there’s still no response. 

In his chest, his heart has started to pound enough for him to be able to hear it in his ears. Many thoughts go through his head at the sound of silence from the living room, firstly images of broken furniture but then finally the picture of his daughter who has fallen and hit her head. Why hadn’t he paid closer attention to her? Why hadn’t he checked on her sooner? 

He is out the door before he even realizes that he is moving, barrelling down the stairs and taking it two steps at a time. Fuck, maybe he could have prevented disaster if he had gone downstairs the second she had gone quiet. He raises his voice without thinking, knuckles whitening as he grips the banister, “Inés? Answer me now!”

When he stumbles into the living room, he first notices the broken lamp, a shattered bulb lying beside the ceramic base on the wooden floor but with no blood on the shards. Next to it, Inés’ hobby horse lies discarded like it has been thrown in a panicked hurry. He furrows his brow, scanning the room to find her. 

When he spots her through the doorway to the dining room, crouched down under the table, relief floods him. She isn’t hurt, no sign of even a scratch on her, but then he sees the way she has her knees pulled up to her chest and her eyes are fixated on the broken lamp. 

She’s scared not of the crash, he realizes, but of him; his shouting, his loud footsteps, the way he had said her name. She looks like she is bracing herself for trouble - more specifically the anger and disappointment in his voice - and she’s covering her ears with little, trembling hands in a way that is unsuccessful in keeping out noise. The sight of her terrified face makes Javier remember the feeling of being unfairly scolded for accidents horribly well, and his heart sinks.

He walks calmly into the dining room, not even thinking about the broken lamp anymore, and kneels on the floor. With his hands on his thighs, he takes a deep breath to steady himself, “Inés, I’m not mad at you. I just want to know if you’re okay, baby.”

His daughter lifts her gaze to meet his eyes. His chest constricts at the sight of the tears in Inés’ wide eyes, threatening to fall down her cheeks. She looks like a deer caught in the headlights of a car, still immovable. 

“Are you hurt?” He asks softly. 

“I didn’t mean to break it,” she answer in a whisper and shakes her head. She’s always so bold, hilarious, and mischievous but she’s so clearly hiding from him, trying to decide if it’s safe to come out or not. 

“I know you didn’t, mija (my daughter),” he reassures and moves slowly until he holds both hands out to her, palms open towards the ceiling, “It’s just a lamp, okay? Come here, I’m not mad. Just let me take a look at you.”

Javier can only imagine how fast her heart is beating in her chest right now, knowing that he hurried down here with his own racing heartbeat. She must be dizzy from the anxiety just as he is disoriented by his adrenaline. He gestures gently at her, beckoning her to him. 

“I didn’t mean to,” she repeats quietly.

“Lo sé (I know),” he offers her a little reassuring smile, shifting to sit cross-legged on the floor instead, “Can you come out, please?”

With hesitant steps, she moves from under the table and walks straight to him. He expects that he has to ask for a hug but just as she comes to a halt in front of him, she collapses into his arms like they are a harbor in a storm. He squeezes her tightly. 

“I thought you were mad at me, Papá,” she hiccups as her tears wet his shirt. He rests his chin on top of her head, his broad palm stroking her small back. 

“Not at all, baby. You just scared me is all. You didn’t answer and I thought you were hurt,” he explains while pressing gentle kisses to her hair. He inhales slightly, sighing at the way his baby girl smells of love to him. 

“I’m sorry,” she says and practically crawls into his lap. 

“It’s okay,” he replies, cradling her in the same manner as he has done since the day she was placed in his arms for the first time, “It’s just a lamp. Mamá and I can just get a new one but we can’t get a new you.”

“Will you tell her?” She pulls back to look up at him with huge, wet eyes. 

He nods, using his thumb to swipe at the tears on her face, “Yes, I will have to tell her but Mommy doesn’t care about the lamp either. I promise. We care about you. I’ll also tell her that you gave Daddy the scare of his life and made him run down the stairs like a crazy person.”

A tiny, hesitant giggle escapes her and he feels another wave of relief wash over him. She finally smiles and her voice is more steady now, “Silly.”

“Very silly,” he agrees with a smile and runs a palm over her head, threading his fingers through her hair, “But you know what’s not silly though?”

“What?”

“If anything like this ever happens again - if you break something or you get scared - I want you to call for me instead of hiding underneath the furniture. Just say ‘Papá, I need you’ and I’ll be there, okay?” 

She only hesitates for a moment but then nods thoughtfully, “Okay.”

“And hey, te quiero tanto (I love you so much).”

“I love you too, Daddy,” she says, no hesitation this time. 

The two of them stand up from the floor to look at the broken lamp on the floor. Inés makes an uncomfortable face, reaching for Javier’s hand. He holds her hand in his palm, “How about we tell Mom together?” 

“Now?” She widens her eyes but she isn’t crying anymore. 

“Yes now. Watch your feet, alright?” He waits for her to initiate the first step towards the door to the garden. Her eyes are firmly on the floor as they pass the broken ceramic shards. 

Outside, Javier's face is warm in the afternoon sun. There’s a buzz in the air from the cicadas’ singing and the laughter from his two sons. He and Inés find you in the hammock, the book still discarded as you watch your children with fondness but this time, you’ve switched to sitting. 

However, as they approach, your eyebrows knit together when you spot Inés' apprehensive look. You carefully plant your feet on the ground, asking, “Is everything okay?”

Javier glances at his daughter, “Inés has something she wants to tell you.”

She fidgets for a few seconds, looking down at her feet, but when she feels Javier’s hand on her shoulder, she looks up with determination. She confesses quietly but her voice doesn’t waver, “I broke the lamp. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Inés, baby,” your expression softens instantly. With a gentle touch, you brush a strand of hair out of your daughter’s face, “Are you okay? You’re not hurt?”

She shakes her head, “I’m okay. Daddy said you wouldn’t get mad but it is messy all over the floor.” 

“You’re okay and that’s all that matters,” your gaze flickers to Javier, a look warmer than the sun in your eyes. He feels his heart nearly leap out of his chest but he catches himself in interrupting the moment between you. You continue, “Daddy and I don’t mind messes, do we? As long as everyone is okay.”

“Yes,” Inés nods in grateful understanding. 

“How about you sit here with Mommy while I clean the floor?” Javier finally suggests, “Then the living room will be as good as new and you can play in there again?”

“Yes, please,” she says politely, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats. 

“Okay,” you chime in and kiss him softly on the mouth before he heads into the house once more. 

Yes, messes mean life, and Javier is lucky enough to live in a world where life also means love.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[artificelux]

I've said before that I always want Cyber Monday to be cooler than it is, to be neon-soaked and punky...

In short, Cyberpunk Monday.

Well, what's more punk than forgoing the big corpo sites and buying straight from creators and small businesses? Supporting art and artists directly, adding value to the ecosystem of unconventional stories that don't follow the traditional sales model.

So, I'm trying something different this year... I'm going to run a 20% off sale through noon on Dec. 3. It's an automatic discount site-wide on colorofamirror.net (including all versions of the novel, plus the vinyl soundtrack). The only exclusion is the already-better discount of 25% off for the Full Moon Bundle, which doesn't stack with this sale.

This will likely be the only sale I run during the year, so if you've been interested in picking up a copy of the book or you have someone in mind for a holiday gift, this is your chance.

A noir science fiction story, COLOR OF A MIRROR is written, designed, published, and sold by me (and can be found in a couple independent bookstores in the New England area). It has received "Editor's Pick" from BookLife Reviews and a "Get It" verdict from Kirkus Reviews. I don't sell on Amazon/Kindle or B&N, and the e-book is DRM-free so you can read on whatever device you choose, making this a perfect Cyberpunk Monday offering.

--

This weekend, whether you're shopping local bookstores on Small Business Saturday or finally picking up that bespoke item from a favorite creator, let's support those that are making the art we love... not the big businesses trying to turn us into dollar signs.

[haleyusesherwords]

Grian, the Taskmaster, the Creator of the series, walking into a room full of giggling fools crammed into a dirt mound stacked on top of each other by pretending trap doors are bunk beds:………..did I…….make them do this? I think…….i would have remembered asking them to do this…….

[thatdeadaquarius]

GREETINGS! How are you doing? I've been practically gobbling up your posts (there very tasty)

Ok so hear me out- I've seen a couple posts like this but imagine-

The almighty all powerful wise creator isss

✨️A literal child✨️

Thanks for hearing me out! For you ->->❤️

Baby you taking on the world aw

DAMN SORRY FOR TAKING FOREVER!! i started fics before i answered my askbox :/

Aw i fucking love child reader stuff,

Lots of isekai animes/manhwa/manga do it and i eat that shit up everytime-

I also deeply appreciate when its not done creepily, like being turned 8 again, and having crushes on others who are... yknow, actually 8 yrs old or sm fucked up shit, like even if its 16 yr olds that doesnt make it any better, bc the protag will actually be like,, actually 20?!?!💀 the straights r wild man, i feel like it happens either way too, like its usually a male MC but thats just bc theyre more common tbh, like regardless of gender of protag 🥲

☆

Sun: Child God Reader (you/they/them)

Orbit: Short Headcanons

Stars: Mondstadt ppl bc i don't show them i love them enough

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: none known & Trigger Warnings: none known.

Please comment any I missed. /gen

Klee has recruited converted you to throwing bombs with her.

You are the only leash on that child too and the only thing standing between Jean and full head of gray hair. 💀

Kaeya doesn’t know whether he’s endlessly worried or endlessly amused that the most powerful god is currently a child

if Jean isnt freaking out over ur whereabouts, Diluc is instead, and worst case scenario, Noelle/Lisa/Albedo is in charge of you

and YES someone has to look out for you, bc ur ass will just start making a hot springs spot like ur in ur teapot or smth in dragonspine (Albedo was fascinated it stayed warm despite the weather so he let you make it/enjoy it before asking u to restore natural order lol)

(Albedo has definitely asked to study you and, unfortunately for Jean, asked u to demonstrate several powers u have)

You do work as a lucky charm for Bennett tho so he does babysit u sometimes

it mostly consists of Fischl, Benny, and Razor “adventuring” by trying to do smth like who can jump on the Anemo slimes and ride them around longest

(the answer is you btw, u managed to get a small fleet of them to bus you around, the teens were simultaneously terrified running around below u to catch you and also amazed)

Noelle is so happy making toddler you all the pancakes you can eat, Sucrose had to stop her from going overboard and not just listening completely to kids when it comes to food

She is now very concerned with making you a balanced diet, tho she will still make u an ungodly tall stack of pancakes every now and then <3

They kind of all equally provide for you, obv ur their god, and ur a literal cutie patootie child, they cant just leave you

(also u might like move a mountain or change the weather or smth if they don't watch you so most are a little paranoid of that too)

Lisa gets u all kinds of cute outfits, still stuff you'd like, but definitely snuck in some sumeru looking clothing lol

Fischl lends you all kinds of books to read, Bennett shows u all the cool views in the city and outside of it (when Jean lets him get away with taking u that far), and Razor…

Razor brings you to Andrius and the wolf pack for a wolf pack party and gives u all kinds of shiny trinkets he’d collected for you

Diluc/Jean/Noelle/Eula nearly had a heart attack when they found out

Amber lets you have all the piggyback rides you want lol

she even managed with her own crafting powers (and your probably editing the game code or smth) she somehow makes a reinforced glider with a small harness on the back for you to glide with her

(Venti has definitely helped for some fun flights by boosting the winds for you two)

SPEAKING OF BARBATOS

ur absolutely spoiled rotten by him (and Dvalin, and Andrius, and the wind sprites)

if this god had money he’d spend it on wine and you lol

takes u flying all the time, any time, would drop everything to go to Mondstadt wilds and use his archon form wings to take you wherever you wanna go

tries to bring u to Angel’s Share but Diluc nearly hits him on the head with a wine bottle and brings you back home after kicking Venti out and giving you grape juice (yes you get all you want, within a healthy amount)

anyway the most important part abt you being a god and child is that you can now fulfill your childhood dreams of riding a dragon whenever you want

(one way to quickly get Mondstadt citizens to trust Dvalin again was just constantly seeing him flying overhead, occasionally seeing a small child on his back also helped lol)

(neither you nor Venti tell Jean you ride Dvalin and keep it an active secret from her.)

☆

srry i took so long! i hope u liked my hot mess of writing (i think its even sloppier than usual bc of all the fic writing full sentences lately)

and if not, I'm sorrryyy 😭😭

I'm focusing on getting thru a haul of asks before getting around to posting that Eldritch AU Part 2 if anyone reads this :)

hope u guys are have a great weekend, thanks for all the birthday wishes!! :D

Safe Travels Anon,

💀♒

If you wanna join a taglist, DM me what for! "Pspspsss, please tag me for [All SAGAU posts, Only SAGAU Language AUs, diff fandom, etc.]!"

(If you ever wanna drop, just DM me! "No more taglists/[specifically this AU/fandom] please!")

♡the beloveds♡

@karmawonders / @0rah-s / @randomnatics / @glxssynarvi / @nexylaza / @genshin-impacts-me / @wholesomey-artist / @thedevioussmirk / @the-dumber-scaramouche / @chocogi / @fallen-starr / @areaderofbooks / @devilangel657 / @esthelily / @justinsomniachild / @nanithefuck / @questionotmystopit

@kiyomi-uchiha777

[cherrynflowergarden]

· · ─ ·˚⊱𓇼˖°🪷° ִֶָ☾.⊰˚· ─ · ·

𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 || 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

· · ─ ·˚⊱𓇼˖°🪷° ִֶָ☾.⊰˚· ─ · ·

𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫. "cherry" by lana del rey & "primadonna" by marina and the diamonds. spoiled rotten by her parents. comes from a very rich background. owns a successful bikini line called 'bombshell '. flirty. feisty. powerful. has an aura that attracts anyone and everyone. proud cherry vanilla coca cola lover first, human second. loves her lipglosses more than her life. always has juicy & plump lips. body mists. body glitters. spends the day in the beach or pool & night in business parties or galas. loves to photograph her life. stickers, stickers & stickers everywhere. florals are her aesthetic. she's known for that. will always have a flower either in her head or as a piece on her clothes or shoes or as a claw clip. long dresses. camisoles. hair & nails are always done. statement sandals & heels. layered necklaces, stacked bracelets & chunky earrings and rings. physical touch. gift giving. acts of services. written by lana del rey & marina and the diamonds.

· · ─ ·˚⊱𓇼˖°🪷° ִֶָ☾.⊰˚· ─ · ·

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ she smiled and looked at me

i was surprised to see

that a woman like that was really into me .♬·ᝰ.ᐟ

· · ─ ·˚⊱𓇼˖°🪷° ִֶָ☾.⊰˚· ─ · ·

𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬. "uptown funk" by mark robson ft bruno mars & "blinding lights" by the weekend. baggy pants. sweatshirts. plaid shirts & jackets. often layers his shirts. pepsi addict. you may see him in jail but not without pepsi. converse. bucket hats. wired earphones. has a five dollar note in his phone cover. pockets are always full of the most random items. he claims it's for "emergencies". skateboards. decorates all the skateboards he has. yapper. knows the most random, out of the pocket fun facts. doesn't think before speaking. plays video games. despite having the good looks he has never held hands with a girl. is super possessive of the people or things that he likes. always up for karaoke. will trip over the air. due to which he often has a bruised knee or a twisted ankle. loyal. silly. has zero concept of personal space. a literal goof ball. biggest simp. making playlists is his love language. acts of services. quality time. written by mac miller & tyler the creator.

· · ─ ·˚⊱𓇼˖°🪷° ִֶָ☾.⊰˚· ─ · ·

y'all @55sturn has loser!chris au on her page which is so good and you should totally go read it🫵‼️

· · ─ ·˚⊱𓇼˖°🪷° ִֶָ☾.⊰˚· ─ · ·

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Can I get ROR guys (Thor, Korjuro, Qin and Hades) with Bayonetta Reader?

I went with her Bayonetta 2 design. It's one of my favorite designs of her.

Bayonetta is portrayed as a beautiful woman with a slender yet curvy bewitching figure. She has black hair, gray eyes and a beauty mark on her chin. Bayonetta's hair has been cut short and her glasses have a ribbon design near the lenses. She retains her skin-tight bodysuit, though the design has been radically altered. The suit is more gray in color with jagged patterns resembling thorns and a frilly collar. She has sharp shoulder pads and a cloak of hair over her chest, as well as triangular earrings. The palms of her gloves are blue with frills at the wrists. The back of her suit features a diamond shaped opening, and several diamond cutouts on her legs.

Powers

Bayonetta has an unprecedented skill for the Bullet Arts and shows near mastery of a new weapon whenever she picks it up. Her combat skills are brutal yet graceful. She also appears to be extremely perceptive, able to evade attacks from all directions through anticipating her enemy's movements in battle. She has immense superhuman strength and endurance, being able to toss a satellite back at Balder several times and headbutt an entire skyscraper thrown at her by the former, as well as using only her lower body to redirect an even larger satellite at Aesir. She is also able to effortlessly lift the likes of a Belief and block and hold a thrusting attack from a Valiance; she also was able to physically toss back Fortitudo with the aid of her mother, Rosa. She possesses superhuman speed and agility, allowing her to perform numerous acrobatic feats with ease, and able to fight on par with Jeanne, whom was stated to be either just as or stronger than her. She also can lift a light post and physically overpower the likes of Alraune.

Her physical skills, combined with her magic, makes her capable of defeating countless hordes of forces from Paradiso and Inferno. She also manages to hold her own against opponents that overpower her such as the likes of Loptr (and him as the ascended and reborn Aesir)and Jubileus, The Creator, which, in order to be truly defeated, required the aid of another. She also possesses longevity and doesn't seem to age.

As an Umbra Witch, Bayonetta possess varying powerful magics that assist her in her daily life and allows her to fight against even the most powerful of beings. As an Umbra Witch, she is easily capable of seeing the other realm known as Purgatorio and entering it at will. Skilled in the Dark Arts, Bayonetta also possesses some magical abilities unrelated to the dark arts, such as freezing the moisture in the air to form a spear in an attempt to impale her opponent.

Dark Arts & Magic Techniques

• Umbran Climax & Serious Mode: Techniques that allow Bayonetta to enter into an ascended state of power. Both techniques allow her to continually manifest the limbs of various infernal demons and increase her damage output. In Umbran Climax, she also gains the capability to perform "Infernal Weaves" and even recover her health while in that state.

• Witch Time: Bayonetta is capable of using Witch Time to speed herself up, causing enemies to appear to move in slow-motion. This Dark Art is capable of allowing her of countering the likes of Light Speed used by a sage. Furthermore, she is able to "stack" over Witch Time to counter another witch and even a angel.

• Beast Within: A magic technique that allows transformation into various animals.

• Panther Within

• Crow Within

• Bat Within

• Snake Within

• Witch Walk: Bayonetta can use the Witch Walk technique, allowing her the power to defy gravity and walk on any vertical or horizontal surface during a full moon or on select devices created by Lord Aesir.

• Wicked Weaves: Using her hair as a conduit, Bayonetta can use Wicked Weaves to summon forth various demons and also summon forth their limbs to attack.

• Infernal Weaves: An even more powerful variant used during Umbran Climax. At the end of her combos using Wicked Weaves, Bayonetta summons a full demon for a large area-of-effect finisher.

• Infernal Kiss: This allows her to indirectly to control various machines at will, such as in Bayonetta 2, when she blew a kiss at the Cessna-like small plane that contains Enzo while on her way to Fimbulventr before jumping off. Despite Enzo's fumbling, the small plane actually made it all the way to the city she lived in and was only destroyed by angels. This is in contrast to direct control, with which she can shove her middle finger through any machine key holes to take control, such as Enzo's car or even the witches' power walkers.

• Alchemy: Bayonetta is able to gather crystallized magical compounds such as Mandragora Roots, Baked Geckos and Unicorn Horns to concoct lollipops. These can bolster her power, render her impervious to all damage, or simply restore her health or magic.

• Healing Factor: When being stabbed by Luka while being in Strider form in the third game that would normally be fatal for a normal human, it is shown that Bayonetta can heal from the wound in a few seconds.

Torture Attacks

Bayonetta is capable of using special attacks which can deal massive damage to most forces of Paradiso and Inferno. By chanting in Enochian, she can summon various objects to potentially finish her enemies.

Personality

Bayonetta described as nonchalant and is perceived as somewhat callous towards others, such as Enzo, whom she often disregards. Throughout the first game, she's shown to enjoy fighting angels in a playful yet brutal manner, maintaining her cool and even tends to banter with the more serious angels such as the Auditio, as well as Infernal Demons.

Bayonetta tends to enjoy using her sexuality to taunt and tease her enemies and friends alike. She tends to operate alone and prefers to not get encumbered by other people, at least initially. She can also be construed as somewhat impatient, especially towards the more "talkative type" of enemies she encounters such as that of Temperantia and Father Balder.

Despite coming off as callous, Bayonetta has also expressed genuine care and sympathy. It's witnessed that she's done her best to explain to Luka in the past that his father's death wasn't her fault and has been seen taking his venting of anger and frustration to heart. Despite claiming to dislike children, she becomes fiercely protective of her younger self, as well as Loki in Bayonetta 2.After rekindling her friendship with Jeanne, she was willing to risk going down to Inferno to rescue her, placing the blame on herself for not foreseeing Gomorrah's attack in time. She also dislikes being seen emotionally vulnerable; in one instance, Loki wouldn't wake up after she got him out of a lake, making her panic before he woke up laughing, and she kicked him for making her worry. Another is when she saved Jeanne from Alraune; her soul wouldn't wake up, making Bayonetta fear that she had lost her friend, but Jeanne wakes up and she immediately regains her composure.

She is also not above expressing outright anger and hatred, having done so for both her father and Alraune. Despite her close connection to her father, upon re-learning her memories concerning his supposed actions of starting the Witch Hunts, she denounced him. In Bloody Fate, she goes even further and blames him for the death of her mother. However, her hatred for her father dissipated upon learning the truth of her mother's death at Loptr's hands and willingly called him "Daddy" one last time before he sacrificed himself to contain Loptr.

I’ve only recently started to get into Bayonetta, mainly because of the 3rd game because I heard an awesome soundtrack, Fertile Rondo, and she is quite a wild character, isn’t she? I will try my best with this!

-It was strange, having a witch in Valhalla, especially one so powerful such as you, but you had proved that you were a strong warrior, one worthy of being in Valhalla.

-You were very extravagant, from your outfits and shoes to your fighting style, using magic and using your hair to fight, sometimes winding up completely nude when you would put your back into your attacks, using contracts with demons, and using guns.

-Many couldn’t help but like you, mainly because you were true to yourself, not willing to compromise for anyone, living your second life in Valhalla the way you wanted to, and you had no filter, you always called things how you saw them, and always called other out on their BS if you knew they were full of it.

-That’s what led you to (Love), who was impressed with not only your power and strength as a warrior, but your personality and humor as well- you were the perfect package!

-Despite being so sexy and alluring towards others, you were incredibly loyal, you never let your gaze wander, and you would always shut anyone who was flirting with you down instantly, not willing to let anyone have the chance to steal you away from (Love).

-(Love) adored you but sometimes you did fluster him, when you would hug him from behind, your arms draped over and around his neck, your chest pressing into the back of his head as you cooed so sweetly in his ear, he always wound up quite frazzled and riled up- but you couldn’t help it- he was so cute when he got like this!

-You liked watching him fight, you would always look like a predatory studying your prey, your gaze unwavering which did unnerve him at first, but now he’s grown used to it and your antics, but every now and then you will make him flustered, watching him so intently, that he would feel almost self-conscious, like you were undressing him with your eyes, which technically you were- he was just too cute for his own good!

-You rarely fought anymore, as you felt like there weren’t many in Valhalla that could give you the challenge you desired- the humans were just that- humans, no matter the strength and skills they had, and many of the gods seemed almost intimidated to fight you, thanks to your contracted demons.

-Every now and then, some of the gods would come to you, seeking the same that you sought out, a challenge, and would ask you for a fight.

-There were some you didn’t give the time of day to, mainly because they would try to make demands of you, like ‘if I win let’s go out on a date’ like you weren’t in a serious relationship!

-On the other hand, there were some, like Hercules, that you knew only wanted a serious fight with you, demanding nothing from you, as he respected the relationship you had with (Love).

-Your fights always drew a large crowd, mainly because you sometimes would lose your clothes when you fought, something (Love) was rather annoyed with and you didn’t like seeing your lover so upset, so you started fighting only in secluded areas so only Hercules or other worthy warriors would see something like that if they forced your hand.

-You loved to tease (Love) sometimes, when he would get jealous if someone else was able to see you, you would always cover him with so many kisses that his brain would melt, leaving him grinning with a goofy smile on his lips while you were licking yours as if you had the most delicious meal.

-(Love) knew despite the sexy and confident personality you liked to display, you were a very kind person, knowing that you sensitive with some things, like with Jeanne whom you were very close with, despite your rebuttals that you weren’t.

-He sees that you are close to the ones you truly care about, even if you don’t always show it and even if you try to deny it, it’s the part of you that not many get to see, but you trust (Love) to not saying anything about your vulnerability when you allow yourself to be weak around him, like you were a normal person.

-You enjoyed being in Valhalla, being with (Love), and you were never bored, that’s for sure!

[eviemonroeer]

The Monroe Effect: Chapter 4

Set during Season 5, Episode 5 of ER. Yes I did skip Episode 4 on purpose; that will happen with a couple episodes. Spoilers if you haven't seen the show. I really like this episode, so I hope you do too.

Warnings: alcohol use, mentions of drug use and vomit, language

WC: 3.k

ER story belongs to original creators, just adding on my own original charter.

Taglist: @pleasecallmeunhinged, @rainmg, @arigoldsblog, @queenslandlover-93, and @hagarsays

Main Story: prev | next

Snapshots: prev | next

Today had been long and with it being Halloween, that meant it felt longer than usual. I was more than ready to get home. I grabbed my stuff from the lounge and clocked out, walking by admit on the way out to grab a handful of candy before I went to catch the train. 

              “Hey Evie, do you mind sitting here until Randi gets here?” Jerry asked. “I’ve got to get home to help my mom. Candy emergency.” 

              I sighed, really regretting clocking out now. “Sure Jerry.” I sat down at admit, praying nothing crazy would happen in the next thirty minutes. But knowing Randi, it might be forty-five. A few minutes into my desk duty, the phone rang. 

“ER.” I stated, impatient to get out of here and get on with my night; leave the ER before it got to weird. 

              “Evie?” 

              I raised an eyebrow and shifted my purse and jacket. “Carter? I thought you went back to the dorms?” 

              “I did. But I forgot some stuff I need to go over for my presentation tomorrow in my locker. Would you mind bringing it to me?” 

              “Sure. What am I looking for?” 

              “It’s a manila folder full of patient notes. I thought I grabbed them all, but I only have three.”

              “One manila folder coming right up.” 

              “Thank you so much. Do you mind meeting me at my dorm?” 

              “Can do. See you soon.” 

              A few minutes of digging through Carter’s locker after Randi finally arrived, and I found the folder he needed. A train ride later and I was walking through the Northwestern campus. The night was quiet for the most part, just the occasional student running by wearing a costume, probably on the way to some party. It was cool; it reminded me of where I was not that long ago. 

              I could tell I was at the dorms based on the blaring music, coming from inside; Lucy had mentioned earlier they were having a party. I rounded the corner and was glad to see I was arriving just as Carter was. He was walking back with a student, most likely from the library, based on the contents in his hands. He tilted his head up at me, acknowledging my arrival as the student next to him badgered on. 

“Looks like the party’s up and running.” I said with a laugh as we reached the bottom of the stairs. We all looked up just in time to see a burning chair come careening over the balcony and rolling down the steps. Carter stepped in front of me as the thing came to a stop in front of us. “What the hell?” I asked, looking at him. He shook he head and started for the building, a pissed off look on his face. 

              Once we were inside, he walked straight for the fire extinguisher, handing me his stack of books as he removed it from its holder and kept going, this time up to the second floor. The music was even louder up here, obviously the main hub of the party. Students were everywhere in an assortment of costumes. Everything from a bride to the least creative: scrubs. They were dancing, making out, and even smoking from a bong. Carter walked through them all, determined and angry. That’s when I recognized Lucy in a skating waitress outfit. 

              “Dr. Carter!” She exclaimed, obviously drunk. “Party picked up. The booze is right there.” She pointed over to a table and I was half tempted to grab a drink. Carter just stared at her for a moment, before venturing outside to the balcony, giving a group of guys the extinguisher he had gotten. “Hey! Evie! What are you doing here?” 

              “I was bringing Carter some work stuff.” 

              “Ah, to bad. I thought you were here to take the stick out of his ass.” 

              A laugh burst out of me, but I tried to play it off as a scoff. I eyed the aforementioned man as he returned from outside and made his way over to the sound system. He reminded me of a disappointed dad. He turned off the music to the outrage of the students. “Okay, kids, that’s it. Party’s over.” He declared, standing on a nearby chair. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” 

              “What’s up?” Lucy asked. “Were we too loud?” 

              “No, the furniture was too on fire.” He scoffed as he stepped down and put a hand on my lower back, leading me towards the exit. Before we could get too far though, I shot a hand out by the table and retrieved a bottle of booze. 

              “Oh really? I’m sorry.” 

              “I’ll be in my room, studying.” 

              “Happy Halloween.” Lucy called out as he led me around the corner and back out into the hall. 

              “What the hell were they thinking?” He muttered, continuing to lead me. 

              “Oh, come on Carter, they’re students. Med students at that. They just wanted to have a little fun.” 

              “A little fun?” He scoffed, retrieving his keys from his pocket, and unlocking his door. “You call that a little fun?” He gestured for me to go inside, which I did, setting his books on the desk by the door. 

“Wow, Dr. Carter is such a party pooper.”  I let out a laugh and sat down on Carter’s bed, crossing my legs. 

              “These kids are crazy.” 

              “And you were them, what, just a couple years ago?” 

              “I didn’t light chairs on fire and throw them off the balcony.” 

              “You got me there.” I went to untwist the top of the bottle off, thankfully finding the seal unbroken. I brought the bottle up to my lips and took a drink. Regretting swallowing, I cringed at the taste. “God that’s disgusting.” I offered the bottle up to Carter. 

              “You just said it was bad.” He laughed. 

              “It’s cheap liquor for college students, of course it’s bad.” Carter rolled his eyes and took the bottle from me, taking a quick swig. He coughed at the taste before handing it back to me. “Did you get your research done for your presentation?” I asked him, taking another drink. 

              “Yeah. Thanks for bringing this by the way.” He said, holding up the folder.

              “No problem. Not like I had any plans tonight. Besides, I haven’t been in a boy’s dorm room in years. I was curious. Glad to see things haven’t changed much.” I took another swig, trying not to breathe and force it down. 

              “How many boy’s dorm rooms have you been in?” 

              “Enough.”

              Carter laughed, shaking his head as he came to sit down next to me. “I just learn new things about you everyday Evie Monroe.” 

              “Yeah, and what’s that? 

              “That you were a tease in college.” 

              I scoffed, pushing him over as he laughed. “I was not a tease. Let’s just say I had a healthy extracurricular life.” 

              “Extracurricular, huh?” Carter asked, moving in closely next to me. “What kind of extracurriculars?” 

              “Oh, you know...... Football. Basketball. And there was that one time with soccer.” 

              “Guess you broke a lot of hearts.” He said, his voice becoming low as he stared at me. I felt a shiver go up my spine and it wasn’t from the booze. 

              “I guess you could say that.” 

              “Any med students?” His head dropped down as he slowly came closer. 

              “Maybe. Maybe not.” 

              “What about doctors?” His hand came up to my face, his thumb gently caressing my cheek.

              “Oh, but doctors are troublemakers.” 

              “Are we?”

              I nodded my head and bit my lip. Carter’s gaze darkened and he licked his lips, leaning in more. He was so close I could feel his breath, my heart pounding inside my chest. I went to grab his face, wanting him to just kiss me already, completely forgetting I still had a hold on the neck of the bottle. 

Well, not anymore.

              “Shit!” I exclaimed and jumped up, the alcohol spilling on both of us as the moment broke. “I’m sorry. Did I get your bed wet?”  

              “No, it’s okay. I think our clothes got the brunt of it.” He said, standing. “I’ll get you something to wear.” He tossed a towel at me, before going over to his dresser. I dried everything off the best I could. “Here.” Carter held out a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. 

              “Thanks.” I said, trying to smile, even though I could still feel the heat throughout my body. We just stood there, staring at each other. I looked down, the wetness from the liquor still soaking through. “You mind turning around?” 

              “Oh yeah, sorry.” Carter swallowed and nodded, his face growing red, before turning and facing the wall. “Do you mind to?” He asked. 

“Sure.” I sighed and sat the new clothes on the bed, as I turned towards the wall. I looped my fingers into my jeans before pulling them down. The alcohol had soaked through to the skin, so everything was unwearable. I used the towel to wipe myself off the best I could, before slipping the sweats onto my naked skin. Next came the shirt. If I was no longer wearing underwear, I might as well not wear a bra. The oversized shirt felt soft on my skin. It was a well-loved Northwestern shirt, grey with faded purple letters. 

              “Everything okay?” He asked. I smiled and wrapped my clothes together. 

              “Yeah. I’m decent. You?” 

“Yeah.” We both turned around and Carter’s hands went into his sweat’s pockets as he looked me up and down.

“I look ridiculous, don’t I?” 

              “No!” He said quickly. He cleared his throat. “It suits you.” 

              I smiled at him, my cheeks getting warm again. I walked over to his desk, setting my clothes in the chair and picking up the folder. “So, do you want some practice with your presentation?” 

              “Sure.” He said, taking his hands out of his pocket and crossing his arms. I opened the folder and walked back over to the bed, sitting down, and propping myself up on the headboard, looking through the papers. Carter was hesitant for a moment, before walking over to the other side and joining me on the small bed. It was quiet for a moment, us looking at each other, before I finally cleared my throat.

              “Where do we begin?” 

      

         A loud knock started to pull me from sleep. 

              I don’t remember when I laid down, but it felt nice. A pair of arms was wrapped around me, holding me close in a comfortable embrace. My leg wrapped tighter around the other person, and I ground my hips into them, earning a groan. They were semi-hard against my thigh. 

              The loud knock kept happening. And this time, I could make out a voice. 

              “Dr. Carter! Wake up, Dr. Carter!” 

              “Go away.” He groaned, pulling me in tighter as I nuzzled into his chest, his beard scratching against my forehead. 

              “Dr. Carter! I need your help! Please, wake up!”

              Carter groaned and finally unwrapped himself from me, getting out of bed and stomping to the door. In my haze, I sat up as the door flew open. “What?!” He exclaimed. Lucy opened her mouth to say something when she spotted me on the bed. I could see it took her brain a moment to register before she turned back to Carter. 

              “Willie’s passed out on the couch in the lounge and won’t wake up.” 

              That woke both of us up immediately. I got out of bed fast, following Carter and Lucy back to the lounge. By the time we got there, a small crowd had gathered. “Okay, everybody, back off.” Carter instructed. “Give him some air.” He went over to the couch and kneeled down next to the younger guy. “Anybody call 911?”

              “I did, Dr. Carter.” Another student said. 

              “Come on, Willie, wake up.” He said, holding the boy’s head as he shook him. I pushed through the other kids and came around the other side of the couch. I put my fingers on his neck. 

              “I got a weak carotid pulse.” I informed him. 

              “Yeah, but he’ s not breathing.” Carter pinched his nose and opened his mouth before beginning CPR. A few puffs in and there was a retching sound. The others groaned as Carter pulled off, grabbing a nearby bottle of alcohol to wash out his mouth as I turned the kid on his side. 

              “Can I do anything?” Lucy asked. “What can I do?” 

              “He vomited. That’s-that’s, that’s good right?” Another student asked. 

              “No that’s bad.” I answered as the sound of sirens started to be heard. I kept the kid turned as he continue to retch. “If he vomits and it gets down in his lungs, he could die of aspiration pneumonia.” Lucy reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet as Carter started breaths again. 

              “Alright, his parents live in Downer’s Grove. Here.” she said, giving the card out. “Call them, give them a call.”    

              “We’re up here, second floor!” I heard someone shout out on the balcony. I noticed something poking out of the kid’s pocket and pulled it out. I groaned. 

              “It’s X. Liquid ecstasy.” 

              “What is that?” Lucy asked. 

              “It’s like a narcotic.” Carter told her. “Did anyone else take it?” 

              “I don’t know. I didn’t even know Willie took it.” 

              “Branch took some earlier.” Another student replied. 

              “I can’t leave Willie.” Carter exclaimed in between breaths. 

              “I’ll go.” Lucy offered and skated away. 

              Seconds later, the paramedics showed up and Carter filled them in on the situation. Willie ended up needing to be intubated and if I had to bet, this Branch kid was going to need it also. Carter grabbed another intubation kit from their pack and headed off to find the other boy, with me right on his tail. We found Lucy in the hall. 

              “Where is he?” Carter asked. 

              “Ah, his roommate said he went to take a shower. How’s Willie?” 

              “Paramedics intubated him.” I explained as Carter led us towards the men’s shower room. 

              “Liquid ecstasy?” Lucy questioned. “These guys are med students. You’d think they’d know better.” 

              “Yeah, you would.” Carter huffed before pushing open the door. “Branch? Branch?” The water was running as we rounded the sink barrier, finding the kid passed out on the tile, halfway out of the shower. Carter groaned and stepped over him, turning off the shower head. He stepped back out and we both kneeled down on the ground, pulling the kids out as we worked wordlessly in tandem, just like we did in the ER. I felt his neck. 

              “No pulse. Starting compressions.”

              “Dammit!” Carter yelled and reached for the intubation kit. 

              “Lucy, go find the paramedics.” I instructed as he stuck the tube down the kids throat and pumped an epi through the tube. Lucy took off out of the bathroom and we took turns, Carter breathing into the tube before I resumed chest compressions, switching off as we waited for help to arrive.

      

        The doors to the ER burst open as Carter and I led the two gurneys inside. “Branch Crockett and Willie Goldman, ages 22 and 23.” Carter began explaining to the staff. “Mixed overdose of alcohol and GHB. Willie is intubated from a respiratory arrest. Branch came back with epi after a full arrest.” 

              “What? A little late-night club-hopping?” Connie asked, taking over bagging the patient for me as I moved around to Carter’s side of the gurney. 

              “No.” I sighed. “Med school Halloween party.” 

              “Alright, everybody.” Carter groaned as we grabbed ahold of the blanket. “On my count. One, two, three.” We lifted, getting him placed on the hospital gurney so the paramedics could move out of the way. “CBC, ABG, lytes, blood alcohol, tox screen, and a 12-lead. Evie, call respiratory for a vent.” I nodded and walked over to the phone. 

              “Somebody should call his parents.” Connie said. 

              “Lucy can do that.” 

              “I wanted to help.” The med student stated, already putting on gloves. 

              “You’re drunk. You don’t belong here. Now, get out.” 

              Although Carter’s words were harsh, he was also kind of right. I sighed and turned back to the phone, dialing the extension for respiratory. Thankfully in the end, the boys were stabilized and moved up to beds in the ICU. I walked over to the admit desk and slouched into the chair, putting my head in my hands. 

              “What’s with the get up?” I looked up at Randi, who had a smirk on her face as she chewed her gum. I looked down and sighed. “Which man does that belong to?” 

              “Evie?” 

              Just great. Randi turned as Carter walked up to us. He had changed into a green scrub top after his shirt was soaked from the shower. His hair was even still a little wet. Randi looked both of us up and down, before raising an eyebrow to me and walking away. 

              “I’m so sorry this happened.” He said, putting his hands in his pockets. 

              “It’s alright. What’s Halloween without a little crazy, huh?” 

              “Let me get a cab and we can head back to the dorm. You have to get your stuff, right?”

              I nodded and Carter headed over to the phone. The cab arrived not to long after and the ride to the dorm was quiet. As we rounded the corner to the building, we stopped, spotting Lucy sitting on the front steps. “Hey, Dr Carter. Evie.” 

              “Hi Lucy.” I said. Carter put a hand on the small of my back before putting a key in my back pocket. 

              “I’ll be right there.” He whispered. I nodded and walked up the stairs, passing Lucy and giving her a pitying look. 

I went inside and up to Carter’s floor, dragging my feet. I opened up his door and the exhaustion washed over me. The bed looked to inviting. By the time I heard the door open again, I was already laying down, eyes closed. I heard a soft chuckle and the click of the lock, followed by the lamp turning off. I felt a dip in the bed before Carter wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me close. I snuggled into the pillow and sighed, the adrenaline of the evening slipping away as we both passed out. 

[rahuratna]

Nanami Kento: Relationship Headcanons (now a fic), Part 3

Contents: pre-relationship headcanons, slow burn, pining, humor

For a few days after that, things continue as normal. Nanami meets you at work on some days, on others he's exceptionally busy with missions and paperwork. The dynamic from that day has receded, but not vanished. It feels a little like reaching a wonderful part of a book and shelving it temporarily, because you cannot bear for it to end. When you return to it, the pages will fall open naturally, close to the place where you left off.

You've stopped pretending, at this point, that your meetings with him were chance ones. You know full well when he is likely to take his breaks and that they always coincide with when you take a later shift. It is one of the many small things that seem to be spiralling out of your ability to maintain control over in recent days.

Even with all of this, the actual progression of your ... interaction (you don't feel brave enough to call it anything else) is a very slight one. You chide yourself for behaving like an immature love-struck idiot. You've always prided yourself on your ability to remain calm and objective about things, which is why this change is so ... terrifying. How can a man so composed himself be the harbinger and creator of such feelings in another person? It defies logic.

Then, one day, he sends you a message. It comes while you're at work, busy handling requisitions for new materials for sorcerers. You've been expecting an email from a contact in the supply and distribution department, and so casually slide your finger over the message before freezing. His name. Exactly as you'd saved it on your contact list.

Nanami Kento.

The message is simple:

"Hello. Please send a clean-up crew. I've attached the location."

A map co-ordinate has been attached, along with a picture. Puzzled, you open up the photo. It shows a warehouse, stacked with boxes and crates. Something had obviously occurred in that warehouse. The crates are shattered, as if a huge force had been applied to them, and dark stains are splattered all over the floors and ceiling. If Nanami had asked for a clean-up crew ...

As if in a daze, you call the relevant department and send the request through. You'd dealt with the aftermath of many exorcisms for other sorcerers, but Nanami never usually left such a mess. His efficiency also ensured that he would normally put the request through himself. That left you slightly worried. If the warehouse looked like that, what about him?

Tentatively, you pick up your phone and type a message.

"Request for clean-up team sent. Are you all right? Any injuries?"

The reply comes shortly after.

"Thank you. I'm fine. No serious injuries."

If the circumstances had been different, you might have found it amusing how robotically dry his messages were. The word 'serious', however, is circling in your mind like a vulture. What if he's downplaying his injuries? You'd never dealt with him directly before, so you wouldn't know for sure. Fingers hovering above the keys, thinking of a subtle way to find out, you give a small start as a message comes through, as if Nanami has been reading your mind.

It's another picture. This one is of his hand, large, wiry fingers wrapped around a Styrofoam coffee cup, reassuringly free of blood. You can see part of his suit jacket, draped over his arm.

"I'm not hurt. But I am thirsty."

Good Lord.

In the quiet of your office, you place your forehead in your palm and laugh silently.

__________________________________________________

Nanami had never been one for making idle conversation. His rigid countenance and stern demeanour often made him intimidating and unapproachable, except to those who knew him well. He had always struck you as someone who was supremely and calmly confident in every action he took. Whenever he spoke to you about missions in the break room, there had never been awkward silences or times when he'd seemed at a loss for words. Whatever he's said carried weight and added meaning to the conversation.

Which was why these new developments were such a puzzle to you. Over the past few weeks, there had been incidents where you couldn't make head or tail of his behaviour. It had started with the warehouse clean-up. The next time, it was the mysterious case of the missing homework.

Everyone who worked closely with the sorcerers knew, at this point, that Nanami has somewhat taken Itadori Yuuji under his wing. Unlike Gojo, who was loud, effusive and energetic when he interacted with the students, Nanami gave the impression of tolerating Yuuji's antics. Anyone who knew Nanami a little better could tell that he had a great deal of fondness for the boy.

So, when Nanami came into your office with Yuuji in tow and stopped at your desk, you couldn't help looking curiously between them. Yuuji greeted you with friendly grin and then looked at Nanami expectantly. The latter cleared his throat.

"Good day. I apologize for disturbing you, but I was wondering if you could help us?"

"Of course. What do you need?"

"Itadori has informed me that he's lost his assignment for class this afternoon."

Yuuji shamefacedly produced a battered USB drive and held it out to you.

"Ah, so sorry! But Nanamin told me that since we're passing by here, you'd help me print out another copy?"

"Oh, that's no problem at all."

You smile at Yuuji, who claps his hands together in sincere thanks. You're still wondering why they hadn't made use of the many printers in the student lab on the way here, but soon forget about that when you see the assignment open up in your word processor.

The spelling and grammar ... leave a lot to be desired, to put it kindly. You understand that English is Yuuji's second language, but this assignment wouldn't pass the minimum standards at Jujutsu Tech, where communication with foreign sorcerers was a necessity. You glance up at Nanami, who is eyeing you inscrutably through his tinted glasses. Your gaze tracks across to Yuuji.

"Hmm ... is it fine if I make a few changes? I know that the work should reflect your own ability, but if I explain the errors to you, then it would be the same as you learning and correcting those errors, yes?"

Yuuji's face lights up in a way that leaves you taken aback.

"Oh, yeah! That would be a huge help. Thanks!"

He hops up onto your table, which is thankfully free of the usual clutter, and swings his legs with disarming cheeriness. You take some time to explain his errors, his pink hair fluffing up under the air conditioning in the office as he nods his head earnestly. Within twenty minutes, you've finally made the assignment look far more presentable and Yuuji seems to understand everything you've explained. Nanami watches in silence.

Holding the newly printed copy like a precious treasure, Yuuji waves to you as they exit the office. You laugh and wave back. Nanami pauses in the doorway and looks back at you. He seems about to say something, then changes his mind, bows in thanks and follows Yuuji. You raise an eyebrow.

Curiouser and curiouser.

__________________________________________________

A few days later, you have some time off. You've stepped out of the shower, the scent of your herb-filled window boxes pleasantly filtering into the apartment with the afternoon breeze. You make yourself some tea and check your phone, coming to an abrupt halt when you see a message from Nanami waiting. You feel a rising frustration with yourself. As much as you can acknowledge the hold this man has over you, you wish your reactions to him were less embarrassing.

You close your eyes briefly, allowing the bittersweet pang of desire to well in your chest when you remember how tall and reassuringly solid he had looked, standing next to Yuuji in your office. Gojo couldn't have chosen a better or more trusted chaperone for his student. Having held off for long enough, you open the message.

It's another picture, this time of Yuuji proudly holding up his assignment, a seventy-two percent grade written in the upper corner in red ink. A significant improvement on what he could have scored. A soft smile appearing on your face, you scroll further down to see what Nanami had written.

"Apologies for not thanking you properly that day. I've seen you do crosswords, so I knew that your skill with words might help Itadori."

Ha. Sneaky. So that's why he'd brought Yuuji to you. Your smile grows and then turns perplexed. You've read the tail end of Nanami's message.

"Itadori's assignment was on the common honeybee. If you'd allow me, I'd like to use that information to thank you."

What on earth did that mean?

_______________________________________________________

The next day, you go in to work and find something on your table. A small paper bag of freshly baked honey cakes, the kind you like to buy once in a while to have with tea in your office. You very rarely get the fresh ones, though, as these get sold out very early. There's no note, but you know who they're from.

For some reason, the thought of Nanami going to the bakery so early in the morning and standing patiently in the long queue to buy these for you creates a burning feeling in your chest and a rush of blood in your ears. You look around the office hurriedly, mortified that you've once again shown your reaction so clearly. Nobody is there to see it, thankfully.

Sitting down heavily, drawing the package to you, you stroke a finger down the brown paper, struggling to contain the flood of emotion the small gesture has unlocked.

And then, you remember something. Other things begin to fall into place.

You've never mentioned to him that you liked these cakes. You've never even eaten them in front of him before. Yet, somehow, he knew. Just like how he knew that you're good with words, but more importantly, that you had a soft spot for the students and always assisted them where you could. Just like how he knew that you've been curious about the exact nature of the missions he handles and their aftermath. Just like he knew how worried you were that he could have been injured at the warehouse.

You wonder if a honeybee's sting has ever felt as dangerously sweet as this.

@tsukimefuku @g-kleran @actuallysaiyan @kentocalls

[angophorasims]

✨[MOD]✨ TATTOO STAMP SET - OLD ENGLISH ALPHABET - UPPER & LOWER CASE + NUMBERS!

Here is the next tattoo brush set I promised! You can find my previous set [here]

FULL OLD ENGLISH STYLE ALPHABET & NUMBER STAMPS

Note: This is a MOD that adds MORE stamps to the tattoo system in the Business and Hobbies EP. With this set (any my other sets) of separate stamps you can make more customized and personalized tattoos as well as add on to the premade tattoos by EA & custom content creators.

peep the knuckle tattoos, i've wanted to personalize my own for soooo long.

Here is the info you need to know:

-This in the full alphabet in upper & lower case, there is a separate file for the numbers incase you do not want one or the other, but you CAN have them both at the same time.

-They do not work with skin masks, only with skin overlays as skin masks go on top of the tattoo layers.

-They are stamps, so you can place them anywhere on the body, in any size, and any rotation, making your custom tattoos more personal and unique.

-You can combine them with custom tattoos from other creators. They honestly would work great to create fillers, or to add more personal details.

-You CAN change the color.

They can be used as erasers, creating really cool blank space tattoos on blacked out parts.

They do not override any of the current stamps, they are simply added to the stack of current stamps.

Instructions: Download the package file(s) and just drop it into your Mods folder.

❤️I plan to make many more sets, in many more styles with different patterns, symbols, and themes!❤️

✨[DOWNLOAD]✨

And PLEASE, TAG ME ON TUMBLR IF YOU USE THESE! I REALLY WANT TO SEE WHAT YOU MAKE!😊😊😊 [angophorasims.tumblr.com]

credits for tutorials: DISL & Sims 4 Studio forums

[feetpiclovers]

Tired of chasing passive income that never pays off? In 2025, creators are stacking multiple income streams using tools that actually work. From FeetFinder and Substack newsletters to Etsy digital products, affiliate blogs, and smart AI tools for creators — this video breaks down how to build a sustainable income strategy that doesn't rely on going viral. Learn how to boost your content monetization, leverage TikTok marketing, and simplify content automation using a proven creator tech stack. Whether you’re exploring affiliate marketing, creating digital content, or just want a real FeetFinder review, this is your full guide to making money online smarter in 2025.

[thedragonagebigbang]

SAVE THE DATE! One month 'til reveals!

💫 turn notifications ON for @thedragonagebigbang

💫 check back in every day beginning Nov 4

💫 share the works for other fans

💫 give our teams some cheers for their hard work!

Work Reveals begin NOVEMBER 4!

The Dragon Age Big Bang work reveals begin NOVEMBER 4. Our writers and artists have been working hard since July to produce amazing longfics and art based on your favorite series! Please remember to give them some love and share their excitement when reveals begin!

While many of us will also be playing the new game, we encourage everyone to tune in for the STACKED lineup of fics and illustrations we have for you! Whatever character, pairing, or franchise installment is your favorite, you are guaranteed to find something you LOVE.

🫰 all works will have tags and no sp**lers will be shared. It's safe to celebrate with us!

We still have several weeks of creator interviews to post between now and November 3, right up to the day works reveal! Stay tuned!

How to turn notifications on:

On Desktop: Navigate to thedragonagebigbang.tumblr.com and look at the top right. Follow us, and click "get notifications."

On Dashboard: Click on our blog on your dashboard. On the right, follow us, locate the three dot "hamburger menu" drop down, and click "get notifications."

On Mobile: Go to @thedragonagebigbang. In the top right, follow us, and click on the "person" icon, then click "get notifications."

Thank you for following our progress so far - the payoff is about to come!

Full Event Documents: Rules | Code of Conduct | Event Guidebook Contact The Mods: ask | discord | email: thedragonagebigbang@gmail.com

[felassan]

Dragon Age: The Veilguard Steam "About This Game" section -

"Enter the world of Thedas, a vibrant land of rugged wilderness, treacherous labyrinths, and glittering cities – steeped in conflict and secret magics. Now, a pair of corrupt ancient gods have broken free from centuries of darkness and are hellbent on destroying the world. Thedas needs someone they can count on. Rise as Rook, Dragon Age’s newest hero. Be who you want to be and play how you want to play as you fight to stop the gods from blighting the world. But you can’t do this alone – the odds are stacked against you. Lead a team of seven companions, each with their own rich story to discover and shape, and together you will become The Veilguard. Rally the Veilguard and defy the gods in Dragon Age™: The Veilguard, an immersive single-player RPG where you become the leader others believe in."

"UNITE A BATTERED WORLD Enter Thedas, a vibrant world of rugged wilderness, treacherous labyrinths, and glittering cities. The world is teetering on a knife’s edge while corrupt gods unleash havoc across the continent. Nations war, and factions splinter. Who will you trust? From the Arlathan Forest to the back alleys of Minrathous, this is a broken world. Your actions will affect the fate of Thedas forever. - Dramatic Single-Player Campaign — When corrupt Elven Gods threaten Thedas, lead the charge to save it. Rook isn’t afraid of a fight, no matter the odds. No matter the cost. - Vibrant & Diverse Environments — Enter a vivid fantasy world, and experience imaginative new locations as well as some you’ve heard of but never seen. - Larger-than-life Foes — Battle darkspawn, demons from beyond the Veil, dragons that rule the skies, and unique enemies as you advance your quest and fight for Thedas’s future."

"RALLY THE VEILGUARD Rally a team of 7 companions, each with rich lives and deep backstories. These are characters to befriend and even fall in love with. Among them, an assassin, a necromancer, a detective, each and all bringing their own expertise and unique abilities to the fight. You are never alone — decide who to take into battle, and together face down demons, dragons, and corrupt gods. - Recruit Distinct Companions — Your team is full of individuals with grim and wondrous histories, their own personal struggles and motivations, and rare skills that’ll help you survive. You’ll fight alongside Harding: The Scout, Neve: The Detective, Emmrich: The Necromancer, Taash: The Dragon Hunter, Davrin: The Warden, Bellara: The Veil Jumper, and Lucanis: The Mage Killer. - Rich Companion Stories — Deepen relationships with each companion and learn more about them on your adventures in Thedas. Your choices in these stories will impact how they develop, and completing them might unlock powerful abilities. Create memories with your team that will deepen your experiences in Thedas and give you more to fight for."

"BECOME THE LEADER OTHERS BELIEVE IN Select from different races and combat classes, customize your appearance, choose your character’s backstory, and begin your journey as Rook, Dragon Age’s newest hero. The choice is yours. On your adventures, you’ll gain new abilities and discover unique, powerful artifacts to enhance your own combat style. Brace yourself: there are tough decisions to be made, allies to inspire, and a fight that needs every sword, staff, and bow you can muster. - Be Who You Want To Be — Craft your personalized Rook with a robust character creator. Choose from a diverse set of appearance options for Human, Qunari, Dwarf, and Elf lineages. - Choose Your Way To Play — Select from 3 classes (Warrior, Mage, and Rogue), each with 2 distinct weapon types and unique abilities you can select between mid-combat. Experience new strategic depth as you combine fast-paced attacks, parries, and dodges with the companion ability wheel to exploit enemy weaknesses and seize victory with devastating combat combos. Customize a combat style that works for you. - Deep RPG Progression — Level up your Rook and companions with their own skill trees. Choose perks and combat abilities as you climb towards more powerful specializations. WARNING: See important flashing images and other health and safety information at www.ea.com/legal." [link]

[source: Steam]