#Persian treats | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vibelladonna · 16 days ago

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❛ 𝓌𝑜𝑜𝒻 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝑔𝓃!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Lately, things have been feeling off. You’ve been getting way more attention than usual, and not from anyone you’d expect. Someone’s been sneaking around your place, and you’re done just sitting back.

Here’s the twist, though—what if this person actually wants to be your dog? Yeah, you read that right. With a few clues, a little digging, and hanging out, you’ll know.

And you might just be hearing a “woof” real soon.

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

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: This one's for @1heartsubm1ssivemen. Sorry for the delay, dearest, but I wanted to make sure I wrote the best smut possible for you. Honestly, when I read that request you sent me in the middle of lecture, it totally made my mood—it was so out of pocket, and I absolutely loved it.

I’ve woven a bit of my own lifestyle into this, shaping it into how I personally see myself treating Sol.

Trust me—you’re gonna love every second of it.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: Sol x afab!reader, sub-Sol, dom!reader, gn!reader, smut, bdsm, possessive Sol, teasing, manipulation, power dynamics, pet play, praise kink, control, dominance, vulnerability, kink, intimacy, emotional intensity, slow burn, forced proximity, teasing, obsessive behavior, body worship, raw tension.

Look, living alone in an off-campus apartment?

Absolute dream.

No roommates leaving passive-aggressive notes about dishes, no weird smells wafting in from a shared fridge, no one side-eyeing you when you stumble in at 3 AM with a suspiciously large tote bag full of things you probably didn’t need but absolutely had to buy.

Just you and your perfectly curated chaos.

And your place? It’s whimsical as hell.

The walls are covered in mismatched tapestries and posters—half of them vintage, half of them weirdly cryptic, like something out of an indie horror film. Fairy lights snake around the ceiling, tangled in ways you weren’t there last night, casting a soft, golden glow over everything.

There’s a collection of odd little trinkets scattered across the shelves—porcelain dolls with unsettlingly glassy eyes, tiny jars filled with things that look like cursed relics but are probably just cool rocks, and a slightly suspicious music box that sometimes plays a note or two on its own.

The floor? Funky rugs galore. Every single one is different—one looks like an old Persian carpet stolen from a museum, another swirly like a fever dream from the ‘90s, and somehow, they all just work. The furniture is a mix of antique finds and comfortable, overstuffed pieces that you’ve practically melted into over time.

Your couch? More of a nest at this point, covered in plush blankets, embroidered pillows, and at least three half-read books that you keep meaning to finish.

The kitchen? Tiny, but absolutely drowning in charm. Mismatched mugs line the shelves, each one with its own little backstory—some stolen from diners, some gifted, some picked up because they spoke to you in some inexplicable way.

There’s a jar of honey on the counter, a half-melted candle that smells like cinnamon and something vaguely magical, and a fridge covered in postcards, weird magnets, and cryptic notes to yourself that even you don’t fully understand.

And the best part?

The sheer vibe of the place. It’s cozy, it’s eerie, it’s you.

A space that feels like it exists just slightly out of sync with reality, like if you turned a corner too fast, you might step into another world entirely. You love it here. You adore it here. It’s your little haven of weirdness, your own personal fairytale that doesn’t always make sense but always feels like home.

Except… there’s one tiny problem.

You, uh… kinda have a stalker.

Not in the full-blown, ‘call the cops and get a restraining order immediately way—at least, not yet’. But in the ‘this is getting really weird, and I might have to start locking my doors properly’ way.

It started off small. Little things. Things that made you question your own memory more than anything. A book on your shelf slightly out of place, turned the wrong way when you swore you hadn’t touched it.

Your favorite mug—you know you left it in the sink, crusted with juice from your all-nighter, but somehow, it was mysteriously washed and put away. Annoying, but whatever. College was melting your brain, and maybe you were just forgetting things.

And then there was the fridge.

At first, you thought maybe you were imagining it, but no—there was more food. Not just any food, but your food. Your favorite snacks, the stuff you had literally run out of, were just… back. Sitting in the fridge like they had never disappeared in the first place.

The expensive cheese you told yourself you wouldn’t waste money on anymore? Back in the drawer. A brand-new carton of oat milk? Sitting pretty on the top shelf like it had always been there.

You almost convinced yourself it was a roommate thing—except you don’t have a roommate.

Then, the underwear went missing.

Yeah. That’s when you started losing it a little.

One missing pair? Weird, but maybe it got lost in the laundry. Two? Annoying. But three? Okay, no. Now you’re pacing around your apartment, flipping through your drawers like a lunatic, muttering under your breath, "There’s no way I’m imagining this. There’s NO WAY."

That’s when it hits you.

Somebody has been in your apartment. Somebody who knows your habits. Somebody who washes your mug stocks your fridge, and—apparently—has an interest in your underwear.

And that? That’s when things stop being weird and start being a problem.

Because it’s not just the missing underwear anymore. It’s not just the fridge stocking itself or your mug getting mysteriously cleaned like you’ve got a ghost maid.

It’s the dreams. At first, you brushed them off. Everyone has weird dreams. Stress-induced nonsense, sleep paralysis, the occasional why the hell did my brain come up with that? kind of dream. But these?

These weren’t just dreams.

These felt real.

Someone holding you. Not the fleeting, vague sensation of a dream-hug, but something solid. Firm. A grip that lingered, too warm, too sure, like whomever it was had done this before. Like they belonged there.

Breath—soft and even, ghosting against your skin. The press of lips, deliberate and lingering, trailing from your temple down to your cheek, your jaw, lower.

And the worst part? The voice.

Not some faceless dream-stranger, not the usual nonsense whispers that fade upon waking. This was clear. Intimate. Kinda hot?? Like someone was right there, mouth pressed against your ear, speaking just for you.

"So pretty like this."

"Mine."

"You don’t have to be afraid. I’ll always take care of you."

And yeah, normally, you’d just blame it on sleep deprivation. Stress. Maybe even some weird subconscious bullshit messing with your head. But last time you checked? You don’t wake up with bruises.

This is exactly why you’re standing in your bathroom right now, one hand holding your hair up, the other gripping the sink like it might do something to fix this entirely unacceptable situation. Your reflection stares back at you, looking just as pissed and exhausted as you feel.

Yeah. Those are fucking bruises.

Upper neck. Side of your throat. Deep enough to linger, tender enough to ache under the brush of your fingertips. Right where someone’s lips would have been.

Like the kind of mark a lover would leave. Slow. Intentional. Possessive.

Your stomach twists, a sick feeling creeping up your spine like ice-cold fingers pressing between your shoulders. You prod at the bruises again, wincing when a sharp sting shoots through your skin. Yeah—definitely real.

Unless you’ve somehow started aggressively making out with your pillow in your sleep or developed a habit of sleepwalking straight into a damn wall, there’s only one explanation.

Something’s been in your apartment.

Someone’s been touching you.

The air feels thick now like the walls are closing in, the dim glow of your lamp suddenly too warm, almost suffocating. Either you’re being haunted by the horniest ghost imaginable, or—

Your stalker is getting real fucking bold.

You exhale sharply, raking a hand through your hair. "And what the hell were they even after?" you mutter, scowling at your reflection. If he wanted to actually do something while you were asleep, he could’ve. But they didn’t. Why? Was he holding back? What the fuck is thier game?

Ugh. You shouldn’t be this used to this. Shouldn’t be thinking like this.

"This is getting ridiculous…" you grumble, shaking off the chills running down your spine. Stepping out of the bathroom, you do a quick sweep of your windows. Still locked. Deadbolt on the door? Secure. No signs of forced entry. And you live on the third floor, so it’s not like some creep is climbing in through the damn balcony.

So how the hell is they getting in now?

Now, you could call the police. That’s an option. But, uh… what exactly would you say? "Hey, officer, someone is mysteriously cleaning my dishes, refilling my fridge, and also swiping my underwear? Please help." Yeah. No. That sounds insane. You’d be laughed out of the station.

You could move out. That would be the smart thing to do, right? Pack up, break the lease, disappear into the night like this is some low-budget horror movie.

Except… yeah. That’s not happening.

Your lease isn’t up. And even if it was—this apartment is a steal. Literally. Because you’re not paying rent. At all. Your landlord? Super chill. Too chill, actually.

All you have to do is work your very specific (and slightly questionable) job, and in return? Free apartment. Free utilities. And best of all? He’s paying your tuition. This setup is golden. Platinum, even. You are not about to throw it all away just because some weirdo with boundary issues decided to play Domestic Phantom.

Still, if some creep thinks they can mess with you—thinks they can slither into your life like some discount horror movie villain—they’ve got the wrong one. Because you? You’re not about to be the dumbass who ignores all the red flags and ends up in a true crime documentary. Nope. Not happening.

There’s gotta be a way to handle this.

A plan. A solution. Something.

But for now? You’re staying put. You wander into the kitchen, rip open a box of Pop-Tarts, and bite into one straight out of the foil—because, honestly, you’ve got bigger things to deal with than toasting the damn thing. Later, you’re changing the locks. And as for protection… your eyes narrow.

Yeah. That might not be a problem.

You shove the paranoia down and focus on what you can control.

You get dressed. Something comfortable, something you. Mary Janes with soft knit socks, and a flowy black maxi skirt that moves like a whisper with every step. A black and red v-neck top sprinkled with delicate floral prints—subtle, but enough to make a statement.

Over that, a knitted wool cardigan, loose and cozy, its sleeves hanging past your wrists. A thin black choker wraps snugly around your neck, a long beaded pendant resting over your chest.

Your hair? Down. Messy but intentional. Just enough to veil the bruises. A bit of makeup, too—not too much, just enough to cover what needs covering.

Then? You’re out the door. Today’s agenda? Thrifting.

Something to take your mind off the weirdness crawling under your skin. You love thrifting—not just for the thrill of the find, but because it’s how you build your world. Your space, your aesthetic, your armor.

The thrift shop itself? A dump, but in the best way.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz and flicker, the one in the far-left corner struggling like it’s gasping its last breath. The air is thick with the scent of dust, old paper, and cheap lavender air freshener, the kind that doesn’t actually freshen anything.

The racks are overstuffed, clothes jammed together in a chaotic mess—vintage jackets crammed against grandma blouses, faded band tees fighting for space with outdated prom dresses.

And the shelves? A fever dream.

Antique picture frames missing their glass. Stacks of yellowed paperbacks nobody’s touched in decades. Rows of porcelain dolls, their glossy eyes following you no matter where you move. It’s a treasure hunt and a haunted house rolled into one.

And, like always, Sol is here.

He’s become some sort of guard dog. You invite him thrifting, not because you love hanging out with him—okay, maybe you do, but you’ll never admit that to his face—but because no men come up to you and he’s always there when you inevitably find yourself hauling way too much stuff back home.

Stuff you absolutely cannot carry alone.

Plus Sol? He’s freakishly strong.

Like, ’s so strong it makes no sense for a guy who dresses like he just crawled out of an indie film. Ripped sweaters, and oversized band tees, and his hair always looks like he’s just rolled out of bed—he looks like he spends most of his time listening to sad guitar riffs in his bedroom. Not exactly the type you'd expect to lift heavy furniture with one hand like it’s nothing.

But there he is, standing near the iron-metal-and-glass bedside table you’ve been eyeing for the past few minutes.

You test its weight in your hands—yep, heavy. Not happening by yourself.

“Hey, loser boy,” you call over your shoulder, already planning to rope him into doing all the hard work. Sol, who’s busy inspecting a studded belt like he doesn’t already have three of them, looks up with that signature nonchalant expression. “What?”

You point at the table, a wicked grin creeping up on your face. “Think you can carry this for me?”

He sighs dramatically like you’ve asked him to do something impossible, but without skipping a beat, he steps forward. One hand easily slides under the table’s base, lifting it as if it weighs nothing. The action is almost effortless, making your smug grin falter slightly as you watch him handle the furniture with way too much ease.

His rings catch the bad fluorescent lighting in the store, glinting like they’re part of some mysterious charm he’s wearing for the day. Sol effortlessly shifts the weight to one arm and starts moving without even blinking.

“You know,” he mutters, voice dry, “you could just get a shopping cart.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t need you.”

His lips twitch like he wants to say something sarcastic, but the flush creeping up his neck betrays him. He’s embarrassed, or at least he’s trying to hide it, but you can see right through him.

You take full advantage of the moment, your smirk widening, the kind of victorious grin that makes you feel just a little bit too smug. You know he hates it when you tease him like this. And yet, he always falls for it.

“Whatever,” Sol mutters, carrying the table toward the checkout area with a resigned look on his face. But you know, deep down, he doesn’t mind it. Not really. Because as much as he pretends like you’re a pain in the ass, it’s obvious he’s got a soft spot for you.

And that’s exactly why you keep him around.

It’s not just the heavy lifting—although, that’s definitely a perk. It’s the way he’s always there when you need him, even if you don’t need him. You like having him around, even if you refuse to admit it out loud.

At first, Sol's offers to pay for everything were just part of the routine, but then—he never stopped. Every. Single. Time. The way he’d shove his hand in his pocket, and pull out that crumpled bill with a look that said, ‘I’m paying and you can’t stop me’ was almost endearing. Almost.

But you can’t let him.

“I’ve got it,” you’d say, always with that perfect blend of aloofness and stubbornness.

But Sol? He wasn’t backing down. You’d seen him try, so many times. At first, you thought it was just politeness—he didn’t want to feel like the moody guy who makes everyone pay for their own stuff. But no, there was persistence behind those actions. He genuinely wanted to pay for things, especially when you were involved.

And, well... if he’s going to be so damn insistent about it, who are you to say no?

Lowkey, you knew it wasn’t right to use him like this. You didn’t need to feel bad, though. After all, he was a volunteer. Mostly. You couldn’t help the way your mind wandered to the fact that well… Sol was cute. Tall, with that broody vibe that somehow always made him look like he was plotting something dangerous. He was the kind of guy who probably made people think twice before messing with him, though you knew better than to make assumptions.

But more than that? The strength. The kind of strength that didn’t make sense for someone who seemed so out of place at times. He wasn’t one of the rich, perfect students walking around campus, acting like they owned the world. He wasn’t a golden boy who had everything handed to him. No, Sol had muscle.

You liked that.

That’s why, one day while sorting through cheap jackets in the thrift store, you asked him, “So, uh… ever been in a fight?”

He gave you that same annoyed look he always did, that eyebrow arching like you were the last person he expected to ask him that question. Then, slowly, a little smile formed. “Yeah. A few.”

Of course, he had. He was the kind of guy who could handle himself in any situation, no matter how chaotic.

“What about teaching me?” you asked casually, tossing another item into your pile.

That got his attention. He stopped, looking at you like you had just asked him to walk on water. “Teach you?” he repeated slowly, like you were joking.��

“Yeah. You know, protect myself and stuff?” You shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ve seen the way some of these rich assholes treat the first-gen and lower-income students around here. They think they can just push us around. Some of them even bully people or treat them like pets.”

He went quiet.

“I don’t want to end up like that,” you added, quieter now. You didn’t want to explain the deeper reasons behind your request—didn’t want him to see too much. But he must’ve gotten it.

After a moment, Sol nodded. “All right. I’ll teach you.”

You almost didn’t believe him at first. Sol teaching you how to defend yourself? You had assumed it was a joke, some offhand comment he made while trying to sound tough. But here you were, weeks later, in the middle of moving furniture around in your living room, the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the dusty blinds, casting long shadows across the floor.

The truth was, campus life isn’t exactly a cakewalk. You’ve seen the way people look at you when they think you’re beneath them—like you don’t belong, like you're just another person to brush aside. You could keep pretending it’s all fine, playing it safe, and hoping it’ll never happen to you, but the truth? The truth was too obvious to ignore.

If you don’t start learning how to protect yourself now, you might risk becoming just another target. A victim of the system. Of people who think they’re untouchable like they own the world simply because they’ve got the privilege and the right connections.

So, here you were.

Your apartment is quiet, the only sound being the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the occasional creak of the old hardwood floors beneath your feet. A soft light flickers from the lamp in the corner, casting long shadows that stretch across the walls and the floor.

It’s not much—just a regular night. Except it isn’t.

You moved the coffee table aside, and now the center of the room is cleared, the space a little too open, a little too exposed for comfort.

Normally, this would be the part where you'd curl up on the couch, maybe grab a snack, or settle in with some comfortable TV show on your laptop. But tonight? Tonight, you're standing here in the middle of your living room, hands balled into fists at your sides, trying to ignore the slight discomfort crawling up your spine.

Sol stands a few feet away, leaning back casually against the wall. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes? They’re locked on you, sharp as ever. Red-orange irises gleam in the dim light, intense and calculating. You swear he’s looking right through you like he's already analyzing every tiny movement you make.

"All right, so, it’s all about balance first," Sol says, voice low and controlled. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, his expression hard to read. But then again, it’s always hard to read Sol.

You swallow, trying not to make it obvious that you’re suddenly hyper-aware of how awkward this all feels. You're not exactly a fighter. You never had to be. Back in high school, you had a few run-ins and a couple of moments where you needed to stand your ground, but those were more the exception than the rule.

Still, here you are, in the middle of your apartment, standing in a stance you’ve only ever seen in movies, bracing yourself not to look like a fool in front of the guy who, for whatever reason, agreed to teach you how to throw a punch.

You nod, straightening up, trying to mimic his calm, practiced demeanor. The last thing you want to do is look like you’ve never lifted a finger in your life. Your fists are tight at your sides, the feeling of them somehow grounding you, even though they don't feel natural. You flex your fingers for a second, then tighten them again.

Sol watches you for a moment, then his gaze softens, just for a second. You catch it—an almost imperceptible flicker of something in his eyes that makes you pause. It’s... amusement? You’re not sure. But before you can think too hard about it, he motions for you to step forward.

“Shift your weight,” he says, his voice steady. “Lead with your hips.”

You try, trying to remember what he said. Shift. Hips. Balance. It feels unnatural like you’re trying to bend in a way your body wasn’t built for. You step forward tentatively, unsure of where exactly your weight should go. It’s like every part of your body is working against you, your legs are unsteady, your torso stiff, and your movements jerky. You hate how awkward you feel. You feel ridiculous.

Sol, however, doesn’t flinch. He just watches, those sharp eyes following every shift you make.

“Better,” he mutters. “A little more fluid.” His voice is low, quiet, but still firm. “Don’t be stiff. Relax. You’re not trying to break something.”

You nod, trying again, focusing on letting your body flow more easily, trying to mimic the ease with which Sol stands. But every move feels like it’s taking more effort than it should. Your legs don’t want to cooperate, and your arms feel like they belong to someone else.

"Just focus on moving like you’re part of the room," he adds, voice softer this time. “Everything in here is in balance. You should be, too.”

His tone shifts, becoming less like a drill sergeant and more... encouraging? Weird. You didn’t expect that from him, but it helps, just a little. You inhale deeply, steadying yourself.

Sol’s still watching you, his stance casual but observant. There’s a subtle shift in his expression—a hint of satisfaction, maybe? It’s hard to tell. You try again, and this time, it feels a little more natural. Your weight shifts more fluidly; your posture loosens up. You’re not perfect yet, not by a long shot, but... it’s better. It’s not as awkward.

"Good," Sol says, giving a small nod. "One more time. But this time—" He steps closer, just a fraction. His eyes lock onto yours, almost expectant. "Just let go. Don't overthink it."

It’s hard not to. Hard not to get in your head about every movement. But somehow, with him so close, you feel a spark of determination, and before you can stop yourself, you let it all go. Your stance shifts, your weight flows, and your body moves more naturally. You feel it this time—your body, your balance, your control. It’s not perfect, but it’s... close enough.

Sol takes another step back, his gaze lingering for a moment before he lets out a low breath. “Not bad. You’ll get there.”

For a brief second, his tone is... softer. Like he's genuinely impressed. You can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment, even if it's only the first step.

You glance up at him, not entirely sure what to say. You're not used to this—being taught by Sol. Hell, you’re not used to feeling like you can stand up for yourself, physically or otherwise. But here you are, one step closer to something you didn’t think you needed.

Suddenly, your stomach dropped when you heard the rumble of Sol’s stomach. You both stopped mid-lesson, realizing you’d been at it for a while. He tilted his head toward you, his mouth pulling into a half-smirk.

“Want me to order dinner?” he asked casually like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m thinking Chinese food. Like, the good stuff. Rice, bourbon chicken, sweet orange chicken…”

Your eyes narrowed, half-worried he was trying to get out of finishing your lesson by offering food, but at the same time, the thought of not having to cook yourself was tempting. Your stomach growled in agreement.

“You’re paying, right?” you asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Obviously,” he said with a smirk that almost made you roll your eyes.

“Fine. I’ll make room for your… generosity”

You helped him with the call, and after a few minutes of placing the order, you shuffled back to the center of the room to keep practicing. Sol leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, and you could tell he was silently judging your form—but there was something in his expression that told you he wasn’t *all* that serious about it. You weren’t the most graceful person in the world, but at least you were trying. And honestly, that was more than a lot of people ever bothered to do.

Soon, the smell of food started wafting in from the front door. The delivery guy had arrived. Sol made his way to the door, leaving you to do some last-minute stretching as you mentally prepared to eat your weight in takeout.

When he returned with the bags of food, you felt a sudden wave of relief wash over you. Sol’s presence had a way of making you feel oddly safe, even though you were still pretty sure half the world would probably see you as just a piece of trash to kick around. But right now, right here, you had something for yourself. A plan. A way to stand up for yourself.

And for once, maybe it wouldn’t feel like the world was just out to get you.

You started setting up the food on your kitchen counter, the familiar scent of takeout filling the small space, making everything feel just a little bit warmer. Maybe it was the food. Maybe it was the lesson you’d just gone through with Sol—his unspoken instructions that made you feel just a little bit more capable. Or maybe, just maybe, it was him. There was something comforting about having him around, even when he was gruff, his usual silence hanging heavy in the air. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

“All right, dinner’s here,” Sol said, rubbing his hands together with a playful glint in his eyes. “You ready to actually fight someone yet?”

You glanced at him sideways, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Maybe. But only if they start with the orange chicken.” You pointed your chopsticks at him for emphasis, “That’s non-negotiable.”

Sol’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he rolled his eyes, stepping past you to the counter. You moved to the cabinet to grab the plates, feeling oddly lighter. Everything just felt easier in this moment, even with Sol hovering around.

The dull hum of the refrigerator, the quiet flicker of the overhead light—it was all just normal*, for once. Not a single thing felt out of place.

You reached for the plates, your fingers brushing the cool ceramic. But then, as if by instinct, a sudden movement behind you made you freeze.

Before you could even process it, Sol’s large hand reached right next to yours, his fingers brushing against your skin as he grabbed the plates instead. His proximity was close enough that his shoulder grazed yours, and for a split second, you felt your heartbeat skip. You didn’t even realize how startled you were until the breath caught in your throat.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out,” he muttered, a little too quickly, the words slipping out as if they were forced, like he didn’t quite expect his sudden action to unsettle you.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, his next words caught you off guard. He was so close now that his voice seemed to vibrate against your ear.

“You know if you ever actually want to learn to fight... it’s not always about hitting first.”

His words, casual and low, sent an odd shiver down your spine. Not because of the content itself, but because of the way his voice sounded—soft, but with something else. Something deeper.

Unsettlingly familiar.

You blinked, your hand stiffening on the counter, unsure of what exactly had just happened. Was it just the way his voice was wrapped in that strange intensity? You'd always known Sol had a low, gravelly voice, but now that it was right against you, so unexpectedly close, it sounded different. Almost like—whispering to you. In a way that felt a little too personal.

For a brief, inexplicable moment, you wondered if he knew the effect his voice had on you. Maybe he did.

You shook your head and tried to shake off the odd feeling creeping up your spine. It was probably nothing. Just Sol being Sol—gruff, distant, and surprisingly close when you least expected it.

But still, something was definitely... off.

Or maybe just on—in a way you didn’t want to think too hard about.

The rest of the evening passed in a comfortable blur. You and Sol settled on the couch, the two of you sharing the takeout containers, laughing over your less-than-adequate attempts at chopsticks. The usual tension between you seemed to melt away, replaced by something... easier.

Sol wasn’t exactly the warmest person, but you’d learned over time to appreciate the way he didn’t expect you to be anything other than yourself. Even when he was being annoyingly gruff, he somehow managed to make you feel... well, normal.

You leaned back into the couch, feeling the weight of your full stomach and the quiet warmth of the room. The soft hum of the fridge, the distant sound of traffic outside—it was oddly peaceful.

“So,” you said, glancing over at him. Sol had already pushed his food aside and was staring at the half-finished puzzle on the table—something you'd long since given up on. “Where do you even get your outfit ideas? You’re always looking so... put together. I need some tips.”

Sol gave you that side-eye like you were asking him about the meaning of life. "Outfits? What, you wanna dress like me or something?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "Nah, not really. Just curious. You’ve got that... thing, you know? That whole alt vibe. It’s kinda cool."

He shrugged, his usual “I don’t care about anything” face back in place. "Doesn’t really fit with your... vibe. You're too, I don't know, whimsical for it."

"Whimsical?" You rolled your eyes. "Dude, I'm not a damn fairy."

Sol didn’t even blink, keeping his eyes on whatever he was staring at. "Not exactly emo like me either. You’re more like... whimsical goth, you know? Mixing those flowery, goth vibes with a little playfulness. All those lush florals, patterns, moody colors, layers, and random little celestial shit. Doesn’t match." He paused, then added with a dry smirk, "You can't exactly wear black leather and chains and still call it cute."

“Cute…?” You raised an eyebrow at him, suddenly getting the feeling he was messing with you. “And I don’t even smell like a hippie, okay? I’m not out here smelling like patchouli.”

Sol leaned back, smirking like he knew something you didn’t. “Nah, you’re all about that herb life, I can tell. It’s like rosemary and lavender. You’re probably one of those people with a whole stash of essential oils or some shit.”

You stopped mid-bite, fork still in your hand. “Rosemary? I don’t... use that stuff.”

He gave you a lazy look, clearly unfazed by your surprise. “Yeah? Well, you kinda do. It’s not overpowering or anything, but it’s there. Like, maybe it’s in your hair?”

You blinked, taken aback. Lavender you could explain—you used that stuff occasionally with your shower routine, especially when you were winding down for the night, but rosemary?

You hadn’t exactly been using it religiously. You had a bottle of rosemary oil you mixed into your hair care routine on occasion, but it was a once-in-a-while kind of thing. Something that you do only at night,

"Really?" You asked, feeling a slight heat rise in your cheeks. "Is it that strong? I barely even notice it."

Sol just shrugged. "It’s not like it’s overwhelming or anything. Just... normal. You know, like some people have a scent that’s, well, theirs. Yours is herbal. Rosemary, lavender. You just feel like... fresh air."

It was strange hearing him describe you like that—like something natural, even pleasant. You wanted to argue, to brush it off, but for some reason, his words stuck. You never really thought about your scent beyond the occasional self-care routine. You’d never imagined someone would notice it so specifically.

It felt oddly personal, but not in a bad way.

You leaned back, trying to shake off the weird, almost embarrassed feeling that was creeping up your spine. "I’m not a freaking herb garden, Sol," you muttered, more to yourself than anything, but of course, your voice carried.

Sol just let out a low chuckle, the kind that sent a little shiver down your spine, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. "Sure, whatever you say. But hey, if you ever want outfit advice, I’ve got you. Just don’t expect me to foot the bill. No way I’m going shopping with you," he said, sounding way too smug for his own good.

You raised both hands in mock surrender, grinning. "Deal. But you’ll owe me one for not making you teach me your ‘grumpy badass with a whole wardrobe of black’ look.”

His smirk only grew wider. "Yeah, well... you'd probably look ridiculous in it anyway." His voice had that unmistakable tease to it, the same one that made you want to roll your eyes and laugh at the same time.

"You're lucky you're cute," you muttered under your breath, trying to keep the teasing tone going. You shot him a playful glance, your lips curling up just slightly.

Sol didn't immediately respond, which was a little weird. Usually, he'd fire back with something sarcastic or just give you that deadpan stare. But this time? He just shrugged it off and leaned back into the couch like it was no big deal.

Not wanting to let it go, you suddenly got an idea. With a mischievous smile, you crawled over to him on your knees, careful not to knock over the empty takeout containers still sitting on the coffee table. Sol glanced at you like you were out of your mind, but you didn’t care.

You tapped his nose gently, just enough to make him blink and look at you in surprise. "Cute," you said with a wink, leaning in closer, your breath a little shaky but definitely playful.

Sol raised an eyebrow, clearly annoyed by your closeness, but you couldn’t help it. You weren’t gonna back down now. As you hovered over him, your eyes naturally dropped to his neck, and that’s when you saw it—the green choker he was wearing, snug against his throat.

You couldn’t help it. A smirk slid across your face as you leaned back slightly, grinning. "Nice choker, emo boy. You trying to start a band or something?" you teased, your voice dripping with that sarcastic sweetness you knew would get under his skin.

His face went from mildly amused to instantly irritated. "Shut up," he muttered, leaning his head back just enough to avoid your gaze, clearly trying to act unaffected. But you could tell—he was annoyed, and maybe even a little embarrassed.

"Aw, come on," you teased further, tapping the choker lightly with your finger, "I didn’t know you were such a dark soul." You joked

"You're really pushing it now," Sol grumbled, but you could see the corners of his lips twitching like he was trying not to smile. He looked away again like he was pretending he wasn’t at least a little amused by your antics.

You laughed, enjoying the playful tension. "Okay, okay," you relented, leaning back slightly and giving him a little space. "I guess you do look kind of badass in that choker, but—" you paused, narrowing your eyes teasingly, "—just don’t start trying to summon demons in my living room, all right?"

Sol rolled his eyes, but there was a faint, exasperated smile tugging at his lips. "You’re a real pain, you know that?" he muttered under his breath.

"Yeah, but you love it," you shot back, grinning widely. "Or at least, you put up with it. Big difference."

You couldn’t help it. With a playful smirk, you leaned in a little closer, your finger sliding under the clasp of his choker. You gave it a subtle tug, just enough to create tension, just enough to make him shift in place, but not enough to hurt. The motion was lighthearted, almost teasing, as you kept your eyes locked on his reaction.

"Careful there, puppy," you teased, your voice sweet with mock innocence as you tugged on the choker once more. "You might wanna think twice about who you’re calling cute. Last time I checked, I’m a grown woman in college, and I can handle myself just fine."

Puppy?

You could see his reaction before it even hit his face. Sol froze for a split second, and you could feel the air around you shift. His breath came out a little sharper, a little more ragged. His chest puffed up like he was trying to keep it together, but the tension in his jaw gave it all away.

His usual, icy ‘don’t mess with me’ glare was nowhere to be found today. Instead, you got something darker—a mix of irritation and maybe a little something else that he was clearly fighting to suppress.

You couldn’t help but smirk at the sight.

For all his tough guy persona, it was clear that ‘puppy’ had hit a nerve.

He chuckled, but it sounded more like a nervous little exhale. "Says the one who asked me to teach them how to fight," he shot back, trying to sound all tough and detached. But there was this subtle hitch in his voice that you caught.

You didn't break eye contact. Oh no, you were in full tease mode now, smirking like you’d just found a secret treasure. Slowly, you tugged on the choker again—just enough to make him squirm, watching him closely for any sign of cracking.

"Yeah, I did," you said, as casually as you could manage, even though your grin was practically stretched across your face. You leaned in a little closer, closing the space between you two. "But hey, it’s the least you could do for me, right?" you added, letting your words hang there like a little trap. "I mean, I’m just using you for your skills."

His chest gave a little hitch, and for a second, you thought he might drop the whole ‘I’m too cool for this’ act. His lips parted just slightly, like he was gonna say something, but couldn’t quite manage it. You could practically feel the internal struggle.

Oh yeah, you were definitely getting under his skin now.

Sol’s hand reached up toward your shoulder, and you followed his movements, almost mesmerized. It was like he was fighting with himself, trying to keep that icy composure. But you could see it—the tension in his jaw, the way his grip tightened, like he was trying to resist something.

A smug grin spread across your face. Oh, this was good. You gave the choker another playful tug, just enough to make his breath catch, and raised an eyebrow at him. "Like what?" you asked innocently, feigning confusion.

Sol let out a low, frustrated sigh, leaning in closer, his eyes narrowing in on you with something that was definitely not just irritation. No, there was something else there now—something darker, like he was starting to unravel. His voice dropped an octave, rough and raspy.

"You know exactly what you’re doing."

Oh, you heard it—the strain in his voice, the rough edge he was trying to mask. It wasn’t working. And you were loving every second of it. "Do I?" you asked, your voice dropping to a teasing whisper, just barely audible.

"Maybe I do… or maybe I don’t…”

Your eyes narrowed as you slid off the couch with a casual stretch, giving him just enough time to let it sink in. You stretched your arms over your head with an exaggerated yawn, finally deciding to show Sol a little mercy. “All right, all right, I’m done messing with you,” you said, pushing yourself up off the couch. “I need to clean up and crash early anyway.”

Sol blinked a few times like he was still trying to shake off whatever the hell just happened between you two. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah?” His voice sounded a little off—like he was still recovering from you messing with him.

You nodded, already gathering up the empty takeout containers. “Yeah, there’s an estate sale happening in the morning, and I want to be the first one there.” You shot him a grin over your shoulder. “They always have the best jewelry and vintage clothes—velvet, lace, the whole deal. I’m not risking some old rich lady snatching up everything before I get there.”

Sol snorted at that, standing up and grabbing some of the trash to help. “Yeah, sounds totally worth losing sleep over,” he said, rolling his eyes. But then, after a beat, he asked, “You going with someone?”

You paused, thinking for a second as you tossed a takeout box in the trash. You hadn’t really planned it out, but now that he asked…

“I haven’t hung out with Crowe in a minute,” you said, turning to look at Sol. “Might text him later, see if he wants to come with.”

It was subtle, but you caught it—the way Sol’s shoulders tensed just slightly, the way his fingers curled against the counter before he quickly shoved them into his pockets. His usual frown deepened, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

“…Right,” he muttered, nodding a little too quickly like he was trying way too hard to seem unbothered. “Makes sense.”

You raised a brow, amused. “What? Jealous?”

He scoffed, crossing his arms. “Pfft. As if.” But his tone was just a little too defensive, and you didn’t miss the way he definitely wasn’t looking you in the eye.

You smirked but decided to let him off the hook this time.

For now, anyway.

As you started gathering the trash and stacking the empty containers, Sol—surprisingly—didn’t bolt like he usually did when chores were involved. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves and started washing the dishes without a word. You side-eyed him but didn’t say anything, just smirked to yourself and kept cleaning.

The silence between you two wasn’t uncomfortable, just filled with the quiet clatter of plates and running water. Then, midway through scrubbing a pan, Sol spoke up. “I made you chamomile,” he said casually like it wasn’t a big deal. “It’s on the counter.”

You blinked, looking over to see a mug of tea steaming gently next to a little bowl of freshly washed fruit. Your gaze flicked back to him, a little thrown off. “Uh… you made this?”

“Yeah?” Sol didn’t look at you, focusing way too hard on rinsing off a plate. “I mean, you always eat it before bed, right? Figured I’d save you the trouble.”

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms, a slow grin creeping up your face. “Huh. Didn’t know you paid that much attention to my nightly routine.”

He clicked his tongue, finally looking at you with a glare that didn’t quite reach his usual level of menace. “Don’t get weird about it.”

You chuckled but didn’t push it—he’d already looked about five seconds away from regretting saying anything at all.

Once the kitchen was spotless, Sol muttered something about heading to bed early and, true to form, made a swift exit—like he couldn’t leave fast enough. You watched him go, amused at how suddenly eager he was to disappear.

Finally.

You let out a deep sigh, rolling your shoulders before heading to the bathroom. A hot shower sounded perfect right now—just you, the steam, and no one hovering or throwing weird energy into the air.

The water was bliss, washing away the long day, and whatever lingering tension still clung to you. After drying off, you slipped into your favorite tank top and matching shorts, the soft lace trim brushing against your thighs as you moved. It was nice—cozy, comforting. Just what you needed.

You grabbed the small bowl of fruit and the still-warm chamomile tea from the counter before flopping onto your bed, letting out a content sigh as you scrolled through your phone. Mindlessly, you popped a blueberry into your mouth, the burst of sweetness barely registering as your thoughts started drifting back to earlier.

You squinted down at the cup of tea in your hand before sighing and setting it on your nightstand. Normally, you’d drink it, let the warmth settle in your chest, and let it lull you into sleep like it always did.

But tonight? You weren’t feeling it.

The night had settled into that eerie kind of silence—the kind that made everything feel heavier like the world had momentarily paused. No cars passing by, no distant hum of city life, just the quiet hum of your apartment and the occasional creak of the building settling.

Wrapped in the warmth of your blankets, you lay on your side, staring at the ceiling. Your room was dimly lit by the soft glow of your bedside lamp, casting long shadows along the walls. The scent of chamomile still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint traces of rosemary and lavender from your hair.

Sleep was creeping in, slow and heavy, but your mind had other plans. You had this weird way of thinking in the in-between—half-asleep but not quite dreaming, like your subconscious was having a conversation with itself. Thoughts came and went without effort, lingering just long enough to make you wonder if you were awake or not.

And right now, those thoughts were circling back to him.

Sol paid more attention than you ever gave him credit for. That much was obvious now. The fruit, the tea—hell, even the way he noticed your bedtime habits. It was weird. Not bad weird… just interesting.

You weren’t sure what to make of it yet.

But that moment—the way his voice wavered, how his whole demeanor shifted the second you mentioned Crowe?

Mhm.

That says everything.

You turned over, pulling the blankets tighter around you. At some point, exhaustion won, and you drifted off, the weight of your blankets making your body sink into the mattress, warmth cocooning you. Everything was still. Comfortable. And then… Something changed. A shift.

Subtle. Small. But enough to pull you from the depths of sleep, your subconscious whispering that something wasn’t quite right. The air around you felt heavier like something unseen had crept in, pressing down on the room itself. Your subconscious stirred before you did, that primal instinct kicking in, whispering that something was off.

You were not alone.

You didn’t move—not yet. Your breathing remained slow and steady, the perfect mimicry of deep sleep. But something was off. It was like something air felt different, charged with an unnatural stillness like the world was holding its breath.

And then, you felt the stare.

Not touching you, not yet, but hovering just above—too close, too present. A shadow pressed against the darkness, an unseen figure dressed in black standing at the very edge of your space, watching. Studying. The fine hairs on the back of your neck prickled, a slow, creeping chill sinking deep into your bones.

You didn’t need to open your eyes to know that whatever it was, it hadn’t moved. It was waiting.

Carefully, slowly, you shifted beneath the blankets, rolling just enough to press your face further into the pillow. The movement was subtle, natural—the kind of mindless stirring someone might make in the depths of sleep. But beneath the act, your mind aware, calculating.

Your fingers slid beneath the pillow, brushing against the cool metal tucked away underneath. The weight of it was grounding, a quiet reassurance against the uncertainty pressing down on you. Your breathing remained steady, even—controlled—but your pulse told a different story, hammering quietly against your ribs.

Still, the presence above you remained unmoving.

Whoever—or whatever—it was, they were patient.

If it were planning to kill you in your sleep, they'd have to get closer. You knew how this worked—hesitation was a killer. Worst comes to worst, the second they touched you—And then you felt it.

A subtle shift in the bed, a slow, deliberate movement that crept over your body, causing your heart to beat just a little faster.

“Fuck… you smell so good as always…” The words came out in a low, almost reverent murmur, sending a ripple of heat through your spine. So human after all unless the demon can speak…

Your breath caught in your throat as something—someone—shifted, climbing over you with ease. Their weight settled above your back, warm and steady, and the air around you thickened, pressing against your skin as if the very space you occupied had shrunk. It was suffocating, but not in the way you were used to.

“Let’s see…” the voice mumbled softly, each word vibrating against your skin as they gently moved your arm, lifting it with slow precision before letting it flop back down like a feather touching a surface. You barely moved, still lost in the haze of sleep, your senses tingling at the intimate gesture. “Like always, deep in sleep…”

A soft, almost teasing nibble landed on your neck, followed by a kiss, and then another, lingering longer this time, until the sensation made you involuntarily let out a soft whimper. The warmth of his lips left a trail of heat on your skin, and you could almost feel the ghost of his smile against your neck, something possessive in the touch.

He didn’t stop there, though.

The kisses kept coming, gentle at first but quickly growing more urgent, more insistent. A few more laps of his tongue, the wetness lingering on your skin as a mark slowly began to form—a visible reminder of his closeness. “I wish you were already mine,” he mumbled, his voice thick with a mix of frustration and desire.

You barely had time to react before you felt his hands—large, warm, and deliberate—sliding over your sides then through your tank top before cupping your bare breasts, and squeezing gently. His touch was slow as if savoring the warm sensation, his palms pressing against the soft body fat.

“We had such fun this week…” Sol murmured, his voice thick with something unreadable, his body flush against your back. Every inch of him was pressed into you, a heavy, unmoving weight that kept you caged beneath him.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, instead burying your face deeper into the pillow, hiding the deadpan look threatening to cross your face. Not that he would’ve noticed—he was far too preoccupied with you. He didn’t try to remove his hands, didn’t loosen his grip, just held you there, his fingers flexing slightly as he pulled you even closer as if that was physically possible.

His breath ghosted over the sensitive skin of your neck before he nuzzled into it, his hair tickling you just enough to make you squirm. He exhaled a shaky sigh, his lips brushing against your pulse. “So warm…” he muttered, voice low, almost dazed. His thumbs lazily circled your nipples through your tank top, drawing a sharp, involuntary shiver from you.

Then came the pressure—slow, deliberate, and completely overwhelming. His hips rolled against yours, a steady, unrelenting grind that had you sinking deeper into the mattress, trapped beneath his weight. Every shift, every movement, pressed you further down, his body practically molding to yours like he had no intention of letting go.

Your heartbeat hammered in your chest, breath caught somewhere between shock and something dangerously close to pleasure. You couldn’t move, couldn’t even think straight. The realization of just how powerless you were in this moment sent a strange thrill up your spine, one you weren’t sure you wanted to acknowledge.

Then—his hands tightened. His fingers suddenly pinched down hard on your nipples from inside the thin fabric of your tank top, sending a sharp jolt through you. A muffled gasp escaped, but you bit down on the pillow, silencing yourself. The last thing you wanted to do was react—at least, not in a way that would give him more satisfaction.

But god, no matter how absurd, how insane this situation was… the way his breath hitched, the way he whined against your neck, it was impossible to ignore the way it made you feel.

“But you just had to bring him into everything, didn’t you?” His voice took on a sharper edge, and you felt the grip on the edge of the bed tighten, the sheets crumpling beneath his hand with an intensity that made your stomach drop.

His breath was heavier now, almost ragged. “Why…? You’re supposed to be mine. No one else.”

A sharp, metallic zip cut through the silence—too close to your ear, making you tense instantly, every nerve in your body screaming.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

“You belong to me.”

Your stomach lurched.

Oh, hell no.

In another world, in another life where you were just a normal person, you would have screamed. You would have thrashed, kicked, fought with everything in you.

But here, now, at this moment, you were frozen—trapped in the paradox of something so inherently wrong yet laced with a twisted kind of exhilaration. It was sick, it was deranged, and yet, some primal part of you couldn’t deny the way your body reacted, betraying every rational thought screaming at you to move.

But enough was enough.

The suffocating weight of him, the heat of his breath against your skin, the way his hands roamed like he had some kind of right—it was pathetic. The creeping tension thickening the air, the sheer audacity of being cornered in your own bed by someone who had no business touching you—it had all gone too far.

Before he could whisper another possessive word, before he could dare push this delusion any further, you acted. Fast. Instinct took over, that survivalist part of you finally snapping out of its trance.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you reached beneath your pillow, your hand gripping the cold steel of the knife that had become a silent protector in your room. In a single fluid motion, you pulled it out and pointed the blade at the shadowed figure hovering over you, your knees digging into the bed as you spun to face them. Your breath came fast, adrenaline surging through your veins.

“What in the hell are you—!” You barely got the words out before a hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with a vice-like grip. Your pulse raced as they overpowered your attempt to retaliate, their fingers digging into your skin like a vice.

You couldn’t believe it. Your mind scrambled to process what you were seeing, but your body reacted first—stiffening, every muscle tensing as your breath hitched. Your narrowed eyes locked onto the face hovering above you, the weight of the moment pressing down like a vice.

You blinked, once. Twice. The air in your lungs stalled.

…Sol?

Draped in all-black—shiny jeans catching the faintest glint of light, a hoodie pulled just loose enough to shadow his face, and that unmistakable green-and-black striped hair tumbling down around his sharp features.

Your stomach lurched.

“Fuck,” you exhaled, the word barely more than a whisper, but the weight behind it was heavy. Reality hit like a slap to the face, sinking deep into your gut as your heart pounded against your ribs.

The knife trembled in your grip, muscles taut as you fought against the force pressing down on you. Sol’s hands wrapped around yours, strong—might you add—moving back with enough urgency to make your arms strain.

But you weren’t weak—you could feel the resistance, the way your strength shocked even him as the blade hovered dangerously between you both, a sharp, gleaming threat trapped in the tension.

Then came the weight—his body bearing down on yours, shoving you back against the mattress. Your breath hitched as his legs straddled you, pinning you beneath him with an overbearing heat that had your skin prickling. His chest almost pressed against yours, the rapid thud of his heart hammering against your palm where you still clutched the handle of the knife. It was erratic, unsteady.

His face was so close now—red-orange eyes wide, pupils blown with something unreadable. Shock? Confusion? There was a flicker of something frantic beneath it all, something desperate, something almost wild.

For a moment, the chaos in the room dulled. The air hung thick and unmoving. Your breaths, his heartbeat, the overwhelming rush of emotions—you were drowning in it.

The knife was just inches beside your neck, the cold steel almost grazing your skin, but you couldn’t even move it, even as you tried to hold your ground. His eyes were locked onto yours, filled with something almost like guilt—but something darker, too.

A strange, terrifying silence followed as your free remained pressed against his chest, the other still gripping the knife, but completely helpless in his hold. His fingers wrapped around your wrists, pressing them hard.

And yet, despite his forceful position, despite everything that was happening, there was an unsettling calm in his eyes. He wasn't angry. He was shocked, thrown off balance. Caught in a moment of pure disbelief. The usual coldness of his gaze was gone, replaced with an unfamiliar, confused vulnerability that rattled you to your core.

It was as if he was seeing you for the first time—like he'd never expected this. Never wanted this.

His lips parted in something between a gasp and a murmur, but the words never came. There was nothing but that intense, breathless stare, his grip tightening just a little more on your wrists as if trying to make sense of the situation.

Your mind was a chaotic whirlpool of shock and confusion. You couldn’t quite process it all—the shock of seeing Sol's face so close, lips almost touching—so overwhelming, the knife still a hair's breadth from your skin. And then the words came, so casually, as if this entire situation was something he had been expecting.

"Shit, you scared me. You were awake this whole time?" Sol’s voice was rough, tinged with something between frustration and genuine surprise.

Your eyes—wide, almost bugged out—narrowed sharply at him.

Who the fuck asks that type of question?

You couldn’t help the incredulity that bubbled up in your chest. "You're the one who scared me, dumbass." you snapped, irritation lacing your tone as the reality of the situation set in. The breath that had been held in your chest finally exhaled in a short, sharp burst of air.

Sol seemed to snap out of whatever dazed state he had been in, his posture shifting as he let go of your wrists and lifted his body off yours. He cursed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Oh, sorry, that was kind of a reflex," he muttered, his hands still slightly trembling as he gently moved you, guiding you back onto your knees on the bed.

Your body, still wound tight with the fight or flight instinct, barely had time to process when he asked, almost too nonchalantly, "Seriously, sorry. I didn’t hurt you, did I?" The sheer absurdity of another question was enough to make your blood boil. Like this was all just some casual misunderstanding.

As if you hadn’t just almost killed him for scaring the living daylights out of you. You felt your grip on the knife loosen slightly, but then, without thinking, you grabbed a fistful of his hair with your free hand and yanked it back—hard. He grunted in pain, eyes widening as you forced him to look up at you, his expression shifting from confused to slightly pained.

"I'm gonna kill you," you growled through gritted teeth, aiming the knife close to his neck—your voice low, but dangerously calm. "How the fuck did you get in here?"

Sol stuttered for a second, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift in power. He tried to collect his words, his lips moving but his voice barely rising above a murmur. "I, uh… I used aluminum foil to make a replica key and some string to take care of the chain door..." He trailed off, his eyes flickering to the side in embarrassment.

You blinked, dumbfounded for a moment. Aluminum foil? Your mind raced as the pieces slowly started to connect.

“You damn criminal…” you muttered, more out of disbelief than actual anger. You couldn't even figure out if you were mad or just genuinely shocked. You hadn't expected him to be that resourceful—or reckless.

Sol winced, letting his shoulders slump in a mix of guilt and embarrassment. "Look, I didn’t mean to freak you out," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "I just… I just wanted to… see you."

Your breath came out in a slow exhale, still trying to process everything. The initial fear was starting to wear off, but the unease lingered in your chest. You'd thought you were dealing with a creepy stalker—and you kind of were—but this?

This was something else entirely.

You let go of his hair slowly, your fingers slipping from the strands as you watched him wince, his body stiffening before he straightened up. He seemed almost... unsettled, unsure of how to process everything that had just happened. His eyes were wide, his breath still heavy, but there was a strange, almost fragile tension about him that you couldn't ignore.

"Y'know what?" You said, your voice steady and cold, a stark contrast to the mess that had just unfolded. "Sit right there on the floor. You're getting a lecture."

You pointed firmly to the ground, watching as Sol blinked in confusion, his brow furrowed in that typical, defensive way. "The floor?" he asked, clearly thrown off by your calmness, by the way, you were handling this whole situation as if it were just another normal day.

"Sol," you said, a slight edge to your voice now. "I will call the police if you don’t get your damn outside clothes off my bed and sit."

The tone in your voice left no room for argument, and within seconds, he was quick to obey, taking a seat on the floor with an uneasy expression. His movements were jerky, almost like he wasn’t sure what kind of punishment he was in for.

"On your knees."

Your voice was steady, but the look you gave him? Pure judgment—like he was some guilty puppy who just got caught chewing up your favorite shoes. You sat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, watching him with the kind of unimpressed stare that could make anyone squirm.

He hesitated, just for a second like he was debating whether he could still push his luck. But in the end, he obeyed, sinking down like some reluctant, defiant dog waiting for its scolding.

Your patience? Gone. Shattered.

There was no point in playing nice anymore.

"I'm done trying to use big concepts like 'crime' and 'common sense' with you," you deadpanned, your voice flat with irritation. "Clearly, that doesn’t sink in."

Sol looked up at you, something between guilt and stubbornness flashing in his eyes, but you weren’t interested in whatever weak excuse he was cooking up. Not tonight.

"For a stalker," you continued, tone sharp but eerily calm, "you really suck at this. First off, your voice. You talk too damn much. Every word practically screams ‘hey, it’s me, Sol.’" You tilted your head slightly, watching as his jaw clenched. "And your face? You flinched the second I mentioned Crowe, like you had something to prove."

Then, as if casually dropping the final nail in his coffin, you added, "Oh, and nice touch with the fruit. Real subtle. Using it to hide the fact you drugged the chamomile tea. Let me guess—sleeping pills?"

His reaction was everything. Just a flicker, just the smallest crack in his expression, but you caught it. His pupils dilated, his breath hitched—not enough for the average person to notice, but you weren’t average, and this wasn’t your first rodeo.

You let the silence hang for a moment, let him feel the weight of it pressing in. Then, you drove the knife in deeper.

"This whole time," you murmured, eyes narrowing, "you’ve been drugging me through my tea, haven’t you?"

His gaze flickered, darting to the side for just a second—just long enough to confirm what you already knew.

"Pathetic," you muttered, exhaling slowly as if you were genuinely disappointed in him. "You’re not good at this. And I’m done pretending I don’t know what’s going on."

Sol didn’t say anything at first, his lips pressed together as he took in your words. You could see his mind racing, trying to find the right thing to say, but for once, he was quiet. Completely still.

Your mind was still reeling from the chaos of everything that just happened—the weight of Sol on top of you, the knife almost glazed your neck, and the shock of realizing it was him who had been lurking in your space. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you kept your gaze locked on his—definitely not letting him off the hook.

“Now, next subject,” you said, keeping your voice steady and unyielding, though your mind was still racing. You had to know why, had to understand this twisted mess. “Why in the hell were you trying to do me?”

Sol went stiff like you just smacked him upside the head with reality. His whole body locked up, and for a second, the air between you both felt suffocating. His mouth opened, but no words came out—just a slow swallow, his throat bobbing as his eyes darted downward like he was hoping the floor would just swallow him whole.

“It started…” he finally muttered, voice strained like it physically hurt to admit. “How you’re always around Crowe whenever I see you.”

You blinked. What?

“And I thought…” he hesitated, shifting uncomfortably before finally meeting your gaze. “Leaving bruises across your skin would show that you’re taken.”

You stared. Just. Stared.

“…I’m sorry, what?”

There was no way you just heard that correctly.

Ain’t no damn way.

Sol's eyes flickered, guilt flashing across his face before he kept going—because apparently, things weren’t insane enough yet. “Which made me start… visiting. At night. While you were asleep.” His voice was quieter now, but not quiet enough to miss. “To leave those bruises.”

Your stomach twisted.

“And I—” He exhaled sharply, like even he knew how fucked this sounded. “I used those sleeping pills so you wouldn’t wake up during the process.” A beat. “Plus, that way, I could… look at you all I want.”

Oh.

Oh, hell no.

Your entire body locked up as the reality of his words crashed into you. “Sol…” Your voice came out shaky, but the disbelief was firm. “You do realize that, like… literally everything you just said is beyond illegal, right?”

A stalker.

Your stalker.

The one who had been making your life somewhat hell for weeks. The one who left those bruises, the one who drugged you, the one who had you spiraling, trying to figure out who the hell had been creeping around your home. Also, to mention that he’s been stealing your underwear—which is expensive may you add.

And it had been him.

Always him.

You exhaled sharply, forcing your pulse to settle as you leveled him with a look. “I could have you arrested for this,” you said flatly, letting the weight of your words sink in.

Sol flinched at the weight of your words as if he finally realized the severity of what he had done. His face twisted with something like regret, “Please wait, I... I didn’t think it through,” he mumbled, his voice cracking under the pressure. “I just... I couldn’t help it,”

You shook your head, still processing, still trying to make sense of it all.

"Couldn't help it?" you echoed, voice dripping with disbelief. "Couldn't help it?"

Your hands clenched into fists as the weight of everything crashed over you again—every bruise, every unsettling feeling of being watched, every sleepless night where you knew something was off but couldn’t prove it.

And now? The proof was sitting right in front of you, looking like a kicked dog, as if that was supposed to make any of this okay.

Sol’s jaw tensed, his fingers twitching at his sides. His usual cold, unreadable mask was crumbling, revealing something desperate underneath. “I know it was wrong,” he said, voice raw. “I know I shouldn’t have… but every time I saw you with him, I just—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into his movements. “I wanted to make sure you were mine.”

Your stomach churned. “So your big-brain solution was drugging me? Marking me without my knowledge?” Your voice sharpened, incredulous. “Do you have any idea how insane that sounds?”

“I wasn’t thinking straight!” His voice rose slightly, frantic before he caught himself and sucked in a breath. He looked down, hands gripping the fabric of his hoodie so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “I just—” He stopped, struggling for words.

“I just wanted you to see me.”

You couldn’t even look at him right now. The shock of it all, the violation of your trust, the utter betrayal—like a rush of cold water had splashed over you, freezing you in place. Your mind was still reeling, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

The man you’d trusted, the one you’d laughed with and joked around with, was now on top of you, his hands constricting around yours, pinning you down with a knife at your throat. The betrayal ran deeper than any wound he could have physically inflicted.

You couldn't understand it.

Your grip tightened around the knife’s handle as you fought to steady your breathing, but the weight of it felt alien now, placing it on your nightstand. What was once a tool for defense had become a useless object in your hand.

The rush of adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind a creeping, suffocating clarity that made your stomach twist. The weight of everything that had just happened pressed down on you, but instead of fear, something sharp and cold settled in its place. You scoffed, shaking your head as a humorless smirk pulled at your lips.

“Oh, trust me, I see you now.” You flicked your fingers at him in a lazy, dismissive gesture. “And let me tell you, puppy, the view from down here? Not your best look.”

Before he could process that, your hand shot out, gripping the collar of his hoodie in a tight fist, yanking him down toward you. His breath hitched, and his eyes widened for just a second—just long enough for you to see the flicker of surprise before he masked it.

But he didn’t fight it. If anything, his weight sank further onto you, his chest rising and falling against yours, heart hammering like a drumline.

You lifted your chin, gaze locked onto his with a dangerous kind of calm. “Woof for me, Sol.”

Silence.

His pupils flickered, something unreadable swimming in that fiery gaze of his. Disbelief? Annoyance? Shame? You weren’t sure, and honestly, you didn’t care. What mattered was the way his body stiffened like you’d just flipped the entire dynamic on its head.

After all,

Punishment is needed for a bad puppy.

His pulse was wild beneath your grip, his breath warm and uneven against your face. But this wasn’t about fear or retaliation—it was about control. A reminder. A boundary carved into stone. You weren’t some weak little thing he could toy with. He had crossed a line, and now? He had to face the consequences.

“I…” His voice cracked slightly before he swallowed thickly. “I—what—”

You tugged his collar tighter part from his hoodie, bringing him so close your noses almost brushed. Your voice was even, unwavering, not a trace of amusement left. “Woof, Sol. Or I call the cops.”

That hit something. You saw it—the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, the way his jaw clenched like he was biting back something ugly. The frustration flickered through his expression, tangled with something deeper, something messier.

His breathing came heavier, nostrils flaring, hands tightening at his sides like he was debating whether to push back or fold. And then—

A low, guttural growl rumbled in his throat, sharp and reluctant.

You tilted your head, unimpressed. “Didn’t catch that.”

Sol let out a slow, shaky breath, his shoulders rising and falling as he tried to pull himself together. His muscles, once taut with tension, eased just a bit, and he averted his eyes, licking his lips before hesitantly murmuring, “W-Woof?”

You stared. Blank. Unmoving.

…Did he seriously just question-mark bark at you?

A deep sigh left your lips, exaggerated and dripping with disappointment. “Wow. That was sad.” You shook your head, crossing your arms. “Sounded more like you were asking for permission than actually committing. Maybe you’re not cut out for this after all. Maybe you’re not fit to be my dog—”

“No—wait!” He stiffened, desperation flaring in his eyes as a soft whine escaped his throat, almost involuntary. “I can do it! I swear.” His voice wavered, but the need in it was unmistakable. He looked up at you, wide-eyed and eager, like he’d just been threatened with abandonment.

And damn it, the whimper got to you.

Your smirk faltered just a little as you reached out, fingers tracing along his cheek. “Oh, Sol…” Your voice softened, just enough to make him lean into your touch, his head tilting slightly like he craved it. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

But then—because you couldn’t resist—you let your smirk return, amusement lacing your next words. “But… I gotta admit, seeing you like this is kinda cute.” Your fingers trailed down, ghosting over his jaw as he pressed into your palm like a touch-starved puppy.

His lips parted, breath hitching, but his eyes… oh, his eyes were full of determination now.

He needed to prove himself. Needed to show you he was worthy of this. Worthy of you.

And so, with far more confidence, he straightened up, held your gaze, and—

“Woof.”

You had to bite back a laugh at how fast he reacted—it was honestly too damn funny. Sol, all broody and distant most of the time, but the second you threw him a little attention? A whole different story.

And that tiny, earnest little woof he let out? Oh, so adorable.

"Good boy," you murmured, your voice coming out softer, maybe a little breathier than you intended.

The second the words left your lips, his whole body shuddered. Like the damn phrase physically did something to him. The satisfaction on his face was instant—like a puppy finally getting the praise it had been dying for. And god, that lovesick little smile of his? Paired with the way his red-orange eyes practically sparkled, pupils blown wide and pleading? Yeah, you were toast.

How the hell were you supposed to say no to that?

With a soft sigh, you ran your fingers through his hair, nails lightly grazing his scalp.

That was all it took.

“Please…” he whispered, his voice barely holding together.

You tilted your head, pretending not to notice the way his whole body was trembling. “Please what, Sol?"

His breath hitched. He knew exactly what you were doing, but he still took the bait. He had to.

"Please," he rasped, looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him alive. "Please… praise me more… call me a good boy again… just—just touch me, please.”

You know what? Hell yeah.

Your eyes flicked down, taking a deliberate glance at the hard bulge straining against his black skinny jeans before looking back up at him. The pout on his lips? Adorable.

"Fine," you sighed, acting like you were doing him a favor.

That was all it took. A grin split across Sol’s face, his whole demeanor flipping in an instant. “R-Really?” His voice cracked slightly, full of disbelief and excitement.

You smirked. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear he had a tail, and it was wagging at full speed. "Mhm," you hummed, dragging it out just enough to make him squirm. "But first, we start where you already touched."

With deliberate slowness, you peeled off your tank top, tossing it aside to reveal a lace bra that hugged your skin just right. Still sitting, you let your fingers slip under the waistband of your shorts, teasing just a little before sliding them down to reveal the matching underwear.

Sol stayed on his knees, watching you like the eager little puppy he was. His gaze was fixed, his lips slightly parted, and the pink on his cheeks deepened. He looked like he was about to start panting at any second.

You sighed dramatically, tilting your head. “You do realize this is my last good set, right?”

His eyes snapped up to yours, confused.

“Because, you know, somebody keeps stealing my underwear,” you accused, raising an eyebrow.

He swallowed thickly, nodding, looking almost guilty. “I… I understand.”

You grinned. “Oh, I know you do.” The tension crackled between you and him, thick and electric. You knew exactly how badly he wanted this—how much he wanted to touch, to feel, to worship you.

It didn’t take long before he was right where you wanted him—kneeling in front of you, completely bare, having shed every last piece of clothing just for you, braless. His boxers were the only thing keeping him from pressing fully against you, but even that thin barrier wasn’t enough to stop the way his hips instinctively ground against the side of your bed. His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling like he was barely holding himself together.

“Oh, Sol~” you murmur, your voice dripping with faux sweetness as you reach into your nightstand. His head snaps up, his dazed eyes following your movements, and then—oh, then—he sees it.

The collar and leash.

His breath hitches, his gaze locking onto the items like he’s both terrified and mesmerized.

“Oh dear,” you tease, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “You didn’t think you were getting off that easy, did you? After all that stalking? Oh no, sweetheart. We’re just getting started.”

"Time for you to make up for it."

And you meant every single word.

You sank back onto your bed, the softness of the pillow cradling your head as you let out a slow, deliberate breath. Your legs parted almost instinctively, knees bending as your hands slid down your body with a practiced ease. Your fingers are hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging them down your thighs and letting them fall to the floor in a careless heap.

The cool air kissed your skin, but it did little to temper the heat pooling between your legs. You spread yourself open with two fingers, exposing your glistening folds, and waited.

Sol’s gaze snapped to you, his eyes widening as if he’d been struck. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he seemed frozen—caught between awe and the overwhelming urge to close the distance. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his pupils dilating as he stared at your pretty, wet cunt.

“Come here,” you commanded, your voice low and firm. You gave the leash a sharp tug, pulling him forward with enough force to make him stumble. A faint whine escaped his lips, but he didn’t resist. He couldn’t. His body moved as if drawn by an invisible thread, his knees hitting the edge of the bed as he leaned in closer, his face now inches from your heat.

“Have you ever done this before?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, your tone teasing but not unkind.

He shook his head quickly, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out. His hands fidgeted at his sides, unsure where to land, his entire body radiating a nervous energy that was almost endearing.

You smirked, reaching down to tap your clit lightly with a fingertip. “Sooo… You lick and suck here,” you instructed your voice steady but laced with a hint of amusement. Then, you dragged your finger down, circling your entrance before sliding back up in a slow, deliberate motion. “You can stick your tongue in here too, or use your fingers if you want. Got it?”

He nodded vigorously, his eagerness almost comical. Without hesitation, he hooked his arms under your thighs, pulling you closer until your hips were flush against the edge of the bed. His breath fanned over your wetness, hot and uneven, as he leaned in, his nose brushing against your inner thigh.

For a moment, he hesitated, his inexperience showing in the way his hands trembled and his breath stuttered. But then, as if something primal had taken over, he dove in. His tongue swiped up your slit in one long, clumsy stroke, and the sensation made your back arch off the bed.

That first taste seemed to ignite something in him. His movements became frantic, almost desperate, as if he’d been starved for this. His tongue lapped at your clit with a messy, unrelenting fervor, his lips sealing around the sensitive bud to suck hard. Saliva dripped down his chin, his face a wet, glistening mess, but you didn’t mind. The sloppiness only added to the raw, unfiltered intensity of the moment.

He was relentless, his focus singular. His tongue flicked and circled your clit, alternating between broad, wet strokes and sharp, precise flicks. Every now and then, he’d plunge his tongue deeper, exploring your entrance with a curiosity that bordered on obsession. His hands gripped your thighs tightly, his fingers digging into your skin as if he were afraid you’d pull away.

You let out a breathy laugh, your fingers tangling in his hair as you guided him, encouraging him to keep going. “That’s it, oh my” you murmured, your voice thick with approval. “Just like that, such a good pup.”

The praise seemed to spur him on.

His lips wrapped around your clit again, sucking with a rhythm that had your toes curling. His tongue worked in tandem, flicking and swirling until the room was filled with the sound of his messy, wet kisses and your soft, shuddering moans.

You loved watching him—the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the way his cheeks hollowed as he sucked, the way his entire body seemed to vibrate with the effort of pleasing you. He was a quick study, his movements growing more confident with every passing second.

His arms tightened around your thighs, pulling you even closer as he buried his face deeper, his nose pressing against your mound. His tongue dipped inside you, curling and probing, before retreating to lavish attention on your clit once more.

The alternating rhythm was driving you wild, and you could feel the tension building low in your belly, coiling tighter with every swipe of his tongue.

“Good boy,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.

The words sent a shiver through him, his hips jerking involuntarily against the bed. He moaned against you, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine. His hands slid up to grip your hips, holding you steady as he devoured you with an almost feral hunger.

You let your head fall back, your eyes fluttering shut as you gave yourself over to the sensation. His tongue was everywhere—flicking, sucking, probing—and you could feel the heat building, spreading through your body like wildfire.

Sol’s mind raced, his thoughts a jumble of heat and hunger as he remembered your earlier words about fingers. His arm shifted, sliding back as he pressed a single digit against your slick entrance. You were already so wet, and the way your body clenched around him as he pushed inside made his pulse spike.

He curled his finger experimentally, and the sharp twitch of your hips told him he’d found the right spot. A low groan rumbled in his throat as he repeated the motion, his finger hooking inside you while his tongue dragged messy, sloppy strokes over your clit.

The sounds were obscene—wet, hungry, and utterly unrestrained. His tongue flicked and sucked at your sensitive bud like he was starved for it, his lips sealing around you as if he could drink you in. Your legs shook, thighs trembling on either side of his head, and you let out a breathy moan as your head fell back against the pillows.

Your eyes fluttered shut, surrendering to the sensation, but the noises kept you tethered to the moment: the slick slide of his finger, the filthy slurping of his mouth, the way he devoured you like he’d been parched for days and you were the only thing that could quench him.

Sol’s gaze flicked upward, his eyes locking onto your chest. Your bra clung to you, the fabric doing little to hide the hard peaks of your nipples. They seemed to taunt him, begging to be freed, and his free hand moved almost on instinct. His fingers trailed up your stomach, slow and deliberate, until you felt the warmth of his palm near your breast.

Your eyes snapped open, and you looked down just as his hand inched closer. With a sharp tug on the leash, you yanked him back, forcing his mouth to leave your clit with an audible pop. His lips were glistening, his expression a mix of frustration and guilt as he scowled up at you.

“Sorry, no tits for you,” you reminded him, your voice dripping with lazy amusement. “Remember? You already touched them earlier. No touching.”

Sol’s frown deepened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he watched as you reached behind yourself to unhook your bra, letting it fall away. Your breasts bounced free, and you couldn’t help but tease him, your hands moving to cup them, fingers rolling and pinching your nipples just enough to make him groan.

“Eyes down, pup,” you chided, though your tone was more playful than stern. Reluctantly, he obeyed, his mouth returning to your clit with renewed focus. His tongue swirled and pressed against you, and you moaned, your hips rocking forward to meet his face. The heat of his mouth, the way his slender tongue worked you over—it was too much and not enough all at once.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, guiding him as you moved against him, chasing the pleasure that coiled tighter and tighter in your core. Sol’s hands gripped your thighs, holding you steady as he devoured you, his every movement a silent plea for your approval.

And as your moans grew louder, your body trembling on the edge, you knew he’d do anything to keep you right there—teetering between control and chaos.

Sol’s brain was still playing catch-up. Like, seriously, was this real life? He, Sol, the guy who’d barely figured out how to flirt without tripping over his own words, was here—between your legs, giving you head as his life depended on it.

And holy hell, you were hot. Like, unfairly hot. If he could’ve paused time right then and there, he would’ve snapped a mental picture of the view: your legs spread wide, your chest rising and falling with every shaky breath, and your breasts right there, practically begging for his attention. It was almost too much to process, but hey, he wasn’t about to complain.

Then you moaned his name, and his entire world tilted.

“A-ah… Right there, Sol.”

Your voice was like a jolt of electricity straight into his system. If he’d had a tail, it would’ve been wagging so hard it could’ve powered a small city. Instead, he’s humping your bed—to get off as much as he can.

He doubled down, his tongue working faster, more deliberately, like he was trying to memorize every inch of you. One hand gripped your thigh, pushing it up to give him better access, while the other slipped a second finger inside you, curling just right to hit that spot that made your breath hitch. And his hips—god, his hips—are hammering against your bed like he’s trying to drill a hole through it.

All from the way you reacted—arching your back, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer—was enough to make his head spin. And when you started rocking your hips against his face, chasing your release, he felt like he was floating. Or maybe combusting…?

Honestly, it was hard to tell at this point.

“F-Fuck, good boy,” you gasped, and wow, if that didn’t just short-circuit his brain entirely.

You heard a low, guttural whine that vibrated against your clit. His eyes roll back, his body locks up, and then he’s cumming, just like that. It’s messy and raw and completely out of his control, his hips stuttering as he spills into his already ruined boxers.

His chest heaves, his face flushed a deep red, and for a moment, he looks like he’s not even sure where he is. Like he’s just been launched into some other dimension where the only thing that exists is the aftershocks of whatever the hell just happened to him.

Sol collapses against you his body completely spent. He’s trembling, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he lets out this shaky, broken groan that sounds like it’s been dragged out of the deepest part of him. His mind is a foggy mess, his limbs feel like jelly, and his cock?

There’s was intoxicating about knowing you’re the only one who’s ever reduced him to this—who’s ever made him fall apart so completely that he can’t even form a coherent thought.

It’s a power trip, really, and you’re not ashamed to admit how much you love it.

But of course, you’re not done with him. Not even close.

You tugged on the leash, pulling him up until his face was level with yours. His lips were a mess—glossy with your slick, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes wide with a mix of pride and desperation. And then you kissed him, deep and hungry, your tongue sliding against his like you were claiming him all over again.

When you finally pulled away, a thin string of saliva and your cream connected your lips, and Sol couldn’t help but stare, dazed and a little smug.

“Such a good job,” you murmured, your voice low and approving, and he felt like he could’ve run a marathon right then and there.

You slowly pinned Sol to the bed with a firm hand on his chest, your fingers splayed over his rapidly rising and falling ribcage. His breath hitched as you leaned down, your lips brushing against his collarbone before trailing lower, leaving a trail of soft, teasing kisses down his torso. His skin was warm, slightly damp with sweat, and every touch made him shiver beneath you.

When your fingers hooked into the waistband of his soaked boxers, he let out a shaky groan, his hips lifting instinctively to help you slide them off.

His cock sprang free, already half-hard again despite the mess he’d made earlier. You couldn’t help but smirk at the sight—he was average in length, sure, but the girth of him was something else entirely.

Thick and heavy in your hand, it twitched as you leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the tip. Sol’s entire body jerked, a strangled sound escaping his throat as his hands fisted the sheets.

“N-not fair,” he managed to choke out, his voice wrecked.

You chuckled darkly, your breath ghosting over his sensitive skin. “Oh, sweetheart,” you purred, your tone equal parts teasing and commanding. “You’ve already come once. Now it’s my turn. And here’s the rule: you don’t get to come again until I do. Got it, puppy?”

He nodded frantically, his eyes wide and pleading, but you could see the flicker of determination in them.

Good.

You wanted him desperate, but you also wanted him to try.

You climbed over him, straddling his hips, and took him in hand, guiding him to your entrance. The first press of his cock against you made you both gasp—him from the overwhelming heat, you from the sheer stretch of him.

Even though you’d prepared yourself, the girth of him was still a lot to take. You bit your lip, sinking down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he was fully sheathed inside you.

“Fuck,” you breathed, your head tipping back as you adjusted to the feeling of him. He was stretching you so wide it almost hurt, but in the best way possible—like he was made just for you.

Sol’s hands flew to your hips, his grip tight but not controlling. He was holding on for dear life, his chest heaving as he fought to keep still. “Y-you’re so tight,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “I—I don’t know how long I can—”

“You’ll last,” you interrupted, your tone leaving no room for argument. “Because if you don’t, I’ll make you regret it.”

You began to move, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles, savoring the way he filled you so completely. Every drag of his cock against your walls sent sparks shooting up your spine, and the way he looked beneath you—eyes blown wide, lips parted, every muscle in his body taut with restraint—only fueled your own pleasure.

“That’s it,” you murmured, your voice low and sultry. “Such a good boy for me. Just hold on a little longer.”

Sol whimpered, his fingers digging into your hips as he fought to obey. But you could feel the tension coiling in him, the way his cock twitched inside you as he teetered on the edge. You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and picked up the pace, your movements growing more urgent as your own climax began to build.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” you moaned, your voice breaking as the pressure inside you reached its peak. “But don’t you dare come yet. Not until I—” Your words cut off with a sharp cry as your orgasm hit, your walls clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses.

Sol’s restraint shattered the second he felt it, his hips bucking up into you as he spilled himself inside you with a broken groan.

You yanked the leash still connected to his collar, forcing him to face you. Both of you were panting, trembling, but you couldn’t help the satisfied smirk that tugged at your lips.

“I said not to come yet,” you warned, your voice low and dangerous, though your eyes sparkled with mischief.

Sol let out a breathless laugh, his arms wrapping around you as he pressed a clumsy kiss to your shoulder. “Sorry,” he mumbled, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. “You’re just… impossible to resist.”

You shoved him back onto the pillow, your hand pressing firmly against his chest to keep him in place. “You’re lucky I’m on the pill,” you said, your tone dripping with mock sweetness. “Thank god I can do this now…”

Before he could respond, you shifted your weight, lifting yourself off him just enough to slide back down onto his cock in one smooth, punishing motion. He gasped, his hands flying to your hips, but you slapped them away.

“No,” you said firmly, your voice leaving no room for argument. “You don’t get to touch me. Not after disobeying me.”

Sol whined, his head falling back against the pillow as you began to ride him in earnest. Your movements were relentless, each bounce of your hips driving him deeper into you, the stretch of his girth still overwhelming even as your body adjusted. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep them off you.

“P-please,” he stammered, his voice breaking as his hips twitched upward, desperate for more friction.

“Please what?” you taunted, slowing your pace just enough to drive him mad. “Use your words, Sol.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was a strangled moan as you clenched around him, your walls fluttering deliberately. You smirked, leaning forward to grab the discarded pair of your underwear from the side of the bed. Without warning, you shoved them into his mouth, muffling his whines and moans.

“We don’t need the neighbors hearing you,” you said, your tone light and teasing despite the intensity of your movements. “Wouldn’t want a noise complaint, would we?”

Sol’s eyes widened, a mix of humiliation and arousal flashing across his face as he nodded obediently. You could feel the way his body trembled beneath you, the way his cock twitched inside you as he fought to hold back another orgasm.

You picked up the pace again, your thighs burning with the effort as you rode him harder, faster, each movement calculated to push him closer to the edge without letting him tip over. His muffled cries grew more desperate, his hips bucking weakly beneath you, but you kept him pinned, your hands braced on his chest for leverage.

“You’re going to learn to listen to me,” you said, your voice steady despite the way your pleasure was building again. “Or I’ll stop.”

Tears welled in Sol’s eyes, “N-no, please don’t…” his body writhing beneath you as he struggled to hold on. The sight of him like this—completely at your mercy, tears streaming down his cheeks, his cock buried deep inside you—was almost enough to push you over the edge. But you held back, determined to make him suffer longer.

Finally, when you could feel him teetering on the brink, his muffled whines turning into broken sobs, you leaned down, your lips brushing against his ear.

Even as his body shuddered beneath you, his hips twitching weakly, you kept moving, riding him through your high and his, your pace unrelenting. His hands, which had been gripping the sheets for dear life, now lay limp at his sides, his strength completely spent. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stared up at you with glassy, unfocused eyes.

“P-please,” he managed to choke out, his voice barely audible. “I—I can’t…”

“You can,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the way your own body trembled with exertion.

“And you will. Because you’re mine, Sol." You started, “My puppy. My guard dog. My pet. And you don’t get to stop until I say so.”

You shifted your weight, grinding down on him in slow, deliberate circles, the overstimulation drawing a broken whimper from his lips. His cock, still half-hard despite the exhaustion wracking his body, twitched inside you, and you smirked, leaning forward to trail your fingers along his jaw.

“Look at you,” you murmured, your tone equal parts teasing and adoring. “So desperate, so wrecked. And all for me.”

Sol’s eyes fluttered shut, a tear slipping down his cheek as he nodded weakly. “Y-yours,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. “Always yours.”

You kissed him then, deep and possessive, your tongue sliding against his as if to claim him all over again. When you pulled away, his lips were swollen, his face flushed, and his body trembling beneath you.

You might’ve come like three times? Four? Honestly, you lost count at some point, too lost in the haze of pleasure to keep track. But Sol? He hadn’t come at all. Not once. And the fact that he’d held himself back like that, with his cock buried deep inside you, was nothing short of impressive.

You could feel the tension coiled in his body, the way he trembled beneath you, his self-control hanging by a thread. It was intoxicating, the way he fought to keep himself in check, all because you hadn’t given him permission yet.

You leaned down, brushing a strand of damp hair from his forehead, your touch almost tender despite the relentless pace you’d set. Your fingers trailed down the side of his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before coming to rest on the collar that still sat snugly around his neck. The leather was warm from his skin, and you gave it a gentle tug, just enough to remind him—even as he teetered on the edge—of who he belonged to.

“Such a good boy,” you murmured, your voice low and sated, a purr of satisfaction that seemed to echo in the quiet of the room. Your heart-shaped pupils dilated as you admired him, your gaze sweeping over his prone form. He was a masterpiece of submission, every inch of him marked by your control, your desire, your ownership. The sight of him like this—so vulnerable, so utterly yours—sent a shiver of pride and possessiveness through you.

But you weren’t done with him yet.

You began to move again, your hips rolling in slow, deliberate motions, each one designed to drag another broken sound from his throat. His hands twitched at his sides as if he wanted to touch you but didn’t dare, and the sight of him like this—completely at your mercy, completely yours—was almost enough to push you over the edge again.

“Please,” he choked out, his voice ragged, barely more than a whisper. “I can’t—I can’t take it anymore. Please, let me—”

You shushed him gently, your fingers tightening around the leash as you leaned in closer, your breath hot against his ear. “Not yet, pup,” you whispered, your voice soft but commanding. “You don’t get to come until I say so. And you’re going to take it, aren’t you? You’re going to be good for me.”

He nodded frantically, his eyes squeezed shut as another wave of pleasure—or maybe it was torture—rippled through him. His cock twitched inside you, and you could feel the way his body fought to hold back, the way he clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. It was beautiful, the way he struggled, the way he gave himself over to you completely.

You kept going, your pace unrelenting, each movement calculated to push him closer to the edge without letting him tip over. His begging grew more desperate, his voice breaking as he pleaded with you to let him come, to give him release. But you just smiled, your heart-shaped pupils gleaming with satisfaction as you watched him unravel beneath you.

“Now you can come, pup,” you whispered, your voice soft but commanding.

The second the words left your mouth, Sol’s body convulsed, his cock pulsing inside you as he came with a muffled cry. You followed him over the edge, your own orgasm crashing over you in waves as you clenched around him, milking every last drop from him.

It was with a force that left you breathless, your walls clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses. Sol’s body jerked beneath you, his cock twitching inside you as he came again, his release spilling into you with a broken groan.

You rode him through your high and his, your pace unrelenting even as his body went limp beneath you, his eyes fluttering shut as he passed out from the sheer intensity of it all.

When you finally stilled, both of you trembling and breathless, you looked down at him with a satisfied smile as the leash was still in your hand, the collar around his neck a stark reminder of his place.

You shifted slightly, feeling the slickness between your thighs, the evidence of his release still dripping from you. The sensation only deepened your satisfaction, a tangible reminder of the power you held over him.

You could still feel the faint twitch of his cock inside you, even as it softened, and you clenched around him once more, savoring the way his body instinctively responded, even in his unconscious state.

With a soft sigh, you finally pulled yourself off him, your movements slow and deliberate. Sol’s body twitched at the loss, a faint whimper escaping his lips, but he didn’t wake. You stood, stretching languidly, your own body humming with the afterglow of pleasure. Your gaze never left him as you reached for a nearby blanket, draping it over his prone form with a surprising gentleness.

Even in his submission, even in his wrecked state, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of affection for him. He was yours, after all, and you took care of what belonged to you.

You picked up the leash from where it had fallen beside him, running the soft leather through your fingers as you considered him. He looked so peaceful like this, so completely at ease, and you couldn’t help but smile. This was where he belonged, where he thrived—under your command, under your care.

Your guard dog, your loyal pup, your Sol.

As you turned to leave, you paused, glancing back at him one last time. “Rest now, pup,” you whispered, your voice soft but firm. “You’ve earned it.”

And with that, you slipped out of the room, leaving him to his dreams, knowing that when he woke, he would be just as eager to serve, just as desperate to please. Because he was yours, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Completely wrecked, completely yours.

#the kid at the back x reader #the kid at the back vn #tkatb #solivan brugmansia #the kid at the back sol #tkatb sol #tkatb vn #sol brugmansia #sol x reader #tkatb smut #the kid at the back #sorry not sorry

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najia-cooks · 7 months ago

Text

[ID: A Moroccan teaglass with a bundle of sage, a saucer of dried sage, a deep blue-purple teapot, and a Palestinian vase in the background. End ID]

شاي المريمية / Shay al-maryamiyya (Palestinian sage tea)

Palestinian sage is a common after-dinner beverage and digestive aid made from black tea and three-lobed wild sage (Salvia fruticosa syn. Salvia triloba L.). In the Levant, this variety of sage is known as "مَرْيَمِيَّة" ("maryamīyya") or, more dialectically, "مَرْمَرِيَّة" ("marmariyya").

Terminology and etymology

The term "maryamīyya" likely derives from the Aramaic "מרייא" ("marvā"), meaning "common sage" (Salvia officinalis). The modern form of the word in Arabic—as well as in Persian, in which "مریم گلی" ("maryam goli") is “sage” or "garden sage"—was also influenced by a folkloric association between sage and the مَرْيَم (Maryam) of the Bible (Mary, mother of Jesus). Dr. Tawfiq Kanaan, for example, says that Mary sat on a stone to rest after a walk in the hot summer sun, and used a few leaves from a sage plant to dry her forehead: this is how the plant got its pleasant scent, and why it is still named after Mary. The dialectical pronunciation "marmariyya" then arises through an assimilation of the second syllable to the first.

"Maryamīyya" is perhaps also related to the obsolete Arabic مَرْو ("marw"), meaning "fragrant herbs" [1]. This Arabic term is derived from the Aramaic מַרְוָא / ܡܲܪܘܵܐ ("marwā"), which refers to wild marjoram or za'tar (Origanum syriacum; syn. Origanum maru) and is related to words for fragrant herbage, marjoram, and grass (Ciancaglini; see also Aramäische Pflanzennamen, p. 193). The Aramaic is itself a borrowing from the southwest Middle Persian "𐭬𐭫𐭥𐭠" (transliterated: mlw'; pronounced /⁠marw⁠/) [2], which survives in several New Persian words: see for example "مرغ" ("margh"), "a species of grass of which animals are exceedingly fond"; and "مرو" ("marv"), "a fragrant herb." (Interestingly, the related Sanskrit मरुव "maruva" ultimately gives the English "marjoram" by way of Latin and Old French.)

[1] The term may also refer to the genus Maerua (to which it gives its name), and in particular the species Maerua crassifolia.

[2] See also Müller-Kessler, p. 10, and note 41 on p. 29; MacKenzie, p. 55.

Sage and Palestinian Culture

Three-lobed sage is one of the "most deeply rooted plants in the Palestinian traditional culture and ethnobotany," being the second-most-mentioned of all foraged plants (after za'tar) in a survey conducted in 2008. The connection of three-lobed sage to Maryam leads to its use in creating protective blessings at various rituals from birth until death; in the Galilee, it is burned to guard against the evil eye and to expel demons at births, weddings, and at the graves of holy people. When consumed, it is believed to help with many ailments including stomach complaints, eye diseases, and insomnia, and is used to treat livestock as well as humans.

Maryamiyya is not commonly grown as a garden herb in Palestine; rather, it is foraged from its wild range across the mountains of the West Bank, where it scents the air. Like za'atar and labna, using maryamiyya for culinary purposes is connected to Palestinian identity throughout all regions, with some people asserting that every Palestinian household must have some in stock.

Tea made with the addition of sage is perhaps the most popular herbal tea in Palestine, especially in the winter: though mint, chamomile, and aniseed are also commonly infused in water and drunk. Other varieties of sage grow in Palestine and are produced and exported by Palestinian farmers [1], but Gustaf Dalman noted in the early 20th century that three-lobed sage was the most important variety:

Of the spicy-smelling labiate flowers, which assume a significant role in the flora of Palestine, numerous sage varieties bloom in the spring. Among these the Salvia triloba, with violet flower heads on a tall shrub, is not the most colorful but is the best known, called in the north 'ēzaqān [عِيزَقَانْ] and in the south miryamīye, mēramīye thus connecting it with the Virgin Mary. (trans. Nadia Abdulhadi Sukhtian)

During the spring, sage leaves are collected and air-dried for use in tea throughout the whole year. Tea may also be made from fresh leaves, but some people consider dried to be superior. Dried maryamiyya leaves are purchased by Palestinian refugees and expatriates wherever they are. Food is thus tied to locality, memory, resistance, and terroir—a groundedness in land that considers aspects as diverse and interconnected as soil, climate, and politics. A concept of terroir in agriculture and cooking brings out how products "register[] origin and provenance."

[1] Today, the vast majority of Palestinian herb exports are to the United States, but Palestinian farmers are not able to export goods themselves—they rely on Israeli distributors and exporters, which cuts into their profits and curtails their autonomy.

Criminalizing Foraging

Ali-Shtayeh et al. noted in 2008 that the gathering of wild edible plants had been in decline in the Palestinian territories throughout preceding decades, with many young people lacking the cultural knowledge to identify and prepare wild plants. They mention several possible reasons for the decline, including an increase in intensive agriculture, improvement in national networks of roads, and the fact that some middle-aged people associate foraging with times of poverty. But we should also consider the fines, arrests, and potential imprisonment that Palestinians risk when foraging wild plants for food as a likely cause for the decline in the practice.

There are two strains of law relevant to the criminalization of foraging in "Israel" and the occupied Palestinian territories (the West Bank and Gaza: henceforth "OPT"). The first consists of primary laws which establish the right of representatives of the Israeli government to declare a plant to be a protected "natural value" (ערכי טבע), and lay out the maximum penalties people can be charged with for causing "harm" ("פג'עה") to a protected plant; the second comprises secondary declarations in the form of lists of which plants are considered protected.

The 1963 Natural Parks and Nature Reserve Law (חוק גנים לאומיים ושמורות טבע, תשכ"ג - 1963) belongs to the first strain. It empowered the Minister of Agriculture to declare a plant to be protected within "Israel," subject to the approval of a government council (ch. 5, 40-42); and declared that harming a plant was an offence punishable by up to three months' imprisonment (chapter 6).

In the text of the law, "harm" is specifically defined to include "picking," "קטיפה," and "gathering," "נטילה." No systematic distinction is established based on how much of the plant was harvested, and whether the plant was foraged for personal or commercial purposes. Nor is there any qualification of what qualities a plant should have to be considered "protected," or any obligation for the government to pursue or present scientific evidence that a given plant is overharvested.

In 1969, The Decree on the Protection of Nature (צו בדבר הגנה על הטבע) (Military Order no. 363) gave similar authority to the occupying military, and criminalized foraging in the OPT. Military orders are enforced by military courts, whereas offenders in "Israel" go through civil courts.

Several plants were already on the list of protected natural values at this time, but they were not commonly foraged for food. 1977 proved a signal year in this regard: with the "Proclamation of National Parks and Nature Reserves" [אכרזת גנים לאומיים ושמורות טבע (ערבי טבע י מוגנים), תשל״ח -1977], Minister of Agriculture Ariel Sharon (אריאל שרון) added za’tar ("אזוב מצוי") and maryamiyya ("מרוה משולשת") to the list. The inclusion of these plants, and especially za'tar, was more disastrous and insulting than previous bans on foraging had been. Za'tar, besides being a source of food and income for many poor or disabled Palestinians, has immense cultural significance in Palestine.

Arab Palestinians—and only Arabs—were arrested, fined, and even imprisoned, with no clear correspondence between the amount they had foraged and their sentencing. Most of the recorded court cases in "Israel" deal with za'tar, though court cases in legal databases show that Palestinians were also fined and tried for foraging maryamiyya (FN 38). An atmosphere of intimidation prevailed, with many habitual foragers feeling newly afraid to leave their homes.

In 1998, a new National Parks, Natural Reserves, National Sites and Memorial Sites Law [חוק גנים לאומיים, שמורות טבע, אתרים לאומיים ואתרי הנצחה, תשנ"ח-1998] replaced the prior National Parks law (of 1992, which had itself replaced the aforementioned 1963 law). It removed the necessity for an ecological council to approve the Minister's declaration of a "protected" status, and increaed the maximum prison time for a violation of the law to three years. Throughout all periods, however, the penalty usually imposed has been a fine.

Since the imposition of the harsher law, two notable updates have been made to the list of protected plants: the 2005 list of Protected Natural Assets) [אכרזת גנים לאומיים, שמורות טבע, אתרים לאומיים ואתרי הנצחה (ערכי טבע מוגנים), התשס״ה–2005] replaced the 1979 list, and added عَكُوب ('akoub; "עכובית הגלגל"), a culturally important and commonly foraged thistle. [1] Za'tar and maryamiyya remained on the list. The 2005 declaration also specifies that the species on the list are protected if they are wild, but not if they are cultivated (section 3). This provision allows Israeli farmers to profit from the farming and sale of za'tar.

The second notable update came in 2019: the Nature and Parks Authority (שרשות הטבע והגנים) announced that it would redact the absolute ban on harvesting za'tar, maramiyya, and 'akoub, instead setting a maximum allowable amount for household consumption and cracking down on the sale of these plants, rather than on foraging itself.

Activists believe this partial measure to have occurred as a result of legal and public pressure instigated by an open letter which human rights lawyer Rabea Eghbariah sent the Israeli Attorney General and Environmental Protection Minister requesting that za'tar, 'akkoub, and maryamiyya be removed from the "protected" list in advance of their foraging seasons, noting the inconsistency in sentencing and the law's disproportionate criminalization of Palestinians. (The specific cultural importance of these three plants is attested by the fact that they, among the dozens of species considered "protected," form the basis of Eghbariah's complaint.) The Nature and Parks Authority (NPA), however, insisted that an independent assessment, and not public criticism, had led them to announce the change in policy. And fines levied at Palestinian foragers did continue despite the announced change in policy, at least through March 2020.

Nor is the change complete in scope, even if it were being upheld. Eghbariah notes that "It is not yet clear if the change will also apply [in the West Bank] - and there it is a parallel system, less transparent and much more predatory. The enforcement is much worse, including the confiscation of cars, and the judgment is in a military court. We will continue to monitor."

[1] Eghbariah writes that the "Protected Natural Values Declaration (Amendment No. 2) (Judea and Samaria), 1978" added za'tar and maramiyya to the list in the OPT, and the "Protected Natural Values Declaration (Amendment No. 2) (Judea and Samaria), 2004" added 'akoub. I have been unable to find or independently verify the text of either declaration. From a list of secondary legislation related to military orders, I believe the declaration being amended is "הכרזה בדבר ערכי טבע מוגנים (יהודה והשומרון), התשל"ג - 1973".

[ID: Light shone through a blue glass vase is cast over the bundle of sage and glass of tea. End ID]

"Preservation" and Green Colonialism

Of course, Palestinians and activists also suspect that the underlying purpose of the ban is to starve and intimidate Palestinians, rather than any real concern with nature. Israeli botanist Nativ Dudai points out that foraging causes much less harm to these plants than Israeli bulldozers do. Samir Naamneh, who sells foraged produce, also dismisses the environmentalist excuse for the ban on foraging:

We feel, and we know, and we’re sure, that the laws are made, on principle, against the Arab residents of the country, to hurt their livelihoods. It’s part of the pressure that Israel puts on us to starve us out.

The 1977 decision to add za'tar and maryamiyya to the protected plants list was ostensibly taken in accordance with a report submitted by a group of Israeli ecologists, which suggested that the species were in danger due to over-foraging. However, Israeli forager Yatir Sade (יתיר שדה) suggests that the converse may be true, and that the people who wrote the report might have taken their cues from the government.

On June 20, 1977, the inauguration of the Begin (בגין) Cabinet marked the first time that a right-wing party had held a majority in the Knesset; this dramatic change in Israeli politics would come to be called "המהפך" ("HaMahapakh"), "the revolution" or "the upheaval."

Sade's research reveals that, about a week later, on June 27, 1977, a team of ecologists at the NPA submitted a list of species to the Legal Bureau at the Ministry of Agriculture (משרד החקלאות), suggesting that they be declared protected. The list is accompanied by a letter of legal advice signed by a partner in the law firm Reva, Shein, Katz & Co. This initial suggested list did not include four species which would end up on the final 1977 list, all of them important culinary and medicinal herbs among Palestinians and Bedouin Arabs: babonj (בבונג / بابونج / golden chamomile), maryamiyya, za'tar, and ss'atr barriyy (صعتر بري / קורנית מקורקפת / Persian hyssop). [1]

But about four months later, on October 16, another letter was sent on behalf of the same law firm, requesting that these four species be added to the "protected" list, and that the standard procedure for adding them be expedited. Accordingly, on November 2, only a few days after receiving the letter, the Minister's office published the final declaration, with golden chamomile, maryamiyya, za'tar, and Persian hyssop newly added. The new Minister of Agriculture Ariel Sharon (אריאל שרון), part of the First Begin Cabinet and co-founder, with Menachem Begin, of the right-wing party HaLikud (הליכוד), signed the new declaration. It therefore seems likely that these plants were added to the list for political reasons and precisely because of their importance to Palestinian Arabs, rather than from any ecological concern.

It is also relevant that the 1963 and 1998 laws which criminalized foraging also laid out guidelines for the creation of national parks, nature reserves, and military and state memorial land. The text of the 1998 law, in particular, describes the goals behind creating these sites, and gives the council it establishes the authority to do anything necessary to promote those goals. These goals include to "protect natural and heritage sites" ("הגן על ערכי הטבע והמורשת"); to "maintain international scientific relations" in the field of nature conservation ("קיים קשרים מדעיים בין-לאומיים") ; to promote education about conservation among youth and students (7. (א)); and to promote travel and tourism (14. (א)).

Many discourses and strategies can here be seen operating together. The creation of nature reserves, state heritage sites, and military memorial land all within the text of the same law explicitly connects environmentalism to patriotism; creates special reasons for bringing land under state control, and imposing special codes of behavior on this land (i.e., natural and heritage sites); connects environmentalism to state ownership and control of land, and connects both to the education of youth and the creation of the ideal Israeli civic subject; uses environmentalism to promote Israel internationally as a scientific authority, a responsible steward of land (unlike the indigenous population), and thus a legitimate state; and sanitizes and 'advertizes' Israel internationally by associating sites of destruction, annexation, and ethnic cleansing with the concepts of environmental protection, natural beauty, preservation, and heritage.

Israel frequently declares land a "nature reserve" as a method of annexation, only to later build settlements on it (see Karimi-Schmidt p. 369 ff). Palestinians are forbidden from foraging certain plants within nature reserves (other plants are forbidden for foraging everywhere), and from constructing on them; they are thus alienated from this land, and dissociated from the ways in which they have long related to it. Yatir Sade points out that the four plants added to the original 1977 draft of the protected species list are typically harvested out in open areas, rather than within yards and villages; declaring these areas nature reserves, or arresting Arabs who enter them under suspicion of foraging, prevents Palestinians from moving freely, and from claiming any connection to the land. [3]

The "Green Patrol" (HaSayeret HaYeruka / הסיירת הירוקה), the enforcement unit for the NPA, was founded in 1976 by then-Minister of Agriculture Aharon Ozan and director of the Israel Land Administration Meir Zore, for the specific purpose of policing "open areas" (שטחים פתוחים) which had been declared state land, and preventing Palestinians from "tresspassing" ("הסגות גבול") or illegally building in these areas. [4] Through these strategies, land is appropriated for the state's and settlers' purposes under the guise of environmentalism.

In much the same way, the list of protected species is ultimately about using environmental science to cement state authority. Irus Braverman points out that endangered species lists function as a means of regulation, not least by being ostensibly objective: "their global power, mobility, and ubiquity derive from their configuration as scientific, technical, and quantitative, and therefore as neutral and apolitical." The protected species list thus joins other "environmental infrastructures," such as renewable energy and agricultural technologies, as a "mechanism[] for land appropriation and dispossession" of the indigenous population: together, these infrastructures make up a strategy that is alternately called greenwashing, green grabbing, and green colonialism.

[1] Letter regarding the declaration of national parks and nature reserves (protected natural values), 1977, from Ofir Katz to Tovi R. [מכתב בנושא אכרזת גנים לאומיים ושמורות טבע (ערכי טבע מוגנים) תשל"ז-1977, מאופיר כץ לטובי ר'], 6/27/1977. In: Proclamation of National Parks and Nature Reserves (Protected Natural Values), Ministry of Agriculture and Rural Development [אכרזת גנים לאומיים ושמורות טבע (ערכי טבע מוגנים), משרד החקלאות ופיתוח הכפר], January 1965–October 1982. State Archives, ISA-moag-moag-00119qy, pp. 164-175.

[2] Letter regarding a proposal to declare national parks and nature reserves (protected natural values), 1977, from Ofir Katz to Tovi R., [מכתב בנושא הצעה לאכרזת גנים לאומיים ושמורות טבע (ערכי טבע מוגנים) תשל"ז-1977] 10/24/1977. In: Proclamation of National Parks and Nature Reserves (Protected Natural Values), Ministry of Agriculture and Rural Development, January 1965–October 1982. State Archives, ISA-moag-moag-00119qy, p. 160.

[3] Yatir Sade, Master's thesis, pp. 68-9. Personal communication.

[4] Sade points out that Yehuda Reva (יהודה רווה), another partner of the law firm that provided legal advice on the matter of the 1977 protected species list, was also prominent in helping the Green Patrol expropriate Palestinian land and property within the bounds of Israeli law (Master's thesis, p. 44, FN 34).

Foraging and Food Sovereignty

The disastrous effect of these strategies and regulations should not be understated—but nor should their power to control Palestinians' behavior be overstated. Palestinians reference specific plants in writing and in art (including ceramics and tatreez), bring dried herbs to family members abroad, purchase or grow important culinary plants wherever they live in the diaspora, and continue to forage plants despite harassment and the risk of fines and arrest. Plants are an important way of symbolizing, and of practicing, resistance, resilience, and rootedness in history and in the land.

Foraging can be a strategy of reconnection in defiance of dispossession. Rochelle Davis notes that Palestinians often visit the villages from which they were displaced in order to gather grape leaves and herbs, “ingesting the place by consuming the land’s produce” (p. 172). Through this practice, as Anne Meneley puts it, "[e]ating becomes an act of momentary repossession."

The message boards on PalestineRemembered.com attest to this practice. When Mouttaz Ammoura returned to الطيرة (Al-Tira), the village from which his family was displaced, he noted maramiyya as the one plant he brought back with him:

Now I live in Canada, but far-away from AL-TIRA. When I came back, I brought with me some sand, maramieh, few stones, & water from Tirat Haifa. Yes, I brought all of that to remember al-Tira & to have it close to my hart back in Canada.

In an interview conducted in a Palestinian refugee camp in 1998, women demonstrate this same association of plant life with place:

They spoke of the names of land plots around ~ Tjzim (Wadi al-Nahel, Durat al-Qamar, Shana), and the act of naming evoked an aura of magic for those who remembered the places [...]. They also related to the wild plants. The women, who felt we had shifted to familiar ground, called out the names — khubeize (mallow), ‘aqub (tumble thistle), maramiyyeh (sage), za’atar (thyme).

Mirna Bamieh's Palestine Hosting Society put on an Edible Wild Plants Table, which registered the connection of foraging to place, local knowledge, and temporality. The project, which focused on "identifying the names, forms, locations and availability of wild plants in Palestine’s nature," involved a menu created from foraging in the mountainous regions of Palestine during the blooming season "from mid-January until the end of February."

Foraging is also one strategy among many that Palestinians use—alongside instituting agricultural innovations, creating native seed banks, educating about Palestinian cuisine, and seeking out contracts with foreign markets—to attain food self-sufficiency and sovereignty. It is therefore both a symbolically defiant strategy, and a practical one. Palestinians illustrate a belief in the illegitimacy of Israel's laws and claims, and insist on the primacy of their relationship to the land, when they forage for food.

When asked whether he believed that 2020 would bring the promised relaxation in criminalization of foragers, Samir Naamneh, who has been repeatedly fined, arrested, and tried over the past decades, told Dror Foyer (דרור פויר):

"We'll live and see, but it won't change anything for me: whether it's allowed or not, I'm going to forage. I do the work I love, and I'm at peace with myself. The fact that I'm making a statement to the State of Israel and their law—that's enough for me."

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Palestinian heirloom seeds

Ingredients:

250g filtered water

2.5g (1 1/2 tsp) high-quality loose leaf black tea

4g (1 1/2 Tbsp) dried three-lobed sage, or substitute another variety of sage

Sugar, to taste (optional)

Dried three-lobed sage can be purchased from a Palestinian brand such as Al-'Ard or Yaffa (not "Jaffa").

Instructions:

1. Combine tea with just-boiled water and steep for two minutes.

2. Add sage and steep for another minute.

3. Pour into tea glasses and serve hot.

Times and quantities are geared towards producing a tea that is mild enough to be enjoyed without sugar. Adjust as per preference.

#Palestinian #sage #tea #drinks #long post /#foraged

373 notes · View notes

aphroditelovesu · 2 months ago

Text

Persians

❝commission: another one shot that explores y/n's life as a captive (and pregnant!) Queen in Babylon. I'd ideally like it to include some sort of interaction with one or more of the Persians (ie Bessus, Darius, Bagoas) but I'm fine with you taking creative liberties so long as we get to see what's y/n's been up to before Alexander gets to Babylon. — requested by 💻 anon.

❝ 📜 — lady l: It's been a while since I wrote something like this but I'm happy with the result! I hope you like it and forgive me for any mistakes. Another story for the TLQ universe! ❤️

❝tw: slight threat.

❝word count: 2,921.

Life in Babylon was not what you had expected when you were taken captive, but surprisingly, it was kind to you. Although technically you were a prisoner, the reality was far from what one would imagine for someone in that role. There were no shackles, only silken veils. There was no scarcity, only abundance. What should have been a prison had become a kind of gilded exile, where you enjoyed comforts that had previously seemed unattainable.

Your freedom had its limits, of course. You could wander through the bustling markets and lush gardens of Babylon, but always under the watchful eye of the guards that Darius had assigned to follow your every step. They were not hostile, just firm, as if they were more protectors than jailers. This was a direct order from the Persian king himself, and no one dared to defy it. After all, disobeying Darius was a risk that few were willing to take.

It was impossible to ignore the speculation that such kindness generated. Perhaps it was a political gesture, a reflection of the warmth Alexander had shown the Persian king's family after his conquests. Or perhaps Darius was trying to ensure his own safety in the event that Babylon fell to Macedonian rule. But in the end, these were not your concerns. What mattered was that you were treated as someone of great importance, and that in itself was a relief amid the uncertainty.

The luxuries that now filled your life were unimaginable in the days when you traveled with the Macedonians. Here, resources seemed endless. Fine clothes, rare perfumes, and exotic dishes were part of your routine. You were attended to by devoted servants and received a treatment that only extended to the highest members of the court. There was no doubt about it: you were revered as a queen.

And Queen you were, even on the enemy side. This title was not just a formality; it carried with it a weight that not even the Persians dared to ignore. The respect shown to you went beyond any political or military rivalry. You were someone whose position transcended borders and conflicts, and this ensured that, at least for the time being, your stay in Babylon would be comfortable, almost pleasant.

You sat on the balcony of your room, savoring fresh fruit that had been served on an ornate silver plate. The warm breeze carried the distant scent of dry earth, but the now cloudy sky suggested that the long-awaited rain was about to fall. It was rare for it to rain during the scorching months of the Babylonian summer, and many in the city considered it a bad omen.

For you, however, the rain was a welcome relief. Ever since you were a child, you had loved the sound of the drops hitting the ground, the coolness it brought to the air, the unique scent that emanated from the wet earth. It was a comfort that seemed almost familiar to you, a distant memory of simpler times.

As you admired the heavy clouds dancing in the sky, a soft voice broke the silence.

"Would Your Majesty like anything else?"

You turned quickly, an instinctive reflex that betrayed your constant tension. However, the stiffness in your shoulders disappeared when your eyes met the face of Bagoas, the Persian eunuch who was your servant — or slave, as the court preferred to call him.

Bagoas was a gift from Darius, given to you shortly after your arrival in Babylon. While many saw him as mere property, you couldn’t accept that idea. To you, he was more than an object or an obligation; he was a human being with his own pains and stories.

Yet the reality of his situation was inescapable. Freeing him was a desire that burned in your heart, but for now, it remained beyond your reach. There was no way to give him the freedom he deserved. You didn’t have the resources or the power to do so now.

Even so, you treated him with all the dignity you could offer. You tried to ease the burden of his condition whenever possible. It was a small gesture, perhaps insignificant to some, but to you, it was important.

As Bagoas stood before you, politely waiting for your response, you made a mental note: when this was all over, when Alexander captured Babylon — and you believed he would — you would free Bagoas. More than that, you would reward him for his service by ensuring that he had a dignified and comfortable life.

It was a dream, perhaps a little naive, but it was something you held on to firmly. Because, in the midst of all the uncertainty and chaos, believing that you could do something good for someone else was what gave you the strength to carry on.

"No, thank you, Bagoas. I’m fine." You replied with a slight smile, trying to convey reassurance.

The eunuch simply bowed his head in a respectful gesture and began to leave, but you called out to him before he could take the first step.

"Bagoas, wait."

He stopped immediately, his deep brown eyes meeting yours. There was something about the intensity of his gaze that always made you slightly uncomfortable, as if he saw more than you cared to reveal. You adjusted yourself on the cot, crossing your legs in an effort to appear more at ease.

"Are you hungry?" You asked, pointing to the fruit platter beside you. The plate was piled high with fresh, sweet delicacies, a true luxury in times like these, accompanied by a glass of wine that remained untouched. "I’m not very hungry, and it would be a waste to leave this out."

There was a good reason why the wine remained untouched. You were pregnant. Although at that time wine was often considered safer than water, you didn’t want to take any chances. It was a simple precaution, but one that you insisted on maintaining. It might still be early in the pregnancy, but you were already attached to the life growing inside you.

Bagoas tilted his head slightly, which seemed to be a gesture of surprise, before murmuring with his usual softness:

"That’s very kind, but I’m not hungry."

You pursed your lips, studying him carefully. He was too thin, almost skeletal. You imagined that this was due to both his condition as a slave and his "profession" as a dancer. He needed to maintain a slim physique, but this seemed excessive, almost unhealthy. Something in you revolted at this.

"I would like some company." You insisted, your voice coming out a little firmer than intended. Maybe even harsh, but you didn’t mean to intimidate him. You took a deep breath and softened your tone, "Please."

Bagoas hesitated for a moment, his expression remaining neutral, but you saw the tension in his shoulders relax slightly. He took a step forward, obeying your request. It wasn’t often that someone in your position insisted that he stay, and the gesture didn’t go unnoticed by him.

As he approached, you pushed the tray aside, indicating for him to sit. You weren’t sure exactly why you felt the need to keep him close at that moment. Maybe it was the heavy silence that surrounded you, or the need for a human gesture in a place where everything seemed cold and calculated. Whatever the reason, you knew you didn’t want to be alone.

Although Bagoas' company was silent, you felt comfortable around the eunuch. And from the slight smile on his stoic, handsome face, you knew he felt the same, even if he didn’t show it.

The little gestures really do count.

It was a rare occasion to be summoned for an audience with Darius. The Persian king generally preferred to keep you away from the intrigues of the court and the politics that were raging around him, especially now, considering your condition. You knew that this distancing was motivated more by political expediency than personal kindness, but it was a relief nonetheless. The last thing you needed was more stress amidst the chaos that already dominated your life.

Sighing deeply, you smoothed the red tunic you wore, trying to calm your nervousness before entering the room. The fabric slid softly under your fingers, but it did nothing to dispel the feeling of unease growing in your chest. As you crossed the threshold, your eyes immediately fell on Darius, sitting in the center of the opulent room. He smiled warmly, as he always did when he saw you, a polite gesture that you were unsure if it was genuine or strategic.

Beside him, however, stood Bessus, whose presence was like a thorn in your flesh. Just seeing him made your stomach turn. Every few interactions you’d had with him had been unpleasant enough to last a lifetime. His dark eyes glittered piercingly as he watched you, his expression colder than Darius’s, almost as if he were sizing you up.

Darius, however, maintained his serene and welcoming posture, pointing to a chair next to Bessus, "Welcome. Please, have a seat."

You hesitated for a brief moment, but knew that refusing was not an option. You walked to the indicated place with controlled steps, each movement calculated to mask the discomfort you felt. The air seemed thicker there, charged with unspoken tension, and as you took your seat, you couldn’t help but wonder what the reason for this unusual meeting was — and if Bessus was part of the reason you had been summoned.

Darius cleared his throat before standing, moving with the calm and elegance expected of a king. He took a jug of wine from a nearby sideboard and began filling the cups on the table: first Bessus’s, then yours, and lastly his own. You smiled politely and thanked him in a low tone, even though you knew you wouldn’t touch the drink.

"Why don’t we get straight to the point?" Bessus said abruptly, breaking the silence. His eyes, cold and calculating, turned to Darius, who sighed at his relatives' impatience.

With a resigned look, Darius sat back down, adjusting himself in his chair and straightening his back in a regal posture. He picked up his wine glass, taking a sip before speaking, "What my relative means," He began, his tone gentler than Bessus’s, "is that we would like to hear your opinion on Alexander’s next moves."

You froze for a brief moment, feeling the weight of Darius’s words. This was it. Of course it was. Your heart began to beat faster as your mind processed the situation.

Undeterred by the storm that was brewing inside you, you placed one hand on the table and the other instinctively on your belly. Your gaze fell on the surface of the table as you tried to gather your thoughts. What could you possibly say?

Normally, you would have a clear idea of Alexander’s next steps. Before all this, before you were thrown into this time, you knew his story from books, studying his military campaigns, his strategies, and even the consequences of his decisions. But now... Everything was wrong.

The events unfolding before you did not match what you knew. History had changed, and that left you completely disoriented. And even if you knew what Alexander would do, you could not, would not betray him. You couldn't, even if you wanted to.

Betrayal, after all, was something you could not bear. Not like Perdiccas did. And more than that, you knew that a Persian victory could be catastrophic. The Hellenistic Age had to happen, whether you wanted it or not. It was a crucial moment in the development of Western civilization, a turning point that could not be avoided.

Taking a deep breath, you looked up, trying to appear calm and thoughtful.

"It’s hard to predict Alexander’s moves." You began, choosing your words carefully, "He’s an unpredictable man, and his strategic mind is... Unique. Every step he takes seems calculated, but at the same time, he’s capable of surprises that no one expects."

You stopped, looking at the two men in front of you.

"However, I believe that underestimating him would be a fatal mistake. He’s ambitious, yes, but he’s also much more than that. He fights with a determination that comes from something greater than just power or conquest."

You sighed and frowned slightly, "I don’t know what he’ll do next. Alexander hasn’t shared his plans with me, so I’m of no use to you in this matter."

Darius tilted his head slightly, considering your words. Bessus, on the other hand, just narrowed his eyes, clearly dissatisfied with the lack of concrete information. You stood firm, knowing that even surrounded by suspicion, you had protected not only Alexander, but the course of history.

Darius sighed deeply and turned calmly to Bessus.

"Satisfied? I told you this would be useless." His tone was slightly irritated.

Bessus took a sip of his wine before setting the cup down with deliberate slowness. He arched an eyebrow, a thin smile forming on his lips.

"Really? But then, why don’t I believe a word our guest is saying?"

His words struck you like a sharp blade. Your heart raced, the discomfort in your chest growing rapidly. There was something in the way he spoke, so full of venom, that it made your skin crawl. He was testing you, teasing you, trying to draw out something from you that he suspected was hidden.

You kept your eyes locked on his, feeling the anger rise inside you, hot and pulsing. It was rare that you allowed yourself to feel something so intense, but Bessus seemed to have a talent for bringing out the worst in you. His gaze hardened, his voice coming out firm, almost defiant.

"I'm not lying."

The room seemed to grow quieter, as if even the air had stopped to listen. Bessus leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes taking in every detail of your face. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to say something else, but Darius intervened, his deep voice cutting through the tension.

"Bessus, that’s enough." The authority in his tone left no room for argument. He turned to you, offering you an almost placating smile. "Forgive my relative. He has a tendency to be... Too direct."

You only nodded slightly, though anger still burned inside you. You wanted to say more, but you knew that any extra words could be used against you. Bessus remained silent, but the suspicious glint in his eyes told you that he was still not convinced.

The tension in the room was palpable, but you knew that you had come away from this confrontation without compromising yourself. For now.

Darius frowned slightly, clearly bothered by Bessus’s stance. He placed his wine glass on the table with a deliberate gesture and stood up.

"Bessus, you are no longer needed." Darius spoke, his voice low but full of authority. He looked at his relative with a mixture of patience and warning. "Why don’t you give us a moment?"

Bessus looked like he wanted to protest, but Darius’s steady gaze made it clear there was no room for objection. He snorted discreetly, pushing his chair back with a loud thud and standing up.

"As you wish, Your Majesty." Bessus replied, his tone dry and barely concealing his displeasure. He gave you one last look, his eyes still full of suspicion, before leaving the room.

When the door closed behind him, Darius sighed heavily, as if he had just dealt with an especially stubborn child. He sat back down, relaxing his posture a little, and looked at you with a friendlier expression.

"Forgive Bessus," Darius said with a slight shake of his head. "He is an intense man. And, unfortunately, a bit suspicious by nature."

You nodded, trying to remain calm. You could still feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins, but the absence of Bessus made the atmosphere considerably lighter.

Darius studied you for a moment before continuing, his tone now more relaxed:

"I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you for your... Patience. I know your situation here is not exactly what you would have chosen, but I hope you know that we are doing our best to make you comfortable."

His words seemed genuine, and for a moment you felt less like a prisoner and more like a guest — though you still knew full well that it was a precarious position.

"Thank you, Your Majesty." You responded softly, trying to hide the confusion you felt.

He smiled, a gesture that seemed almost fatherly.

"You are very perceptive, you know? I see it in the way you choose your words. A rare but appreciated talent in a Queen."

You blinked, surprised by the unexpected compliment. You didn’t know if he was trying to manipulate you or if he truly admired your ability to navigate the delicate political dance of that court.

Darius raised his cup again, though not to toast, but to sip the wine calmly.

"Now, please tell me," He began, his tone almost casual, "is there anything we can do to make your stay more pleasant?"

The friendly gesture took you by surprise, but the question seemed sincere. It was hard not to wonder what the true intention behind his kindness was.

But maybe... Maybe Darius really was just kind and cared enough about you.

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