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vibelladonna · 28 days ago

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❛ 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝑒 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝒻𝑒𝓂!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

· ───────⋆⋅♤⋅⋆─────── ·

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Sol is the academy’s golden boy—a perfectionist and top-tier artist everyone knows. His art is known for being precise, emotional, and insanely good. But now? He’s stuck, completely out of ideas for his final project. The pressure’s crushing him. Nothing he draws feels right. His professor, noticing how frustrated he is, suggests he should try a chill sketch workshop somewhere off-campus.

Sol’s skeptical, but he goes anyway. That’s where he sees them—someone who looks like they walked straight out of a painting. There’s something about them that hooks him instantly.

For the first time in forever, his pencil starts moving on its own.

A muse, the spark he’s been waiting for.

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

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: This story was requested by a college friend and a certain someone in my inbox. It features a female reader characterized by a curvy, classical beauty of ancient Greek depictions: a round face, full breasts, and soft, rounded curves. I've kept the second-person point of view, using "you/they/them" for inclusivity and gender-neutral readers!

Second, I was asked to make Sol a Sub. Of course, I wanted to write more to avoid writer's block, so I decided to make part two of this later down the road, so he's to your taste!

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: Fem! Reader, Teasing, Slow Burn, Muse/Artist Dynamic, Fluff with lots of Spice--Smut, Oral (giving), Sub!Sol, Dom!Reader.

· ─────── ⋅ ♤ ⋅ ─────── ·

The late afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows of the art classroom, casting golden beams across the scattered supplies and half-finished canvases. The room smelled of oil paint and charcoal, a mix that usually comforted Solivan Brugmansia. Today, though, it only reminded him how empty his sketchpad still was.

Sol sat at the back of the room, leaning over his desk. His black turtleneck and rolled-up sleeves made him look effortlessly polished, though faint smudges of graphite clung to his fingers. His sharp jawline tensed in concentration, reddish-orange eyes scanning the page as if willing something to appear. A mop of unruly black hair with green streaks fell across his forehead, and he absentmindedly pushed them back with an ink-streaked hand.

The classroom around him felt still, almost frozen in time. Easels stood in disarray, some tipped at odd angles like sentinels watching over the room. The wooden floor creaked faintly whenever Sol shifted in his seat, the only sound other than the occasional scratching of his pencil.

He’d tried everything: sketching a basket of fruit, copying the faces of students in old pictures pinned to the corkboard, even closing his eyes, and drawing lines inspired by the music playing softly from his phone. Nothing worked. Every line he made felt lifeless, every attempt another failure.

Sol exhaled sharply and leaned back, staring at the mess on his desk.

Dozens of crumpled sheets surrounded him, almost like it was drowning him. His reputation as the academy’s best artist was a double-edged sword. Everyone expected perfection, and he… well, he expected even more from himself. He thought back to when art had felt easy. As a kid, he could sketch for hours, losing himself in the flow of it. Now?

Now, it felt like dragging ideas out of a dried-up well.

“Focus,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. The final project wasn’t just another assignment. It was supposed to represent everything he’d learned at the academy, the culmination of years of work. His professor had called it a reflection of their souls. Sol wasn’t sure he had any soul left to reflect.

The sunlight shifted, painting the room in amber hues. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a glass cabinet filled with old brushes and paint tubes. To anyone else, he probably looked calm, and collected, like the golden boy he was rumored to be.

But inside? Inside, he felt like he was drowning.

His chest felt tight, as though the air in the room wasn’t enough. His fingers drummed nervously against the edge of his sketchbook, the sound barely audible but enough to betray his growing frustration. He glanced down at the blank page in front of him and frowned. It was infuriating—how could he be surrounded by so much potential inspiration and yet feel nothing?

Sol closed his eyes and tried to picture something… anything. A scene, a figure, a feeling. But all that came was the same oppressive emptiness, the weight of expectations pressing down on him like a stone. He opened his eyes with a sigh, leaning back and staring up at the high ceiling.

That was when the door creaked open. Sol turned his head, and there she was—Professor Lenox, stepping into the room. Her sharp eyes, framed by cat-eye glasses, immediately landed on him. A petite woman with an air of authority, her silver-streaked hair was pulled into a tight bun. She carried herself with the confidence of someone who’d seen it all and still cared deeply for her students.

“Solivan,” she said, her voice warm but firm. She tilted her head, taking in the scattered papers and the furrow in his brow. “You look like you’ve been trying to wrestle with a ghost.” Sol let out a small, bitter laugh. “Feels like it.” She walked closer, her heels clicking softly against the wooden floor. “I’ve seen that look before,” she said, setting a hand gently on the edge of his desk. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Sol looked up at Professor Lenox, her knowing gaze piercing right through him. He let out a huff, trying to disguise his frustration as a nonchalant sigh. “Guess I’m just having a block, Prof,” he said, the familiar excuse slipping off his tongue far too easily. “Can’t seem to draw a damn thing,” he added with a shrug, though his clenched jaw betrayed his agitation. His eyes flickered to the empty page in front of him, the barren canvas almost mocking him.

Professor Lenox observed him, immediately sensing the tension.

With a gentle hum, she decided to take a closer look at his sketchbook. “Interesting,” she started. “So it’s true that the perfect artist seems to have a creative block. Quite a bind, hm?”

Sol’s lips curled into a dry smile at her observation. The fact that he was known as the ‘perfect artist’ only added to the pressure weighing on him. “Guess even the perfect ones can have their off days,” he mused, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice.

He watched as she flipped through his sketchbook, her slender fingers tracing over the blank pages and scattered attempts, like a judge examining an unfinished painting. Professor Lenox hummed softly in both understanding and intrigue. Her eyes darted across the drawings, pausing on each failed attempt, each aborted project.

“Ah, I see,” Professor Lenox said quietly, her fingers still tracing over the pages. “Sometimes perfection can be... overwhelming. Expectations pile up like stones, weighing down on one’s creative soul.” She turned to look at Sol, her expression a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. “It seems your mind is trapped in an internal battle... Tell me, did something happen that might have caused this creative block?”

Sol’s shoulders tensed, his eyes darting to the side as Professor Lenox’s gaze drilled into him. He was good at keeping his emotions in check, but her uncanny ability to read him was always unsettling. “Nothing specific,” he said shortly, his voice almost a mumble. The truth was, he couldn’t very well tell her that his mind was occupied with someone else—someone who had consumed his thoughts like a fever.

Raising an eyebrow, her lips curled into a knowing smile. "Nothing specific, you say. But your tension tells a very specific story," she chuckled softly, her tone dipping slightly. "Sometimes, the best way to deal with a wall is to figure out what's holding it up."

Sol felt heat creep into his cheeks under Professor Lenox's sharp gaze, his usual mask of indifference threatening to crack. His hand fidgeted with the pencil, rolling it between his fingers like he could shift his unease away. "It's... personal," he muttered, his voice tighter than he intended. He glanced at her briefly, then looked away. Her perceptive eyes felt too much like an interrogation under the guise of kindness.

Lenox leaned in just slightly, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Personal, huh? Sounds like there’s someone in the equation." Her smile widened ever so slightly, teasing yet calm as if she already knew the answer.

Sol’s breath hitched, caught off guard by her bluntness. He tried to play it off with a scoff, running a hand through his hair, but his tight grip on the pencil betrayed him. "It’s not like that," he muttered quickly. "I’m just... under a lot of pressure for the final project. That’s all."

"Ah, the 'pressure'," Lenox repeated, her voice laced with subtle sarcasm. "And this 'pressure' doesn’t happen to have a name? Or a certain face?"

Sol's face burned, and his fingers gripped the pencil tighter. "It’s not... it’s nothing major," he whispered, looking down at the empty page in front of him. "Just... a crush." Lenox laughed softly, not unkindly. "A crush, is it? How refreshingly human of you, Solivan," she said with a small, wistful sigh. "Ah, the simplicity of youth... But don’t let it eat you alive. You need space to breathe, not just in life but in your art."

Her tone softened as she reached into her cardigan pocket and pulled out a card, sliding it onto his desk. "Here."

Sol blinked, his fingers stilling their nervous rhythm as he picked up the card. His eyes scanned the details, confusion flickering across his face. "What’s this?" he asked, glancing back at her. "Your next assignment," Lenox said smoothly. "Take a break. The deadline isn’t for two weeks, Solivan. You’re tying yourself into knots for nothing." Her smile lingered as she gestured to the card. "There’s a workshop class tonight. I’ll be hosting it off-campus. You should come."

Sol stared at her, caught between skepticism and curiosity. A workshop? During crunch time? It sounded counterproductive. "A workshop? For what?" he asked cautiously.

"To sketch, to breathe, to find your spark again," Lenox said simply. "You might even surprise yourself. Sometimes, inspiration doesn’t live in the places we expect it." She stepped back, her knowing smile intact. "Consider it, Solivan. You could use the change of scenery." And with that, she turned and left the room, her footsteps echoing faintly in the quiet space. Sol looked down at the card again, his mind swirling.

A workshop to find inspiration... or a distraction?

He let out a slow breath, tapping the edge of the card against the desk. The sunlight dimmed further, bathing the classroom in muted gold. Sol’s gaze drifted to the blank page on his desk. He didn’t want to admit it, but maybe—just maybe—Lenox was right.

Once the late evening came, a chill bit through Sol’s jacket as he stepped off the bus, holding the card in his gloved hand. The address was printed neatly on the thick paper:

404 Veridian Avenue, Studio B

No other information. Not even Professor Lenox’s name. It felt odd, cryptic even, but she had always been one for theatrics.

Sol glanced down at his phone as it guided him through the upscale part of the city. Towering brownstones and boutique storefronts lined the streets, their windows glowing warmly with light. It was the kind of neighborhood where the air smelled faintly of roasted chestnuts and fresh coffee, a stark contrast to the creative chaos of his usual art academy surroundings.

But then, the directions veered sharply. Sol frowned at his phone as it prompted him to turn down a narrow alley tucked between two artisan bakeries. Hesitating for a moment, he shoved the card back into his pocket and followed the path.

The alley was clean but dimly lit, the faint hum of distant streetlights and muffled voices bouncing softly against the old brick walls. It felt like stepping into a hidden pocket of the city, secluded and unassuming.

Halfway through, Sol spotted a door set into one of the walls, unmarked except for its heavy iron frame and chipped black paint. A small group of people stood just outside, some holding large carrying cases that likely contained sketchbooks, canvases, or other art tools.

Their clothes caught Sol’s attention: loose, relaxed layers—hoodies, oversized scarves, and joggers—practical for movement but seemingly unfazed by the brisk air that nipped at Sol’s nose. He adjusted his own coat, feeling slightly overdressed as his breath puffed in front of him.

Another person opened the door, holding it just long enough for the rest of the group to slip inside. Warm light spilled out momentarily, revealing a cozy, well-lit space before the door clicked shut again, leaving Sol alone in the chilly alley.

He stared at the door for a moment, the faint murmur of voices from within reaching his ears. With a deep breath, he stuffed his phone into his pocket and stepped forward, his fingers brushing the cold iron handle.

Pushing the door open, he stepped inside.

Sol immediately felt the warmth hit him, a stark contrast to the chilly night outside. He shrugged off his jacket, draping it over his arm as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The interior was unexpectedly massive, far larger than the unassuming door in the alley suggested. It felt like he’d stepped into an entirely different world.

The building had the structure of an old warehouse, its industrial bones softened by creative touches. Hallways stretched out in multiple directions, some leading to what looked like additional rooms beyond the so-called "studio." The hum of conversations and faint clatter of art supplies filled the air, weaving together with the low whir of the heating system.

Sol's boots tapped against the worn wooden floors as he walked further in. Around him, people clustered together in small groups, their faces illuminated by warm light. Makeshift classes appeared to be scattered throughout, each space marked off with folding dividers or chalked-out sections. Artists of all kinds shared their work, their voices overlapping with excitement as they critiqued and admired one another’s pieces.

He scanned the faces quickly, wondering who was in charge here. Based on the relaxed atmosphere, it seemed like the actual instruction had already wrapped up, but that didn’t faze him. Professor Lenox hadn’t mentioned a time, and Sol was relieved he hadn’t missed whatever this was supposed— workshop case.

As he wandered deeper, Sol noticed small signs on the walls beside the doors. Each bore a number, marking rooms like compartments on a train. He passed a few before spotting what he was looking for: 404.

He hesitated at the door, his fingers brushing the edge of the frame. Leaning just slightly inside, his eyes widened at the sight before him.

The room was grand and moody, the kind of space that could easily intimidate or inspire. Easels were arranged in neat rows, their dark frames catching the dim lighting that spilled from old-fashioned overhead fixtures. The floors were a deep, polished wood, worn in places but still gleaming faintly. Across the walls, streaks of black paint gave the room a raw, expressive edge, as if the building itself were part of the art.

People milled about inside, chatting as they prepared their tools��brushes, pencils, and charcoals scattered across shared tables. The soft scratch of graphite on paper and the faint aroma of turpentine filled the air. It felt like the calm before the storm of creation, a space alive with anticipation.

Sol exhaled softly. Good, he wasn’t late. Whatever this class workshop was, it hadn’t started yet.

“Ah, Solivan Brugmansia, you came.”

The voice made him jolt slightly, the smooth cadence instantly familiar. He turned, his heart sinking and soaring at the same time. Speak of the devil.

Professor Lenox stood by the doorway, arms loosely crossed and a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She looked every bit as composed as ever, her sharp eyes glinting with amusement. “You didn’t mention a time,” Sol said dryly, recovering enough to give her a half-hearted glare.

“And yet, here you are. Punctual as always,” Lenox replied, her smile widening just enough to make him wonder if she’d planned it this way. She tilted her head toward the room, motioning him inside.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Go find your place—your easel is waiting.”

Sol let out a low, almost inaudible sigh, his gaze lingering on the familiar figure of Professor Lenox, who had the uncanny ability to stir up a storm of emotions within him. He’d spent the entire day both dreading and anticipating this moment, knowing the workshop class would be a mixture of excitement and unease that would take him by surprise.

As he stepped into the room, the atmosphere hit him immediately—almost tangible in its intensity. The soft, ambient glow of the dim lighting and the gentle hum of students preparing their materials all combined to amplify the tension in the air. It was the kind of space where creativity was about to erupt, and it had a way of making him feel both energized and apprehensive.

A few students glanced up as Sol walked past, their eyes lingering for just a moment on his dark, alternative appearance before they returned to their work. His presence was always an anomaly in places like this, but it never failed to intrigue. He paused briefly at the easel, adjusting it to a more comfortable angle, then reached for his bag, pulling it closer. With a soft thump, he placed his supplies—a set of pencils, paints, and his worn sketchbook—onto the table.

"Ready for today's class?" a voice suddenly asked, causing Sol’s heart to skip a beat. He wasn’t used to anyone speaking to him, let alone initiating conversation. He looked up in surprise, his eyes meeting a familiar, unexpected face.

"Hyugo?" he said, his voice edged with shock.

Hyugo Sugimoto, his best and only friend, stood before him, looking just as youthful and carefree as ever. Hyugo had an oval-shaped face, still carrying the remnants of a babyish look, and sky-blue eyes that glimmered with a youthful sparkle. His hair was a striking shade of teal, short on top with shaggy layers at the back, and an unexpectedly long rat tail that hung down to the side. His outfit was simple but effortless—an untucked white short-sleeve button-up and tan pants that looked like they hadn’t been ironed in days.

"What the hell? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming here?" Sol asked, still reeling from the surprise.

"Duh, Professor Lenox asked me to," Hyugo replied with an easy grin, nonchalantly reaching for his supplies. Sol furrowed his brow. "Really? You're not even an art student."

Hyugo placed a hand dramatically over his chest, feigning offense. "You’re so hurtful. I might not be an art student, but I’ll have you know that my love for art knows no bounds."

Sol raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You skip class every time, though."

"Shhh," Hyugo said, putting a finger to his lips, and motioning toward the front of the room. "Professor Lenox is about to start."

Sol rolled his eyes, but his attention was already slipping back to his tools. His mind, however, was still racing with anticipation. He couldn’t help but glance over at Professor Lenox, who stood at the front of the room, her presence commanding attention as the chatter around the room gradually died down. Her voice, calm and measured, filled the space as she began the introduction for the evening’s class.

“Welcome, everyone,” she said, her tone warm but professional. “This space is yours for the night. A place for you to step away from the chaos of the outside world and dive into your artistic process. You’re here to create, to explore, and to find inspiration.” She paused, giving the students time to absorb her words, her gaze sweeping across the room, landing briefly on Sol and Hyugo before continuing.

“I want to remind you all that this is a closed-off environment, so no phones, so make sure they are fully turned off,” she said, her smile knowing. “This is a space where you can truly relax, embrace your creativity, and push past the boundaries of what you think you know about art. Tonight, we will have models to work with, so you can let your instincts guide you, without judgment or interruption.”

At that, a murmur of curiosity passed through the room. Some students looked around, eager to begin, while others seemed more hesitant, unsure of what was to come. Professor Lenox continued, unphased.

“And,” she added with a playful tilt of her head, “I’ve arranged for a little something extra to help ease the tension. Over at the back, you’ll find some wine. Feel free to pour a glass if you feel the need to loosen up.”

Her eyes flicked to the back corner of the room where a small table had been set up with a few bottles of red and white wine, along with empty glasses. A few of the students exchanged the idea of sipping wine while working on their art, adding an intriguing layer of comfort to the evening.

“Solivan, Hyugo,” she called out, directing a casual nod toward the pair, “You’re in the perfect spot to begin. Let the space guide you. And remember, this is not just about technical skill—it’s about finding a muse. Inspiration is all around you, and tonight, you might just discover yours.”

Sol nodded slowly, still processing the warmth of her words, but something in her tone made the anticipation in his stomach tighten further. He wasn’t sure what to expect from the night, but he had a feeling it was going to be something that would push his boundaries.

With a final glance toward the class, Professor Lenox moved toward a nearby door at the side of the room. She placed her hand on the handle and paused. The room fell into a near silence, everyone waiting.

“Everyone ready?” she asked, her voice carrying an air of mystery. A few seconds of stillness passed before she slowly opened the door with a soft crack, revealing what lay beyond. Sol’s breath caught in his chest. He stared at the scene unfolding before him, his eyes wide with shock. Hyugo’s face mirrored his own, both of them turning an unmistakable shade of red as their minds raced to process the unexpected turn of events.

Standing in front of them, poised and graceful, were several nude models, each with a calm and confident demeanor. The room seemed to shrink around Sol as the reality of the situation sank in.

This wasn’t just any drawing class—this was a nude figure drawing class.

The models, completely at ease with their vulnerability, stood in various poses, their bodies illuminated by the soft light spilling from the open door.

“Oh wow,” Sol muttered under his breath, still unable to fully grasp what was happening. He turned to Hyugo, his expression one of stunned disbelief. “Never thought it was... this.”

Hyugo, equally flustered, had his hand pressed to his forehead in a mix of embarrassment and surprise. His usual playful demeanor was replaced with wide eyes and a nervous chuckle. “I—I didn’t know either,” he stammered, the reality of the situation settling in like a heavyweight.

Sol couldn’t stop looking at the models, his face still burning with embarrassment. He had known the class would push him creatively, but he hadn’t anticipated this level of intimacy. The thought of drawing a nude model—especially with Hyugo standing right next to him—was enough to make his mind race and his heart thump faster. This workshop was not going to be anything like he’d expected.

“What’s wrong my dear,”

The soft yet insistent whisper came from Professor Lenox, who stood near the doorway, her voice barely audible over the hum of quiet conversation in the studio. Sol turned his head, seeing her gently coaxing someone to step forward. “This isn’t the first time, you know,” she said, her tone light but persuasive. “Are you sure you’re still okay with this? You don’t have to, especially with our setup tonight.”

A voice answered from the shadows, earnest but firm. “Please, ma’am,” it begged softly.

Lenox sighed, a patient smile spreading across her face, tinged with understanding. “All right,” she relented, her voice warm. “Just make sure to claim your spot in the front middle area, where the lighting is softer. That way, you won’t feel all the eyes on you at once.”

“Okay,” the voice agreed quietly.

Moments later, Professor Lenox stepped aside, gently guiding a young woman into the room. Her long hair cascaded around her shoulders like a dark waterfall, and in her hands, she held a simple white cloth, which she adjusted carefully over her frame. The fabric clung to her like a second skin, highlighting her figure while leaving just enough to the imagination.

Sol’s breath caught in his throat. His jaw slackened as his heart kicked into overdrive, thudding against his ribs with almost painful urgency. His pulse quickened, each beat a deafening drum in his ears.

It was you.

You stood there, illuminated by the soft glow of the studio lights, the faintest hint of warmth blooming across your cheeks. The delicate white cloth accentuated every curve, and yet your posture exuded a mix of confidence and vulnerability that was utterly arresting.

Sol’s grip tightened on the edge of his easel, his fingers digging into the wood for stability. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, his gaze roaming over you with equal parts disbelief and awe. His thoughts scrambled to make sense of the moment, but words evaded him entirely.

You noticed him immediately, of course. How could you not?

Sol’s stunned expression was impossible to miss. A knowing smile curved your lips, subtle yet tinged with amusement, as though you were fully aware of the effect you had on him. Your eyes met his, narrowing slightly in a playful challenge.

“Caught you staring. Is there something on my face?” your look seemed to tease, your head tilting just enough to give the impression of indifference. Yet the faintest flicker of pride glimmered in your expression, betraying a sense of satisfaction at his reaction.

Before Sol could stammer out a reply—if he could even form one—Professor Lenox’s voice broke through the haze.

“Solivan, are you comfortable with this?” she asked gently, her gaze flicking between you and him. “I should have checked before starting. I completely understand if you’d prefer not to be included in this exercise. It’s no problem if you’d rather step out.” Sol blinked, torn from his trance, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. He glanced back at you—standing there, wrapped in the thinnest veil of white, every line of your posture a quiet declaration of grace—and then back to Lenox, her expression patient and concerned.

He could barely hear his thoughts over the roar of his heartbeat. To stay or to leave—it should have been an easy choice. Yet, with you standing there, radiating a mix of poise and playful defiance, nothing about this moment felt simple.

Sol could feel the heat crawling up his neck, spreading to his cheeks like wildfire. His heart pounded so violently in his chest that he was convinced the entire room could hear it drumming in rhythm with his spiraling panic. Swallowing hard, he tried to steady his breath, but his voice betrayed him the moment he opened his mouth. “N-No, I’m… I’m fine. Really. I just…” His words faltered, slipping through his fingers like sand. He trailed off, his mind blank as the weight of the situation pressed down on him. “He’s perfectly fine, Professor Lenox!” Hyugo chimed in smoothly, his tone light and confident as he cut through the awkward tension.

You and the professor exchanged skeptical glances but eventually moved on, leaving Sol to deflate with a long, shaky sigh. Before Sol could even think about pulling himself together, Hyugo grabbed his arm and tugged him behind their easels. “Sunny, you need to calm down,” Hyugo said in a low voice, casting him a sidelong glance that bordered on exasperation.

“I’m calm,” Sol lied, gripping the edge of his easel as though it might ground him. But the rapid rise and fall of his chest betrayed him. His breathing was erratic, “Yeah, sure. Totally calm,” Hyugo replied with a smirk, folding his arms. “You’re about two seconds away from passing out. What’s got you so rattled anyway?”

Sol’s eyes darted to you across the room, a storm of emotions swirling in his gaze. He quickly looked away, as if the act of staring at you too long might somehow incriminate him. “I… I can’t help it,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hyugo raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess,” he said, his tone dripping with knowing sarcasm. “It’s the model.”

Sol swallowed hard, his face burning as Hyugo hit the nail on the head. “Yes! Okay? Yes, it’s them,” Sol admitted in a hushed, desperate tone. “They’re just—look at them! How am I supposed to not…” His voice cracked, and he gestured vaguely toward you, unable to finish the thought. Hyugo stared at him, utterly unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah, they’re beautiful or whatever. But you need to dial it back like now,” he said, his voice dropping into a warning tone. “Because if you don’t, you’re gonna embarrass yourself in front of literally everyone. And I mean, everyone.”

Sol rubbed his temples, willing himself to breathe slower. “I know, okay? I know! I’m trying!” Hyugo’s smirk widened into a grin that could only be described as mischievous. “Trying? Sol, you’ve been staring at them like a starved man at a buffet. Seriously, just don’t get a boner. I will personally kill you if you do.”

Sol’s eyes widened in sheer mortification. “What?!” His voice pitched higher, and he instinctively shifted his weight, his hands flying to adjust his pants in a panic. “Relax,” Hyugo said with a laugh, leaning casually against the easel. “You’re good. For now. But seriously, do whatever you need to do to calm down—and I don’t mean anything weird.”

“Hyugo!” Sol hissed, his face practically glowing with embarrassment. “Shut up! You’re making it worse!”

“I’m making it worse?” Hyugo’s grin was almost predatory. “You’re the one ogling like a creep. Look, just... breathe. Count backward from ten or something. But for the love of God, stop looking like you're gonna faint.” Sol shot him a glare, equal parts annoyed and amused despite his humiliation. “You are insufferable,” he muttered under his breath, taking another shaky breath. “Fine. I’ll... figure it out. Just stop talking.”

Hyugo smirked, giving him a mock salute. “Whatever you say, lover boy.”

With one last exasperated groan, Sol leaned back against the easel, doing his best to avoid looking in your direction. But no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts refused to cooperate, still spinning in chaotic circles around you.

Sol’s heart raced, each thud echoing louder in his ears as he watched you stand at the center of the room. His eyes followed every movement, the tension in the air thickening with every passing second. He swallowed hard, trying to pull his thoughts together, but the reality of the situation had a firm grip on him.

There you were, right in front of him, standing on a platform where the light caught your skin, drawing all attention to you.

Professor Lenox’s voice cut through the haze of Sol’s mind. “Chin up, my dear.” He gently tilted your head, adjusting the angle to capture the perfect light. Sol’s breath hitched as he watched Lenox carefully drape the cloth around your body, ensuring it hugged your curves with meticulous care, emphasizing the fullness of your breasts and the soft shape of your lower body. It was an artful, almost reverent display, and Sol couldn’t tear his gaze away, despite the deep embarrassment creeping up his neck.

“Perfect,” Lenox murmured as he took a step back, inspecting the pose from various angles. He gave you one last look, making sure the fabric was properly positioned and the light illuminated you just so, before turning to the class. “Okay, class. Start your drawings,” he announced, his tone clear and commanding. “I’ll be starting my work as well. Happy drawing, and make sure there’s no loud talking.”

The room went quiet as pencils met paper, the sound of sketching the only noise now filling the space. Sol’s hands gripped the edge of his easel tighter, fighting to keep his focus. He tried to breathe slowly, but his body wasn’t cooperating. His eyes kept drifting back to you, to the way the cloth wrapped around your body, the delicate curve of your neck, the subtle tension in your posture. It was like trying to ignore a flame in front of him, drawing him in.

Hyugo’s voice was a low whisper beside him. “Sunny, I don’t know how much longer you can keep pretending you’re fine. You’re staring at them.”

Sol’s face burned hotter than it had before. His mouth went dry, and he looked away, but the image of you, poised and serene on the platform, lingered in his mind. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, hoping his body wouldn’t betray him further. The cloth wrapped around you, the soft curves it accentuated—everything about the scene was etched into his brain.

"I can’t help it," Sol muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "How am I supposed to ‘not’ look?"

Hyugo, however, wasn’t buying it. He shot Sol an exasperated look, his tone flat. "Just control yourself. Seriously, no one’s judging you for being a normal human, but don't make it so obvious. Everyone’s here to draw, not to gawk."

Sol gritted his teeth, attempting to focus on anything but you. The sound of pencils scratching against paper and the faint murmur of hushed voices all blurred together as he tried to calm his mind. But it was impossible.

You were right there, a living, breathing work of art.

Professor Lenox’s voice echoed again, breaking the tension in the room. “Remember, class. Focus on the form. Capture the essence of the figure. Don’t get distracted by details.” Sol wasn’t sure if he was hearing Lenox’s words or his thoughts, but they did little to quiet the storm raging inside him. He glanced back at you, his gaze lingering longer than it should have, only to be met with Hyugo’s pointed stare. He quickly looked away, his breath shaky.

"Just relax, sunny,” Hyugo muttered, almost sympathetically. "This isn’t that complicated." Sol clenched his jaw, forcing himself to exhale slowly.

It wasn’t that complicated... right? Then why did it feel like everything was spiraling out of control?

You, on the other hand, noticed Sol in your peripheral vision, your observant gaze picking up every minute change in his facial expressions. A smirk tugged at your lips as you watched the battle play out in his mind—focus versus distraction. It amused you to be the cause of such turmoil. Your attention briefly shifted to the young man beside him, murmuring words of encouragement. “…Is he always like this?" you muttered softly, more to yourself than anyone else.

As the minutes ticked by, your amusement grew. You decided to test just how far you could push him, curious about his reaction. Turning your head ever so slightly, you let your eyes meet Sol’s directly for the first time. The subtle smirk on your lips grew wider, just enough to let him know you had noticed his struggle—and that you were fully aware of the effect you had on him.

Sol froze. His pencil slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor, breaking the silence of the room. A few heads turned in his direction, including Professor Lenox, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing, returning to his work. Hyugo stifled a laugh, leaning toward Sol and whispering, “Smooth move, Casanova.”

You couldn’t help but bite your lip to suppress your laugh, your confidence emboldened by the flustered look on Sol’s face. There was something oddly satisfying about watching him squirm, and you decided to take it one step further. Shifting slightly in your pose, you adjusted the fabric draped around you, enough to subtly enhance the curve of your shoulder and the line of your neck. It wasn’t overt—just enough to catch his attention again. You rested your chin on your hand, your expression composed but your eyes sparkling with playful mischief.

Sol’s breath hitched audibly, and Hyugo nearly choked on his laughter this time. “Dude, pull yourself together,” Hyugo muttered, though his tone was more amused than annoyed.

Feeling bold, you decided to push the boundary even further. You cleared your throat softly, loud enough for Sol to hear but quiet enough that it didn’t disturb the rest of the class. His head snapped up instinctively, his eyes meeting yours once more.

“Everything okay over there?” You asked, your voice low and teasing, laced with just enough sweetness to send his pulse skyrocketing. The question hung in the air, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop for Sol. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he stared at you, his face turning a deeper shade of red than you thought humanly possible.

The room had fallen silent again, and now all eyes were on Sol.

Hyugo leaned in, whispering just loud enough for the class to hear, “I think you broke him.”

Afterward, once the class wound down, Sol tried his best to keep his head down, busying himself with packing up his supplies. His face was still hot from the humiliation of earlier. Despite his best efforts, it felt like the entire class had noticed his wandering gaze and the weight of their silent judgment pressed heavily on him.

Professor Lenox approached, her warm, professional demeanor as composed as ever. “Good work tonight, Solivan, Hyugo,” she said, her voice calm and encouraging. “Feel free to join us again in the future. You’re both talented, and I’d be happy to see how your skills develop.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Hyugo said casually, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

As Lenox turned to leave, she glanced back at Sol, her expression thoughtful. “Oh, and Solivan,” she added, a hint of curiosity in her tone. “Have you found your muse yet?”

Sol stiffened, his throat tightening. “Uh... no. Not yet,” he replied quickly, avoiding her knowing gaze. She simply smiled and wished them both a good night before stepping out of the classroom. Hyugo grinned, nudging Sol with his elbow. “Your muse, huh? I think I know exactly who she’s talking about.”

“Shut up,” Sol mumbled, his face reddening again. He hastily folded his easel and packed his supplies, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. “So... what do you feel like eating tonight?”

“Pizza. Or maybe tacos.” Hyugo shrugged. “But—” He stopped mid-sentence, his smirk growing wider as he glanced over Sol’s shoulder. “What?” Sol frowned, but before he could turn around, he heard your voice.

“Oh wow…”

Sol froze, his heart plummeting to his stomach. Slowly, he turned to see you—fully dressed, thank god—standing near his easel. Your eyes were wide, taking in the sketch he’d been working on all evening. The drawing on the canvas was breathtaking in its detail. Every line and curve captured your form with remarkable precision, from the way the fabric draped around your body to the soft shadowing along your jawline. It was almost reverent in its artistry, a clear testament to how closely—and how intently—he had been studying you.

You blinked, your gaze shifting from the drawing to Sol. “This is... amazing,” you said softly, genuine admiration in your voice.

Sol felt like the floor was going to give out beneath him. “Uh—thank you,” he stammered, his voice cracking slightly. He could feel Hyugo’s grin boring into the side of his head. Hyugo, ever the opportunist, seized the chance to make things as uncomfortable as possible. “So, you’ve seen Sol’s muse now, huh?” he said, his tone thick with teasing amusement.

Your head tilted slightly, a curious smile playing at your lips as you glanced between the two of them. “Muse?”

“Ignore him,” Sol said quickly, his voice sharper than intended as his wide, reddening eyes darted to Hyugo. His glare was enough to threaten, but not silence, his friend. Sol cleared his throat, forcing himself to meet your gaze. “I’m Solivan Brugmansia—or you can just call me Sol. And this idiot is Hyugo.”

You smiled, introducing yourself in return. “It’s nice to meet you both. You’re really talented, Sol. I didn’t even realize you were paying such close attention during class.” The white lie slipped off your tongue effortlessly, but it wasn’t fooling Hyugo. He coughed, his shoulders shaking as he stifled a laugh. Sol shot him another heated look, silently begging him to shut up.

“I, uh... yeah,” Sol mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. His usually composed voice had softened, almost shy. “I guess I just got... caught up in the details.” A pause stretched between the three of you, though the weight of the evening hung mostly between you and Sol. His nervous energy was almost endearing, and his reddish-orange eyes and central heterochromia reflecting were striking.

For a fleeting second, it seemed like the colors shifted into heart-shaped pupils, though you brushed it off as your imagination playing tricks.

Breaking the silence, you smiled again, leaning in ever so slightly. “Well, if you ever need a muse again... come back here and let me know.” Sol’s breath caught in his throat, and the faintest spark of hope flickered in his expression. But before he could formulate any kind of response, you turned and walked away, casting a playful glance over your shoulder that left him frozen, utterly dumbfounded.

Hyugo let out a low whistle, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Well, that just happened. Anyway, about those tacos?”

Later that night, as Sol and Hyugo sat in a booth at their favorite taco joint, Sol replayed your parting words on an endless loop in his head.

‘Well, if you ever need a muse again... let me know.’

The memory of your teasing smile and those parting words made his chest tighten in a thrilling and terrifying way. Hyugo, of course, noticed. He always noticed. “You’re awfully quiet tonight. Thinking about someone?” His voice was as smug as ever; his words were muffled slightly by a mouthful of carnitas taco.

“Shut up, gogo,” Sol muttered, though the blush crawling up his neck betrayed him. Hyugo leaned back in his seat, smirking like the cat who’d caught the canary. “Sunny, just admit it. She got under your skin, didn’t she? You’re not even denying it.”

Sol sighed, his fingers threading through his hair. “It’s not that,” he said, though his tone was unconvincing. “I just... I want to take more classes. You know, to work on my technique.”

Hyugo snorted, nearly choking on his drink. “Your technique? Sure. And it has absolutely nothing to do with seeing her again, right?” Sol focused on his plate, refusing to dignify Hyugo’s jab with an answer. But the truth was glaringly obvious.

He did want to see you again.

He needs to see you again.

There was something about the way you’d looked at him—like you could see straight through his facade, past his nerves and awkwardness—that was both unnerving and exhilarating. It left him wanting more, even if it scared him to admit it.

The next morning, Sol found himself standing outside Professor Lenox’s office, nervously clutching his sketchbook. He had debated with himself the entire walk over, unsure if he was making a fool of himself by even being there. But eventually, he took a deep breath and knocked.

“Come in,” Professor Lenox’s voice called from inside.

He stepped into the cozy office, filled with canvases, art supplies, and books stacked haphazardly on every surface. Lenox looked up from her desk, her glasses perched on the edge of her nose. “Solivan. To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked, setting aside her work. “I, uh...” Sol hesitated, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I was wondering if I could attend more of your classes. I really enjoyed the one last night, and I think it’d be good for me to keep practicing.”

Lenox raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Interesting. And here I thought you spent most of the evening struggling to focus.”

Sol’s cheeks burned, but he pressed on. “I want to get better,” he said earnestly. “Your class made me realize how much I have to learn.” Lenox studied him for a moment before sighing. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I’m not teaching tomorrow. I’m not teaching regularly at all—I only do this to help artists find their inspiration.”

“Oh,” Sol said, his heart sinking.

“But,” Lenox continued, “the studio doors are always open for well-known artists or those who are serious about improving. There are early afternoon sessions that you’re welcome to attend if you want to work in a quieter, more relaxed environment.”

Sol’s heart lifted at her words. “Really? Thank you, Professor Lenox.”

She smiled warmly. “Of course. Just remember, Solivan, art comes from a place of honesty. If you keep chasing after something—or someone—you might just find your muse after all.” Her words struck a chord, and Sol left her office feeling both inspired and anxious. He couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility of seeing you again, and the thought filled him with a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation.

The following day, Sol arrived at the studio earlier than planned, his heart racing with anticipation. He was dressed more intentionally today—black boots clicking softly on the wooden floors, his baggy black pants paired with a crisp oversized white button-up shirt, a slim black tie, and his leather jacket draped over his shoulders. His hands clutched his sketchbook like a lifeline as he navigated the quieter halls, each step fueled by a mix of hope and nervous energy.

As he neared the back of the studio, he passed smaller classrooms, the few occupants inside focused intently on their work. The vibrant energy from the previous night was gone, replaced by a serene hush. It was a different atmosphere—intimate, contemplative.

And then he saw you.

Sol’s breath caught in his throat as his gaze locked on the familiar figure seated before the easel. There you were, poised in that effortlessly graceful manner he had come to recognize—cross-legged and grounded, yet with a certain quiet intensity to your posture that suggested focus and purpose. Your hair cascaded down your shoulders in a wave of silk, catching the soft light that filtered through the window.

The only sound in the room was the faint rustle of your pencil against the paper, a rhythmic whisper that made the air feel thick with stillness.

For a moment, Sol stood paralyzed in the doorway, heart thundering in his chest. His grip on his sketchbook tightened instinctively as if the weight of the book could somehow steady the storm churning inside him. You hadn’t noticed him yet—or perhaps you were deliberately ignoring him, utterly absorbed in your work, your eyes fixed on the canvas before you. The room seemed to hold its breath in the silence.

The tension stretched until, at last, Sol took a hesitant step into the room, the soft creak of the door hinge betraying his entrance. You didn’t turn to face him immediately, but your voice, cool and composed, sliced through the quiet. “Can I help you?”

There was a sharp edge to your tone, though it was not unfriendly. It sent a shiver down his spine, but it also made his pulse race in a way he couldn’t fully explain. As your eyes met him, the brief flicker of curiosity that flashed across your features caught him off guard. The usual smirk he had come to expect from you was absent, replaced by an almost unreadable expression—a look that didn’t give away much, but left a sense of mystery hanging in the air.

Sol swallowed, his throat dry, the weight of his sketchbook now feeling impossibly heavy in his hands. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, words failing him as he tried to gather his thoughts.

"I—I'm sorry to bother you," he stammered, his voice a little too quiet and uncertain. "I just... I mean, I wanted to..." His words faltered, trailing off as his gaze involuntarily flicked to the drawing on the canvas before you.

His breath caught again. He hadn’t meant to be so distracted, but it was impossible not to be—your work was stunning. It was raw and detailed, every line intentional, every shadow perfectly placed.

"U-uh, you're really good," he blurted out, his voice betraying his awe. The words came out sharper than he’d intended, cracking slightly, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

You didn’t miss a beat. Your eyebrow arched in silent question, and your eyes flicked to your canvas briefly before returning to him. The faintest trace of amusement danced in your gaze, and it made him feel both flustered and strangely mesmerized.

“I’m skilled at more than simply standing naked,” you remarked dryly, your tone biting yet strangely warm. It was the kind of remark that could have sounded cold to anyone else, but with you, it carried an unspoken familiarity. You set your pencil down, your fingers lingering on the edge of the canvas for a moment before you gestured at it. “It’s a work in progress, of course.”

Sol’s face flushed even deeper, and he scrambled to recover from his misstep. “I mean, yes, obviously," he mumbled, his words tumbling over themselves. “It’s—uh—detailed. You have a good eye for, um, composition.”

His voice trailed off, hoping that somehow, his awkwardness wouldn’t be too glaring. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to interrupt your process like this, but now that he was here, he found himself at a loss for how to make this less uncomfortable.

A slow, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of your lips, a flicker of amusement lighting your eyes. “So,” you began, your voice calm but faintly teasing, “I see you’ve returned after all,” You leaned back slightly in your seat, arms crossing over your chest with deliberate ease. “What brought you back so soon?”

Sol’s mouth opened as though he had an answer ready, but no words came. His lips moved soundlessly for a moment before pressing together in frustration. “I-I just…” His voice faltered, his gaze darting between your face and the floor as if seeking an escape. Finally, he muttered, “I wanted to draw, I guess. It helps me think. And I...”

Your head tilted ever so slightly, your curiosity piqued by the nervous energy practically radiating off him. You studied him like one might a particularly puzzling sketch, your tone both patient and coaxing. “And you...?” you prompted, one brow arching in silent encouragement.

“I…” Sol’s voice broke off again, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson. “I thought... maybe... I’d see you here.”

The words tumbled out before he could stop them, leaving him frozen, his eyes widening in panic. He clutched the edge of his sketchbook like it might shield him from the weight of his confession, his fingers tightening until his knuckles turned white.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his candor. The faint smirk from earlier found its way back to your lips, but it softened, less guarded, less sharp. “Well,” you said, your tone balanced between neutrality and intrigue, “you’ve found me.”

“I guess…” he mumbled, his confidence faltering under your steady gaze.

Leaning forward slightly, you rested your chin in the palm of your hand, your eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You guess? That doesn’t sound particularly sure of your motives.”

“I—I am sure,” he said quickly, his voice betraying a touch of desperation. His eyes flicked to the sketchpad in his lap, and then back to you. “Your motives are questionable too, though. For someone who can clearly draw, why do you pose as a model?” The question was sudden, almost accusatory, but you could hear the nervous curiosity beneath it.

A soft laugh escaped you, an amused smirk curving your lips. You lifted a hand to your chin, pretending to consider his inquiry with mock seriousness. “Well,” you said at last, your voice playful yet thoughtful, “one reason is simply that I can, I suppose.” You shifted slightly in your seat, settling into a more comfortable position. “It’s not exactly a taxing job, and it pays the bills well enough. Being stared at by a roomful of aspiring artists for a couple of hours? A decent price to pay.”

Your gaze met his again, this time with a glint of mischief. “Besides,” you continued, your tone taking on a teasing edge, “you should let Professor Lenox know that I’m still banned from the classroom when I’m not... appropriately dressed. Being a non-art student has its quirks, doesn’t it?”

Sol blinked, his blush deepening as the weight of your words hit him. His grip on the sketchbook tightened, but this time it wasn’t panic—perhaps just the overwhelming mix of fascination and confusion that you always seemed to inspire.

“So,” Sol began, his arms crossed tightly as he approached, his footsteps deliberate, the faint clink of his belt buckle barely audible against the quiet hum of the studio. He stopped just beside your easel, his gaze flickering over your canvas before settling on you. “You work as a model to pay the bills—and also to listen in the lectures, particularly Professor Lenox's, right?”

You nodded, your head propped in your hand, your eyes following him as he drew nearer. His presence was magnetic, yet you maintained your poise, the faint smudge of charcoal on your thumb brushing against your cheek as you shifted slightly.

“That’s correct,” you replied evenly, your voice calm but deliberate. There was an air of challenge in your tone as you met his eyes. “It’s not exactly the most conventional setup, but it works for me.” You hesitated, letting the words hang, before glancing down at your sketch and then back up at him. A faint smirk tugged at your lips. “Care to take a turn?”

“A turn?” Sol’s voice wavered slightly, his composure momentarily faltering. He straightened up, his brow furrowed in confusion. “At what... exactly?”

“To model,” you clarified with a tilt of your head, your expression a perfect blend of mischief and composure. “You know, sit over there and let me stare at you for a while. It’d be a nice change.” Your tone was light, but the faint glimmer of amusement in your eyes hinted at something more. “Unless…” you added, leaning forward just slightly, “you’re scared?”

His reaction was immediate. Sol’s eyes widened, his breath hitching as he quickly tried to mask his nerves. “Scared?” he repeated, a weak laugh escaping him. “Of course not. Why would I be scared of… posing and sitting?”

You raised a brow, not bothering to hide the amused disbelief in your expression. “It’s harder than it looks, trust me,” you said, gesturing casually toward the standing platform in the center of the room. “But by all means, give it a try.”

The challenge in your voice lingered, and Sol felt it wrapping around him like a taut string, compelling him toward the platform. His pulse quickened as he hesitated, caught between the discomfort of being under your sharp, unrelenting gaze and the strange, exhilarating allure of it. His breath hitched, and finally, with a faint quirk of his lips that didn’t quite mask his nervousness, he said, “All right.” His voice was quieter now as he stepped forward. “Let’s see if I’m any good at this.”

You leaned back slightly on the stool, crossing your arms with a satisfied smirk as you watched him ascend the platform. His movements were unsure but determined, a fascinating contrast to the cool confidence he usually projected.

Sol shrugged off his jacket, setting it and his ever-present sketchbook carefully on a nearby chair. His heart pounded against his ribs as if trying to claw its way out. He’d never been in this kind of position before—literally or figuratively—but something about the way you looked at him like he was an enigma you were intent on unraveling, made the challenge impossible to refuse.

Climbing onto the platform with a slightly awkward shuffle, he hesitated before settling. One leg crossed over the other, then shifted again, his movements stiff and deliberate as though his limbs were tangled in an invisible net of overthinking.

Finally, he landed in a seated position where he clearly intended to look relaxed, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “Like this?” he asked, his voice raspier than usual as if the words had caught on a snag in his throat. “Do you want me to pose or…?”

“Just do whatever feels natural,” you replied, your tone calm but your gaze sharp.

“Natural,” he echoed under his breath, the word thick with doubt. His fingers twitched against his knee, and he shifted slightly again, searching for an ease that refused to come.

Your eyes swept over him, deliberate and discerning. His cheekbones, sharply defined, caught the light in a way that begged to be sketched; the strong line of his jaw, pale skin, framing lips that tightened nervously. The metallic glint of his piercings—small but undeniably striking—added a flash of rebellion to his otherwise restrained expression. His thick brows knit together in thought as he adjusted his posture yet again, while waves of long, unruly black and green streaks hair tumbled across his shoulders.

The strands caught the faint light, a halo of disarray that only accentuated his stark, quiet beauty. But it was his eyes that held you captive. That deep, smoldering reddish-orange—like embers glowing under ash—seemed to see straight through you, even as he struggled to meet your gaze.

For a long moment, you said nothing, letting your artist’s instinct take over. Every angle, every shadow, every unique detail of his face etched itself into your mind like lines on a canvas. Your focus was so intense it felt tangible, like a weight pressing between you.

He froze under your gaze, his breath catching audibly as his pupils widened. The rise and fall of his chest quickened, and a faint pink flush began creeping up his neck, betraying his discomfort—or perhaps something else.

“Uh…” he managed to croak, his voice faltering. Clearing his throat, he tore his gaze away and looked to the side, his hair falling forward as if to shield him. “Sorry, I’m not… used to being looked at like that.” His gaze found its way back to you, his cheeks still tinged with the faintest hint of pink. “It’s just… different,” he muttered, his voice low and uncertain. “You’re so focused. Makes me feel like I’m under a microscope or something.”

You rolled your eyes, feigning nonchalance as you fought to ignore the way his words tugged at something inside you. “Relax. It’s just me. Besides, I’ve caught you staring at my so-called ‘boring’ face and body plenty of times before. What’s the big deal?” You quoted your fingers.

His brows furrowed slightly, the tension in his expression melting into something more resolute. “Your face or body isn’t boring,” he said, his words spilling out with a startling clarity that left no room for misinterpretation. His voice had shifted, dropping into a tone softer yet somehow more intense.

His eyes met yours, half-lidded and darkened with something unreadable—something that made the air between you feel heavier. “Actually… I think you’re very beautiful.”

The confession hung in the room like an uninvited guest, its weight pressing against your chest. For a moment, you forgot to breathe. Your smirk faltered, slipping away as quickly as your composure. Heat rushed to your face, and you tore your gaze away from his, cursing softly under your breath.

“Don’t say silly things and stay still,” you snapped, your tone sharp and biting in a desperate attempt to mask the erratic thrum of your heartbeat.

You hoped your words would deflect the moment, push it back into the realm of casual banter where you felt safe.

But Sol wasn’t so easily deterred.

His smirk returned, slow and deliberate, curving his lips with a maddening confidence that made your stomach twist in ways you refused to name. This time, he didn’t look away. Instead, he held your gaze, his eyes gleaming with an audacity that only deepened the warmth spreading across your cheeks.

“Whatever you say,” he murmured, his voice dipped in teasing amusement, the cadence of his words like a soft challenge. He leaned back slightly, finally settling into the pose you’d asked for, though the sly glint in his expression made it clear this game was far from over. “You’re the artist, after all.”

His words hung in the air, tantalizing and weighty, the space between you charged with a mix of unspoken defiance and an invitation. You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him. “Really now? Giving me such power… ” you said, your voice cool, though it couldn’t quite mask the ripple of intrigue threading through your tone. “…That’s bold of you.”

Without waiting for a reply, you rose with quiet determination, each step purposeful as you approached the platform.

The sound of your footsteps echoed faintly in the stillness, heightening the tension that hung between you and Sol. He didn’t shift, didn’t flinch—his body perfectly still—but his eyes were anything but passive. They tracked your every move, sharp and calculating, as though trying to decipher your intentions.

You met his gaze head-on when you stopped just in front of him, close enough for the air between you to hum with unspoken words. There was a challenge in your look, a spark of intent that burned through the cool mask he wore. Without hesitation, your hands moved to adjust his posture, the touch both commanding and oddly intimate.

Sol’s heart thudded against his ribcage, a steady beat that betrayed the calm facade he clung to. He felt the heat of your fingers through the fabric of his sleeves, the deliberate pressure of your guidance igniting a flurry of sensations he wasn’t entirely prepared for. Despite himself, his body responded to the gentle assertiveness of your hands—his muscles tensing, then yielding as though obeying your unspoken command.

You shifted his arms, your palms grazing over the sinew and strength beneath the fabric of his shirt as you brought them to rest on his thighs. The moment lingered, charged, as his skin seemed to hum under your touch. Moving closer still, you placed a hand on his shoulder, the weight of your fingers grounding him yet sending a strange, exhilarating tension down his spine. He inhaled sharply when your other hand found his chin, tilting his head upward with a deliberate precision that left no room for resistance.

His face was now fully illuminated under the studio’s glow, the soft light casting angular shadows along his features. It caught on the sharp line of his jaw and the gentle curve of his lips, still holding the ghost of a smirk.

Yet his expression had shifted—there was something deeper now, a quiet intensity that danced in his eyes as they locked with yours. The teasing glimmer was still there, but it was layered beneath something more vulnerable, more raw, and it made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

“Good enough,” you murmured, your voice low and almost reverent.

It was as though the word carried more weight than you intended. Your voice sent a shiver coursing through him, subtle but enough to make his body respond once more. His breath hitched, his pulse quickened, and for the briefest of moments, he wondered if you could feel it too—the energy pulsing in the space between you, fragile yet undeniable.

You step off the platform, your shoes clicking softly against the floor, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet room. Bending down, you retrieve your tablet from where you left it nestled inside your bag, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face as you stand. Turning back toward Sol, you cradle the tablet in one arm and pull out the stylus magnetically attached to its side. Settling onto the stool once more, you balance the device on your lap, letting out a soft sigh of focus as you power it on.

Sol watches you with a curious tilt of his head. His gaze shifts between your hands and your face before he speaks. “You draw on digital?”

Without looking up, you raise a hand to motion him still, your voice steady but commanding. “No moving, sir. I need you to stay still.” A small smirk tugs at your lips as you glance at him. “And to answer your question, yes—both traditional and digital. I usually sketch on paper first, then refine and detail digitally. But this time…” You trail off, focusing on calibrating your pen. “This time, I’m sticking entirely to digital.”

“Ah,” Sol murmurs, nodding slightly before catching himself and freezing again. “How long do I have to sit like this?” His tone carries a mix of genuine curiosity and playful impatience.

“That depends…” you reply distractedly, your eyes narrowing as you angle the screen to the perfect position. Picking up the pen, you glance up at him, tilting your head slightly to study his posture. “What I really need,” you say slowly, tapping the pen against the edge of the tablet, “is to study the male form.”

Sol raises an eyebrow, intrigued but wary. “The male form?”

“A naked form,” you clarify, your voice calm but matter-of-fact. You meet his gaze without hesitation, a hint of mischief in your expression as the weight of your words settles in the room.

For a moment, the room feels heavy with unspoken words, the quiet between you almost crackling with tension. Sol shifts uneasily at your request, his heart racing so fast it feels like it might burst. His fingers tighten against the fabric of his clothes, a subconscious attempt to ground himself. The thought of being naked in front of you—someone he hardly knew but felt inexplicably drawn to—stirred a mix of emotions he couldn't quite name.

He felt a knot of nerves in his stomach, but it was tangled with a strange thrill that sent a shiver up his spine. His mind couldn't stop racing, picturing how the moment might unfold, the weight of your gaze tracing every inch of him. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry as he caught the playful glint in your smile. It was as if that single expression stripped away any sense of control he thought he had, leaving him flustered, exposed, and completely captivated.

You chuckle softly, leaning forward, pen poised over the tablet’s smooth surface. “Relax. Let’s think of it as a challenge. First, remove your shirt,” Smirking, you turn your attention back to the screen, the rhythmic scratching of your pen against the glass filling the quiet tension between you. "You're not getting cold feet, are you?" you tease, your voice light yet laced with challenge.

Sol feels his chest tighten as your words sink in, his mind racing with the weight of their implications. He wants to push back, to say something sharp, but there’s an undeniable pull in the way you speak so boldly, like peeling back a layer he didn’t even know existed.

The idea of you looking at him—not just seeing, but seeing—sends a hum of a familiar feeling through him, equally unsettling and thrilling. "No," he replies, his voice laced with a forced confidence. "No, I’m not getting cold feet.”

You snort softly, a crooked smile playing at the corners of your mouth. "Of course, you’ll say that, you say, your tone dismissive but carrying a trace of something deeper. Sol exhales, surrendering to the moment’s vulnerability with a small, lopsided grin. “You’re something else, you know that?”

Smirking again, you lower your gaze to your work, the pen moving in deliberate strokes. “You have no idea,” you murmur, voice tinged with playful arrogance. Then, without missing a beat, you glance up at him, your eyes catching his. “So is that a yes or a no?”

Sol’s laugh comes unbidden, a mix of exasperation and admiration. He shakes his head slightly, unable to ignore how disarmed he feels by your unapologetic nature. Your bluntness is unnerving, like staring into the sun, but it’s also magnetic, pulling him further into your orbit. His mind raced with thoughts and images, the idea of baring himself to you both thrilling and nerve-racking.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered under his breath, his tone laced with a faint grumble like he was trying to brush off the weight of the moment.

Sol inhaled deeply, steadying himself. His hands removed the black tie and then moved to the hem of his shirt, his fingers brushing the fabric as he unbuttoned it. The cool air of the studio prickled against his skin, making him shiver slightly as the shirt slid off. Now exposed, he stood still for a second, his chest rising and falling a little quicker than normal. His heart raced, caught between nerves and a flicker of excitement, pounding loud enough that it felt like it might echo in the room.

His chest was a work of art in itself, lean and toned with subtle, defined muscles that hinted at strength without overwhelming bulk. His shoulders were broad yet refined, tapering down to a sculpted torso that seemed both effortlessly strong and meticulously maintained. The faint outline of his ribs shifted subtly with each breath, and the curve of his collarbone caught the soft light of the studio, adding to the striking image.

He wasn’t sure what he hoped to see in your reaction—approval? Admiration?

Maybe both.

You barely noticed your tablet slipping slightly in your hands as your eyes were drawn to him, your breath hitching for a fraction of a second. His physique was captivating and demanded attention without trying. The sharp lines of his chest and the gentle shadow cast by his abs seemed to hold a magnetic pull, and for a moment, you couldn’t help but take it all in.

Something stirred deep inside—desire, curiosity, or maybe just awe—but you quickly masked it behind a composed expression. Still, there was a flicker in your gaze, a momentary slip that hinted at how much the sight had caught you off guard. And Sol caught that flicker and his breath hitched, too, a small surge of confidence sneaking in alongside the nerves. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, searching for any other sign of what you were feeling.

“Who would’ve thought an artist such as you is so… toned,” you said, glancing up briefly from your tablet, a teasing lilt in your voice as your hand kept moving.

Sol’s breath hitched for what felt like the hundredth time. Your compliment hit him harder than he expected, making his cheeks warm as a faint blush spread across them. He stayed in his pose, trying to appear unbothered, but his eyes betrayed him, sneaking a glance at the tablet to watch as the lines you drew began to come to life.

It was strange, having someone look at him like this. Your gaze wasn’t casual or fleeting—it was sharp, and intense, as if every detail mattered. It made him feel exposed but… special. He shifted slightly, his muscles starting to ache from holding the pose. But you didn’t seem to notice his struggle. Instead, your attention stayed fixed on him. "Don’t get cocky," you said with a playful smirk, breaking the silence as your eyes swept over him again. “You might be a good model; it has nothing to do with my tastes."

Despite your attempt to play it cool, your gaze told a different story. It lingered on him, studying every line of his body—the curve of his chest, the dip of his waist. You were meticulous, your eyes narrowing thoughtfully as you followed the contours with your pencil.

“...Hm,” you murmured suddenly, your tone thoughtful.

The sound sent a shiver down Sol’s spine. It wasn’t just the noise itself but the way it carried meaning like you were deep in thought about something specific. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way his heart thudded painfully in his chest. “Hm?” he echoed, his voice slightly rougher than before, betraying his nerves.

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes shifted downward, your focus slowly drifting lower until…

Sol froze. Your gaze landed unmistakably near his pants, and though your expression remained neutral, the implication was impossible to miss. A wave of heat rolled through him, pooling low in his stomach, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

"Ah..." His voice cracked slightly, and he immediately hated himself for it.

You smirked then, your lips curving up just enough to make his heart stutter. “Relax,” you said, but the mischievous gleam in your eyes made it clear you weren’t about to let him off the hook. “I’m just thinking about the… practicalities here.” Your tone was casual, almost too casual, but the way your eyes flickered back to his face told him you were enjoying this far more than you let on.

Sol could only nod stiffly, his mind racing. He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to hold the pose for this long, but at this point, he didn’t trust himself to move without giving something away.

Sol's throat felt tight, his breathing quickening in sync with the rush of heat creeping up his face. His cheeks burned, not just from embarrassment but from a flicker of excitement he could neither deny nor fully understand. You were toying with him, your words deliberate and your smirk teasing, enjoying the way you made him squirm under your gaze.

And the worst part?

He liked it.

No, he loved it.

His hands fidgeted nervously, but he willed his voice to stay steady, though it wavered slightly as he asked, "Practical aspects... what do you mean, exactly?" You didn't look up from your sketchpad, your pencil gliding smoothly across the paper with practiced ease. Yet your eyes, sharp and narrowed, never left him. "Well," you began casually, “…there’s the matter of certain distractions that could arise during the modeling process."

Sol blinked, his heart hammering in his chest as he struggled to decode your words without letting his imagination spiral. He swallowed hard and pressed on, his voice quieter this time. "Distractions… how, exactly?"

Your smirk widened, your gaze turning into a playful challenge as if daring him to figure it out. The moment lingered, the air heavy with tension until you set down the sketchpad and took a step closer to him. Your finger tapped against the tablet stylus in your other hand as if considering whether to explain or let him squirm further.

"Oh, you know," you said, your voice lilting into a soft, teasing drawl.

He shifted uncomfortably, every nerve on high alert as you pointed the pen toward him like it held the weight of your playful accusation.

“Like… involuntary reactions," you continued, your tone light but laced with meaning. "The kind the male body sometimes has when it’s being observed so closely, especially you…”

His stomach flipped, your words hanging in the air like a loaded secret. Sol couldn’t decide whether to shrink away from your teasing or meet it head-on, his thoughts muddled between mortification and something far more dangerous: the undeniable thrill of it all. His voice was a bit hoarse as he mustered a response. "I see… I don't think.. that’ll be a problem," he said, his voice not entirely convincing.

You suppressed a small, amused laugh, biting the inside of your cheek to keep it from escaping. Pausing in your sketching, you raised an eyebrow at him, your eyes gleaming with a playful edge. "Oh, really?" you asked, your tone laced with a teasing mockery that dared him to hold his ground.

Setting your tablet aside but still holding the pencil lightly between your fingers, you stepped forward, deliberately and slowly. With every movement, you closed the space between you, your figure now standing on the platform before him. Hands-on your hips, you tilted your head, your gaze fixed on him with narrowed intensity.

"You know," you began, your voice soft but loaded with challenge, "it's perfectly natural for the body to react in such a way. No need to pretend otherwise."

Sol’s composure, usually so steady, was unraveling at an alarming pace. His heart pounded like a drum in his chest, the rhythm echoing in his ears. His breaths came quick and shallow, the proximity between you making the air feel heavier. You were so close now that he could feel the faint warmth radiating from you, smell the soft, floral undertone of your perfume lingering between you.

It was all too much.

It was perfect.

His fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white as if grounding himself could somehow mask the tempest of emotions raging inside. Pride and vulnerability waged a silent war within him, his resolve teetering precariously. "I'm… I'm not pretending," he managed to protest, though his voice cracked under the strain, betraying him.

Your lips curved into a faint, knowing smile, and you took another step closer, your gaze trailing down. "Are you sure about that?" you asked, your tone dripping with mockery as if the answer was already written in the very air around you.

"Yes… I'm sure," he insisted, but the lie was painfully evident in his voice, thin and wavering.

Your eyes lingered on his torso, noting the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he leaned back slightly in the chair under the bright light. The tension in his muscles was unmistakable, every inch of him taut like a tightly wound spring. Slowly, deliberately, you closed the gap further, your legs brushing lightly against his.

Then, with a fluid motion of your wrist, the tip of your stylus brushed against his skin. The coolness of the dull plastic drew a deliberate line across his chest, its path leaving a trail of searing awareness in its wake. Sol’s breath hitched audibly, his body betraying him as a shiver ran through him. He clenched his jaw, his reddish-orange eyes fixed on yours, burning with a mixture of desire and defiance.

Your indifference only heightened the tension, your focus locked on his form as though he were nothing more than a canvas, a sculpture to be refined under your touch. Each stroke of your pencil seemed to amplify. His breaths quickened, and his fists trembled slightly at his sides, caught between resisting and surrendering.

You moved with precision, pausing as you reached the midline of his stomach. There, you allowed your fingers to brush gently against his skin, the feather-light touch sending a jolt through him. His body reacted before he could control it, his muscles twitching at the contact.

Glancing up, you met his gaze, your eyes sparkling with a mischievous curiosity. "Your heart," you murmured, voice velvet-soft, "it's beating so fast. Tell me…" You tilted your head, the question hanging between you like a dare.

"Are you nervous… or excited?"

The corner of your mouth curved upward in a teasing smirk, and at that moment, it felt as though the room itself held its breath, waiting for his answer. Sol's breath caught sharply as your fingers grazed his skin. The warmth of your touch, so light yet deliberate, sent an undeniable spark through him. His body betrayed him immediately, shivering under your gentle touch while his stomach tightened reflexively as if bracing for the next move.

For a moment, he closed his eyes, desperately trying to steady himself, to calm the wild rhythm of his heartbeat that seemed to echo in his ears. When he opened them again, his gaze met yours. He could see it—the playful glint in your eyes—and knew you were fully aware of the effect you had on him.

"Both," he confessed at last, his voice low and strained, like it took every ounce of effort to get the word out. "Definitely both."

Your lips curved into a knowing smile, the sight of him struggling to maintain his control only adding fuel to the fire. You didn’t miss how his body responded with every little movement, each subtle touch pulling him deeper into your game.

Your fingers wandered over his skin again, this time tracing the defined lines of his abdomen with a slow, teasing motion. He inhaled sharply as your touch ventured lower, stopping right at the edge of his waistband. The anticipation was written all over him—his breath unsteady, his body taut like a string about to snap.

Pausing just above the fabric, you tilted your head, your gaze still fixed on his flushed face. The way his eyes flickered between restraint and surrender was intoxicating. He met your stare once more, the tension in his body was evident as he struggled to stay composed. The way you toyed with him, teasing and testing his limits, drove him mad. Desire and helplessness waged war inside him, each longing glance a silent plea he refused to voice.

“Seeing you like this,” you mused, your voice soft but laced with teasing amusement, “you could never be a nude model… unless, of course, this happens with everyone.”

Your words, light and playful on the surface, carried a deliberate weight that struck Sol like a thunderclap. His breath hitched, and though he tried to mask his reaction, the deep flush spreading from his cheeks to his chest betrayed him entirely.

He swallowed hard, struggling to find his voice amidst the chaos in his mind. “It’s not—” he stammered, his words faltering as you tilted your head, watching him with that devastating smirk that seemed to peel away his defenses.

“It’s not what?” you pressed, leaning in slightly, your gaze never leaving his. Your hand, steady and deliberate, drifted lower, brushing against his stomach. His muscles tensed under your touch, his entire body reacting to the feather-light pressure.

He exhaled sharply, the sound almost a gasp, as your hand slid lower still. Without hesitation, you cupped him through his pants, the action firm enough to make his knees buckle slightly but not enough to ground him. His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts as he fought to stay composed, to keep from completely unraveling under your touch.

“N-No,” he finally choked out, his voice raw and trembling as though the admission itself was being ripped from his chest. “It’s… it’s just you.” Your eyes widened slightly, genuine surprise flickering across your face for a split second before it was replaced by something else—something sharper, more triumphant. You sighed softly, the sound almost indulgent as you leaned in closer.

“Just me, huh?” you murmured, your tone carrying the faintest edge of mockery. One hand traced idle, teasing patterns over his stomach, while the other remained where it was, pressing just enough to keep him on edge. “So, I’m the one who does this to you,” you mused, your voice dropping to a lower, more intimate register, “and only me?”

He nodded faintly, his breath hitching again as his gaze darted away, unable to hold yours for long. “Yes,” he whispered, the words barely audible, his voice a fragile thread threatening to snap. “Only you. No one else.”

You arched an eyebrow, your smirk widening. “Interesting.” Your hand moved slightly, your touch maddeningly deliberate, enough to make him gasp again. “And yet,” you continued, your voice laced with playful condescension, “you’re not doing a very good job of it. Look at you—shaking like a lost puppy. As a nude model, you’re supposed to have composure. No trembling, no reacting like this—”

“—I can resist,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction, the words trembling as much as he was.

You paused and then tilted your head, amusement glittering in your eyes. “Oh?” you said, your tone a mix of mockery and curiosity. You leaned in even closer, your movements deliberate and slow, as if savoring every second of his unraveling. “You can resist?” you repeated, the words slipping from your lips like a challenge.

Sol’s breath hitched again, his gaze snapping back to yours. For a moment, his resolve seemed to waver, but he forced himself to hold your gaze, his jaw tightening as he struggled to muster a response.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely, the word more a plea than a statement.

Your smirk deepened, and a soft, bemused laugh escaped your lips—a sound that sent another jolt through him, making his knees feel weak. “Hm, okay then…” you began, tilting your head and letting your eyes meet his with an almost innocent softness, “Now second then you won’t mind taking off your pants." Your tone was light, teasing, but your words carried an undeniable weight. "Please?"

The flush on Sol’s face deepened, and for a moment, he seemed frozen as though caught between disbelief and desire. His breath hitched, and his voice came out strained, almost a whisper. "Yes… I can… do that.”

You bit your lip, fighting back a smirk at his visible struggle. His ragged breathing, the way his eyes flicked between your face and the floor, and the tremor in his hands as they moved toward his waistband—all of it betrayed just how tightly wound he was. Wordlessly, Sol removed his belt then hooked his fingers into the waistband of his pants and slid them down over his hips, letting the fabric pool around his ankles. His legs were tense, his body taut like a string pulled to its limit.

Your gaze swept over his now mostly exposed form, lingering on the shape outlined beneath his boxers. The fabric clung to him, leaving little to the imagination. Your eyes traced the curves and planes of his body with deliberate slowness, moving up from his legs, across his hips, and finally settling on his flushed bewildered expression.

"Very good, Sol," you purred, your voice low and smooth as if coaxing him to relax despite the tension crackling in the air. You reached for your tablet, turning it on with practiced ease. You heard his shallow breaths as though he were struggling to keep himself from unraveling. He obeyed, though, again sitting down stiffly as you began sketching. Your fingers glided over the tablet, sketching the outline of his body with precise, fluid movements.

You focused on the task, but you could feel his gaze burning into you, intense and unyielding. “Sol,” you said suddenly, your voice breaking the charged silence. His body jerked slightly at the sound, his name on your lips hitting him like a spark. "Y-yes?" he stammered, his voice hoarse and shaky.

You looked up, meeting his wide, unsure eyes. “Third remove your boxers," you said softly, the words almost hesitant but still carrying an undeniable firmness.

The room seemed to be still as the words hung in the air.

You searched his face, watching as his eyes widened further, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. His lips parted as though he wanted to protest or question, but no words came. “Relax,” you added, your voice soothing now, as though coaxing him into compliance. "It’s for the art, after all."

His breathing quickened again, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if he would comply, he was frozen in place. The thought of being completely exposed in front of you was as thrilling as it was terrifying. But the way you looked at him—with such intensity as if you were examining him not just physically but emotionally—kept him rooted to the spot.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. There was a vulnerability in his tone that surprised even him, a quiet plea for reassurance.

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment before offering a small, almost mischievous smile. “Of course. This is about trust. Being a nude model and If you want to improve as an artist, you need to understand vulnerability—how it feels to be seen, truly seen.” Your voice was gentle yet firm, the kind of tone that left no room for argument.

Sol's breath hitched as he hesitated, his hands trembling at the waistband of his boxers. His pulse was thunderous in his ears, every fiber of his being tense and alive with apprehension. The room was silent save for the sound of his shallow breaths and the subtle creak of the floorboards beneath him. He met your gaze once more, and something in your expression—a mixture of calm, focus, and the faintest trace of amusement—steadied his resolve.

You watched him intently, the weight of the moment sinking in. There was a thrill in the balance of power, in knowing that his vulnerability was yours to witness and guide.

With a shaky exhale, Sol slid the fabric down his hips and stepped out of them, standing completely bare before you.

For a moment, time seemed to stretch endlessly. His manhood, larger than you might have expected, stood pale but flushed a deep red, betraying his nervous arousal. You couldn’t help but glance briefly before pulling your gaze upward, schooling your expression to remain professional—though your heartbeat betrayed you, pounding in your chest like a drum.

Sol’s face burned hotter than ever, his entire body tingling under the weight of your scrutiny. Instinctively, his arms moved to cross over his chest, a reflexive and almost boyish attempt to shield himself, as though your gaze could unravel him entirely.

“Wait,” you said firmly, your voice steady and composed. “Don’t cover yourself. I need to see everything if I’m going to capture this moment fully.”

Your words lingered in the air, carrying a gravity that left no room for argument. It wasn’t harsh, but there was a quiet authority in your tone that demanded obedience. Sol froze for a moment, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. Hesitantly, his arms dropped to his sides, the motion slow and deliberate, as though the act of surrendering himself to your observation required every ounce of his courage.

His fingers twitched faintly, betraying his nerves, and he shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. He stood tall, but the rise and fall of his chest with each uneven breath revealed the turmoil roiling beneath his calm facade.

“Good,” you murmured, your lips curving into a subtle, approving smile as you adjusted your grip on your tablet. Your eyes swept over him methodically, drinking in every detail—the sharp lines of his collarbone, the tautness in his jaw, the subtle play of muscle beneath his skin. But it wasn’t just the physical form you noted. Your gaze seemed to pierce deeper, observing the tension in his shoulders, the fidget of his hands, and the faint pink that climbed his neck and painted his ears.

“Now,” you said softly, your tone easing yet still retaining that unshakable command, “sit back in the chair for me. Let your body relax. Let go of the tension.”

Sol nodded, almost imperceptibly, before moving toward the chair. His movements were stiff, each step measured as if the very air around him had become too thick to navigate. When he finally lowered himself into the chair, his posture was painfully rigid—his back straight, his hands gripping the armrests tightly enough that his knuckles whitened.

“Relax,” you repeated, more gently this time, the sound of your voice threading its way into his fraying composure.

He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment as he tried to ground himself. With each breath, his shoulders began to loosen, and his hands slackened their grip. Slowly, his body sank into the chair, shedding the tension bit by bit. When he opened his eyes again, they locked with yours.

You were closer now.

Not seated at the platform as he had expected, but standing before him, leaning in just slightly as if to examine every shift in his posture. Sol stiffened again at your proximity, but you didn’t retreat. Instead, you stepped around him, beginning to circle him like a predator studying its prey.

Your eyes moved with meticulous precision, your tablet in hand as you captured the essence of his form with quick, purposeful strokes. You murmured something under your breath—a note to yourself, perhaps—but Sol didn’t catch the words. His thoughts were too loud, a cacophony of embarrassment and awe.

He couldn’t stop himself from glancing at you, watching the way your gaze never wavered, the way your hands moved deftly over the screen. How did you handle this so effortlessly? How could you endure the stares of an entire class with such composure? And yet here he was, unraveling under the scrutiny of just one pair of eyes.

This was too much.

For someone like him, the vulnerability was suffocating, the intimacy almost unbearable. And yet, as you stepped around him again, your presence so calm and assured, he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

"Sol, you’re still staring at me. Be still," you said, your tone calm yet cutting, carrying just enough authority to make him freeze.

"Right," he croaked, his voice rough with embarrassment. "Sorry."

You circled behind him, the quiet tap of your shoes on the floor echoing faintly in the space. Sol sat stiffly, his muscles tense as he felt you hovering nearby, the air between you charged. He heard the faint scratch of your stylus against the tablet, your measured, deliberate movements creating an unbearable anticipation.

"You were doing so well," you murmured, a soft, teasing lilt in your voice. Then, with a quiet laugh, you added, “…how can I stop this..?” You mumbled to yourself.

Sol’s cheeks burned hotter as your words pierced through his fragile composure. Before he could respond, a soft sound of movement caught his attention—something small being picked up off the floor. Turning his head slightly, he saw you standing there, holding the black tie he’d earlier discarded with little thought.

Your gaze locked with his, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. You slowly began wrapping the tie around your hands, the fabric gliding through your fingers with a measured precision that made his pulse quicken.

"How about last we cover those eyes of yours?" you suggested, stepping closer, your voice both playful and commanding. "At this rate, with you watching me like that, I’ll never get my drawing done in time."

Sol’s breath hitched audibly, his eyes widening as you advanced. His throat felt dry, and his heart pounded so loudly he was sure you could hear it.

“Wait, I… I'm sorry," he stammered, his words tripping over each other. "I'll try to be good."

Your head tilted, an amused glint in your eyes as you took in his flustered state. "Being good isn’t enough for me, Sol. I need you to listen.” He swallowed hard, nodding quickly as if afraid to disappoint. "I'll listen," he whispered, desperation lacing his voice. "I'll do whatever you want."

The corners of your lips curved into a sly smile. His eager compliance was endearing, but you weren’t going to let him off easy.

"Good," you murmured, stepping closer, your eyes never leaving his. The tension in the air was palpable as you gently draped the tie over his face, your fingers brushing against his cheek. "Now, I want you to hold still for me. No interruptions. And if you are a ‘good boy,’ you’ll stay exactly like this."

The world went dark for Sol as the tie was secured over his eyes, shutting out all light and robbing him of sight. His breathing quickened as he felt the soft pressure of the fabric against his skin, the sensation heightening his awareness of everything else—the faint rustle of your clothes, the warmth of your breath as you leaned in, and the lingering heat from where your fingers had grazed him.

You took a step back, admiring the effect. Sol sat rigid, his hands gripping the edge of the chair as though it were his only anchor. Without his sight, every sound, every touch, became amplified, and you could see the struggle for control etched across his features.

"Perfect," you purred, your voice low and velvety, wrapping around him like a warm embrace.

Moving silently, you circled to his side, the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air as you leaned closer. With deliberate slowness, you traced the tip of your stylus along his arm, the light contact sending a shiver through him.

“Ah…” Sol couldn't help the soft whimper that escaped his lips, his jaw tightening as he fought to remain still under your touch. He was hyper-aware of everything—the sound of your voice, the warmth of your presence, the way his skin tingled where the stylus had glided. It was overwhelming and intoxicating all at once.

Your gaze lingered on his face, watching the subtle tremor of his lips as he tried and failed to steady his breathing. His hands gripped the edge of the chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white, his entire body taut with the effort to maintain control. The satisfaction coursing through you was almost intoxicating—you had him completely under your spell, and he didn’t even realize how thoroughly you were leading this dance.

“You know,” you began, your voice smooth and deliberate, “I was planning on getting my lick back, but this... this is something else.”

His head tilted slightly toward you, confusion etched into his features. “What... what are you talking about?” Sol’s voice cracked, betraying the shaky composure he was trying so hard to hold onto.

A sly smile curled your lips. “Asking you to model for me? That was payback. For yesterday,” you said, stepping closer. You leaned down slightly, ensuring your words reached him like a velvet blade. “You weren’t as subtle as you thought, staring at me in Professor Lenox’s class.”

His body went rigid, the weight of your words sinking in like a punch to the gut. His eyes widened slightly, and his head dipped as though to escape the scrutiny of your gaze. You could see the dawning realization in the way his shoulders hunched, the embarrassment rolling off him in waves.

“I... I didn’t mean to stare,” he stammered, his voice small and thick with mortification. “I’m sorry. I just—”

“—I’m your muse?” you interrupted, your voice low and challenging.

Sol froze, his breath hitching audibly at your words. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if the truth was clawing its way up his throat, leaving him no choice but to let it out.

“Yes,” he admitted, barely more than a whisper. “God, yes. You’ve always been my muse. The way you move, the way you talk, the way you hold yourself... I can’t help it. I’ve always watched you, every little thing you do.”

There was a rawness in his voice, a vulnerability that caught you off guard. He swallowed again, his words thick with emotion. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t stop staring if I tried. You’re... mesmerizing.”

For a moment, you were still, his confession hanging in the air like the lingering notes of a haunting melody. What had started as a calculated game now felt like a slow, deliberate unraveling of something far deeper. You stepped closer, closing the space between you with quiet, deliberate movements. Standing behind him, you leaned down, your chin resting lightly on his shoulder, your breath brushing against his ear. “Sol,” you murmured, your voice like silk, “you say such lovely things. Do you really mean them?”

The effect was immediate. Sol’s body reacted as though struck by lightning, shuddering slightly under your touch. His breath caught, “I mean every word,” he rasped, his voice thick with longing. “Every. Single. Word. You’re breathtaking, you’re captivating... you’re everything. You’re my muse.”

Your fingers traced lazy patterns along the curve of his shoulder, each touch deliberate and calculated. You could feel the tension thrumming beneath your fingertips, the way his body reacted to you as if drawn by some unseen force.

“You really are a sweet boy, aren’t you?” you whispered, your lips just grazing the shell of his ear. The shiver that coursed through him was almost palpable, and you relished the power you held in that moment.

Without warning, you shifted away, the soft sound of your footsteps echoing in the quiet space. Each step was slow, deliberate, the faint click of your shoes against the wooden floor a metronome to Sol’s growing anticipation. He couldn’t see you, blindfolded as he was, but his other senses sharpened, following the faint swish of fabric and the nearly imperceptible stir of air as you moved.

You circled him, your presence like a magnetic pull he couldn’t resist. His body reacted instinctively, the tension in his shoulders rising and falling with each subtle sound, every shift in the atmosphere signaling your movement. His hands flexed at his sides, gripping the edge of the platform, as though bracing himself against the unknown.

Then you stopped, directly in front of him once more, your silence louder than any words. For a moment, you simply watched him—his head tilted slightly, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, the vulnerability in his posture stark and raw. He was exposed, not in the physical sense, but in a way that made him feel stripped bare nonetheless.

“You’re quite the artist, Sol,” you said, your tone light but carrying an edge that made his stomach twist.

As you spoke, you moved again—graceful, deliberate, your body fluid as you sank to your knees in front of him. The sound of your descent was soft, a whisper against the platform, but it struck him like a thunderclap. His breath hitched, his muscles going taut as a bowstring as your hands settled lightly on his thighs.

The touch was featherlight, innocent in its simplicity, yet it sent a jolt through him so sharp it felt like fire racing under his skin. He clenched his jaw, his head tilting downward as if trying to pierce the darkness of the blindfold and see you.

You leaned forward, the warmth of your body emanating through the small gap between you. Then, gently, you rested your head in his lap, the soft weight of it pressing against him in a way that felt at once grounding and utterly electrifying. The heat radiating from you seeped through his skin, igniting a slow-burning ache that spread through him with every second that passed.

He froze, his breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air, unsure whether to move or stay still, caught in the intoxicating tension of the moment.

“You...” His voice was barely audible, rasping and unsteady. “What are you doing?”

You tilted your chin upward, the motion languid and intentional, your gaze locking onto him with quiet intensity. Though his eyes weren’t on you, he seemed to sense the weight of your stare—an invisible force that reached out to him, palpable enough to make his breath hitch.

“Like I said,” you murmured, your voice soft and laced with a teasing challenge, “you’re an artist.” A faint smirk tugged at your lips as you leaned forward slightly, your words dropping lower, more intimate. “But let’s see if you can capture me properly... without looking.”

The words sent a shiver through him, their weight sinking into his chest like an anchor. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his mind a chaotic mess of sensation. The thought of being able to touch you, to paint you, without even seeing you was both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. He forced himself to speak, his voice a strained whisper. “Okay…” He breathed out.

"Hm," you murmured, your gaze briefly dipping to the prominent hard-on. The sight was almost amusing—who would’ve thought that something as simple as your touch and attention could elicit such a response?

This man must not get any action if he’s this sensitive.

You reached for his cock slowly, the space between you crackling with unspoken tension. As your hand brushed against him—firm beneath your fingers, he stiffened, drawing in a sharp breath. The contact, though light, sent a jolt through him, and his entire body went rigid as if frozen by the shock of your touch.

You tilted your head, observing his reaction with a faint smirk. “Interesting…” you murmured, your voice low, almost a whisper, as your hand began a slow, deliberate movement. Up, then down, tracing the contours with a featherlight touch. His body reacted like a tightly coiled spring, quivering beneath your fingertips, and you could feel the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat against your palm.

His breath came unevenly now—harsh, shallow gasps escaping him as if he couldn’t quite catch it. His hands hovered near you, trembling with the urge to reach out but hesitating, caught in the fragile tension between desire and restraint.

Your touch traveled further, deliberate and teasing, like a current of electricity that surged through his body with every gentle graze of your hand. He exhaled shakily, his chest rising and falling as if the simple act of breathing had become a challenge.

Blinded to the world around him, his other senses sharpened, magnifying every sound, every shift of your presence. He wanted so desperately to remove the blindfold, to see you, to understand the expression behind your careful movements. But for now, he was completely at your mercy, powerless to do anything but react to you.

Your hand paused briefly, and you leaned in, your breath ghosting against his ear. “…How you feel?” you asked, a note of playfulness in your tone, before your fingers resumed their agonizingly slow exploration, testing the limits of his composure. His body betrayed him with another quiver, and his resolve teetered on the edge, ready to shatter at any moment.

Sol's entire body was on fire.

He had never felt anything like this before - the sweet, electric sensation of your touch, combined with the helplessness of being blindfolded, was driving him insane with need. All he wanted was you - your touch, your presence, your everything. He struggled to find his voice, his breathing ragged and desperate as he managed to gasp out a response.*

"I... I feel... like I'm going insane," he panted. "Please... please don't stop."

The sight of him, struggling to keep himself under control, the way his body trembled beneath your touch, the way his voice shook when he spoke, all of it sent a thrill through you. You relished in his vulnerability, in his dependency on you, in his desperate need to be good, to be obedient.

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his cock. "You're doing so good," you murmured, your voice a sultry purr. "Such a good boy for me."

"Please," he begged, his voice hoarse and strained. "Anything... I'll do anything for you. Anything."

You relished in the desperate pleading tone, the way he begged for you, the way he was so eager to please, to do whatever you asked. It was all too easy, now, to have him wrapped around your finger like this.

You were in complete control, and he was at your mercy.

You continued to touch him, to tease him, your hands roaming over his body with torturous slowness. "Anything?" you echoed, your voice a seductive whisper. "Careful now. Those are dangerous words to use with me.”

You notice the way he’s already lost in the pleasure you’re giving him, and it only fuels your need to tease him further. It’s so easy to get him all hot and bothered, a single touch is enough to have him completely at your mercy.

He feels the way the tip of his cock glistens with precum, beads of the white liquid pilling up and siding down his red cock.

You pause, your hands still on his body, feeling the way he trembles beneath your touch. Your voice is a low sultry whisper as you speak. "That's it, good boy. You're so pretty like this."

Sol's heart thundered in his chest at the sound of your voice; the praise sent a shiver of pleasure through his body.

"Just for you," he gasped, his voice roughened by desire. "Please... I need you. I... I can't take much more of this." It's just so tempting to continue tormenting him when he looks so absorbed in the pleasure you're inflicting on him. You can have him completely at your mercy with just one touch and have him all hot and bothered.

You can't help but smile as you hear the desperation in his voice and the way he trembles beneath your touch. It's so easy to tease him like this, to keep him on the edge, begging for more.

Your fingers wrapped over his cock, tracing over the sensitive, tender skin. You lower your head, your lips just barely touching his tip, and whisper, "Just a little longer... can you be a good boy for me? Can you hold on a bit more?"

He gasps as you touch him, his body arching into your hand even as he struggles to maintain control. A low whine escaped him as you spoke, the desperation in his voice growing even stronger.

"I... I'll try," he gasped, his voice hoarse with effort. "For you, I'll try. But it's... it's so hard... you're driving me crazy."

A part of you wanted to take pity on him, to finally give him the release he's aching for. But another, slightly darker part of you takes pleasure in his torment, in the way he's writhing and begging beneath your touch.

Your lips brush against his cock again, your voice a sultry whisper as you speak.

“Hush now,” you murmured softly, your hand gently brushing against his trembling cheek. “I’ll take care of you, but first, I want to hear you say it. Say it for me, my good boy.”

Sol’s breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, his chest heaving as he struggled to gather himself. His mind was a storm of burning desire, each pulse of need crashing against the next. His voice, when it came, was thick with desperation, barely more than a hoarse whisper. “I... I’m your good boy,” he rasped, the words escaping with a raw, pleading edge. “Please... please, just... I need you. I need you so badly.”

A thrill shot through you, a rush of heat, as his voice cracked with such vulnerability. The raw need that echoed in his words made your heart race, sending a pulse of desire through you. He was so open, so exposed beneath your touch, completely under your control. The power you held over him—how it reduced him to this—was intoxicating.

You couldn’t suppress the soft hum of approval that escaped your lips, a low, satisfied sound that reverberated through the still air between you. His words hung there like a fragile, desperate melody, each syllable soaked in the longing that gripped your chest. His voice, trembling with vulnerability and need, seemed to wrap around you, igniting a shiver that raced down your spine.

The thought that you could draw this raw, unfiltered emotion from him—that your presence alone could unravel him so completely—sent a surge of power through you.

Slowly, deliberately, your fingers found the hem of your shirt. You tugged it over your head with a smooth motion, the fabric slipping away to reveal your skin beneath.

It wasn’t long until he felt your skin. His breath hitched audibly. Quietly cruising the blindfold covering his eyes still, he can only image his eyes tracing the curve of your form, lingering like a caress.

“Be still for your reward,” you murmured, your voice soft but steady, commanding without being harsh.

Leaning in closer, he felt something warm rubbing agasint his cock, your breath ghosted over the warmth of his cock, the sensation of it almost tangible as you pressed against him. You let your voice drop to a low, sultry purr, a sound rich with desire. “Look at you—so obedient, so eager to please. I adore how needy you are, how much you long for me."

Sol was lost in the sensation of your touch, the sound of your voice driving him wild with need as you caressed his skin and whispered sultry nothings in his ear. Every word you spoke seemed to awaken something inside of him, a burning need that only you could satisfy.

Your eyes were half-lidded, wordless, you lean your head down to his cock, the tip of your nose nearly brushing creamy pre-cum on his tip and almost missing your mouth. The movement is smooth, and very deliberate as you push forward. Sol freezes for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden, unexpected gesture, he can feel you taking all his length, making his hips shake.

Your nose nuzzles up against his pubic hair clit as your tongue sides under the cock, bringing your head back so your tip can lick pre-cum leaking from the tip. In a little time, you moved your head in cadence with your hand beneath at the base and could feel the slight shivering he did from keeping him inside.

“I… I’m so close, please… please…” His voice trembles with desperation as he pleads, his tone strained and urgent. “Can I… can I cum? Please… I need to… I want to so badly…”

He exhales sharply, the words coming out almost as a whisper but heavy with need. “Will you let me?” His body is tense, every muscle straining as he waits for your response.

God, he sounds so broken.

Your gaze shifts up, meeting Sol's face, and what you see is a powerful mixture of exhaustion and longing.

He looks even worse off.

His head is down, his breathing erratic and shallow, each inhale a desperate attempt to steady himself. Sweat glistens on his skin, tracing lines down his cheek, some strands of his hair clinging to his face from the effort, making him appear even more vulnerable than ever as you suck him deeply inside of your mouth, his tip bumping the back of your throat.

You swallowed lightly, savoring the cock as it melted against your tongue. Your grip instinctively tightened around it, feeling the warmness seeping through your fingers. With one more deliberate lick, he came, small rivulets making their way down your throat.

In one fluid, decisive motion, you lifted your arm closer to Sol, your hand gently brushing against his face as you untied the blindfold. His lashes fluttered as the fabric fell away, revealing eyes that widened in surprise.

The flickering light of the room played across your form, catching his attention as his gaze dipped. His breath hitched, his composure faltering when he saw you shrug out of your shirt. The deliberate movement revealed your breast, smeared with streaks of his cum that trailed teasingly along your skin.

The mess, equal parts playful and provocative, brought a flush to Sol's face.

For a moment, he seemed unsure where to look, his gaze torn between the soft expression on your face and the curve of your figure. The redness deepened across his cheeks, and his lips parted as if to say something, but no words came.

You withdrew with deliberate slowness, a sly smirk playing on your lips as you stuck out your tongue, catching the remnants of his cum. The salty sweetness lingered on your taste buds. He couldn’t help but watch, captivated, as his cum dripped lazily down from your tongue, a tantalizing trail marking his trace that was now nearly gone.

With an air of playful confidence, you swiped your tongue across your lips, gathering the stray drops clinging to your skin like the final act of savoring something utterly decadent. Your gaze lifted deliberately to meet Sol’s, your movements unhurried, almost languid, as if savoring his unraveling. His face was slack and flushed, his sharp features softened by the haze of exhaustion and lingering pleasure.

His eyes, slightly unfocused and glassy, clung to yours like a lifeline, betraying the intoxicating high he was riding, leaving him utterly exposed to your teasing whims.

A slow, teasing smile curled your lips, deliberate and knowing, as you tilted your head ever so slightly, the picture of predatory amusement. You reached out with one hand, fingers brushing his jawline, the touch featherlight but deliberate enough to make him flinch—just a little.

“Such a good boy,” you purred, your voice dripping with honeyed sweetness, every syllable designed to tug at the fraying strings of his composure. The words sent a visible shudder through him, his breath catching as his shoulders slackened further, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Leaning in close, your lips hovered near his ear, the warmth of your breath tickling his skin. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more inspired,” you murmured, your voice low and rich, words spilling like a secret. You pulled back slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes again, your gaze alight with mischief. “How about I be your forever muse? You’ve earned it.”

Your moment of reverie was interrupted as you began to rise gracefully to your feet. The cinematic flair of the moment was undeniable—until the pins-and-needles sensation in your knees hit like a tidal wave, reminding you of the position you’d been in for far too long. You stumbled slightly, your balance teetering precariously, before catching yourself with an awkward, self-conscious laugh.

“Oh, for—damn it,” you muttered under your breath, brushing nonexistent dust off your pants with a huff. The sudden break in your cool, composed demeanor was enough to elicit a chuckle from Sol, the sound deep and warm, grounding the moment with a shared sense of ridiculousness.

Still recovering from his own haze, Sol’s voice was soft but tinged with amusement as he replied, “My muse, huh? …You’re something else.”

You straightened, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face and crossing your arms with a playful smirk. “You didn’t think you were getting rid of me that easily, did you?”

Sol shook his head with a wry grin, his cheeks still faintly pink. “Not a chance,” he murmured, voice low, but there was something deeply genuine in his tone that made your heart skip a beat.

‘Thanks, Professor Lenox,’ you thought, your gaze softening as you looked at Sol. ‘This might just be the best muse you offer to me.’

· ───────⋆⋅♤⋅⋆─────── ·

#the kid at the back x reader #tkatb #solivan brugmansia #the kid at the back sol #the kid at the back vn #tkatb sol #sol brugmansia #sol x reader #tkatb vn #solivan x reader #tkatb smut

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mxnhoo · 2 months ago

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taste (y. jw)

✎ yang jungwon x reader synopsis you and Jungwon were drinking together, until you impulsively recommended to play spicy drinking games. he eventually agreed with your idea, and from there on you could discover something that he's been hiding from you and you decide to make it come true. genre drinking together, reader has supposedly bad drinking tolerance but actually lasted the entire way, drinking game, jungwon respects boundaries (as he should) but reader likes to push it, jungwon is shy when getting onto the spicy topics unlike reader who's bold, Hershey's chocolate syrup, teasing, not proofread warnings spicy drinking game/spicy question(s), VERY ALMOST smut (read at your own caution), very suggestive, food related (smudging on areas on the body to clean up), vivid description of licking, hickies word count 1.4k cly's note honestly writing suggestive/almost smut fics are lowkey out of my comfort zone but i wanted to give yall another one after seeing how much support dangerous got. if i wasn't so awkward with this topic, jungwon would've been more bold and confident LOL. don't think i wrote this as well as dangerous but hope yall enjoy this too!

As you finished taking a shot, you immediately gulped down the liquid in an attempt to reduce the effects that the alcohol has on you. You sighed as you felt the burning sensation in your throat, your face tensing up as you slowly felt the sensation disappear. Jungwon chuckled as he held up the alcohol bottle and poured you another shot. As the sensation in your throat fully died off, you quickly cleared your throat, "I'm done".

He gave you an approving hum and smile as he patted your back, knowing that you weren't such a good drinker unlike him. You sat back on your chair, letting your head hang over the edge as you stared into the ceiling. The room was dimly lit up by a warm light, the walls and ceiling looking more of a dark orange.

You could almost tell that feeling in your stomach was coming — y'know, that feeling when you drink a lot of alcohol. Your head was starting to feel light and as your heart starts to race, you suddenly feel like you want to do a lot of things.

"Hey!" you called out, and Jungwon's eyebrows raised, anticipating to what you were going to say next. "Drinking game, let's play," you suggested.

And that was exactly how you got even more wasted. You were panting as you felt your head spin, almost feeling like you were going to pass out. Jungwon laughed as he watched you in your drunken state, folding his arms and relaxing back on his chair, "Are you sure you can continue? I can bring you to bed now if you want".

"No!" you slammed your shot glass down onto the table, determined to prove that you could drink more, even if your boyfriend already knew damn well that you were already pass your limit. "I.. can do thiss," you mumbled, your speech already starting to slur from the alcohol.

"Y'know what?!" you exclaimed, standing up from your chair and slightly startling Jungwon and you looked at him with determined eyes, "Spicy. Let's play spicy".

Jungwon's eyes were slightly widened as he realised what you were asking for. You wanted to play spicy drinking games, and his mind has run wild, the number of things he wants to do being unlimited. His face slightly burns up at the idea and he shook his head.

"I'd love to, but-" "Wonnie!" "You're drunk, Y/N."

You pouted. "So what?!" He ran his fingers throug his hair, feeling slightly agitated. "I don't want to take advantage of that!"

You looked at him with half-lidded eyes, "I don't care. Do it".

He bit his lip, and if you were sober enough, you can physically see him lose control from the way his brows furrow and how he exhaled audibly. He was losing it. He wanted to respect boundaries, and you were tempting him.

He spoke, his voice deep. "Who was your best kiss? Me or yor ex?". You chuckled, your eyelids barely opened as you pointed at him without hesitation. "You, duh". You've slightly sobered up already since all you've been doing is answering his questions honestly, avoiding any shots.

He nodded his head in approval, trying his best to compose yourself until you continued talking. "I fucking love the way your lips ruin me whenever—".

Jungwon, with his reddened ears, covered your mouth which silenced you. You giggled as his mouth prevented you from talking, and you could hear him sigh. Though he agreed to play your spicy "Truth or Drink" game, he still wanted to respect the boundaries, but you were forcing him to push it, his self-control slowly slipping away.

He sighed as he slowly released your mouth, watching you as he slowly leaned back. "It's your turn," he furrowed his eyebrows upwards, feeling slightly shy as to what you might ask him. You've always found him adorable that he was always shy at these topics even when you and him have already done a lot.

You decided to shoot a question, "Do you have any fantasies I don't know about?".

He seemed to ponder for a second, his eyes looking empty and him pursing his lips, and just as soon as he picked up his shot glass and was about to gulp it down, you grabbed his wrist to prevent it from moving.

Your eyes were dark and determined. "What is it?" your tone sounding open, yet demanding. The tension in the air suddenly grew, the silence becoming more unbearable as you two stared into each other's eyes. He grew more nervous, gulping and pursing his lips as you could see him decide if he should tell you or not.

"It's okay, baby," you comforted him, encouraging him to be more open.

"Food" he quicky muttered. "What?" "I said food."

You looked at his face and you could tell his face was completely red, and you knew it wasn't from the alcohol. He bit his lip and furrowed his eyebrows, feeling sheepish that he finally admitted something he'd been hiding.

"What about it?" "The thought of you smearing food on your naked body for me to clean up with my mouth is just.."

His whole face was a bright shade of red and he broke eye contact, afraid to see what kind of facial expression you're making to his confession. You lifted his chin up with your finger, "Let's do it".

There were two differences that were made. One being that you were now shifted into your room from the living room since Jungwon offered to carry you with his trustworthy strength and arms, and second being that you were completely bare. You hugged your legs as the cold air hit your body, waiting for Jungwon to return until you heard the door slowly creak open.

Jungwon appeared, holding the Hershey's syrup bottle you stored in your refrigerator, and at the the bare sight of you, his breath hitched. He gulped as he walked towards you, being conscious of the way you were w him wtching with pedatory gaze.

He gulped as he climbed onto the bed, his knees pressing onto the sheets, staring at you, having a flustered expression take over his facial features. No, this wasn't his first rodeo with you, but it was his first with his most hidden fantasy.

He slowly handed you over the syrup bottle, your fingers brushing his for a moment and without a moment of hesitation, you immediately started to squeeze out the syrup onto different parts of your body — your knees, outer thighs, stomach, collarbone, neck.

His eyes widened as he took in the sight of you being fully covered in syrup. His heart skipped a beat as he took a few seconds to scan your entire body up and down. He licked his lips and he slowly started to climb over you, eyeing the first spot that he wanted to clean up first — your knees.

His tip of his tongue flicked against your knee, the temperature difference between his tongue and your skin making you shiver. His muscle immediately started to clean you up, using various movements such as long strikes or short kitten licks. He quickly cleaned up the syrup on your knee and he started to progress to the other areas such as your outer thigh.

He sucked the skin along the way, leaving light hickies that were bright red. He slowly pushed you down on the bed as he hovered over you, a shadow forming over you, next cleaning up your stomach. You watched how his eyes fluttered close and how he took his own time to clean you up.

"Teasing me aren't you?" he mumbled as he was in the midst of cleaning up your stomach, taking a quick second to look at you. You smirked, knowing exactly what he'd meant. You'd purposefully avoided all the core parts as you wanted to leave it last.

"Be patient, will you?" you shot, enjoying how he whines and just continues.

He'd just finished cleaning up your collarbone and neck, and without taking a break, you immediately started to pour the syrup out to areas where he'd been anticipating to the most. His jaw had dropped at the breath-taking sight of you, almost believing that he was dreaming.

"How about, we start here?" you challenged as you poured the syrup on your lips, his eyes watching the syrup as it lands on your mouth and drips down your chin.

extra note GRHAUDEWFN I FEEL SO SHY THAT I WROTE THIS. OH MY GOD. okay. i hope you guys enjoyed this. I HOPE THIS WASNT TOO CRINGE THIS IS LOWK MY FIRST SMUT FIC. im gunna sleep this away GOODNIGHT.

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rhaeheartzsquirrelz · 2 months ago

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Sea Salt Cigarettes

Wife Sevika x Female Wife Reader (Fluff + Modern AU)

Not Proofread!! MEN DNI!!

Summary: On a honeymoon at the beach, you and your wife smoke a cigarette on the balcony of your suit.

Contains: Sexual tension, suggestive topics, and Sevika having both her arms.

A/N: Writers block is a reallll thing, but IM BACKKK!!

` 𓂃 ོ𓂃 `

Early mornings on the beach were beautiful.

The cool, summer breeze blew past you and your wife as the two of you looked out over to the sea from the balcony of your suit. The water was still and peaceful, so was the rest of the resort. You enjoyed the solitude with Sevika, for there were no crying children, no men, and not a single soul on the soft sand. The beach was bare and gorgeous.

Not to mention just how happy you were.

It had been a long night after your wedding, you knew it’d be. Getting your back blown was exactly what you’d expected, and you had to beg for her, your wife, to soften up, for that woman was going to tear your pussy open.

Staying up all night was a blast, really, and that’s what led you to lean against the railings of the balcony to smoke a cigarette. Sevika didn’t let you use your hands, she held the joint inbetween her fingers and did it for you. You didn’t mind, less work on your part, and you got to watch as the sun rose and shone it’s orange light onto the glistening, blue water.

You were a disheveled mess and were sure if anyone saw you they’d think you were a ghost. But even with your hair roughened up, mascara and lipstick smudged, tanktop thrown on without a bra, Sevika thought you looked stunning. Not to mention your stained shorts. Your wife, however, looked neat. She had on her usual wife beater, the only thing she’ll be beating is your pussy, and her casual shorts; the two fabrics covered her toned and muscular body. Her hair was out and about, flowing with the soft breeze that flew past the two of you.

She wrapped an arm around you as she held the cigarette to your mouth for you to pull the air into your lungs. Your wife only smiled before running her big fingers through your hair to even it out. “You alright?” She murmured, voice soft and gentle as she pulled closer and pressed a kiss on your head. “Yeah, why?.. Is it my makeup?” You, knowing her answer, gave her a playful smile. The smoke left you to get carried away by the wind. “Yes and no. You’re less chatty than usual..”

“True that.” You were “less chatty,” only because of the ache in your back, all that arching had came to bite, and the sore in your knees; which would give out if you tried moving too swiftly.

Your wife pressed another kiss on your head before turning her attention onto the cigarette in her hand. You follow suit and look down at the hickeys on your ankle, the two of you really went all out. There was a moment of comforting silence, the only things breaking it were the seagulls flying by and the waves crashing onto the shore.

“I thought honeymoons were for couples trying to get pregnant.” You, breaking the silence, playfully whisper out and elbow Sevika. “You’d be pregnant by now if I had a third leg.” She returned, her hand moving to pull you flush against her side. “Oh, like hell it’d be that big.” Your words were chuckled out as you leaned forward to take another inhale of the joint.

It would be big. Probably too big for you to handle.

Your wife only scoffed and turned her head to you. “It would, actually. That’s why I wasn’t given one, I’d be unstoppable.” You groan and cringe at her retort before blowing the smoke in her face for her to smile at. “Watch it, doll. I can have you right back on that bed again.”

Again, she was right, one wrong word and she’d throw you over her shoulder and fuck the audacity out of you.

“Yeah, alright..” you stare out at the sea, it was a sight you couldn’t get enough of. The sun had just come up and the sky was painted with oranges and reds. “Anyways..” your wife gave your waist a pat, “my earlier question; you okay?”

“My back hurts.” You answer, and, almost immediately, Sevika’s large hand traveled to your lower back to rub soothing motions on it. “Figured. Thought you’d break it on the bed earlier.” She teased, leaning closer to press a series of kisses on your head. “You’re gonna smother me with those,” “you don’t seem to mind.” She had you there. “I don’t. I’m just surprised you’re still this eager.”

You’d think Sevika would be satisfied with the amount of sex the two of you had, satisfied with the amount of different positions and the number of orgasms the two of you had shared, but no. The woman could go for more.

She flashed you an amusement smile all the while extinguishing the cigarette and turning to face you completely. “Eager? How could I not be?” Her tone full of fondness, she tilted her head. “I’m married to the prettiest woman alive, you expect me to be.. what? Casual?” With a huff of a chuckle, Sevika pulled you flush against her muscular chest and leaned down to close the distance between your lips and hers.

Her dark lips pecked a kiss onto yours and she pulled back, though she was still a breath away. “I.. really.. want you in that bed again..”

Like hell you’d say no to that.

“You have my permission to break my back.” You cup her face and let her kiss you towards the bed; where she’d, again, fuck you sore.

Your spine was screwed. Completely and utterly fucked, just like you were.

⋆｡𖦹 °. 𓇼 ⋆❀˖°

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bitdemonic · 3 months ago

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ᛪ༙ 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓’𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

𝟓 𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐒. 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐋, 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐓. 𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃, 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒 𝐌𝐄. ⚠︎ 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓, 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍, 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐋 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐄—𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐓. 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐔𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒; 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐎𝐘.

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𓆩ψ𓆪 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 [𝐊𝐎𝐅𝐈]

↓

𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐈 𓆩❦︎𓆪

WHAT’S SEDUCTIVE IN GENERAL ⟶ 🎴 Magic. 8oS. 10oP↺. Faith↺. Page of Pentacles↺. the Chariot. 8oW↺ [bod].

THE TEMPTATION, OTHERWISE A TEMPTRESS TO SUITORS THAT “DARE” TO INDULGE; TO MEET A FATE THAT’S FORBID. Attributes include the ability to lure their 'prey' in with just a glance, emanating tenacious sensuality, and exhibiting divinity [energetically]. Poison with legs, seeping into the thoughts of anyone's minds. Heightened emotional intelligence assists them in hypnotizing others. Seduction is an accessory, a mask of sex they can put on [“and off”] at anytime.

♰♰♰ An innate power of transformation is what this pile has. Able to demand ("command") a room with just their presence, let alone a word, they're perceived as the Magician; resourceful, magical, and opulent. Something of them is practical, as in they're adept to the metaphysical and what it may offer. LOA, glamour (or "sex") magick, visualization and scripting are familiar concepts. Witchcraft is a part of them, as it could've been passed down or learned ["through lineage"]. Genetic gifts that assist their "urges", or more importantly their fantasies. Non-conforming, unconventional ways and ideal (as they are the same). At most, this pile's aura feels mystical, untouchable and otherworldly. This kind of force can be turned off and on; felt by everyone, seen by none. Will attract "watchers" i.e. stalkers online or in real life. ♰♰♰ "Too hot to touch”; very tempting group here, even more so when they're done up to "play the part". Sensing that red, ginger (or “orange”) hair can emphasize their burn (fire). Hot! An edgier aesthetic suits them better than most, as if their mystique abruptly magnified. Deeper colors (maroon, black, and “dark blue”), smokey eyes, and smudged glitter are enhancers. Channeling woodsier scents? A scent including this note could melt into Pile One’s pheromones; they’re sensible and protective. Confidence within them is grounded, gives off older and mature. Faces contradict the assertiveness tho, some people of Pile Two have cherubic features (e.g. button nose, fat cheeks) which offers up an illusion of innocence.

LONGTERM CONNECTIONS ARE PRONE TO COME ABOUT, DUE TO CAPTURING LOVERS IN THEIR WEB. It's more of being bound than being "in love", and that's because Pile One doesn't leave them alone until Pile One says so; a pulley system only they control. At worst, this is a manipulation tactic in the hands of a former ["serial"] cheater, unless Pile One has evolved and grown out those ways. Trapped in a trance, pulled along a thin string, kept in an unopened box; partners don't conceptualize self-value when Pile One's not there. This as a scenario would be the equivalent of man pleading on his knees and to the world for his girl, like the music videos. Someone that’ll die for querent, feeling nothing but raging love. How Ari professes while admitting she’s been an anxious mess, “completely disheveled” and still wanting to appease “you” is how Pile One’s partners are.

♰♰♰ Samantha Jones in SATC is who they remind me of. Similar to her, Pile One prioritizes self-maintenance [and self-pleasure] before anyone else. Discarding dinner date plans for a night alone instead, opting out of fling appointments to mingle with friends, etc. "I gotta put myself first," "hasta la vista," and "me time" sum them up to a tee. Hesitating between shoe selection versus before asking someone to get out of bed and leave; to them partners are disposable, replaceable. Not #1 [because that's reserved for themselves], but the very bottom of the list instead. Mindset of an Earth sign, Virgo (Moon or 1H) in particular—"mother knows best". It's attractive that someone won't accept less than what they've done for themselves [already], they impress themselves. The shiniest trophy, but nobody possesses them. ♰♰♰ Querents of this pile are equipped to handle the world (plus obstacles) with a step in the right direction. I always reference "the phoenix rising from the ashes" when there's strength of a warrior present, which applies now. Pain, challenges, disruptions—there's nothing that can keep Pile One from achieving. Seduction for them stems from a "broken" place, where they shaped a future out of dust. It's possible no one gets them, but that's due to their truth being concealed. These are people that can't be read (especially at face value), they're meant to be discovered. Learned.

WHAT’S SEDUCTIVE IN BED ⟶ 🎴 7oW. King of Wands. 8oP. 6oC↺. Knight of Cups. 4oS [bod].

BECOMING THE MINX, “JUST LIKE MAGIC” IS A NOD ANOTHER SIDE OF THE SAME COIN; TWO HALVES OF ONE PERSON. The act of illusion is apparent, and it's potent within sexual circumstance. Skills, body, "sexuality" are magic, enough to arouse fascination in others. Ariana Grande's music portrays this visage perfectly, because Ariana is the embodiment of dual personalities. Innocent and unsuspecting until she's slipping a sexual innuendo beside her harmonies; a natural tease, because this is who she already is.

♰♰♰ In terms of sex, this pile is more prone to leading the encounter; the HBIC. How the momentum's pace is on your timing, how nothing ends or begins until Pile One's call. The demand of their instruction is seductive, it keeps "everyone" in line. Control may lessen, although it'll never fully leave. Granted, a limited amount of time to "disobey" is earned; to switch roles and have Pile One as a sub, get a taste of their authority. Seconds of pride that count towards a rush, a high that they'll only get with her, up until time's over and it's Pile One's turn once more. ♰♰♰ Not so much BDSM, but punishment is seductive; being spanked, "bit" (otherwise marked), and reprimanded. It's plausible that mama's boys or daddy's girls are prone to being on the other end—"under their hand"—because discipline isn't common. Getting told no, following directions and staying "put" keep their attitude together, something they're not used to. Pile One has bitches [or "pets"] lol. Degradation, using a condescending tone, edging and orgasm denial is a favorite.

PILE ONE’S PHYSIQUE, OR “CURVATURE” IS A HIGHLIGHT FOR THEIR PARTNERS. Their shape can resemble a peach, plump at the top and luscious at the bottom (otherwise supple breast and a soft ass). "Freakum" dresses can be a closet staple, especially when it's for a special night out—whenever they're ready to get (or "have") their way. Dipping in dark, brooding colors will heighten the allure, turn up the effect. Norma Jean's tactic to become Marilyn Monroe comes to mind, how she was able to shift: "I don’t know how to explain what she did because it was so very subtle, but she turned something on within herself that was almost like magic." "They were recognizing that this was Marilyn Monroe...even though a second ago nobody noticed her.”

♰♰♰ Clothing is a specialty and particularly when it's "coming off " (or "coming down"). Stripping out of them, dropping each piece to expose another stretch of skin; strip teases or showing off the birthday suit. This pile's lingerie should consist of lacy, sheer material such as wearing fishnets or leg garters (any form of tights tbh). The price of what they wear is attractive. It brings about this air of expensiveness, as in their aura is wealthy—abundant, self-assured and reliable. It traces back into the bedroom for sure, people can feel their income rise in just one night. Querents have the universal cheat code of being gifted ("being spoiled") in romantic connections (e.g. shopping trips and cash deposits). It's a favor for one, exchanging "secret" treasures. ♰♰♰ Pretty distinct, but tone of voice is being [heavily] highlighted; “vocal cords” are on the smoother side? Soothing almost, channeling that they’ve spoken people to sleep. Reminiscent of rum, in both taste and “singe” (wincing at the burn). Rugged (another Joel Miller reference, some querents are Southern); can hold weighted conversations with a voice full of conviction. Lol at the number of people that pine after this pile from their charm alone. “Just like magic, I’m attractive” and getting everything you want cus’ you attract it is about Pile One’s social interactions. Grounding a room with just a few sentences then flirting with everyone standing in it, golden gift for duality. Networking is quintessential considering it's one of this pile's skills; cue the stack of business cards they'd have gotten from exchanging contact information (huge).

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐒.

♡⃕ A kink for teeth and biting, both them and their partners. Into biting, getting bit on the lip and skin ["until it's tender"]. Sun, Mars, or Pluto could be in mutable signs [Gemini, Virgo, Sagittarius, Pisces] or houses [3H, 7H, 9H, 12H]. Scorpio/8H placements included.

♡⃕ Radiant". Beaming from the inside out, immersing the world in a glorious shine. Querents are on the friendlier side or possess the traits of "everyone's best friend". Big ole gummy smiles; a toothy grin. Friend of the world, can communicate with babies (children) and animals. Bunnies as a favorite animal [or "nickname"].

♡⃕ Find joy in mischief or getting a rise out of people; the jester of their friends or family (especially cousins). Pulling stunts to scare others, harmless pranks, and cracking jokes to lighten the mood at all times. Father could have the prankster gene hence why it's recognized. Def some home celebrities, family oriented querents for sure. Thanksgiving or New Years as a favorite holiday, too.

♡⃕ "Taut" RBF's, lips could form into a thin line on many occasions. Furrowing brows whenever they're driving home a point, prone to getting into "spats" or disputes (i.e. argumentative). Could hate banter, but revel in conflict; adrenaline rushes during confrontation(s). Intelligence is golden during debate conversations if tense. Bilingual/trilingual; native language from places of birth. Anais from Gumball in terms of frustration or attitude. Could have Virgo or Aries in personal (or outer) planets.

♡⃕ Really fiery, like it's all in this reading. "Quick", not doing things before or *after* thinking (i.e. regretting impulsive decisions). Cussing; swearing a lot or while chewing someone out. "Off the rails." Although full throttle, anxiety ("anxiousness") or bad nerves get in their way often. Bass boosted, loud volume, headbanging music as it compliments their vigor. 'TYG' from Megan thee Stallion & Spiritbox.

♡⃕ "Cupid bow lips". Bottom lip being plumper than the top; "fuller". Beauty mole(s) on the face or chin, above the mouth too. Using white lip liner or concealer for a signature makeup look ("added touch"). Distinct characteristics pertaining the face; statement piece [earrings, eye makeup, hair accessories].

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐈 𓆩❦︎𓆪

WHAT’S SEDUCTIVE IN GENERAL ⟶ 🎴 Reflection. King of Cups. Knight of Wands↺. Happiness. Queen of Cups. 9oP↺. 4oS [bod].

THE LOVER GIRL IS A HOPELESS ROMANTIC, A PERSON THAT’S ENCOMPASSED TO THE BELIEF OF HAVING [THEIR] TRUE LOVE. "Hopelessly devoted to you," comes to mind, a song that expresses the inner monologue this pile has ["everyday"]. Relationships can become a lifeline, a means of preservation in time of need; love is taken quite seriously, even more so if it's reciprocated. It's attractive to feel appreciated, yearned and cared for by Pile Two's energy; willing to share however many pieces of their heart if it’s necessary.

♰♰♰ Bubbly personality keeps this pile from being detected, the wide smiles and "softly glazed" eyes adds onto innocence. People can sense there's something more, carnal energy that's held from unleashing. I feel that there's Cancerian-Libran placements because the perception of them reminds me of pink bows and sugarplums. Cute, but only because their deviance is hidden ["in plain sight"]. "Naughty Girl" by Beyonce. There's more to them than meets the eye, as it's tempting others to come taste or try (lots of probing one's sexual identity can occur). ♰♰♰ Alchemy is a curated, learned skill and it's Pile Two's way to the Universe. Tumultuous rebirths are recurring, made to "force" them into shape; changing course throughout their journey is attractive. Learning and applying hard lessons in order to receive whatever they wish for. An enigma is how they're perceived, someone that's checked out when they're not immersed in another world. Going through—or "experiencing"—transformations will affect their overall appearance. Erasing an identity from the past, embracing change for a clean slate, shedding skin with hair and clothing. Their presence leaves people's blood rushing.

HIGHLY EMOTIONALLY INTELLIGENT, THEY CAN FIND THEMSELVES LONGING FOR HEIGHTENED SENSE OF AFFECTION IN OTHERS. An emptiness can rest inside them, but it's just because they're familiar with vulnerability; an "open book" if it pertains their feelings, being the only person who gets them. Honesty is a fault, because it allows the truth to be set "free". Human embodiment of the Justice card, their Judgement can sever or repair the lives ("energies") of those around. 222 and 333 are angel numbers that indicate progression in life or to urge use of discernment. "Put themselves first."

♰♰♰ Euphoric essence around their beauty, how it's a gift for their highest form. It's special—a beautiful blessing in physical features. Plush lips, "rosy" undertone(s), pleasant figure and "fleshy" areas (hips, thighs, love handles). Someone that's mesmerizing, the embodiment of Aphrodite's pearl; the birth of beauty. Shapeshifting is likely, as they've earned it with the help from above ("the ethers"). Staying true to what's on the inside and having it bloom on the outside. Dreams in human form. Being noticed [and "adorned"] for their innocence, in personality or facial features. Big, sparkly, animated eyes and "sooty" lashes; resembling Betty Boop; the fattest chipmunk cheeks (can insinuate someone's ass) and so on. ♰♰♰ Intention on Pile Two's end shows up in an authoritative sense, when they insert themselves it's because they're tired of the bullshit. Eerily similar to that of a "headmaster", otherwise strictness is a part of their love language. Coddling will only get someone so far, lol this pile's upfront; blunt, but respectful [simultaneously]. This pile won't allow people to run and duck from their problems, only "showing" the option to face them. Those same people are awakened to their fears, abilities, and unnatural desires; they've been found, truly seen. Making people sit up straight and pay attention; "IDGAF if I was late" ie. no one but Pile Two can check them like this. That spunkiness is a treasure alone, but especially cherished for stemming from "unaltered" independence. Praise and worshipping kinks could be prevalent during encounters.

WHAT’S SEDUCTIVE IN BED ⟶ 🎴 3oS. Ace of Cups↺. 6oS. King of Pentacles. Death. 7oC [bod].

DISARMING PEOPLE WITH CHARM—ALOOFNESS—REMAINS KEY, A COMPONENT THAT OFFERS THE BEST SURPRISE. Playing coy, twiddling thumbs or tucking hair ("biting it" too), it's a game that this pile wins easily. Nobody expects this from Pile Two, not in the slightest because they're too kind. Gentle and 'maternal', nimble like a baby mouse. On the surface, that is. I'm envisioning the slow drip of a faucet, or the articulation of a cat's paw steps—steady [and deliberate]. This energy reminds me of honey while it drizzles, erotic and warm. This pile's *so* sensual, and it drives a lottttttttt of people insane ("up the walls"). Feline, otherwise 'tactful', energies are present; acquiring or possessing skills in seduction. Mastery in peep shows, teases, and dances for sure. Mastery in peep shows, teases, and dances for sure. "We can't just keep talking about it, I want you to come inside it...I want to get wild" insinuates romantic partners don't want to wait, that they're in the mood anytime they see querent.

♰♰♰ Provocative is the best word for this group, they're able to control a room with little to no motion (unless it's on top <3). Can move mountains, crush stone, with nothing but a toe point; very powerful people. Pheromones alone are even enough, it's the sheer nature of it all, this pile's addictive. They may find that their sexual encounters will include overstimulation or force (i.e. domination) because lovers aren't capable of holding it in. Losing coherency, spiraling in Pile Two's "abyss" ("going the extra mile"). Essentially, lovers that'll believe in the red string theory after just one time together. It shocks anyone that's graced a chance to get in bed, the sexual influence is mind warping. ♰♰♰ Orgasms come super easily ("almost naturally") when given from them. Their technique(s) to have someone cumming are "sensational", soul touching and tear producing (I smell Scorpio and 12H placements lol). Definitely bestowed with the "magic touch"; skills that beckon one's climax forth. The Enchantress. People reach different heights with them, a "new peak"—reborn for existence ["again"]. People have revelations and awakenings in bed with Pile Two, in which can come about in a matter of minutes or after one orgasm (in other words, tread this force of a skill lightly). Obsessive behavior is prone to arise, 99.8% that it will, because people won't get enough. Querents knowledge on ecstasy is beyond teaching, so much that I sense it's spiritual; an "antidote" for those who aren't "well" (i.e. in heat and addicted).

BEING COINED AS 'THE BEST' SOMEONE'S EVER HAD IS TIED DIRECTLY TO BEING WORTH THE CHASE. Not that this group's only good or made for sex, more so being an expert in that department adds to their prestige. It's giving public reputation, one that's good or possibly envied; 10H prominence. King of Pentacles is the emblem of high social standing, respect and utmost value; the spread itself clarifies the admiration of Pile Two from different POVs. May mirror the 'WAG effect', but with them as the celebrity and their partner the wife. Double confirmation for emulating a cat, this is their ownership and haughtiness lmao. Wouldn't be surprised if it was obvious that querents wears ["and buys"] the pants in romantic connections, I even sense being worshipped by choice—love's in a glass case for the public to see. May mirror the "WAG effect", but Pile Two isn't the wife (they're the "breadwinner").

♰♰♰ Physique is coming in similar to Pile One (check it out if called), more pronunciation on the upper half tho. The breasts (chest) are "opulent", so possibly on the fuller cup side or give off an illusion (i.e. being big). "Full moon" is what I'm channeling which gives off that their breasts hold the emphasis on moon; Cancer placements (Sun, Moon, Mars), weightier feel, stretch marks or birthmarks across (or around) them. "Pushup bra", meaning that area is noticeable. Anatomy aside, breasts equate to maternal characteristics. Being domestic, caring for those around them, owning an apartment and a dog—signs that potential partners associate to good parenting. "With child". Breeding and having babies/getting this pile pregnant are major fantasies because they carry the imagery of how a "mother" should be. ♰♰♰ The softest people are in this pile and not just referring to vibes; skin, hair, lips, and legs are reminiscent of warm butter (which can point to glowing). I see the definition of radiance within their regime. Wearing whipped scents and perfumes of dreams, they kiss every room with succulence. A mango of a person, each part of them quenching people's thirst. Softness also indicates being a safe haven, or "stress relief", [a peace of mind] for close connections in their lives. Lol I'm even imagining a stress ball ("magenta"), like querent is a few people's security blanket. Giving out the best hugs and sweetest smile. Nothing overtly sexual, seduction is their aura. Comforting, dependable [with reason], and trustworthy; characteristics that whisper "this is a good person".

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐒.

♡⃕ Humorous people, like will make an entire room fold under pressure and BOL. "Practical jokester" and "professional yapper". Dragging people along; "jittery" or full of enthusiasm. Big kid as an adult, could even giggle a "ton". Dimples, smile lines, “eye crinkles” are present. Sun could be in cardinal houses [1H, 4H, 7H, 10H].

♡⃕ Oral, both giving and receiving, is a favorite. Mouths are "heated", almost like steamy hot tub water. Head that's slow and deliberate; "toe curling", "sheet gripping". Keeping a lover in place, holding their legs apart or keeping them pinned [for max pleasure]. Learning new techniques, tricks and "treats" for a five star experience. Pluto could be in cardinal houses [1H, 4H, 7H, 10H].

♡⃕ Feeling the same as “bubblegum” pink, having an aura that’s saturated in sugariness. Pinkalicious (brat); getting their way in love and not having to do much in return. Pink skin after getting spanked, undertones that show "flush". "Sweetest Pie" by Megan thee Stallion & Dua Lipa (similar vibes). Skill in baking or treats ("top notch"), confectionary sugar. Using their goods as [or "for"] a temporary love spell.

♡⃕ Goodhearted with a 'girl/boy next door' quality, would be a TV show's comfort character [otherwise most popular]. Happiness evokes the distinction of the ✨ emoji; "higher frequencies." Eloquence of Disney princesses or princes; "ain't no sunshine when she's gone." Transmuting pain, turning it into better days [or "Good Days" by SZA]. Positive influence, specifically on elders. Singing can be therapeutic and a skill.

♡⃕ Masturbation and alternative self-pleasure tactics can be chronic. Satisfying their needs, practicing affirmative moaning (e.g. moaning out loud and looking in a mirror). Instills confidence with sexuality—revealing clothing, "fiercely" looking makeup (winged liner, "blood" red lips), sexual discipline [on their time]. Can't be tied down, like ever. Has options for different days of the week ("separate occasions"); a playa. Could be Martian (Mars dom).

♡⃕ Maternal instincts and having a knack for domesticity, "family oriented". Dreams of birthing [or raising] children; adopting pets (i.e. owning multiple). Children "flock" to them, feel seen and understood from an adult POV ("trustful"). Dependable to friends. Proficient in babysitting or caretaking the youth; babies and toddlers "favorite person."

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐈𝐈 𓆩❦︎𓆪

WHAT’S SEDUCTIVE IN GENERAL ⟶ 🎴 Sadness. the Hermit. Page of Swords. Creativity↺. 7oS↺. Strength. 2oW. 8oS [bod].

BRIGHT DIAMONDS FEEL REVELANT IN COMPARISON TO PILE THREE'S RARITY. On the surface it seems they're forlorn and stoic or repressed and grim. Misunderstood and judged until an opportunity to see all of them arrives; "guarded" but authentic ("100%"). Querents may emulate the solemness in renaissance oil paintings. Given the chance to drop their guard, they'll ease into vulnerability. Not entirely, just enough to witness them relax. It's public knowledge that they're forced to be on [the] edge, and that it's near impossible to get off alone. This pulls people in, as if they're rushing to get closer; want to be querents knight in shining armor. "If I'm worthy enough?" People dream to sought out after this pile's approval, and coming to the realization is sexy.

♰♰♰ Querents of this pile are made of stone. Their energy is immovable, it's not made to crack ["shatter, or break"]. Willow trees make up their intelligence, these are teachers of power (strength and discipline). I see them as "silent, but deadly", as silence ("Hermit mode") is the shield. Saying nothing and knowing it all. Intelligence comes to mind, alluding to mental influence on others. Potential partners could find themselves having an urge to do better; heighten their knowledge, sharpen their skills, complete a craft. Lmao however, Pile Three wouldn't have even told them to go do it, those partners would've done it all by themselves for Pile Three ("just because"). Power is definitely a thriving source here. ♰♰♰ Determinative and empowered, querents are forthcoming regarding goals, ambitions, and accomplishments; success seems to "follow" them, but that's due to it being a source of comfort. Channeling the drive to "succeed" is found in creative or musical pursuits [if not about career]. It's not unheard of that this pile fights to the end of Earth to conquer a triumph (spirit of a warrior). This is perceived seductively as it displays to the world how perseverant they will be; "nothing that can be taken away" because it's what they know how to easily obtain.

THE LYNX WITH A SOLUTION IS HOW THIS PILE IS REPRESENTED TO OTHERS, PLUS ROMANTIC PARTNERS. Unpredictable, braggadocious, reactive, and relentless; characteristics in common as they're shaped from a similar mold. Intuition is a prevalent factor as well, because like a lynx, Pile Three can interpret anyone's energy (i.e. "read the room") and quickly adjust. Watchful gaze and all. Analyzing sceneries has led them into assessment, coined the role of lieutenant. It's prominent for sure, I'm hearing "dictator" as in this is how querents come off. It's "unsettling", but in the way that rolls tingles up your spine. Commanding and directing is attached to them as a personality trait, it's born from their urge to take initiative. Doing things, learning things, attempting things at the drop of a dime and asserting their authority by getting it finished.

♰♰♰ Querents are able to play hot and cold (like the song), inevitably putting people in a box labeled "undetermined"; people don't know where they stand, might not even know how to, just because Pile Three never tells. Like a magician pulling a trick and walking offstage even with the audience unbeknownst to how it worked. "Let me in" is what people scream internally, while jumping through hoops and hell to prove that they're worth the risk. Maximum effort to impress querents, or at the very least get them to "reconsider" dropping their defense. "Lower their expectations", so partners can dream of a real chance. Safe to say that querents are more likely to give "tests" with no thought about reviewing them. ♰♰♰ It's highly plausible that assertion on Pile Three's end is a coverup over their ["raging"] insecurities. Internal, external, mental or physical doubts hide under their reign ("rule"), it's easier for querents to take charge in all areas because they can't control their mind. Before spiraling, before "shutdown" (mass destruction); breathing techniques ("practice") helps level them out when in the midst of breakdowns. Personal lives can be on the brink of crumbling to querents, this is a result of 'unhealthy' home environment(s) as they grew older—interpersonal relationships were likely affected most. Codependency is a result from this unhealed wound ("wounds"), as it feels like something physical will heal the void rather than actual treatment (e.g. therapy). Addiction to sex, substance, work, or gambling is rather prevalent, so seductiveness comes in the form of sinful vices. ♰♰♰ Pile Three was the only group to receive an extra card, which happens to be about making decisions and stepping outside comfort zones [2 of Wands]. I found this interesting considering this pile has trouble taking [and making] leaps of faith, they live by the rule of a schedule (anything outside of that doesn't see light of day fr); someone [according to the number two] could change that. Show them a whole new world outside of expectations, routine, and boredom lmao. What gets querents to open up and breathe for once, that this someone gives them space to register, download, and process; they feel like being alone with the lights off, something Pile Three wouldn't mind sharing with them in real life; "let them in".

WHAT'S SEDUCTIVE IN BED ⟶ 🎴4oC. the Hanged Woman. 10oP. the Devil. 8oW. Death↺ [bod].

CHAMELEONS MARK QUERENTS ALTERNATE IDENTITY ("SPLIT PERSONALITY"), A SIDE OF THEMSELVES THAT ISN'T COMPOSED AND HIDDEN. It feels like the confines of a private party; hair messy, lips smudged, phone lost but the music keeps jumping. They're spinning round and round, pulling whoever's nearby into their circle. This shows in moments of comfort; setting a mood outside of their walls and head. Enjoying themselves to the max and inviting others to unwind also. It is sexy to loosen up and let your hair down, it's a "birthright" to bask in the moment. An outlook on free will that serene is destined for greatness, others can see it. In the bedroom, Pile Three turns the encounter into hotel service; five star rating from all the guests.

♰♰♰ Dominatrix/Dominant is the intensity I'm feeling, querent has the presence of a god. Everything's gone cold, lights are low and silence is near. "Secretary", E. Edward Gray vibes times ten (I even picture them cracking back an extra long whip). Definitely, definitely, definitelyyyy making people become their little sluts—overworking their existence with their own pleasure (woah :P). Indicates incessant teasing ("edging"), praise or punishment, and submission (mentally, physically). "Silence?" coming in could represent the use of rules, or it can be the calm after their partner's orgasm. Shutting down and regenerating all from Pile Three's conditions [e.g. sensory deprivation and multiple rounds]. It’s sexual Fear Factor, and many would love to play. ♰♰♰ Vanilla lovers are common and likely easily influenced; Pile Three gains the upper hand over others, but it's used to explore their fantasies. "How many licks to turn you out?" hence the overall dynamic of bedroom activity. Degradation when inflicted could dance on the harsher end (e.g. face smacking), but this also says meanness is a raging turn on (both querent and partner).

IT'S PLAUSIBLE THAT PEOPLE ARE SEDUCED DURING SEX, BECAUSE THROUGHOUT THE ENCOUNTER THEY'RE LOSING THEMSELVES JUST TO BE FOUND. Pile Three inhibits the role of a teacher, borderline disciplinarian, but all in the language of tough "love". Essentially, the dominance from them helps their partners with self discovery; helps them develop a newfound confidence in their identity. "Secretary" is coming in again, which isn't surprising since this pile resonates with the movie's theme. The main character, Lee, is a representation of querents spouse throughout their transformation; "on the path to redemption" with their own bodies. Butterflies floating from their cocoons to venture somewhere that's not home—these partners are butterflies once Pile Three travels along their bliss and ecstasy [as in life changing sex ;)].

♰♰♰ Oh, this the pile into wrapping their bedroom partners in rope or fluffy black cuffs; into withholding sweet relief when they have to cum. I'm hearing "soft", which alludes to a gentler side emerging whenever it's time to tie someone up [or implement use of bondage]. Fondness develops once Pile Three leans into this dynamic of rewards for submission; partners light up at the dualism because it reminds them that they're "loved" (i.e. cared for). ♰♰♰ Pile One had significant messages revolving around querents voice, and it's the same for Pile Three. Going off the downloads about demand and control, what's specifically seductive is hearing them speak; giving "instructions", whispering little nothings, essentially melting people's eardrums with word salad. Lol, it reminds me of how certain celebrities are urged to read audiobooks. It's erotic, but it's even better when it's meant for one person ("partner") to hear. I'm also channeling the use of querents voice, in the sense that they're vocalists in bed: "do it like that", "stay there", "i'm so close", "you feel that", etc. They're in [no way] afraid to praise or chide how their experience feels, dissatisfaction isn't an answer.

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐒.

♡⃕ Victimization, "prone to experiencing projection." People pushing ideas onto their persona, not accepting querents for who they actually are. Black sheep ["of friends"]. Edgelord (traits). Pluto in 1H, 2H, or 3H. Sun could be in a water sign [Cancer, Scorpio, Pisces] and in 6H.

♡⃕ High profile, appearance is that of a model. "Diamond face"; head shape is acute, sharpened and definitive (e.g. strong jawline). Cheekbones accentuated with contour and highlighter "blush". Straight or "queen" shaped brows. Scorpio in Moon, Venus, or Mars.

♡⃕ Talking and letting it "all out" during sexual encounters. Directing people how they want—need* to be pleased. Definitely talks someone through it; softly whispering the filthiest shit ever lol. Stern and direct. Influence is in their "reasonings", natural convos imitate public speeches ("PSAs"). Presence that'd do wonders in a governmental field (the Pentagon, CIA, secret service). Mercury in 8H, 12H, conjunct IC (4H).

♡⃕ Rolling Stone' by the Weeknd reflects their inner thoughts ("monologue"). Missing people [or a person] that doesn't exist; lonely by ["a"] fault. Stoners, "being stoned" from troubles, using escapism as defense. Caged bird, but an escape isn't near (false). Father Time [Saturn] gifts them wisdom with maturity; development is their "greatest" friend. Meditative yoga, journaling, or music ground them tremendously.

♡⃕ 333; individuals that're lucky, "blessed by Jupiter." Purple aura, royal like mindset. Abundance in material possessions, large amounts that fall through when least expected. "Lumpsums" and it's a new car. Good karma surrounding finances, regime, and knowledge [seemingly 6H]. Could know friends who know "friends" [business opportunities, success]. "Hustlers."

♡⃕ Major Aquarian traits; innovative, intelligent, "indescribable." Could "LOL" a lot, they're likely to be cackling. Incorporates "spectacles" in everyday fashion (sunglasses, reading glasses, fun patterned glasses). Accessories that stand out like their music; multi-genre playlists that's all their taste. Into fruit smoothies or Greek yogurt. "Unconventional" (lifestyle).

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐕 𓆩❦︎𓆪

WHAT'S SEDUCTIVE IN GENERAL⟶ 🎴 Creativity. 4oP. 5oP. Rest. 2oW↺. Ace of Pentacles↺. 6oP [bod].

THE CONNECTION TO THIS PILE WAS INSTANTANEOUS, MEANING QUERENTS ARE "TRANQUIL" IN SPIRIT, FLUID IN ENERGY. Pile Four's essence reminds me of coconut trees in Hawaii, leaves fluttering from the warmest of breezes; "tropical island" but in the form of their inner self. Child of the seas. Water nymph in her prime, having a beautiful voice is within this comparison; lessons will develop the clarity of their singing, "choir like" vocals. Aromatherapies could soothe disruptions querents face, scent itself is a huge part of their presence period. "Musk", "gourmand"; smelling delectable, but with an added hint of spice (e.g. cinnamon base). I'm downloading wafts of vanilla, caramel, cotton candy, and chocolate. A guilty pleasure, otherwise delightful to those that can't get a taste ["even tho they want to so bad"].

♰♰♰ Eyes are the most seductive feature of this pile, like the amount of pressure ("pleasure") people get after locking eyes is immense as hell. Naturally intense, resembling that of a tiger's—narrowed and penetrating. "Big ego". Sexiness can be found within their pupils, a tenacious gleam once it's turned on. Transformations are recurring here and partly because Pile Four chooses who they want to "be", slipping on a mask as if they're dressing for the part. "Which era am I stepping into today?" I'm channeling the planet Pluto, so there could dominant or prominent influence in the chart; querents have much passion hidden behind those irises and it hooks people. ♰♰♰ Charitable, generous beings reside within; attention is focused on Pile Four's desires to donate or give back. Not only partners, but people will generally find that level of empathy to be attractive. Humble and rich, whether that's in material assets or spiritual abundance, querents aren't hesitant to share. Pentacles are associated to wealth, so income is especially prominent; "big bank", accumulating revenue through their purposefulness. Humanitarianism is beloved from Pile Four because it's seen as genuine ("from the heart"). Forewarning to repress any sign of bragging, boasting, or full out greed since these are funds tied to karma; Saturn is the driving force because it's all hard earned and deserved, but he won't allow them to forget where they came from. Good behavior equals no testing trials or lessons, we want to keep it that way lol.

ENDEARMENT FROM THE COLLECTIVE WILL BE APPARENT; PEOPLE FIND IT QUITE DIFFICULT TO NOT FALL IN LOVE WITH PILE FOUR. I believe it's their truth and honesty, because they're undoubtedly the peacemaker for a *lot* of people's situations ("shortcomings"). "You've got a friend in me", meaning querents don't bash, they just expect better. Respect blooms once bathed in that light, it's "justified" (i.e. deserved). Honoring an opinion or perspective from this pile, because it's "essential for growth". Sun conjunct [or "trine"] Mercury or MC only emphasizes this air of importance. Utilizing communication and publicly speaking will be a part of this pile's rite of passage lol, definitely meant to be heard out loud (e.g. fighting for rights as a career). Also, raising awareness for a specific subject ("sensitive", controversial) will be a focal point regarding their presence in society—trailblazers.

♰♰♰ Personally, I'd be wary of the people this pile's around because some people are attracted to their sadness. With ill intention this is obviously weird, but harmless attraction would just be someone wanting to "save" Pile Four. Since they're one with inner power, it seems that nothing can shake their stability until it does. It's arousing when querents are in need because they usually never are; never asking for help, won't accept it neither [at least to anyone around that knows firsthand]. It's giving "the damsel's *finally* in distress", like people would leap in front of traffic if it meant they'd get to Pile Four first. Ngl, the other end of this spectrum is very loud—witch hunt vibes, as in "enemies" are literally praying to see querents suffer. Could be prominent later in life, but regardless I felt called to insert a message. Oddly, it's higher ups (bosses, managers) harboring this level of resentment; threatened by Pile Four's strength and potential [to succeed]. Be extremely cautious when at work (or in a workspace), I sense sabotage and framing ("accidents") when we know the real. ♰♰♰ While listening to music, I found myself coming across two separate versions of the same song; one was better than the other, which led me to believe that Pile Four experiences (or "will experience") copycatting and comparison from others. Specifically, partners or suitors who're in committed relationships and fail to keep querents out their fantasies. "Do it better" is being channeled, which also reminds me of being validated for something special ["that no one else has"]. Not to promote infidelity or being someone's sidepiece, but the favoritism isn't really being hidden lmao. This pile must be invested in spirituality or at the very least into the law of "what goes around comes around", because they're not tempted by any bait. They remember who karma is and how she operates, I don't picture them dipping into people's relationships for harmful doing at all. Using someone to their advantage, yes, but allowing themselves to come second place when someone's already first, hard pass.

WHAT'S SEDUCTIVE IN BED ⟶ 🎴Knight of Wands. 8oC. the Emperor. 6oP. King of Swords. the Fool [bod].

DISCOVERING THAT THERE'S ANOTHER SIDE TO SOMEONE SECLUDED IS SUCH A HOT LITTLE SECRET, AND PILE FIVE'S IN ON IT ("DEVIANCY"). Seduction is their strip tease, a dance where each turn and grind is another piece of clothing on the floor. It's as if the quiet island essence drowned beneath heavy passion and eroticism. "Drenched." For some, private encounters ["at night"] could be a habitual pastime, a "hobby". Stress reliever it is, and partners will find joy in being the outlet. Enamor is found at the base of sexual encounters, as in partners find themselves "sinking" into querents love [let alone fall].

♰♰♰ The card spread is a telltale significator of being a freak, definitely needing someone who can "match it" all the same. Like the signs are signing, from the Fool (openness in sexual ideas) at the bottom of the deck to the eroticism that surrounds (encloses) me. I feel that loyalty and trust are the keys to Pile Five's sexual shop. Think those 18+ Instagram posts that're like, "I look innocent, but for that one person I'm the opposite." Querents are a personification of that energy, they're hard to read [sexually] unless someone's intentions say differently. Roleplaying could be a kink that's enjoyable, especially in a maid's outfit or "teacher student" attire; the effects of role reversal instill stability and confidence in their romantic relationships. ♰♰♰ King of Swords came through and despite not having an actual place in the spread, the card came with a download about Pile Four's ability to "take it". Be it longer length of a dick/dildo, nonstop orgasms, or multiple rounds—they're handling everything like a pro ;). "Extremely commendable." People's mouths are going to drop and hang open just from witnessing the durability in person, "making it disappear" isn't common. I'll even insert anal, just because it fits the bill in this context (taboo doesn't exist).

SCENTS HAVE WAFTED TO THE SEXUAL SIDE, PUTTING EMPHASIS ON THE "SMELL" OF DESIRE. Smelling lovely, carrying an ambience of rose petals and candlelight. I've compared another pile to being an aphrodisiac and it also applies to querents; pheromones cloud and permeate the senses of partners, keeps them strung ["on what they're going to have"]. It's telling how drawn in they are, I see them hanging around Pile Four like flies to fresh fruit. Nobody likes to let go, in turn encouraging themselves to stay; "know I gotta leave, but I want to stay." Hearts growing fonder no matter the distance. Selena Quintanilla's presence and aura to the collective, and how that light is missed everyday—Pile Four.

♰♰♰ Naturalness is liberation to querents, their body hair isn't shunned or shamed. "Carefree". Bushes are attractive to not only them, but their lovers as well. It's the normalcy of two people bonding in bed, I think it's a ["stress"] relief to turn off being perfect just to be human. Feels bohemian in the sense of living by the choice; inspiring body positivity. Innocent, but it's attractive enough that partners want to "go down" more frequently ;P. It just adds more uumph to an encounter. ♰♰♰ There's a specific person that came in, someone who devotes ("dotes") their happiness on Pile Four's satisfaction (*for some*). Regardless, I'm channeling messages about foot massages and bathtubs ["together"]; "extreme" TLC after passionate sessions; chocolates fed to them, etc. Romcom acts of service, sweet nothings and dates as long as they're treating querents (i.e. together). Whoever this energy belongs to, they're practically marriage material [and a munch].

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐒.

♡⃕ Tons of fame indicators, querents could find themselves in the public eye once this lifetime. Skepticism around their authenticity, and if they're "cut out" for the scrutiny (otherwise backlash). Nitpicking about appearance being "too hot" and "sexy". Wild and famous. Sun (“conjunct Mercury”) or Lilith could be in 10H. Could have personal planets or placements in Capricorn or Libra [i.e. Saturn ruled].

♡⃕ "Eye catching" type of beauty. Attractivity resembles that of a model, influencer, or "guru"; gorgeous ass people. Androgynous features (well balanced between masc and fem energies). Exhibits the cut and value ("grace") of pink white diamonds. Could be Venusian [Rising, Moon, and Venus in Libra].

♡⃕ Virgin, practicing celibacy, or abstinence; haven't had penetrative sex "yet". Staying to themselves, rejecting new partners (flings), respect around the body. "Not letting anyone touch." Body isn't a joking matter, taken very seriously. Potential health scares [or "hospital visits"]. Prone to sending, posting, or saving nude pics.

♡⃕ Expensive jewels in their favorite pieces of jewelry; never seen without it [necklace, bracelet, “pendant”]. Red rubies or emeralds could have significance (e.g. birth stone, parent’s name etc.). People see them as “luxurious”. Debbie Jellinksy in ‘Addams Family Values’. Spoiled babies, but not without reason. Bargainers [“and deals”]. Jealous themes regarding fashion, beauty, and influence (themselves included).

♡⃕ Going into hiding, "Hermit mode" for a soul cleanse (refresher). Transformative as hell. Disappearing for months at a time just to reappear a "new" person; even more beautiful, "collected", and better than before. Unrecognizable (in a good way). "Money Longer" by Lil Uzi Vert. Pluto dominant, their ability to shed skin and birth anew is apparent ("respected"). Noticed in *every* room they've ever stepped in ("blessing and a curse").

♡⃕ Free the oppressed (“Palestine” and more); boycotting message, either to start or continue. Stop drinking coffee from Starbucks, it’s being frowned upon [“spiritual guidance”], people's lives are at stake. They’re important—they matter.

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐕 𓆩❦︎𓆪

WHAT'S SEDUCTIVE IN GENERAL ⟶ 🎴 Abundance↺. Knight of Wands↺. the Magician. Rejection↺. Ace of Swords. the Star. Knight of Cups↺ [bod].

PILE FIVE'S PRESENCE IS ILLUMINATED BY THEIR OUTER PROMINENCE, THEIR "STAR" SHINE (HENCE THE STAR CARD). I've noticed that all five piles have this certain glow to their energies, their personalities can revive a dark room. In this instance, Pile Five's personality is what's alluringly magnetic, it's "seduction" at its truest form. Envision if a person wanted to build their lover, they'd pick characteristics from querents admirabilities. "Sensuous" and amicable, somehow much more than expected (alongside individual uniqueness). Adept with an artistic approach, querents bestow fine talents—performing onstage (i.e. singing, dancing), creative writing, interior or fashion design, etc. Makes them exceptionally special, more so in the public eye; "starstruck". "Nice & Slow" can allude to querents steadiness in attaining their goals, taking the long route for lasting (rewarding) results.

♰♰♰ Embodying traits of people's ideal person (i.e. "perfection") is one of the main factors of being seduced; reminding them that humans aren't one dimensional, that we're made up of universal qualities. Humor would be the best example, because it's not a requirement to be with someone funny, until you realize that you love to laugh. Pile Five has this natural likeliness, they're able to be relatable without coming off as a flake ("try hard"); they're a breath of fresh air, a "relief". Youthfulness is a key factor as well, subtle mannerisms and expressions that thump through people's hearts; "twinkling eyes" and sweet smiles. The wonder in querents eyes is especially prominent, everyone notices at first glance. Literally the Star card, lighting up the nighttime. ♰♰♰ I envision this pile having many friends, being the favorite person in a lot of people's lives. A bestfriend, even to passing strangers. I'm hearing "polly pocket", which says people don't ["ever"] want to outgrow playing with Pile Five. (i.e. spend time with them). Spilling secrets, getting/giving advice, and trusting forever comes with this pile's care package lol; they're the sun for someone else's rainy day ("a confidant"). All above is the answer to "what's so beautiful about them?" Inner beauty is perceived to be felt "by all". Beautiful generosity is what I'm hearing, so querents hospitality is noteworthy. Getting-people-awestruck energy.

QUERENTS DEMEANOR DANCES ALONG THE LINES OF BEING RESERVED AND STRICT. BEING DEFINITIVE IS THE BETTER WORD, THEY'RE APT TO EARNESTY. If Virgo placements are present then this level of poise comes effortlessly, it's a part of them. Primitive and prestigious, people find these attributes to be "fascinating". Miranda Priestly from "the Devil Wears Prada" is who I visualize Pile Five to be; attentiveness to detail, pristine image from successes, a name upheld by its holder. Her character struts with diligence and strives for the greatest opportunities (it's in querents presence). Not letting up on a goal and seeing it to the end draws everyone in; "making shit happen" with devotion catches everyone's attention (enamoring).

♰♰♰ Getting feisty and excessive cussing is a part of querents likability; "randomness" in their words or expressionism. Lol "loudmouthing" is coming in, so they're bound to going off in the heat of moment ["or any time of day"]. The wheel generator (unexpectedness) of their speech is their bat signal, but especially when they're feeling mean. People may project weakness onto this pile—not taking them seriously—until it's their turn to get told off ("caught in the crossfire"). Harmless until they detonate :P, people are reminded that Pile Five has two separate sides. ♰♰♰ Their facial features are accentuated for luring (attracting) attention "wherever they are"; recognition for how irresistible they look to other people. Characteristics of an "angel", plump (cherubic) cheeks or apple like cheekbones. Highlighter serves them well, makes their appearance "radiant", can resemble the Sun. Broad shoulders, toned calves, or a built figure; seduction in their flex, or in moments where they're on display (e.g. in a swimsuit). I see them invoking the spirit of a Taurus [bull] and arousing tenaciousness in lovers. If it was possible to do, someone would paint Pile Five's face to hang in the Louvre.

WHAT'S SEDUCTIVE IN BED ⟶ 🎴8oC↺. 10oP↺. Ace of Swords. the Lovers. Page of Pentacles. Queen of Cups [bod].

HAVING AN EFFECTS OF HEAVY DRUGS WOULD BE AN IDEAL REFERENCE TO PILE FIVE’S SEDUCTIVENESS. All it takes is just one dose, because right after that is when the addiction begins (i.e. obsessive lovers). It's not uncommon for this group to attract internet watchers or stalkers, otherwise past partners that don't want to leave them alone; "can't get enough" of their love, aimlessly wondering if Pile Five's wondering too. "Made for everyone", as in "one taste and you're whipped". Don't be afraid to indulge, especially if it's the best you'll ever get. The pile that got away for a lot of past lovers [111, 1111 is significant].

♰♰♰ Wetness and fluids are big with querents, the first thing I channeled was "water fountain" (cream). It's making me giggle, because private areas can be seen as a "problem" from producing so much liquid. This can indicate "magic" genitals, private parts sprinkled in glitter. Orgasms from this pile are the "gift that keeps on giving", like people's self-worth (value) end up skyrocketing lol. "Heaven sent" plus the gift of pleasure leaves the impression of God's angel on others. Breeding or ["multiple"] creampies as a kink, because lovers find themselves absorbing the excess ("wanting it all", if you catch my drift..). Water is heavy [throughout the spread] which confirms many messy situations ;). ♰♰♰ Lips, lips, lips: kissing and feeling them is an experience, a solidified moment in anyone's lives if they're granted the chance. Pile Five's kisses (mouth in general) is an escape, a getaway the promised land ["of ecstasy"]. Kisses are delectable, tasting dessert-esque (sugary, savory). Flavors of peppermint or "candy" is prominent, otherwise satiating the desire. Also, the red lips on Sabrina's cover art gives me the idea of being kissed all over; the body, face, and "soul". A level of expertise this high means Pile Five is [or will be] a lot of people's "first"; love, orgasm, or fulfilling relationship. I don't believe there's anything about them that won't get someone turned on and yearning.

AS IT'S BEEN SO POTENT, PILE FIVE'S ACCESS TO A HIGHER SOURCE OF POWER IS GRATIFYING; DIVINITY LIES WITHIN BED, IT'S AN AWAKENING OUTSIDE OF THE BODY. Sex is inherently spiritual, because to partners the encounter isn't "of this Earth". To me, I envision it as beams of light poking (pouring) through the mind and spirit of whoever's with this pile, essentially aligning physical pleasure to mental (i.e. their psyche) bliss. That's to say, any form of sex is tantric and transcendental. People will be taken aback (at first), but that's due to the encounter being as sacred as it is; the intention (or "practice") is too important to interrupt before it begins.

♰♰♰ It's hard to not claim this pile as being perfect, but omg the downloads just validate the sentiment. There's not one hair on querents body that isn't adorned and appreciated, this reigns even more true if they're in a committed connection (i.e. special person). No matter how they envision themselves, to the collective their existence is "exalted" and favored. Skin could even glow during and after sex, because they're so cherished; "everything they think they aren't" is debunked at their most vulnerable (nakedness). Laving on their sensitive spots (legs, thighs, feet) is a token of gratitude from lovers, it'll happen frequently considering how devoted to Pile Five they'll be. ♰♰♰ This is coming in so intensely, querents have the mouth of an oral [sex] god. Nothing short of a munch, they leave marks with their tongue or throat; pulling people into their utopia (i.e. ecstasy). Ecstasy is recurring word for this pile, hence being compared to a drug, an indicator for sex that's "numbing". During head, partners are bound to throw their heads ["and hands"] upwards. The pressure of being sucked into the void is "stilling", the calm before a ravage storm. Lmao, they get people stuck with their mouths on 'o'. Minds on cloud nine, limbs so light from relaxation they "could float"—blown. This pile is made up of lovers that give and give, until they can't give anymore. It's as if oral is a "souvenir", an experience meant to be collected forever more.

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐒.

♡⃕ "Ironheart"; has the courage of the [cowardly] lion, bravery is learned (earned). Lightning strike(s) of a person, turns heads and charges surroundings with their intensity; energy is incomparable. Uranus could be a part of big three [Sun, Moon, Rising], Uranus dominant or in 1H/2H. Authors (writing can "revitalize" people, give them a wakeup call).

♡⃕ Connected to their highest form ("truest self"), receives messages through [or "from"] the Universe. Alienlike; "not of this Earth." What's on the inside (soul) reflects what's on their "face" (e.g. feeling good internally so they're extra smiley in person). Balanced. "Sacral chakra" alignment is a godsend for sex [can top or ride well]. Stomach is people's favorite part; birthmark, belly piercing, tattoo(s) above the waist.

♡⃕Insecurities are a part of them; "stories" about overcoming disappointment. Secretive to a fault ("can hold water" forever). Believes in trust and exposing what's on the inside—"bareface" (might also be more present at their "rawest"). Holds the key to the world (i.e. everyone's secrets). Consciousness. Lmao, fucking with them is a spiritual ass whooping full of drawbacks [and lessons]. Powerful ancestors (spirit team).

♡⃕ "Thank you" is their passage to life. Grateful for the smallest and largest things; "tearing up" over sentiments. Type to thank their lover for giving them orgasms ["submissive"]. "Soothing" voices; can converse or "rock" anyone to sleep (comforting). Cancer placements could be prominent [Sun, Moon, Venus][Lunarian].

♡⃕ "Bed Chem" by Sabrina Carpenter, might be "short and sweet". Emulates the energy of a little person ("smol"). Hair can be long, full and thick too [great for tugging, wrapping, or "pulling" in bed]. Cocoon, people don't want [them] to leave. Rich and "domestic" (motherly) singing voice. People like (love) to hear them whisper [Mercurial].

♡⃕ Artistic (artists at heart); creativity is all they know, all they breathe. Life path number 3/4, 5m [artistry]. Would do well onstage, might've experienced Broadway, could dream of visiting ("talent"). Pleasers (they're really submissive); lovers give them "everything" (i.e. drowning in ecstasy). Devotion is a personality trait. Pisces could be a part of their big six [Sun, Moon, Rising, Mercury, Venus, Mars][Neptunian].

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

#lovebitdemonic ψ #bitdemonic #new pac #pick a card #pick a pile #tarot #bitdemonic masterlist #18+ tarot #self love #something chronic #shufflemancy #channeled message #Spotify

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etheraltides · 3 months ago

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MY SUNSET ˚✧ﾟ

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Pogue!Artist!Reader

Summarize: Reader is painting while she waits for Rafe to come home.

Warning(s): none, I guess. Rafe's daddy issues.

A/N: Something cozy cause we're all humans, right? Feedback is always heartwarming!

The evening sun cast a warm glow across the beach house, settling into soft, golden patches on the walls. Rafe stood in the doorway, loosening his tie with one hand, his other rubbing at his neck. His face showed exhaustion – a subtle droop in his eyes, a faint frown line between his brows that deepened with every passing day. He let out a sigh, dropping his briefcase by the door with a dull thud. Being the man of the family could be exhausting sometimes.

Your eyes were trained on the canvas while you brushed steady strokes on it. The loud music playing on the headphone helping you to not overthink your decisions about this piece. You wanted it to be natural, something from deep within you.

Rafe knew that after calling out for you a couple of times and getting no responses where to find you.

You were so focused on the painting that you didn't even notice when he opened the back door and walked down the stairs, moving behind you. He waited until you moved the brush away from the canva to lean down and place a kiss on your cheek.

He smiled agaisnt your skin as you jumped in place, dodging your srained brush when you placed your hand on your chest.

"How long have you been here? I didn't see you coming." You smiled at him, your cheeks burning from the jumpscare as you placed the brush down, wiping your hands on the cloth.

"I just arrived and assumed you'd be here."

You titled your head to the side, a small smile on your lips as you notice his tired eyes and heavy shoulders. “Long day?”

He looked down, a faint smile breaking through his fatigue. “You could say that” He murmured, unbottoning the fa few buttons of his shirt and making his way over to you.

You were sitting cross-legged on the outside couch, dry paint smudged on your fingers and a touch of blue staining your cheek, making you look like a work of art yourself in Rafe's eyes. Brushes and a half-finished canvas rested on the table nearby, and Rafe’s eyes softened at the sight of you. There was something utterly comforting about coming back home to you - like when that orange sunray hits your skin during a sunset.

He slumped down beside you, his shoulders sagging, and you reached out without thinking, your hand tracing lightly over his shoulder. “You’re so tense.” You remarked, your fingers pressing gently into the tight knots at the base of his neck.

You couldn't remember the last time Rafe took a break. A real one and not those parties Topper and Kelsey were always inviting him to.

Rafe closed his eyes, a sigh slipping from his lips as he leaned into your touch. “Feels like I’m carrying the world around” he muttered, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

You chuckled softly, shifting to kneel behind him. “Well, the world can wait. Let me help.” Your hands found his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the firm muscle, working through layers of tension with slow, careful strokes.

Rafe’s shoulders rose and fell with each breath, his head dipping forward as he surrendered to your touch. You could feel him loosening under your fingers, the hard lines of his posture softening. His breathing grew slower, deeper, as though your touch had grounded him.

"You and those magic hands, huh." You could hear the smirk in his voice, chuckling.

You leaned in, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, “Think you can relax for a few minutes?”

His lips curved, eyes still closed, and he mumbled, “I’ll try.”

You continued working your hands down his back, your fingers firm but tender, kneading out knots with a gentle persistence. You felt his shoulders drop further, his body melting under your care. His hands rested on his knees, fingers twitching occasionally as he let go of the stress of the day. You tilted your head a bit to watch his face, his expression easing from its usual guarded tension to something softer, almost vulnerable.

Rafe’s voice came, a low murmur. “You know… I don’t think anyone’s ever done this for me before.”

Your hands paused, just for a beat, and then resumed their steady rhythm. Your heart sank with realization. “Really?” You brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, placing a kiss on his cheek. “Then it’s about time.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Guess I got lucky with you.” His head tilted slightly, a faint glint in his eyes as he looked back at you.

Your smirked, rolling your eyes, though your cheeks warmed. “Well, someone has to keep you in line.” You gently squeezed his shoulder, a playful edge to her touch.

Rafe’s lips twitched, his gaze softening as he moved his hands to your waist, bringing you to straddle his lap. “And you’re perfect for the job, aren’t you?”

Your fingers slowed, your hands resting on his shoulders as you shared a quiet look. You could feel his heartbeat steady beneath your touch as you moved your fingers down to his chest, and something unspoken passed between them - a silent understanding, a comfort found only in each other’s presence. Home.

Rafe lingered under your touch a little longer, breathing in that familiar scent of paint and something floral, your presence a gentle balm to the weight he carried daily. The silence between you was thick with an unspoken intimacy, but he found he didn’t mind it. For the first time in hours, he felt at ease.

After a few minutes, you slid down beside him on the couch, leaning your head back against the cushion, your fingers still tracing absent patterns along the exposed skin of his chest. He tilted his head to glance at you, a hint of curiosity sparking in his gaze as he noticed the streak of paint on your cheek again.

“Still working on that painting?” His voice was softer, the edge worn off by your presence.

You followed his gaze to her paint-streaked fingers, smiling sheepishly. “Yeah… lost track of time. It’s been tough getting it right. I just...” You paused, looking off thoughtfully before turning back to him. “You ever feel like something is close to being perfect, but you can’t quite… capture it?”

Rafe considered her words, his gaze flickering down to your nails scratching the paint off your skin and taking your hand in his, a stark contrast to his own. Smaller, warmer. Your dedication to your art, to something so different from his structured world, was something he admired - quietly, almost reverently.

“All the time.” He said, his voice low. “It’s like there’s this… picture in your head, but you can’t reach it. Can’t even touch it sometimes.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers brushing against a tender spot you had just relieved. His mind went back to the role model of a son his dad expected him to be and how he could never get even close to that, even when he thought he was making progress. “But I’m guessing yours involves a little more paint."

You smiled, a soft laugh slipping out as you reached over, your fingers grazing his cheek, leaving a faint blue smudge. “Looks like you’re part of the art now, too.”

Rafe gave her a mock glare, though his eyes betrayed a hint of amusement. “Glad I could help,” he said dryly, but he didn’t wipe it off. Instead, he leaned in, kissing your shoulder. “So, what’s this masterpiece gonna be?”

You hesitated, tucking your legs beneath you as you angled toward him, your expression almost shy. Rafe couldn't understand how humble you were and sometimes even insecure about your art when everything you did was breathtaking. “It’s… it’s supposed to be a mix of things. Like… nature and people and everything kind of blending together. But it’s tough. Every time I think I have it, I look again, and it’s just not there yet.”

Rafe’s gaze softened. “You’ll get there.” The words held more confidence than he often felt himself. “You always do.”

You looked at him, a faint blush coloring your cheeks. “You’re biased.”

He shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe. Doesn’t mean I’m wrong, though.”

Both of you settled into a comfortable silence, your head resting against his shoulder, his arm draped around you almost instinctively. The world beyond the backyard faded away, the pressures and stresses replaced by the quiet hum of familiarity, of being home.

After a few minutes, you stirred, breaking the silence. “You know… we could both use a break.” Your voice was light, but there was a note of longing in it.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, curious. “Thinking of a getaway?”

“Maybe.” You looked at him, your eyes bright with something he hadn’t seen in a while. “I mean, we talk about it all the time, but… I don’t know. What if we just went somewhere? Just us. No work, no deadlines. Just… you and me and a week with nothing but time.”

He considered it, the idea settling over him with surprising appeal. Work had been unrelenting, and the idea of stepping away - for a short while - sounded like the relief he hadn’t realized he needed. And the thought of you beside him, somewhere far from the noise of his daily life, was… tempting.

“Anywhere in mind?” he asked, his voice a shade lighter, almost teasing.

You tapped her chin thoughtfully, your eyes drifting as though you could already see it. “A beach maybe… with clear blue water, warm sand. Or… I don’t know, maybe somewhere with lots of art and history. Or a cozy cabin with nothing around us but trees and stars at night.”

Rafe chuckled, amused by your enthusiasm. “So… every vacation idea, basically.”

You nudged him playfully, your laughter filling the room. “It’s called variety, Rafe. Ever heard of it?”

His lips quirked up, and he reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers. “Alright, let’s say… I’m in. Where’s the one place you’d want to go first?”

Your eyes softened, a dreaminess overtaking her expression as you mulled it over. “Italy,” you said finally. “Can you imagine? All that history, the food, the art… and the coastline. We could spend days wandering through old streets and galleries, then head to the beach by sunset.”

The way you spoke about it painted a vivid picture, and he found himself wrapped up in the idea, too but truth be told: he'd go anywhere with you. Even being locked in the bedroom with you would be a dreamy vacation. “Italy” He repeated, rolling the word around as if it were a foreign but tantalizing concept. “Never been. But I could go for that. Though… if we’re going, you’re gonna have to handle the language part.”

Your grin widened, your eyes dancing at the idea of trying to use all the Italian you learned by yourself a few years ago, at the possibility of leaving the country for the first time. “Consider it done.”

They talked late into the night, exchanging dreams and ideas for that trip, letting themselves get lost in fantasies of cobblestone streets, Italian sunsets, and lazy mornings. Rafe found himself captivated by the way your eyes sparkled, the way your voice softened whenever you spoke about the art, the people, the life waiting beyond their world.

At some point, he had leaned back, his head tilted against the couch, watching you more than really listening, feeling a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with their imagined vacation.

Your voice dropped as you continued talking, your words like a gentle rhythm in the background, and he realized you had a way of drawing him in, pulling him out of the exhausting reality he was constantly entrenched in. You were his escape, his sanctuary.

Eventually, your words trailed off, and you glanced over, her eyes catching him in a lingering, soft look. “Are you sure you're really in for this?”

He blinked, surprised by the intensity of the connection he felt in that moment. “Yeah.” His voice was barely a whisper, but it held a depth of sincerity. “With you? Absolutely.”

For a while, you simply looked at each other, the quiet promise of your shared dreams hanging in the air. You moved closer, tucking yourself against him, your hand resting on his chest as he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close.

And as they drifted off, the night wrapping them in its quiet embrace, Rafe knew that no matter where life took them - Italy, the beach, or even just their own city - you'd be there beside him.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

#rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron oneshot #rafe cameron one shot #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron outerbanks #rafe cameron x you

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consciouscarrot · 4 months ago

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day 8 - gifts [ s.reid ]

spencer reid x fem!reader

content warnings; fluff, r sits in spencer’s lap, r is wearing makeup (at least eyeshadow and eyeliner)

notes; bit of an abrupt ending lol

kinktober/flufftober masterlist

—————

spencer was sat at his desk in his apartment, typing up a case report on his laptop after work when you came up to him. you slid your hands over his shoulders, before leaning down and hugging him from behind. he revelled in the weight of your head pressing into his neck, leaning his own into you slightly.

he noted that one of your hands was closed over something, but your fingers were too tightly wrapped around it for him to be able to get a good enough look and figure out what it was.

he tilted his head, kissing along your arm, gently nipping occasionally before muttering into your skin a soft, “hi, angel.”

you hummed, pulling away languidly then turning his wheelie desk chair around so that he was facing you. he reclined back, shifting his hips forward to accommodate for you. his lean arms wrapped around you snugly as you clambered on top of him, curling your legs underneath you and resting your head on his shoulder again.

your sweet apricot perfume wafted over him, he wasn’t usually a fan of fruity perfumes, finding that they tended to be a stronger scent and gave him migraines, but yours was a perfect blend on your skin. he breathed you in, fingertips running up and down your thigh soothingly.

“what you got there?” he queried.

you slowly unclenched your fingers, revealing a couple of pretty stones that sat on your palm. he took them gently, thumbing over the cool objects.

one was marbled with brown, orange and caramel swirling together, creating uneven stripes and loose spirals. it was covered in imperfections- chips and scratches lining it’s surface.

the other was a smokey grey, so shiny it was almost mirrored. it was very smooth, opposite of the first pebble with next to no marks.

they were both very pretty, and he thought that they were sort of like the two of you- one all shiny and polished, perfect- whilst the other was a little roughed up and tarnished. however, he knew you’d get upset if he told you this, always hating that he was so hard on himself.

“they’re for you, i found them when i was out on my walk. i washed them already, don’t worry,”

you fiddled with the end up his shirt, chewing your bottom lip nervously as your gaze flitted over his features, examining his expression.

“i love them, baby. thank you,” he smoothed over your hair, before gently cleaning up the smudged eyeliner that had begun to muddy your pretty pink eyeshadow, “i’ll cherish them forever.”

you hummed, visibly pleased and all sunny smiles as you looked up at him, basking under his loving touches.

“did you know that male penguins gift a pebble to someone they wish to mate?” he returned your gaze, veiny hand still holding your face, “it’s a sort of engagement ring for them.”

“i did not, that’s so cute. do you know why they do it?”

“i do! there’s not much research that’s been done on it, but it’s believed to be to show that the male penguin is capable of looking after the female, and any chicks they may have, as their nests are built from them, to keep them above any melting ice.”

“that can’t be very comfortable,”

he chuckled softly at your frown, adoring that you were fretting so much over penguins contentment. spencer bent his head down to kiss your chewed-up lips, laughing again when you flushed and quickly buried your head in his neck.

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rozhliena · 1 month ago

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mc x mammon

you construct intricate rituals in order to touch the skin of the avatar of greed, ambiguous season but i would venture it's still during s1 of the original game, mostly just palavering about the gaze nothing actually occurs

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul.

"Don't you get eyestrain?" you ask Mammon, tilting your head as you sink back into the pillows on your bed. "With the sunglasses." It isn't bright in your room, the lights set just shy of their dimmest mode as you get ready to go to bed, and neither is his D.D.D.'s brightness set high. But he wears them all the time anyway, even in the evening. "Or are your eyes just sensitive?"

From where he's leaning at the side of your bed, frantically tapping some blinking lights on his D.D.D., Mammon shakes his head. "Nah, my eyes are fine," he says. "I just like the look of 'em."

A fair, if somewhat odd, assessment. You can't say you dislike the look, either, which has grown as familiar as the sight of him in your room — you're actually not sure why he's here today. It just seems like a given, some routine you've fallen into. There are two toothbrushes in the bathroom connecting to the bedroom, and there is a hamper in the corner for clothes that aren't yours, though they never seem to make it into the basket without your help, and the extra hangers in your wardrobe have lately been put into use more often than not. It's not exactly normal, you know that, but it comes so naturally.

"Are you gambling on mobile games again?" you ask, reaching over to pluck the sunglasses off his face, wondering if you should feel amusement or concern at the fact that he hadn't reacted to the motion at all. But maybe that's natural to him, too. You look at the orange-tinted lenses curiously. "You probably shouldn't, you know."

"I'm gonna win this one, serious, y'know, statistically and shit — "

When you put the sunglasses on, they're slightly large on your face, and they really aren't special aside from being from a Devildom designer brand that sounds suspiciously similar to the human world's Gucci. A typical pair of polarized sunglasses. You sigh, pulling them off. You lean over to place them back on Mammon's face, slightly askew. "Still losing?" You know he is; he's already out of in-game currency. Sure enough, the lights on the animated slot machine go red.

"Hey! You jinxed me!" he complains, adjusting the crooked sunglasses as the plaintive whine of a loser's trombone plays from his phone's speakers, but he turns off the game and stretches across your bed. His eyes peek out above the tinted lenses of his sunglasses, toward you. Like he's expecting something. You wonder if he's even aware of the way he looks at you sometimes, so intently it seems to go right through to the back of your neck.

"What's up," you say.

His gaze shifts, lands on the second hamper in the room, half-filled with his clothes by someone who isn't him. He's thanked you for it before, but you wonder what he actually thinks about the entire thing. "I dunno. Just lookin'." At this angle, you can only make out the blue in his eyes.

You sit up. "Are demon eyes different from human eyes? Like, in terms of biology."

Mammon looks at you, a little incredulously, and then laughs. "Man, how the hell would I know that? I ain't a nerd like Satan."

You shrug, moving so you're facing him properly. "I don't know. But can I check?"

He grimaces, but he's already folding up his sunglasses and hooking them into the collar of his shirt. "Like, you're not gonna poke 'em or anything, right? Would you even know the difference between, y'know, human and demon eyes?"

"Maybe. I don't know." When you moved just now, your hand brushed against his, where below the knuckles is the faded smudge of a stamp he'd had to get at one of Beel's games. Identical to one on your own hand. The game itself hadn't been particularly intriguing, and what you remember more than anything else is that it had been cold that day. You and he had to huddle up together beneath a blanket, and Mammon's bony elbows poked into your ribs to such an extent that you wondered if it wasn't less comfortable in the blanket than outside of it. But when he turned to you, smiling sheepishly, looking at you the way he does, warmth bloomed in your chest and you couldn't even feel the ache over it.

Mammon looks at you the way he does and shrugs. "Whatever. All yours."

There's no way to make this seem normal, you know that. When you take his face in your hands you don't think too much about how easily his face fits against your palms as you angle his head toward the light. His cheeks are warm. He doesn't resist at all. "Don't close your eyes so I can look at your pupils."

It's not an order, but Mammon goes along with it anyway, though his eyes tremble a little, avoiding your gaze, when you lean in to inspect.

When the light hits them, the pupils constrict like they would in any other eye. Whenever Mammon looks over his sunglasses, his eyes are like the bright blue sky of the human world above a sea of sand, but up this close, they're entirely normal. The same pupils, irises, sclerae. Tear ducts. The delicate blood vessels along the white of the eye. Eyelashes, to keep out debris. It's almost disappointing. The only distinction anyone could make between his eyes and those of a human's is that his irises are unnaturally vivid and possess two colors, but even then, there are some humans with those same traits.

"I can't tell the difference," you admit. "They look like any other set of eyes."

The set in question flicks to yours, narrowing slightly. "Hey, just 'cause I'm being generous doesn't mean you can go lumpin' me in with everyone else." He reaches up, his hand finding purchase at one of your wrists like he's going to wrench you away from him, but he just keeps it there. "I'm the Great Mammon, y'know?" The warmth bleeds into your skin.

"I know that," you say softly, still not thinking. "Hey, close your eyes." Again, it's not an order, no force behind the words, but again Mammon obliges. His eyelashes are so light they're almost transparent. You brush the pad of your thumb over the thin skin of the eyelid, over the light oily sheen there. His closed eyes quiver beneath your touch.

"Does eyeshadow give you trouble?" you ask. "Because of your eyelids."

"Lil bit," he says. "When I do gigs I gotta prime 'em and carry those blotting things. But hey, I always end up lookin' good, yeah?" His mouth turns up in a contagious grin.

"You do." It comes out of your mouth so easily. His cheeks go warm at the admission, but he doesn't say anything this time. He's letting you feel around his eyes like it's nothing, and you think, maybe there isn't any real difference between demons and humans, after all. Eyes or otherwise. You let your fingers trace along his face to under the chin, angling his head upward. During the game, you had reached down to one of his arms and squeezed, not because it accomplished anything for heat, but because it was instinctual, like scratching an itch, or like blinking.

Your faces are so close. Kissing Mammon would be so simple — twist of the wrist, tilt of the head. You'd land his lips in one try; it would come naturally, and his mouth would be soft and warm. You wonder if he would let you kiss him.

Mammon's eyes flutter open. His grasp on your wrist tightens slightly. You can feel his breath on your face. Your own breath catches in your throat. "What're you doing?" he whispers.

"Just looking," you whisper back. He doesn't let go.

#obey me #obey me x reader #obey me mammon #obey me fic #obey me mammon x reader #mammon x reader #heard the news.... got nostalgic........ might have to get back on that wave and finish all the wips i had #(most of which were x oc not x reader but well! such is life)#spiicings

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robo-writing · 2 months ago

Note

Hi! I love your writing and have had a shit day. Basically car troubles and a flat tire. All I could think about was Logan ‘yelling’ at me for not asking for his help and being upset I tried to do everything myself. Could you write something like this with an established relationship? Just super soft and fluffy with Logan just being scared you could’ve gotten hurt. Thanks! ♥️

Oh no, I’m so sorry you had a bad day today! Hopefully tomorrow’s better!

Today’s just proof that Murphy’s law is still alive and true. You’ve tried every single troubleshooting method you can think of and still your car refuses to just fucking work.

It gets to a point, it really fucking does.

Your head hits the steering wheel, too tired to care about the loud blaring that follows. “For the love of god, please move,” you beg, and you hear the best noise you’ve ever heard in your life—the sound of your engine whirring to life.

“Yes, yes!” You cry, hands immediately moving to the steering wheel. You start thanking every deity you know and then some, slowly

Unfortunately for you, luck is not on your side. You get maybe half a mile before you feel the car jump, followed by the worst sound of your life—the air escaping from your tire.

You feel the tears welling in your eyes, defeat sinking down into your very core. You don’t even have the strength to curse, staring ahead into the empty road as your view gets lower and lower. The thought of swapping your tire crosses your mind, but you’re so mentally drained that even getting out of your car seems impossible.

So, you sit in the drivers seat and cry while the sun goes down. By the time you compose yourself the sky bleeds orange, your phone ringing with an all too familiar contact number.

Begrudgingly you pick up, the sound of your husband’s voice clear through the receiver. “Hey honey, haven’t heard from you all day.”

Silence.

“Sweetheart, you there?”

“Y-Yeah,” you answer. “I’m here.”

You can almost hear his expression through the phone—you imagine he’s suddenly on alert from the sound of his footsteps, worry in his voice. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

The words bring a flood of emotion through you—rage, sadness, mostly defeat. You feel yourself shaking again as a fresh wave of tears begin to fall down your cheeks.

“My engine broke Lo,” you sniffle. “It broke, and I tried to fix it but it wouldn’t—it wouldn’t turn on and I tried—“

You’re hyperventilating now, and somewhere far away you can hear Logan telling you to calm down, but it only makes you panic even further. “It wouldn’t work, and I did everything right and then it did! And I was so happy Lo, thought I did everything right and right when I started moving I got a flat fucking tire and everything’s going wrong and—“

“Honey, breathe, please,” he pleads through the phone, but you’re still crying. “Stay where you are, I’ve got you on gps, I’ll be there in ten.”

“I’m sorry,” you whimper, wiping at your wet face with the back of your hand. “I’m sorry, it’s my fault—“

“No, no, we are not doing that,” he interrupts. “Stay where you are, I’m coming to you, don’t panic, okay?”

You sniffle, nodding your head. “Y-Yeah, okay.”

“Say it back to baby, say you won’t panic.”

You nod again. “I won’t—I won’t panic.”

“Good,” he replies, the telltale jingle of car keys loud through the phone. “Want me to stay with you on the phone while I drive?”

“Please,” you say, still trying to steady yourself. From the corner of your eye you see yourself, and you look like a wreck. Red in the face, fingers and clothes stained from working on the engine, ugly black smudges that only serve to remind you of your failure.

“Hey, focus on my voice, alright?” He says. “I’m almost there, just keep calm.”

What was only a few minutes felt like hours, the sight of his car coming over the horizon enough to bring you to tears for the third time today.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright,” he coos, pulling you out from the car with a hand against your back. “You’re good, everything’s fine.”

You’re trembling in his arms, guilt flowing through him at the sight of you in pain. You’re holding onto him so tightly, as if he’d disappear if you didn’t. Your first words to him are a mess, and all he can do is rub your head as you get it all out. “I’m sorry for making you come here.”

He shakes his head in disagreement, placing a kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t be sorry, I’m happy to be here. Next time you’re in trouble, just call me, okay honey?”

#robo speaks #ask #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #wolverine x reader #robo writes

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w1w2 · 2 months ago

Text

Toxic till the end

Minatozaki Sana x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 10k

Synopsis: Is this a game or is this love? Y/N’s whirlwind romance with Sana blurs the lines between passion and control, forcing her to confront the cost of losing herself in the name of love.

Rosé - toxic till the end "His favourite game is chess, who would ever guess? Playing with the pieces in my chest"

Notes: I'm not super happy with this, BUT here you go.

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

Rain streaked down in cold rivulets, blurring the city skyline into a wash of shimmering lights. Y/N stood motionless on the empty sidewalk, her hands trembling as she clutched a delicate necklace. The silver chain, hung heavy with memories, each link a reminder of the bond she was desperately trying to break.

Her mind played the greatest hits of their time together: Sana’s radiant smile the day they met, the sound of her laughter echoing in Y/N’s ears like a melody she could never unlearn, and the countless whispered promises that once felt unshakable. But those tender moments were only half the story.

Closing her eyes, Y/N could almost hear the sharp edge of Sana’s voice during their fights, the manipulative way she twisted words to pull Y/N back when she tried to leave. Her fingers tightened around the necklace as the memory of their final argument surfaced. The moment Y/N knew she had to choose herself or lose everything that made her who she was.

The rain grew heavier, soaking through her coat and chilling her to the bone, but she didn’t move. Instead, she stared at the necklace dangling between her fingers. A relic of a relationship that had started with warmth and laughter but ended in chaos and heartbreak.

Y/N’s lips parted, her breath fogging in the cold night air as she whispered to herself: “How did we get here?”

Her mind wandered back to the beginning, to a night when fate or perhaps sheer misfortune, brought them together. It had been an ordinary evening, one she hadn’t thought much about at the time, but now it loomed in her memory like the first domino in a line that would inevitably topple.

The sun was nearly gone, leaving streaks of burnt orange and purple smeared across the horizon as Y/N’s car sputtered to a pitiful halt. The dashboard lights blinked angrily, and with a groan, she pulled over to the shoulder of the road.

“Great,” Y/N muttered, stepping out into the brisk evening air. The road stretched endlessly in both directions, barren except for the glow of distant streetlights and the occasional hum of passing cars. She popped the hood, peering uselessly at the engine as a wave of frustration bubbled up.

Just as she considered calling for help, her attention was drawn to a figure further down the road. A woman stood next to a vintage bike, pacing and waving her arms in what looked like an animated argument with herself. Her leather jacket gleamed faintly in the fading light, and her glossy hair was pulled into a messy bun, strands falling in soft waves around her face.

Before Y/N could decide what to do, the woman turned, spotted her, and waved with both hands like she was trying to flag down a rescue helicopter.

“Hey!” the stranger called out, her voice carrying easily over the stillness. “You don’t happen to have a toolkit, do you? Because my bike’s officially given up on life.”

Y/N hesitated for only a moment before walking toward her, chuckling under her breath. “Depends,” she called back. “You know anything about cars? Mine just gave up too.”

The woman’s laughter rang out like a melody. “So it’s not just me! Misery loves company, I guess.”

Up close, she was even more striking. Bright, almond-shaped eyes twinkled with mischief, and her wide, radiant smile could have melted ice. She stuck out a hand, unapologetically smudged with grease. “Sana,” she said with a grin that was equal parts charming and disarming.

“Y/N,” she replied, shaking her hand.

“Y/N,” Sana repeated, like she was testing the weight of the name on her tongue. “Nice to meet you. Terrible circumstances, though. You wouldn’t happen to have a magic wand in that car of yours, would you?”

“Unfortunately, no wand,” Y/N said, smirking. “But I do have some basic tools and a knack for pretending I know what I’m doing.”

“Good enough,” Sana said with a wink. “Fake it ‘til you make it, right?”

For the next hour, they worked side by side, troubleshooting their respective problems. Sana’s bike chain was hopelessly jammed, and Y/N’s engine refused to even pretend it wanted to cooperate. Despite the mounting evidence that neither vehicle would be salvaged anytime soon, they found themselves laughing through the frustration.

“So,” Sana asked, leaning against her bike with a crooked grin, “what brings you out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Y/N shrugged, brushing her hands against her jeans. “Just bad luck, I guess. My car decided to call it quits at the worst possible time.”

“Classic,” Sana said. “My bike’s just as dramatic. I swear, it waits for the exact moment when I’m miles from anywhere to throw a tantrum.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “Well, at least we’re stranded together. Misery’s better with company.”

Sana’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, her smile softening. “You know, you’re pretty good at this whole silver-lining thing. It’s kind of nice.”

“Thanks,” Y/N said, feeling a faint blush rise to her cheeks. There was something about Sana. Her energy, her presence, was magnetic.

As they packed up their tools and prepared to call for a tow, Sana tilted her head, studying Y/N with a teasing glint in her eyes. “You’re too nice for your own good, you know that?”

“What makes you say that?” Y/N asked, genuinely curious.

“Helping a complete stranger like me? That’s dangerous. Someone could take advantage of that.” Sana smirked, but there was something sharper, almost predatory, lurking beneath her playful tone.

Y/N chuckled nervously, brushing off the strange twist her words had taken. “Maybe, but I’d like to think the world needs a little more kindness.”

Sana’s smile widened, her teeth catching the dim light. “You keep that up, Y/N. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

It should have been a red flag, but instead, it felt oddly exciting. There was something about Sana’s intensity, her unpredictability, that drew Y/N in, like a moth to a flame.

As Y/N watched the tow truck pull away with her car, she stared down at her phone, where Sana’s name glowed on the screen. A part of her knew this chance meeting would change everything.

And it did.

It started with Sana’s camera. Their first official date turned into an impromptu photo shoot after Sana pulled a small vintage camera from her bag, insisting that Y/N pose in front of a mural they’d stumbled upon. Y/N had felt awkward at first, laughing nervously as Sana barked playful instructions and crouched to find the perfect angle. But when Sana showed her the first photo, a candid shot of Y/N mid-laugh, framed perfectly against the mural’s vibrant colors, something inside her shifted.

“You have a gift,” Y/N had said, genuinely impressed.

Sana grinned, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Only when I have the right muse.”

Soon, weekends turned into photography adventures. Sana led Y/N through the city like a woman on a mission, chasing golden-hour light and wandering into alleys where broken windows and graffiti became their backdrop. Sana had an uncanny ability to find beauty in the unexpected, framing the world through her lens in ways that made even the mundane feel extraordinary.

“Just hold that pose,” Sana said one evening, crouching low with her camera to frame the shot. Y/N stood at the edge of a rooftop, the city skyline glowing behind her, the lights shimmering like a sea of stars. “Perfect. Now tilt your chin up—yeah, like that.”

Y/N laughed, feeling a mix of awkwardness and exhilaration. “Do I get a say in this, or am I just your mannequin?”

Sana lowered the camera, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “You’re not just a mannequin. You’re my masterpiece.”

The words hit Y/N like a jolt, warmth rushing to her cheeks. No one had ever looked at her the way Sana did, as if she were the only person in the world. Being Sana’s muse was intoxicating, like stepping into a spotlight that never dimmed. It wasn’t just the photos. It was the way Sana made her feel seen, adored, and wanted in ways she hadn’t known she craved.

The city became their playground. Laughter echoed under neon lights as Sana adjusted Y/N’s pose in the middle of a bustling street. They stole kisses in quiet parks, Sana’s camera dangling around her neck, the click of the shutter capturing moments Y/N thought would last forever.

But the camera wasn’t just an instrument of art, it was also a tool of control.

One afternoon, as they sprawled on a blanket in the park, Y/N scrolled through her phone while Sana tinkered with her camera settings. A notification popped up on Y/N’s screen, a message from a coworker, and Sana leaned over without warning.

“Who’s that?” she asked, her tone casual but her expression anything but.

“A friend,” Y/N said lightly, locking her phone. “We’re working on a project together.”

Sana’s eyes flickered with something Y/N couldn’t place. “Funny, I thought we were spending today together. Didn’t realize you had someone else waiting for your attention.”

The words landed like a sharp jab. Y/N opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Sana’s fingers brushed against her cheek, her voice softening. “Sorry. That came out wrong. I just… I don’t like sharing you.”

Y/N’s irritation melted under the weight of Sana’s gaze, and she found herself apologizing. “It’s nothing. I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

Still, a faint unease settled in Y/N’s chest, one she quickly brushed aside.

As the weeks went on, Sana’s possessiveness surfaced in subtler ways. Comments about Y/N’s schedule, questioning glances when Y/N mentioned spending time with friends. Over time, Y/N began canceling plans without even thinking about it, telling herself it was easier to avoid the tension.

“Work can wait,” Sana would say, pulling Y/N into her arms after another canceled meeting or skipped deadline. “You’re too important to me.”

And the truth was, Y/N loved it. She loved the way Sana’s attention enveloped her, the way it made her feel like she was all that mattered.

But there were moments Y/N couldn’t ignore, moments that lingered long after they ended. Like the evening at the diner.

The waiter had cracked a joke as he poured their coffee, something lighthearted and forgettable, but Y/N had laughed, really laughed, the kind that made her throw her head back. She didn’t notice the shift in Sana’s demeanor until the clink of her fork against the plate made her look up.

Sana’s expression was pleasant, her smile wide, but there was a tension in the set of her jaw that made Y/N’s stomach twist.

On the walk home, Sana was unusually quiet, her hand gripping Y/N’s just a little too tightly. “Do you think he was flirting with you?” she asked finally, her tone light but her words pointed.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “I don’t think so. I mean, it was just a joke.”

Sana stopped walking, turning to face her. “You didn’t have to laugh like that, though. It’s like you wanted him to think he had a chance.”

Y/N opened her mouth to protest but stopped, her words catching in her throat. The idea that Sana was jealous, it should have bothered her, but instead, it gave her a strange sense of satisfaction. She liked knowing that Sana cared enough to feel threatened, even if it meant enduring moments like this.

“You’re right,” Y/N said finally, squeezing Sana’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

Sana’s smile returned, wide and genuine, her voice softening. “I just don’t want to lose you.”

Y/N felt her chest tighten with something she couldn’t quite name. “You won’t,” she promised, even as a quiet voice in the back of her mind wondered if this was what love was supposed to feel like.

The whirlwind of their romance made everything else fade into the background. Y/N found herself skipping happy hours, turning down invitations, and canceling plans to spend more time with Sana. Her friends noticed the change before she did, but Y/N brushed it off, what was wrong with being in love?

Still, the cracks showed in quiet, undeniable ways. The first real fracture came one evening at a dinner she hadn’t expected Sana to attend.

Y/N leaned back in her chair, laughter bubbling up as Lia recounted a story about a disastrous first date. The restaurant buzzed with energy, warm lights reflecting off glasses of wine and scattered silverware. It had been too long since she’d had a night like this, just her and her friends, the way it used to be.

She’d almost forgotten how much she missed this, Lia’s quick wit, Nayeon’s playful teasing, and Jeongyeon’s dry, deadpan humor that always landed perfectly. The familiar rhythm of their banter wrapped around her like a comforting blanket, making her feel grounded in a way she hadn’t realized she needed.

The comfort shattered when she caught sight of a familiar figure standing at the entrance. Sana, dressed impeccably in a tailored coat and sleek boots, scanned the room with a look of calm confidence that set her apart from the bustling crowd.

Y/N blinked, startled. She hadn’t invited Sana, this was supposed to be a casual dinner with her friends, but there she was, striding toward their table as though she belonged there.

“Hey,” Sana said, leaning down to kiss Y/N on the cheek, her perfume subtly intoxicating. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

The table fell silent. Her friends exchanged glances, their conversation grinding to a halt as they absorbed the sudden intrusion.

“Uh, hi,” Y/N stammered, her confusion evident in her voice. “I didn��t think you’d be here.”

“I figured I’d stop by,” Sana said breezily, sliding into the empty chair beside Y/N. “I wanted to meet the people you’re always talking about.”

Y/N forced a smile, her mind racing. Sana had never expressed much interest in meeting her friends before, and she certainly hadn’t mentioned coming tonight.

As the group tried to recover, Nayeon took the lead, extending a polite hand across the table. “Hi, I’m Nayeon. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Sana said, shaking her hand briefly before retreating into a more closed posture. Her smile was polite but tight, her gaze flicking around the table as if assessing each person.

The conversation resumed in fits and starts, but the easy flow from earlier was gone. Sana offered clipped answers when asked about herself, her tone cool and detached. When Jeongyeon tried to include her in the group’s inside jokes, she only smiled faintly and took a sip of her wine.

The warmth and charm Y/N had fallen for were nowhere to be found.

“She’s just shy,” Y/N told herself, laughing nervously as the tension mounted. She caught Lia’s raised eyebrow from across the table and shot her a tight smile, silently pleading with her to drop it.

But the evening dragged on, the awkwardness thickening like fog. By the end of the night, Y/N’s cheeks ached from forcing a smile, and her friends’ goodbyes were unusually subdued.

Lia lingered as the others filed out, her brow furrowed with concern. “Y/N,” she said gently, pulling her aside. “Are you okay? Sana seemed… off.”

“She’s fine,” Y/N said quickly, her voice a little too sharp. “She’s just not good with new people.”

“I don’t know,” Lia said, her tone cautious but insistent. “She seemed dismissive. And honestly? A little controlling.”

Y/N felt a flare of defensiveness rise in her chest. “You don’t know her like I do,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “She’s amazing once you get to know her. You’re just being judgmental.”

Lia’s expression fell, her shoulders sagging in defeat. “I’m just trying to look out for you, Y/N.”

“I don’t need you to,” Y/N said, her voice quieter but no less firm.

Lia nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Okay,” she said finally. “But if you ever need to talk, I’m here.”

Y/N watched her walk away, guilt twisting in her gut, but it was quickly swallowed by frustration. Her friends didn’t understand. They didn’t see the side of Sana that Y/N knew, the one who made her laugh until her stomach hurt, who held her in the quiet moments and made her feel like the center of the universe.

As Y/N walked to her car, she realized Sana hadn’t even said goodbye to the group before leaving. It was as if Sana had slipped out when no one was paying attention, leaving Y/N to smooth over the evening’s tension alone. The uneasiness lingered, but she told herself it wasn’t important. Sana loved her, that was all that mattered.

Later that night, Y/N stormed into Sana's apartment, her heart pounding with unresolved tension. She didn’t bother knocking, her key turned easily in the lock, a symbol of the trust they’d built and the boundaries Y/N had allowed to blur.

The place was dimly lit, bathed in the soft glow of a single floor lamp. The faint smell of lavender hung in the air, almost soothing if not for the storm raging in Y/N’s chest. She kicked off her shoes without care, the sound sharp against the quiet. In the corner, a chessboard sat on the coffee table, the pieces scattered as if abandoned mid-game.

Y/N gestured toward the board, her voice tight with frustration. “Is this what tonight was to you? Another game?”

Sana looked up from the couch, where she was curled with a book in her lap. Her expression was calm but guarded, her eyes narrowing slightly at Y/N’s tone. “What are you talking about?”

“You crashed my dinner, Sana.” Y/N’s voice cracked, her emotions bubbling to the surface. “And then you didn’t even try to get to know my friends, you left without saying goodbye. You were so cold.”

Sana sighed softly, closing the book and setting it on the armrest. “I wasn’t trying to ruin anything,” she said, her voice low and soothing, as though trying to defuse a bomb. She rose to her feet, her movements slow and deliberate. “I just… I wanted to be part of your world. I wanted to see the people you care about.”

Y/N hesitated, her anger faltering. “You could’ve told me,” she said, her voice quieter now. “You didn’t have to just show up.”

“I thought it would be a nice surprise,” Sana said, stepping closer. Her eyes softened, and she reached out, her fingers brushing against Y/N’s arm. “I didn’t mean to make things awkward. I just.. sometimes I feel like I don’t fit in your life. Like maybe you don’t really want me there, that's why I left.”

The words landed like a punch to Y/N’s gut. She opened her mouth to speak but found herself caught in the vulnerability of Sana’s expression, the slight tremble of her lips, the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes.

“That’s not true,” Y/N said quickly, the anger evaporating under the weight of Sana’s emotions. “You know I want you in my life.”

Sana’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then why does it feel that way?” she asked, her voice soft but heavy with meaning.

Y/N’s shoulders slumped. She wanted to argue, to stand her ground, but the words didn’t come. Instead, guilt settled into the cracks of her resolve. Was I being too harsh? Did I really make her feel like she didn’t belong?

“I’m sorry,” Y/N said quietly, the fight leaving her entirely. “I should’ve made you feel more comfortable.”

Sana’s smile returned, soft and reassuring, as she stepped closer. She leaned in, resting her forehead against Y/N’s, her voice a whisper. “Thank you. I just don’t want to lose you.”

Y/N closed her eyes, letting the tension seep out of her as Sana’s arms wrapped around her. The familiar warmth of her embrace made Y/N’s chest tighten in a way she couldn’t explain.

The argument about the dinner was smoothed over like so many others before it, with apologies and reassurances that felt genuine in the moment. Yet, something lingered. A quiet imbalance that Y/N couldn’t quite name but chose to ignore.

Sana had a way of making her forget, whether with her laugh, her touch, or the small, thoughtful gestures that reminded Y/N why she fell in love in the first place. But Sana also had a way of winning.

It became clearer one rainy afternoon when Sana pulled the chessboard into their world.

“Have you ever played chess?” Sana asked, setting the board between them on the coffee table. Rain pattered softly against the windows, a gentle rhythm that seemed to amplify the quiet intimacy of the room. The dim light from outside cast long shadows, blending the edges of the space into soft darkness.

“Not really,” Y/N admitted, sitting cross-legged on the floor and pulling a blanket over her lap. “I’ve always been more of a checkers person.”

Sana smirked, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes as she began lining up the pieces with precise, deliberate movements. Y/N couldn’t help but smile at the seriousness with which she approached even something as simple as setting up a game.

“That’s because checkers is easy,” Sana said, her voice tinged with playful condescension. “Chess, on the other hand… it’s a game of strategy, patience, and power.”

The way she said power sent a strange shiver down Y/N’s spine, though she quickly brushed it off, leaning forward to watch Sana finish setting up the board.

“This,” Sana said, holding up the queen between her fingers, “is the most important piece. She has the most power, the most freedom. She can move in any direction and dominate the board.”

Y/N tilted her head. “And the king?”

Sana rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a smirk. “The king is useless. He can only move one square at a time. Honestly, the whole game is about protecting him while the queen does all the work.”

Y/N laughed, her shoulders relaxing as she tucked the blanket tighter around her legs. “Sounds about right.”

Sana leaned forward, placing the queen carefully in the center of the board, her movements slow and deliberate. “But the real fun is here.” She picked up a pawn, holding it delicately between her fingers as if it were more significant than it appeared.

“Pawns?” Y/N asked, her brow furrowing.

Sana nodded, her smile sharpening. “Pawns are weak on their own, but they can be useful if you know how to play them. They’re the ones who set things in motion.” She twirled the piece between her fingers before placing it on the board with a soft click.

Then she looked directly at Y/N, her eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Think of it like a relationship. Someone has to be the queen, and someone has to be the pawn.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her tone teasing despite the strange tension curling in her chest. “Let me guess, you’re the queen?”

“Obviously,” Sana said, her grin widening as she settled back into her seat.

Y/N shook her head, laughing lightly. But something about the way Sana said it, the confidence, the finality, lingered like a shadow in the corners of her mind.

They played for hours, Sana walking Y/N through each move with a mixture of patience and authority. “Good,” Sana said as Y/N moved her knight, her lips curving into a satisfied smile. “You’re learning.”

When Y/N managed to capture her first pawn, she felt a rush of triumph that brought an uncontrollable grin to her face. “Look at that! I got you!”

But the feeling faded quickly when Sana countered with an unexpected strike, sweeping her queen across the board to take two of Y/N’s pieces in a single, calculated move.

Y/N blinked, her mouth falling open in disbelief. “How did you do that?”

Sana leaned back, her satisfied smile returning as she crossed her arms. “It’s not just about winning,” she said, her tone measured but tinged with something darker. “It’s about making sure your opponent doesn’t even see the win coming.”

Y/N laughed, but the comment lingered in her mind longer than she expected.

Over time, the metaphor seeped into their lives in ways Y/N couldn’t ignore.

It started subtly. Sana’s phone buzzed one evening as they lounged on the couch, her head resting on Y/N’s shoulder. The vibration broke the soft quiet of the room, drawing Y/N’s attention. Sana shifted slightly, glancing at the screen with an unreadable expression before flipping the phone over and setting it face-down on the coffee table.

Y/N felt a pang of something, curiosity, jealousy, or maybe both. She told herself it was nothing, but the casual way Sana dismissed it gnawed at her.

“What was that?” Y/N asked lightly, keeping her tone breezy.

Sana shrugged, her voice calm. “Just a friend. It’s not important.”

The answer didn’t sit well, but Y/N forced a smile and let it drop. Still, the moment stayed with her.

In the days that followed, Y/N began noticing other things. The way Sana always seemed to know when she received a message, even when her phone was across the room. The way certain names that used to pop up in her contacts seemed to vanish without explanation. It was small, almost imperceptible, so easy to brush aside, but it left Y/N unsettled in a way she couldn’t shake.

One evening, while Sana was in the shower, Y/N sat cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through her messages. She was looking for an old thread from a college friend she hadn’t spoken to in a while, but it was gone. Confused, she searched for the contact, only to find it missing entirely.

Her heart raced as she checked her blocked contacts. Her stomach dropped when she saw the name. It wasn’t just them, there were others, too. Friends she’d lost touch with, people she’d only recently realized had stopped reaching out.

Her hands trembled as she stared at the screen. Her mind raced, replaying moments that suddenly felt suspicious in retrospect. The way Sana had always known when she’d been messaging someone. The way she’d casually dismissed certain friends as “distractions.”

“Sana,” Y/N called, her voice sharp as she tried to steady herself.

Moments later, Sana appeared in the doorway, a towel wrapped around her, her expression calm but wary. “What’s wrong?”

Y/N held up her phone, her grip tightening around it. “Did you block my contacts?”

Sana didn’t flinch. She didn’t even look surprised. Instead, she crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. “I didn’t want them bothering you,” she said evenly. “You told me you don’t even talk to them anymore.”

“That’s not the point!” Y/N’s voice rose, her frustration spilling out. “You don’t get to decide who I talk to.”

Sana’s face softened, and she stepped forward, her voice low and soothing. “I wasn’t trying to control you,” she said, reaching out to place a hand on Y/N’s arm. “I just… I’ve seen the way they look at you, Y/N. I don’t want anyone trying to take you away from me.”

Y/N’s breath caught. The words were wrong, but the vulnerability in Sana’s tone made them feel almost right.

“You can’t just do that without telling me,” Y/N said, though her voice lacked the conviction it had a moment ago.

“I’m sorry,” Sana said, her hand sliding down to take Y/N’s. “I’ll unblock them if it bothers you. I just… I get scared sometimes. Scared of you leaving me.”

The fear in Sana’s voice disarmed Y/N, her anger melting into something softer, something she hated to admit was there.

“Okay,” Y/N said quietly, her shoulders slumping. “Just… don’t do it again.”

“I won’t,” Sana said, pulling Y/N into an embrace. Her touch was warm, her grip firm but comforting. “Thank you. I just love you so much.”

Sana pulled back slightly, her eyes searching Y/N’s face as if looking for reassurance. Then, before Y/N could say anything more, Sana leaned in, pressing her lips softly against hers. The kiss was tender, almost desperate, as if Sana were trying to seal her promise with the gesture.

Y/N let herself sink into the moment, the warmth of Sana’s touch and the softness of her lips momentarily eclipsing the unease still lingering in her chest.

Later that night, as Y/N lay in bed, the weight of the conversation pressed against her chest. She stared at the ceiling, replaying the way Sana had looked at her, the way she had seemed so genuine, so afraid.

She just loves me that much, Y/N told herself. Isn’t that what we all want?

But even as she drifted to sleep, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered, This doesn’t feel right.

But the control wasn’t one-sided.

Sana’s attention had become something Y/N craved, like a drug she couldn’t go without. It wasn’t just the grand gestures or whispered words of affection, it was the way Sana looked at her, as if Y/N were the only person in the world who mattered. But in the rare moments when that gaze faltered, when Sana’s attention drifted to something or someone else, Y/N felt a hollowness that she didn’t want to acknowledge.

One evening, the two of them lounged in the living room, a playlist of soft acoustic songs filling the air. Sana sat on the armchair across from Y/N, her legs tucked beneath her, scrolling through her phone with a faint smile playing on her lips.

Y/N, sprawled across the couch, tried to focus on the book in her hands, but her eyes kept drifting back to Sana. Her fingers hovered over her phone screen, the way her lips twitched with quiet amusement, and the glimmer of a name in the reflection of her glasses, it all stirred something uneasy in Y/N.

“Who are you talking to?” Y/N asked, her voice light and teasing. She tilted her head, feigning playful curiosity.

Sana glanced up, her smile faint but distant. “Just a friend.”

Y/N sat up, abandoning her book. She moved to the arm of the chair and leaned closer, resting her chin on Sana’s shoulder. The scent of Sana’s perfume, warm and familiar, wrapped around her like a tether.

“Maybe I should start calling my old friends, too,” Y/N said lightly, her tone carefully casual.

Sana’s fingers paused over the screen. The smile faded from her lips, replaced by something harder to read. “You don’t need them,” she said softly, but there was a firmness beneath her words that made Y/N’s chest tighten. “You have me.”

Y/N pulled back slightly, blinking. Sana looked up at her, her expression soft but resolute, as if the matter was already settled.

The comment stayed with Y/N long after the moment passed, lingering like the faint trace of perfume on her clothes. She told herself Sana was right, what did she need anyone else for? Still, the thought gnawed at her, leaving a small hollow space she couldn’t quite fill.

Later that week, Y/N found herself scrolling through her contacts, aimlessly flicking past names she hadn’t thought about in months. Her thumb hovered over one in particular, an old flame. They hadn’t spoken in years, but seeing the name felt like a thread tugging at some forgotten part of herself.

She hesitated. Memories of late-night conversations and stolen moments came rushing back, mingling with the weight of Sana’s words.

You don’t need them. You have me.

The thought settled over her like a blanket, heavy but reassuring. Without giving herself time to reconsider, she tapped the screen, blocking the number with a single decisive motion.

It’s only fair, she thought, her chest tightening. If Sana does it for me, why shouldn’t I do the same for her?

The logic felt sound, even comforting, but as she stared at the screen, a faint unease crept in. Y/N pushed it aside, telling herself that love was about compromise, about loyalty. Wasn’t it?

The days blurred into a cycle of quiet tension and fleeting moments of bliss. Y/N had learned to silence the voice in her head that questioned Sana’s behavior, telling herself that every couple had their struggles. And besides, when Sana was good, she was perfect, her laughter, her warmth, the way she made Y/N feel like the center of the universe.

But perfection came at a cost, one that Y/N wasn’t sure she could keep paying.

The breaking point came on a stormy evening when the truth they had been skirting around finally exploded.

Rain pounded against the windows as Y/N paced the living room, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. The dim light of the room flickered with each flash of lightning, shadows jumping across the walls like specters. The argument had started small, something about missed calls and unanswered texts, but had spiraled into something much bigger, something neither of them could control.

“You don’t trust me,” Y/N said, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt. Her words cut through the rhythmic drumming of the rain, sharp and raw. “You never have.”

Sana stood near the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She looked unmovable, her silhouette stark against the storm outside. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice was ice. “That’s not fair, and you know it,” she said coldly. “I’ve given you everything, Y/N. Everything. And this is how you treat me?”

Y/N let out a bitter laugh, hollow and brittle. It startled even her, the sound foreign in her own ears. “You’ve given me everything? Or taken everything?”

The words hung in the air like smoke, suffocating them both. For a moment, the only sound was the relentless rain, a distant roll of thunder punctuating the silence.

Sana’s shoulders slumped, her arms falling to her sides. Y/N thought she might leave the room, leave the conversation unfinished like so many others. But instead, Sana turned. Her expression softened, the coldness melting into something heartbreakingly vulnerable. Tears glistened in her eyes, catching the light of the storm outside.

“I just…” Sana’s voice cracked as she stepped closer. “I’m scared, okay? Scared of losing you.” Her hands fidgeted at her sides, fingers twisting nervously. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t know how to live without you.”

Y/N’s chest tightened, her anger faltering under the weight of Sana’s words. “Sana—”

“Please,” Sana interrupted, her voice breaking as she reached out to grab Y/N’s hands. Her touch was warm despite the chill of the room. “Don’t go. I’ll change. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just… don’t leave me.”

The rawness in Sana’s voice hit Y/N like a tidal wave, pulling at something deep and unspoken inside her. She wanted to hold on to her anger, to use it as a shield against the emotions threatening to drown her. But the sight of Sana, her tear-filled eyes, the trembling in her voice, made it impossible.

She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the conflicting emotions swirling in her chest. Her mind screamed at her to leave, to walk out the door and never look back. But another part, a darker, quieter part, thrived on the chaos.

The fights, the tears, the passionate makeups that followed, they made Y/N feel alive in a way she hadn’t before. There was something intoxicating about the intensity of it all, as if the turbulence was proof of how deeply they loved each other.

Toxic love is still love, she told herself, the thought echoing like a mantra in the storm.

When Y/N opened her eyes, Sana was staring at her, desperation etched into every line of her face. Y/N took a deep breath, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Relief washed over Sana’s face, her grip on Y/N’s hands tightening as if to anchor herself. “Thank you,” she said softly, pulling Y/N into an embrace. Her arms wrapped around Y/N like a lifeline, the storm outside forgotten in the stillness of the moment.

But Y/N wasn’t blameless.

The next morning, the tension lingered like a bruise, dull and aching but impossible to ignore. The kitchen was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft clinking of Sana’s movements as she made coffee. She hovered near the counter, her back to Y/N, the usual ease of her gestures replaced with something more hesitant.

Y/N sat at the table, her phone resting on the surface, though her eyes weren’t really focused on the screen. She could feel the weight of Sana’s presence, her tentative glances, the way her shoulders seemed to sag just slightly under the strain of the unresolved fight.

When Sana finally crossed the room and reached out to touch Y/N’s shoulder, Y/N pulled away instinctively, pretending to focus on a non-existent notification. The withdrawal was small, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to make Sana pause.

“Are we okay?” Sana asked softly, her voice laced with hesitation.

Y/N didn’t answer right away, letting the silence stretch long enough to sting. The delay was deliberate, calculated. She wanted Sana to feel the same uncertainty she had felt the night before.

“I don’t know,” Y/N said finally, her tone distant and measured.

Sana’s shoulders tensed, her hand falling back to her side. Her expression flickered, uncertainty, worry, and something else Y/N couldn’t quite name. For a brief moment, Y/N felt a twisted sense of satisfaction, as if she’d regained some of the power she so often felt slipping through her fingers.

But the feeling was fleeting, dissolving into a hollow ache as Sana stepped away without another word.

By evening, Sana had transformed the tension into something else entirely.

When Y/N walked into the apartment after work, she was greeted by the warm glow of candlelight flickering on every surface. The scent of her favorite dish wafted through the air, mingling with the soft hum of music playing in the background.

Sana stood in the kitchen, a glass of wine in hand, her smile soft but deliberate. She looked radiant, every detail meticulously arranged, from the careful curl of her hair to the delicate necklace Y/N had once said she loved.

“I just want us to be happy,” Sana said, handing Y/N a glass of wine as she gestured toward the table. It was set with care, the plates gleaming under the candlelight.

Y/N hesitated, the unease from the morning still gnawing at the edges of her mind. She wanted to argue, to confront Sana about the growing cracks in their relationship, but the effort felt monumental.

Sana’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Wait, before we eat, there’s something I want to give you.”

Y/N blinked, confused as Sana set her glass down and walked over to a small drawer. From it, she pulled out a small box, the kind that usually held jewelry. Her heart skipped as Sana returned, opening it to reveal a delicate necklace with a small pendant that sparkled in the candlelight.

“I saw this and thought of you,” Sana said, her voice soft and warm. She stepped closer, taking the necklace out of the box. “Let me.”

Y/N hesitated, the unease still there, but Sana’s expectant smile made it hard to refuse. She turned slightly, letting Sana clasp the necklace around her neck.

“There,” Sana said, stepping back to admire her work. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Y/N touched the pendant lightly, her chest tightening. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, though the words felt hollow in her mouth.

“It’s for us,” Sana said, her tone carrying an undercurrent of something Y/N couldn’t quite place.

And just like that, Y/N allowed herself to be pulled back in, the warmth of the moment smoothing over the jagged edges of her doubt.

Later, as Y/N lay in bed, the wine’s warmth still lingering in her veins, her thoughts drifted to their first meeting.

She remembered the way Sana had waved her down, her confidence magnetic even from a distance. At the time, it had felt serendipitous, like fate stepping in to bring them together. But now, with the clarity of hindsight, the memory was tinged with something darker.

The bike had seemed pristine, too pristine for a breakdown. The way Sana had leaned against it, casually frustrated, as if she’d been waiting for something or someone.

The pieces began to fall into place with chilling clarity. The perfect timing. The deliberate way Sana had drawn her in, weaving a story of chance and misfortune. Y/N’s mind filled in the gaps, connecting the dots she hadn’t dared to before.

She planned it.

The realization hit Y/N like a punch to the gut.

She stared at the ceiling, her breath catching in her throat. Anger surged through her at first, a sharp, white-hot wave of betrayal. But as it ebbed, it left something else in its wake.

A strange sense of inevitability settled over her, heavy but almost comforting. It was just another piece in the game Sana had been playing all along. A game she had been playing since the beginning.

And maybe, just maybe, it was a game Y/N didn’t want to stop playing.

She closed her eyes, the faint sound of Sana’s breathing beside her filling the quiet.

Toxic love is still love, she thought again, the mantra weaving itself into her dreams.

The dreams came in flashes. Y/N saw Sana’s smile from their first meeting, bright and full of promise. Then, the smile faded, replaced by the image of the chessboard, pieces scattered and mismatched. Somewhere in the haze, Y/N heard the mechanic’s voice, distant but clear “Looks like someone tampered with it.”

When she woke up, the early morning light spilling through the blinds. Her chest felt heavy, her mind tangled in memories and doubt. Y/N rubbed her temples, but the unease wouldn’t go away. She needed clarity, but instead, she found herself spiraling deeper into questions she didn’t want to answer.

But the answers came faster than she expected.

The fights came more frequently now, their once-perfect moments overshadowed by tension and unspoken resentment. It was during one of those fights, louder and crueler than any before, that Y/N finally walked out, slamming the door behind her and leaving Sana’s pleading voice echoing in her ears.

The dark clouds hung low, the occasional rumble of distant thunder reminding her that the storm hadn’t entirely passed. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles white, as her breath came in short bursts.

The argument replayed in her mind, vivid and unrelenting.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she had said, her voice trembling but carrying a firmness that surprised even herself.

Sana’s eyes had widened, tears glistening like glass. “You don’t mean that,” she’d replied, her voice breaking on the words. “You love me.”

Y/N had hesitated, the pull in her chest begging her to reconsider, but the weight of the tension between them pressed her forward. Without another word, she had turned and walked out, the sound of the door slamming behind her cutting through the quiet like a gunshot.

Now, sitting in the driver’s seat, Y/N tried to steady her breathing. The streets were nearly deserted, the dark asphalt glistening from the rain, reflecting faint halos of streetlights. She pulled out of the parking lot, her fingers gripping the wheel as if it were the only thing tethering her to reality.

The car’s engine hummed steadily at first, but as she drove down the dark, empty road, it sputtered and jerked. A guttural sound followed, like the car itself was protesting her escape. Then, with a final wheeze, the engine died completely.

“No, no, no,” Y/N muttered under her breath, guiding the car to the side of the road. She turned the key in the ignition, hoping against hope, but the car refused to respond.

She slammed her hands against the wheel, the familiar sense of frustration and helplessness bubbling up. The adrenaline from the fight hadn’t fully faded, and now it mixed with the sharp sting of being stranded.

Stepping out into the damp night air, Y/N shivered as her shoes sank slightly into the wet gravel. The air smelled of rain and earth, heavy and oppressive. She popped the hood, staring at the mess of wires and metal with a sinking feeling.

“This might as well be hieroglyphics,” she muttered, rubbing her arms against the chill.

Resigned, she pulled out her phone and called for a tow truck. The wait felt eternal, the silence inside the car pressing down on her. The only sounds were the occasional car passing in the distance and the soft tick of her hazard lights. Y/N leaned her head back against the seat, the exhaustion from the day threatening to pull her under.

The next day, Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, her phone pressed to her ear as the mechanic’s voice crackled through the line.

“Well, the good news is, it’s an easy fix,” he said, his tone light. “But it’s strange.. looks like someone deliberately tampered with your fuel line. Did you leave it parked somewhere sketchy?”

Y/N froze, her stomach flipping. “No,” she said slowly, her voice tight. “I… I don’t think so.”

“Hmm,” the mechanic said thoughtfully. “Well, whoever did it didn’t want to completely ruin your car. Just enough to strand you, I’d guess.”

The call ended, but the words echoed in her mind, gnawing at the edges of her thoughts.

Whoever did it…

Her hands trembled as she set her phone down, her mind racing through the possibilities. Flashes of memory rose unbidden, moments that had seemed inconsequential at the time but now took on a sinister edge.

Sana’s insistence on “checking” the car before Y/N went on long drives. The way she had offered to take it for errands, always with a breezy smile and a casual “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

It all lined up now in a way that made Y/N’s stomach twist painfully.

She wouldn’t, Y/N told herself, clinging to the thought like a lifeline. But deep down, in the quietest parts of her mind, she knew the truth.

Y/N confronted Sana that evening.

The apartment felt colder than usual, the dim light from the single floor lamp casting sharp shadows across the walls. The faint scent of lavender hung in the air, but it did nothing to soothe the tension coiling in Y/N’s chest. The chessboard sat in its usual place, the queen perfectly upright while the pawns lay scattered, toppled like casualties of a battle they hadn’t agreed to fight.

Sana sat on the couch, a book open in her lap, her posture relaxed in a way that felt almost mocking. She looked up when Y/N entered, her expression calm but curious.

“Did you do it?” Y/N’s voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

Sana tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly. “Do what?”

Y/N stepped closer, her hands trembling at her sides. The anger simmering beneath her skin made her movements stiff, deliberate. “My car,” she said, her voice louder now, more forceful. “The fuel line. Did you tamper with it?”

For a moment, Sana’s face was blank, unreadable. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Then, slowly, she sighed, closing her book with deliberate care and setting it on the armrest. “You weren’t supposed to find out,” she said softly, her voice carrying an edge of regret.

Y/N’s heart sank, her breath catching in her throat. The confirmation felt like a physical blow, knocking the air out of her lungs. “Why?” she whispered, the single word laced with disbelief.

Sana stood, her movements measured, as if trying not to startle Y/N. She stepped closer, her voice cracking as she spoke. “Because I needed you to stay. You were leaving, Y/N. You were going to walk away from us, from everything we’ve built. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“That’s not love, Sana!” Y/N’s voice rose, shaking with anger and disbelief. Her hands balled into fists, her whole body trembling with the effort to keep herself together. “That’s manipulation. That’s control.”

“Everything I did was because I love you,” Sana said, tears spilling over as her voice broke. “You’re my everything. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Y/N shook her head, taking a step back as if putting physical distance between them could lessen the weight of Sana’s words. Her hands clutched the edge of the couch for support, her knuckles turning white.

“You can’t sabotage my life and call it love,” Y/N said, her voice dropping, quieter but no less firm. The exhaustion in her tone made Sana flinch.

“I’m sorry,” Sana whispered, her own tears falling freely now. She reached out, her hands trembling. “I just… I couldn’t lose you. Please don’t leave.”

For a moment, Y/N stood frozen, staring at the woman she had once thought she couldn’t live without. The desperation in Sana’s voice pulled at something deep inside her, something that still wanted to believe in the version of Sana who had once made her feel whole. But now, that version felt like a lie.

Even as the words hung in the air, Y/N could feel the pull. It was the same as it had always been, when she’d said it was over, Sana hadn’t heard her. Not really. All Sana had heard was, “Baby, can you pull me in closer?” And every time before, Y/N had let her.

But this time was different. It had to be.

Later that night, Y/N sat alone in the apartment. The only light came from the faint glow of the streetlamp outside, casting uneven shadows across the room.

Her thoughts were a chaotic tangle of anger, guilt, and exhaustion, each emotion crashing over her like relentless waves.

She wasn’t innocent in this, she realized. She had ignored her instincts, fed into Sana’s need for control because it made her feel wanted, needed. She had convinced herself that the intensity of their love, the highs that left her breathless and the lows that shattered her, was proof of something real, something worth fighting for.

She thought back to every moment she had brushed aside the red flags, every time she had excused Sana’s behavior with the same tired reasoning: She just loves me so much. But now, those excuses felt hollow, stripped of the power they once held.

This wasn’t love. This was a game Sana had been playing all along. And worse, it was a game Y/N had willingly joined, feeding into the chaos, finding her own twisted satisfaction in the drama and the thrill.

The apartment was silent except for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, each second stretching endlessly before her.

Y/N leaned back against the couch, her head resting on the edge as she stared at the ceiling. “How did it get this bad?” she whispered to no one.

The only answer was the quiet hum of the city outside, a distant rhythm that seemed to echo the chaos in her heart. Y/N sat in the stillness, her gaze drifting back to the chessboard. The queen stood tall, unshaken, but the sight of it no longer felt like a challenge it felt like a cage.

The pieces weren’t scattered by chance, they were placed, deliberate and calculated. Y/N realized that as long as she stayed, the game would never end. She would keep losing herself, piece by piece, until there was nothing left to give.

Her chest tightened as the weight of her decision settled over her. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. Slowly, she rose from the couch, her movements hesitant at first but gaining strength with every step. She didn’t need all the answers yet. She just needed to take the first one. She had to leave.

In the days that followed, Y/N prepared quietly, methodically. She found a new apartment on the other side of town, small, simple, but hers. She made sure the lease was signed and the keys were in her hand before she packed her things. Every step of the process felt surreal, like she was watching someone else’s life unfold.

She packed in secret, careful not to draw Sana’s attention. It wasn’t just about leaving, it was about ensuring Sana couldn’t find her. The thought made Y/N’s chest ache with guilt, but she pushed it aside. She owed herself this clean break.

When the day came, Y/N returned to the apartment one last time to collect the rest of her things.

The apartment was eerily quiet as Y/N stood by the door, her suitcase by her side. The weight of her decision hung heavy in the air, every breath she took feeling like a step into uncharted territory. Sana stood a few feet away, her eyes red and swollen, her hands clenched tightly together as if she were physically holding herself back from reaching out.

“Please, Y/N,” Sana’s voice broke, thick with tears. “Don’t do this. I can change. I will change. Just… Please don’t leave me.”

Y/N’s throat tightened, the pain in Sana’s voice cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. For a moment, she hesitated, her hand hovering over the door handle. Memories flashed through her mind, Sana’s laughter, the way her eyes sparkled during their late-night conversations, the way she had once made Y/N feel like the center of the universe.

But then came the other memories: the fights, the manipulation, the moments of doubt and helplessness that had slowly eroded the foundation of their relationship.

Y/N closed her eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. “I can’t do this anymore, Sana,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. “I’ve given you everything I had, and it still wasn’t enough. I can’t keep losing myself like this.”

Sana took a step forward, her hands outstretched. “You’re not losing yourself, you’re finding yourself with me. We can fix this, Y/N. Together.”

Y/N turned to face her, the sadness in Sana’s expression pulling at her heart. “I’ve been trying to fix this for months,” she said softly. “But the truth is, we’ve been breaking each other. I need to let go, Sana. I need to let myself heal.”

Tears streamed down Sana’s face as she whispered, “I love you.”

Y/N nodded, her own tears threatening to fall. “I know. But love isn’t supposed to hurt like this.”

She turned the handle and stepped out, closing the door behind her before the pull to stay became too strong.

Outside, the crisp evening air hit her like a wave, clearing the fog in her mind. Her suitcase rolled unevenly over the cracks in the pavement as she walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last.

When she reached the end of the block, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She stopped, her hands trembling slightly as she pulled it out.

The message was from Sana.

I know I’ve hurt you, but I can be better. Please give me one more chance. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work.

Y/N stared at the screen, her heart pounding in her chest. The words were everything she had wanted to hear for so long, everything she had hoped for during the countless nights she had spent doubting herself.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, the urge to reply clawing at her. She could feel the pull, the desire to relive the highs of their relationship, to chase the fleeting moments of joy that had once made her believe in them.

But the pain wasn’t worth the promise of temporary happiness anymore. She couldn’t go back, not to Sana, and not to the version of herself who had allowed the cycle to continue.

Y/N took a deep breath, steadying herself. She didn’t reply.

Hours later, the city pulled her outside. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she couldn’t stay within the confines of her new apartment, where the silence pressed down like a weight. She wandered aimlessly through the streets, her steps heavy, her mind a storm of memories she couldn’t stop replaying.

Somehow, her fingers found the necklace, tugging it free from her pocket. The cool metal was damp from her grip, the pendant swinging lightly as she walked. It felt heavier than it should, laden with the promises Sana had made, the ones Y/N had once believed.

The rain had started softly, almost unnoticed, but now it poured, streaking down in cold rivulets that blurred the city skyline into a wash of shimmering lights. Y/N stood frozen on the empty sidewalk, her hands trembling as she clutched the delicate necklace. The memories played on repeat, an unrelenting loop of love and chaos.

A sharp honk jolted her back to the present. She blinked, startled, realizing she had wandered into the edge of the street. A car sped past, the splash of water snapping her fully out of her thoughts.

She turned, her breath visible in the cold air as she glanced back at the skyline one last time. The city lights shimmered like the tears that threatened to spill over, but she swallowed hard, forcing herself to move.

At her apartment, Y/N stood in the quiet of her small kitchen, the necklace Sana had given her dangling from her hand. She turned it over, the delicate chain catching the light, its small pendant glinting like a final remnant of the life she was leaving behind.

For a moment, she considered keeping it, just as a memory, a token of what they’d shared. But even as she thought it, she knew it would be a weight she couldn’t carry.

With deliberate care, Y/N let the necklace fall into the trash. The sound it made as it hit the bottom was soft, almost imperceptible, but it felt like a thunderclap in her chest.

She stood there for a moment, staring into the trash as if expecting the necklace to call her back. When it didn’t, she closed the lid, the act feeling both final and liberating.

As she walked to the window, the city lights stretched out before her, vibrant and full of possibility. For the first time in what felt like years, Y/N felt a glimmer of hope, not for the love she had lost, but for the love she was beginning to find within herself.

The days that followed were slow and quiet, but Y/N welcomed the stillness. She filled the emptiness with small steps forward: rearranging her new apartment, picking up books she hadn’t read in years, and beginning to journal the thoughts that had weighed her down for so long.

Over time, the heaviness started to lift.

Months had passed since Y/N left, and the weight that had once pressed on her chest now felt lighter, manageable. She sat in the sunlit corner of her new apartment, a cup of tea in one hand and her journal in the other. The space was small but bright, with clean lines and open shelves, a far cry from the dimly lit apartment she had shared with Sana.

She set down her tea and picked up her pen, the journal’s pages already filled with reflections, questions, and truths she hadn’t been ready to face before. Therapy had helped her unpack the layers of their relationship, the highs that had made her stay, the lows that had broken her, and the role she had played in perpetuating it all.

“I was just as addicted to the chaos as she was,” Y/N wrote, her pen moving steadily across the page. “But now, I know better.”

The memories still surfaced sometimes, unbidden and sharp. She could still hear Sana’s voice in her head, the promises, the pleas. The lyrics from a song she’d heard recently echoed in her mind:

“You were plotting how to stay in my head, We were toxic till the end.”

Y/N set her pen down, closing her eyes. It was true, Sana had stayed in her head long after she’d left, but the hold was loosening.

Her gaze shifted to the canvas, the blankness of it inviting rather than intimidating. It was a stark contrast to the chessboard she had left behind, the rigid lines, the scattered pawns, the queen standing tall. The canvas didn’t ask her to play a role. It simply waited for her to decide what to create.

She picked up her journal again, flipping back to a page she had written weeks ago. She had reflected on the lessons she’d learned, the things she could forgive, and the things she couldn’t.

“I can forgive you for a lot of things,” she had written, quoting the song that had felt like a lifeline in her darkest moments. “For not giving me back my Tiffany rings. I’ll never forgive you for one thing, my dear. You wasted my prettiest years.”

But now, sitting in the soft glow of her new life, Y/N felt a shift. The bitterness wasn’t as sharp as it had been.

She turned to a fresh page and wrote.

“She wasted my prettiest years, but I taught myself how to cherish the rest of them.”

The words felt like closure, final and freeing.

As the sunlight poured in, Y/N set her journal aside and walked to the canvas. She picked up a brush, the blank space before her a promise of what could be.

For the first time in years, Y/N felt like she wasn’t playing a game or following someone else’s rules. She was creating something entirely her own.

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