Locked Away
A poem appears in your locker—fevered, unhinged, and written with a knowledge of you no stranger should possess, with a devotion that borders on madness. You seek out its author, intending to demand answers.
What he doesn't foresee is your fascination… or how deeply it will pull you in. If he meant to unsettle you, what he did was awaken something in you. ‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
A fanfic I published in AO3 but thought I could share here too :p. this is my first fanfic on here, and like, ever, so be kind! comments are super appreciated (you're free to comment on any phrasing that sounds weird bc english isn't by far my 1st language :p, but be gentle pls!) and basically i just wanted a fic where reader doms Sol more directly, i really haven't seen of those, so enjoy and thanks for reading <3
words: 3236
link to ao3 here
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
Someone has been watching you. Always vigilant.
Since the day you stepped into this school, some time ago, you've felt a gaze anchored to the back of your neck.
Sol felt foolish. There you were—surrounded by people, radiant like a star, and just as distant. And he… he was the black abyss that devours light, so near, and yet impossibly far.
That’s why he acts like he doesn’t care. Because why bother reaching for one of the popular ones when you are the outcast, the strange one? And besides—how could he? When the mere crossing of your eyes sets his ears aflame.
So Sol prefers to watch. Every detail of your laugh, your gestures, your tastes—they’re all etched into him. He doesn’t need to take notes, but he likes writing poetry about you.
Dark, twisted, sometimes overwhelming verses, almost incomprehensible. And yet there they are, slipped quietly into your locker.
Hyugo lets out a chuckle, elbowing his friend as he nods toward you.
And Sol’s soul crashes to the floor. That thing in your hands—the one you’re reading with such curious eyes—it’s a confession of his obsession.
At least it’s unsigned, he tells himself, as his crimson eyes flood with dread and his face flushes deep with shame.
You reach for Crowe, a good friend of yours. Lost is how you feel, asking for directions to sort out the verses that barely left you with enough room in your lungs to breathe.
Because of course you have read it. You know cannibalism as a metaphor for love. You know Eurydice. But oh,
Oh,
Oh, how the table turns when it is your lover’s heart you toy with — when someone, you suspect the one whose eyes you constantly feel on you, is offering an altar of his own skin just for a fraction of your attention, his so-called muse’s attention.
Red eyes dart around the hallway, a tall figure disappears into the library. Flushed, hot, boiling is how Sol feels just from the brush of your fingers on the paper he wrote. His devotion is enough to physically feel your fingerprints everywhere in his goosebumped skin.
He locks (ironic, isn’t it) himself away in the bathroom there, breathes one, two, three times before he loses count. He was doing so well, pretending not to know you. He even had his little plan to become your friend, to do things as they should be done. Not this. Not you discovering his twistedness, his sickening obsession.
But the poem’s unsigned, for his sake. Almost, of course. He particularly liked the piece you held in your hands: acrostic verses commenting on how he could worship even the most visceral part of you, how he could operate on you from memory and carefully, like a lover and not like a surgeon. The inherent passion of rearranging your organs.
Disgusting for everybody else, of course. And obscure: how could any of these uneducated souls tell what’s an acrostic poem? His initials obsessively written in the very beginning of each verse cannot possibly mean a threat.
That’s what he thought, yes. Sol walked out of the bathroom like any other student, looking a bit tired, mostly ready for the next class. Which he, unfortunately and of course, shares with you.
You approach silently, curious. The need to know who wrote that is eating you alive, but for now, your only strategy is to check everybody’s writing. The poem you received wasn’t exactly in a good handwriting, more like in a rushed, longing one. Like its author couldn’t help but desperately let out its content.
‘Hi, mind if I sit with you? The class is almost full,’ you excuse yourself. At least it’s a half truth, isn’t it?
Sol stiffens. Internally screams, for a moment he thinks he’s been caught white-handed. She knows. But she doesn’t, the immaculate smile on her face claims. He simply nods, muttering a simple ‘of course’ while he makes a seat for you. The professor starts his talk: no time should be wasted on trifles like desk partners.
The clock tic tacs, the voice becomes monotone, the light is strangely comforting. Sol’s notes look oddly familiar. Has he ever lent you his notebook? What could possibly ring a bell about this guy’s notes if he hasn’t?
Then it clicks: letters. Precisely knitted together, punctuated in such a manner. Oh, Sol might not be a lot of things, but he sure is a poet. His pulse while writing has a certain rhythm, his gaze flickering awkwardly across the room not to wonder in your shape too much has its certain allure.
So you pull it out, discreetly. As if it’s part of your notes, you check the poem, compare it to the notebook next to you. Double check it even, as you laugh softly to yourself. You watch him through the side of your eye, smiling innocently, putting up an act. Then you let the poem fall just between the two of you, as if it’s nothing, a casual gesture.
He doesn’t dare move a muscle. You are still watching him through the side of your gaze: his neck shines with a cold sweat. Completely still, completely silent.
And like that it stays until the end of the class. You amusedly pick up your things, he’s still frozen. You stand up. The guy’s still frozen. If it weren’t for his enormous frame and intimidating presence, you’d swear you are currently in front of a scared puppy. But oh, let’s not forget his violently passionate confessions. You snicker softly again, finally alone in the room. No eye contact yet.
You mutter your adress, followed by an unbothered ‘at midnight’. He stares up, eyes wide like plates. Sol recognizes it, of course he does, like he would not recognize the place which has sent him to heaven a plethora of times. You notice his engines working, clicking together. It’s like watching the demolition of a building: souls leaving the place to give space to a new feeling. You could call it ecstasy in his red, vibrating orbs.
‘Freak’,
You say out loud as you walk away, leaving the poor man there, almost destroying the pen with his grip.
݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ──── ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ ──── ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
The bell rings. Finally, you’d say if it wasn’t exactly a second from the time you proposed. The guy is obsessed, isn’t he?
You’re gonna have fun with this one. And this is the best scenario to premiere the night gown you bought the other day: a silky, fitted material decorated in finesse blooming flowers. Truly a delicacy, you grin to yourself as you slowly open a bit of the door, just to tease further. ‘Who is it?’.
He clears his throat, nervous. His voice is a trickle when he says his full name: ‘Solivan, from… Literature class.’
‘Oh, you’re my poet,’ you gently reply, smiling. Watch the man shiver with your voice, watch him tremble when you fully open the door. To say he drinks up your silhouette is to undermine the way his gaze travels along you, like he couldn’t believe himself, like he isn’t allowed to have this. His cheeks flush at your nickname, at your sight. You let him in.
He sighs, looking away from you. With eyes glued to your floor, ashamed as you’ve never seen anybody, he suddenly starts talking. ‘I’m truly sorry about the incident. There is no way I can explain myself. There’s no excuse. I know. It’s terrible, you must think I’m rotten because that’s what I truly am. I can’t even begin to apologize, really. I’d understand any kind of measure you’d like to take against me-’
You shush him out, index on his lips. Sol nearly chokes on his own saliva.
‘Why don’t you make it up to me, dear? Instead of all that bullshit, I mean,’ you simply respond, gauging his answer.
Probably the bulge on his pants is enough of an answer, anyways.
‘Indeed, yes. That’s what I’m here for. I wasn’t sure… Could you exactly name it? I suppose you want me as far as possible. I can drop out of college. I’ll move from the city. Maybe, uh, you require some kind of compensation. Are you traumatized by what I wrote? I apologize again for my vulgarity.’ He speaks. You tilt up his chin, confused. Was your tone off? Did the message not get across?
He locks eyes with yours: almost accidentally, unsure, utterly ashamed. You give him a comforting smile, he sends back an apologetic one. You slowly draw your hand to his, his breath stops, he bites the inside of his mouth. You notice, he notices you noticed it. You guide him to your room.
He already knows the way, but regardless he lets you drive him. Like in a trance.
You sit on your bed, point to your window. The broken lock. He flushes, his brows knitted together.
‘That was you too,’ you affirm.
He nods quietly, muttering an apology.
‘Did you know real men apologize on their knees?’
In a blink, he’s down. And what a sight. His tall frame, leaning right in front of you, his legs probably hurting by now. Yours, on the contrary, are slowly spreading. Right in front of him.
What a buffet for a starving man. What a blessing for a lost soul.
He doesn’t dare move. You take his chin again, slightly more violent. ‘Apologize, then,’ you command.
A gulp. Then another one as his hands slowly travel up your thighs. A stifled moan, you’d swear, the moment he delicately kisses your ankle. ‘I’m truly sorry.’
‘Why for?’ you ask, leaning a bit backwards, but still watching him in satisfaction.
‘For being such a sick bastard,’ he mutters, kissing further up your legs. The apology doesn’t fall from his tone, but neither does his libido fall, from the way he’s shivering at the contact with you.
He drools unconsciously, leaving wet kisses further up your lap. A little sigh you let out paralyzes his pleasant travel, makes him look up at you.
‘Are you waiting for me to report you or…?’ you ask, mocking him. He shakes his head, smiling softly at your humor. It’s the first time you’ve seen his smile, and paired with his red cheeks and intense orbs, it’s certainly not an unbearable sight.
‘You could crash my head right now and I’d still give it to you’ he offers in response. The boy does not disappoint with his word games, does he?
Before you can even react, he continues his attack. You lean further back, driving him closer in between your legs. If you thought he was crimson before, you can’t even describe it now. Sol looks up in a pleading expression, like asking for water in a desert.
‘You better expiate like this all the twisted shit I’ve had to put up with. Freak,’ you accuse. Watching him move like a snake. His tongue tastes your panties, impossibly teasing. You groan and toss them apart, guiding his mouth.
He gently licks your clit in the most timid way. Everything he lacks, well, he makes up in denial and pure, raw need. He honestly feels like he needed this more than you, and judging from your soaked underwear, which is currently shoved aside like a discarded poem, that is a statement.
Soft moans coming from your lips seem only to fuel him. The oh so shy guy you had looking up at you a second ago might still be there, but there is also absolute hunger. He uses his nose as he tastes you further in: your head falls back in pleasure.
The cold breath of his voice hits you at your most sensible spot. ‘Please. Can I use my hands?’
He has the nerve to ask.
You nod in response, and a second after, you feel his finger inside you, testing waters (quite literally). The shake in your legs encourages him to look for your sweetness, and he quickly finds it, rubbing up against it. You ride his hand, his face, like you were born for it.
The sweet pressure on your lower stomach doesn’t take long to appear, but you say nothing. Sol notices regardless, he’s obviously studying you. Another finger follows in, and when you unintentionally moan his name it’s all lost. You know you have barely a minute more.
‘I’m about to come,’ you announce between ragged breaths and sighs.
‘Please do it in my face,’ he instantly responds, before he’s able to think it through. You chuckle, he blushes harder. ‘Sorry’, he whispers, but keeps on the same pace. You’d call him a magician, but he’s more of a devotee.
And suddenly there it is, your sweet orgasm. It comes as a shock: you haven’t had time to recover from Sol’s eagerness before it hits like a train. The man doesn’t stop, if something, he goes harder. You ask him to pause after a bit less of thirty seconds of straight up bliss. He ignores you. You have to push him away, shaking like a leaf.
You notice then: his face is fully wet. Not normally wet, like other people who have eaten you out. You arch a brow, curious. ‘Have you sweated?’
‘This is all you,’ he confesses with a half smile, licking his fingers, his lips. What a pervert, really. ‘I think you squirted?’ he asks, looking up at you like a kid on Christmas morning. You laugh softly, a bit embarrassed.
‘Never happened before. Good job, I guess,’ you confess. The smile that crosses his face needs to be studied. His cheeks barely fit it.
‘Does this mean I’m forgiven?’, he wonders, resting his face on your right thigh.
‘You tired yet? I’m disappointed,’ you shoot back. He looks heartbroken.
‘I could never. You’re divine, you haunt me. I see you in every shadow, every silence. You’re the ache in my chest and the fire in my blood.’
You blink, staying still.
He grimaces. Looks down. ‘Too much?’ His voice is shy again, remorseful.
‘You’re always too much. That’s what I like about you,’ you hurl back. What an odd thing to say.
Now you’ve put the target on yourself. It’s your fault: Sol’s obsession is wholly yours to shape and feed. Break him and he’ll ache until it is you who mends him. But the shine in his gaze and the almost everlasting bulge on his pants take your attention. Speaking about too much.
‘Need me again?’ you purr, grinning. He blushes for the millionth time in the night, you relocate him onto the bed, making room for him to rest his back against the headboard. Undoing his pants leisurely, enjoying his every little reaction. Pulled aside rest his jeans, followed by his shirt. You pause, relishing on the moment.
‘Don’t stare that much, please. I know…’ he mumbles, looking at his lap. His tone is sad, self-conscious. You tilt your head, still looking.
‘I’m gonna fuck that thought out of you, Solivan,’ you merely acknowledge. He gasps, biting his lips. You don’t take long to fulfill your promise: in a quick gesture, you’re on top of him, discarding his underwear and staring right down.
Is that silver?
You'd have sworn you'd never see an ampallang. Here's this man to contradict you, then. You whistle. ‘Well, you kept that quiet.’ He flushes, nodding, then apologizes. Will he ever stop apologizing?
‘I just thought… Well, I saw you, I mean… You said somewhere in your socials you’d love to… So I went and did it… It’s the most painful piercing I’ve had,’ he chuckles, trying to change the topic.
‘You put yourself through that only for an uncertain possibility I’d fuck you?’ you blurt out, confused.
‘Every time I was cleaning it and it hurt I just imagined you jumping on top of it,’ he confesses through shut eyelids and a covered face. Incredibly adorable, if you weren’t talking about his dick.
‘Let’s see if reality outdoes fiction, then,’ you lick your lips, amused.
‘Please, use and discard me. Whatever you want as long as it’s me.’ He deserves a little peck. So you lean in.
Moving a few inches up, you line up yourself. ‘Are you a virgin, by the way?’ He looks away, mortified.
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘You’re pathetically hard.’
His cock twitches. He’s a masochist too, apparently.
You didn’t notice he was big. Well, it was kind of obvious, but you only take notice when the cold metal of the bar hits your guts. ‘I feel it,’ you moan out. He’s been whimpering the whole time.
Ragged breaths come from both of you and you haven’t even started to move. Sol is biting down his lips so hard they look plump as a cherry. His sweat-covered forehead and mindless gaze give away his state. He hides his face as he admits it.
‘If you move an inch I’ll cum,’ through gritted teeth. You laugh faintly. You’re still adapting to him, so it’s not a problem to wait.
You kiss him tenderly at first, trying to pass time. He’s too shy to make any move, but he slowly picks up your pace, and in a minute you’re both a tangle of tongue and flushed lips, of neck marks and earlobe bites.
He shivers at any contact you make. It’s astonishing, every little sound he makes when you finally start riding him.
The thing of being a man with a throbbing vocabulary: it’s even more rewarding when you manage to fuck him stupid.
And so you have a good time. The sounds coming from both of you mix in an erotic ambience of flesh against flesh, skin to skin. His hands are driven like possessed to your waist, like he needs an anchor to the world because you’re making him feel over it. You tangle yours in his hair and pull back to bite his neck.
There’s a certain pleasure in seeing his paleness covered in red, teeth-shaped dots and hickeys.
His piercing hits just in the right place of your cervix, his cock filling you up. Unrushed but steady, another orgasm starts to build up in you: and just by the look and the grip of him, Sol is in the same position. His gaze locks with yours, gulping and sighing in pleasure as he assesses.
‘You’re too good. I’m not ready for too much, I think I’m about to… You know,’ he says, ashamed.
It takes a bit more before you both bloom together. It is truly an experience, bodily fluids mixing with each other in a synthesis of lust. He moans your name through all the time, you lean back and enjoy the feel of his metal in the exact place it can prolong your already long orgasm.
His prolongs just by looking at you.
After it’s over, both of you exhale deeply. You lean to his shoulder, not moving from your seat on his lap.
‘I still cannot believe this. I thought you were going to report me, that’s what logic said, but you’re…’ his yap fades away, Sol merely takes you in through those red, obsessive orbs.
Undoubtedly, he’s yours.
He will never stop being.
‘I’m in your blood, in the very essence of you, Solivan. I was destined for you. Perhaps as a punishment.’
Or so his poem said.
