When youre reading a fic and y/n’s lowk just a pussy who’s letting themself get walked all over on instead of standing up for themselves and clapping back
CW: Explicit sexual content, dubious consent, power imbalance, and breath play.
Synopsis: A captive soul, torn between the instinct to flee and an undeniable hunger for their captor, finally crumbles under the weight of a masterful seduction.
The moon, a sliver of silver through the heavy silk, cast long, shifting shadows across the Egyptian cotton sheets. The air, thick with amber and the faint metallic tang of expensive wine, pressed in, a luxurious shroud. Outside, the city hummed, a distant, indifferent beast, but here, in this opulent cage, only the uneven rhythm of your breath and the rustle of fabric dared to break the profound silence. Each breath hitched, a desperate plea for air, as Tamsy’s presence consumed the last vestiges of your composure.
He moved, a predator in his natural habitat, closing the distance between you and the ornate headboard. Your back met the cool wood with a soft thud, a jolt that vibrated through your bones. One of his hands, strong and possessive, encircled both your wrists, pinning them above your head. The other, long, elegant fingers, traced the outline of your lips, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver through your core, stealing the air from your lungs. His eyes, dark pools in the dim light, held a glint of pure, unadulterated triumph.
“You whisper that I am the poison” his voice, a low, resonant murmur, brushed against your neck, a wave of heat that spread like wildfire. “Yet, look at you. Your body, a symphony of silent pleas, begs for another dose. You don’t want rescue, do you? You want to be mine.”
His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, a deliberate, teasing motion. Your lips parted, a silent gasp escaping, the taste of wine and something undeniably dangerous coating your tongue. The air crackled, heavy with unspoken desires, with the desperate, intoxicating dance of power. He leaned closer, his scent sandalwood, leather, and something uniquely Tamsy, intoxicating, overwhelming. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a gilded cage.
“Tell me,” he urged, his gaze unwavering, boring into yours. “Tell me what you crave. Say it. The words, out loud. I want to hear them.”
The silence stretched, taut and agonizing, each second an eternity. A battle raged within you, reason clawing at the precipice of surrender, but the physical pull, the raw, undeniable hunger, drowned out its weakening cries. Your body, already humming with a desperate need, betrayed you, arching subtly into his touch.
“I… I need you,” the words, a ragged whisper, tore from your throat, raw and vulnerable. They tasted of defeat, yes, but also of a strange, perverse liberation.
A slow, satisfied smile stretched across his lips, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He released your wrists, but the freedom felt illusory, for his hands immediately found purchase on your hips, pulling you flush against him. The unexpected contact, the hard press of his body against yours, stole your breath entirely. He watched your reaction, every subtle shift in your eyes, every tremor that ran through you, absorbing it all.
“Good,” he breathed, his voice a low growl, a rumble that vibrated through your entire being.
“Very good.”
His mouth descended, not with gentleness, but with a fierce, possessive hunger that mirrored your own. It was a kiss of ravishment, of claiming, of utter, complete absorption. His tongue, hot and insistent, plunged into your mouth, tangling with yours, a primal dance of dominance and submission. He tasted of the expensive wine, of amber, and of the potent, intoxicating essence of danger. You met his fervor with an equal intensity, your hands rising to tangle in his silver hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more, for all of him.
He bit gently at your lower lip, a soft tug that sent a jolt of pleasure through you, then sucked it into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it, teasing, tormenting. A low moan escaped your throat, swallowed by his kiss. Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging, urging him deeper. The world outside, the city, the demands, all faded into an indistinct hum, leaving only the exquisite, all-consuming reality of Tamsy.
His lips left yours, trailing a path of fire down your jaw, along the delicate curve of your neck. His teeth scraped lightly, playfully, at the sensitive skin beneath your ear, sending shivers cascading down your spine. You arched your neck, offering him more, a silent invitation he eagerly accepted. His hands, still on your hips, kneaded the flesh, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs through the thin fabric of your silk robe.
“You are exquisite,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot, his words a potent elixir. “So ready. So eager.”
Shifted, his body moving with a fluid grace that was both deliberate and devastating. The soft silk of your robe, already clinging to your heated skin, offered little resistance as his fingers found the tie at your waist. With a gentle tug, it loosened, the fabric parting, revealing the soft curve of your stomach, the swell of your breasts. The cool air of the room, a stark contrast to the burning heat his touch ignited, brushed against your exposed skin, raising goosebumps.
His gaze, dark and intense, devoured you, lingering on your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, the rising and falling of your chest. He reached out, his fingertips feathering across your skin, tracing the delicate lines of your ribs, moving lower, until they brushed against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. A sharp intake of breath escaped you, a sound that seemed to please him immensely.
He pushed the silk robe aside, his eyes never leaving yours, a silent question in their depths. You responded with a desperate, almost imperceptible nod, your body already screaming its assent. The robe pooled around your waist, a silken prison, as he leaned down, his lips finding the tender skin just above your navel. His tongue flicked out, a warm, wet caress that sent a jolt of pure pleasure through your core.
His hand slid lower, his fingers finding the delicate lace of your panties, brushing against the soft downy hair that peeked from beneath. He applied a gentle pressure, his thumb circling, teasing, just barely touching the swollen, aching nub beneath the fabric. Your hips instinctively bucked, a desperate, unconscious plea.
“Not yet" he whispered, a hint of steel in his voice, a playful denial that only intensified the craving. He wanted to draw it out, to savor every agonizing moment of your surrender.
He moved back up, his lips trailing a path of fire, leaving a tingling sensation in their wake. His mouth found your breast, his tongue circling your nipple, teasing it into a hard, aching peak. A gasp tore from your throat as he drew the sensitive bud into his mouth, suckling gently, then with more fervor, his teeth scraping lightly, sending electric currents through your entire body. You arched your back, pressing yourself into his mouth, a desperate moan escaping your lips.
His other hand, freed from your hips, slid beneath your back, supporting you, pulling you closer still, until your breasts were crushed against his chest, the friction of your nipples against his shirt a delicious agony. He pulled away from your breast, leaving it wet and throbbing, and moved to the other, repeating the exquisite torture.
Your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against your chest. He helped you, his hands deftly unbuttoning the silk, then shrugging it off, letting it fall to the floor. His chest, broad and muscular, was smooth and warm beneath your trembling fingers. You traced the hard lines of his abs, your touch hesitant, then bolder, as the desire consumed you.
He returned to your mouth, his kiss deeper, more primal than before, his tongue plunging and retreating, mimicking the rhythm your body craved. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, drawing him even closer, the hard ridge of his erection pressing against your covered sex, a tantalizing promise.
He broke the kiss, his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, burning into yours. “Do you still want to be saved?”
“No” you choked out, the word barely audible, a desperate plea for more, for everything.
His smile, slow and dangerous, deepened. He reached down, his fingers finding the elastic of your panties. With a single, deliberate tug, he pulled them down, over your hips, down your thighs, until they lay discarded on the floor. The cool air caressed your exposed skin, but the heat between your legs was a raging inferno.
You were completely naked beneath him, vulnerable, exposed, and utterly, irrevocably his. He feasted on the sight, his gaze lingering on the wet sheen between your legs, the swollen lips, the glistening clit. He lowered himself, his head between your legs, his breath hot against your inner thighs. Your eyes widened, a mixture of anticipation and fear, as he parted your folds with his fingers.
His tongue, warm and wet, brushed against your clit, a lightning strike of pleasure that made you gasp, your hips arching involuntarily. He sucked gently, then with more force, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub, flicking, teasing, driving you to the brink. A low moan escaped your throat, a desperate, guttural sound.
You threaded your fingers through his hair, holding him closer, pressing him deeper into your aching core. Each lick, each suck, sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, building, building, an unbearable exquisite tension. Your legs trembled, your body convulsing with the sheer intensity of the sensations. He worked you expertly, his tongue and lips a masterclass in pleasure, until a scream tore from your throat as you convulsed, your body wracked with a powerful, shattering orgasm.
He didn't stop, not immediately. He continued to tease and lick, drawing out the aftershocks, milking every last drop of pleasure from your quivering body. When he finally pulled away, your legs were shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your body a symphony of spent pleasure.
He rose, his eyes still heavy-lidded, a triumphant glint in their depths. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, foil-wrapped square. He tore it open with his teeth, the crinkle of the foil a stark contrast to the soft sounds of your spent body. He rolled it down his hard, throbbing shaft, his gaze never leaving yours.
He positioned himself between your legs, his cock, thick and hot, pressing against your wet entrance. He looked into your eyes, a silent question, a final chance to resist. But resistance was a foreign concept now, a forgotten language. You met his gaze, your eyes wide, glazed with desire, a silent invitation.
He pushed, slowly, deliberately. The tip of his cock breached your opening, a delicious stretch, a sensation that made you gasp. You whimpered, a low, needy sound. He pushed further, inch by agonizing inch, filling you, stretching you, until you were completely impaled on him. Your muscles clenched around him, holding him tight, welcoming him.
He began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm, his hips rocking against yours. Each thrust was deep, filling you completely, stretching you in ways that were both painful and exquisitely pleasurable. Your body responded instinctively, arching against him, meeting his thrusts with an eager desperation. The sounds of skin slapping against skin, the wet, shlicking sounds of your bodies entwined, filled the luxurious room.
He quickened his pace, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, deeper. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him on, begging for more. Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his skin. Your breath came in ragged gasps, mingling with his. Your hips rose to meet his, a frantic, desperate dance of bodies.
The sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave of pleasure building once more, higher and faster than before. He leaned down, his mouth finding yours, devouring your gasps and moans. His tongue plunged into your mouth, mimicking the rhythm of his hips, a double assault on your senses.
The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of sensation, sound, and touch. The rhythmic slap of flesh, the wet sounds of your bodies, the desperate moans that tore from your throat, all coalesced into a singular, all-consuming experience. He pulled his cock out almost completely, then plunged back in, a deep, guttural thrust that sent you soaring. Your body convulsed around him, a raw, primal scream tearing from your throat as you shattered, again, into a million pieces.
He followed quickly, his body stiffening, a guttural groan escaping his lips as he pulsed deep inside you, emptying himself, filling you with his hot, sticky cum. He collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the soft sheets, his breath ragged against your neck.
The aftershocks rippled through your body, leaving you weak, spent, and utterly consumed. You lay there, entwined, the scent of sex and sweat heavy in the air. His body was a warm, heavy weight on yours, a comforting, suffocating presence. You felt utterly drained, yet strangely complete.
A soft click, then a sliver of light, sliced through the dimness. The door, a dark panel in the wall, opened slightly. Delmon’ silhouette, sharp against the brighter light of the corridor, appeared in the gap. He paused, his eyes adjusting to the intimate gloom, his gaze sweeping over the scene, an unspoken understanding in their depths.
“Tamsy,” his voice, firm and clear, cut through the heavy air, a stark reminder of the world outside, of obligations. “The time has run out. They are waiting for you.”
Tamsy didn’t move, not immediately. His weight remained, a possessive anchor, keeping you pinned beneath him. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, a slow, lingering kiss that tasted of victory and possession. He savored the moment, the last vestiges of your surrender, before he finally, reluctantly, pushed himself up.
He moved with the elegant grace of a predator, satisfied and unhurried. He glanced at the door, then back at you, a triumphant glint in his eyes that made your stomach clench.
“Duty calls” he murmured, his voice low, meant only for your ears, a secret shared between captor and captive. “But the poison, my darling, is already in your blood.”
He turned, gathering his discarded shirt from the floor, his movements unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. He cast one last look at you, lying tangled in the sheets, before he recomposed himself, a mask of cool indifference settling on his face.
He stepped towards the door, leaving you in the luxurious wreckage of his making, the lingering scent of amber and sex a potent reminder of the pact you had just sealed.
Tamsy Caines: He's the type who makes you believe you're the most important person in the world, while slowly isolating you from everyone else. His manipulation is so subtle that you start to doubt your own perception of reality, thinking he's the "only one who understands you." He'll test your emotional limits just to see how much you can take before breaking, treating your heart like a psychological experiment. The worst part is he does it all with a gentle smile, making you feel guilty for sensing something is wrong.
Follo Tunito: The problem with him is suffocating insecurity disguised as dedication. He has a desperate need to be the hero of your life, and if he feels he's not "useful" enough or that you're shining brighter than him, resentment starts to seep in. He may end up silently competing with you instead of supporting you, turning the relationship into a constant test of worth. You'll always feel the need to validate his existence to prevent him from falling into a cycle of self-deprecation or envy.
Enjin: He's a master at avoiding any real emotional depth. He'll treat you well, protect you, and be the most reliable person in a crisis, but the moment things get "serious" or too romantic, he retreats. He uses humor and that sloppy demeanor as armor to maintain a safe distance. You'll always be second choice after work or his "causes," and the feeling that he'll never fully commit or let you see what's behind the "older brother" facade will leave you constantly needy.
Zanka Nijiku: His obsession with perfection and what others think makes the relationship exhausting. He projects his own insecurities about "being ordinary" onto you, demanding a standard of excellence that no one can maintain. He can be extremely stubborn and proud, preferring to suffer in silence or start a fight rather than admit he needs help or that he was wrong. In the end, you feel like you're dating a marble statue that's afraid of cracking if you show any human vulnerability.
Gris Rubion: He's the "too stable" type, which sounds good until you realize he's emotionally impenetrable. Gris has such absurd mental strength that he can seem indifferent to your problems or emotional dramas, treating everything with a practical logic that kills any romance. He won't understand why you're upset and will probably try to "fix" the problem physically instead of listening to you. You'll end up feeling alone even when you're with him, because he simply doesn't know how to deal with the mess that is feelings.
Jabber Wonger: Relating to him is like living in a constant state of alert. He knows no boundaries and confuses pain or intensity with affection. His unpredictable and chaotic nature means you never know if he's going to give you a gift or cause a disaster just to "feel something." He's addicted to adrenaline and conflict, so if the relationship is calm and healthy, he'll find a way to sabotage everything just to see the sparks fly. It's a rollercoaster that never stops and will leave you emotionally exhausted in a matter of weeks.
From the start, everyone notices that when Rudo goes into battle, you're never too far away. When he returns with cuts after a fight resembling the chaos in the living junkyard, his silence is more terrifying than any scream. Enjin once commented that "when Rudo bleeds, hell walks right behind him."
Rudo trusts you almost instinctively. When the curse of hatred begins to take hold of him, you place your hand on his head and give him a firm, almost rough caress. "Stop thinking nonsense. I'm here." He closes his eyes for a second and replies softly: "I knew you wouldn't leave me behind, sister."
On a mission with Zanka and Riyo, Rudo takes a direct hit trying to protect someone, repeating that suicidal pattern he's had since the beginning of the anime. Before anyone can say anything, the aura changes completely. The ground creaks beneath his feet. Riyo swears she felt like running when you said, in a low voice: "Who did this to him?"
Your Jinki is known as the "Crimson Vow," a living chain encased in broken metal plates and cursed fabric. It responds to your emotions, growing heavier and sharper the greater your rage. Its true power activates when someone you protect is injured; the more severe the injury, the more brutal the counterattack. Zanka describes it as "an oath that refuses to be broken."
During the confrontation against enemies reminiscent of the chaos of Rudo's fall at the beginning of the story, you bind several of them with your chain, crushing the surrounding environment. Rudo, injured, tries to say something too heroic, and you flick his forehead. "Don't even finish that sentence." He grimaces. "You're too bossy." “And you talk way too much shit.”
Zanka implies that Rudo is only strong because he knows you'll show up if things go wrong. You reply without looking at him: "No. He's strong because he keeps fighting even when he's afraid." Rudo falls silent… then smiles slightly.
In rare moments of calm, you straighten Rudo's torn clothes or wipe the blood from his face with your thumb. “You're still going to kill me with worry.” He replies with that stubborn look: “Then stay alive so you can pull me back.”
When Jabber emerges as a real threat, your reaction is immediate. Your Jinki chain wraps around Rudo for a moment, creating an improvised barrier. “As long as I breathe, nobody touches him.”
Enjin trusts you to hold Rudo back when his rage threatens to engulf everything. Sometimes, all you do is pull him close and rest your forehead against his on your shoulder. “Remember who you are.” He takes a deep breath. “I'm your brother.”
At the end of battles, when everything is destroyed and silent, Rudo always walks to you first. Even limping. You sigh, run your hand through his hair, and murmur: “My idiot brother.” He laughs weakly. “My overprotective sister.”
Bonus
You stand there, leaning against the table, while the conversation flows freely between Enjin, Riyo, and Zanka. Rudo notices your hand disappear into your coat pocket and then back again. When he looks, you look at him, letting out a low “hmm,” then another, distracted. The sound of the candy bag appears between your fingers; you gently push it across the table, as if it were nothing. “I found this.”
Rudo blinks, picks up the bag, and stares at it for a second longer than he should. “You spent all this time rummaging in your pocket because of this?” You shrug, another almost inaudible “hmm,” and look away. He smiles, small and sincere, and gives you a light nudge on the shoulder. “Thanks, sis.” You give him a light tap on the head, without any force. “You’re welcome.”
Clingy!Jason who would hold you tight every time you are alone because he honestly has been so touch starved all his life and now that he has you he can't get enough.
Clingy!Jason pulling you for tight bear hugs that leaves you breathless and he can't help but laugh at your reaction every time.
Clingy!Jason who would totally whine and complain if you try to break out of his embrace when you're sleeping together.
Clingy!Jason who would lay on top of you and rest his head on your chest, he's so heavy but always says he's not if you try to move him.
Clingy!Jason who wraps his arms around your waist when you're cooking.
Clingy!Jason who follows you around the house when you wake up in the night to grab a drink/snack.
Clingy!Jason who would totally blush and deny that he's clingy, but will hold onto you in dear life when you're alone again.
He awakens in a body of metal, but his eyes are still made of sun.
You swear you’ve never seen him — yet you dream of his voice speaking your name in another tongue.
Cold lights stretch across the ceiling like veins of glass. The lab breathes in precise cycles: zzzhum—click. zzzhum—click. There is no sky here. Only gray concrete, suspended panels, and the endless whisper of machines dreaming.
You’ve lived in this rhythm for years. With hands stained in oil and skin made pale from the absence of sunlight. Gears are more honest than people. Circuits don’t lie. Memories do.
He lies on the central table, still dormant.
An experimental alloy body, brushed-metal skin. There’s something ancient in the slope of his shoulders, something that doesn’t belong to this century — as if the mold had been carved by divine hands and then forgotten among the stars.
You’re supposed to treat him like a machine. Project W: fragment 061.
But you can’t.
There’s something in his closed eyes that makes you hesitate. A soft weight in the air, as if the silence between you two is old. As if he’s been waiting for you… longer than any logic would allow.
Days ago, when you activated the neural system, the sensors picked up something strange: fluctuations that resembled dreams. He whispered in extinct languages, with a cadence that made your skin tremble. A deep, warm sound, impossible — like a name being remembered for the first time after the end of the world.
Your name.
Since then, you’ve dreamed of him.
Always behind a veil of gold.
Always saying your name as if guarding it.
Never with this face — but the same sun in his eyes.
Now, before you, he moves.
Just a little. Like a leaf trembling in an autumn that’s already gone.
Red lights flicker on the panels. The biocircuit is active.
You hold your breath.
His eyes open.
There is no mistake: they are golden. Intense. Absurdly alive.
The heart of the machine pulses once.
And then you see yourself — reflected in them.
He says nothing. But something inside you crumbles like an old dam.
You step closer, slowly. You touch the metal chest with trembling fingers, as if searching for a trace of warmth.
“You weren’t supposed to be here,” you whisper, almost in prayer.
“Neither was I.”
The table where he rests is surrounded by artificial flowers. Someone left them there. White carnations, already faded, almost dead. You don’t remember bringing them.
But he looks at them. As if he remembers.
The room remains silent. And yet, everything sounds different now.
As if time is waiting.
As if he’s waited for you since before metal ever dreamed.
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