So, I was randomly hit with some inspiration to make Tarot cards for my OCs because… I have plenty of them. And maybe I’ll just end up painting/drawing over a deck of cards I already own or finding a way to print these, or just… have them digitally. But it seemed like a good way to get into drawing them more.
The first part of this is sorting characters into which Tarot card matches/suits them best. It was a process to say the least. Which I will try to explain more under the cut.
@thebrokenmechanicalpencil- I was going to use some of your ocs for this but didn’t want to overstep in case you felt inspired and wanted to make cards of your own.
—
I have my process for this under the list that might make what I chose make a bit more sense? Because even I will admit this looks so random in so many ways.
—
The assignments:
As I go through and start drawing each of these I’ll probably elaborate more on them individually and why a character was assigned to them. This is already a long post… or maybe I’ll have a separate one explaining the reasons.
0. The Fool- Rivetcore
1. The Magician- Dropmix
2. The High Priestess- Valkyrie
3. The Empress- Overstrike
4. The Emperor- Rumbleclutch
5. The Hierophant- Triton
6. The Lovers- Echo
7. The Chariot- Leoblast
8. Strength- Jeopardy
9. The Hermit- Nova
10. The Wheel of Fortune- Torque
11. Justice- Volley
12. The Hanged Man- Tempestrift
13. Death- Torrent
14. Temperance- Sunrazor (Prewar)
15. The Devil- Sunrazor (war)
16. The Tower- Saberfire
17. The Star- Crossflier
18. The Moon- Powercase
19. The Sun- Rapidstrike
20. Judgement- Theremin
21. The World- Bluerunner
—
The process:
There is no right or wrong way to do this. At least I hope so. From what I’ve seen of other people doing character Tarot cards sometimes they just pick a title or card that generally matches the vibe of the character? And at first that’s what I was also doing.
But I assume most people looking at this know my characters which means you know me and are aware that I have a tendency to deep dive. So, you’re absolutely right, I did end up making it more complicated than it needed to be.
I started looking into the meanings and symbolism of each card, both the upright and reversed positions. Lots of research ended up happening because the simple, couple of words descriptions never really gave me enough to go off of. Which slowed the process down and also made some of the ones that I thought would be obvious no longer make sense.
An example: I was hyped to use Dropmix for either the Justice or Judgement card, which I think only the mutual tagged above will understand fully right now. But, based off of the cards meanings it really didn’t fit his character, and in the end I feel very satisfied with the one he got.
Another thing that complicated the process was the fact that their upright and reversed meanings are often just that, opposites. But I’m trying to match both sides to the characters. Thankfully a lot of my characters have conflict and are rather hypocritical at times so it works. There are also some concepts that tended to be rather vague that I just tried to pretend I understood.
The final portion of this was picking characters. Originally I wanted to do all of the characters that I perceive as “main” characters. Which made me fall short of the 22 needed. So then I had to start selecting which side characters to use. Originally I brought all of the death muppets in only to realize that the slots I needed filled didn’t really match the characters. Same thing for if I brought in only the guardian siblings.
So that’s why this whole thing turned into a big ole mess and it really is just a random handful of characters. I had to scrap some characters that I wanted to list because nothing fit them and drag in others I didn’t think I would be to fill in those slots.
Also, I will be trying to incorporate as much of the original layout, themes, and symbols of the original cards as I can when I go to design them. However since I have just one character per card and I’m not intending on bringing in nearly as much religious subtexts into this (like specific angels) they will not be very… exact to each card?
Hello yes I just read through Nothing of Mote last night and Aadaph mentioned that Hels (the world) hated them. Is Hels sentient? Does it have a consciousness? I am looking-
Is the regular Minecraft world sentient? Does the Universe love you?
...I was going to leave it at that and just be vague but then this happened instead so. Essay time I guess :)
In my mind, Hels is not only a different world from Hermitcraft, but it is a different type of world. It exists in a parallel Universe to the one most Minecraft worlds are generated in, a Universe filled with many alternates for many worlds and players. Hels is the world within that universe that is linked naturally to the world of Hermitcraft. (I'm working on the assumption that Hermitcraft is one world getting reset every so often, instead of eight different worlds.) (It's also worth mentioning that only one alternate version of a player can exist in the mirror Universe at one time, so Hermits who play in multiple worlds still only have the Hels Hermit who spawned in Hels, and the mirror Universe generates an empty helworld for the other world they play in.)
In Minecraft, the Universe may or may not fully count as sentient, in the traditional sense. But its intentions and its need to be lived in, created, enjoyed, struggled against and overcome and survived and seen as filled with potential in the way Minecraft is meant to be played no matter what you choose to do with your time...that is felt throughout the world, on a level so fundamental that a player living in it their whole lives probably stops consciously noticing it. It's in the air, in every block, in the way things look and the music that plays soft enough that you can only hear it if you stand still and listen.
The mirror Universe is the same. Except that that Universe does not love you. That Universe does not want to be lived in. It is filled with the urging to give up, to accept defeat and just leave or die or stop whatever you are doing and sit down and accept that you were never meant to be here and nothing you can ever build will matter, not on any meaningful level. That is why Aadaph said that their world hates them.
*(I am a big believer in choice. Even though the Hels Hermits are spawned with a personality that predisposes them towards evil, with a great deal of personal strength and difficult realizations, they can choose to help instead of hurt. They can become good.
It is very important to know that the Universe's hate isn't what made the Hels Hermits evil, no more than the vibes of a regular Minecraft world are guaranteed to produce good people. Each Hels Hermit was spawned with a personality that takes key positive aspects of their original way too far until they become negative, and they are missing the morality and care for others that keeps the regular Hermit from crossing those lines and hurting the people around them. Their evil is in those values and in the choices towards or away from cruelty that they make throughout their lives.* The seed of who they are to start out with, plus the decisions that they make of their own free will, are what makes them evil. They are not forced by the world they live in.
However, the fact that the very fabric of their reality is cheering for them to fail creates a kind of spiteful struggle, fueling each of their ambitions and pushing them toward conflict in the race to prove that they can survive, damn it, and better than any of the others, too. That's what keeps Hels in such an ever-shifting and bitter hierarchy instead of banded together in one evil army to take down the Hermits as a unified force. However, that's also a part of what makes them so anxious to get out and get to the Overworld in the first place, especially if they feel they've failed at climbing the ladder or otherwise proving their worth in their own world.
Some of them did. Some of them are. None of those have lasted long or fared well.)
Whew! Was not expecting that big of a ramble today, but I really enjoyed it! Thank you so much for the question, and for proving that I am in fact still ready to start thinking about my Hels lore again at the drop of a hat. :)
i’m very thankful for my ship partners for one thing that might sound stupid but: there’s more kinds of relationships than romantic ones, and they aren’t any less important, and i am genuinely thankful that i still get to write so many dynamics with him despite him being greyromantic and thus most likely not in that way in love.
Hope your day has gone well so far, and hope you're healthy! (Sorry I'm writing this at a concert rn so my head is jumbled. There may be some grammatical mistakes😭)
Anyways, I was just wondering- how many more days do you think the game will have? (Like day one, day two, etc.i think some call them chapters? )
Also, I was wondering if Carol or Boss will have any lore! Will we learn what attacked Boss, since a cat seems unlikely? (Or was it already revealed🥲)
Also questions for Neko, (I'm not really sure wh responds to this, but I thought I might include it...) what does a day look like to you usually? Like how much progress do you make every day/week? What are the steps to making one of the frames? (I'm not really sure what to call them, but I hope you get the gist😭)
Also, how long did it take you to design the characters? I imagine it was no easy feat.
Sorry there's so many questions but I promise this is my last😭
Will there be any more new characters in the next day? (They don't have to be in the circus lol)
Hope these weren't spoilers or anything!!
I really really REALLY love the game, and I truly admire all you all do!
Thanks so much ✧*。٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و✧*。
Hello!!
I can’t say yet, since there are so many routes and the story is still unfolding, and I want to tell it in a way that makes sense. So some parts, like interactions with other characters, might be a little slow, so I can’t estimate how many more updates there will be.
You’ll learn a little more about Carol and the Boss in the future, and maybe I’ll make a mini-comic about how the Boss accidentally scratched!
Every day I work on a different part of the game. Right now, I’m still finishing up the script for Day 3 (which is huge again). Other than that, I’m creating the monster designs for each one so they’re ready when it’s time to show them off, and I’m drawing a sort of mind map to help me organize the routes. It’s really hard to connect one route to another without breaking things or causing bugs, so this part requires a lot of careful planning! And besides that, there are also a few things related to the game that I need to work on when I have some free time, such as AMAs, the official store, and a few projects for the game ouo
Some characters took weeks, I do several design tests, and sometimes I need to stop looking at them for a while to spot mistakes and get a better perspective! x.x The only one that went faster was Harlequin him took just a few days.
Yeah, there might be more characters in the new update just background characters. I’m also thinking about whether I should open a category on Patreon to make slots for more background characters I don’t really like those gray figures I use on Day 2, for example x.x But we’ll see about that!
I’m really glad you’re enjoying things so far! ^^
robby's grin when he's the closest to breaking is still so unsettling and perfectly acted. you can practically see him berate himself in his head just looking at his eyes and expression, almost hear him yell at himself not to fucking cry, not to fucking break, not ever fucking again.
samira does not deserve his assholery but again, holy shit the projection. his internal monologue that we've been pretty much shut out from comes out the most when he talks to her.
keep your personal life out of work, he says, every aspect of his self and life infiltrating his work, his loneliness and burnout and PTSD. it's your job as senior resident to be the leader, not let yourself be led, he says, burnt out from having no one to look to for guidance for several years, everyone relying on him, and he continues to break and make shitty mistakes under the weight of that. he does not and has never forgiven himself for any of those mistakes.
that's the difference between the good doctors and the ones that don't make it, he says.
he doesn't consider himself a good doctor, and he's definitely not planning on making it.
(it's also interesting to note the silence after Samira says maybe I don't belong here. I was half-expecting him to say "yeah, maybe you don't," but I'm glad they didn't write that. he's not in a state to apologize or do better, but inside there, he still believes in Samira. he can't make himself say that she doesn't belong because she does.)
pairing: lee jeno x fem.reader
genre: established relationship, smut, fluff
wc: 8.6k
summary: When a night of kinky experimentation leaves Jeno at his girlfriend’s mercy, he discovers a new side to both of them - and he likes it. A whole lot.
content warnings: explicit sexual content, fem!dom, sub!jeno (switch technically), light bondage, edging/orgasm denial, unprotected sex, healthy exploration of kinks, rough sex, begging, swearing, biting/marking, mild objectification, sex toy usage (on jeno), oral sex (m. receiving) . lmk if i missed anything!
a/n: hiii guys!! here’s a cute little fic (it is absolutely not cute, do not be deceived) that i wrote in honor of the JNJM unit debut 🤍 jaemin isn’t in this one, i know, i know, but i promise a proper nomin fic is coming in the future to make up for it. the concept for this was heavily inspired by doja cat’s song “freak”, and also by jeno in those JNJM teaser photos bc HELLO??? that man in office attire??? HELL YEAH. i fear i had no choice but to write this. anyway. enjoy responsiby.
"Tie him down to my queen bed, tease him just enough for him to hate me."
It’s a law of the universe that polar opposites are irresistibly drawn to one another. Perhaps it’s the allure of complementary forces coming together in perfect balance, each half making the other whole. Yin and yang, light and shadow, order and chaos.
Jeno and you were a textbook case of antipodes attracting. Where you were colorful sweaters and mini skirts, he was crisp dress shirts and tailored slacks in somber shades of black and navy. Your voice filled any room you entered, words tumbling out in an endless torrent, while Jeno was a bastion of calm quietude, content to listen with undivided attention. You created chaos wherever you went, a beautiful disaster leaving a trail of forgotten items and unfinished projects; Jeno brought order to that world, everything in its proper place, not a hair out of line.
When you first got together, your friends took bets on how long you’d last, convinced your differences ran too deep. A month, tops, most predicted. “He’s too boring for you,” they said, convinced that some fundamental law of life would surely tear you apart.
Eight months later, you were still going strong. Oh sure, you had your share of lover’s quarrels - more often than not sparked by some silly thing you got into your head to be upset about. But your sweet Jeno, ever patient, couldn’t bear to see you sad for even a moment. He made it his mission to soothe whatever ailed you, even when your “ailments” were petty and ridiculous.
“Baby, I really don’t know what’s got you so upset,” Jeno said, his voice edged with fond exasperation.
He’d always come to your place straight from the office, not a crease or wrinkle marring his crisp white button-down, hair slicked back in that severe style that never failed to make your knees weak. The way his fitted slacks hugged his toned thighs was downright criminal.
Even now, annoyed as you were, you couldn’t help but ogle him appreciatively. If you worked together, you’d never get anything done, too busy staring at this gorgeous man all day. You frequently fantasized about showing up at his workplace and mussing up that perfect hair, undoing a button or five on that shirt, making him come undone on a desk…
“I am not upset,” you huffed, but a pout was already forming on your lips quite without your permission.
Jeno chuckled, a warm, pretty sound that reverberated through his chest as he pulled you onto his lap. You went willingly, already feeling your irritation start to melt away.
"Is that so? Then why are you all..." He trailed off, imitating your pouty frown before quickly kissing it away, as if he just couldn't help himself.
"This is just my normal face. If you don't like it, you can always dump me or whatever." You crossed your arms, but the action ended up pushing your boobs up and practically into Jeno's face.
His gaze drifted down, eyes darkening with desire as he took in the view. God, he wanted nothing more than to bury his face in your soft curves, to get lost in you for days. But first, he had to figure out what was bothering you.
"Why would I ever want to break up with you? You're my girl." His hands slid down to span your lower back, fingers splaying across the dip above your hips.
"I don't know. I can just tell when a guy's not as into me anymore," you muttered, stubbornly refusing to meet his gaze.
Jeno frowned, all traces of amusement wiped from his face, replaced by confusion and concern.
"Hold on. Where is this coming from?" He sat up straighter, the sudden movement making you bounce lightly in his lap. If you weren't so annoyed, you might've taken the chance to tease him a bit, maybe wiggle around and really get him going. "Baby, what are you talking about? When have I ever made you think I'm not completely crazy about you?"
"Well, I don’t know... You've been working late constantly, I barely see you these days. And then the other night, you clearly didn't want to...you know..." You waved a hand vaguely. "Touch me."
"Oh, that... it's only because I—" Jeno sighed heavily, shoving a hand through his perfectly styled hair and messing it up. "Well, I... I thought I hurt you then. I didn't want to make it worse. Sometimes I just get too carried away because, god, I can't control myself when you're under me like that. Baby, I was trying to hold back so I wouldn't hurt you—"
You pressed a finger to his lips, silencing his rambling explanation. "What, why do you think you hurt me?"
He dropped his gaze, shame etched into every line of his handsome face. But for the life of you, you couldn't recall a single moment during sex when he'd caused you pain. If anything, Jeno was always too gentle, as if you might shatter if he dared go too hard.
"Well... you were crying..." he admitted slowly.
An incredulous laugh bubbled up in your throat, but you managed to tamp it down to a grin when you saw how genuinely distraught he was about this.
"Jeno, oh my god." A giggle escaped despite your best efforts. "I only cried because it felt good," you explained, gently grasping his chin and tilting his face up to meet your gaze. His eyes went wide, lips parting in surprise.
"Good? But... you've never cried before," he said, confusion clear in his expression. In that moment, he looked so boyish, his eyes shining with an almost innocent bewilderment.
"That's just because...you've always been so careful with me. And don't get me wrong, I love that. But the other night... I don't know, it was different. It felt like you weren’t holding back anymore. And, well... I really, really liked it."
Jeno was completely at a loss. He had no idea you felt this way. Being significantly taller and more muscular than you - a result of his rigorous daily gym routine - he always took great pains not to be too rough during sex. It took immense restraint, too. Because his deepest desire was to well and truly ravish you, to fuck you through the mattress until you were screaming his name and woke up sore. But when it came to you, his own wants and needs always took a backseat. He only wanted what was best for you.
But now, to discover you wanted the same thing all along? Well, color him shocked.
"What's with that face? Are you just now realizing you've got a freaky girlfriend who wants you to manhandle her with these big, strong arms?" You punctuated your teasing by giving his bicep an appreciative squeeze.
Jeno let out a breathless chuckle. "I just never thought my self-control was leaving you unsatisfied," he admitted. "I didn't realize you wanted me to be...rougher."
"Jen, you're so unbelievably hot, I practically have to physically restrain myself from jumping your bones every second we're together. Honestly, I'm the one holding back here."
A fierce blush crept up his neck. Why was he feeling so shy all of a sudden? For god's sake, you'd been together nearly a year, sex was a near-daily occurrence - sometimes more than once a day even. But now it turns out he didn’t know the first thing about your preferences? Upon reflection, your sex life was pretty vanilla. He'd assumed you were content like that, but now a horrifying thought struck him… What if you'd been faking it this whole time?
"Oh god," Jeno groaned, burying his face in your neck. "I'm the worst boyfriend in history."
"What? Don't be ridiculous. Of course you aren't. You're the best, most incredible boyfriend a girl could ask for, Jen. You're perfect."
He emerged from your neck, glasses adorably askew. With a tender smile, you adjusted them, then let your fingers card through his hair as you settled more firmly in his lap. "Whatever ridiculous idea is running through that brilliant, overthinking brain of yours right now, it's not at all what I meant."
Somehow, with a single glance into his eyes, you'd read his mind like an open book.
"You mean the fact that I've probably never truly satisfied my girlfriend even once because I stupidly thought I was being considerate by holding back? And that she's probably faked countless orgasms just to spare my fragile ego?" His tone was laced with self-recrimination.
"Okay, whoa! That's completely absurd, baby. None of that is even remotely true, and you know it." Your fingers continued their soothing path through his hair, and he let his eyes flutter shut, momentarily lost in the calming sensation. “But I'll admit, this is partly my fault for not communicating my desires more clearly”
"And what exactly are those desires?" he asked, hands once again finding a spot on your hips.
Now it was your turn to blush and avert your gaze. Why oh why did you have to open this particular can of worms? How were you supposed to look your boyfriend in the eye and confess all the deliciously filthy, kinky things you wanted him to do to you - and you to him?
"Um, was that the dryer?" you blurted out, making a feeble attempt to extricate yourself from his embrace, only to be tugged right back down onto his lap.
"Y/N." The use of your full name made it clear he wasn't fooling around. "Tell me. Please."
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. "It's stupid, really. Not even worth discussing. Aren't you exhausted after working all day?" you deflected, fussing with his now-wrinkled shirt. He covered both your restless hands with one of his own (god, his hands were massive), stilling your fidgeting.
"Believe me, I have no problem staying right here all night until you talk to me. I'm quite comfortable like this, actually," he murmured, a hint of amusement coloring his words.
You sighed in resignation. "I just don't want you to think I'm some kind of weirdo or something..."
"I could never think that, pretty girl," he reassured you, punctuating his words with a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. "Go on, tell me."
"Well..." you began, nervously twisting your fingers together. "There's something I've always wanted to try with you. But I thought it might be a bit...much."
Jeno's curiosity was piqued. "Okay, what is it?"
"God, this is so mortifying," you whined.
"Come on, it can't possibly be any worse than that time you confessed to having a massive crush on Shrek," he teased, trying to lighten the mood.
Oh, to hell with it. You'd come this far, might as well just let it all out.
"I've always wanted to...to tie you down. To my bed, I mean." The words tumbled out in a rush, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.
Jeno was perfectly still for all of two seconds before he let out a slightly strained chuckle. But then, seeing the deadly serious look on your face, he sobered. "Wait... what exactly do you mean by that?"
You cleared your throat. "Just that... I want to tie you up... and do whatever I want to you, for as long as I want."
"Oh." Jeno blinked owlishly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "That's, uh... Wow."
You couldn't quite decipher the look on his face. Shock, definitely. But was that a spark of intrigue in his eyes, or were you just projecting your own desperate hopes onto him?
"I know, I know, it's super weird. Just forget I said anything," you babbled, squirming in his lap, suddenly desperate to escape this mortifying situation. "I mean, what kind of girlfriend wants to tie up her boyfriend like some kind of pervert, right? God, I'm so embarrassed, I can't believe I actually told you that. Can we please just pretend this conversation never happened and go back to—"
"I want to try it," He blurted out, his deep voice cutting through your nervous rambling.
You froze, certain you must have misheard him. "Wait, what?"
Jeno’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaze intense and unwavering on yours. "I said... I want to try it. What you said, about tying me up and..." He cleared his throat, a distinct flush creeping up his neck. "...having your way with me."
"You... You do?" you asked, scarcely daring to believe it.
"Yeah, I really do." He leaned in close, his breath against your lips. "The thought of being at your mercy, completely helpless while you do whatever you want to me... It's really fucking hot."
Your breath caught in your throat, desire pooling hot and heavy in your belly at his words. "Oh my god, Jeno..."
"So," His large hands slid down to cup your ass, pulling you flush against the rapidly growing bulge in his slacks. "Why don't you show me exactly what you want to do to me, hm? Let me be a good boy for you."
You didn't need to be asked twice.
He’d barely finished the sentence before you had his tie undone and draped around your own neck for later use. You felt the unmistakable shiver that ran through his body as you worked open the top buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. It felt almost illicit, the way he allowed you to take control so easily.
Jeno. The consummate rule-follower who color-coded his gym schedule by muscle groups, who maintained a spreadsheet tracking his protein intake down to the gram, who ironed even his workout clothes—breathtakingly vanilla until this very moment. Here he was, his abdomen tensing with each shallow breath as you traced the hollow of his collarbone with your tongue, tasting salt and clean soap. His pulse hammered visibly beneath the thin skin of his throat when your teeth grazed his jawline.
It was amazing how a few words could completely upend someone's entire operating system. Yours included—desire unfurling hot and liquid in the pit of your stomach, climbing upward through your chest, making your fingertips tingle and your thighs clench as it threatened to spill from your lips in a gasp or a command, you weren't sure which.
You had always felt a little bit monstrous about your deepest desires. Not in a depraved way, you would never dream of doing anything without enthusiastic consent, but there was a shadowed, primal need within you, an itch at the base of your skull to be the one in control, the one who upset the delicate balance just when things began to feel too predictable.
The kind of need that often got suppressed in relationships, because men liked the idea of a woman "taking charge" until, inevitably, she actually tried it, and then suddenly it was too much, not sexy anymore, a bridge too far from the unspoken script. But apparently, Jeno was different.
"You want to be a good boy for me?" you purred, relishing the effect your words had on him. His breath quickened, Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to conceal his shudder with a slight tilt of his head.
Jeno never allowed himself to relinquish control. Not at work, not at social gatherings, not even at the gym. But now, under the heat of your gaze and your touch, he was so beautifully vulnerable it made your heart flutter wildly in your chest.
You paused your kisses on his neckline, mouth hovering above his skin, and let your breath fan out in a slow exhale. His fingers flexed on your hips, tightening imperceptibly. Just the faintest tremor. It was a revelation, seeing him so uncertain and yet so hungry at the same time.
"Lie down," you commanded, surprising even yourself with the steadiness of your voice.
He complied, moving onto the bed with a curious sort of grace, as if he feared shattering the charged atmosphere by making one wrong move. The mattress dipped and groaned beneath his weight. You smiled, giddy with the thrill of this newfound power, but also a little awestruck. Was this alright? Was it too much, too fast? Jeno gazed up at you, his eyes swirling with both trepidation and anticipation.
You looped the tie around his wrists, securing it with a knot, and gently pressed his bound arms above his head. The action felt at once absurd and profoundly meaningful--as if you'd crossed a point of no return together, one that had been beckoning to you all along.
"You know, people usually have a safe word for this kind of thing," you said, settling your knees on either side of his hips. His thighs tensed, then relaxed, as if you'd just handed him a Get Out Of Jail Free card and he'd simply ripped it to shreds right before your eyes.
"Should I choose one?" he asked, and the sheer guilelessness of his tone made your heart ache for reasons you couldn't quite articulate. Perhaps it was because Jeno had never looked at you quite like this before: vulnerable, eager, a little lost. The dynamic had always been slightly inverted--him guiding you, patient and careful, a steadying hand at the small of your back in a crowd. You thought you enjoyed being cared for, and you did. But this thrilling new arrangement, with him splayed out beneath you, ignited a heat low in your belly that threatened to consume you from the inside out.
"Yeah," you breathed, trailing your fingertips down the smooth expanse of his chest with agonizing slowness. "If you want."
He hesitated, his lips silently forming and discarding a litany of options, before finally settling on: "'Spreadsheet.'"
A surprised laugh bubbled up from your throat, the unexpectedly nerdy choice conjuring an oddly arousing mental image of Jeno in a sexy office roleplay, his tie askew and his glasses fogged. "You want your safe word to be 'spreadsheet'? Really?"
"Too dorky?" he asked, a little self-conscious.
You leaned in close, hands planted on either side of his head, and murmured, "It's perfect. Just like you."
Before he could protest or make a joke, you captured his lips in a searing kiss, pouring every ounce of your desire, your adoration, your hunger into the press of your mouth against his. Jeno melted into the mattress, surrendering himself completely to you. His hands, bound in that tidy little knot, flexed helplessly. You suppressed a grin. This look suited him, the utter lack of control, the complete surrender. It made you feel not only powerful, but deeply trusted.
You refused to let him off easy, though. Where other women might have pounced on him, riding a fleeting high of feminine dominance for a scant few minutes before gratefully lapsing back into the familiar status quo, you enjoyed every second of this reversal like it was the last luscious bite of dessert on earth.
So you took your sweet time. You explored him as if laying eyes on him for the very first time, mapping the contours of his chest, his jawline, even the delicate shell of his ear with gossamer, butterfly touches. You let your tongue swirl around his nipples, languid and unhurried, drinking in the way his eyes widened first in bewilderment, then understanding, then abashment. (He'd always been oddly self-conscious about his pecs, as if they were some shameful secret. Perhaps they were too sensitive, or maybe he'd simply never had a lover lavish them with genuine curiosity rather than perfunctory attention.) You suckled gently, barely applying any pressure, and he arched beneath you, his entire body shaking once before he instantly reddened, averting his gaze as if mortified by his own visceral response.
"Are you--fuck, enjoying this?" Jeno gasped, his chin tucked to his chest, a bashful, almost petulant furrow marring his brow.
"God, yes," you breathed, and to underscore your sincerity, you laved a leisurely path up his sternum, savoring the salt of his skin and the heat emanating from beneath. "You're so sensitive here, baby. It's adorable."
He tried to match your breezy tone, but his voice cracked when he protested, "It's not adorable. It's humiliating." He was achingly hard now, a fact he couldn't possibly hide with your thighs bracketing his hips and his arms pinned above his head.
You let your fingertips tease along the edge of his waistband, but left his pants in place, the fabric pulled taut by his obvious erection. Instead, you splayed your palm over his clothed erection, letting the heat and weight of your hand linger there. Jeno went still, his breath coming in shallow, rapid puffs. You waited. Then you eased your palm just slightly, applying a little more pressure through the fabric, and watched as he bit down hard on his own lip. So serious. So determined not to give you the satisfaction of hearing him beg. You decided to test how long that resolve would really last.
You murmured, “If you want something, just ask, baby.” You gave a gentle squeeze to the base of his cock, feeling, through the layers of his trousers and underwear, the heat and tension coiling there. You softened your touch, tracing lazy circles with a single finger. Jeno squeezed his eyes shut in concentration, his wrists flexing against the tie, but he said nothing.
You loved this about him. The quiet stubbornness. You wondered how many people in his past had ever seen him this exposed. How many had been allowed to glimpse the frantic need pent up in his body, or the brittle fragility behind his wit? You felt almost protective of it.
You bent low, lips grazing the edge of his trembling jaw. “I like you like this,” you whispered, your hand stroking down the length of him, just to watch his composure slip. “You don’t have to hide how much you want it. You know I could do this all night, and you’d just get needier, wouldn’t you?” His whole body shuddered with the effort of not answering.
“Word?” you asked softly.
Jeno’s laugh was hoarse. “Spreadsheet,” he replied, so fast it was almost a moan.
Abandoning his groin, you circled back to drag your nails up his sides, then dipped your head to press a kiss to the hollow at the base of his throat. "So sensitive," you type, this time letting a note of faux astonishment color your words. "Who would've guessed?"
He shot you a baleful look, but with his arms trussed up, it only served to make him appear more deliciously helpless, more endearing. "You're mean" he grumbled, though his hips canted upward of their own volition when you ghosted your lips over his collarbone.
You almost felt guilty. Almost. Instead, you pulled back, eager for his next reaction with the slightly cruel edge of a cat toying with a cornered mouse. You knew exactly what he wanted. You could sense it in the desperate way he strained toward you, in the way he flexed his hands against his bindings, in the way his breathing had gone from even to erratic and labored. But you had no intention of giving in, not yet.
"Is there something you want, baby?" You let your fingertips dance up and down the sensitive skin of his inner arms, gossamer-light, so soft it tickled. He shuddered, his muscles rippling beneath your ministrations.
"I'm fine," he bit out, his voice strained.
You beamed down at him. "You sure?" you pressed, leaning in to nuzzle the tender spot just behind his ear. "Because you're about to burst."
His jaw clenched, the muscles ticking. "I'm not—"
You nipped at his earlobe. "You're not what?"
He pressed his lips together, eyes screwed shut. "I'm not going to beg," he ground out, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper.
You clicked your tongue, feigning disappointment. "That's a shame," you slid off him just enough to trail your hand over the length of his body, lingering at the waistband of his trousers. "Because I think you're dying for it." You unbuttoned him with a slow flick of your thumb, savoring the way his chest lifted with each shallow breath. He wore sleek black boxer-briefs under his slacks, and the sight of him—so painfully, embarrassingly hard, a dark stain already spreading at the tip—gave you a rush of adrenaline.
You drew back, just to drink in the sight of him, to admire the delicate flush staining his cheekbones and the desire smoldering in his eyes. His lips were kiss-swollen and slightly parted, as if poised to say something before he clamped down on the words and glowered up at you, defiant.
God, you wanted to absolutely wreck him.
He thought he could out-stubborn you? How funny. You'd been emotionally tormenting older siblings and exes since you were in middle school. Jeno, for all his seriousness and self-discipline, was woefully outmatched by the age-old feminine art of slow-burn, high-stakes teasing. If he wanted to engage in this battle of wills, you'd ensure he regretted the day he ever underestimated you.
You charted every last inch of his torso, every rib and divot, every spot that elicited a hitch in his breath or a twitch of muscle beneath your touch. His nipples were exquisitely responsive, and you traced languid circles around them with the tip of your tongue, just once, before neglecting them entirely as he squirmed under you.
You bit his hipbone, and he startled with a strangled whine that reverberated through the room. Grinning, you pressed a soothing kiss to the spot immediately after. "Sensitive everywhere, aren't you?" you mused, your fingers skating over his erection.
He managed an incredulous groany laugh. "I didn't realize you were this intense," he panted, his head tipped back against the pillow, exposing the vulnerable line of his neck. You took the invitation for what it was, trailing the line of his vein with your tongue before sucking a dark mark on the hollow above his pulse.
His hips jerked, and he muffled another moan. Your grin was uncontainable. The way that mark appeared, raw and red, right where only you will see it tomorrow, triggered a curious protective urge, as if you wanted to carve your initials into Jeno’s skin, make him unmistakably yours. Perhaps it was caveman logic, or the months of restraint, but you wanted, all at once, to break and cradle him, to see him undone and then stitch him back together.
You cursed yourself for not buying actual restraints. That trendy boutique you passed with window displays promising sturdy vegan leather harnesses, silk ropes dyed in neon, handcuffs shaped like Hello Kitty--why had you hesitated? You’d dismissed it as a fantasy, as something people like you only joked about over brunch, not something real-world couples like you and Jeno attempted for more than a fleeting, tipsy weekend. But you refused to let a lack of props stop you now.
You leaned in and whispered, in your best threatening purr, "Move again, and I'll edge you so long you’ll cry."
Your mouth watered at the sight of him when you finally pulled his boxers down: thick and flushed, rigid and throbbing.
Even now, every molecule in Jeno’s body radiated tension, a desperate need to do something, anything, to get you to touch him. You didn't. You sidestepped his need and worked your way methodically down, kissing the jut of his hip, the springy line of dark hair trailing from his navel to his groin, the smooth roundness of his knees, the curve of his calves. His thighs jumped when you so much as breathed warm air over them.
He made a noise like laughter, disbelief sparkling in it, until your mouth closed around his tip and his head thudded back so hard against the bed frame you worried he'd bruise.
You were not, in fact, a blowjob expert-- your exes had been content with clenched eyes and an awkward "that feels good, baby" while you did the obligatory motions, but not one of them had ever surrendered their body with such single-minded attention as Jeno was doing now.
He looked down the line of his body at you, glasses askew, cheeks flaming, breathing ragged, and eyes so tender. You let your mouth hollow around him, your tongue mapping the throbbing ridge of vein, then backed off.
"D-don’t stop," he breathed as you dragged your tongue through the sticky spill at the tip and smirked.
"Patience is a virtue, baby," you crooned and kissed his tip again.
You dragged your mouth up his length slowly, and felt a shiver that started at his toes and climaxed in a delicious, helpless buck of his hips. The tie binding his wrists strained, but held fast, and his hands flexed and unfurled in an unconscious search for something to grab onto.
"Oh, fuck, Y/N," he gasped, voice ragged and breathless, the syllables bouncing off the ceiling and landing between your ribs where they took root and blossomed into hot, sticky pride. You slowed, dragging your tongue along the side of his cock, swirling around his head, once, then again, flicking just the way you secretly knew he liked it.
You pulled off, lips glossy, letting the air hit him cold and sharp. He whimpered, a pathetic, beautiful sound. "Why," he said, voice a thin whine, "do you keep stopping?"
You grinned up at him. "Because you're so fucking cute when you pout."
You crawled up, letting your hair trail his chest, and hovered just above his mouth. "Want to kiss me?" you provoked, already knowing the answer.
He nodded helplessly and strained for your lips. You let him sweat a moment longer, watching the need bloom in his eyes, before planting a ferocious kiss that left you both gasping. You knew he could taste himself on your tongue and wondered if it would weird him out or if he’d find it as electrifying as you did.
You kissed him until he writhed, until the friction between his cock and your belly painted his stomach with a slick smear. He tried to deepen the kiss, tried to tilt up, but you pulled back, dragging your teeth over his bottom lip and biting down just hard enough to make him gasp. His hips jerked again, straining unconsciously, his cock fully engorged and weeping.
You grabbed at the nightstand, a fierce need to see just how far you could take this. The top drawer gaped open, revealing its pile of treasures: tattered paperbacks, loose hair ties, a flattened tube of lip balm, and—hallelujah—a vibrating ring you’d once gotten as a gag gift at a bachelorette party and promptly forgotten about. You held it up between two fingers, watching Jeno’s eyes track it warily.
“What’s that…?” He cut off, a flush creeping from his neck to the tips of his ears.
You smirked. “Color-coding and spreadsheeting every aspect of your life, but you never thought to research sex toys?” You plucked the cellophane wrapper open with your teeth, tossed it aside, and switched the ring on. You let it shake against your palm before slipping it gingerly over the base of his cock. His whole body jolted as if you’d wired him directly into a light socket.
You let the ring do the work for a moment, watching Jeno struggle not to buck into the sensation. Every trembling muscle in his body begged for more, but you made him wait. You made him watch as you undid the buttons of your shirt, slow enough to make him keen in protest, his dark eyes never leaving the skin you revealed inch by inch.
You toyed with the clasp of your bra, letting the anticipation stretch enough to make him whine a little, his bound hands flexing in the air above his head. When you finally flicked the clasp open and let the scraps of lace fall away, Jeno exhaled a curse word so filthy it made you grin. You basked in the raw hunger on his face, the way the sight of your bare breasts made him bite his lip so hard it went white.
You shimmied out of your skirt with a little flourish, the hem catching on your thighs and making Jeno whimper softly when he realized you’d gone without panties. He drank in every movement, every exposed surface of you, like it was oxygen. You stood over him for a second, drinking in the view, too: your gorgeous, brilliant man undone by a ten-dollar battery-powered ring and a men's tie, his face open and desperate and so, so in love with you.
You straddled him again, and let your heat hover just above the flush, taut head of his cock. It took every ounce of self-control not to simply drop and ride him until you both blacked out. Instead, you hovered, pressed slightly, let the electric brush of the ring buzz against your clit, then drew away.
Jeno whined your name in disbelief, arching up like he could make you take him inside. You refused, just for the pleasure of watching him suffer. Maybe he deserved it, after all the nights you’d lain awake, quietly vibrating with need while he snoozed with monastic stoicism, all that serious energy funneled into containing what you now realized was a feral hunger.
You pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, so close he was probably tasting your slick heat with every nerve in his body, and then, with a grin, you let him watch as you languidly circled your clit with two fingers. The sight made Jeno sob out a half-choked plea, but you stilled him with a palm flat to his chest. “Not yet, baby,” you whispered, raking your nails lightly down his sternum.
He whimpered, and if you’d ever suspected in your life that the sound could be made by a guy like Jeno, you’d have called yourself a liar. You marveled at yourself for being able to draw forth such primal noise from someone so reserved; you couldn't help but feel slightly monstrous for it.
Each time you teased yourself with your own fingers, his breathing grew harsher, his cheeks more flushed. Even restrained, his body was a livewire, shoulders pressed deep into the mattress, thighs trembling with the effort not to buck, breathless with the burden of not asking, not pleading, even though you could see just how close he was to breaking.
You kept him on the edge so long that he started babbling. “Please, please, I can’t—” and you only giggled, pulling away every time you judged him too close, just to watch his face twist from relief to exquisite frustration.
“Fuck, st--stop teasing me” he gasped, but you could tell from the frantic way he strained against his bonds that he would do anything for you right now, say any ridiculous, humiliating thing just for a minute of your time and the pressure of your walls around his cock.
When you finally, finally slid down onto him, it was so overwhelming you both gasped. He was huge, perfect, and the vibrator at your clit sent shocks through your core.
For a second, you just sat there, pressed full and tight. You wondered if you looked as fucked out and vulnerable as he did, hair wild, mouth open, every muscle trembling from restraint. You rolled your hips, grinding down slow and steady.
“Y/N,” he breathed, “please, god, I want—”
You clamped a hand over his mouth. “Good boys take what they’re given.”
He moaned into your hand, eyes rolling back, and the tension that traveled through his body was so immense it was like riding the aftershock of an earthquake. The tie at his wrists went taut. His legs strained against the bedposts, all of him desperate to consume and be consumed.
You wrapped your hand around his throat gently and rode him in long, greedy plunges that had him gasping for air. His hips bucked up, desperate for friction, but you kept your pace slow. The wild look in his eyes confirmed it: he loved every second of this, the helplessness, the hunger, the way you reduced him to pure need.
The mattress creaked, your knees ached, sweat beaded between your breasts and along your hairline. You swore you could feel every inch of him on a cellular level, every twitch and pulse and trembling, needy plea.
At the apex of each bounce, you ground down with ruthless precision, sending shocks through your own body that almost knocked you loose from your seat. You’d had sex that was wild before, and loving; you’d had sex that was disappointing and transactional; but you’d never known pleasure that could be this mean, this strange, this deeply, vibrantly alive.
“F-fuck, I, I, I can’t—Y/N, I’m—” The words broke loose from his mouth in a choked growl.
You leaned forward, pressing your lips to the shell of his ear, your voice low and breathless: “You can. You will. But only when I say.”
You eased off, sinking your nails into his thighs as you lifted until only the tip of him remained pressed at your entrance. The vibrator thrummed against you both. You could feel the way he trembled, the way his cock pulsed in time with his racing heart.
“Say it,” you commanded, teeth grazing the curve of his jaw. “Tell me you’re my good boy. Tell me you’ll wait for me.”
He whimpered, face twisted in frustration. “I’m your good boy,” he choked out. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you, baby, please—”
You smiled against his cheek. “Good.”
His mouth fell open, but nothing came except a low whine, his bound arms flexing so hard you could see the cords standing out on his forearms. You lifted off him enough so that the ring buzzed unencumbered between your bodies, and Jeno’s head twisted on the pillow like he was in pain.
“Please,” he managed. His face was red, sweat beading at his hairline, and you could see the actual glimmer of tears poised in the corners of his eyes.
You froze, suddenly worried you’d gone too far, but the frantic shake of his head and the way his hips bucked up told you he was exactly where he wanted to be. You shushed him, stroked his cheek, and rode him a tiny bit slower, let the pressure and the build accumulate until it was an agony you shared, both of you perched together at the edge of some wild precipice.
You kept him there, squirming under you, for as long as your own resolve would allow, which, embarrassingly, wasn't very long considering how fucking good it felt to have him stretching you. You'd always suspected Jeno would be incredible if you ever managed to get him to just let go. Still, you'd never imagined he'd be the sort of lover who could, with nothing but muscle and sheer willpower, fucking snap an expensive tie.
He’d waited for you to get greedy, to close your eyes and tip your head back, and then he pulled.
The tie snapped apart, and suddenly his hands were on you—gripping your hips with a bruising force, pinning you so you couldn’t wriggle away. You gasped, the shock of it slicing straight through your haze. His arms wrapped around your waist and yanked you down, impaling you down onto his cock like a spike. The sound you made, the way your back arched involuntarily, must’ve gone straight to Jeno’s lizard brain, because his next thrust was pure animal: no hesitation, zero self-restraint, just the greedy sound of your slick cunt and his ragged moans.
“My turn,” he growled.
The grip on your hips was bruising, but you welcomed it, craved it, felt yourself go liquid in his arms—finally, finally those massive hands pinning you to his pleasure. You barely had time to yelp before Jeno was sitting up, bearing you with a single arm around your waist, the other sliding into your hair and fisting it so roughly you lost your breath. His mouth crashed against yours, hungry, bruising, and the taste of you and him and the faint aftershock of salt and sweat became the whole universe.
His hands found the curve of your ass to hold you in place and fucked into you hard enough to make you see white. The vibrator slammed your clit with every punishing thrust, adding a delirious edge to every bounce. You realized you were the one whimpering now, begging, though the words were incoherent nonsense.
He lifted you off and spun you to your hands and knees in one fluid movement. You tried to protest, to issue some token resistance, but your own body betrayed you, shaking with anticipation as he manhandled your hips into place. You’d always suspected he was strong enough to snap you in half. His hair was a ruined mess, his glasses knocked askew and threatening to fall, the tie a shredded half-garter dangling from his wrist. The sight of him like this nearly undid you.
He fucked you hard, in a way you’d never have dared request. You braced yourself on trembling arms, moaning with each slap of his hips against your bare ass, your whole body ricocheting toward the headboard with every thrust. His hands were everywhere: spanning your waist, squeezing your ass, one palm smeared up your back, and grabbing a fistful of your tangled hair so he could yank you upright, your spine arched like a bow. The change in angle made you see stars, the vibrator wedged between clit and cock pulsing so tight and mean you nearly howled.
“Look at you,” he said, voice thick, “so desperate. My good girl, now.” Mirth and pride bled into the claim, and you leaned into his hand as it tangled deeper in your hair.
You were drooling now, face hot and wet, mascara streaked and running down your neck in wild, black rivers. You weren't sure what noises you were making, but they echoed obscenely—full of plaintive whimpers, shattered syllables, “please” and “god” and “don’t stop.” Jeno responded to each with a wordless, hungry grunt, his palms kneading at your hips, pounding into you so hard the headboard started to knock the wall in a syncopated rhythm.
His eyes burned, black and wild; his jaw set with a kind of furious adoration, as if he’d realized all at once that he’d been starving himself for no reason and now he was going to eat and eat and eat until he was sick on you.
“Didn’t you want it hard?” Jeno growled. “Then fucking take it.”
You couldn’t even find your voice, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except take him whole and clutch at the handful of sheets he left you to grab onto. You wanted to say something to show you were still in charge, but his mouth found your neck and his teeth grazed the curve of your jaw and you bit down on your tongue to keep from screaming. Your vision blurred, the edges of your world tunneling down into the center of your body where Jeno was battering you open, his cock hard and insistent and so fucking perfect you wanted to cry.
You felt his entire body go rigid, pinning you so hard you couldn’t move except to open wider, give him everything. “You’re so—fuck, you’re—
He flipped you onto your back and grabbed your ankles, pressing them toward your shoulders until your knees nearly touched your chest. Each thrust came with such force that the bed frame groaned in protest beneath you. Behind your closed eyelids, pinpricks of light bloomed like distant stars.
There was nothing in this world except the slippery glide of your bodies, the hurricane of need, and the wild, wet convergence of your souls at every point of contact. You clawed at his back, at his shoulders, at the sharp planes of his chest, leaving crescent moons in your wake. When he locked his lips to your collarbone and bit down, you gasped, the sensation igniting along your spine and straight to your core.
Somehow, even in this frenzy, it was Jeno who noticed you were about to come apart, who braced himself on trembling arms and slowed, just barely, so he could see the look on your face as you shattered. He fucked you through it, his eyes never leaving yours, his own release spooling tighter and tighter but held back by brute force. You wondered how he managed it, how he could even think with this much pressure building between you.
“Jeno—”
Jeno let go completely, unleashing months of bottled-up hunger and self-denial. He fucked you like it was his last earthly act, piston-strong and brutal and god, you’d never come so hard, your orgasm slamming through you like a dropped elevator. You shrieked, and he bit your shoulder, and you clung to each other as if you could fall through the bed and into some other universe entirely, a universe where nothing existed but friction and heat and want.
You were still shaking when you felt him shudder, felt the slow-motion ripple of his release telegraph through his core, a split-second tension and then pleasure so strong it blurred the boundary between your body and his. He muttered your name softly, then tipped his forehead against yours.
He didn’t let go, not even after the tremors in both your bodies had subsided. Aftershocks radiated up your thighs, your chest, where his grip had left fingerprints already blooming. You could only stare at him, at the incredulous, almost boyish smile stretching across his lips, lashes trembling as he blinked down at you.
He reached down, gripped the slick rubber ring, and in one smooth motion eased it off, tossing it onto the crumpled sheets beside you. "Jesus Christ," he said, voice shredded with wonder. "Why do people even bother with CrossFit when that exists?"
You snorted, a full-body laugh that left you splayed and shaking. Jeno collapsed beside you, bracing a muscular arm under your neck and tucking you close.
"Never pegged you for a quitter," you managed, struggling to catch your breath.
He groaned, rolling you into the crook of his arm. "It's a temporary strategic withdrawal. I'll destroy you in round two."
You pressed your nose to the hollow just below his earlobe and inhaled the mix of his skin, his cologne, and the dizzying, bitter tang of sex.
“So,” you rasped, “how long have you been hiding Mr. Hyde under that Clark Kent routine?”
“I honestly didn’t know I had it in me,” he admitted, as if confessing to a minor crime.
For a long time, you simply lay there, letting your blood pressure slowly work its way back toward human parameters. The room was a disaster—your blouse stretched inside out over the lamp, the ruined tie hanging limp from the footboard, the nightstand’s entire contents spilled onto the floor like a piñata.
Neither of you spoke until Jeno grunted, propping himself up on one elbow and poking at the remnants of the tie with a rueful finger.
"You know how expensive that tie was?"
You snorted. "I know exactly how expensive that was," you said, propping yourself up to inspect the ruined silk. He rolled his eyes, like he wanted to appear annoyed, but the effect failed when his mouth kept twitching at the corners.
After a while, he grew serious, his gaze softening as he studied your face. "Why didn't you tell me you liked it like that?"
You shrugged, tracing lazy patterns across his bare chest with your fingertip. "I don't know. I guess I thought you might freak out, or think I was weird or something. You have this... reputation, you know? The Human Spreadsheet. I figured it was missionary or bust."
Jeno pretended to take offense. "I'll have you know, I am well-versed in many positions." His voice took on a pompous, academic tone. "It's right there on my resume, under 'extracurriculars.'"
The joke was so unexpected, so quintessentially Jeno, you almost fell off the bed. "You're such a dork," you said, and he beamed, all bashfulness gone. "You love it," he challenged, and you couldn't argue. Especially with the evidence dizzying your every cell, with the sweet ache between your legs or the sated, floating calm that was even now settling into your bloodstream.
You prodded at the bruises forming in earnest on your hips, the faint crescent of his teeth in your shoulder. "Guess we're truly incompatible now. According to my mom, the odds of making it past the one-year mark with a bruiser are statistically null."
Jeno mused, "I suppose we could always break up and bed different people, maybe do a spouse swap, and come crawling back to each other in time for your mom to lose her bet." He winked.
"Or," you countered, drawing out the word like taffy as you sprawled across his chest, "we could just keep this up for the next sixty years and die hot and mysterious in our sleep, so people have to invent all sorts of theories about us."
"I like your plan more," Jeno said. He tilted his head back on the pillow, brow furrowing in the adorable way it always did when debating which of the three hundred brands of protein bar to buy, or now, presumably, which post-coital metaphor was most apt.
You waited for him to say something else, but he just laced his fingers with yours and held them to his chest, where you could feel the hammering sound of his heart. After a minute, you realized the only thing louder was your own pulse, tripping over itself trying to outpace the clock.
Through the open window, traffic noises rose and fell, and in some vaguely zen way you understood that somewhere in the city people were tallying invoices or slicing sashimi or folding hospital corners into bedsheets, their hearts trundling along in their own prosaic fashion. In here, the room still spun with the afterimages of hands and heat and all the odd, gooey data points that, to your mind, elevated sex from a commodity to an existential event. You thought of magnets—how sometimes the only way to split up a pair fused together by attraction was to shatter them outright. Or better yet: melt them, so they pooled and alloyed into something altogether new and improbable.
Jeno then shifted until he was more or less lying fully on top of you, something he’d normally never allow for fear of “crushing you, or oxygen deprivation.” Just like that, you went liquid, one arm around his, one leg tossed over his thighs so thoroughly you could practically feel his DNA rearranging yours on a molecular level. He mumbled something into your hair, insensate and boneless, and instead of feeling smothered, you felt safer than you’d ever known.
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thank you for reading!! lmk your thoughts about the fic!! <3
"Oh," Jack said, once he'd peeled back the brown paper wrapping. "Well, it's, uh. It's woollen. Got good thermal resistance. Thanks, Robby."
Jack's ma had raised him to be specific and prompt in his thanks for any gift received, but the unforeseen flaw with that life advice, Jack now realised, was that you had to be able to tell what the gift was.
"Yeah?" Robby looked shockingly bashful for a grown-ass man whom Jack had seen just this past shift float a transvenous pacer as deft and as calm as you like, with all the authority in his voice that came from years of experience. What a difference a couple of hours and sitting down with a cup of coffee in Jack's kitchen could make. "I mean, if you don't like it that's fine, I know I still have a lot to learn. But I thought that yarn was a good blue, it'd go with those cargo pants you wear all the time."
"It's a sock," Jack said, as realisation hit. He looked down at the woollen lump in his hands. He didn't know much about knitting, but he'd had as much general sock experience as the average person for the first 32 years of his life and he didn't think that socks generally had these, well, proportions. His heel didn't protrude that much; his foot had the standard factory-install number of toes. But this, apparently, was a sock. A sock with an incredible number of dropped stitches for something made by a man so good at suturing that Jack wouldn't bet against him being able to do so a perfect running suture on a wound with his eyes closed.
"The woman at the yarn store said that most people start with making squares because they're easier." Robby sounded faintly bemused, scratched at his cheek. "But I thought, sure, but then what would I do with a bunch of wool squares?"
"So you made me a sock," Jack said. Its appearance and the fact that it looked like it existed in several dimensions beyond the usual three aside, the sock was incredibly soft. It didn't feel at all like it was made from the kind of cheap acrylic stuff that his niece sometimes used, along with an abundance of glitter and glue sticks, in her grade-school crafting projects. Jack didn't think this was bargain bin stuff.
"My therapist told me I needed a hobby," Robby said with a shrug, and it was a testament to how much work he'd been putting in over the past few months that he could now say my therapist without looking like just the shape of the words on his tongue was going to make him puke. "Didn't say it couldn't be a useful hobby."
Of course, there was still lots of work to be done.
"You made me a sock," Jack realised.
Robby flushed. "I wasn't trying to be pointed, or a dick, or... Just, making that one took me a solid month so I thought I'd get feedback from you before I started the second one."
"Feedback?" Jack placed the lumpy quasi-sock down on the kitchen table in front of him, smoothed it out as much as he could with careful hands. He thought about how Robby had worked on this for weeks and weeks, for him. He cleared his throat. He said, "My, uh, my therapist has also been encouraging me to find alternative hobbies that aren't—"
"Being fucking shot at in the defence of a bunch of cut-price TVs?"
They were not having this argument again, so Jack said, "Only the thing is, I don't think I need a hobby right now. I think what I need is… Well."
"What?"
"Pete says that I'm possibly very service-oriented and my sense of duty is maybe a bit over-developed—"
Robby snorted.
"—so he gave me some homework to do on like, doing something because I want to for me." Jack paused and wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on his thighs. "And, and it took me a few weeks but I realised that TEMS, all of that, I wasn't doing it because I was bored. I was doing it because I was lonely."
People knew what to do with grief better than they did when it came to loneliness. They'd bring you a casserole and tell you how sorry they were the week after a drunk ran a red light and killed your wife, but there was no script to follow for so you've never lived alone in your whole life before but boom, you've got a three-bedroom ranch all to yourself, the perfect size for the kids you'll never have now. His sister told him he had a standing invitation to come visit them in Oklahoma City for the holidays, but there was no one around that Jack felt would ever offer him the same thing for seven on any random Tuesday. Except—
"But you should know first," Jack said, "this isn't because I'm lonely in general. It's also not because of the sock, although it's not not because of the sock, it's about you and me, and—"
Robby squinted at him. "Jack."
"Fine, okay, whatever, fuck words," Jack said, and he stood, leaned across the kitchen table, and he kissed Robby. His best friend, his confidant, the voice he could orient by in the darkness, and it was weird to kiss someone with a beard but it was hot, too, turned Jack on even before Robby made that little noise in the back of his throat and kissed him back and oh, oh shit, Jack had fucking genius ideas that—
Robby pulled back, eyes heavy-lidded, and said, "Really?"
"Yes, really," Jack said, teetering on the edge of the rest of his life, "yes, you, totally."
Robby reached up and cradled Jack's cheek in one hand and such a simple gesture shouldn't make Jack's eyes sting, but it did. "Bedroom?"
Jack nodded fervently but said, "One condition."
"I'm listening," Robby said, but given that he was already standing, fisting Jack's t-shirt in one hand and towing him out of the kitchen, Jack was fairly sure the agreement here was a mere formality.
"All the socks come off first," Jack said, and Robby laughed, bright and delighted, and walked faster.
☕︎ SUMMARY: Tom doesn’t want to listen when you tell him to wear a thicker layer of clothing to protect himself against the cold outside—and so, he has to live with the consequences. (and you as well)
☕︎ CONTENT: taking care of sick!Tommy. he struggles to believe he is actually incapable of working, Tom getting knocked out by a fever, warm cuddles, clingy Tommy :3
☕︎ AUTHOR’S NOTE: yeah yeah ik that pic in the middle is a crime. come for me or whatever. ANYWAY I LOVE MY BABY SO MUCH COME HERE POOR BOY!!! :(
wordcount: 1,2k
The wind sang quietly in the distance, its chilly breezes gently brushing past you, nearly nullifying the effect of your 5-layered winter clothing. What was meant to be just a short trip to Hogsmeade, strolling through the narrow alleyways to admire holiday-themed decorations, turned into a multi-hour adventure.
The first part didn’t even take longer than you’d anticipated—but the walk that followed did.
You’d begged Tom to come along with you for days, and while he wasn’t too eager at first—when he finally did step outside the castle, it seemed an impossible task to get him back inside.
You too loved the scenery around you—hills appearing as though covered in a thick layer of powdered sugar, crisp air filling your lungs, the scent of freshly roasted chestnuts and butter beer travelling all the way from the village close to Hogwarts.
Tom did too, even though he kept rather quiet about it.
The only difference between the both of you: your choice of clothing.
While you had prepared well for the frosty temperatures, Tom decided a thin coat and his leather shoes would do.
“Not even a scarf? You’re going to get sick,” you had said, but he shook you off—reminding you that the last time he was ill had been nearly a decade ago.
Okay, you had thought to yourself—it was only supposed to be a short walk anyway.
But one hour turned into several, and at the end of the day, his cheeks and nose were a rosy-pink colour, visibly shivering as you finally urged him to go back before night fell.
When you returned, his coat was drenched from the snowfall during the time you spent outside, his hair damp and stuck to his forehead, fingers freezing cold as you touched them.
Even then, Tom insisted he’d be fine, that he didn’t need a tea to warm up, nor anything else you suggested.
He was so certain he wouldn’t get sick, he sat down to work on his Potions project until late at night.
And the next day in the morning—well.
・・・
“Tom? You should be resting,” you scold him, closing the door to his dorm behind you and the hot tea from the kitchens you brought with yourself.
“I am fine,” he replies, voice hoarse and raspy, perching his head on one hand while the other scribbles down notes on the paper.
Tom never rests his head on his hand. In his words, it’s disrespectful, and, above all, gives you bad posture and back pain.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this—eyes red and glassy, lips puffy and swollen, skin flaking around his nose.
He is more than ill, and it only just began—you are sure it’ll only get worse in the next couple of days.
“You don’t only sound like you should be sleeping, you also look like it. Please, Tom. Listen to me for once.” you say again, placing the hot cup of tea next to him on his desk.
When he doesn’t reply with more than a soft sound of agreement, you gently place the back of your hand on his forehead—nearly flinching as you feel just how hot he is.
“You’re burning up with a mighty fever,” you conclude, sighing under your breath. “I am getting you a cold compress, and then you’ll go to bed. I’ll be here.”
Tom shakes his head, wincing as he does. “I can’t, give me ten more—”
“No,” you interrupt him. “No more excuses. If you don’t rest now, this will drag on for weeks. I don’t want to hear it, Tom—listen to me for once.”
He sank back against his chair, shoulders hung low, sighing in defeat. “Fine.”
You raise a careful brow but accept the victory. Tom not arguing back never means good—and now, it worries you even more.
When you return with a cold, wet washcloth, he is not in bed like you’d told him to—no, instead he’s hastily writing on the same paper as before.
You sit down on his bed, scooting back until your back rests against the headboard. “Tom,” you murmur, patting the mattress next to you. “Please let me take care of you.”
Even if reluctantly so, he finally shuts his textbook and rises from his chair—and with trembling, slow steps makes it towards you. With a pained gasp, he lies down, and you place the cold compress over his forehead.
“Close your eyes and sleep, hm? I won’t leave you.” you encourage him, brushing your knuckles along his accented cheekbones.
He hums a complaint, but his voice is too quiet and croaky for you to properly understand him—so you take it as a yes.
Minutes pass, and when you check the cloth you wrapped around his head, you decide it’s time to exchange it for a new one. It is no longer refreshingly cool but rather burning hot—just like his forehead.
You gently lift the fabric, trying not to wake him when you shift towards the far edge of the bed—however, just as you want to stand up, a cold hand weakly wraps around your wrist, and makes you sit down again.
“Don’t leave,” he murmurs softly, and when you turn your head, big brown eyes look up at yours—glassy, tears welling up at his waterline—you can’t help but stay.
“Come here, Tommy,” you croon, opening your arms for him—and he accepts your invite without a complaint, his head coming to rest on your chest.
He doesn’t say anything, but you don’t need him to—you gently thread your fingers through his raven curls, massage his scalp, trace the shell of his ear with your fingertip until his breathing slows and his eyes flutter closed.
He finally falls asleep nestled against your chest, your arms comfortably wrapped around him. You continue your soft, gentle gestures and don’t leave his side until, a few hours later, he wakes.
“How late is it?” he asks, trying to sit up. “I need to finish— finish this essay for—”
Your arms never loosen their grip, though, and he sinks back against you. “You don’t need to finish anything. Not today.”
He huffs, turning his head towards yours, too wrapping an arm around your waist. “You’re insufferable.”
A smile finds its way onto your lips, and you press a soft kiss to the top of his dark curls.
“I am glad you’re doing a little better, Tommy.”
・・・
His recovery takes its time—and surprisingly, after a few soft reprimands, he no longer complains about your help and accepts it gracefully.
Even when he’s healed, back on his feet and studying most of the day as he now has to “catch up on his missed schoolwork” (he didn’t miss anything at all), he still can’t help but enjoy a break, cuddled up against your side every now and then.
And so, you’ve created your very own monster—a clingy, needy Tom Riddle.
thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3
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masterlist. | winter event.
