Discover Top Posts Tagged with #deryl x reader

✑ 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎: 𝒹!𝒸𝓀 𝓈𝒾𝓏𝑒𝓈 ꩜ 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.

✑ 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: So… who’s packing the biggest—pause. Tilt your head. Squint directly into the imaginary camera like you’re about to leak government-classified intel… personality?

We’ve got the full roster on deck: TKATB Men—the unholy vault where we’re breaking down the most criminally necessary intel of all: who’s the biggest, who’s the prettiest, who’s doing the absolute most, and for fun.... who would survive No Nut November?

✑ 𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: I am currently procrastinating and avoiding doing my finals.

✑ 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: oneshot/s · tkatb x gn! reader · gn! reader · tkatb fluff/smut · mutual pining · chaotic energy · written in stolen moments · teasing · seductive humor · sleep-deprived writer · established relationship · sexual abstinence.

✑ 𝓌𝒸: 20k

The screen didn’t glide into a crowd or a stage or any kind of spectacle this time. No confetti. No spotlight. No cheery host waiting to traumatize everyone for sport.

No—this time it drifted straight into Yaya’s loft, like a camera had gotten bored with theatrics and decided to creep through a window instead.

The place looked like someone had bottled the inside of a gothic daydream and then spilled it everywhere. Deep greens, bruised purples, velvety blacks—rich textures draped over furniture like they’d grown there. A metal canopy bed sat in the background, its frame carved with curling, thornlike swirls, the shadows from the lace curtains casting tangled shapes across the ceiling.

The fairy lights weren’t cute or whimsical; they glowed low and warm, flickering against jars of pinned moths, glossy ceramic skulls, and stacks of psych textbooks that doubled as décor. Notes were taped to the wall in a constellation of controlled chaos, diagrams of brains and behavior patterns pinned between dried flowers and insect wings.

And there, right in the middle of this mess, was Yaya.

Her hair had surrendered to fatigue—an enormous, soft, chaotic halo of curls spilling over her shoulders, untamed except for the side braids still clinging to structure like stubborn soldiers.

She wore a matching yoga set, muted and comfortable, swallowed by an oversized cardigan that looked like it was actively trying to hug her back into bed.

She sat hunched at her desk, overworked and far past the “cute grind” stage, surrounded by a battlefield of crumpled notes, four open textbooks, filled with psychology and neuro based, five highlighters, and at least one empty tea mug that had given up on being warm hours ago.

Her skin glowed even under the dim lights—warm, smooth, frustratingly pretty for someone who looked seconds away from collapsing.

Yaya slumps forward in her chair, eyes half-dead, half-feral, her hoodie hooded, her blanket draped around her like a tragic Victorian ghost who overdosed on Canvas notifications.

“I’m so sick of this bullshit… winter break just come faster please,” she groans, voice low, frayed, the kind of tone that tells you she’s been existing on caffeine, fumes, and pure resentment for five days straight.

“Stress that I can’t work,” she mumbles, “because of the stress that’s stopping me from working. One, two… one, two, three… release them.”

Her vocal stim hits the air like a mantra meant to ward off academic hell. Then she slumps deeper. “Ughhhhh… I don’t wanna do this shit anymore…”

She drops her head onto her desk dramatically.

“I'm tired of this, grandpa…”

And right on cue—

“Well, too damn bad.”

Yaya slowly lifts her head, eyes narrowed, lips pouted, looking directly at the FaceTime camera from her laptop. On-screen was no other than, Geo sits at his desk. Hair slicked back with a single bobby pin, skincare facemask on, posture perfect, looking like a man who has fully accepted his fate as her emotional support academic babysitter.

She squints. “Didn’t think you’d know that reference.”

Without looking up from his notes, Geo answers flatly, already a little annoyed, “Why wouldn’t I? You literally say half of this shit every day whenever you don’t wanna do something.”

Yaya rolls her eyes, letting silence hangs for three seconds. Then—“I wish I could get a free bag of chips…”

Geo stills. He attempts to keep writing.

Then Yaya drops into a low, demonic baritone like she’s possessed by a rapper: “Beefin’ with my chick while I’m in jail… tryna not to click off restriction can’t make a bail…“

Geo stops writing. His pen literally hovers mid-air.

Yaya leans closer to the camera. “But for real like I’m—dead ass—kinda hungry. Can you bring me food, please?”

“No.”

She gasps dramatically. “The hell, why not?”

He finally looks up, unimpressed. “Last time I brought you food, you didn’t even eat it. You fell asleep. Right after saying you were hungry.”

Yaya blinks… then hits him with the glitch-gremlin stim: “Did I? Did I—did I did I did I did I did I do—?”

Geo freezes mid-sentence. Mid-thought. Mid-life. His soul leaves his body for a quick break. He closes his eyes, breathes slow, like he’s communicating with a higher power that gave up on him.

Then—Right when he regains an ounce of control—

“I’M HUNGRYYYY!” Yaya announces like a foghorn.

Geo snaps—just a little. “In a MINUTE!” he barks.

Yaya is vibrating with held-in laughter, shoulders shaking, trying so hard not to explode. Geo, meanwhile, is staring at her like she’s a tax audit that learned how to talk. He glares. She snickers anyway.

Then—the moment hits.

Geo blinks… stiffens… and realization crawls over his face like a slow Windows XP loading bar. “…Did I just say ‘in a minute’?” Yaya stops laughing. Smiles the smile of a villain, “You suuuuuure did.”

Geo inhales like he’s trying to breathe in a whole new personality. “Yaya,” he says, voice too calm, so calm it’s a threat, “Please stop.”

She tilts her head, innocent, then sighs dramatically and goes: “Hello?”

Geo pauses. “…Hello?” he answers, confused.

She leans closer to the camera, eyes squinted like she’s checking a menu. “Damn… I still can’t hear you. now”

He frowns. “Yaya—”

She cups her ear. “Herro?”

Geo’s jaw drops. He looks at her like she committed a felony against his ancestors. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

She’s laughing now, full gremlin, completely gone.

He tries to regain control—“Stop. I’m serious.”

Yaya grins, wicked and effortless. Then she finishes him off with the final vocal stim combo: “Hibachi… Benihana… teriyaki.” i’m so wrong.

Geo freezes. A full second passes.

Then—Click.

He hangs up. The FaceTime window slams shut on her laptop like God personally ended the call.

Yaya stares at the blank screen… and bursts into laughter.

She damn near slides out of her chair and onto the floor, legs kicking, hair a mess, eyes watering. It’s the laugh of someone who’s been held hostage by finals week for far too long and is now officially in her “unhinged but still passing” era. She’s still laughing when her eyes drift upward—very slow, very dramatic—and lock onto you.

The dearest readers. The audience.

The witnesses of her downfall.

“…Oh. Ffff—fuck.” She blinks, sits up straighter, then immediately slouches like her spine just gave up on being vertebrate. “Uh—heyyyy, dearest audience. Didn’t realize y’all were just gonna—materialize in my apartment like the IRS.”

She rubs her face, groaning into her palms before dragging them down her cheeks. “Sooo… update, your lovely host is currently losing it.”

She pauses for a second thinking, saying, “Like, legit two minutes away from face-planting onto this desk and accepting death by keyboard indentation. Finals week is jumpin’ me in an alleyway, and I’m just—”She makes a vague spiraling motion in the air.

“—here. Alive. Technically. Enough to talk shit.”

She glances off to the side, squinting like someone is lurking there in the shadows judging her GPA, her sleep schedule, and her life decisions. Then she leans into the camera, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“And honestly? I don’t even know if I’m doin’ the whole game-show host shtick again. It’s cute, yeah—but fourth-wall breakin’? That shit awkward sometimes. And it eats hours of my time. I got papers due, exams cookin’ me like rotisserie, and caffeine levels that violate several medical guidelines.”

Yaya dropped her voice even lower—conspiratorial, messy, absolutely up to no good. “And I’m like… ninety-nine percent sure Geo would yeet my ahh into low Earth orbit if he knew I was over here talkin’ to y’all…”

She flicked her eyes back to her laptop, lifting her chin like an auntie adjusting her readers, squinting HARD. “…gossipin’ about dick sizes instead of studying." She paused. Dramatic. Cinematic. Like she was waiting for someone to hit a spotlight.

“…So let’s make this quick—ha. Ha. Get it?”

Then she suddenly snapped her gaze up, staring straight into the souls of her audience with an unnervingly serious expression. “But no—deadass. I to quickly give yall headcanons before Geo calls back and sees I’m not studying. Again. That man gon’ confiscate my whole personality.”

Her eyes lit up with unfiltered chaos—the kind that announces she is no longer supervised. “Alright, dearies. Let’s get into—dick dick dick hopin’, dick dick dick hopin’, dick dick dick hopin’—”

Ignore my vocal stims, I’m so tried rn.

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

Verdict: A // The Princely Perfect.

Okay, pull up a chair, let’s have a respectful conversation about Art. And by Art, I mean that dick. Because calling this thing “just a dick” is like calling the Mona Lisa “just a painting.” It’s a crime against beauty, and I won’t stand for it.

Estimated Length: Let’s call it a graceful, generous 5.9 inches (14.986 cm) of pure, unadulterated yes. Look. In a world of chaotic monsters and moody artillery pieces, this one? This one is art.

Like if you're considering genetics, I generally have no clue what Crowe is, what I mean by is race wise, so gonna assume that he's a mix of everything, definitely POC, a little bit Native American, a little bit black, and he got some French blood in him too, are my headcanons.

So with that information, It’s not big big. It’s perfect big. Just above average in the way a vintage sports car is just above average—it’s not about raw size, but about flawless design, exquisite proportion, and the sheer, thrilling promise of performance.

The Visual Breakdown: First, the shape. It’s… elegant.

The skin is smooth and deep brown, like polished mahogany, making the intricate roadmap of raised, blueish veins stand out in stark, beautiful contrast. It’s vascular in a way that looks powerful, not aggressive—like the elegant engineering visible on a luxury watch.

It’s got this gentle, insistent curve to it—not a crazy hook, just a graceful bend that you just know is going to hit spots you forgot you had. It’s the architectural blueprint for a really, really good time.

And the girth? Let's talk about it. It’s not intimidating. It’s satisfying. Substantial. Like it was engineered in a lab for maximum feel-good pressure.

The kind of thickness that makes you close your eyes and just sink into it. It’s robust without being rude, filling you up in that "oh-that's-exactly-what-I-needed" way.

Then there’s the vein. One thick, proud highway of pleasure running right along the top, leading the way straight to the main event. It’s the visual promise of how good it’s going to feel moving inside you.

And the tip.

Oh, the tip. the crown jewel.

A broad, beautifully shaped helmet that commands attention. In a slightly lighter, flushed shade than the shaft, it’s perpetually glossy—like it’s been polished by anticipation.

This isn't a subtle suggestion; it's a bold, elegant period at the end of a very compelling sentence. That large, perfect head is going to make its presence known, creating a delicious, stretching fullness with every entrance.

The Experience (Theoretical, of course): To be with Crowe is to become the center of his universe.

He doesn't just want to have you; he wants to witness you—to chart every tremor, capture every sigh, and learn the constellations of pleasure that map your skin. Forget being a passenger; you are the destination, the prized star he’s spent a lifetime learning to navigate by.

He is, unequivocally, a giver. He will kneel like a devotee at the altar of you, his mouth a study in reverent worship, his sole mission to pull galaxies from your nerves until you're unraveled and pliant in his hands.

This isn't people-pleasing; it's curation. He’s building the masterpiece of your pleasure, piece by shuddering piece, because your ecstasy is his ultimate prize. It’s a possessive generosity—he wants to be the only one who knows how to make you burn this brightly.

And he knows.

He knows the exact pressure that makes your back arch, the spot behind your knee that makes you gasp, the rhythm that turns your moans into pleas. His touch is a language he’s fluent in, and you are his favorite scripture.

When he finally sheathes himself inside you, it’s with a slow, devastating certainty. That perfect curve finds its home, nudging a silent, celestial chord within you.

The just-right girth isn't an invasion; it's a completion, a filling so exquisitely full it feels like your body was sculpted around his. Every inch is a claim, every retreat a promise of return. He starts as a slow, deep tide, each roll of his hips a deliberate wave designed to pull the very soul from your bones.

His forehead rests against yours, his breaths mingling, his deep blue eyes eyes holding yours as if watching supernovas ignite in your pupils.

But the true magic begins when the rhythm moves. When his gentle, worshipful pace fractures into something needier, more primal. His arms cage you, his body a furnace against your back, and his mouth finds your ear.

This is when the poet becomes a prophet of filth.

The whispers aren't sweet nothings. They are graphic, breathtaking promises—a raw, velvet-rough stream of exactly what he's doing to you, what he's going to do, how you feel around him, how he'll never get enough. Each filthy, perfect word is a strike against the last of your composure, stoking the fire he so carefully built.

"That's it, let go for me. I feel you shaking apart. You take me so perfectly, like you were made for it. You are. Gonna feel this for days, starlight. Every time you move, you'll remember how full you are right now."

It’s a relentless, beautiful assault. The overstimulation isn't an accident; it's his fervent goal. He chases you through the first climax, through the second, refusing to let you come down, worshipping the sensitive, shuddering aftermath until you're begging not for him to stop, but for the strength to survive the paradise he's built.

He will make you see supernovas behind your eyelids. He will orchestrate superclusters of sensation until you are nothing but stardust and sweat in his arms.

He doesn't just want you to cum. He wants to guide you through the birth and death of entire galaxies, all within the cradle of his body.

And when he finally allows himself his own release, it’s with your name on his lips—a prayer offered back to the heaven he found in you. Don't grill me I know this man does not believe in God

Overall Vibe: This isn't anatomy. It’s a masterclass.

It screams “genetic lottery” while whispering, “and I have a standing appointment for maintenance.” Every inch is shaved smoother than a marble statue because he considers sweat vulgar. There’s a single, perfect beauty mark underneath, like God’s own signature of approval.

It’s classical. It’s flawless.

This is genetic luck combined with fastidious care. It’s clean-shaven, not a hair out of place, because Crowe treats his body like a temple and this is the altar.

It’s a dick that knows it’s pretty, but carries that knowledge with a poised, quiet confidence rather than arrogance. It doesn't scream; it insinuates. It’s the physical embodiment of "Prince Charming" – classic, flawless, and utterly, devastatingly effective. It doesn’t just get the job done; it makes the job feel like a privilege.

So, how long Crowe lasting in NNN?

Well, your money was on him making it about halfway through the month. Not because he was weak, but because his greatest strength—that infuriating, princely self-control—was also his greatest liability. It was the very thing that would make his fall so spectacular.

Crowe had always been composed AND respectful, his poise a fortress. Every movement was measured, every word a carefully chosen diplomat, every raised eyebrow calibrated to convey charming exasperation rather than the internal screaming of a man about to boil over.

So it didn't surprise you when he announced, with that trademark tilt of his chin and a smug sparkle in his blueberry eyes, that No Nut November would be “a simple demonstration of discipline.”

You laughed, because you knew what was coming.

For the first week, he was an immovable object. He didn't just resist; he seemed to transcend the very concept of temptation.

He smiled, a placid, untroubled thing, when you draped yourself over the back of his chair to whisper a tease in his ear. He offered you his arm as if you were both strolling through a palace garden, his touch through his gloves infuriatingly calm. He was performing composure so perfectly you almost believed it.

You didn't think he was struggling.

You knew he was. It was in the science of him.

By week two, the hypothesis was proven. The empirical data was in the subtle seismic shifts of his body. The way his breathing shallowed when you "accidentally" brushed against him in the hallway.

The way his eyes, usually so focused, would snag on the line of your neck for a heartbeat too long, as if he were mentally calculating the structural integrity of his resolve. The way his fingers—those damnable, always-gloved fingers—twitched with a minute, desperate energy when you laced yours with them.

He tried to hide it, of course. Always.

But you were a scholar of Crowe.

"You seem a bit tense, my prince," you'd purr, tracing a feather-light circle on his shoulder.

The response was always the same: a slow, deliberate blink, a slight adjustment of his cuffs, and that polite, maddening smile. "I assure you, I'm perfectly fine. Your concern is… noted."

Spoiler alert: he was not perfectly fine.

The pressure was building, a tectonic plate grinding against its neighbor. The vein on his beautiful cock was probably throbbing a frantic Morse code.

That ever-leaking tip was a testament to the war being waged beneath the surface of his impeccable trousers.

His princely superpower was being tested, not by grand temptation, but by the slow, exquisite torture of your presence—the very presence he was too disciplined to push away.

And you were going to be there, with a front-row seat, to witness the glorious moment the dam finally broke.

By week three, the teasing started to turn into a full-blown, quiet war.

Not intentional, never fully intentional… but you could see it in the way he forgot his own words halfway through when he whispered near your ear, how his gaze flickered from your lips to your eyes and back like he was actively trying not to melt, or how his hand “accidentally” lingered at your waist as he reached for something across the table.

During dinner, his knee would graze yours and stay there, innocently enough, but just long enough to remind you he was human.

During a movie, his arm would slide around your shoulder at first politely, then slowly tighten in a way that said, I’m dying but also don’t get any ideas.

And yet… he never crossed the line. Not once.

He was little stubborn. Determined, in that impossibly classy way that made it feel like he owned your heart without demanding it.

And yes… you gently tormented him whenever possible, because watching him struggle without ever falling was a little addictive.

Crowe had survived half a month of teasing, discipline, and whatever brand of slow-burn psychological warfare you kept accidentally inflicting on him.

You honestly thought he’d make it to the finish line. He looked so composed, so noble, so Crowe about it all. His posture was straight enough to shame the spines of lesser men, his voice was steady and polite, and every glance he gave you was that warm, lingering nonsense that made you think, wow, he’s really holding it together.

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because you had no idea you were the problem.

Okay… maybe you lied, you kinda knew you were the torture device. However still , you was completely unaware as he—fool that he was—invited you over for a sleepover. A cozy one. A wholesome one. The kind where you baked star-shaped cookies and built a blanket fort that looked like a Pinterest board having a spiritual awakening.

And then, like a final nail in his celestial coffin, you curled up against his side.

Crowe had you tucked under his arm as if that was a normal, because it was. He was reading from a thick constellation book, voice softened to a tender murmur as he traced heroes and monsters across the sky for you. He was warm, steady, comfortable—his version of relaxed, which meant “I’m dying in silence but politely.”

You moved without thinking, stretching your legs, letting your thigh brush his. Just a casual touch. Barely anything. The kind of movement you’d done before without it meaning anything.

But this time?

Crowe went still—utterly, catastrophically still.

The flow of his words about Orion’s belt cut off as if severed. The book slipped from his slackened grip, tumbling onto the rug with a muffled, definitive thud.

Like he’d been unplugged from reality for a full second. Like a man trying to reboot his entire nervous system before it betrayed him publicly. Like every ounce of self-control he’d built over two miserable, holy weeks suddenly snapped in half with the gentlest sweep of your leg.

Yeah. He was so, so not surviving this.

When you looked up at his face, the gentle scholar was gone. His dark blue eyes were dark pools, his pupils swallowing the warm, only a ring of raw hunger remained. His breath hitched, a sharp, audible intake that spoke of a dam about to break.

“Uhh Crowe?” you asked softly, tilting your head. “You alright?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, sild himself on the floor in one stiff, careful move. He looked tense all over, his jaw locked tight. His hands, which were usually so smooth and sure, were curled into tight fists at his sides.

You could see them trembling, like he was holding himself back with everything he had.

“Don’t move,” he said, his voice low and rough. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a strained command wrapped in a plea, and the sound of it went straight through you.

You stayed perfectly still as he stepped closer. He moved slowly, his eyes dragging over you—your lips, your shoulders, all the way down—like he was touching you without using his hands.

“I was doing so good,” he breathed out, the words sounding pained. “I was right there…”

His hand came up, his thumb stroking your cheekbone so gently it made your breath catch. Then he leaned in, resting his hot forehead against yours.

You could feel the heat of his skin, could hear his shaky, uneven breathing against your mouth. He was falling apart.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your neck, his lips brushing your skin. “I can’t. I just… can’t do this.”

He let out a ragged breath.

“You’re everything I try not to think about,” he confessed, his voice a deep, tempting rumble you felt everywhere. “And you’re just sitting here, looking like heaven, all soft and trusting against me… you really think I can handle that?”

A little smile tugged at your lips. You couldn’t help it. “Crowe, pretty sure this was your idea.”

He flinched like you’d struck him. “But you pushed for me to agree, didn’t you?” he accused, his voice breaking.

And then his hands were on your hips, and he was pulling you up and into his lap, settling back onto the floor with you straddling him.

And then—oh—you felt it.

A thick, hard heat pressed right where you were most sensitive, straining against his pants and yours. No more games. No more talking. Just the raw, aching truth.

He was painfully, completely hard.

A rough, broken sound tore from his chest the second you settled against him. His arms wrapped around you, locking you against the frantic beat of his heart. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, his whole body trembling.

“I need you,” he gasped, the words hot and desperate against your skin. “Every. Single. Breath. I need you, starlight.”

Oh my…

Of course you couldn’t deny him.

The world had melted. There was nothing but the sweet, suffocating heat between you—the hard, sculpted press of his stomach against your thigh, the damp slide of skin on skin, the relentless, driving rhythm of his hips as he pinned you deep into the pillows.

His legs were planted wide, knees sinking into the blanket fort, the man anchoring himself as he moved in you like the tide.

Bed was too far. He needed you now, here in this nest he’d made, where the air was thick with the smell of him and you and need.

You tried to form his name, something—a plea, a protest, a prayer—but all that escaped was a broken, shuddering moan, high and thready and desperate.

Crowe laughed softly above you, a low, velvety rumble that vibrated from his chest right into yours. He listened to you choke on your own pleasure as if it were a favorite song, as if he’d written the very melody of your undoing.

“Sounds like the whole building’s gonna know what a naughty little thing you are,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath a hot, intimate caress.

He drove into you again, a long, deep, careful stroke that filled you so completely it stole the air from your lungs. “I’m a bit jealous, to be honest. Wish I could keep these pretty noises all to myself.”

But he was a beautiful hypocrite.

Because he didn’t slow. Not one bit. His pace remained possessive, claiming, each thrust a deliberate re-mapping of your insides. His hands, which had been gentle on your cheeks, were now firm on your hips, his long fingers digging into the soft give of your skin as he guided you to meet him, pull him deeper.

He held your legs in the air, your ankles resting in the cradle of his palms, spreading you into a wide, vulnerable V that left you utterly open to him, each entry a shock of perfect, deep friction.

“Come on, starlight,” he coaxed, his voice shifting from teasing velvet to something darker, more commanding. Raw worship wrapped in a growl. “Please let them hear you. Let them all know exactly who’s making you feel this good.”

He punctuated his words with a series of sharp, precise rolls of his hips—deep, grinding circles that pressed against every secret, sensitive place inside you. Your back arched off the blankets, a silent scream trembling on your lips.

“Just one more,” he breathed, his own control fraying, his rhythm becoming a pounding, urgent beat. Sweat gleamed on his temple. “Just like that… perfect… now you do it. Let go for me. I need to feel you come around me. Need to know I did this to you.”

The praise fell from his lips like a command, but you could hear the worship in it. He was coaxing you to the edge, yes, but he was also conducting your cries, his rhythm a relentless, deep tempo that stole your breath and your thoughts.

He wasn’t just making you feel good—he was making sure you couldn’t forget who was making you feel this way.

A broken, dragging thrust hit a place so deep and so right that a long, shameless wail tore from your throat. You saw his eyes flutter shut for a second, a faint, beautiful blush coloring his cheeks. The smug control slipped, just for a heartbeat, replaced by something raw and dazed.

“You sound…” he breathed, his voice thick with wonder. “You sound like you’re having so much fun.” His movements never hesitate, but they changed. They became less about rhythm and more about response.

He was reading every clench around him, every tremble in your thighs, every gasping breath you managed to steal.

“Your body is so fucking responsive to me,” he groaned, the awe in his voice as tangible as his touch. He leaned down, sealing the words with a searing, breathless kiss before pulling back just enough for you to see the dark, tender triumph in his eyes. “I love you so much.”

The words, soft and profound, shouldn’t have been the final straw. But wrapped in the raw, physical truth of his possession, they were. He wasn’t just claiming your body; he was claiming your heart in the midst of the frenzy.

His focus was absolute—on your pleasure, on your safety, on the cherished surrender he was guiding you through. Your incoherence wasn’t a failure to him. It was a masterpiece he’d painted with his own hands.

And when you finally broke, he was right there with you. Your climax crashed over you in a wave of blinding, shuddering release, and you felt him pulse deep within you, his own control surrendering to yours.

He held you through it, his forehead pressed to yours, his breaths ragged hymns against your lips.

As the last tremors faded, he pressed a feather-light kiss to your swollen mouth, then tucked his face against your neck, his voice a hoarse, satisfied whisper in your ear. “Thank you, dearest.”

You were limp, wordless, utterly spent. And he was the glorious, smirking cause of it all. A lazy, post-bliss smile touched your lips as you finally found your voice, weak and teasing.

“So much for winning No Nut November.”

You felt the rumble of his quiet laugh against your skin. He lifted his head, his eyes dark with a renewed, playful promise. “Mm. True.” His thumb brushed your lower lip. “But if I recall, earlier you were begging for me to slow down… and yet here you are, making jokes at my expense.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a sinful murmur.

“Someone who teases a man right after he’s made them see stars… deserves a little punishment, don’t you think?”

Holy shit this man will always be so fine.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Verdict: S??? /// The "Oh My God, What Is That"

Listen. I need you to focus. Right now. Put the phone down, look at me through the screen. We are talking about Sol. You know, the one who looks at a sunset and sees a metaphor for existential dread.

Total sad emo vibes. Your brain goes, Aww, poor little guy.

THEN. HE. UNZIPS.

And just like that, the emo boy narrative is hella accurate. Right on the spot. What you’re looking at is not a person, it’s a biological phenomenon. Your brain does the blue screen of death. The laws of physics hiccup. It’s that level of serious. Also, I feel like his canon that he's known to have a big dick, emo dudes be packing.

Estimated Length: 6.8 INCHES. (17.272 cm)

This is not a debate, this is a public service announcement. Seven-point-four inches of “maybe you should sit down for this conversation.”Let’s be so for real right now. In the game, when MC sits in his lap? The fact that you don’t immediately feel a structural beam poking into your lower back is the real fantasy. Come on, fuck me, emo boy.

How did he not get hard from the weight of your perfect ass? The restraint is frankly unrealistic. You should have felt that absolute unit of a cock just… existing. It practically has its own gravitational pull.

The man is walking around with that and still has low self-esteem? The math is not mathing. He’s packing a howitzer and acting like it’s a water pistol.

The Visual Breakdown This is not just length.

This is GIRTH. This is WEIGHT. This thing has density. It’s like he’s smuggling a perfectly formed, vein-map-covered monument in his pants. One look and your inner voice just goes, “…oh. Oh. Okay. We’re doing this today.”

His skin is pale it’s basically a high-definition screen. And on that screen? A full IMAX documentary of every single thick, blue vein pulsing down the shaft. You can trace them. You can see the blood flow.

It’s science, but make it… graphic.

The for the tip, It’s cut, neat, and polite-looking for about half a second. But then you see it’s always slick. Always. There is a constant, glistening bead of precum just… hanging out. Because the mere idea of you existing turns this man into a leaky faucet of desire. It’s not just wet; it’s enthusiastic.

Lucky, he keeps it curated. A thin, dark happy trail that leads down like a runway, pointing you toward glory. It frames a light bush of pubes that’s just there to accentuate the main event. Below, his balls are smooth, heavy, and serious-looking—the solid foundation for this architectural wonder.

The Experience (Theoretical, Obviously… Unless?):

Let's get into the gritty, glorious details of Sol. We're talking about a 7.4-inch masterpiece that's more of a spiritual journey than a sexual act.

Like picture this. You're on your knees, and you look up. You see his twunk physique—that lean, archer's build—utterly tense. Every corded muscle in his stomach is clenched so tight it looks carved from stone.

His hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, trembling not from weakness but from the sheer, overwhelming effort of holding still. And there it is, in stark contrast: that veiny, monstrous cock, thick and heavy in the air, looking almost comically large against his shy, flustered expression.

He can't even look at you; his head is thrown back, eyes screwed shut, a blush staining his cheeks. The sight of such devastating power held in check by pure, frantic vulnerability?

It's a drug. It makes you feral.

Now, the feel of getting your lips around him is a commitment. It’s not just taking him in; it's an exercise in jaw relaxation and strategic breathing. Your lips stretch around that substantial girth, meeting smooth, fever-hot skin.

As you take him deeper, your tongue maps a topography of pure masculine architecture—you feel every single ridge of a thick vein, every pronounced pulse, the hard, unyielding reality of him.

The blunt, broad head is a constant, slick presence against the roof of your mouth or the back of your throat, tasting clean and salty-sweet from the generous precum that just doesn't stop.

You have to remember to breathe through your nose, to pace yourself, because taking on all of him is like a workout. It’s literally hell on your jaw, a beautiful, exhausting challenge.

But here’s the thing—you don't even need to pace yourself for long, because the motherfucker cums fast. All that anxious, pent-up energy has one exit strategy, and it's explosive.

The power trip isn't in a long, drawn-out performance. It's in the sheer speed of his undoing. A few good sucks, a deep take where he hits the back of your throat, and he's gone. You'll feel him tense, hear a choked-off, guttural sound ripped from his chest—a sound of pure, shocking release he never meant to make.

And there is so. Much. Of it.

If he comes in your mouth, you will not be able to swallow it all. It’s not a spurt; it’s a flood. A warm, salty rush that fills your mouth and threatens to spill over. You'll be swallowing in gulps, some of it inevitably trickling from the corners of your lips.

If he comes inside you? Forget about it.

It’s a deluge. There’s so much volume that even after he pulls out, it's not just a little drip. It’s a leak. A warm, ongoing spill of his cum, mixed with your own, that you’ll feel for hours. A blatant, physical reminder of the catastrophic load that shy, anxious boy was secretly carrying around.

Just sucking him off is never just a chore. It's a direct line to his soul. It's witnessing a quiet, controlled person completely and utterly shatter in under two minutes because of you.

It's filthy, it's overwhelming, it's a logistical challenge, and you will love every single, messy, breathtaking second of it.

It’s not just sex; it’s a mercy killing of his tension, and you walk away feeling like a conquering hero, covered in the evidence.

Overall Vibe:

Like this isn’t just a dick. It’s a permanent core memory. It’s a psychological thriller where the twist is in his pants. It’s awe, anxiety, and "oh-my-god" all rolled into one. It will ruin you for other men, like you're a body will memorize the shape of Sol, and you will thank it for the privilege.

This is the magic.

This… cathedral of a cock… belongs to a man who gets flustered if you hold eye contact for too long. He’s secretly terrified it’s too much or somehow not enough.

That tension is the most addictive drug on earth. You don't just want him; you want to praise him. You want to tell him he’s perfect while you’re actively trying not to pass out from the sheer scale of him.

TL;DR: Big Dick Energy is an understatement.

This is Apocalyptic Cock Clarity. It’s humbling. It’s chaotic. It’s a lot. And once you’ve seen it, you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to get the image out of your head… and failing. Beautifully.

So, how long Sol lasting in NNN?

Honestly, he wouldn't even fucking try. He didn’t make it to November 1st at 12:01 a.m.

Seriously. The mere concept of No Nut November probably had him twitching, pacing, and muttering nonsense to himself like a man possessed.

Honestly, you and him could just be doing something normal—like cooking in the kitchen together. He’s chopping vegetables, humming a little tune, completely fine… until you happen to brush your hand against his arm a second too long.

Or, God forbid, lean in and whisper something very logical, like asking him to pass over a knife in his ear. BAM. The man’s entire composure evaporates. Face turns a dozen shades of red. Knees buckle. Breath goes from zero to 100 in under two seconds. He’s on the floor, on the counter, halfway hugging your leg, begging like a frantic cartoon:

“Please! Please! Pumpkin, I can’t take it! Just one touch! I feel like I’m gonna explode!”

And that’s before the first coffee of the month has even been brewed. He doesn’t even know what “self-control” means. He doesn’t understand “discipline.” He only understands immediate gratification and that staring at you is illegal in some very specific, cosmic way.

You don’t even need to try hard.

One smirk, one careless brush of your fingers across the counter near his thigh, and he’s bouncing off the walls like he’s powered by pure pent-up desire. He’s a squirming, groaning, panting disaster who somehow manages to look simultaneously cute and tragic.

You just watch, barely holding back laughter, as Sol practically begs you to “relieve the pressure” he didn’t even know existed until he tried to stop.

Like, go on now, you wanted that monster ass cock. lil freak ass.

Just… go touch him inappropriately. He probably needs the fucking reassurance. His words were a desperate sensation he was stirring within you. But "just like you want" was an understatement. This wasn't the practiced, lovemaking you were used to.

This was a raw, primal claiming, hardly of a fucking day of denied release fueling every deep, rolling thrust that pressed him against that perfect, dizzying spot inside you. The kitchen counter, once a place of domestic order, was now a testament to his shattered control.

His hips moving in that steady, devastating rhythm, but his eyes never left your face, searching for a sign, any sign, that you were still with him. The silent, breathless pleasure that had gripped you was terrifying him.

Again, not even a minute into November, his discipline had been a fortress, and you, in your innocent closeness, had been both its architect and its destroyer.

Now, in the ruins of that fortress, the only thing left was a desperate need to please you, to prove that this loss of control was for you.

"Please," he begged again, his voice cracking as he drove into you, the sound of your bodies meeting a wet, pulsing slap that echoed in the quiet kitchen. "I need to hear you. I need to know this is right. That I'm... that I'm doing this for you."

He was fucking you with a depth and intensity that felt like it was scarring his very soul, each thrust a confession of the pathetic, aching desperation he’d held at bay for so long.

His hands, which had been gripping your hips, moved—one splaying across the small of your back to support you, the other coming up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek with a tenderness that violently contradicted the force of his movements.

"All that time," he panted, his breath hot against your lips, "every time you leaned on me, every time you smiled... I was thinking of this. Of how you would feel... wrapped around me... taking me... ruining me."

Finally, a broken, gasping moan was torn from your throat. It was all the confirmation he needed.

A ragged sound of relief and pure, unadulterated lust ripped from him. "Yes," he growled, his composure incinerated. "That's it. Let me hear it. Let me hear what I've been denying myself."

His thrusts became harder, faster, losing their measured roll for a frantic, pounding pace. This was no longer just about your pleasure; it was a frantic race to his own, a month of pent-up need demanding release.

The NNN challenge, his "simple demonstration of discipline," was a distant, laughable memory. All that remained was the feel of you, the sound of you, the exquisite, tight heat of you milking him toward the edge.

"I can't last," he confessed, his voice a hoarse, broken thing against your neck. "You feel too good... I've waited too long... I'm—" His words cut off in a guttural groan, his entire body seizing as he spilled deep inside you, his thrusts slowing to shallow, jerking pulses that wracked his frame.

He held you there, pinned between the cold counter and his trembling, sweat-slicked body, for a long, breathless moment, his forehead once again resting against yours, as if in prayer.

Oh, sweet, horny, chaotic Sol.

No Nut November didn’t stand a damn chance.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Okay, before we even think about talking about Geo’s… measurements, let’s establish something clearly so no one sprints into my inbox AGAIN:

I, for a fact, KNOW Geo is aroace. I know this. Fantasia knows this. And yes—your writer (hiiii) is aroace too. I’m not out here forgetting the fundamentals of the character.

Good. Now that we’ve cleared the air? We can continue.

Verdict: C+ // It's does it job.

Don't come from my head now on the grade, yes, yes, I’m Geo stan untill I die. But let's be so for real right now. Like we have to talk about Geo’s… situation, and I'm going to be brutally honest: it's fine. It's a dick. He has one. Moving on.

No, but seriously, it's pretty fine?

And don’t look at me like that—I LIKE I KNOW YALL MAKE FACIAL EXPRESSION READING THIS.

The thing you have to understand about Geo… He does not care, like at all. He has never once googled "average penis size" at 3 AM. He did not look at it during puberty and think, "Yes, this will be my villain origin story." He looked at it, shrugged, and probably went back to adjusting his bow sight. The sheer, unbothered neutrality is almost impressive.

Estimated Length: A soild 5.7 Inches. (14.478 cm)

Again, before you come for me, just know I came for science. I'm talking charts. Graphs. Cold, hard, dispassionate data. (And no, I did not use the hand-to-height-to-foot method because that's for horndogs and I’M are better than that.)

So after extensive, totally normal research, the math is in. For a Japanese man of his frankly unnecessary height (6'3" of pure, concentrated "do not speak to me"), 5.6 inches is statistically... gracious. A solid C+ from the universe. It's not rewriting any record books. It's not a spectacle.

It is, quite simply, proportionally polite. It's a few fractions above average, much like his proficiency at making a room feel tense simply by entering it. This isn't a dick built for legend.

It's a dick built for function. It is adequately sized to complete its intended tasks with quiet, brooding efficiency. Think of it less as a trophy and more as a very precise, very reliable tool that happens to be attached to a human storm cloud.

The Visual Breakdown:

With the girth it's got a decent, workmanlike thickness—nothing that'll make you see stars, but enough to let you know it's there. It’s thin yet long. And it has this subtle curve to the left. Not a dramatic hook, just a gentle, persistent lean, like it’s trying to quietly nudge your G-spot without making a whole fuss about it. Efficient.

For the vein situation, It is, I must admit, extremely veiny. Very pale skin, those blueish-purple pathways are like a detailed schematic. It looks less like a horny body part and more like expertly wired machinery. It’s giving "high-performance coolant system."

Then the tip and maintenance, the head is neat, defined, and probably turns a predictable, deep red when provoked—much like his ears. Everything is surgically groomed. There is no stray hair. The edges are sharp enough to cut glass.

It’s less "sexy manscaping" and more "routine equipment maintenance." He owns a specific pair of scissors for this, and they are sterilized.

The Experience (Theoretical, & Honestly, Who Knows With Him):

Okay, if. IF.

That reliable curve is going to apply pressure exactly where it should, with the consistency of a metronome. The girth would be a firm, filling presence—not overwhelming, just substantial. It wouldn’t be a wild ride; it’d be a targeted strike. You’d feel every one of those ridged veins as it moved, a tactile map of pure, focused function.

It’d be concentrated intensity.

It would feel like he’s focusing all his archer’s precision into a single, repeated motion, hitting the same perfect spot until you unravel, while he maybe thinking about tomorrow's weather. His competence would be the hottest part.

And when he blushed? A triumph.

Overall Vibe:

This isn't a chaotic monster or a princely masterpiece. This is a well-made tool. It’s sleek, efficient, and mildly intimidating in its perfectionism. It doesn't scream for attention; it just exists, impeccably, like a loaded crossbow on a wall.

It’s the dick equivalent of a perfectly balanced arrow: unassuming, deadly accurate, and completely indifferent to your opinion of it.

TL;DR: It's a very nice, very veiny, perfectly adequate dick attached to a human sniper rifle who does not care that we are having this conversation.

It gets the job done. Respectfully.

So… how long is Geo lasting in NNN?

…Please. The entire month. Easily. Effortlessly. Gracefully. This man would dominate No Nut November without even realizing he was participating.

The challenge could walk up to him, slap him across the face, and he’d blink twice, adjust his gloves, and carry on with his day like someone just sneezed near him. He would actually start fighting, ion think he’ll let anything like that side.

The whole concept of NNN? Utterly stupid to him. A “challenge” built on self-denial? Based on willpower? For sport? He already lives like that.

That’s his baseline.

He’d hear about it once and go, “That’s it? That’s the challenge?” while mentally calculating how he could complete it in the most efficient way possible.

Why? you maybe asking—here’s the funny part: Geo hates losing.

Not “oh, that’s annoying” hates losing. I mean viscerally, philosophically, aggressively refuses to accept defeat hates losing.

If you framed NNN as a competition, even jokingly—even with a stupid little chart or a fake leaderboard—he’d take it as seriously as Olympic qualifiers. He’d train. He’d analyze. He’d approach it with that terrifying “no failure allowed” professionalism that makes everyone else deeply uncomfortable.

And oh, you tried to get a reaction out of him.

You leaned in a little too close. Brushed your fingers against his hand. Tilted your head just right when you laughed. Whispered something you thought was suspiciously loaded.

He felt it. Oh, he absolutely felt it.

He’s not a robot—he’s just unfairly disciplined. Did he crack? Did he fold? Did he even blink?

No. Not a fucking chance.

Geo is built different. He’s less “man battling temptation” and more “ancient monk staring down the universe.” He’s got the lowest libido out of the entire TKATB roster—which, to be fair, is kind of funny compared to Sol, whose hormones I’m convinced are controlled by a demon.

But even with his calm, controlled, hyper-disciplined energy, he still has a human body. And human bodies… sometimes do things.

Yes, even Geo gets hard.

Shocking, I know—everyone treat him like he’s some aroace ethereal, untouchable, but listen dearies… biology does not care about that shit.

He gets those erections—the spontaneous, deeply inconvenient, medically-normal ones that show up uninvited like, “hi there!” while he’s just trying to exist.

No arousal, no thoughts, no intentions.

Just his body going, testosterone momentwhile his soul leaves the chat. And Geo, being the extremely healthy, extremely disciplined adult man that he is, handles these incidents with the quiet despair of someone who thought he was above mortal inconveniences.

He’s never dramatic about it—no panic, no scrambling—just a dead-silent “oh for fuck’s sake” echoing through his skull while he stares at the wall like he’s negotiating peace with his own anatomy.

It’s not desire; it’s a biological.

A polite reminder that even he cannot transcend the human condition no matter how efficiently he files his paperwork. He takes these moments in stride, too—just straightens his posture, exhales like a man accepting fate, and continues his day with Olympian-level willpower.

Meanwhile, the rest of the TKATB men are dropping like flies in No Nut November. Group chat is on fire. Someone’s crying. Someone else already failed twice. Sol.

Geo wins NNN every year without even trying.

Until today.

One of those cursed, unavoidable situations finally hit him—the kind every man dreads and every god laughs at: the random yoga session hard-on. And of course, it had to happen when y’all were having morning yoga at his place. The one tradition he created. The one tradition he insisted you attend. The one tradition he could not walk away from without looking suspicious.

The yoga tradition itself was innocent.

Geo pitched it like he was prescribing medicine: meditation training, flexibility, mental discipline. And you, foolishly fond of his self-improvement rituals, agreed.

He was perfect at it.

Barefoot, serene, shirt abandoned five minutes in, posture carved out of marble, opera music pouring into his ears like he was communing with the heavens. He looked like a fallen angel doing injury-prevention stretches.

You, meanwhile, did not look like someone practicing mindfulness.

In Geo’s mind, you looked like a distracted housecat trying to imitate human yoga because you saw your owner doing it.

Like a very cute, very uncoordinated cat.

You moved around your mat with that aimless, feline energy—your limbs going wherever they pleased, your focus lasting maybe five seconds at a time, your body drifting closer to him the way a cat slowly scoots its way into someone’s lap without acknowledging it’s doing so.

A brush of your elbow against his arm. A knee tapping his thigh. Your back arching in that unconscious, cat-stretch way that was absolutely not intentional.

He felt all of it. He tried to ignore all of it.

But the micro-tells gave him away: the jaw tic, the sharp inhale, the deliberate exhale like he was recalibrating the universe, the flex of his fingers as though he was grounding himself in sheer willpower.

Then came your downfall.

You attempted a pose so ill-fated your body rejected it instantly. Your arms gave out, your legs folded, and you slid sideways like a cat misjudging a jump. You stayed there on the floor, staring blankly at your mat as though it had personally betrayed you.

“…Geo. Help.”

He shouldn’t have opened his eyes.

But he did—and his gaze dipped, strictly analytical, but undeniably affected. He took in your position, your closeness, the curve of your spine as you tried to keep yourself propped up, the soft frustrated huff that left you as you finally gave up and looked at him.

“What is it?” he asked, sounding far too calm for someone under internal siege.

“I can’t do the pose you’re doing.”

“You can do it without me.”

A lie. You both knew it.

You shook your head, defeated. “…Please.”

That single word caused the faintest slip in his composure—barely there, but real.

“Fine.” He set his headphones aside with quiet resignation and moved toward you with that precise, monk-like grace he had for everything—steps measured, shoulders relaxed, breath even, like he was preparing to handle a particularly troublesome cat that needed gentle guidance.

Geo crouched beside you, and his voice softened into that smooth, instructional tone he rarely used but knew worked on you.

“Alright,” he murmured, close enough for you to feel the steadiness in his presence. “Don’t force yourself into the shape. Just listen.”

His hands came to your arms—light at first, then firmer when you wobbled. He guided you gently, adjusting your elbows, straightening your spine with a single glide of his fingers down your back.

He leaned in to check your alignment, breath ghosting your cheek, and for a moment you swore he was close enough that if you turned your head, your lips would brush his jaw.

“Hold still,” he said quietly.

As if that was easy. You tried. Truly.

But having Geo hovering over you—his chest brushing your shoulder, his hands bracketing your hips to adjust your stance, his voice low and maddeningly calm—was exactly the kind of sensory overload your brain was not equipped for. Then the intrusive thought hit.

A stupid one. A reckless one.

What if I just… tackle him?

Before he could react, you launched yourself forward.

You crashed into him, a flurry of limbs and laughter that dissolved his perfect posture. He hit the mat with a soft thud, a sharp, indignant breath leaving his lips as he stared up at the ceiling, processing the indignity. Before he could muster a proper scowl, you were already settling over him, your knees sinking into the mat on either side of his lean hips.

Your hands found his wrists, pinning them gently but firmly beside his head. The skin under your palms was warm and smooth, stretched taut over the fine bones of his wrists. You could feel the steady, quickening pulse beneath your thumb.

Geo’s head tilted back, his dark blue hair fanning out against the mat as he fixed you with a look that was pure, unadulterated disbelief.

The morning light from the open screen window caught the subtle silver in his teal eyes, making them glow like frost over a deep lake.

“What in the hell are you doing?” he demanded, his voice a low, resonant rumble you felt in your own chest.

You grinned down at him, the thrill of the tackle still buzzing in your veins. “A surprise attack,” you breathed out, your own chest rising and falling. “I thought I could finally knock you off balance.”

“You thought wrong.” His tone was flat, but a faint, incredulous twist touched his plush lips.

A giggle escaped you, wild and uncontained. “Well, you were balanced. So technically, this is progress.”

“It isn’t.” The words were a deadpan decree.

Still smiling, you shifted without thinking, just a subtle adjustment of your weight to sit up straighter.

It was the smallest movement. A slight, unconscious slide backward.

And it was a catastrophic error. GET IT??

You felt… it? immediately. The shift from the firm plane of his lower abdomen to something else. Something unmistakably solid, and warm, and present, even through the thin, forgiving fabric of both your clothes.

Beneath you, Geo went perfectly, utterly still. His breath caught—a sharp, choked inhale that was louder than any shout in the sudden silence.

“D-Don’t move around like that,” The words were not calm. They were wire-tight, strained thin with a tension you’d never heard in him. His hands, which had lain passive under yours, suddenly flexed, tendons standing out in sharp relief. “Don’t. Move.”

Your smile faltered. You blinked down at him, your own breath pausing. “Uh… why?”

He finally dragged his gaze up to meet yours. His eyes were wide, strained, betraying exactly nothing except the fact that something was very wrong for him and very alarming for you.

A faint, rosy blush began to bleed up from his collarbones, staining his pale throat and creeping toward his sharp jawline. He looked like a painting of composed fury coming undone.

“Just,” he exhaled, the word barely a whisper, ragged and steeped in a helpless warning. “Stop moving.”

The command in his voice made you freeze.

You stopped moving, first from shock, then from a dawning, primal awareness. Your grip on his wrists went slack. Your own breath hitched in your throat. For one rare, blessed moment, the chaotic chatter in your mind fell silent, replaced by a single, startling point of focus.

And then you felt it again.

A distinct, undeniable pressure beneath you. Something you couldn’t ignore.

Your eyes flew wide. “…Geo.”

His gaze snapped to the side, refusing to meet yours as if your face was the sun and he’d go blind. A faint, furious blush was already painting his throat. “Don’t,” he warned, the word strained and brittle. “Do not say anything.”

But the silence was already broken, shattered by your own runaway curiosity. You were already speaking. Because of course you were.

“…Is that—?”

“Yes.” His reply was immediate, flat, and final.

You just stared down at him, taking in the picture of perfect, strained control—the rigid line of his body, the tight press of his lips, the fierce determination in his brow to pretend this wasn’t happening.

A bewildered laugh bubbled up in your chest. “…So you’re just… randomly hard right now? During yoga?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, a muscle feathering in his jaw. “It’s an autonomic response. Biology. It means nothing.”

You hovered above him, caught between laughter and disbelief. “So… what do we do now?” you asked, voice teasing despite the absurdity of the situation.

“Nothing,” Geo said instantly, his tone left no room for negotiation. “You will get off me. My body will correct itself. It is simply inconvenient timing, physics, and poor luck.”

You froze, the words landing like a wet towel to your face. “…Oh. I assumed… maybe you’d need my help?” you offered, voice small but genuine, the kind of offer someone would make if they were actually aroace and just genuinely wanted to help without any ulterior motive.

Geo’s eyes snapped open, sharp and focused, as if you’d suggested defusing a bomb with your bare hands. “…Excuse me,” he said, incredulity simmering just beneath his perfectly calm exterior.

You flinched. “Okay, okay—sorry! I just…”

“You offering assistance is not the issue,” he interrupted, sitting up carefully, his lean torso flexing subtly as the morning light cut across his skin. His voice was stiff, precise, almost like reading from a manual. “It is the type of assistance implied by your tone.”

“My tone?” you blinked, “I’m just trying to help!”

“Your version of ‘help,’” he said flatly, eyes flicking to the ceiling like it could absolve him, “concerns me deeply.”

You huffed a laugh, half exasperated, half flustered. “I’m not trying to seduce you, Geo! I just… you looked uncomfortable. I wanted to help. That’s it.”

The air between you still hummed with the echo of his confession. He watched you for a long moment, his gaze a cool, analytical stare. Then, he exhaled, a slow, careful release of tension that seemed to drain the sharpest edges from the room.

His hands, which had been rigid with that precise, controlled grip, softened. With a gentle push at your back, he guided you off his lap, carefully sliding you onto the yoga mat beside him.

Not away—just… repositioned.

“Stay,” he murmured, voice low, the kind of quiet you could feel more than hear. His body shifted onto his side, curving toward you, and before you even realized it, he was inching closer, pressing against you with the same casual ease of a cat curling up on a sun-warmed windowsill.

Then he bent his head, hiding his face in the space between your neck and shoulder. His forehead pressed against your skin, his nose a faint brush against your collarbone. His breath, still slightly unsteady, warmed a patch of your skin.

His other arm came around you, not in a tight crush, but in a loose hold, his hand resting against the back of your ribs. He held himself close to you, his tall frame curling slightly, his tension slowly bleeding out into your steady presence.

He looked, you thought with a sudden, tender clarity, like a large, prickly cat finally deigning to rest against its chosen person—all reluctant trust and hidden relief.

You blinked, momentarily confused. “Uh… this helps… how exactly?”

“It does,” he said simply, voice muffled as he tucked his forehead against your neck. “This… proximity. It is good enough.”

His other arm came around you, loose but certain, the kind of hold that wasn’t claiming or demanding—just steady, grounding, functional. His breath warmed the side of your neck, the faint rise and fall of his chest brushing against you.

You shifted slightly, unsure if you were helping or just… being a surface for him to lean on. “Does… does it feel better?” you asked softly, and he only hummed—a small, almost imperceptible sound—but it was acknowledgment enough.

“Much,” he said, voice low, hidden against your shoulder. “Do not… move. Simply be still. It is sufficient.”

You stayed still, letting him lean, feeling the slow, careful movement of his body finally ease, the rigid control sliding away like water over smooth stones. He wasn’t asking for anything else. He wasn’t expecting anything else.

You weren’t doing anything sexual—hell, you weren’t even touching him in any invasive way—but somehow, the simple act of being there, being still, being present, was exactly what he needed.

And as you breathed alongside him, perfectly aware of his lean lines, the subtle heat of his skin, the way he seemed impossibly… human and untouchable at once, it hit you:

No Nut November?

That’s a joke for someone else.

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

Verdict: B++ // Skillful Gamer

Okay, first of all, let’s get one thing straight: do not let the sweet smile, the snack obsession, or the fact that he probably owns a Kirby plushie fool you. Baby boy energy does NOT mean baby dick energy. This man is proof that the most dangerous weapon often comes in the most deceptively friendly packaging. He might hand you a controller, but he's playing a different game entirely.

Estimated Length: 5.3 Inches. (13.462 cm) Exactly.

Yes. You read that right. It is, objectively, a bit smaller than his younger brother’s—a fact that lives in a dark, dusty corner of his brain he tries to ignore while aggressively winning at Super Smash Bros. But here’s the thing: he has made his peace with it. Hyugo is not competing in the size Olympics. He’s in the efficiency championships.

And he’s here to medal.

Because while he can’t win on length, he invested every last skill point into GIRTH and skill, something that Geo lacks. sorry dear.

We’re talking thick, substantial, and densely packed. It’s not long, but it is present. It’s the difference between a rapier and a blunt mace—one might look more elegant, but the other is going to leave a lasting, full-to-the-brim impression.

It’s short, stout, surprisingly veiny, and looks like it was designed by an engineer who valued torque over top speed. Serviceable is an insult. It’s optimized.

The Visual Breakdown:

Giving the "Cute But Deadly" Aesthetic, based off the shape alone, It’s like a perfectly rendered video game asset—no wasted polygons. Neat, circumcised, with a smooth, rounded head that looks friendly right up until it’s not.

The shaft is a tapestry of prominent, blue veins wrapping around that respectable girth, like cabling on a high-performance engine.

For color and vibe, it’s a healthy, consistent color, maybe flushing a warm pink when he’s fully engaged. Everything is well-kept, trimmed but not obsessively so—practical, like his gaming setup. It looks approachable. It looks fun. This is its greatest trick.

Then for the presentation, he doesn’t treat it like a sacred relic or a brooding weapon. It’s just… his. There’s a casual confidence there. It matches his vibe: “Yeah, it’s me. Wanna play with my joystick?”

I know that was cringe. Please ignore it.

The Experience (Theoretical, But Let's Be Real, He's a Charmer):

Forget depth. Prepare for impact.

That substantial girth is the main event. It creates a feeling of being perfectly, consistently full—no frantic searching, just reliable, satisfying pressure that hits all the right walls at once. It’s built for a steady, grinding rhythm, not dramatic thrusting.

And this is where the skill comes in. Hyugo knows his specs. He’s studied the map. He’s not relying on surprise size; he’s relying on technique, rhythm, and a frankly diabolical attention to feedback.

He’ll watch your face, listen to your breath, adjust his angle with the focus of someone trying to nail a combo—and he will find the combo that makes you see stars.

He’s playful, adaptable, and has the stamina of someone who can game for 12 hours straight. It’s less about dominating you and more about co-op play where you both win… though he definitely keeps score.

Overall Vibe:

This isn’t an intimidating monument. It’s a perfectly crafted in the hands of a virtuoso. It’s the controller he’s mastered. It’s friendly, it’s fun, it looks like it wouldn’t hurt a fly… and then it absolutely dominates the match.

The vibe is confident competence wrapped in a sweet, slightly two-faced package. You’ll tease him for it, and he’ll blush and squirm, but the joke’s on you—because he knows, and you’ll eventually know, that he’s been winning this whole time.

So… how long is Hyugo lasting in NNN?

A day. That’s it. Twenty-four whole hours of heroic restraint… and then boom. Game over. Honestly, you can’t even be mad. At least he outlasted Sol—barely—but let’s be real, best friends are basically the same brand of chaotic, hedonistic energy anyway.

Not because he’s weak or anything like that. No stamina issues here. Nope. Hyugo just sees zero point in some arbitrary challenge that basically says, “Hey, deny yourself something fun for no reason!”

And Hyugo?

He’s all about fun.

Pleasure. Snacks. Music. Memes. You name it. The guy literally lives for enjoyment.

He’d glance at the rules, shrug like it was a Monday morning email, mutter, “That’s dumb,” and then proceed to fail spectacularly on day one with a grin and a bag of chips in one hand. Why deny himself a good time when he’s basically a master at making good times happen?

And then there was you.

You had the audacity—honestly, zero chill—to tell him “no” when he tried to go down on you. Like, excuse me? Isn’t this supposed to be hangout time?

You were just sprawled on his couch watching some detective movie of his choice, popcorn dangerously close to tipping over, and he’s inches away on the armrest, giving you that silent, calculating gaze.

“Hey,” you said, not looking from the screen as you casually tossed a piece of popcorn in his direction. “You’re violating my personal space bubble.”

He caught the popcorn in his mouth, a slow grin spreading. “Am I?” His eyes flicked to the TV, but the attention was a lie. “Or am I just… optimizing our viewing angle for maximum cinematic immersion?”

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, sure. ‘Cinematic immersion.’ That’s what we’re calling it.”

But he wasn’t subtle.

He was a goofball of pleasure, patient and precise. Every time you shifted to get comfortable, he edged closer without a sound, a fraction of an inch, careful not to break the illusion of casual movie-watching.

The thing was, you knew exactly what he wanted. And after the intense, careful vulnerability with Geo, a part of you was ready to make the most of Hyugo’s brand of chaos. Because in an hour, he’d probably vanish to some shadowy job that ate up his nights, leaving you alone with the lingering buzz of his presence.

About ten minutes into the film, just as the detective on screen found a cryptic clue, Hyugo made his move. “You’re hogging the blanket,” he murmured, his voice a warm puff against your ear.

“There’s a whole other one on the chair,” you pointed out, gesturing vaguely.

“Too far. I’m committed to this couch now.” His hand slid over yours on the cushion, his fingers lacing with yours in a deceptively gentle hold. “C’mere. Just for a minute. I just wanna cuddle. Scout’s honor.”

You sighed, a mock-annoyed sound, but you were already moving.

You believed him—or you chose to.

You lifted the edge of the soft throw blanket you were bundled in, offering him the other half. “Fine. But no commentary on the detective’ terrible life choices.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he promised, his voice thick with a smile.

He slid behind you in one smooth motion, his chest fitting against your back, his legs bracketing yours. He arranged the blanket over both of you, his actions meticulous.

For a moment, he was still, his chin coming to rest lightly on your shoulder, his arms wrapping around your waist. He let out a contented sigh that vibrated through you. “See? Just cuddling. Cozy.”

And it was. For about ninety seconds.

You relaxed into him, lulled by the film’s soundtrack and his solid warmth. Then his lips brushed the sensitive skin just below your ear. Not a kiss, just a feather-light pass.

You shivered, “Hyugo…”

“Shh,” he whispered, his voice a low, thrilling rumble against your neck. “Detective’s about to have a breakthrough.” His hands, which had been resting innocently at your waist, began to move.

One slid slowly, so slowly, up your ribcage, his thumb sweeping a tantalizing arc just beneath the curve of your breast. The other hand drifted down, palming your thigh over your shorts before sliding inward.

Your breath hitched. “You said just cuddling.”

“I am cuddling,” he argued softly, nipping at your earlobe. “I’m just… multitasking.” His fingertips found the junction of your thighs, applying a firm, circular pressure through the fabric. A bolt of pure, sharp pleasure shot through you, and you couldn’t stifle a soft gasp.

He hummed in approval, the sound vibrating against your spine. His mouth became more insistent, kissing a hot trail along your shoulder, biting down just enough to make you arch.

At the same time, the heel of his hand settled right against your core, and he began a slow, relentless grind. The friction was exquisite, maddening, amplified by the layers between you and the helpless way your body was already responding.

“Hyugo, the—the movie,” you managed to pant, even as you pressed back against him. You could feel the hard, insistent line of his own arousal against your lower back, a promise and a threat.

“Mmm, what about it?” he murmured, his lips trailing back up to your neck. He increased the pace of his hand, his own hips moving in a subtle, synchronized rhythm against you.

“The bad guy did it. Mystery solved. My mystery is… how quick I can get you to cum before this scene ends.

His words, filthy and sweet, unspooled the last of your resistance. You let your head fall back against his shoulder, a silent surrender, as his clever, sneaky hands and his hungry mouth pledged you a different, far more compelling truth than anything on the screen.

The only case he was solving tonight was yours.

The “cuddling” pretense vaporized in the heat between you. With a low, hungry sound, Hyugo shifted his weight, his body moving over yours with the fluid certainty of a predator claiming its space.

The world tilted as he guided you onto your back against the deep cushions of the couch, his hands never leaving your skin.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice a ragged whisper against your throat. “Just like that.”

He didn’t ask. He didn’t negotiate. He simply took the invitation your body had already written and honored it in full. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts, dragging them down along with your underwear your legs in one swift, efficient motion.

The cool air of the room was a fleeting shock, immediately replaced by the scorching heat of his own skin as he settled between your thighs.

His eyes held yours, playful and glittering with intent.

The tip of his tongue peeked out, swiping across his lower lip in a gesture that was pure, unadulterated focus. He guided himself to your entrance, the broad, slick head of him notching against you, pressing in with an inexorable, breathtaking pressure.

And then he was inside.

The feeling was a shock of pure, electric sensation—the deep, stretching fullness of his girth, the hard, insistent length of him sliding home. You cried out, a sound swallowed by his mouth as he descended on you in a sloppy, desperate kiss.

His tongue delved into your mouth, mimicking the movements his hips were just beginning to set, tasting the gasp on your lips.

He broke the kiss, panting harshly against your mouth, his forehead damp against yours. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word a rough, reverent prayer. “I love this. I love seeing you like this.”

Your legs, which had fallen open for him, instinctively rose, wrapping around his waist. Your ankles locked at the small of his sweat-slicked back, pulling him deeper, anchoring him to you. He groaned at the new angle, his thrusts gaining a deeper, more deliberate purpose.

He watched your face, his gaze a heated, possessive study. He could see the words dying in your throat, replaced by hitched breaths and bitten-off moans.

Your ability to form coherent sentences had short-circuited, and the triumphant, wicked gleam in his eyes told you he’d noticed.

“That’s my player two,” he cringely rumbled, his voice thick with pride and exertion. One of his hands slid from your hip, smoothing up your side to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “Just like that. Let me hear you. Let me see it.”

He was a connoisseur of your pleasure. He had memorized the lexicon of your body—the way your breath hitched right before you fell apart, the specific tremble in your thighs, the silent “O” of your lips when he hit that perfect, deep spot.

He used that knowledge now like a master craftsman, adjusting the angle of his thrusts, varying his speed, reading your every shuddering response to calibrate the sensations until they were utterly overwhelming.

He was determined to make it so good for you that coherent thought was a distant memory.

In his world, your speechlessness wasn't a barrier; it was the highest compliment, the ultimate review. He praised you through it all, his words a husky, encouraging soundtrack to the slick, driving rhythm of your bodies. “So perfect for me… taking me so deep… you feel incredible…”

He leaned back slightly, his arms hooking under your knees, lifting your legs higher, opening you up even more. The new position drove him impossibly deeper, and the groan that tore from him was raw and guttural.

From this vantage point, he could watch everything—the way your body accepted his, the flush spreading across your chest, the dazed, helpless pleasure on your face.

And honestly?

That was Hyugo in a nutshell.

A hedonistic rule-breaker. A pleasure-seeker with a PhD in your body. A man who, if he had a snack in hand right now, would probably try to feed it to you between kisses. His charm was a weapon, and his desire was a force of nature. Forget No Nut November—such a concept was a boring void in the vibrant, sensory universe he lived to create.

And if you weren’t careful… well, he’d made sure his desires weren't just a cameo in your movie night.

✑ 𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓎𝓁

Verdict: A++ // It’s Giving “Winner”

Alright, listen up. I see the five—maybe six—of you Deryl die-hards in the back, vibrating like you just mainlined espresso.

Yes. Yep. I brought him back.

The campus's golden boy. The human golden retriever who absolutely runs on a dangerous cocktail of protein shakes, team spirit, and what I can only describe as main character energy. And look, I get it. I low-key miss his vibe too. He's a cutie! A tall, loud, "smile-so-bright-you-need-sunglasses" cutie who probably apologizes to furniture when he bumps into it.

But let's be crystal clear: this isn't just some friendly pup. This retriever has BITE. And, in a plot twist no one saw coming, a GPA that suggests he might actually be a secret genius.

The duality! The scandal!

Now, you're probably screaming at your screen:

WHY is this himbo ranked second only to Sol's gothic masterpiece? Why isn't Prince Charming Crowe in this spot?

LOOK. Deryl is a healthy, thriving, peak-performance athletic black man. We're talking curly hair you want to fist your hands in, hazel-green eyes that look like honey in the sun, and a smile that should be taxed.

That is a black king right there. Full stop.

...Okay, I might be a little biased. I have a documented thing for athletes in, like, specific sports. *coughs violently in Geo's direction* I wouldn't say any sport. Football, soccer, archery... you know, the ones where the uniforms are... strategic.

But we're getting off track.

We need to talk about Deryl. The Reality.

The man is 6'2" of pure, gleaming, "yes ma'am/sir/dear” enthusiasm. He's the human embodiment of a high-five. He probably says "shoot" when he's frustrated. You'd trust him to help your grandma carry her groceries.

AND THEN THERE'S HIS DICK.

Excuse my language but listennnnn. We need to have a very real, very inappropriate talk. We have to call it what it is.

That man is straight-up packing a BBC.

I'm not saying it. The geometry is. The sheer, undeniable physics of it. It's not just big. It's canonical. It's the kind of generous, substantial endowment that makes you stop, blink, and whisper "oh my god" to an empty room.

It's thick, it's impressive, and it looks absolutely ridiculous on a guy who otherwise radiates "would definitely help you build a picnic table."

It’s the ultimate plot twist. The wholesome himbo with the absolutely filthy secret. And that, my friends, is why he’s in the number two spot. It's the devastating contrast. The smile of an angel, the body of a demigod, and the... equipment... of a porn star.

It's a lot to process. Please, take your time.

Jkjk we keep going.

Estimated Length: We're calling it a solid 6.2 inches (15.748 cm) of pure, unadulterated team spirit!

Give or take a centimeter for good sportsmanship.

And it’s thick. Not "oh-god-what-is-that" thick, but a substantial, reliable, make-you-sit-up-and-notice kind of thick. It's the perfect starting lineup thickness.

The Visual Breakdown: This isn't just a dick; it's a rally.

It's built like the rest of him—all bright-eyed optimism, dependable strength, and the wholesome, clean-cut vibe of a guy who actually means it when he says "good game." The skin is smooth and healthy, with just enough prominent, friendly vascularity to show it’s ready for action.

Now, Deryl is not a fan of shaving. Who has the time? Between practice, games, and inhaling entire pizzas, manscaping is low on the list. So, you get what God gave him: a happy trail of dark, curly hair that starts above his belly button and leads a proud, unapologetic path all the way down to the goods. It’s natural. It’s athletic. It’s kinda sweaty in the best way. Nice favor to it…

Veiny, meaty enthusiasm. Circumcised. The shaft is a roadmap of prominent veins, all that blood pumping from cardio put to good use.

The tip is a light pink that deepens to a desperate, dark rose when he’s too turned on—which, let’s be real, doesn’t take much.

The tip is a perfect, glossy pink, like it’s perpetually blushing from all the positive encouragement. It’s the kind of dick that gives you a confident, reassuring smile before it absolutely destroys you in the best way possible.

It’s got that classic, All-American aesthetic: neat, proportional, and undeniably handsome. It looks like it should have a little jersey.

The Experience (Theoretical, of course… unless there’s a team bonding exercise?):

Being with this one is like winning the championship on your home field. There are no mind games, no brooding silences—just enthusiastic, skilled, and devastatingly effective play.

That substantial girth isn't intimidating; it's inviting. It’s a full, satisfying stretch that makes you feel incredibly filled, not overwhelmed.

And the length? It’s perfect for finding every single sweet spot with cheerful, persistent accuracy.

He’s the type who’d make sure you’ve hit your peak—possibly multiple times, with enthusiastic support—before he even thinks about his own finale.

The vibe is all mutual celebration, sweaty and breathless and grinning. He’d probably whisper encouragements that are somehow both filthy and wildly supportive.

"You're doing so good. That's it, just like that. Oh, you feel incredible. Let's go, come for me. You earned it."

Because It’s not gonna be a slow burn.

It’s gonna be a friendly scrimmage. He’s strong, so he’ll pick you up like you weigh nothing. He’s energetic, so the stamina is… alarmingly good. It’s less "making love" and more "celebrating a touchdown." There will be grinning.

There might be a high-five. It’s enthusiastic, a little clumsy, and surprisingly wholesome because he’ll genuinely ask, “You good? That okay?” with the sincere concern of a guy checking if you want the last slice of pizza.

And sucking him off? He’d be so appreciative. Like, over-the-moon, “YOU’RE THE BEST,” maybe-even-cries-a-little grateful. He’s vocal. He’s handsy—big, warm palms on your head, not forcing, just… guiding with excited pats.

He tastes like salt and clean sweat, and finishing would be a point of personal pride for him, like beating his personal best.

It’s less being fucked senseless and more being thoroughly, joyfully outperformed.

And you’d thank him for it.

Overall Vibe:

This is not a complex psychological drama.

This is a feel-good sports movie.

It’s simple, satisfying, and leaves you smiling, even if you feel like you just ran wind sprints. He’s a sweet, hyperactive giant with a heart of gold and a dick that’s just trying its best to make everyone have a nice time.

Like this is the dick of a golden retriever in human form—loyal, energetic, impressively equipped, and so happy to see you. It’s built for endurance, for fun, and for making sure everyone leaves the field satisfied. No drama, just premium, top-tier performance and a winning attitude.

TL;DR: It's the Captain of the Varsity Sex Team. Reliable, talented, thick, and here to make sure you have a great time. A definitive crowd-pleaser and a total home run.

So… how long is Deryl lasting in NNN?

SHOCKINGLY, almost the whole damn month.

Hear me out—this is the twist. The ultimate himbo paradox.

It’s not about strength. It’s not about discipline. It’s not even about pride. No. Deryl survives No Nut November for one reason and one reason only: He forget.

Picture it. It’s November 1st, early morning, he’s scrolling on his phone in bed, hair sticking up in every direction, hoodie half on, blanket wrapped around one ankle like it lost the will to live. He sees the annual meme cycle flood in and immediately lights up like a toddler who just spotted candy.

“HAHAHA—YEAH, NO NUT NOVEMBER! I GOT THIS, I’M LOCKED IN!” He slaps his chest like he’s about to enlist.

You raise a brow, sipping your drink. “You?”

He gives you that cocky grin—the one you hate because it’s cute. “Baby, please. I’m a man of discipline.”

You don’t even have to say anything. You just give him a look.

And that alone already shakes his entire foundation.

Because Deryl loves attention. Thrives on it. Lives, breathes, and absolutely melts under it. The second you tease him—even with something barely noticeable, like a smirk, or the way you tilt your head at him—he’s already wobbling.

He tries to hold the line though. “Oh, so you doubting me? That’s crazy.” He sits up straighter, puffing his chest. “Watch me. I’m gonna crush this month. Easy.”

He lasted though out NNN because his brain has three modes:

Football

Video games

Random hyperfixations

And absolutely none of them involve his libido unless you directly trigger it. Because the moment practice starts? Gone.

His coach is yelling his name like he owes him child support. The team is fumbling every play except his. He’s running drills until his legs feel like wet spaghetti. There is not a single molecule of horny allowed inside his body at that moment. His brain has redirected all electricity to “try not to die in front of coach.”

Asthe challenge begins on a crisp, blue-skied November morning. Deryl, sprawled on the worn leather couch of his off-campus apartment, scrolls past the meme with a grin.

Sunlight catches the dust motes in the air and the gleam of his championship ring on the shelf. “No Nut November? Hell yeah, brother. Locked in.” He means it with every fiber of his being.

He then promptly, and completely, forgets.

His mind is not a fortress of discipline; it is a vibrant, single-lane highway currently hosting a parade for one primary concern: Football.

The world narrows to the smell of cut grass and industrial cleaner, the deafening roar of practice drills, the ache of muscle pushed to its limit, and the constant, gravelly voice of his coach.

The coach rides him hardest because he’s the cornerstone—the one player who can turn a losing game.

Deryl’s days become a blur of dawn workouts, film sessions in dark rooms illuminated by the glow of a telestrator, and exhausted evenings where his dinner is eaten straight from the container over the kitchen sink.

You exist in the precious, quiet spaces between.

A post-practice FaceTime call where his face is smudged with dirt and his smile is tired but bright.

A texted photo—a glistening, post-workout selfie in the university gym’s mirror, his bicep flexed, captioned simply, “For u 😉”.

A sunset picture from the empty 50-yard line, the bleachers casting long shadows. “Wish u were here.”

They are not courtship; they are check-ins.

You are his touchstone, the comforting, cheering presence he visualizes when the hits get a little too hard. Horniness, as a conscious urge, cannot compete. It is a faint, distant radio signal drowned out by the immediate, thunderous symphony of playbooks, conditioning, and the sheer physical demand of being the team’s engine.

His victory is one of benign neglect, a triumph of an over-scheduled, blissfully preoccupied mind.

Near the ending of the month, the setting is the bitter end of a brutal conference game. The sky is a flat, iron gray, matching the mood on the sidelines. The opposing defense is a wall of snarling, oversized linemen who have spent three quarters hammering him into the cold turf. T

he score is tied, but it feels like a loss. His uniform is a map of grass stains and mud, his breath pluming in the cold air. Every muscle screams.

The coach voice is a raw, furious bark that seems to vibrate in his teeth. For the first time all month, the single-lane highway of his focus develops a crack—a creeping seep of frustration and deep, bone-tired doubt.

He trudges back to the huddle, head down, and happens to glance up into the sea of screaming faces in the home stands.

And he sees you.

A splash of his team’s colors. Your face, clear as a beacon, alight with a faith so absolute it feels like a physical force.

You’re wearing his number—10—jumping and shouting, your voice lost to him but your intention crystalline. You are not just watching; you are invested. You are pulling for him.

The crack in his focus seals instantly, flooded with a new, molten certainty. The exhaustion is burned away by a sudden, solar flare of purpose. It isn’t about the coach, the score, or the pain.

It’s about the person who came to see him win.

The connection is instantaneous and electrifying—a jolt of adrenaline so pure and fierce it sparks a sympathetic, deeper ache in his body, a visceral thrum of need he hasn’t felt in weeks.

The next play is called. The ball is snapped. What follows is not just a run; it is a release. He moves with a desperate, graceful violence, a channeled outburst of every suppressed feeling.

He dodges, spins, and drives forward, powered by a compound fuel of athletic duty and something newly, sharply personal. When he crosses the goal line, the stadium’s eruption is secondary.

His first instinct is to look back to the stands, to find you, to share the moment he built for you.

The roar of the stadium melted into the warmer, closer chaos of the locker room. The air was thick with the smells of sweat, damp turf, antiseptic spray, and cheap citrus body wash.

The space echoed with the percussive slap of wet towels on tile, the clatter of gear being dumped into bins, and the loud, overlapping joy of young men who had just snatched triumph from the jaws of a grim afternoon.

Deryl was at the center of it, a sweaty, grinning sun around which his teammates orbited, pounding his shoulder pads, ruffling his damp hair.

“Told you we had ‘em!” someone shouted.

“You carried us, man! Straight up carried us!”

Deryl just laughed, a bright, exhausted sound. “Nah, man. Everybody ate. Defense got that last stop. Team win.”

But slowly, the chaos dissipated. Showers ran, then stopped. Lockers squeaked shut. The noise receded into the hallway, trailing away toward promises of parties and pizza. Eventually, the only sounds were the drip of a distant showerhead and the hum of fluorescent lights.

Deryl was the last one left. He’d asked you to wait outside the player’s entrance. “Just gimme ten,” he’d said, his game-day intensity softening into a private, tired smile. “Wanna get this grime off. Then you’re all mine. We’re goin’ out. Gonna celebrate right.”

Through the slightly ajar door, you heard the final, echoing shout of a departing teammate, then silence. A curious, magnetic pull drew you inside. The locker room was a landscape of abandoned aftermath: stray rolls of athletic tape, discarded water bottles, the ghost of adrenaline hanging in the steamy air.

And there, at the far end of the rows of metal lockers, was Deryl.

He was shirtless, still in his grass-stained game pants, leaning back against the cool metal of his locker. The harsh light gleamed on the damp planes of his shoulders and chest, highlighting the fine sheen of a quick rinse and the powerful, clean lines of his physique—a testament to relentless work.

He was scrolling through his phone, a soft, dazed grin on his face, utterly absorbed. The screen illuminated his features—the slight swelling on his cheekbone from a late hit, the dark sweep of his lashes, the pure, uncomplicated joy in his expression as he re-lived the final play through a dozen camera angles.

He was beautiful in his unselfconscious victory, a monument to exhausted, happy stillness.

You leaned against the doorframe, your heart doing a slow, deep roll in your chest. “Deryl.”

His head snapped up. The phone was forgotten instantly, clattering onto the bench beside him. When his eyes found you, the grin didn’t just widen; it transformed.

It shed the last vestiges of the public hero and became something infinitely more personal, more hungry. It was the sunrise after the long night of the game.

“Hey,” he breathed, the sound warm and rough in the quiet room. “Told you I’d be fast. You look… wow. You’re here.” He pushed off the lockers, taking a step toward you. “I was thinkin’, there’s that diner with the crazy milkshakes, or if you wanna be fancy, we could—"

You didn’t let him finish planning or talking.

You closed the distance between you, your hands coming up to frame his jaw, your thumbs brushing over the smudges of dirt and sweat he’d missed.

You caught his next word with your lips, kissing him deeply, silencing the playbook, the post-game analysis, the entire outside world.

A low, surprised groan vibrated in his chest, and then he was kissing you back with a sudden, unleashed fervor. It was all the pent-up focus, the adrenaline with no outlet, the sheer, joyful relief of the win channeling into a single, scorching point of contact. One of his hands cradled the back of your head, the other slid down your spine.

And then you were weightless.

With a strength that was both shocking and effortless, his arm hooked around your waist and he lifted you straight off the ground, pinning you gently but firmly against the cold, hard surface of the lockers.

The metal sang a faint, shocked note at the impact. He didn’t break the kiss, only deepened it, his body leaning into yours, the heat of his bare skin searing through your clothes.

The world narrowed to the scent of him—clean sweat, soap, and pure Deryl—the solid feel of him holding you aloft, and the thrilling, desperate sweetness of his mouth on yours.

The kiss was a wildfire, quick and all-consuming.

Your fingers were tangled in his damp hair, his hands were mapping the curve of your spine through your clothes, and the cold lockers were a stark contrast to the heat building between you.

He tasted like victory and cheap sports drink, and the low, hungry sound in his throat promised a celebration that had nothing to do with diners.

You finally broke for air, breathless, your forehead resting against his. A smirk played on your lips as you felt the solid evidence of his enthusiasm pressed against you. “You know,” you whispered, your voice husky, “it’s No Nut November, right?”

Deryl froze.

Not just still—he went completely statue-like, the passionate haze in his eyes clearing into pure, unadulterated confusion. His brain, you could practically hear it, made a sound like a dial-up modem disconnecting.

“…what month is it again?” he asked, his voice a low, cautious rumble.

“November.”

He blinked, processing. “And what’s the… the thing I’m supposed to be doing in that month?”

“No nutting.”

The realization crashed over his face. His eyes widened, his jaw went slack. The hands that were gripping your hips loosened their possessive hold.

“Oh shit—”

In your defense, this happened every single time. His mental reboot was a seasonal tradition. The gears of his singular focus—previously set to FOOTBALL—had to screech to a halt, eject that disc, and search the dusty archives for the NNN file.

Watching it happen was like witnessing a very handsome, very confused supercomputer try to understand a butterfly.

And the hilarious, beautiful paradox was this: he actually made it pretty far without even trying.

Because the second he was busy, the horniness didn't just get suppressed—it evaporated. His body had a flawless priority system: We’ll deal with that later, bro. Right now, football is life.

Again, his libido went into hibernation inside his muscle mass, completely forgotten. But the best part, the part you lived for, was the immediate aftermath of the reminder. The sheer, flustered power you held in those moments.

For example, if you walked past him later wearing nothing… again with his practice jersey—his number 10 glaringly obvious on your back—he’d short-circuit.

“You—uh—okay, hold on, timeout,” he’d stammer, staring at the wall like a monk seeking enlightenment. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that. I’m trying to be good.”

If you “accidentally” brushed your hand against his arm while reaching for a glass?

“Oh fuck, that’s not fair,” he’d groan, squeezing his eyes shut. “I didn’t—baby, seriously, you’re gonna make me lose on day five. That’s pathetic.”

If you simply existed in his vicinity, breathing the same air, giving him a soft smile?

Deryl.exe has stopped responding. Please reboot.

He’d become a mess of stifled groans, purposeful avoidance, and comedic over-correction, all while shooting you a look of utterly betrayed longing. It was a glorious, flustered meltdown of his usual sunny confidence.

But the minute you left the room?

The second, his phone buzzed with a text from Coach or a teammate?

Memory wiped. So, returning to the current setting.

Deryl still had you pinned against the cool metal, his body a solid wall of heat and barely-leashed energy. His forehead dropped back against yours with a soft thunk, a low groan escaping him. “No. No way. You’re tellin’ me we gotta stop now?”

His voice was a rough, delicious scrape against your nerve endings. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned in closer, his hips pressing a careful, aching truth against you.

The hard line of his arousal probably padding? was impossible to ignore, a blatant counter-argument to the rule you’d just invoked.

“I made it so far,” he breathed, his lips skimming the shell of your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “I was good. I didn’t even think about it. But you… you’re here. You’re wearing my number. You kissed me like that.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze blazing with a mix of frustration and naked want. “You can’t just… light the fuse and walk away, darling. That’s criminal.”

You smiled, tracing the line of his jaw with a feather-light touch. “Rules are rules, star player.”

He made a sound that was half-growl, half-whimper, nuzzling into your touch like a deprived puppy. The internal debate played out across his face—the pride of his accidental streak warring with the visceral, overwhelming need you’d just reignited.

Then, a wicked, desperate spark lit in his eyes.

His hands, which had been bracing against the lockers, slid down to cup the backs of your thighs, hiking you up higher against him with effortless strength. The new position was even more intimate, even more deliberate.

“Or,” he murmured, the word a hot, tempting secret against your lips. “We don’t go that date.”

Your breath hitched.

A filthy, triumphant grin spread across his face. He’d seen your reaction. “Yeah. Think about it. Everyone’s gone. It’s just us. We lock the door.” He emphasized his point with a slow, grinding roll of his hips that made your head fall back against the lockers with a soft metallic ring.

“I can just fuck you right here. Against these lockers. On the bench. Wherever you want. I’ll make it so good for you. I’ll make you forget your own name. I’ll make you scream so loud the security guard thinks we’re getting murdered.”

MY GOD I WROTE HIM SO FUCKING HOT.

His voice had dropped to a husky, hypnotic rasp, each scenario painting a devastatingly vivid picture. He was pitching it like a forbidden, perfect plan.

“We don’t have to break the streak,” he reasoned, his logic beautifully, hilariously flawed as he nibbled along your jawline. “We’ll just… work around it. We’ll be efficient. Quick.”

When you let out a shaky laugh, he leaned back, his expression morphing into one of utter, pouting devastation.

He released his hold just enough to slide down your body, but instead of letting you go, he sank to his knees right there on the tile floor, his arms wrapping around your hips, his face pressing against your stomach.

“Ugh, you’re killing me!” he moaned, the sound dramatically muffled by your shirt. He looked up at you, his eyes wide and pleading. “Don’t you know how hard this is for me? My body is aching for you. It’s been weeks! I’m in physical pain! It’s a medical emergency!”

He was throwing himself into the performance with full himbo commitment, his hands wandering up your back to pull you closer to his face. “Please, just one touch, baby. My heart—no, my entire being—can’t take this torture! I need you to relieve this tension. Be a hero. Save me.”

He was begging, whining, pouring every ounce of his considerable charm into being utterly, pathetically irresistible.

He made you feel like the cruelest warden for denying him, his exaggerated suffering designed solely to twist your resolve into tender, melting surrender.

And the genius of it was, when you finally sighed, “Alright, you have your way,” your fingers threading back into his hair in a way that made him shudder with anticipation, his whole face would transform.

The pout would vanish, replaced by a look of such pure, worshipful adoration it would steal the air from your lungs.

In that instant, you’d go from his tormentor to his savior, the most beloved and brilliant person in his world. He’d kiss the palm of your hand, his eyes shining. “Knew you’d save me,” he’d whisper, before surging to his feet with renewed, singular purpose, all debate forgotten.

The only rule left would be his mission to show you exactly how grateful he was for your merciful surrender.

To feel every powerful, rhythmic thrust drove a gasp from your lungs, each one threatening to become the scream he was so clearly hunting for.

Deryl was in his element—little cocky, relentless, and devastatingly effective. A thin sheen of sweat made his skin gleam under the fluorescent lights, the muscles in his arms and back corded with effort.

The faint, rough scrape of stubble on his jaw burned against the sensitive skin of your neck as he bit down, not hard enough to mark, but just enough to make your legs tighten around his waist.

“C’mon, bade,” he growled, his voice thick with exertion and pride. “Let me hear you. Just a little. Who’s gonna know?” He punctuated the question with a deep, grinding roll of his hips that hit a spot so perfect your vision sparked.

A choked, helpless sound escaped you, and he grinned against your throat, victorious. “That’s it. Fuck. Please be louder.”

He was pulling every trick. The angle, the pace, the filthy, whispered praise in your ear—“God, you feel incredible, so perfect for me, taking me so good…”—it was a coordinated assault on your senses. You clung to him, your fingers gripping his damp shoulders, your face buried in the curve of his neck to muffle the sounds he was ruthlessly coaxing out of you.

Screw No Nut November.

This was your fault, and his, and it was the best mistake either of you had ever made. You’d missed him—missed this—the raw, uncomplicated intensity of him, the way he poured every ounce of his boundless energy into making you feel like the only thing that mattered in his universe.

And he was definitely, definitely showing you his gratefulness.

A particularly deep, focused thrust sent a shockwave of sensation so intense it short-circuited your ability to process anything else.

His thick, veined cock moved in you with a piston-like certainty that stole every coherent thought. You felt everything—the prominent ridge of every single vein dragging against your sensitive inner walls, the swollen, broad head of his tip nudging that deepest, sweetest spot with unerring accuracy on every inward stroke.

It wasn't just penetration; it was a mapping, a claiming exploration of a terrain he seemed to know better than you did. A guttural, ragged sound was torn from your throat with each withdrawal, only to be replaced by a shuddering, blissful sigh as he filled you again, the friction so exquisite it bordered on pain.

You were cock-drunk, drowning in the pure, animal reality of him, your face an open book of slack-jawed, unfiltered ecstasy you couldn't have controlled if you tried.

Your body seized, bowing against the lockers, a silent, breathless cry trapped in your throat. Your nails dug into his skin, your eyes squeezing shut as pleasure, sharp and almost unbearable, detonated along every nerve.

But Deryl, with his star-athlete stamina and a heart that always ran at full throttle, only knew one speed when the finish line was in sight: all out.

His enthusiasm was a beautiful, overwhelming force of nature. He was lost in the feeling, in the fierce pride of making you feel good, his own pleasure mounting in a powerful, gathering wave.

Then came the thrust that shattered you.

It was deeper, harder, angled with a precision that bypassed every filter and went straight to the core of your being. A silent, white-hot supernova detonated behind your eyes. Your body arched violently off the lockers, every muscle locking in a breathless, wordless seizure of pleasure so intense it felt like a seizure.

A high, thin sound escaped your throat, but you heard nothing. The universe was the feeling of him, buried to the hilt, and the cataclysmic aftershocks rioting through your nerves.

He felt the change instantly. The rhythmic slapping of skin stilled. The cocky, focused grin vanished from his sweat-sheened face.

“Babe?”

His voice cut through the sensory static, but it was laced with a tremor of pure, unvarnished panic. He froze, still deep inside you, his body tensed not with passion, but with fear.

He hovered, his eyes wide, searching your face—a face you couldn’t control, a mask of silent, trembling rapture. “Babe, are you okay? Look at me.”

You couldn’t.

Your eyelids fluttered, refusing to focus. You were adrift, trembling violently in the relentless aftershocks, your lips parted around soundless, ragged gasps for air.

“Why aren’t you talking? Is something wrong?” His hands, which had been gripping your hips with possessive strength to drive his own pleasure, gentled in an instant.

They flew to your face, his big, calloused palms cradling your jaw, his thumbs stroking your cheeks with frantic tenderness. One hand slid down to squeeze your hip softly, a desperate check for solidity. “Heyyy, please… say something,” he begged, his own breathing harsh and scared in the sudden quiet.

He was watching you fall apart, and all his beautiful, simple brain could process was that he might have broken his favorite thing in the world. He felt the violent shivers wracking your body and catastrophically misinterpreted them. “Fuck… you’re shaking so much. Are you cold?”

In a move of pure, adorable, panicked helplessness, he began rubbing your arms vigorously, as if he could chafe warmth back into your burning skin, his brow furrowed in utter, devastating confusion. “Talk to me, please. Did I hurt you?”

All you could manage was a fractured, slurred whisper, the words dripping with a need so profound it was past articulation. “Please… please… be a good boy… keep fucking me, Deryl… shit...”

But the plea was lost, swallowed by another wave of trembling release. You were too far gone, dissolving into the very essence of the sensation he’d so expertly unleashed.

He stared at your bliss-wrecked face—the unfocused eyes, the silent, open-mouthed gasps, the limbs trembling not from cold but from an overdose of pleasure.

Deryl, still buried deep within you, his body a heavy, sweat-slicked anchor, went perfectly still the moment he felt the first delicate tremor of your climax begin to unravel you. A look of pure, panicked shock flashed across his face.

His eyes went impossibly wider. He pulled one hand back and smacked his own forehead with a soft, comical thwap.

“Oh! Oh, of course! I’m sorry! Sorry!!”

But the apology was all wrong.

The panic melted from his eyes in an instant, replaced by a flood of giddy, awestruck understanding. A new, breathtakingly soft grin broke across his face—the kind of smile usually reserved for last-second touchdowns and puppies.

He wasn’t sorry for what he’d done; he was profoundly, delightfully sorry for not realizing sooner what he was doing to you.

He didn’t try to chase his own finish.

He didn’t resume the fast, conquering pace that had driven you both to the brink.

Instead, he moved as if handling something infinitely precious. He gathered your quaking body closer, pulling you fully into his arms until not a sliver of cold air could fit between you.

He held you tight and safe as the shuddering waves rolled through you, pressing a feverish, reverent shower of kisses to your sweat-damped forehead, your fluttering eyelids, your parted, gasping lips.

“Okay,” he whispered, his voice hushed with wonder, as if speaking in a sacred space. “Okay, I got it. Just let it happen. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

When he began to move again, it was something entirely new. They were slower, deeper, infinitely more intentional. Each careful, rolling thrust was a possessive claim of a different kind—not of conquest, but of sacred safekeeping.

He was no longer trying to make you scream; he was measuring his own breath to yours, anchoring you through the supernova he’d accidentally ignited, his own awe palpable in every tender kiss and every carefully measured rock of his hips.

When his own release finally took him, it was with a choked-off sigh against your neck, his big body trembling not with frantic energy, but with the profound weight of shared, overwhelming feeling. He held you through that, too, until the last tremor subsided into a deep, boneless peace.

For a long moment, you both just existed, tangled together in the quiet aftermath. Then, he nuzzled your hair, his voice a sleepy, satisfied rumble.

“So. ‘Bout that date,” he murmured, a playful grin in his tone.

You could only manage a weak, breathless sound against his shoulder.

He chuckled, the vibration moving through you. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He pressed a kiss to your temple. “Told you I’d make you forget your name. Pretty sure I made you forget how to stand, too.” He moving, carefully easing himself from you and lifting you into his arms with an effortless, gentle strength that made you feel both incredibly cherished and incredibly ravaged.

“C’mon, bade. Let’s get you home. We’re blowing off the diner. You’re gonna need, like, three gallons of water, my hoodie, and approximately eight hours of cuddling on the couch. Maybe some pizza. In that order.”

He said it not with arrogance, but with the cheerful, confident certainty of a man who had just proven a beloved hypothesis.

And as he carried you, weak-kneed and utterly spent, from the scene of the crime, the truth settled around you both as comfortably as a blanket.

And that, my dearest readers, is the real championship title.

It’s not about inches or curves or girth—not that he doesn’t have top-of-the-line examples of each. It’s about wonder.

It’s about the man who approaches your pleasure not like someone you have to conquer but like a universe you get to investigate with reverence and curiosity.

It’s the transformation from the glorious and dirty-minded athlete to the gentle and awe-struck caretaker in the blink of an eye. It’s the urge to hold you together while he loves you apart.

Deryl has more than just a great dick.

He’s got this amazing heartbeat that operates in the same magnificent, all-in signature. And this combination of relentless excitement and awe-struck delicacy is what makes him in every respect that matters the legitimate champion.

However, overall, he still takes winner of best dick.

So dearest readers! You can rate them however you want to the way how I describe them, but this is my official tier list, based on Aesthetic, performance, vibe, and overall Impact.

Ayyyyy, FIRST is Deryl wins 6.2 inches of enthusiastic, team-spirit thickness.

The MVP. Wholesomely handsome, reliably thick, and built for fun. It's got that All-American, "captain of the sex team" energy—bright-eyed, ready for a good time, and here to make sure everyone has a great game.

Like the experience alone was a victory celebration. Enthusiastic, skilled, and devastatingly effective. He's the generous type who ensures you've scored multiple times before he takes his victory lap.

It's mutual, sweaty, grinning fun. No mind games, just premium, top-tier performance and a winning attitude that makes you feel like a champion.

SECOND, Crowe, a graceful, princely 5.8 inches.

Genetic lottery winner who also does his skincare routine. This isn't just a dick; it's a masterpiece. Classical, elegant, with a pronounced, pretty tip that was designed by an artist who understood both beauty and function.

And expreince with him of being worshipped. He will map your pleasure like it's his life's work, orchestrate your climaxes with poetic precision, and then whisper filth so perfect it feels like sonnets. It's less sex and more a curated sensory event.

He makes you see stars, not because he's pounding them into you, but because he's patiently, skillfully guiding you through the galaxy.

THIRD, Hyugo, like forget "baby boy energy." This is Wolf-in-Sheep's-Clothing energy with his 5.3. inches.

With a deceptively friendly packaging contains a weapon optimized for maximum user satisfaction through precision engineering and psychological mastery.

Through a consistent, high-impact performance across every measurable and immeasurable category. He's not chasing some abstract ideal of perfection; he's defining the ideal of a guaranteed, spectacularly good time.

The vibe is pure, unfiltered, playfulness.

There is no brooding, no anxiety, no clinical distance. With Hyugo, you get sunny, focused enthusiasm. It's fun, it's intense, it's mutually celebratory.

He makes you laugh and feel good even as he’s driving you out of your mind. The vibe is safe, exciting, and utterly free of complications. It’s the feeling of knowing you're about to have the time of your life, no questions asked.

The impact of a Hyugo experience is profound in its consistency. You are left thoroughly satisfied, pleasantly ruined, and moaning like an idiot. He doesn't create poetic, soul-altering epiphanies or complex psychological knots. He creates core memories of unadulterated, top-shelf fun.

The impact is one of restored faith in the pure, physical, and emotional joy of sex. You feel wanted, worshipped in a delighted way, and incredibly well taken care of. It's an impact that makes you immediately want a rematch.

FOURTH, I know, I know, “Sol is not ranked last??” Yeah… the man is packing a legitimate natural disaster in his pants. Looking at it is a full-time activity.

And the experience? It's a goddamn psychological thriller. I'm talking plot twists, dramatic tension, the whole nine yards.

Here’s the cinematic trailer: You've got this shy, emo, "do-not-perceive-me" guy who unzips to reveal a 7.4-inch veiny monument to chaos. Your brain does the Windows shutdown sound.

The contrast is so violent it creates a feedback loop. You're simultaneously trying to compute the sheer visual data and reassure his anxious, trembling soul that he's perfect. It's a lot! It's submissive power, which is a wild, potent genre all its own.

So why is this Oscar-bait psychological thriller in fourth place?

Because, my friend, Sol is hella selfish.

IN MY OPINION. Let's be real. Sol's submissiveness is a mix of “I live to serve your pleasure" kind and “You are the vehicle for my release" kind.

He's a head-pusher. You know the type.

The priority is his own peak experience, and you are the beautiful, convenient landscape he's hiking over to get to it. Sure, if you give him a direct order, he'll follow it. He's obedient, not generous.

But is he going to wake up in the morning thinking, "Hmm, how can I make them see God today?" No. He's thinking, "Hmm, I hope they're around later so I can feel less like a walking hormonal crisis."

He knows exactly how to use his... ahem, tools... to get himself where he needs to go, and that skill mixed with his nervy vibe is addictive.

It's like playing a game on hard mode that you can't stop restarting. But when the credits roll, you sometimes wonder if you were the protagonist or just the really immersive setting.

He's not a bad guy! He is.

The thriller is a masterpiece of its kind! But sometimes you don't want to be the haunted house the ghost is moaning in. Sometimes you just want to be a co-star. And that's why Sol, for all his shocking, addictive glory, gets the fourth-place ribbon.

FIFTH place, Okay, look. I have to put Geo my husband in last place. I know! It hurts me more than it hurts you. But in everybody’s defense, he didn’t even use the full 5.7 inches

Listen, it’s understandable. The man sees his own dick as an inconvenience more than anything. In my heart, he wins the “Did Not Attempt to Deceive Me” award, but for your reading pleasure?

Dead last.

The experience alone was… helpful?

Think of it as a very private, mutually beneficial session. You calm down Geo for science! Or, as Geo would file it: “Protocol for the Redirection of Unwanted Vasocongestion.” You was essentially a live, weighted blanket with a supportive attitude. And hey—at least he trusted you!

That’s basically a love letter from him.

And before you get mad on my behalf, he did reciprocate in his own way. He was trying his absolute best to be effective without overstepping the very clear, very sensible boundaries in his mind about bodily autonomy and emotional entanglement.

It was the most logical blue ball you have ever witnessed.

So yeah, he’s last. But he’s my last.

And honestly, in a world full of overpromising and under-delivering, there’s something beautifully reliable about a man who sees a horny crisis and approaches it just an irritating issue.

Yaya leans back in her chair, eyes half-lidded, the warm tone colored lamp hitting her like she’s in a noir film she never auditioned for. Papers crowd around her in teetering stacks, the architectural remains of a workday she has completely abandoned without a shred of remorse.

She twirls her pen once, twice, then lets it tap against the desk. After all, Narrator mode activated. Work mode dead on arrival.

She taps her pen, looks up, and continues:

“So listen,” she starts, voice low, steady, like she’s letting someone in on a secret they definitely shouldn’t have earned. “Each man? Completely different league. Not better, not worse. Just… specialty weapons.”

Her eyes narrow thoughtfully, a faint smirk curls at the corner of her mouth—because once she starts analyzing, there’s no off-switch.

“These men aren’t a ranking. They’re a menu. You don’t pick the best—you pick what flavor of unforgettable your soul is craving today.”

She flicks her wrist dismissively. “Or don’t pick. Let the chaos pick for you. You’ll live.” She pauses, eyes momentarily sparkling. “Probably.” She barely gets to enjoy her own cleverness before something shifts—too quiet, too sudden.

A prickle crawls up the back of her neck. Her smirk fades. Her shoulders straighten. Because she can feel it.

Someone is behind her.

And then a voice cuts through the dim room, cool as steel and twice as sharp: “…So this is what you do instead of studying?”

Yaya freezes. Half a second, just long enough for her brain to scream a quiet, internal, oh hell no.

Then, with careful slowness, she pivots just enough to see Geo looming behind her, the bag of food in hand—innocent in form, lethal in delivery. His gaze wasn’t warm or forgiving. No, it was the kind that could sentence an entire city block for jaywalking.

Fuccck.

"And here I thought you were genuinely losing it," he says, voice flat but sharp, carrying the weight of disappointed gods. The bag of food smells like heaven, sure—but the aura surrounding him? Hellfire. His arms aren’t crossed this time, but the disappointment? Crossed enough for both of them.

Yaya blinks. Deadpan. Her brain flatlines.

For a brief astral moment, she feels herself detach from reality. Then, like a slow drip of water betraying a steady calm, a bead of sweat forms on her temple. Her eyes flutter up. Smile tight. Polite. Uncertain. “…Geo,” she says softly, greeting him like a caged lion she hopes will nap.

“…How long were you standing there?”

Geo doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His stare is all the sentence she needs. He knows. He’s judging.

And Ancestors help her, he’s soooo disappointed.

Yaya closes her notebook, calm and collected—but inside, it’s chaos. She exhales softly, as if preparing for a verdict. “…Oh no,” she mutters, the faintest tremor in her voice betraying.

Geo steps closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming the room, each word carefully measured. “Yaya… this—this obsession with distractions, with… whatever this is—it’s an addiction,” he says, eyes narrowing. “You are letting these…” He gestures vaguely toward her laptop, toward the little audience she’s been entertaining. “…people take over your study sessions. Finals aren’t waiting for you to be… entertaining. You need to focus. Until they’re over. Every. Single. Minute.”

Her throat tightens. She swallows, nodding mechanically, already painfully aware that her hobbies—her chaos—have officially been classified as criminally distracting.

Geo exhales, shoulders relaxing just slightly, but there’s a weight in his gaze that could crush mountains. “I’ll give you a chance to correct yourself. No excuses. No shortcuts.”

Yaya forces a tight smile, “…Yes, sir,” she whispers, imagining the mental FaceTime roast she’ll endure if she slips.

Geo tilts his head, a dangerous calm in his expression. “…Actually,” he continues, voice dropping even lower, “correction. I’ll be staying here. Until finals are done. You will not get distracted while I’m here. You need supervision. Full-time. Non-negotiable.”

Yaya freezes, blink slow. “…Excuse me?”

“Non-negotiable,” he repeats, tone flat but deadly certain. “You will study. I will remain. You will not get distracted. You will finish. And if you try to sneak in even a single instance of foolishness…” His eyes bore into her like lasers. “…I will know.”

Her pulse spikes. She’s trapped. Pinned.

Helplessly aware that the entire rest of her semester just got personally militarized by Geo. “…Fine,” she mutters, voice small but laced with disbelief. “…You win.”

Geo gives a small, imperceptible nod. Then, as if to underline the finality of the sentence, he lifts the bag of food like a banner and sets it down beside her desk. “Do not fail me. Study. Focus. Finish.”

Yaya blinks, staring at him, staring at the empty hallway where now she knows he’ll settle in, staring at her like a permanent fixture of judgment. "Fuckkk...." She lifts a hand slowly toward the camera, trying to salvage dignity for her audience, winks, and whispers with mock cheer:

“…Farewell, dearest audience. Pray for me. I’m gonna need it.”

♤ — 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉