ghost-mode low-key boy - neck locking his bitch
He never spoke much.
That was the first thing everyone noticed about him—
the way he moved like a shadow, like someone who preferred being half-unseen, half-present…
a ghost-mode boy with soft bones, delicate wrists, and eyes that never revealed more than a sliver of his heat.
But with him… it was different.
Behind closed doors, he stopped being quiet.
His breath grew rough, urgent.
His hands—usually so timid—closed around the back of his lover’s neck with a confidence that didn’t match his size.
A skinny, low-key boy suddenly turning into something hungry.
He pulled him closer, jaw tight, breath shaking against his ear.
“You’re mine tonight,” he murmured, voice low, warm, almost trembling with want.
His lover melted instantly—
not because of force,
but because of the intensity behind it…
that mix of shyness and dominance that only he had.
The boy’s fingers slid along the nape, locking him in place.
A gentle choke.
A claim.
A command without words.
And the bitch responded with equal devotion—
kissing, tasting, worshipping every inch he was allowed,
following the boy’s silent orders,
lost in his warmth.
The room filled with those soft, breathy sounds only he made—
half-moan, half-whimper—
and the ghost-mode boy, flushed and trembling,
tightened his grip around the neck he held
as if anchoring himself to the moment,
to the pleasure,
to the power he rarely showed.
He wasn’t quiet anymore.
