Mind Blind Saucy Side: Oh, Noh (Male Version) (Patreon)

When you first met him—truly met him, that is—your first thought upon learning the breadth of his powers was not “sexy time possibilities.”

No, that night, you were a fraught livewire of anxiety and anger, most of it directed towards him. Rightfully so, he admits now in the quiet hours when you’re both brave enough to discuss the past.

After Operation Hemera ended with his help, your fear gave way to forgiveness, and forgiveness eventually turned into trust. Trust which, against all the most impossible odds, slowly blossomed into love. Yet even then, your mind didn’t immediately go there.

It wasn’t until after a year together, when your too-loud headphones made your partner resort to calling you psychically to dinner, that you were struck by the true potential of his power.

Then, and only then, did it occur to you: “Oh! Sexy time possibilities.”

He was uncertain at first, never having used his powers in such a way, but you argued (rather persuasively, your legs locked around his hips) that, after the trauma his powers had inflicted, it was only fair that he provide you with an equal amount of pleasure.

Now, you know the moment that he steps into brainrange. When you first started doing this together, his questions were simple and straightforward:

What are you doing?

What are you wearing?

Have you missed me?

Is this what you want?

His messages became bolder as he became more comfortable, questions often turning into orders (which, given the nature of your relationship, he was never fully certain whether you would obey):

What are you wearing? became Take it off.

Have you missed me? became Tell me what you fantasized about today.

Is this what you want? remained the same, however. Always asked, every time. Sometimes, reading between the lines, you deciphered the question’s true meaning of ‘Am I truly what you want?’ and the even quieter question of ‘But why?’

The answers to which, of course, you’d proceed to remind him at soon as he stepped through the bedroom door.

Illusions are not, and never will be, as good as the real thing. Promises whispered into your mind lack the husky undertone of his aroused growl, and his distant touch leaves you stretching upwards in your bed, aching for more, throbbing into the empty air where he should be. It’s never fully satisfying, never enough, never more than a feather’s kiss.

The prolonged deprivation, however, does serve to enhance the real thing.